Cold truth lm-3

by Joel Goldman

  "And kill you once they knew you had it. First rule of the streets, Lou. Don't leave anything to chance. You just beat the odds."

  "So why is Centurion giving me a pass now? Why hasn't he come after me?"

  "Two reasons," Blues said. "First, the cops are all over him, flying helicopters over Sanctuary, following him wherever he goes. Anything happens to you, they'll be on him like stink on shit. You can thank Samantha for that."

  "What's the other reason?" Mason asked.

  "He's waiting to see what happens with Jordan. Word is already out that she's going to plead. If she does, Centurion figures the heat is off. He'll take you in his own time if he has to. So, is Jordan going to plead?"

  "I'll find out Friday morning, along with everyone else."

  "Should be a very interesting day," Blues said.

  Chapter 32

  Late September in Kansas City is a crapshoot. If it rains enough in the spring and summer, the leaves burn with fiery orange, apple red, and veins of gold. Too dry, and the leaves just burn in lifeless, brown piles raked against curbs on the days the city allows its people to strike a match. Morning might bring a warm sun hung in a pure blue sky like a child's water-paint wish, or it might belt the city with a cold, low-slung, cast-iron-cloud skillet that causes a run on antidepressants.

  Friday was the last day of September and it dawned promising nothing. Mason ran in Loose Park, the shadows fighting with the sun, the clouds running interference, a raw mist spitting at him. Finished, he chose a black suit, not certain whether he would look tough like Blues in black or be mistaken for an undertaker.

  He didn't know what Jordan was going to do. Abby had spent an hour with her the day before, leaving without an answer but with a message that Jordan wanted her parents to be in court Friday morning.

  Mason wanted Jordan to accept the plea bargain because it would save her life, something he couldn't promise. He wanted her to turn it down because he wasn't convinced of her guilt, a doubt he couldn't shake. He wanted her to take the deal to protect him from Centurion, an impulse that shamed him. He wanted to fight and win to save them both.

  The courthouse steps were thick with microphones and cameras, electronic limbs hinged to talking heads doing the play-by-play, casting side bets on which way the scales of justice would tip. Mason pushed through, stopping only when Sherri Thomas held him up with her Channel 6 mike like it was a short saber, Ted Phillips aiming his camera at them.

  "Mr. Mason, is it true that Jordan Hackett will plead guilty this morning? Did she kill her therapist and her brother? Is it true that she'll serve life without parole to avoid the death penalty?"

  The rest of the pack descended on Mason, surrounding him with outstretched microphones, the brass handrail alongside him vibrating like a tuning fork. "I'll make my comments in the courtroom," Mason said.

  "My viewers have the right to know if a murderer is going to be back on the streets," Sherri said.

  "Your viewers have the right to the news when it happens, not when you make it up," Mason told her.

  Sherri's next question was lost in the roar when another reporter spotted Arthur and Carol Hackett getting out of a car, both dressed in mourning black. The reporters surged toward them, leaving Sherri and Mason in their wake. Sherri signaled Phillips, who lowered his camera, covering its flashing red light with his finger, pretending he'd turned it off. Sherri toggled her microphone switch off, lowering it to her side, Mason catching her when she switched it back on, tossing her head back and her chest forward to distract him.

  "Is it easier to make a deal when you know your client is guilty?" she asked.

  Mason smothered her mike with his hand, leaning in close, pressing against her breasts. "Stick this in someone else," he whispered in her ear.

  Clearing courthouse security, Mason caught an elevator, its door closing, shutting out Centurion Johnson and the don't-fuck-with-me look he leveled at Mason. Mason gave Centurion credit for having the balls to show up. It was the perfect way to proclaim his innocence of any charge that might come his way. Only an innocent man would put himself under that spotlight.

  The hallway outside the courtroom was clotted with people jostling for a seat in the courtroom. Mason sliced through them, ignoring offered backslaps and handshakes, relieved when he reached the privacy of the offices and witness rooms that, together with the judges' chambers, made up the inner realm of the courthouse.

  There were two courtrooms at the end of the floor, facing each other across the hall. One belonged to Judge Pistone, who would conduct the preliminary hearing if no deal were reached. The other belonged to Judge Brendan Tanner, the Circuit Court Judge who would decide whether to accept the plea bargain if Jordan agreed to it, the judges' respective roles dictated by the different functions of Associate Circuit Court Judges and Circuit Court Judges. An interior hallway connected the offices of each judge and their staff out of the sight and reach of the public.

  Mason met Jordan in a room reserved for lawyers and witnesses. She was wearing the same outfit Abby had picked out for her, though it had lost the fresh snap of new clothes. She smiled weakly, her balled hands drumming against her thighs.

  "It's almost time," Mason said.

  "Yeah, I know. I know," Jordan answered, breathing deeply, not able to steady herself. "Okay," she said. "I'll do it. I'll take the deal."

  "You're sure?" Mason asked, careful not to push.

  Jordan nodded, chewing her lip. "I'm sure."

  "We'll be in front of Judge Tanner. The prosecutor will announce the terms of the plea bargain. You and I will stand in front of the bench. The judge will ask you a lot of questions to make certain you understand your rights. All you have to do is answer yes to all of his questions and we'll be out of there in thirty minutes."

  "Then what?" she asked.

  "Then you start the rest of your life."

  The spectators had split themselves roughly into thirds, one third grabbing seats in Judge Pistone's courtroom, another third betting on Judge Tanner's, and the last hedging in the hallway. No announcement was made that a plea would be entered. Instead, the news filtered out like a scent, and Judge Tanner's courtroom quickly filled, the bailiff making way for Jordan's parents, everyone else left to hustle in a herd version of musical chairs, the music stopping when the judge's bailiff said, "All rise."

  Mason surveyed the room. Patrick Ortiz anchored his counsel table, flanked by an assistant nervously checking the details of the typed plea-bargain agreement Jordan had signed moments ago. Samantha Greer sat behind Ortiz in a hard, unpadded wooden chair, mouthing "smart decision" to Mason, who shrugged in reply. A courtroom deputy stood on raised toes, scanning the crowd, a Secret Service wannabe.

  Arthur Hackett leaned heavily on the rail separating the public seats from the lawyers, the bailiff's well-intentioned efforts mistakenly seating the Hacketts directly behind the prosecutor. Carol Hackett, dark glasses gone, held onto Arthur's arm.

  The back wall of the courtroom was standing room only, lined by Blues, Mickey, Harry, Claire, Abby, and Rachel Firestone. Mason's life in a lineup, he thought to himself, pleased they had come. Blues was playing street stare with Centurion, standing in the far corner, winning when Centurion faked a laugh and sat down, Judge Tanner taking his seat first, the bailiff instructing everyone else to be seated.

  Unlike Judge Pistone, who shrank in his courtroom, Judge Tanner embraced his. A product of Kansas City's private schools and country clubs, Tanner came to the bench a conservative, evolving into a liberal, championing individual rights, now a favorite of the criminal defense bar. Mason believed that the assignment of Jordan's trials to his court helped convince Patrick Ortiz to plea-bargain. Judge Tanner was a big man with a ruddy face and silver hair whose broad shoulders spread under his black robe, his oversized presence commanding the courtroom.

  "Call the next case," the judge instructed his bailiff.

  "The State of Missouri versus Jordan Hackett," the bailiff replied.

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sp; "I understand that we are here for the entry of a plea. Is that correct, Mr. Ortiz?" Judge Tanner asked.

  Ortiz rose, unbuttoning his suit jacket. "Yes, Your Honor. The defendant has advised us that she will plead guilty to two charges of second-degree murder in the deaths of Gina Davenport and Trent Hackett. In return, the State recommends that she be sentenced to concurrent terms of fifteen years to life imprisonment with no parole until the completion of the minimum term of fifteen years, at which time she would be released."

  "Is that a correct statement of the agreement, Mr. Mason?" the judge asked.

  Rising, Mason answered, "It is, Your Honor."

  "Very well," the Judge continued. "The defendant will come before the court."

  Mason loved the courtroom. It was the grandest stage, hosting the greatest drama, a venue where life stood still, holding its breath, waiting for a judge or jury to raise their thumbs up or down. It was a vault, guarding justice, dispensing disappointment to losers and miracles to winners. At moments like this, the audience disappeared for Mason. The prosecutor, the bailiff, the court reporter all faded as he and his client stood before the court alone in the last silent instant before unthinkable fate became real.

  "Miss Hackett," Judge Tanner began. "Do you understand the charges that have been brought against you?"

  "Yes," Jordan said, her eyes on the floor, her voice a subdued murmur.

  "You understand that you have been charged with two counts of murder in the first degree and that, if convicted, you could be sentenced to life in prison or death by lethal injection?"

  "Yes," she answered, an involuntary tremor rippling through her.

  "You understand that you have the right to a trial by a jury of your peers, that you have the right to confront and cross-examine the witnesses against you?"

  "Yes."

  "You understand that the State has the burden to prove its case against you beyond a reasonable doubt?"

  "I do."

  "You understand that by asking me to accept your plea of guilty to the lesser charge of second-degree murder, you give up all those rights and that you will serve fifteen years in the state penitentiary before you can be released?"

  "Yes," Jordan said, forcing her answer.

  "Knowing all these rights, and knowing the evidence the State has against you and after conferring with your attorney, is it your desire that I accept your guilty plea?"

  Jordan turned to Mason, eyes wet, mouth trembling. He nodded to her.

  "Yes," Jordan said. "I do."

  "And is that because you are, in fact, guilty of these crimes?" Judge Tanner asked.

  The judge's question hit Jordan like a slap, jerking her head up as she stiffened, her face red, stung by the demand for a confession.

  "Miss Hackett, are you in fact guilty of these crimes?" Judge Tanner repeated.

  Mason held his breath, choking on his doubts of Jordan, who squared her back and answered, her voice filling the corners of the courtroom, echoing the rage Mason thought had expired.

  "No, Your Honor. I am not."

  Judge Tanner gaveled his courtroom into submission, stifling the outbursts caused by Jordan's departure from the script. Behind him, Mason heard Carol Hackett cry, "My God," Arthur shushing her, the judge exempting them from his demand for order. Jordan held steady, waiting for the judge's next question.

  "Miss Hackett, perhaps you misunderstood my question," Judge Hackett began.

  "I understood it, Judge."

  "Miss Hackett, before coming into this courtroom today, you signed a plea agreement with the prosecutor, did you not?"

  "Yes," she said.

  "I have a copy of that agreement before me, Miss Hackett. In it, you state your intention to plead guilty to these charges. I cannot accept this agreement unless you tell me that you are guilty. Do you understand that?"

  "I do," she said, tightening her grip on Mason's hand.

  "I must warn you, Miss Hackett. If you return to this courtroom at a future date asking me to approve a plea bargain, it is unlikely that I will do so."

  Patrick Ortiz interrupted. "Don't worry, Your Honor. There won't be another plea bargain in these cases. We're going to trial and we're asking for the death penalty."

  Judge Tanner stared down from the bench grim-faced. "Mr. Mason, do you wish to confer with your client before this hearing is concluded?"

  "No, sir. My client says she's innocent and that's good enough for me. We'll be ready for trial."

  Abby wormed her way through the crowd, reaching Mason and Jordan at the same moment as Arthur and Carol Hackett. The courtroom deputy kept others away, his hand on Jordan's shoulder, a firm reminder that she was still the property of the State. Carol held to the fringes, Arthur easing inside the deputy's grasp, wrapping his arms around his daughter, their heads bowed together.

  Mason couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could feel it. Abby leaned into Mason, letting her tears seep into his sleeve, then pulling herself up, straightening her clothes and her face, leaving Mason in the courtroom with his client and her parents. When at last the deputy insisted, Jordan's hand slid down her father's arm, lingered at the wrist, brushed across his fingers, tracing the lifeline across his palm, their connection interrupted but not broken.

  Arthur let go, following his wife to the hallway, stopping at the door, looking back at Mason, who watched from the center of the courtroom, the last to leave. "Please, Mr. Mason," he said. Mason nodded his promise in reply.

  Chapter 33

  "I feel so stupid," Abby said to Mason. "I've made a complete and utter fool of myself, thinking Jordan could be my daughter. Especially when I saw her with her parents in court this morning."

  Abby's PR firm, Fresh Air, was on the second floor of a building a block from her loft. Mason brought lunch from a deli at the corner of 21st and Baltimore, remnants of panini and Thai chicken salad littering a small round table in the corner of Abby's office, overlooking the street. Her staff busied themselves, shuttling in faxes she didn't read and phone messages she didn't return, pretending not to notice the tear-stained mascara streaks at the corners of Abby's eyes. The suite was decorated to soothe with creamy burnished wood, indirect light, and comforting music. The walls were hung with colorful photographs of people, places, and things in motion, sending the subliminal message that Abby and her people made things happen.

  "Only because you look like Gene Simmons after a bad KISS concert," Mason said.

  "That good, huh?" Abby answered, scrubbing her face with another tissue. "Even if Jordan is my daughter, I can't jump into the middle of her life now. The Hacketts are the only parents she's ever known. In spite of everything that's happened, Jordan wanted them to be in court this morning. That's her family. I should just butt out."

  "Jordan needs friends too," Mason said. "You've connected with her. Don't let go of that."

  "I know," Abby said, "but I need something else. I need to know what happened to my daughter, even if I can't be a part of her life. I need that closure."

  "Closure is overrated," Mason said. "You trade one pain for another. If you found her, you'd want to meet her, be with her, make up for all those years, and she might not be interested. If you couldn't find her, you'd have a wound that never healed."

  "I just want to know that she's all right, that she has a life," Abby said, gazing at the street as if her daughter would step out a door or turn a corner and wave to her.

  "What if she wasn't all right?" Mason asked too carefully for his question to be academic. "What then?"

  Abby looked at him, catching his meaning and her breath. "Lou, if you know something, tell me."

  Mason pushed back from the table, not wanting to tell Abby what he suspected but didn't know for certain, unable to keep it from her any longer. "After we got back from St. Louis, I reread Gina Davenport's autopsy report. She had a congenital abnormality that prevented her from ever getting pregnant."

  Abby wrinkled her brow. "What's that go to do with me?" she aske
d, then gasped with understanding, racing to the conclusion. "Emily! That's why Gina never signed the Baby Book at the hospital and why my medical records are missing. Is that what you're telling me? That Gina Davenport took my baby!"

  Mason shoved bread crumbs into a mound, smashing them with his thumb. "I don't know for certain. That's why I didn't tell you. We know that Terry Nix worked at the hospital. We know that he could have met your uncle in the alcohol treatment program, and we know that Nix dealt in black-market babies. Emily's birth certificate identifies Gina and Robert as her natural parents. They couldn't adopt legally because Robert was a drug addict. The birth certificate had to have been forged. The date of birth is a week before your baby was born, but changing the date was one more step to make it look legit. It all fits, but I can't prove it."

  "Oh, my God!" Abby said, coming out of her chair, the full impact of Mason's explanation hitting her. "Emily is dead." Mason took her in his arms, Abby shuddering, dissolving, repeating again and again, "Emily is dead." Mason held her until she pulled away, walking around her office, arms crossed, finding her center of gravity.

  Mason explained, "Gina must have told her lawyer, David Evans, about you. Evans let it slip to his girlfriend, Paula Sutton, who worked at KWIN and was jealous enough of Gina to hook you and Gina up. She used Jordan's cell phone to cover her tracks. All she wanted to do was cause Gina some grief. Instead, I think she put this whole thing into motion."

  "Jealousy and hate," Abby said. "That's what killed Gina and Trent. What are you going to do?" Abby asked, her mouth set in a thin, fierce line.

  "Terry Nix is in the middle of all of this. He was there at the beginning and at the end. He's got ties to Gina, Robert, and you. I'm going to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with him."

  "You think Nix killed Gina and Trent?"

  "No, especially if you're right about jealousy and hate. It's not his style. He's a let's-make-love-not-war relic, but I bet he knows a lot more than he's told me so far."