Double Jeopardy

by William Bernhardt

  Travis pressed his lips together. “I’m … not ready for that yet, Dan.”

  Dan laid his hand on Travis’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to seem unsympathetic, Travis, but it’s been over four years. When you were in law school, it was understandable—you were busy. You didn’t have time to deal with it. But now you have a good job, a steady income. It’s time.”

  “I said I’m not ready. Okay?” Travis hoped he sounded forceful, but not rude. He would never intentionally offend Dan Holyfield, the one bona fide hero he had ever known. Dan had put in thirty-five years as a criminal defense attorney, taking unpopular clients, defending unpopular causes, representing the poor and elderly for free long before it became trendy. Most important, Dan had been there when Travis needed someone—in fact, he was the only person who was. Travis didn’t have any living relatives, and he didn’t have any inside connections to the rich or powerful. Dan Holyfield made it possible for him to attend law school. When Travis received his J.D. and hit the streets, he was an ex-cop, already in his midthirties, with mediocre grades. Not what most of the blue-chip firms were looking for. Or anyone else for that matter. But Dan Holyfield was willing to give him a chance. That meant something to Travis. That meant a lot.

  “All right,” Dan said, “have it your way. But don’t be surprised if you come in some night and find I’ve locked you out of your office.” He smiled, almost as an afterthought. “I hear you won your trial today.”

  “Yup. Jury was out less than an hour.”

  “Talk about turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse. Congratulations are in order, I suppose. You’ve become a mighty fine defense attorney, Travis.”

  “I learned it all from you.”

  “That’s a crock of bull, but it’s nice to hear, anyway. What are you working on now?”

  “New case. Forcible rape, aggravated assault. Pretty grisly stuff.”

  Dan thumbed through the photographs on the desk. “Grisly is an understatement. I thought you were going to take on more civil work.”

  “Didn’t have any choice about this one. Judicial appointment.”

  “I see. Hagedorn punishing you for having the audacity to win?”

  “Something like that. I don’t suppose you’d like to second-chair this loser?”

  “No thanks, Travis. That’s why I hired you, remember? So I wouldn’t have to try slop like this. When I said I was retired, I meant it.”

  “That decision was a monumental loss for the Dallas criminal justice system.”

  “Travis, if this flattery is your way of campaigning for a Christmas bonus, forget it.”

  Travis grinned. “Sorry, Dan.”

  “My retirement was way overdue. I’ve been staying plenty busy running my parents’ food-distribution business since they died. Conrad and Elsie Holyfield may not have been college graduates, but they made a fine little company—and I’m not going to let it go down the tubes.”

  Actually, Travis was glad Dan had slowed down, though he’d never tell Dan that. Dan was one of the few who deserved retirement; he’d fought the good fight and lived to tell the tale. Looked remarkable for his age, too, which had to be near sixty. The clerks down at the courthouse called him Dorian Gray.

  “You’ll be impossible to replace in the courtroom, Dan.”

  “Nonsense.” Dan walked to the door. “Don’t stay up too late.”

  “Sorry, but I may have to pull an all-nighter. The trial starts tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow morning? Man alive, Hagedorn stung you but good.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Going straight from one trial to another like this will kill you, Travis, and that’s a certainty. Promise me you’ll take a break sometime tonight.”

  “That I can do. I promised Staci I’d visit.”

  “I’ll let you get back to work then. But seriously, Travis, don’t ruin yourself. You’ve got a loser here, and you’re tackling it under extremely adverse circumstances. Every now and then it’s all right to let the scum sink.”

  After Dan left, Travis returned his attention to Exhibit A, the first color photograph of Mary Ann McKenzie taken after her attack.

  He drew the photo closer to the light. His eyes were drawn to her shattered rib cage, her scraped, bloody face, her bruised breasts. He choked; his eyes began to sting.

  “My God,” he whispered to himself.

  She was a redhead. Just like Angela.

  6

  8:45 P.M.

  MARIO SAT BEHIND THE large oak desk in his downtown office, his hands resting atop a green blotter. A gooseneck lamp illuminated his two visitors, but left Mario in shadow. He liked it that way.

  He gazed across the desk at Kramer, Mario’s most dependable enforcer, and Donny, Mario’s idiot nephew. Mario and his nephew wore sport coats, Ban-Lon shirts, and patent-leather oxfords. Kramer tried to dress like them, but, as always, it didn’t quite ring true. And what was that jacket made of anyway—polyester, for God’s sake? Christ, it wasn’t as if the man didn’t have enough money. He’d been drawing sizable chunks of change for years.

  Mario and Donny both wore gold, too—Donny around his neck and Mario on his pinky. But Kramer put them to shame; he wore three chain necklaces and two nugget-size rings. He even had a gold tooth. That was so like Kramer—always trying to look like a member of the family. Trying too goddamn hard. Mario should’ve dumped him years ago, and he would’ve, too—if the man didn’t scare him shitless.

  Kramer had come in to report. He was pacing alongside Mario’s desk. Donny lounged on the sofa by the door, biting his nails like a five-year-old. Jesus T. Christ, Mario thought. Donny wants to be a made man, and he sits there biting his nails, barely paying attention. What a worthless piece of crap. Donny would never learn the business. Or anything else.

  “You have news to report, Mr. Kramer?” Mario asked.

  “Yeah. Matter of fact, I do.” Kramer was a thin man—quick, wiry, elusive. Like a snake. His most prominent feature was a long ugly scar that stretched down the left side of his face. “The job was completed accordin’ to plan.”

  “Can you provide a few more details?”

  “You really wanna know?”

  Mario considered for a moment. “No. I suppose it’s best if I don’t.” It didn’t matter how much he worked with Kramer; the man made his skin crawl. Always had, always would. He was so much more than just an enforcer; he was capable of planning, equipping, staffing, and executing an entire operation, from start to finish, no matter how complex or clandestine. He was effective and efficient—he always got the job done. He was creative and innovative—he didn’t have to be led by the hand. He had connections everywhere—the press, the police, the government. He could obtain valuable information or plant false information anywhere he wanted. He had countless assistants, all of them willing to do anything, go anywhere.

  But he was also a sadist. Most hit men fell into their jobs because there was nothing else they were capable of doing. Not so Kramer. He was in this line of work because he enjoyed it. He was a sociopath who derived inordinate pleasure from cruelty to other people. And his fondness for fire was legendary. Just thinking about it was enough to make Mario grind out his cigarette. Life was safest when Kramer had no access to anything burning, no matter how small.

  Donny leaned off the edge of the sofa. His voice was high-pitched and tended to squeal. “Has anyone noticed he’s missing yet?”

  “Oh yeah,” Kramer said. “But they don’t know what happened to him.”

  “Then he hasn’t been found. Officially,” Mario said.

  “No. Not yet. But he will be. That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. That was the plan.”

  “You know how stupid cops are,” Donny said. “Maybe we should do something to help them along. Leave them a clue, maybe.”

  By silent agreement, Mario and Kramer jointly ignored Donny. Donny simply had no brains, Mario reflected, not for the first time. Mario loved his sister, but there was no hope for
her pitiful progeny.

  “I’m glad you put out your cigarette, Uncle Mario. Those cancer-sticks’ll kill you. If they haven’t already. And I could get lung diseases from the secondhand smoke.” Donny coughed. “See? I’m sick already.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Donny,” Mario said slowly. He thought about that for a moment. “In fact, I don’t appreciate your concern, Donny. You’re a fucking pain in the ass. So sit quietly and speak when you’re spoken to.”

  Donny lowered his head. “Yes, sir.”

  Just to rub salt in the wound, Kramer snatched a cigarette from Mario’s desk case and flicked his lighter. The flame flared out; Kramer’s eyes glowed. Eventually, he lit his cigarette.

  Mario suppressed a shiver. If Kramer loved anything, it was the red flame that danced before his eyes. “Word is Seacrest will be replaced by some guy named Travis Byrne,” Kramer said, breaking out of his trance.

  “What do we know about Mr. Byrne?”

  “Not much yet. He’s a decent attorney—young, but effective. Gets people off. More than that I don’t know yet. But I’m workin’ on it.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, yeah. He’s an ex-cop.”

  Mario stroked his chin. “That could present a problem. We don’t need some law-and-order fanatic on the case. Find out everything you can about him.”

  “Like I said, I’m workin’ on it. I also thought we might try to consider some means of controllin’ Mr. Byrne. Maybe screw up his squeaky-clean rep.”

  “Do you think that’s necessary at this time?”

  “Nah. But if the time comes, it’ll be best if we’ve already stockpiled our ammo.”

  “So what did you have in mind?”

  Kramer shrugged. “The usual. Unexpected guests. Candid cameras. A few sensational stories that can be leaked to the press on a moment’s notice.”

  Mario waved his hand in the air. “Whatever you think. I leave it to you. It also might not be a bad idea for some sort of … incident to occur to Mr. Byrne. Just so he knows where he stands.”

  “Incident?”

  “Something subtle. But not too.”

  Kramer grinned, obviously relishing the suggestion. “I can handle that.”

  “You might involve Donny in this,” Mario said hesitantly. “He needs … experience.”

  Kramer’s displeasure was evident. “I have my own men who—”

  “That’s not the point.” Mario drummed his fingers lightly on his desk. “This is a family venture. It’s best if a member of the family is along for the ride. Just send Donny with someone capable of providing the necessary … guidance. I would consider it a personal favor.”

  Kramer frowned. “You’re the boss. Anything else?”

  “Has Moroconi said anything? About us, I mean.”

  “Not yet. But we can’t rule out the possibility. Especially if he becomes desperate.”

  “We’ll play it by ear. The risk seems slight. A dumb ex-cop plodding in at the last second—how much could he learn?”

  “That all depends. Seacrest learned too much.”

  Mario nodded. It was an unpleasant, but nonetheless accurate, reminder. “Watch Byrne carefully. If you see anything that gives you cause for alarm, act without hesitation. If he gets too close, eliminate him. Just like you eliminated Seacrest. Understood?”

  “Understood.” Smiling, Kramer headed toward the door. On his way out, he pulled one of Donny’s suspenders and popped it against his chest. Just for the hell of it.

  7

  9:00 P.M.

  TRAVIS FOUND STACI AT the lighted, outdoor basketball court behind John Neely Bryan Junior High School playing a little two-on-one. A pair of black teenage boys were the two; she was the one.

  “Travis!” As soon as she saw him, she tossed the ball to one of her friends, who was at least a foot taller than she was. She ran to meet Travis at his car. “I thought you weren’t coming!”

  “I was delayed. Sorry. Big new trial.”

  “Another trial? You just finished one.”

  “I know. Popular, aren’t I?”

  “You never spend any time with me anymore.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “You know what I mean.” She sat down on the curb, her fists under her chin.

  Travis sat beside her. “What’s wrong, Staci? Trouble at home?”

  “Oh, just the usual. Nobody likes me.”

  “That’s not true, Staci. Your aunt Marnie is crazy about you.”

  “Aunt Marnie was crazy about my mother. She puts up with me ’cause she thinks she has to.”

  “That isn’t—” He stopped short. No point in offering superficial denials. Staci knew the score. “Look, how’s school going?”

  “Oh, same old same old.”

  “Yo, Staci!” It was one of her two friends on the basketball court. “Let’s go!”

  “You guys play without me for a while,” Staci shouted back. “I’m okay.” She smiled. “They’re worried ’cause you’re some big old white guy they don’t know. You must look like a suspicious character. Maybe they sense that you used to be a cop. Doc and Jameel aren’t too keen on cops.”

  “Any reason in particular?”

  “Well … they’ve been arrested twice for breaking and entering.”

  “That’ll do it.” He watched Doc effortlessly toss the basketball into the hoop from half-court. “Well, I’m glad you’ve made some friends.”

  “Yeah, Doc and Jameel are okay. They just like me ’cause I’m good on the court. But that’s okay. They’re way cool.”

  “Kind of late for basketball, isn’t it?”

  Staci shrugged. “Gotta stay in practice.”

  “When I stopped by the house, your aunt was pretty grumpy. Thought you should be at home.”

  “What else is new?”

  “How are your grades?”

  “Oh …” Staci picked up a rock and threw it across the street. “ ’Bout the same. A’s and B’s in art and gym. My grades in English suck.”

  “Like how bad?”

  “C-plus, C-minus.”

  “That’s not so bad,” Travis said. Especially for a girl diagnosed with ADD—Attention Deficit Disorder. It caused Staci to have problems with concentration; she was also prone to procrastination and forgetfulness, and she was easily distracted. The doctors weren’t sure if the disorder was caused by a malfunction within the inner ear—the most common cause of ADD—or if it was simply an emotional problem stemming from the traumatic loss of her mother.

  “You should hear what Aunt Marnie says about me. How stupid I am, how lazy I am. She thinks I’m pond scum.” Staci clasped his hand. “Let’s go camping, Travis. Like that time last spring at Robbers’ Cave.”

  “You’re not listening. I can’t go to Robbers’ Cave. I’ve got a new trial. It’s going to last at least a week. Maybe longer.”

  She kicked a tin can. “Figures.”

  “As soon as this trial is over, we’ll do something together. I promise.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Aw, cheer up. Wanna see a magic trick?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Look, there’s something in your ear.”

  “Oh, Travis, please.” He reached behind her ear. “I’ve seen this trick a million—” She looked down at his opened palm. “It’s a charm! For my Disney bracelet!”

  She reached out, but just before she got the charm, Travis closed his fists, whirled them around a few times, then extended his opened palms. “Look! It disappeared!”

  “Puh-leese, Travis. It didn’t disappear. It’s up your sleeve.” She grabbed his arm, shook it, and caught a tiny gold Goofy.

  “That trick fooled everyone back when I was in the third grade.”

  “That’s the problem, Travis. You haven’t learned any new tricks since you were in the third grade.”

  “Oh yeah? How about this one?” He took two large blue marbles from his coat pocket and extended his hands, knuckles up. He swirled his hands around in a confusing
blur. “Okay, which hand are the marbles in?”

  “Really, Travis, who cares?” She snapped the Goofy figurine onto her bracelet. “My mom gave me this bracelet,” she said quietly.

  “I know.”

  “Aunt Marnie hid my picture of her. She said it was making me all sad and moody. Maybe she was right.” She wrapped the bracelet around her wrist. “You’re gonna laugh, Travis, but sometimes, late at night, I imagine Mom’s talking to me. Not just a word or two. Whole big long conversations.” She looked down at her sneakers. “She says a lot of nice stuff. In my head, I mean. Acts like she really likes me or something.”

  Travis smiled. “She does, sweetheart.”

  “Yeah, right.” Staci hesitated, as if there was something she wanted to say but couldn’t. “Travis, this is real stupid. I know it’s been four years, but … I still miss her.”

  Travis opened his arms and Staci crawled inside. He felt a cold saltwater sprinkle on his neck. “That’s not stupid, honey,” he said, hugging her tightly. “I still miss her, too.”

  TUESDAY

  April 16

  8

  7:05 A.M.

  TRAVIS SAT IN THE holding cell reviewing the Moroconi file while the guards fetched his client. It was a familiar routine. They insisted that the lawyer be in place first. Maybe they wanted to make the lawyer uncomfortable, Travis speculated. To let him experience a few moments of the foreboding the guards lived with on a daily basis.

  The guards made no secret of how much they hated attorney-client conferences, during which they were required by law to afford the defendant and his counselor privacy, if only for a brief period. They seemed convinced lawyers took advantage of the privacy to smuggle weapons or other contraband to their clients. Travis couldn’t blame them. Four years ago he knew he would have harbored the same suspicions.

  He buried himself in the file, trying to pass the time as profitably and painlessly as possible. It didn’t work. He kept staring at the photographs, wondering what kind of monster could do that to another human being.

  The cell door abruptly swung open and two uniformed guards escorted Alberto Moroconi into the cell. Travis was introduced to a medium-sized man with a wispy mustache and a day’s stubble. Travis was surprised, although he wasn’t sure why. What was he expecting, Frankenstein?