By Blood Written

by Steven Womack

Inside the women’s restroom, she was on her knees in a stall, her hands wrapped around the cold porcelain, not even bothering to hold her hair back. A ferocious wave of nausea swept over her once more, carrying her torso forward as she vomited again. This time, there was little left inside her. A thin trail of slime hung out of her mouth, into the putrid water.

  She’d never felt so ill in her life. Her chest hurt; her ribs ached. Her eyes felt like they were going to pop out of her head. Her face and neck had broken out in a frigid sweat.

  She struggled to get her breath, to try and relax before her heart exploded in her chest.

  Then it hit again, a rolling, convulsive paroxysm that began deep in her gut and echoed throughout her abdomen and up into her throat. Her belly was empty, wrung completely out. Nothing came out this time, but the spasm rolled through the top half of her body. As she leaned over the toilet, the almost inhuman noise that came out of her sounded like a disembodied, continuous, agonizing wail.

  Inside her head, she backed away from it all, as if she were watching someone else from the outside. The pain in her body seemed to lessen. She wondered if it was possible to die from retching.

  And then it seemed to pass, at least for a moment.

  Taylor leaned back, her hips on the floor, her back against the metal partition, her legs folded up, her knees against her chest. She tried to loosen her chest, to breathe slowly and deeply, to stop the panicked, shallow panting.

  She stared at the scratched gray paint in front of her. This seemed suddenly like a dream, as if this couldn’t really be happening.

  No, she thought, the voice in her head shouting. This is happening! This is real!

  The only thing she could be grateful for at this moment was that at least she was alone. She had time to gather her wits, to try and get her head around this.

  Brett Silverman, Michael’s editor, had called her, tracked her down on the cell phone. Brett had a friend down the street from her brownstone in Chelsea, a gay clothing designer who lived in the London Towers, who had moved to Manhattan from Cleveland, Tennessee, in Hamilton County just north of Chattanooga. He never missed home-Cleveland, Tennessee, being less than hospitable to openly gay clothing designers-but for some reason or other, he compulsively read the hometown paper.

  He had been the first to call.

  Brett, panicked, had called Taylor’s apartment. Michael answered the phone. Brett, thinking perhaps faster on her feet than she ever had before, simply asked for Taylor. She’d gone into the office, Michael said. Something about having some quiet time to clear up some paperwork.

  Seconds later, Taylor’s cell phone went off. She answered it, and a few short sentences later, was running down the darkened hallway for the restroom.

  Taylor reached up and tore off a couple of feet of toilet paper, wadded it up and blew her nose into it. She folded the wad in half and wiped off her forehead.

  Then she crossed her arms over her bent knees and rested her head wearily on her forearms. The day that Jack died, she threw up that hard as well, for what seemed like hours, until her body simply gave in to exhaustion.

  “This can’t be happening,” she whispered.

  She put her hands flat on the cold, dirty tile and pushed herself up a few inches, then cocked her legs and stood up slowly, unsteadily. She was dizzy, off kilter, wondering if the retching was about to start again. The acid taste of bile backed up in her mouth from her throat, which would, she feared, be raw and sore for days.

  Taylor held on to the door as she slowly walked out of the stall. It was dark in the restroom, the only light coming from a translucent window honeycombed with chicken wire.

  She flipped the light switch on. The harsh fluorescent light flickered painfully. She quickly snapped it back off.

  She walked over in the dim light and stared at herself in the grimy mirror. Her hair was wet on the ends, matted, a tangled mess. Even in the low light, she could see that she looked pale, washed out. She’d have to pull herself together before she left.

  She turned on the cold water, leaned over, and splashed some in her face. It felt good. A shiver went up and down her back, and she realized she’d been sweating all over. She drank a small sip of the cold water. It tasted wonderful, made her throat instantly feel better.

  And it stayed down.

  She blotted her face with a paper towel, then walked back to her office almost in a daze. She was grateful that no one else had come in. As she pulled out her keys and opened the front door of the office, the phone started ringing.

  Taylor walked over to the receptionist’s desk and reached for the phone, but at the last minute held back. She heard the answering machine inside the desk answer with the standard greeting, then a beep, followed by a muffled voice.

  “Yes, this is Harry Greene of the New York Post. I’m trying to reach Taylor Robinson. It’s very important. Please call me back at-”

  My God, she thought, walking away from the desk, it’s already started.

  Taylor went back to her office and shut, then locked, the door behind her. She sat down at her computer, brought up her Internet browser, then Googled “Chattanooga newspapers.” A couple of clicks later, she was at the Web site.

  She felt a spasm in her chest as Michael’s picture appeared line by line on her screen. She saw the headline and thought for a moment that she was about to vomit again.

  “Oh, Jesus,” she whispered. Her forehead broke out in sweat again.

  She forced herself to read the story, all of it, including the sidebar on Michael’s seemingly meteoric rise to fame and fortune as the Chaney books took off. The reporter even quoted from some reviews that she remembered and considered glowing at the time, but now seemed eerily foreboding.

  “Schiftmann’s Chaney makes murder fun,” one reviewer wrote. “Who would have ever guessed that something so completely evil could be so charming?”

  She leaned back in her chair, trying to take all this in. The initial shock was slowly beginning to wear off. She’d read the story, and the essence of the article was that Michael was going to be indicted for murder. But the case itself had not been laid out. There were few details, few specifics about the evidence against him. It was, of course, impossible to believe that any of the accusations were true. But what was undeniable was that Michael, and she, had a fight on their hands.

  “Joan,” she said out loud. “Call Joan.”

  She reached for her office phone, then held off. No, not Joan. Not first.

  Michael.

  She picked up her cell phone and punched 1. The cell phone’s speed dial went to work, and a few seconds later, her home phone was ringing.

  “Hey, you,” Michael said. His voice was relaxed, normal.

  “How are you?”

  “You’re still there,” she said.

  “Yeah, I was just reading the Sunday paper. Waiting for you to get home. What’s up?”

  “Have there been any phone calls?” Taylor asked.

  “Brett Silverman called, but that’s-”

  “I talked to her,” Taylor interrupted. “Listen, we’ve got to talk. I want you to stay there, don’t leave the apartment.

  If anyone comes to the door, don’t answer it. And for God’s sakes, don’t answer the phone. Don’t even pick it up. I’m on my way.”

  “What’s up?” he asked, concerned now.

  “Not on the phone. Sit tight. I’m on my way.”

  Michael exploded after she told him. His face turned red, and it seemed as if the skin of his cheeks was stretched to the point of tearing.

  “Those ignorant bastards!” he yelled. “What the hell do they think they’re doing?”

  “I know,” Taylor said calmly, trying desperately to placate him. Michael had a terrible temper, she knew. She had gotten glimpses of it only a few times, but it was enough to let her know that beneath the surface, there was a reservoir of angry energy.

  “I’ll sue the shit out of them!” he shouted.

  “Yes, once we pro
ve them wrong, we’re going to drag them through every court in the country. Malicious prosecution, prosecutorial misconduct, libel, slander, the whole gamut. But first we’ve got to prove them wrong.”

  Michael stopped, turned, and stared at her. “What are you thinking?”

  “We’ve got to find you a lawyer, and a good one.”

  Michael reached up and rubbed his forehead. He suddenly looked tired. “I don’t even know any lawyers here, let alone any lawyers there.”

  “I’ll call Joan,” Taylor said. “She knows everybody. She needs to know what’s going on anyway. This is going to hit the media, Michael, and soon. The only reason they’re not at our door now is my unlisted phone number.”

  “Thank God for that,” he said. Then he looked up at her, and for a brief flash, Taylor thought she saw fear in his face.

  “We’ve got to make this go away here. If I have to go back to that redneck shit hole, then I’m screwed.”

  “We’ll get you the best lawyer out there.”

  “Won’t make any difference!” he snapped. “Taylor, I’ve spent years studying the court system, police procedure, all for these books. And I’ll tell you what I’ve learned, baby, and that’s that we have more to fear from the cops and the prosecutors than we do the criminals!”

  “Michael, that’s-”

  “I’m serious!” he yelled. He began pacing back and forth in the cavernous living room, agitated, talking as much with his hands as with his mouth. “Let me tell you how this’ll go, Taylor. They’ve concocted some screwball theory because they’re too fucking incompetent to catch the real killer, and they’ve taken a bunch of coincidental, circumstantial things and twisted them to fit their theory. And they’ll perp walk me down there in front of the cameras for the goddamn media attention, and then they’ll book me and throw me in a cell with some little punk in an orange jumpsuit who’s facing a long term as a chronic habitual petty offender, or some such shit like that. And when it goes to trial, lo and behold, that little punk will get up on the stand and raise his right hand and swear I told him I did it. And the lying sack of shit prosecutor will stand there and ask the punk if any kind of deal had been offered in return for his testimony. And the little punk jailhouse snitch will shake his head and swear there was no deal. And when my ass goes off to prison, that lying punk will be out on the streets mugging little old ladies again.”

  He stopped in the middle of the living room and stood there, eyes wild, hair mussed, his body still yet tense. Taylor stood still for a moment, numb.

  “This is still America. You’re innocent until proven guilty,” she said softly.

  His voice erupted, almost like a bark. “Bullshit!” he spewed. “In America, once the government decides to come after you, you may as well bend over, put your head between your knees, and kiss your ass good-bye.”

  “You’re forgetting two things, Michael,” she said firmly.

  “What?”

  “First of all, you’re rich. I don’t mean to sound cynical, but let’s face it. You can afford the best attorney money can buy.”

  He smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, I forgot about that. So what’s the other thing?”

  “You have me,” Taylor said. “We’re in this together. We’ll get through this together.”

  Joan Delaney was at her summer house in East Hampton when Taylor found her. For once, Joan remained calm in a crisis. “The first thing we have to do is to get the best criminal lawyer we can find,” Joan said.

  “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  “That means Abe Steinberg.”

  Taylor made a note on the pad next to the phone. “With an E, right?”

  “Yes. His office is on the east side of Park Avenue, around Forty-seventh Street. I’m not sure. You can look it up.”

  “So you know this guy pretty well?” Taylor asked hopefully.

  “Quite. We had a thing going once, but that was a long time ago. About twenty years ago, I sold the rights to the book he wrote about the Trenton Black Panther trial.”

  “I remember that,” Taylor said. “He defended that boxer, right?”

  “Muhammad Sharquand,” Joan answered. “He was a member of the Black Panther Party back in the late seventies and then became a contender for the heavyweight champi-onship, until the Trenton police set him up on a bogus drug charge.”

  “Steinberg got him off, if I remember.”

  “Yes, but only after he was in jail for almost three years.

  Cost him his shot at the title. But it worked out okay. Steinberg went after the Trenton cops and won a ten-million-dollar judgment.”

  “So this guy likes to go after crooked cops?” Taylor smiled.

  “He pours warm milk on ‘em and eats ‘em out of a cereal bowl. Let me track him down. I still have his private number somewhere. I’ll call you back.”

  Taylor hung up the phone and leaned back in her leather office chair. Down the hallway, she heard the shower running. Michael had ranted on for another fifteen or twenty minutes, then decided to take a long, hot shower, more to calm down than anything else. Taylor spun around in her chair and scanned the bookshelves in her home office. The room was large, almost as large as her bedroom, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases along one wall, with the exterior wall being exposed brick. She loved this room; it was her private sanctuary, her place to hide and think.

  She would need this place a lot in the coming weeks and months, she thought.

  Taylor sat, staring at the brick wall until the lines of ancient mortar started to tremble and vibrate. All thought seemed to leave her. She felt the air blowing gently over her skin.

  When the phone went off next to her, it sounded like a firehouse alarm. She jumped and grabbed the handset before the first ring ended.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m trying to reach Taylor Robinson,” a gruff voice said.

  She leaned down and looked at the caller ID box. She didn’t recognize the number.

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  “This is Abe Steinberg.”

  The release of air from her chest made a whooshing sound.

  “Oh, Mr. Steinberg. Thank you so much for calling.”

  “Do you know where my offices are?”

  “Yes. I believe so.”

  “We’re on the nineteenth floor. Be there at ten A.M. tomorrow. I’ll be expecting you.”

  Then, having delivered his instructions, he hung up.

  By seven that night, the media had gotten wind of the story in the Chattanooga paper and were descending on it like a pack of wild dogs on a lame deer. The CBS affiliate buried the story during the local newscast, but the Fox, ABC, and NBC stations led off with the story. By nine that night, the vultures had tracked down Taylor’s home phone number and had called so much that she finally disconnected the phone and turned off the answering machine. The only people she wanted to hear from already had her cell number, so she wasn’t worried about missing anything important.

  By ten, all the local stations were leading off with the story, and MSNBC, CNN, and Fox News had picked it up as well. After a few minutes of channel surfing, she and Michael gave up and turned the set off.

  “One thing we’ve got going for us,” Taylor said. “No one knows you’re staying here.”

  “At least for now,” he said. “Let’s keep it that way as long as we can.”

  They went to bed, but neither could sleep. Taylor lay as still as possible, thinking that Michael might be asleep.

  Then he let out a long sigh and rolled over to face her.

  “You awake?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Baby, I’m sorry about all this.”

  “Me, too,” she said.

  He scooted over in bed closer to her, then turned to face her and settled his left arm across her torso. His arm felt heavy and limp. He pulled her closer to him, his face against her left cheek. He leaned in and nuzzled her neck, then scooted in closer, his whole body pressed against hers now.

  He l
aid his left leg across the tops of her thighs. She felt him growing hard against her.

  She stiffened, almost unconsciously. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He raised his head. “What?”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I guess I’ve got too much on my mind. Not really in the mood.”

  He bent his right elbow, then raised his head and propped it on the palm of his hand, looking down at her in the dim glow of the outside streetlights filtering through the curtains.

  “Might take the edge off,” he said quietly. “Maybe help you go to sleep.”

  She turned to her left, facing him. She thought she could see a glimmer in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  He rolled away from her, then sat up on the edge of the bed. “Me, too.”

  Then he turned and faced her. “You want me to go stay somewhere else?”

  She sat up quickly, her hips scooting across the smooth sheets. “No, of course not. It’s quite a jump from ‘I’ve got too much on my mind to make love’ to ‘I want you out of here.’ “

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely.” She reached over and brushed his face with the tips of her fingers. “I’ll make it up to you. Honest.”

  She saw the white of his teeth as he smiled. “Okay. But I still can’t sleep. I think I’m going to go downstairs, have a drink, catch a late movie on TV. Want to come?”

  “No. I can’t sleep, but I am tired. I think I’ll stay up here and try to rest.”

  He shrugged, then leaned down and kissed her lightly and quickly on the cheek. It was, she felt, almost a dismissive peck. Then he was gone.

  Taylor settled her head into the pillow and tried to clear her thoughts. Sometime around sunup, she finally succeeded and drifted off into a restless, troubled, and altogether too short sleep.

  CHAPTER 27

  Monday morning, Manhattan

  The offices of Steinberg, Tillman, Gordon, Jenkins amp; Associates took up the entire nineteenth floor of a twenty-six-story building with a clear view of the East River and beyond. Taylor and Michael stepped off the elevator in the middle of a crowd of busy, droning office workers and entered the main reception area through a pair of heavy glass doors. The receptionist looked up, recognized Michael immediately, and stared for a few seconds before rising and taking them directly into Abe Steinberg’s office.