By Blood Written

by Steven Womack

“Then come with me, sir.”

  Michael turned and faced Taylor. “You okay?”

  Taylor took a deep breath and held it for just a moment, trying to clear her head, to get oxygen to her brain. “Yes, I’m fine. You take care, and I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  Michael leaned over, kissed her quickly. As if he were going off to work or a dentist’s appointment or to run a casual errand …

  “We’ll call on the mobile when we know the time for the arraignment,” Talmadge said as he got in step behind Michael and the officers.

  Taylor was left alone in the middle of the pack. She suddenly felt frightened, isolated.

  “May I ask you a question, please?” someone shouted.

  A microphone on a long boom pole suddenly appeared in front of her face. She felt someone grab her elbow and jerked around, startled.

  It was Carey. She had a firm grip on Taylor’s arm. “C’mon,”

  she said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Thursday morning, six weeks later, Manhattan The war began in earnest the afternoon of Michael’s arrest.

  The DA’s press conference and the arrest warrant had been the first skirmish. They fired a few shots, just to test the enemy’s resolve. Talmadge fired back with just enough force to show that he wasn’t going to be pushed around when he openly announced Michael Schiftmann was looking forward to his day in court.

  The arraignment was the first big battle. District Attorney Collier demanded no bail. Talmadge countered with a demand for release-on-recognizance. Collier countered again with an eight-figure bail request. Talmadge fired back with a demand for minimal bail.

  In the end, Criminal Court Judge Harry Forsythe settled on a million-and-a-half bail. Michael put up one hundred thousand dollars and the deed to his Palm Beach condo.

  Forsythe also, as Steinberg predicted, confiscated Michael’s passport.

  Then they went home.

  Two days later, the New York City police executed a search warrant requiring Michael to provide DNA samples for forensic purposes. An enraged Michael wanted to fight the search warrant, but Abe Steinberg convinced him there was no point. In Steinberg’s office, a medical technician pulled a dozen hairs from Michael’s head, swabbed the inside of his mouth with a cotton swab, and did a blood draw. The evidence was collected and secured, then shipped off to the lab at the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation in Nashville.

  Meanwhile, in Nashville, Talmadge filed a motion for discovery. Thirty days later, a large file was delivered to his office. He went through the file sheet by sheet, paragraph by paragraph, then caught the next plane to New York.

  Abe Steinberg met him in the lobby and shook hands with his old friend and protege. “How are you, Wes?” he asked, laying his left hand on Talmadge’s shoulder.

  “Good, Abe, good.”

  “How was the flight?”

  Talmadge smiled. “Food’s pretty good on first-class, even these days.”

  Steinberg smiled back at him. “C’mon, our boy’s back in my office already.”

  Talmadge followed as Steinberg led the way down the hall. “How’s he holding up?” he asked.

  Steinberg shrugged. “Hard to tell. I’ve seen better, but then again, I’ve seen worse.”

  The two walked down a long hallway to a suite of offices occupied by the most senior partners in the firm. Steinberg stopped as they entered the suite and faced Talmadge.

  “Before we go in,” he said, “I want to know. What’s it look like?”

  “Well, as Spencer Tracy once said of Katharine Hepburn,

  ‘There ain’t much meat on her, but what there is is cherce.’ “

  Steinberg stared for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  The two entered Steinberg’s office. Michael rose from the sofa as they walked in. Steinberg walked around and sat at his desk, with Talmadge taking one of the chairs as Michael sat back down.

  “Good morning, Mr. Schiftmann,” Talmadge said. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” Michael answered nervously, “and please, it’s Michael.”

  Talmadge nodded. “Okay, Michael.”

  “Wes has the material the Davidson County district attorney’s office returned to us in reply to the discovery motions,” Steinberg said. “By law, the prosecution is obliged to provide a defendant with all the evidence against him or any exculpatory evidence prior to any trial or consideration. Our job at this point is to evaluate the evidence and to figure out how to best answer it in order to place in the minds of the jurors reasonable doubt.”

  “If we can do that, then there’s every reason to expect a favorable verdict if this ever does, in fact, go to trial,” Talmadge added.

  “Is there a chance we can head this off before trial?” Michael asked. “Can we make this go away without a trial?”

  Talmadge leaned back on the sofa. “Well, that’s problematic. Of course, we’ll try. The list of motions that we’ll file during this phase of the process reads almost twenty typed pages. We’ll challenge everything from the jurisdiction of the court to the makeup of the grand jury. We’ll move to suppress everything they throw at us. But in the real world, unless there’s been some incredible screwup on the part of the DA, you don’t get very far most of the time.

  “And in one sense, the district attorney has taken an incredible chance by announcing that he’s going to seek the death penalty. He’s essentially bet the rent money on the outcome of this. Now, I know Bob Collier pretty well, and he’s not a blowhard and he’s not a grandstander. The fact that he’s even going for the death penalty means he thinks he’s got a good case. And as a rule, if you’re defending a capital case and it actually goes to trial, you’re in trouble before it even starts.”

  Michael stared at the floor for a moment, then looked back up quickly. “That’s as a rule. But let’s talk specifics.”

  “Okay,” Talmadge said, opening his briefcase. “Let’s look at what they’ve got. I’ve taken the liberty of summarizing it for the purposes of our conversation so we don’t have to spend hours going over it in detail.”

  He pulled out a stack of papers and thumbed through them, then pulled out a single sheet. “First, they’ve got the evidence of the crime scene. This was reported in the media as one of the bloodiest, goriest murder scenes to come down the pike in a long time, and from the photos I saw, they were right.”

  “Any chance we can get those photos suppressed?” Steinberg asked.

  Talmadge nodded. “A chance we’ll get at least the worst ones suppressed,” he said. “They’re clearly prejudicial. But all of them? I doubt it.”

  “Then what?” Michael asked.

  “The photos in and of themselves only prove there was a crime committed. They don’t prove you did it.”

  Michael nodded quickly. “Okay. Good.”

  “Then we’ve got the usual. The autopsy reports, the forensic evidence. The good news, to get to the bottom line, is this: They’ve got nothing that explicitly places you at the crime scene, at least not yet.”

  “Not yet?” Steinberg demanded.

  Talmadge returned. “The results of the DNA swabs they took won’t be in from the lab for at least another week or two.”

  “And the bad news?” Michael asked.

  “They’ve also got nothing that explicitly proves you weren’t there.”

  A tense silence followed as Michael sat there, trying to take everything in.

  “Yes,” Talmadge said after a few moments. “And then we move on. They’ve got credit card receipts, rental car and hotel receipts, restaurant receipts, all of which place you in Nashville the night of the murders. But so what? We concede that. You were doing a book signing. It was in the newspaper. But then we go on from there. The police have questioned witnesses at the hotel who say you left the hotel about ten that Friday night and didn’t return until almost two in the morning. Which places you outside the hotel during the time the murders were committed.”
<
br />   “I couldn’t sleep,” Michael said. “I never can after a book signing. I went out, hit a couple of bars, had a few drinks.”

  “Fair enough,” Talmadge said. “You try and remember what bars you hit and we’ll try to find people who can place you there.”

  Michael nodded. “I’ll start working on it.”

  “But then we come to the one thing they’ve got that might be problematic. Several days after the murder, a bum found a bunch of bloody clothes, a pair of latex gloves, couple other things in a Dumpster about three miles or so from the murder scene. The blood on the stuff was traced to the murder scene, and they’ve positively typed it to the two victims.”

  Michael shrugged. “So?”

  “So,” Talmadge continued, “they found the rental car you had the night you were in Nashville. They tracked it down to New Orleans, and when they examined it, they found traces of blood in the trunk. When they ran tests on the samples, they matched the blood on both the bloody garbage stuff and the murder scene.”

  “But that’s impossible!” Michael said loudly. “That’s crazy. No wait, it’s not impossible, it’s bloody fucking convenient. How much trouble does it take to dab a blood sample on a piece of carpet that you already know matches the victims into a car?”

  “Maybe,” Talmadge said. “It’s certainly something we can look into.”

  “And how many people,” Steinberg broke in, “had rented that car in the time between when Michael had it and how long it took them to find it?”

  “Yeah, how long did it take them to find it?”

  Talmadge shuffled through some papers. “Just a few days shy of two months.”

  “Two months,” Michael spewed. “How many people rent a car in two months? It’s crazy. They can’t tie me to it.”

  “It’s weak. And we can find out how many other people had rented that car. If we can break the causal link they’re trying to establish in that fashion, then we’ve made a big dent in their case.”

  “What else have they got?” Steinberg asked.

  “Of substance? Not much. Some pretty wild theories.” Talmadge faced Michael and looked directly at him. “They’re going to produce a witness who says that the plots to your books are pretty similar to some other murders that have occurred around the country. I think they’re going to try and convince the jury that you’re some kind of serial killer or something like that.”

  “That’s insane,” Michael said. “I’ve already explained those similarities. I’ve been researching a series of murders for years and using the material in my books.”

  “In any case,” Steinberg offered, “that’s the sort of testimony that we’re never going to let them bring into court. No judge with half a brain is going to allow that kind of material in and run the risk of being overturned on appeal. We’ll get that suppressed easily.”

  Talmadge nodded. “I don’t think it’s much of a threat. But the blood evidence is another matter. And, of course, the results of the DNA tests are absolutely crucial.”

  “I can tell you right now, there’s nothing there for them to find,” Michael said.

  “Then we’ll proceed on that premise,” Steinberg said.

  “But let’s also assume, for the sake of argument, that the worst-case scenario will prevail and we’ll go to trial. What’s the next step?”

  Talmadge sighed. “We have to be prepared for that, although I hope we can cut them off at that pass. But we have to start putting the team together.”

  “Team?” Michael asked.

  Talmadge nodded. “We’ll need to hire a jury consultant. I know the best one in the business. She’s been on 60 Minutes, Court TV, the whole package. She’ll start putting together what we need from a jury. And keep in mind, there’s every good reason to think that while we probably won’t get a change of venue, and maybe don’t even want one, that we’ll wind up going out of county to get a jury. Which means Jackson, Memphis, maybe Knoxville. And what we look for will change depending on where we go. Getting a death-qualified jury is a challenge. We want a good one.”

  “I don’t know exactly what that means, but I’ll go along,”

  Michael said wearily.

  “And then we’ll need a good private investigator on scene in Nashville to go over everything the police have done and then some. I’ve worked with a guy in Nashville before, name’s Denton, who’s very good and very discreet.

  He knows the cops, has connections inside the department, and is very thorough. And one other good thing: For some reason or other, he’s willing to work cheap.”

  Michael smiled. “Well, so far he’s the only son of a bitch who is.”

  “And then we’ll want a forensic pathologist to go over the autopsy, from one end to the other. And also a crime-scene expert. Police often, more often than you’d think, mishan-dle evidence in ways that would shock you. If we can catch them breaking the rules, then we can swat them down like a housefly. After all, police screwups are basically how O.

  J. was acquitted.”

  Michael moaned. “Please don’t mention his case in the same breath with mine.”

  “Why not?” Steinberg asked, smiling. “He’s walking around swinging a nine iron. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “And then we’ll have to go after the DNA analysis as well.

  We need to have the best people we can find to challenge the results if they turn against us. Obviously, if they come out in our favor, we’ll punt on that. But I want them ready.”

  “I know Barry Scheck,” Steinberg said. “I’ll call him today and get a referral.”

  “Good. And we might even think about bringing in a psych guy.”

  “Psych guy?” Michael asked.

  “Yeah, a psychiatrist who’s an expert in this sort of crime and in profiling these sorts of murderers. If we can put him up on the stand and he testifies there’s no way you are even psychologically equipped to do this kind of violence, that will carry some weight.”

  Michael sighed. “Okay, if you think we need it.”

  “We’ll hold off on that decision, but keep it on the back burner. Now the next step,” Talmadge explained, “is the settlement date. The judge has scheduled a hearing not quite ninety days out. Now depending on what happens with the DNA tests, we’ll try to have the charges against you dismissed. The DA may try to broker a lesser charge, but I doubt it.”

  “I wouldn’t take the deal anyway,” Michael said. “I won’t plead out on this.”

  “Then another sixty days or so later, we’ll have a pretrial conference. At that point, the judge will ask if everybody’s good to go. If everything’s prepared, that’s when we’ll set a trial date. That’s going to be complicated, though, since a capital trial like this is going to be long and involved. Everybody will have to clear a huge hole in their calendar.”

  “How long will the trial itself take?”

  Talmadge considered for a moment before speaking. “A good month, six weeks,” he said.

  “Jesus,” Michael said. “So we’re looking at a good six months or so before we go to trial, and then six weeks or so after that before we know.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “And the meter will be running the whole time,” Michael said.

  Talmadge shrugged. “Cases like this are expensive to defend. I’m sorry.”

  “I guess I need to get back to my laptop and start typing,”

  Michael said. “I’ve got a lot of books to write if I’m going to keep you guys in the style you’ve become accustomed to.”

  “There’s one other duck we need to get in order,” Talmadge said. He looked over at Steinberg, who nodded at him.

  “What?” Michael asked.

  Talmadge looked back at Michael. “The state of Tennessee employs what’s called a bifurcated trial system. In other words, a two-phase trial. The first phase is the guilt or innocence stage. We have every reason to believe you’ll be acquitted of this if it gets that far, but we can’t assume it. To protect you, we
need a mitigator for the penalty phase.”

  “A what?” Michael asked.

  “A mitigator, an attorney who specializes in convincing a jury that there are reasons why even if you’ve been found guilty, you don’t deserve to die.”

  This time the silence between them was painfully leaden.

  Finally, Michael spoke in a voice so soft Steinberg could barely hear him.

  “You know, if I’m found guilty of this, I’d almost rather be put to death. I don’t think I can stand prison. I just don’t think I could stand it.”

  “Everybody says that at first,” Talmadge offered. “But when the reality hits, you realize that even a life in prison is still life.”

  Michael shook his head. “Not for me,” he said. “Not for me.”

  PART III

  THE TRIAL

  CHAPTER 30

  Monday morning, eight months later, Nashville Taylor Robinson rolled over in the oversize hotel bed and turned to the windows. The covers were bunched around her, knotted up, her legs cramped under them. She opened her eyes and tried to focus on the window.

  Is the sun even up yet?

  She rolled back over and kicked the covers off, then stood up shakily beside the bed. Her head hurt, her eyes burning from lack of sleep. If she’d slept at all, it had been only in the last couple of hours. She pulled the heavy drapery aside and squinted at the light filtering through the gauzy thin sheer that covered the window. She looked over at the clock.

  Six-fifteen. She groaned and pulled the curtain aside, then stared out over downtown Nashville. The city was just beginning to awaken on a cold but clear late-January morning, the sun looming large and vibrant in the east. From the eighteenth floor, she felt detached from the city, as if somehow she wasn’t really here.

  Sleep. All she wanted was sleep.

  She walked into the bathroom and splashed some water on her face, then brushed her teeth to get the stale taste out of her mouth. She pulled her robe around her, then sat on the edge of the bed. She typed in a toll-free number from memory, then the twelve numbers of her calling card. Then she dialed Brett Silverman’s home phone.