By Blood Written

by Steven Womack

  “Well,” Powell said, hesitating. “All right. I’m staying at the Doubletree Hotel, over on Fourth Avenue a few blocks down from the courthouse. There’s a small bar in the lobby.

  It’s usually not very crowded. We can get a table and talk.”

  “Fine,” Taylor said, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Taylor climbed out of the taxi, handed the driver a twenty, and walked quickly into the Doubletree Hotel. She stood there, scanning the lobby, and spotted a small, open-air lounge. At a table for two in the farthest corner, she recognized Powell sitting alone, in a pair of khakis and a white, button-down collar Oxford cloth shirt. He looked more relaxed than in the courtroom, she thought, almost preppie.

  She walked past the half dozen or so others in the bar and over to his table. He stood up as she approached.

  “Good evening,” he said. “How are you, Ms. Robinson?”

  Taylor pulled her coat off and folded it over the back of the chair at the empty table next to them, then rearranged a chair so her back would be to the lobby and sat down.

  “I’m terrible, Agent Powell, if you must know. I’m terrible.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if it ought to be obvious to him.

  “I understand,” Powell said. “I think anyone would be.”

  Taylor shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable. She found herself avoiding eye contact with him, looking around the room, at the heavy red draperies, the red carpet, all the usual upscale hotel decor.

  A cocktail waitress in a short skirt and a blouse with puffy sleeves approached. “May I get you something?” she asked.

  Taylor looked over at Powell. “It’s been a long day,” he said. “I’m having a vodka martini.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Taylor said. “Sign me up.”

  Powell held up two fingers. “Make it two.”

  The waitress walked away. Taylor watched her for a few seconds, then turned to Powell. “Now that I’m here,” she said, “I don’t exactly know what to say.”

  Powell eyed her coolly. “Does he know you’re here?”

  Taylor shook her head. “We’re in separate rooms.”

  Powell lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Have been for months. The stress, I think. Neither of us are sleeping well, or very much.”

  Powell nodded, understanding. “But he’s still living in your co-op?”

  Taylor looked at him. “For the time being.”

  The waitress brought their drinks over and set them on the small table. As soon as she walked away, Taylor picked hers up and took a long sip. Powell watched as she gulped.

  “You did need that,” he commented.

  She set the drink down, her eyes watering. She lowered her head, almost hiding her face from him. A single tear ran along her cheek, and she brushed it away.

  “Goddamn it,” she muttered. Then she raised her head and looked Powell directly in the eye. “He did it, didn’t he?”

  she said, her voice low, intense.

  Powell studied her for a moment. “Yes,” he said quietly.

  “He did it.”

  She put her left elbow on the table, her arm bent, and buried her face in her open palm. Her whole body seemed to shake for a second.

  “I slept with him,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

  “I had sex with him. My God, what he did to those poor girls.”

  “You didn’t know,” Powell said. “You didn’t know.”

  “How can anybody do that?” she asked, raising her head.

  “How can anyone be two so completely different people?”

  “That’s the nature of what he is,” Powell said. “I’m sure that when he was with you, he was completely normal and charming, in every way. That’s the way this always works.

  They aren’t raving lunatics running through a crowded theater swinging a hatchet at people.”

  “No,” she said, her voice sharp. “They’re much worse!”

  “You’re right,” Powell said. “That’s it. You’re exactly right.

  I’ve spent most of my career trying to figure out what makes this kind of-person-work, and the truth is we can quan-tify some things. We can analyze some things and make some observations and draw some conclusions. But can we say definitely what makes Michael Schiftmann become the Alphabet Man?

  “No, we can’t.”

  Taylor Robinson’s face clouded over, almost as if she had gone into a kind of shock. “What am I going to do?” she asked blankly.

  Powell lifted his drink and took a small sip. The icy vodka felt good on his tongue, in his mouth, and when it hit the back of his throat, he felt a gentle burn radiate out from his center.

  “I want you to know,” he said, “that I don’t believe, never believed, that you were any part of this. You were his victim, too. Maybe not in the same way as the other women, but you’ve been hurt by this. And the important thing for you to consider is how not to get hurt any worse.”

  “I’m leaving him,” she said. “I’m going back to New York tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know if I would do that,” he said.

  “I can’t stay here,” she hissed. “I can’t have people thinking that I’m still-that I’m still, with him. “

  Powell raised his hands to his face and rubbed his jaw, the dry skin of his palm scraping across his now-past-five o’clock shadow. “You can’t go,” he said. “If you do, that may drive him over the edge.”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “This is a sensitive, delicate time in all this,” Powell said.

  “For one thing, the jury has seen you with him. They know who you are. If you disappear, especially after hearing the testimony that came out today, it could be construed as prejudicial.”

  Taylor glared at Powell for a second, then, almost angrily, picked up her drink and tossed back another gulp.

  “And there are other things at play as well,” Powell said.

  “What? What else is going on?”

  Powell hesitated. “I can’t go into a lot of detail,” he said slowly. “But as a result of what the police here have managed to put together, I think it’s safe to say that this trial will not be the only one.”

  Taylor’s jaw dropped, literally. “You mean, other … ?”

  “Michael’s DNA is currently being cross-typed with forensic evidence found at a number of other crime scenes.

  They’re checking rental cars, hotel rooms, the evidence gathered at the scenes themselves.”

  Powell shook his head slowly, almost sadly. “This won’t be the only trial. He’s history, Taylor. He’s finished. And if you leave now, and word gets out about the other places, then that’s going to push him over the edge.”

  “What will he do?” she asked.

  “He’ll run. He’ll run, and he knows he has nothing to lose.

  And he’s not the type to let anything get in his way.”

  “Can’t they lock him up?” she whispered again.

  “No, he’s out on bail. He’s technically a free man. We’re watching him, all the time. But he’s smart. Real smart.”

  Her eyes wandered back and forth. “My God,” she muttered.

  Powell reached across the table and touched her hand.

  “Listen,” he said, “I know you’re a good person, a good person who’s been hurt by this, and I know as a good person you want to see justice done. And you want to see that no one else ever gets hurt this way again, right? He’s got to be stopped.”

  Taylor looked down at the table, to where his fingertips had just brushed the back of her hand. She looked back up at him. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay close to him,” Powell said. “Stay in his confidence.

  If it looks to you like he’s about to run, or anything else drastic for that matter, you call me. Here’s my cell phone number. I’ve got it with me 24/7.”

  He pulled a card out of his pocket and slid it across the table to her.

  “Can you do that for m
e, Taylor?” he asked softly. “Can you help me make sure that he’s stopped?”

  Taylor picked up the card and looked at it. It was glossy, shiny, with the FBI seal on it and embossed lettering. It was impressive, slick.

  She looked up at Powell again, as weary as she’d ever been in her life.

  “Yes,” she said. “I can do that.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Monday morning, three weeks later, Nashville Like a political campaign, the trial seemed to go on forever.

  And like a political campaign as well, the constant ebb and flow of power from one side to the other left each opponent alternately elated and in despair. The prosecution rested its case after a week, and for a moment, the defense was off-balance. Then Talmadge began his attack.

  Experts-expensive experts-challenged every component of the state’s case. The evidence collection procedures, forensic procedures, protection of the crime scene: All were criticized and disputed. The defense tried to portray the police department and the Murder Squad as incompetent cowboys bent on hanging these horrific murders on anyone they could find because of political and public pressure.

  The credentials of the TBI lab specialists were questioned.

  Expert witnesses hired by the defense cast doubt on every aspect of the lab’s handling of the evidence and the conclusions that were reached. The testimony went on day after day, until the jury, the lawyers, and even the judge reached a point of exhaustion. Even the pool of reporters had dwin-dled; only the hard-core regulars showed up every day now.

  As the trial neared its end, Forsythe pushed the attorneys to keep moving. The jury had been sequestered for almost a month. Two of the jurors became ill and were excused, their places taken by the alternates. If one more juror dropped off, Forsythe would have to declare a mistrial.

  To wrap up the last of the prosecution’s rebuttal testimony, Forsythe held court on Saturday. Everyone had Sunday off, with closing arguments scheduled for Monday.

  A dozen times, Taylor almost left. One night, she even packed her bags and made a reservation on the last flight out of Nashville. At the very last moment, she changed her mind and unpacked.

  Most days, she and Michael barely spoke. As soon as court was over, she retreated to her room and ordered room service. She hid from the world and tried to sleep. Sleep had come easier the past few days; in fact, something in her sleep patterns had shifted and now it was not only easy to sleep, it was all she seemed to want to do.

  She woke up Monday morning, the day of closing arguments, perhaps the last day of the trial, thickheaded and tired. The bags under her eyes had grown larger, she thought, as she stared into the mirror and tried to bring herself to consciousness. She had a standing order with the hotel room service staff to send up a pot of coffee, a croissant, and some fruit at seven-thirty. That would help. In the meantime, she had just enough time to get a shower.

  Carey Talmadge picked them up every day at eight-fifteen in the morning and chauffeured them to court. She was on time and upbeat, as usual, despite the cold, gray day that awaited them outside.

  “Where’s your father?” Michael asked as he slid into the backseat.

  Carey turned, smiling. “He’s already at the courtroom.

  He wanted to go over some last-minute things with Jim and Mark.”

  At the front of the courthouse, the news crews with their trucks and portable microwave antennas were back in force.

  One young, slim black woman was even doing a live remote.

  It seemed to Taylor that there were even more news vans now than at the beginning of the trial.

  Carey dropped them off at the side entrance to the courthouse, and they walked in quickly. As they stepped through the doors and approached the security screeners, Taylor heard voices outside yelling.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  Michael shrugged. “Bottom feeders,” he muttered.

  They took the elevator up to the fourth floor of the courthouse, where Mark Hoffman was pacing around in front of the elevator banks waiting for them. His face was tense, his brow furrowed like a bulldog’s. He looked around nervously.

  “Wes wants to see you,” he said. “C’mon, we don’t have a lot of time.”

  He turned, his heels clicking loudly on the marble floor, and stepped quickly down the hallway. Taylor and Michael strained to keep up with him. He came to a heavy wooden door and opened it, then walked down a short hallway to a conference room.

  Wes Talmadge and Jim McCain sat at a long table. They rose as Mark, Taylor, and Michael walked in.

  “Shut the door,” Wes ordered.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Michael asked, looking around the room. Taylor stood off to the side, her shoulders aching from tension.

  Wes Talmadge took a step toward them. “Sit down, Michael. We need to talk.”

  “What?” Michael demanded, his voice strained and tense.

  “Will you please tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “Sit down,” Talmadge said quietly.

  “No! Stop telling me to sit down and tell me what’s going on. Now.”

  Talmadge sighed, and his head seemed to droop. “Okay, if that’s the way you want it. Mind if I sit down?”

  Michael nodded as Talmadge stepped back to his chair and sat down. “Michael,” he said, looking up at them, “I had a phone call from a colleague last night. Hell, he’s more a friend than a colleague, I guess. Lives in Scottsdale, Arizona.”

  Talmadge stared up at Michael for a moment. “Scottsdale?” Michael asked, his voice barely a whisper.

  Talmadge nodded. “We’ve known each other a long time and he’s been following this trial through the news media.

  Obviously, he knows I represent you.”

  “Okay, so what’s the big-”

  “Michael, he told me there’s a rumor going around out there that the grand jury in Scottsdale is preparing to indict you on a charge of first-degree murder in connection with the death of a young woman that occurred almost seven years ago.”

  Taylor’s hand went to her mouth. She looked over at Michael. He stood there, swaying slightly, as the blood seemed to drain from his face.

  “I made a few phone calls this morning, got a couple of people out of bed early. And while I haven’t been able to get anyone to come out and tell me point-blank that an indictment will be forthcoming, I think you should be prepared.”

  “Madness,” Michael whispered. “It’s insane. How can they do this to me?”

  “I’m afraid that’s not all,” Talmadge said, looking down at the floor. “The police department in Macon, Georgia is going to issue an arrest warrant for you later today. And I think we can expect some action soon from Chattanooga as well.”

  Taylor felt dizzy, nauseated. The room seemed to swirl around her. She reached out and grabbed on to the back of a chair for support. Mark Hoffman stepped over, took her by the elbow and steadied her.

  “Here,” he whispered. “Sit down.” He pulled out a chair, and Taylor settled into it.

  Michael stood there, his eyes transfixed on a point somewhere in the middle of the opposite wall. “What does this mean?” he asked softly after a few moments. The silence that followed was onerous, oppressive.

  “It means, my friend,” Talmadge said, “that we’re in a lot of trouble.”

  “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know whether Judge Forsythe knows about this.

  I haven’t said anything to him. I think word must be filtering through the news media. That would explain the feeding frenzy going on downstairs. Clearly, if the jury finds out, if the news should leak out and they hear of it, he’ll have to declare a mistrial. On the short term, that would help us. But long term, it doesn’t solve anything.”

  Talmadge stood back up and pushed the chair behind him. He walked over to where Michael stood and faced him squarely.

  “We should consider what’s involved here. This is a capital case. The prosecution’s case isn’t open and sh
ut, but they’ve done a better job of putting it together than we thought they would. If you’re found guilty, you could be sentenced to die. And the other charges against you could go that way as well. Long term, we could be facing a very bad situation.”

  Talmadge stopped for a second, as if carefully considering his words. “On the other hand, if we were to go to the district attorney and see what kind of deal we could get-”

  “What?” Michael snapped. “Are you-”

  “Let me finish,” Talmadge said forcefully. “I think we should consider an Alford plea, which is where you admit no guilt, but recognize the state may have enough evidence to convict to you. I think if we submit an Alford, we could definitely beat the death penalty and, given a few breaks, might even get you life with possibility of parole. Worst case scenario, life without possibility of parole. But at least you’d still be here with us. You could still write, still work, still have a life of some kind. And chances are, if you’re locked up by the state of Tennessee for a long time, these other charges might go away. Under the circumstances, why waste the taxpayers’ money?”

  Michael grabbed the back of a wooden chair with both hands and squeezed until Taylor thought his knuckles were going to burst through the skin.

  “If you think that I-” he started to say.

  “It’s my job to protect my client’s welfare and my client’s rights,” Talmadge interrupted. “It’s not my job to make sure you go free no matter what! If the best I can do for you is beat the death penalty, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “No,” Michael said coldly. “I won’t hear of it.”

  “Michael,” Taylor said, “maybe you ought to think about it. Maybe Wes is right. It’s time to look at-”

  “Damn it!” he yelled, turning to her. “You, too? That it, Taylor? You, too? You turning on me now?”

  “I’m not turning on you, Michael. I just don’t want to see you have to face the-” Taylor’s voice broke.

  “Death penalty?” Michael snapped, turning to Taylor and leaning down in her face. “Let me tell you, I’d rather be put to death than spend the rest of my life locked up like an animal. Even if I did commit these murders, which I didn’t, so what? They were just sluts and whores, worthless trash! Of no value to society or anything else!”