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 shut, 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!”
He glared at her, his eyes wild and bulging. Taylor looked up at him, and for the first time, she was afraid of him.
Around him, the three attorneys stared, shocked. Talmadge stepped over and put his hand on Michael’s shoulder, pulling him away from Taylor. Michael whirled around, and for a second it looked as if he were going to hit him. The other two lawyers stepped toward them.
“If you can’t go in there and defend me,” Michael said,
“then you’re fired. All right? Is that what you want, off this case?”
“Forsythe won’t let you fire me,” Talmadge said, his eyes narrowing. “He’ll go apeshit on you.”
“Then get in there and do your job,” Michael said, his jaw clenched. “And do it right.”
She expected drama, but in the end it was all surprisingly muted. Perhaps it was fatigue, weariness at the relentless stress. Taylor realized as she sat in her usual seat a row behind the defense table that it had been a year since the two girls in Nashville had been murdered.
A year since she’d thrown that huge party for Michael to celebrate his first appearance on the New York Times best-seller list. The longest year of her life … A year that had held such promise, so many breakthroughs.
And it had led to this.
District Attorney General Robert Collier’s closing argument lasted just over a half hour, and was strangely calm.
He summarized the prosecution’s case, faced its weaknesses squarely, countered the defense’s arguments and challenges as spin control and disseminating, and then, in the end, appealed to the jury’s basic common sense and humanity. He spoke of Sarah Denise Burnham and Allison May Matthews as if they were his own daughters, as if their loss had somehow become personal to him and should be just as personal to the twelve men and women who sat listening to him.
Then he thanked them for their service and sat down.
Talmadge stood up slowly and walked to the podium. He gazed at the jury a few moments, then began speaking. Taylor listened as he reminded the jury that it was the state’s case to prove the defendant guilty, and that in a case like this-a case where a man’s life as well as his liberty was at stake-the state had the highest obligation possible to prove beyond even the slightest shadow of a doubt that the defendant and the defendant alone could be the only person responsible for the crimes.
“And when you get right down to it,” Talmadge intoned soberly, “what does the state have? You can argue procedures and processes, hypotheses and theories, but in the end, what is there? A spot of blood in the trunk of a car that has been used by literally dozens of people, most of whom the police didn’t even question. Now I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, with a man’s life at stake, is that enough? I don’t think so. You have a great responsibility here, and a great deal of pressure has been put upon you by the state to accept their theories without question. But I put before you, as citizens in a free society, that your real responsibility is to protect the rights of any individual who finds himself in the state’s sights. You are the one thing that stands between our democratic republic and a police state. As tragic as the deaths of these two young women are, the state has got the wrong person. It’s up to you to not compound a tragedy by doing further injustice. It’s up to you to say to the state: ‘No.
You haven’t done your job. You can’t do this. It’s not right and we won’t let you.’ My client’s fate and life is in your hands. Treat it as you would your own. And I, too, thank you for your service.”
As Talmadge sat down, a silence as heavy and as thick as fog descended on the room.
“General Collier,” Forsythe said after a moment, “do you have any rebuttal?”
“Just one quick comment, Your Honor,” Collier said, rising. He walked to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, I only want to emphasize one last point, and that is that the bloodstains in the car are directly linked to Sarah and Allison, and the night they were murdered, as the evidence has clearly indicated, that car was in the sole possession of the defendant.”
Collier sat down. “Any motions before I begin the charge to the jury?” Forsythe asked.
Talmadge rose. “Your Honor, the defense moves for a directed verdict of acquittal.”
“Motion denied. Anything else?”
Talmadge shook his head. “No, Your Honor. Nothing at this time.”
He sat down as the words were coming out of his mouth, as if the last thing he expected was for the motion to be granted. Taylor sat there, watching, as the judge swiveled in his chair and faced the jury.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “at this point in the trial, the evidence has been presented, and both the state and the defense have had the opportunity to summarize the points in their cases. It is now my responsibility to instruct you in the law and how you are to apply it in your deliberations …”
Taylor settled back as the judge droned on. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, silently. It was out of their hands now.
The judge’s charge lasted almost an hour, and then court was dismissed right before noon. The jury went straight into the deliberations room, their midday meal delivered by court officers.
Michael and Wes Talmadge, with the two younger lawyers, remained behind in the courtroom. Taylor walked over and stood next to them as they spoke in lowered, hushed voices.
“-just a waiting game now,” she heard Talmadge say.
Michael turned to Taylor, his eyes meeting hers, and cracked a slight smile. She found herself suddenly feeling sorry for him, despite everything, despite the scenes her imagination had created over the past weeks, the scenes that were even more horrible than the actual crime-scene photographs. If he had done the things they said he had done, and she was almost certain that he had, then hidden beneath the surface of this intelligent, driven, gifted, and even beautiful man was a monster.
And yet he seemed at that moment supremely human.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
She had to think a moment on that. “I’m not sure. But we probably need to try and eat.”
Michael turned, faced Talmadge. “What are our options?”
“The court clerk has my mobile number, so as soon as the jury is ready, she’ll call. We ought to try and go someplace quiet, someplace where we can be left alone.”
“Do you want to get a bite together?” Michael asked. “I mean, after this morning I’d understand-”
“We should stay close by each other,” Talmadge interrupted. Then he smiled, reached out and touched Michael’s arm. “And don’t worry about this morning. People say and do things in the heat and stress of a trial they sometimes don’t mean.”
“I appreciate that, Wes,” he said. “I really do.”
Carey walked down the hall toward them. “I’ve got the car out front in a loading zone. If we hurry, we can get out of here without drawing too much attention.”
Outside, they waded their way through the herd of media, dodging microphones and questions, and hurried away in the car. Carey drove like an expert, weaving in and out of traffic, skating across two lanes of oncoming traffic and disappearing down a side street. They drove a few blocks into North Nashville into an area called Germantown, an older section of the city that had become trendy and fashionable over the past decade. Nestled in an old building across from a Catholic church was a small restaurant, dark and intimate inside, with exposed brick walls and an open fireplace in the middle of the room. Talmadge had arranged a table at the back of the restaurant, tucked away in a corner where they could eat unnoticed.
Taylor ordered a glass of wine and a bowl of French onion soup. The men all ordered drinks and steaks, as if celebrat-ing the victory they had yet to win. Or perhaps it was the liberating sense of it all being over, out of their hands. Taylor didn’t know, but she found her own spirits buoyed by the conversation and the wine. She ate the soup, marveling at the fact that her sense of taste had come back.
Only rarely did anyone make reference to the trial. “How long will the jury take?” Michael asked at one point.
“It’s impossible to tell,” Talmadge said.
“The usual expectation,” Mark Hoffman said, jumping into the conversation probably as a result of his second bourbon on the rocks, “is that if they come back quick in a criminal trial, that’s often bad news for the defendant. If deliberations take a long time, that means it’s up in the air, anybody’s game.”
Talmadge looked down at his watch. “They’ve already been in over an hour. That probably means they’ve had time to eat lunch and take a preliminary poll. If we don’t hear anything in the next half hour, then we know they weren’t unanimous.”
Taylor, on the back side of the table, next to Michael, her back to the exposed brick, picked up her wineglass, finished the last of the Merlot, and signaled for another. Taylor almost never drank during the day, but this was one day when it simply felt right.
Two hours later, they were all full and buzzing slightly from the alcohol. There had been no word from the court.
Carey, who had indulged in nothing stronger than iced tea, drove them back to the courthouse, dropped them off, then headed for the parking garage.
Inside the courthouse, their footsteps echoing off the floor, their voices muted by the cavernous hallways, the group went back up to the third-floor courtroom. Inside the courtroom, a lone court officer was sitting at a table reading a newspaper. Talmadge looked at him, questioning. The officer shook his head and turned back to the paper.
“Holding pattern,” he said to Michael and Taylor. “No word yet.”
Taylor sat down on the hard wooden bench, the place where she’d spent more time than she ever imagined or intended the past few weeks.
“I’m so tired,” she said absentmindedly.
“Me too,” Michael offered. He sat down next to her.
“When this is all over,” he said, “when this is behind us, let’s go back to Bonaire. Back to where we started. We can make a fresh start.”
Taylor looked at him. “Does life give you that kind of do-over? Ever?”
“It can if we make it,” he said. He reached over and brushed his fingertips across her cheek. “I want you very much. As much as I always have. And I’ve missed you.”
She instinctively drew back. “Don’t,” she said. “Please don’t.”
He nodded, then turned away from her. A few seconds later, he stood up and walked back over to Talmadge and the other lawyers, who were huddled around the defense table.
Taylor felt as if she were dragging time behind her like a ball and chain. She looked at her watch-two twenty-five.
An hour later, she looked at it again and only ten minutes had passed. The soup and the wine in her belly washed around like waves pounding sand in a hurricane. She thought for a moment that she might be sick, but then took a few deep breaths and steadied herself. She realized her hips and legs were going numb; she couldn’t sit on this damn wooden bench any longer.
She walked out of the courtroom, pacing up and down the hallway, stopping and looking out the tall windows at the traffic and the milling crowds below. The news vans were parked bumper-to-bumper, all awaiting the verdict.
Michael and Talmadge walked out into the hallway and stood next to her. “How long will this go on today?” she asked.
Talmadge shrugged. “Forsythe’s a slave driver,” he said.
“He’ll make them go at it until dinnertime, anyway. My guess is he’ll keep ‘em here until they’re too tired to work anymore, then he’ll send them back to the hotel.”
Suddenly, a group of people hurried past them. Reporters, hangers-on, spectators. Talmadge, Michael, and Taylor turned.
“What’s going on?” Michael asked.
Talmadge shook his head. “I don’t know-”
Then his cell phone went off. Talmadge jerked it open.
“Yeah? When? Yeah, okay. We’re on our way.”
He snapped the cell phone shut. “Let’s go.”
“They’re done? The jury’s back?” Taylor felt her gut tighten.
Talmadge nodded. “Yeah.”
Michael suddenly looked flushed, his face tense, his breathing rapid.
“You okay?” Taylor asked.
“Look,” Michael said, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.
No matter what happens in there, I don’t want to embarrass myself.”
“Okay,” Talmadge offered. “I’ll go with you.”
“No,” Michael said. “This’ll only take a minute. You go with Taylor.”
“Are you all right?” Taylor asked again.
“I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute.”
Talmadge turned and started down the hallway. “Don’t dawdle,” he said over his shoulder. “We don’t want to do anything to piss Forsythe off.”
Taylor hurried to follow him. At the courthouse doors, Taylor pulled up behind him as they stood in the crowd trying to get in. She reached out and touched his arm. He turned, a serious look on his face.
“I’m scared,” she said.
Talmadge looked directly into her eyes. “Me, too.”
Once inside the courtroom, she fought her way to her seat and jammed herself in between two other people. The room seemed stifling. Talmadge and the other two attorneys sat at the defense table as Collier and his assistant, Jane Sparks, paced around the prosecution table. Court officers buzzed around, the clerk taking her seat at the table in front of the judge’s bench. There was a din of background chatter and the shuffling of bodies vying for seats.
A court officer came over to Talmadge and said something. Taylor read his lips as he answered, “In the men’s room.”
Minutes passed, the energy in the room seeming to build by the second. Talmadge looked around nervously. A court officer came in through the doors to the judge’s chambers.
He looked over at the defense table, his face stern, almost angry, and crossed quickly over to Talmadge.
“Where’s your client, Counselor?” he demanded. “The judge is waiting.”
“He’s in the men’s room, damn it, the man had an attack,”
Talmadge said, his voice tense.
“Get somebody down there to check on him. Quick, or you’ll have some explaining to do to the judge.”
Talmadge turned and nodded to Hoffman. “Go get him,”
he said, his voice low.
Hoffman wove his way through the crowd quickly and disappeared through the doors. Taylor felt a lump growing inside her. She swiveled her head around, scanning the crowded courtroom. In the back of the room, standing against the wall, stood Agent Powell. Their eyes met and locked for a few moments, then Powell raised his left arm to his waist, pulled back his coat sleeve, and checked his watch.
Hoffman pushed through the crowd back to the defense table. He leaned down and whispered something in Talmadge’s ear. The lawyer sat up straight, his body almost stiff, as he glared at Hoffman. Taylor stood up, leaned over the rail, and motioned to the defense table. Hoffman saw her and stepped over to the rail.
“What’s going on?” she whispered into his ear.
He turned to her and cupped his mouth around her ear.
“We can’t find him,” he said over the courtroom din.
“Oh my God,” she said out loud. Hoffman shushed her, turned back to the table as the court officer came in once again from the judge’s chambers. He bent down into a huddle at the defense table, his face darkening. Collier and Sparks, watching from the other table, suddenly stood and walked over to the group. Taylor watched as Jane Sparks brought her hand to her mouth in shock. Collier turned and walked away from the group.
The court officer backed away, pulled a Handie-Talkie from his belt, and spoke into it. A second court officer stepped over from the other side of the room and whispered something to the first officer, then turned and disappeared.
By now, the noise in the courtroom was rising as the press and spectators got wind of what was going on. People pushed and shoved, voices were raised. The court officer motioned for people to quiet down. The radio on his belt crackled loudly, and he held it to his ear for a moment, then spoke into it. A second later, he turned and strode quickly through the doors into the judge’s chambers.
Taylor stood at the rail, staring. Talmadge turned to her, his eyes dark and serious, and shrugged his shoulders.
Moments later, the court officer reentered, his voice loud:
“All rise!” he began.
Judge Forsythe came in behind him, his robes in a flurry, and immediately took his seat and began banging his gavel before the officer could even finish his spiel.
“Be seated!” he yelled. “Everyone take a seat, or I’m going to have this courtroom cleared immediately! Those of you in the back, stand against the wall and be silent. This is my last warning. I will have this courtroom cleared.”
It took a few seconds, but order was quickly restored. Forsythe looked out over the bench and glared at the defense table.
“Counselor, produce your client,” he ordered.
Talmadge stood quickly. “Your Honor,” he said, his voice breaking. Taylor had never heard him sound like he was losing it before. “Your Honor, I-I can’t. He was here a few minutes ago. He was in the bathroom. I-”
“Mr. Talmadge, I just gave you a direct order to produce your client. I’m going to hold you in contempt if he’s not delivered to this court immediately.”
“Y-Your Honor,” Talmadge stammered. “I’m sorry, but I can’t make somebody just appear if they’re not here.”
Forsythe turned to one of his court officers. “I want this building locked down immediately. Search the entire courthouse. Find him.”
The court officer fumbled for his radio, then bolted from the courtroom through the judge’s door.
“General Collier,” Forsythe said, “do you have any sugges-tion as to how to deal with this most unusual circumstance?”
Collier jumped to attention. “Your Honor, has the jury communicated to you that they’ve reached a verdict?”
“They have.”
Collier turned to the defense table, stared at Talmadge for a moment, then turned back to the bench. “Well, then, Your Honor, the state moves that the jury be brought into the courtroom to deliver its verdict!”
A murmur arose throughout the room. “Objection, Your Honor,” Talmadge shouted. “The defendant is not here. You can’t deliver a verdict without the defendant.”
“Objection overruled,” Forsythe snapped. “If the defendant’s not here, it’s his own damn fault, and if it’s not his own damn fault, I intend to find out whose fault it is. Bailiff, bring in the jury.”
Seconds later, the jury filed in, looking lost and weary.
Immediately, they spotted the defense table. The looks on their faces became even more questioning.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have an unusual circumstance here,” Forsythe said. “We seem to have lost our defendant.
However, this does not mean that the verdict cannot be delivered in absentia. So, Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?”
The foreman, a thin man with gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, stood. Before he could open his mouth, Talmadge was on his feet again.
“Your Honor, move for a mistrial, as the defendant’s absence is highly prejudicial.”
“The jury has already reached a verdict, Mr. Talmadge, before the defendant went missing. So how could it be prejudicial?”
“Move for a mistrial, Your Honor,” Talmadge answered weakly.
“Motion denied. Answer the question, Mr. Foreman.”
The thin man looked frightened as his glance jumped around the courtroom. “Yes, Your Honor. We have.”
“Would you hand your verdict to the clerk, please?”
The man held out his hand as the clerk approached and took the forms from him. She walked over, reached above her, and handed the papers to Forsythe. He scanned them quickly, his face expressionless, then handed them back to the clerk.
“Since the defendant is unable to stand and face the jury, his representatives will. Gentlemen, on your feet.”
Talmadge and his two underlings stood.
“Clerk, read the verdicts.”
“On count one of the indictment, a violation of TCA 39-13-202, first-degree murder of Allison May Matthews, we find the defendant guilty as charged …”
A muffled buzz filled the courtroom. Forsythe slammed his gavel down twice as the clerk continued.
Guilty as charged. Guilty as charged. Guilty as charged …
How many times, Taylor wondered, would she say that? A roar grew in her ears. She looked to her right and saw all the people around her staring at her. She looked up and watched as Forsythe banged his gavel over and over, almost in slow motion, his voice a roar now, too.
She felt herself swaying back and forth, as if the room were swirling around her.
Forsythe turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, as I explained at the beginning of this trial, this is a two-part process. Ordinarily, we would begin the sentencing phase of this trial now. But that’s not possible. The constitution requires that a defendant be present to speak to the jury about any mitigating factors in his favor, and as we can plainly see, that is not possible. There are constitutional grounds for delivering a verdict in absentia, but that’s as far as we can go right now. Therefore, I have no choice but to thank you for your long and difficult service to the court and to dismiss you at this time.”
The jurors looked at each other, almost in shock, as if to ask, “Can we really go now?”
Forsythe slammed his gavel down again. “General Collier, I will issue an immediate warrant for the arrest of the defendant on any charges you draw up. Just do it quickly.
And I assume the police are already in the loop on this, correct?”
“We’re on it, Your Honor. As we speak …”
“Fabulous.” Forsythe turned to the defense table. “And I’m going to hold you, Mr. Talmadge, in contempt of court.
You’re going to be spending the next forty-eight hours as my guest. Bailiff, take him into custody.”
Wes Talmadge, in his eight-hundred-dollar Armani suit, looked up at the judge in shock. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His hands were shaking and he held them out, palms forward, as if to ward off the court officer walking up to him. Then his hands fell to his side in defeat.
“Court’s dismissed,” Forsythe announced, banging his gavel as he stood up. “All rise,” the court officer shouted, his right hand holding Wes Talmadge’s arm.
Taylor stood up, her mind blank, her vision blurring. People around her were jumping, scrambling to get out of the courtroom, yanking out their cell phones, shouting at each other. A half-dozen people jostled her, almost knocking her over as she stood there gazing out at the courtroom pandemonium.
He’s gone, she thought. He really did it.
Then she looked down at her own hands, held out in front of her, shaking slightly.
What do I do now? she wondered.
Then there was a hand on her elbow. She turned. A young, attractive Hispanic woman, dark-skinned, coal-black straight hair, stood next to her.
“Ms. Robinson?” she asked.
Taylor nodded blankly. “Yes?”
“Ms. Robinson, I’m Detective Maria Chavez of the Metro Nashville Police Department. You’ll have to come along with me now.”
“I will?” Taylor asked. “Why?”
“Because,” the young woman answered. “We have a few questions for you. I’m taking you into custody as a material witness.”