CHAPTER 61
CAINE HAD DONE a powerful—correction, a phenomenal—job. My gratitude to him was so overwhelming, I almost broke down. But Judge Coffin was deadpan. He appeared to be unmoved by Caine’s speech.
Coffin said, “Mr. Morgan, you’re charged with felony murder with special circumstances. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
The judge said, “Uh-huh.” Then he leaned over his laptop and poked at the keys.
Judge Coffin was a two-finger typist, and while he hunted and pecked, noise rose from the gallery like a typhoon boiling up the coastline. A fight broke out in the aisles and sheriffs put it down. The judge banged his gavel four times and glared.
There was silence and then Judge Coffin looked down at me.
“Mr. Morgan, do you intend to flee?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Okay. Well, I’d say we have an unusual situation, Mr. Morgan being an upright citizen who called the police to report the crime. Still, we’ve got special circumstances.”
The judge scratched his chin. He had our attention.
“I’ve found a precedent in Meyer versus Spinogotti.”
Savino looked puzzled. “Wasn’t that an abduction case, Your Honor?”
“Bingo, Mr. Savino. Pregnant victim. Mr. Caine, I want Mr. Morgan’s plane disabled and secured so that it cannot be moved. Mr. Morgan, you will surrender your pilot’s license and your license to carry a weapon; also your passport.
“When those conditions are met, find a bail bondsman who will put up twenty million dollars and off you go.”
The gavel came down.
The bailiff called the next case. Caine said to me, “Don’t worry, Jack. I’m on it. You’ll be home tomorrow.”
Was Caine right? Or was he just giving me false hope?
A deputy was at my side. He jerked my arm, and I walked with him out the back door of the courtroom. I turned just as the door closed. I was hoping to see Justine, but I saw Fescoe.
He was in a huddle with Tandy and Ziegler and Eddie Savino. I could tell by the looks shot in my direction that they were discussing me.
It was a fair guess that the prosecution was disappointed that I might make bail.
I was loaded into the holding cell behind the courtroom, where I was chained again to three other men. I sweated in silence for six hours, then returned by bus to the men’s jail, where I was shooed into my cell.
We had a new cell mate.
Another talker.
The new guy’s name was Vincent, and he looked like he’d been sleeping over a grate. He got rolling fast and told me about what he called “an almost criminal imbalance in the real estate market” that wouldn’t straighten out until 2015 at the earliest. He talked about the boomers, the pressure they’d put on all things related to the economy and the current entitlement programs. We wouldn’t see a bull market until we were wearing orthopedic shoes, he said.
He still had a sense of humor. It was admirable.
“You’re in finance?” I asked politely.
“I drive.”
“Drive?”
“A cab. I didn’t pay a couple of tickets. They pulled me in here for that. You believe it?”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“When we get out of here, if you need a cab, just remember 1-800 Call Vin.”
I said, “Sure. I can remember that.”
I thought about Justine, the way she’d looked at me in the courtroom. I’d felt the pain and her deep disappointment. I thought about lying with her under cool sheets in a big bed.
Early the next morning, the first sound I heard was the loudspeaker, feedback screeching, the blasting voice echoing across the pods.
This time my name was called.