Chain of Evidence

priced attorney sitting next to her. Dart was familiar with Bernie Wormser’s reputation, but had never faced him. Wormser had worked hard to arrange the interview elsewhere, but there they were, in a cramped, windowless room with a linoleum floor. Just the way Dart had wanted it.

Dart carried a tape recorder with him. His left arm was in a sling. He plugged the machine into a wall outlet, turned it on, and recorded the names of those present, the location, the date and time. Martinson appeared restless, Wormser, dead calm.

“As you know,” Dart addressed Martinson, “we’ve charged you with interfering in a criminal investigation, in so much as Terrance Proctor, and therefore Proctor Securities, acted as your agent. In this regard, there is also the charge of first-degree murder, for the shooting death of Walter Zeller, and attempted murder for the actions taken against myself. There are federal charges concerning the rigging of certain clinical trial results-”

“You don’t know anything,” Martinson said venomously. Wormser touched her arm lightly. She glared at her attorney, and as he attempted to speak, cut him off. “No, Bernie. I’ll dig my own grave, thank you just the same.”

“I really don’t think-” Wormser attempted.

“Quiet,” she said, silencing him, and burning his face scarlet. To Dart she said, “Have you ever dealt with a victim of sexual assault, Detective? Physical abuse? Do you have any clue what you’re dealing with here? Do you understand the trauma-the permanent damage done to a woman, and to boys as well-by such violation? Do you? Someone else’s body inside yours … the sense of helplessness … the pain … disease … Someone striking you … drooling onto you, slobbering onto you-”

“Arielle!” Wormser chastised.

“Oh, shut up!” she roared back at him.

Dart’s voice cracked as he explained, “He was shot five times, the last of which penetrated his skull just below the left eye and killed him.”

Ignoring him, she said, “What if you possessed the knowledge, the ability, to reduce sexual assault-rape-by ten percent? Spousal and child abuse by twenty percent? Sixty percent? What if you knew you had that within your grasp? And what if the government, in all its banality, had structured a set of rules so confining, so slow, so difficult to maneuver through that you came to understand it might be decades before you could bring this technology to market? What then? Do you sit back and wait? In this country, a woman is beaten every twelve seconds.” She glanced at her Rolex. “Since we’ve been sitting here, over ten women have had a fist raised to them. Would you wait decades, if you were in my shoes?”

Dart was flooded with a dozen images of Zeller. “Walter Zeller discovered your treatment of the documentation for the clinical trials. He uncovered Proctor’s tampering with the facts. Subsequent to that discovery he was pursued, his life was threatened, day and night, for over twelve months-”

Interrupting him, she said, “Who are you? Are you listening to what I’m telling you? Do you hear what I’m saying? So what if I altered some of the paperwork? That’s all it was-paperwork!”

“Arielle, I have to interrupt!” objected Wormser.

“Shut up, Bernie. You’re being paid either way.” Addressing Dart she continued, “Would I have put Laterin on the market despite less-than-perfect results? You bet I would.” Meeting eyes with him, she said, “I will if I get the chance. I’d rather stop fifteen, twenty, thirty percent of such beasts, than stand by and do nothing. Every twelve seconds, don’t forget. And would I have resorted to such means for the sake of greed? No. For the sake of science, Detective. For the sake of the victim. Every new generation of Laterin that we developed showed a five- to seventeen-percent improvement. But there’s no way to test it, given the rules. You can’t test Laterin on rats or monkeys! Who are you kidding? This is a human aberration-and in large part, a genetic defect. You know who should be in this room, should be here instead of me? The FDA.” She nodded. “You bet. That’s who should be in this chair. Not me. Am I guilty of trying to do something? You bet I am. And damn proud of it.”

“You’ll go to jail for your actions,” Dart told her. “But by cooperating now-as Mr. Wormser will tell you-special consideration will be given your case.”

“I don’t want your special consideration. How many dead women-beaten wives, raped children-equal one Walter Zeller? You tell me how to fit that into an equation. Zeller broke the law repeatedly. In the end, he committed acts of murder-”

“You are the murderer!” Dart shouted, regretting immediately the outburst. He collected himself, met eyes with her, and said, “You rigged the data, the results of the trials, and then tried to, and eventually did, kill the man who uncovered your deceit. You, not Proctor, not his shooter, you.”

Her mouth moved, but no words came out. Finally she whined, “This is important work.”

A silence settled over them. Martinson’s chest heaved from the stress. Dart knew he’d broken out in a sweat.

Dart said, “You can’t balance one against the other. It doesn’t work that way.” He felt himself softening. Twenty-percent fewer sex offenders? Was it possible?

She said, “You do what you have to, Detective. We all do what we feel we have to. I’ll take my chances.” She paused, glanced at the annoyed Wormser and then back to Dart. “You want to know something? Don’t forget that juries are made up of men and women. There’s not a jury in this country that would convict me for what I’ve done. It was Zeller that committed murder, not me. A desperate man driven by the loss of his wife. I was trying to help the men he killed. They wanted that help-that much is documented-which is why they participated in the trials.” She looked over at Wormser again. Martinson had spent her life in control. She edged to the front of her seat.

Dart informed the attorney, “Terry Proctor is going to testify against your client. You might want to keep that in mind.”

“Stay where you are, Arielle,” Wormser advised.

She stood up, though feebly. She ran a hand down her smooth navy blue suit and, meeting eyes with Dart, said weakly, “I was trying to help solve a serious social problem. Condemn me if you will.” She walked past him and continued out the door.

Dart did nothing to stop her.

CHAPTER 47

“They called you a genius,” Dart told her. Ginny’s favorite walk was a section of the Appalachian Trail.

“Well, it shows that at least sometimes cops are right,” she teased.

It was awkward for Dart walking with his arm in a sling-he hadn’t realized how much walking depended on swinging his arms. His ankle was good enough for this hike, though it occasionally glowed with a twinge of pain. She had asked to see him, and he was in no mood to deny her.

Once on the trail, she found an overlook where an outcropping of rock faced north, and they perched there, wrapped in their winter coats, their breath fogging, Dart’s heart pounding. The afternoon sun was muted by clouds.

She said, “That was fun, what we did.” He thought that she was referring to the raid at Roxin, but he wasn’t sure.

“Yeah.”

He could tell when she was nervous by the way she chewed her lip. “Where do you stand with Abby?” she asked, not surprising him one bit. He had known what this talk would be about.

“Why?”

“I need to know.”

He wanted to ask why for a second time but thought better of it. He said, “Where do I stand, or where do we stand?”

“Is there a we?”

“Very much so.”