“How are you?”
“You’re still there,” she said.
“Yeah, I was just reading the Sunday paper. Waiting for you to get home. What’s up?”
“Have there been any phone calls?” Taylor asked.
“Brett Silverman called, but that’s-”
“I talked to her,” Taylor interrupted. “Listen, we’ve got to talk. I want you to stay there, don’t leave the apartment.
If anyone comes to the door, don’t answer it. And for God’s sakes, don’t answer the phone. Don’t even pick it up. I’m on my way.”
“What’s up?” he asked, concerned now.
“Not on the phone. Sit tight. I’m on my way.”
Michael exploded after she told him. His face turned red, and it seemed as if the skin of his cheeks was stretched to the point of tearing.
“Those ignorant bastards!” he yelled. “What the hell do they think they’re doing?”
“I know,” Taylor said calmly, trying desperately to placate him. Michael had a terrible temper, she knew. She had gotten glimpses of it only a few times, but it was enough to let her know that beneath the surface, there was a reservoir of angry energy.
“I’ll sue the shit out of them!” he shouted.
“Yes, once we prove them wrong, we’re going to drag them through every court in the country. Malicious prosecution, prosecutorial misconduct, libel, slander, the whole gamut. But first we’ve got to prove them wrong.”
Michael stopped, turned, and stared at her. “What are you thinking?”
“We’ve got to find you a lawyer, and a good one.”
Michael reached up and rubbed his forehead. He suddenly looked tired. “I don’t even know any lawyers here, let alone any lawyers there.”
“I’ll call Joan,” Taylor said. “She knows everybody. She needs to know what’s going on anyway. This is going to hit the media, Michael, and soon. The only reason they’re not at our door now is my unlisted phone number.”
“Thank God for that,” he said. Then he looked up at her, and for a brief flash, Taylor thought she saw fear in his face.
“We’ve got to make this go away here. If I have to go back to that redneck shit hole, then I’m screwed.”
“We’ll get you the best lawyer out there.”
“Won’t make any difference!” he snapped. “Taylor, I’ve spent years studying the court system, police procedure, all for these books. And I’ll tell you what I’ve learned, baby, and that’s that we have more to fear from the cops and the prosecutors than we do the criminals!”
“Michael, that’s-”
“I’m serious!” he yelled. He began pacing back and forth in the cavernous living room, agitated, talking as much with his hands as with his mouth. “Let me tell you how this’ll go, Taylor. They’ve concocted some screwball theory because they’re too fucking incompetent to catch the real killer, and they’ve taken a bunch of coincidental, circumstantial things and twisted them to fit their theory. And they’ll perp walk me down there in front of the cameras for the goddamn media attention, and then they’ll book me and throw me in a cell with some little punk in an orange jumpsuit who’s facing a long term as a chronic habitual petty offender, or some such shit like that. And when it goes to trial, lo and behold, that little punk will get up on the stand and raise his right hand and swear I told him I did it. And the lying sack of shit prosecutor will stand there and ask the punk if any kind of deal had been offered in return for his testimony. And the little punk jailhouse snitch will shake his head and swear there was no deal. And when my ass goes off to prison, that lying punk will be out on the streets mugging little old ladies again.”
He stopped in the middle of the living room and stood there, eyes wild, hair mussed, his body still yet tense. Taylor stood still for a moment, numb.
“This is still America. You’re innocent until proven guilty,” she said softly.
His voice erupted, almost like a bark. “Bullshit!” he spewed. “In America, once the government decides to come after you, you may as well bend over, put your head between your knees, and kiss your ass good-bye.”
“You’re forgetting two things, Michael,” she said firmly.
“What?”
“First of all, you’re rich. I don’t mean to sound cynical, but let’s face it. You can afford the best attorney money can buy.”
He smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, I forgot about that. So what’s the other thing?”
“You have me,” Taylor said. “We’re in this together. We’ll get through this together.”
Joan Delaney was at her summer house in East Hampton when Taylor found her. For once, Joan remained calm in a crisis. “The first thing we have to do is to get the best criminal lawyer we can find,” Joan said.
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
“That means Abe Steinberg.”
Taylor made a note on the pad next to the phone. “With an E, right?”
“Yes. His office is on the east side of Park Avenue, around Forty-seventh Street. I’m not sure. You can look it up.”
“So you know this guy pretty well?” Taylor asked hopefully.
“Quite. We had a thing going once, but that was a long time ago. About twenty years ago, I sold the rights to the book he wrote about the Trenton Black Panther trial.”
“I remember that,” Taylor said. “He defended that boxer, right?”
“Muhammad Sharquand,” Joan answered. “He was a member of the Black Panther Party back in the late seventies and then became a contender for the heavyweight champi-onship, until the Trenton police set him up on a bogus drug charge.”
“Steinberg got him off, if I remember.”
“Yes, but only after he was in jail for almost three years.
Cost him his shot at the title. But it worked out okay. Steinberg went after the Trenton cops and won a ten-million-dollar judgment.”
“So this guy likes to go after crooked cops?” Taylor smiled.
“He pours warm milk on ‘em and eats ‘em out of a cereal bowl. Let me track him down. I still have his private number somewhere. I’ll call you back.”
Taylor hung up the phone and leaned back in her leather office chair. Down the hallway, she heard the shower running. Michael had ranted on for another fifteen or twenty minutes, then decided to take a long, hot shower, more to calm down than anything else. Taylor spun around in her chair and scanned the bookshelves in her home office. The room was large, almost as large as her bedroom, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases along one wall, with the exterior wall being exposed brick. She loved this room; it was her private sanctuary, her place to hide and think.
She would need this place a lot in the coming weeks and months, she thought.
Taylor sat, staring at the brick wall until the lines of ancient mortar started to tremble and vibrate. All thought seemed to leave her. She felt the air blowing gently over her skin.
When the phone went off next to her, it sounded like a firehouse alarm. She jumped and grabbed the handset before the first ring ended.
“Yes.”
“I’m trying to reach Taylor Robinson,” a gruff voice said.
She leaned down and looked at the caller ID box. She didn’t recognize the number.
“Who may I say is calling?”
“This is Abe Steinberg.”
The release of air from her chest made a whooshing sound.
“Oh, Mr. Steinberg. Thank you so much for calling.”
“Do you know where my offices are?”
