Michael and Taylor looked at each other briefly, then back to Steinberg.
“The advantage to the former course of action is that it’s less stress and cost on your part. Good lawyers with lots of resources can often make these things go away. The downside is that you’re putting your fate in someone else’s hands, and that requires considerable trust.”
“And what are the ramifications of taking the other course?” Michael asked.
“The advantage is that your own personal involvement in the case will often swing public sympathy to your side, and don’t negate the power of that. The downside is when it backfires and the public turns against you. And there’s one other downside.”
“Yes?” Michael asked.
“If you write a check to the lawyers and let them take it from there, it’s going to be expensive. But if you decide to commit to total war-and make no mistake, my friend, this is war-then it could cost you everything.”
“But if I beat this …”
“Then you become a kind of folk hero,” Steinberg said, smiling. “And there are many opportunities in our culture for heroes. You’re a writer. Use your imagination.”
“Yes,” Michael said, smiling. “And I think that I want to take this fight to them. I’m innocent-I know you told me not to say that, but I am-and I’m not going to let them run over me. I don’t want to go to war with them, but if I have to, I will. Total commitment.”
Michael turned to Taylor and held out his hand. She smiled and took it. Then she turned to Steinberg.
“Okay, Mr. Steinberg,” she said. “Total war. What’s the first step?”
“The first step,” Steinberg said, “is you write me a check for one hundred thousand dollars. That’s just to get started.
And when we get your attorney in Nashville on board, you should be prepared to write another one.”
There was a long moment of increasingly uncomfortable silence. Taylor looked over at Michael as he sat there with a shocked look on his face. Then he slowly extracted a leather-bound checkbook from his inside suit coat pocket.
“How should I make out the check?” he asked, his voice subdued.
“Steinberg, Tillman will be fine.”
Michael slipped his black Montblanc fountain pen out of his pocket and removed the cap. “I’m writing a one-hundred-thousand-dollar check with a fountain pen that five years ago, I couldn’t afford.”
Steinberg smiled. “Funny how things change over time.”
Michael signed the check, ripped it out of the book, and handed it across the table to Steinberg, who folded the check and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “Now, let’s move on to some other things.”
Then Steinberg began talking, nonstop. Taylor sat there, off to the side, as the old attorney went on and on, with Michael occasionally nodding his head or answering a question with one or two words. Taylor found herself drifting in and out of the conversation; she still couldn’t believe this was happening. There was something about it so far removed from reality, so surreal, that she kept thinking that sooner or later someone was going to burst into the room, shout, “Just kidding!” and then it would all be over. Steinberg would roar back laughing, stand up, and rip Michael’s check into shreds. Then they could all go have a big lunch and a few drinks and a good laugh over all this.
Only it wasn’t a joke.
Taylor looked down at her watch; they’d been in Steinberg’s office nearly an hour. Suddenly the door opened and a middle-aged woman wearing a stern blue pin-striped power dress, her hair pulled back tightly, walked into the room.
Steinberg, irritated, turned to her.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Steinberg,” the woman said, “but you’re going to want to see this.”
She walked over to a large, closed cabinet that dominated the middle of the built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcases. She opened the door, revealing a large flat-panel television. She picked up the remote off the top of the TV and pointed it at the screen. The television powered up in a few seconds. The woman raised the volume and pressed the buttons to go to Cable News Network.
The shot was a live one, from the steps of the Davidson County Courthouse in Nashville, Tennessee. A podium had been set up on the steps with a bank of microphones jammed on top. A crowd milled around, restlessly murmuring. It was a bright blue spring day in Nashville, Taylor noticed as she got up from the sofa and walked over to the television. A moment later, Michael was standing on one side of her, with Steinberg on the other.
As Steinberg’s assistant raised the volume, the screen split, with the courthouse scene in a frame to the right of the screen and the clean-cut, blow-dried, rubber-stamped CNN
anchor to the left.
“We take you now to Nashville, Tennessee, where the district attorney has scheduled a brief statement regarding the rumored indictments of best-selling novelist Michael Schiftmann on two counts of first-degree murder.”
“Jesus,” Taylor muttered. No one else spoke.
They all watched as a tall, gray-haired man in a nondescript gray suit approached the microphone. He carried in his right hand a sheaf of papers, which he jogged into a neat stack as he stood at the podium. He looked up into the cameras, cleared his throat, and began:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am T. Robert Collier, the District Attorney General for Davidson County and Metropolitan Nashville. As you all know, last February, on February fifth of this year, there was a double murder here in Nashville at a place of business on Church Street known as Exotica Tans. Two young women were killed in what the police have described as one of the most brutal and horrifying murder scenes in the history of our city. These two women were gainfully employed in a legal establishment, working their way through college, with families and friends who mourn their violent and premature passing, and who seek justice for them and their memory.”
Collier paused here, looking down at the papers in his hand. Taylor felt her heart thumping in her chest and cold sweat breaking out around her chest, under her breasts, in her armpits. She squeezed her arms into her ribs as a thin trickle of perspiration ran down her side.
“I am here today to announce to you,” Collier continued,
“that as of nine o’clock this morning, the Davidson County Grand Jury has issued a series of criminal indictments in connection with the events of that horrible February night.”
Collier paused again, clearing his throat. “A Mr. Michael Schiftmann, whom we believe is currently residing in New York City, has been indicted on the following charges relating to the murders of Sarah Denise Burnham of Murfreesboro, Tennessee and Allison May Matthews of Fairview, Tennessee.
“First, under Tennessee Code Annotated 39-13-305, Mr.
Schiftmann is charged with two counts of especially aggravated kidnapping, a Class A felony. Second, Mr. Schiftmann is charged with two counts of violating Tennessee Code Annotated 39-13-540, aggravated sexual battery. Third, Mr.
Schiftmann is charged with two counts of violating Tennessee Code Annotated 39-13-502, aggravated rape.”
Collier paused for a moment and looked out over the crowd, letting them wait for a heartbeat or two.
“Finally, Mr. Schiftmann is charged with two counts of violating Tennessee Code Annotated 39-13-202, which is first-degree murder.”
Taylor gasped involuntarily. Michael reached over, took her hand, and squeezed it. She turned quickly to her left.
Michael was staring at the television, his body rigid, his jaw clenched.
“And because of the especially heinous and violent nature of these two senseless, brutal murders, my office wishes to announce that we will be seeking the death penalty in connection with the first-degree murder charges.”
Taylor went numb all over. She stared at the television as time seemed to stop for a moment. Michael’s hand in hers felt cold, stone-cold, and hard as a rock.
