By Blood Written

can put him up on the stand and he testifies there’s no way you are even psychologically equipped to do this kind of violence, that will carry some weight.”

Michael sighed. “Okay, if you think we need it.”

“We’ll hold off on that decision, but keep it on the back burner. Now the next step,” Talmadge explained, “is the settlement date. The judge has scheduled a hearing not quite ninety days out. Now depending on what happens with the DNA tests, we’ll try to have the charges against you dismissed. The DA may try to broker a lesser charge, but I doubt it.”

“I wouldn’t take the deal anyway,” Michael said. “I won’t plead out on this.”

“Then another sixty days or so later, we’ll have a pretrial conference. At that point, the judge will ask if everybody’s good to go. If everything’s prepared, that’s when we’ll set a trial date. That’s going to be complicated, though, since a capital trial like this is going to be long and involved. Everybody will have to clear a huge hole in their calendar.”

“How long will the trial itself take?”

Talmadge considered for a moment before speaking. “A good month, six weeks,” he said.

“Jesus,” Michael said. “So we’re looking at a good six months or so before we go to trial, and then six weeks or so after that before we know.”

“That’s about it.”

“And the meter will be running the whole time,” Michael said.

Talmadge shrugged. “Cases like this are expensive to defend. I’m sorry.”

“I guess I need to get back to my laptop and start typing,”

Michael said. “I’ve got a lot of books to write if I’m going to keep you guys in the style you’ve become accustomed to.”

“There’s one other duck we need to get in order,” Talmadge said. He looked over at Steinberg, who nodded at him.

“What?” Michael asked.

Talmadge looked back at Michael. “The state of Tennessee employs what’s called a bifurcated trial system. In other words, a two-phase trial. The first phase is the guilt or innocence stage. We have every reason to believe you’ll be acquitted of this if it gets that far, but we can’t assume it. To protect you, we need a mitigator for the penalty phase.”

“A what?” Michael asked.

“A mitigator, an attorney who specializes in convincing a jury that there are reasons why even if you’ve been found guilty, you don’t deserve to die.”

This time the silence between them was painfully leaden.

Finally, Michael spoke in a voice so soft Steinberg could barely hear him.

“You know, if I’m found guilty of this, I’d almost rather be put to death. I don’t think I can stand prison. I just don’t think I could stand it.”

“Everybody says that at first,” Talmadge offered. “But when the reality hits, you realize that even a life in prison is still life.”

Michael shook his head. “Not for me,” he said. “Not for me.”

PART III THE TRIAL CHAPTER 30

Monday morning, eight months later, Nashville Taylor Robinson rolled over in the oversize hotel bed and turned to the windows. The covers were bunched around her, knotted up, her legs cramped under them. She opened her eyes and tried to focus on the window.

Is the sun even up yet?

She rolled back over and kicked the covers off, then stood up shakily beside the bed. Her head hurt, her eyes burning from lack of sleep. If she’d slept at all, it had been only in the last couple of hours. She pulled the heavy drapery aside and squinted at the light filtering through the gauzy thin sheer that covered the window. She looked over at the clock.

Six-fifteen. She groaned and pulled the curtain aside, then stared out over downtown Nashville. The city was just beginning to awaken on a cold but clear late-January morning, the sun looming large and vibrant in the east. From the eighteenth floor, she felt detached from the city, as if somehow she wasn’t really here.

Sleep. All she wanted was sleep.

She walked into the bathroom and splashed some water on her face, then brushed her teeth to get the stale taste out of her mouth. She pulled her robe around her, then sat on the edge of the bed. She typed in a toll-free number from memory, then the twelve numbers of her calling card. Then she dialed Brett Silverman’s home phone.

Brett answered on the fifth ring, barely ahead of the answering machine, her voice thick and groggy.

“Yeah?” she grumbled.

“Oh, God, you’re still asleep. I’m so sorry. I figured with the time difference-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Brett mumbled. “The clock was going off in a few anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” Taylor said again.

Brett cleared her throat, then spoke again. “How are you?”

“Tired. I don’t think I slept at all last night.”

“Where’s Michael?”

“I guess he’s still in his room,” Taylor answered.

“His room?” Brett asked.

Taylor felt her shoulders knotting up. “We took separate rooms. I know, it’s kind of weird. But he stays up all night anyway. And the way I’m sleeping these days, it would have been impossible for me to get any rest.”

“Darling,” Brett said, drawing out the word, “why did you even go down there? This can’t be good for you.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Taylor asked. “We’re engaged. He’s my client and my fiance. I have to support him.”

“Even though it’s cost you twenty pounds that you really didn’t have to lose?” Brett said. “You’re skin and bones, girl.

God, I wish I could give you twenty of mine.”

“They’ll come back. When this is all over.”

Taylor sat there for a moment, silently. The silence stretched into awkwardness, and she felt silly for calling her best friend so early.

“At this point, I’m more worried about you than I am Michael,” Brett said. “Whatever’s going to happen to him is going to happen. I don’t want you to go down in the process.”

“I’m okay,” she said. “I just wish this was all over.”

“When do you have to be in court?”

“Nine. A little less than three hours.”

“You’re going to eat something?” Brett scolded. “You’re going to take care of yourself?”

Taylor nodded. “Yes. I’ll be all right. I think I just wanted to hear your voice. You’ve really been a big help these last few months.”

Taylor heard Brett let loose a long sigh. “It’s been the weirdest fucking eight months I’ve ever been through. I’ve always wanted to have a real, for-true New York Times best-selling author. I just never imagined him going on Larry King Live to announce that he wasn’t a serial killer.”

“This is crazy,” Taylor said. “Surely a jury’s going to see how crazy this is.”