Taylor looked down at the table, to where his fingertips had just brushed the back of her hand. She looked back up at him. “What do you want me to do?”
“Stay close to him,” Powell said. “Stay in his confidence.
If it looks to you like he’s about to run, or anything else drastic for that matter, you call me. Here’s my cell phone number. I’ve got it with me 24/7.”
He pulled a card out of his pocket and slid it across the table to her.
“Can you do that for me, Taylor?” he asked softly. “Can you help me make sure that he’s stopped?”
Taylor picked up the card and looked at it. It was glossy, shiny, with the FBI seal on it and embossed lettering. It was impressive, slick.
She looked up at Powell again, as weary as she’d ever been in her life.
“Yes,” she said. “I can do that.”
CHAPTER 34
And like a political campaign as well, the constant ebb and flow of power from one side to the other left each opponent alternately elated and in despair. The prosecution rested its case after a week, and for a moment, the defense was off-balance. Then Talmadge began his attack.
Experts-expensive experts-challenged every component of the state’s case. The evidence collection procedures, forensic procedures, protection of the crime scene: All were criticized and disputed. The defense tried to portray the police department and the Murder Squad as incompetent cowboys bent on hanging these horrific murders on anyone they could find because of political and public pressure.
The credentials of the TBI lab specialists were questioned.
Expert witnesses hired by the defense cast doubt on every aspect of the lab’s handling of the evidence and the conclusions that were reached. The testimony went on day after day, until the jury, the lawyers, and even the judge reached a point of exhaustion. Even the pool of reporters had dwin-dled; only the hard-core regulars showed up every day now.
As the trial neared its end, Forsythe pushed the attorneys to keep moving. The jury had been sequestered for almost a month. Two of the jurors became ill and were excused, their places taken by the alternates. If one more juror dropped off, Forsythe would have to declare a mistrial.
To wrap up the last of the prosecution’s rebuttal testimony, Forsythe held court on Saturday. Everyone had Sunday off, with closing arguments scheduled for Monday.
A dozen times, Taylor almost left. One night, she even packed her bags and made a reservation on the last flight out of Nashville. At the very last moment, she changed her mind and unpacked.
Most days, she and Michael barely spoke. As soon as court was over, she retreated to her room and ordered room service. She hid from the world and tried to sleep. Sleep had come easier the past few days; in fact, something in her sleep patterns had shifted and now it was not only easy to sleep, it was all she seemed to want to do.
She woke up Monday morning, the day of closing arguments, perhaps the last day of the trial, thickheaded and tired. The bags under her eyes had grown larger, she thought, as she stared into the mirror and tried to bring herself to consciousness. She had a standing order with the hotel room service staff to send up a pot of coffee, a croissant, and some fruit at seven-thirty. That would help. In the meantime, she had just enough time to get a shower.
Carey Talmadge picked them up every day at eight-fifteen in the morning and chauffeured them to court. She was on time and upbeat, as usual, despite the cold, gray day that awaited them outside.
“Where’s your father?” Michael asked as he slid into the backseat.
Carey turned, smiling. “He’s already at the courtroom.
He wanted to go over some last-minute things with Jim and Mark.”
At the front of the courthouse, the news crews with their trucks and portable microwave antennas were back in force.
One young, slim black woman was even doing a live remote.
It seemed to Taylor that there were even more news vans now than at the beginning of the trial.
Carey dropped them off at the side entrance to the courthouse, and they walked in quickly. As they stepped through the doors and approached the security screeners, Taylor heard voices outside yelling.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Michael shrugged. “Bottom feeders,” he muttered.
They took the elevator up to the fourth floor of the courthouse, where Mark Hoffman was pacing around in front of the elevator banks waiting for them. His face was tense, his brow furrowed like a bulldog’s. He looked around nervously.
“Wes wants to see you,” he said. “C’mon, we don’t have a lot of time.”
He turned, his heels clicking loudly on the marble floor, and stepped quickly down the hallway. Taylor and Michael strained to keep up with him. He came to a heavy wooden door and opened it, then walked down a short hallway to a conference room.
Wes Talmadge and Jim McCain sat at a long table. They rose as Mark, Taylor, and Michael walked in.
“Shut the door,” Wes ordered.
“What the hell’s going on?” Michael asked, looking around the room. Taylor stood off to the side, her shoulders aching from tension.
Wes Talmadge took a step toward them. “Sit down, Michael. We need to talk.”
“What?” Michael demanded, his voice strained and tense.
“Will you please tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Sit down,” Talmadge said quietly.
“No! Stop telling me to sit down and tell me what’s going on. Now.”
Talmadge sighed, and his head seemed to droop. “Okay, if that’s the way you want it. Mind if I sit down?”
Michael nodded as Talmadge stepped back to his chair and sat down. “Michael,” he said, looking up at them, “I had a phone call from a colleague last night. Hell, he’s more a friend than a colleague, I guess. Lives in Scottsdale, Arizona.”
Talmadge stared up at Michael for a moment. “Scottsdale?” Michael asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Talmadge nodded. “We’ve known each other a long time and he’s been following this trial through the news media.
Obviously, he knows I represent you.”
“Okay, so what’s the big-”
“Michael, he told me there’s a rumor going around out there that the grand jury in Scottsdale is preparing to indict you on a charge of first-degree murder in connection with the death of a young woman that occurred almost seven years ago.”
Taylor’s hand went to her mouth. She looked over at Michael. He stood there, swaying slightly, as the blood seemed to drain from his face.
“I made a few phone calls this morning, got a couple of people out of bed early. And while I haven’t been able to get anyone to come out and tell me point-blank that an indictment will be forthcoming, I think you should be prepared.”
“Madness,” Michael whispered. “It’s insane. How can they do this to me?”
“I’m afraid that’s not all,” Talmadge said, looking down at the floor. “The police department in Macon, Georgia is going to issue an arrest warrant for you later today. And I think we can expect some action soon from Chattanooga as well.”
Taylor felt dizzy, nauseated. The room seemed to swirl around her. She reached out and grabbed on to the back of a chair for support. Mark Hoffman stepped over, took her by the elbow and steadied her.
