“Yes, sir.” Harry braved a smile, which Warren returned.
The phone rang a fourth time. “Now get out of here and go to work. And don’t ask Petrelli or the County Executive for any favors for a while:’
Harry exited and closed the door. The others were right, he concluded. Michaels was one of the good guys. He couldn’t help but wonder, though, what kind of chewing out the big man himself had received after shooting his reflection in that mirror.
Michaels took the steps down to the parking lot two at a time, cradling his flip-phone on his shoulder as he fitted his weapon into its holster. He could hear his heart racing. A few seconds passed, then Jed answered on the third ring.
“Nicholson residence, Detective Sergeant Hackner.”
“Jed, Warren. They’ve found the car in Pennsylvania, just north of Harrisburg. I’m on my way up there now.”
“Great,” Jed replied, amused by the sounds of exertion in his boss’s voice. “I’ll cover things here.”
Chapter 22
Stephanie Buckman was running out of important-looking tasks to consume time. The big clock in the main corridor of the courthouse read 3:40, nearly two hours past the scheduled time for the hearing. Petrelli never showed up, and Stephanie knew from experience that his absence meant that she was stuck with a loser. Fuming as she paced the corridor, she mentally inventoried her bloated caseload. With thirty-three felonies and God only knew how many miscellaneous other matters pending, she had zero tolerance for tilting at Petrelli’s windmills. To make matters worse, her high-priced opponents from Omega Broadcasting sat smugly on the other side of the corridor, engrossed in quiet conversation, showing no signs at all of stress. But then, she guessed she’d be calm, too, if she were hauling down $250 an hour just for the wait. Finally, at ten minutes to four, word came that Judge Verone was ready to begin.
First appointed to the bench in 1955, Judge Clarence 0. Verone appeared old enough to be an original signer of the Constitution. He was notorious for running hours behind schedule, and forever refusing to explain the reasons for the delays. Theories abounded, but the simple truth was that his was an appointment for life, and he could be as punctual as he liked. That his whims destroyed the carefully balanced schedules of countless attorneys was irrelevant. “When you get your own courtroom,” he would tell his critics, “you have my permission to start on time.”
Now approaching his eightieth birthday, Judge Verone looked cadaverous, his dark eyes and sunken cheeks creating a visage of evil that had served well over the years to intimidate the crap out of many courtroom guests. As he climbed onto the dais, he had to pause for a moment to allow his arthritic knees to absorb the strain. The courtroom remained silent, all parties on their feet, secretly wondering how much longer the old codger could continue.
For all of his physical frailties, Judge Verone’s knowledge of the law was formidable. A fierce victim’s advocate, he had sent more than his share of capital felons to await their turn in Greensville’s electric chair. A staunch proponent of individual responsibility, he had watched countless plaintiffs and their attorneys limp from his courtroom with their wallets empty and their tails between their legs. The assignment of Judge Verone to the People’s petition to access Omega Broadcasting’s telephone records no doubt accounted for Petrelli’s conspicuous absence.
When the introductions were taken care of and the opening formalities completed, Judge Verone turned to Stephanie Buckman.
“Miss Buckman, I see you’re here alone,” he rasped, intentionally avoiding the term ‘Ms.’, which in his view represented a concession to overly sensitive activists. “I was expecting to see Mr. Petrelli here with you.”
Stephanie smiled uncomfortably. “Frankly, Your Honor, so was I. But I’m prepared to proceed without him.”
Verone returned the smile briefly, then made it disappear. “I’m not so sure you are, Miss Buckman,” he said. “I’ve read your petition, and I am prepared to rule it out of order unless you can cough up a compelling reason to violate the privacy of hundreds of innocent people so you can go on a fishing trip for one caller.”
Stephanie remained standing while the attorneys on the other side of the aisle lowered themselves into their chairs. She could feel their mocking smiles as she gathered her thoughts. She opened her portfolio, glanced at her notes, and began.
“Your Honor, a convicted felon and a confessed killer is running free today, following a daring and bloody escape from the Brookfield Juvenile Detention Center. We have within our reach the mechanism to bring him back into custody. By allowing access to Omega Broadcasting’s telephone records, you allow us to track this young man down and put him back where he belongs. The People don’t want to violate anyone’s privacy, Your Honor, but sometimes, the common good must prevail.”
“Is that all?” Verone asked.
“Well, no, Your Honor:’ Stephanie said, pulling the lengthy petition out of her brief case. “In our petition, we cite several precedents which I’d be happy to review with you.”
Verone held up a skeletal hand to cut her off. “No, Miss Buckman, that won’t be necessary. Appearances notwithstanding, I’m still young enough to read what is submitted to this court.” He pivoted his head to the defense table. “Mr. Morin,” he said to a gleaming attorney in a Brooks Brothers suit, “I presume that you have a slightly different take on this matter?”
Morin buttoned his suit jacket as he stood. “Yes, Your Honor, we do indeed,” he said. In flawless and flowery prose, he recounted the incalculable harm that would be inflicted on the First Amendment rights of all citizens were the plaintiff’s requests to be granted. After enduring three minutes of breathless oratory, Verone yawned widely and loudly, causing Morin to stop in mid-sentence.
“Do you have any information to present to me here that is not already played out in your written response?” Verone asked, taking advantage of the brief silence.
Morin smiled coyly, as though he had been waiting for this opportunity. “Yes, sir, Your Honor. In addition to all of the arguments thus far presented, the defendant feels that the entire issue is moot, due to events of this morning, in which the information sought by the People’s petition was already provided by alternative means.”
Stephanie’s mouth dropped. She hadn’t been back to the office since nine o’clock that morning, and no one had told her anything about alternative means. What the hell kind of game was Petrelli trying to play, anyway?
“I have no idea what counsel is talking about,” she said in reply to the judge’s inquisitive look.
Verone’s gaze returned to Morin. “Enlighten us all, Mr. Morin, please,” he said.
Morin told of the Nicholsons’ return from vacation, and of their discoveries upon their arrival home. “Several points are proven here, Your Hohor,” Morin concluded. “First, that good police work does not have to involve civil rights violations, and second, that the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s office is wasting a lot of people’s valuable time—and my client’s valuable money—just to win a few votes.”
“That last comment was uncalled for, Your Honor,” Stephanie objected.
“On the contrary, Miss Buckman, I believe that it is overdue,” Verone shot back. “I think we all know what’s going on here. Your boss is taking a bath on this case, and he’ll try anything to win, including leaving you out to dry all alone with this turkey of a petition. Miss Buckman, I want you to go back to your office and tell Mr. Petrelli that there is no provision in the Constitution whereby it can be suspended to support the political aspirations of prosecutors. Tell him if he tries a stunt like this again, I’ll throw his butt in jail for contempt. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Stephanie said with a smile. She could just see herself saying those things to Petrelli. God, what she would give to do it and still have a job.
“Petition denied?’ The gavel sounded like a pistol shot.
The gun made Nathan feel safer. The heft of it in his hands, the press of it against the small of his back gave him the sense that the odds were more even. Like The Bitch had said, it was dangerous for a kid his age to be wandering around alone at night. If some bad guy chose him as his prey, Nathan would be ready.
