Blood Born

“Sorry, I’m about to go back into court. Please tell Ben I’m really proud, and thanks for letting me know. I wish I could be there to have seen him.”

“So do we.” There was slight hesitation before he said, “Anyway, you can talk to him later, but just act like you didn’t hear it from me first.”

“Hear what? Gotta go, but thanks, Martin. I mean it.”

She sipped the coffee and felt the heat dissipate from her neck and upper chest. A few minutes later, she was back on the stand.

Gary’s shaking seemed more evident than before the break.

“Doctor Crichton,” Brody began, “in your experience, which I concede is not in the specialty of psychiatry, is insanity, or what I’ll describe as psychosis, a constant state?”

“Not necessarily. People who describe hearing voices often say they come and go.”

“Is this dependent on the type and dose of medication?”

“No.”

“You say that the defendant appeared lucid during your time with him. Does that mean he cannot possibly have been in a state of psychosis the night of the assaults on Sophie and Rachel Goodwin?”

“No.”

“So is it still possible that he was in psychosis that night, and that you saw him on one of his better days?”

“Yes.”

“And is it possible the medication at the psychiatric hospital and care he was receiving was beginning to improve his condition?”

“That is possible, if he were actually psychotic that night and not faking. He was quite capable of using a computer keyboard just before debilitating tremors became apparent, coincidentally, when I was present. Then he regained complete coordination when he smashed a picture when I angered him with a question about his sister’s suspicious death.”

Gary grunted and glared at Anya.

Brody did a double-take but didn’t refute the comments.

He half turned, as if deliberating.

In that instant Gary Harbourn grabbed the carafe of water, smashed it and leaped over the table toward the stand, jagged weapon raised.

Someone screamed “Look out!,” and Anya saw the crazed look in his eye as he came.

For her.

Dan Brody dropped his shoulder into Harbourn’s chest and deflected his path. Harbourn bounced off the railing in front of the jury as they scattered toward the back of their box.

Dan grabbed Harbourn’s arm, holding the glass away from himself, and a court officer and Fiorelli wrestled Harbourn to the ground. Brody kept his knee in Harbourn’s back until the man could be handcuffed and restrained.

Harbourn ranted, “I’ll kill you. You and that Ryder bitch have been after me for years,” in full view of the jury while bucking to free himself.

Noelene Harbourn shouted, “Don’t hurt him, he’s ill.”

Anya looked up for the judge, who had retreated to the door near his chambers. Once it was clear that Harbourn was no longer a threat, he returned to the bench.

“Silence!” he ordered. “Everyone return to your seat. Mr. Brody, is your client under control?”

Dan was puffing and sweating, but he nodded.

With that, two uniformed police officers relieved Dan of his quarry. They lifted Harbourn from the ground and stood him upright, one with a leg between his from behind. He had no way of moving again.

Pascoe addressed them. “Take him to the cells until he sees his psychiatrist and cools off. Jurors, please take your seats.”

“That bitch is out to get me!” he could be heard yelling as he left the court.

Anya took a staccato breath and looked at Dan to make sure he was all right; she noticed some blood on his right hand.

“We will take a short recess. I must say to you, jurors, that the event you just witnessed should be disregarded in terms of this trial. We will return in one hour.”

The journalists were the first to leave after Pascoe exited the courtroom, eager to file the story of the crazed defendant’s attack.

With the press out of sight, Noelene Harbourn stood proud.

Anya stepped down and approached Dan, who was sitting, stunned.

Fiorelli and his assistant hadn’t moved either. It was as if no one could believe what had just taken place.

Anya asked to look at Dan’s hand, which he raised. There was a superficial cut to his palm, but it wouldn’t need stitches. “You’ll need to clean that and put a sterile bandage on it.”

The lawyer nodded.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “He really was after you.”

“I know. Thanks for stopping him, and you, too, Benito.”

The prosecutor shrugged. “After what just happened, it’ll be tough to convince the jury that Gary Harbourn is anything but insane. He can’t be responsible for murder if he has diminished responsibility. Hell, even I could believe it after that.”

Noelene Harbourn approached them. “You little slut, you think you were clever just then, but the joke’s on you.”

Dan and Benito moved closer to Anya, despite Noelene being alone and out of arm’s reach. Anya appreciated the gesture.

“I know your type, you act like the Virgin Mary, all sweet and brainy, but you’d root anything if it helped your career. That little stunt you pulled, all innocent-like on the stand? Well, you’ve just done us a bloody great favor.”

She turned to Dan, and her voice took on a softer tone. “Well done, Danny Boy. You’ve just scored yourself a bonus.”

The woman pulled on oversized sunglasses as if bracing to meet her fans, and turned on her heel to leave.

Dan Brody suddenly looked very pleased with himself.

46

That night Anya went home. Following Bevan Hart’s death and confession to the killing of Natasha Ryder, Kate and Hayden thought it safe for her to return home.

She opened the front door and nearly tripped on the pile of papers and mail on the floor. She disarmed the alarm and switched on the lights. Everything was as she had left it.

Nevertheless, the fact that the Harbourns had her name and address still had her spooked. Especially after Gary’s outburst in court.

She kicked off her shoes in the hallway and bent down to retrieve her mail. With Elaine still away, a pile of junk mail had accumulated inside the door. Sorting through the papers, something caught her attention. A letter from Ben.

She grabbed a letter opener from her office and sat on the calico lounge opposite Elaine’s desk. The answering machine could wait.

Ripping the envelope open revealed a brightly colored painting of a rainbow. Ben had drawn what looked like a man, woman and boy in the picture. On the back was his name and class name.

This has to go on the fridge, she thought, and stood up. A number of bills fell to the floor. Among them was a book-sized envelope with an immature handwriting.

There was no post mark. It had been hand-delivered.