Rough Justice

He considered the situation. He'd made a mistake with Marta, but had recovered and was back on plan. He'd just sent out protections and was hiding his distance, as Sun-Tzu would have put it. Be near but appear far, the Chinese general wrote. Sun-Tzu, an expert in military strategy, was one of the few men Steere admired, and when Steere read Sun-Tzu's book, he realized he was already doing the things Sun-Tzu had written. Steere had already bought the key properties in the city when he read in Sun-Tzu: Occupy first what they care about. And he had vanquished all his enemies except the mayor when he read: Both sides stalk each other over several years to contend for victory in a single day. That quote had stayed with him, and Steere had built his strategy for defeating the mayor around it.

Steere smiled inwardly. Sun-Tzu talked about the nature of victory, and Steere understood the nature of victory as if he had written the book himself. He understood that victory required more than aggression, more than conflict. Victory required violence. The clean, deadly violence of financial destruction and domination, like the detonation of a distant bomb with an explosion watched on videotape, and the intimate, hot violence of murder. Shooting a struggling man on a sticky night, while his heels kicked futilely against the asphalt. Killing him while you stood close enough to whisper in his ear, smell the stink on the back of his neck, and feel the heat from his skin. Making him take the bullet while he wept for his life.

Steere hadn't known if he could really do it or how he would feel after the fact. He had been surprised in both respects. Murder had come more easily than he expected, and after it was done he didn't feel thrilled or aroused. On the contrary, after killing the man Steere thought, That was a snap. And if he had been curious about the extent of his powers, Steere had learned they extended even further than he'd thought. He had murdered and would go free, so there was no limit to what he could do. No boundary imposed by self, man, or law. Steere had become invincible.

Sun-Tzu said, Undefeatability lies with ourselves; defeatability lies with the enemy. Steere knew instinctively that his new enemy, Marta Richter, could never achieve victory over him, even though she was free to move and he was confined to a prison cell. She knew how to win a courtroom battle, waged according to evidentiary rules and legal precedent, using words as weapons and lawyers as soldiers. It was no contest. Not even a fair fight. A box cutter against a Glock.

Because Elliot Steere knew how to win a war.

3

Heart pounding, Marta pushed her way through the reporters clogging the courthouse's hallway and lobby, only to find that outside the Criminal Justice Center they were as thick as the driving snow. They mobbed her as soon as she pushed her way through the courthouse's revolving door. 'No comment,' she shouted, blinking against the snowflakes and blinding TV lights.

Gonzo print reporters ran alongside Marta in the snow, grasping steno pads and hand-held dicta-phones, wearing baseball caps against the storm. 'Marta, will they find him innocent?' 'Marta, how long will they be out?' 'Will Steere sell his properties to the city if he's convicted?'

'No comment!' Marta snapped, charging to the street.

'Aw, come on, Marta!' TV reporters in orange-face makeup hurried in front of her, scurrying under colorful golf umbrellas held by interns. Their cameramen and technicians aimed videocams and TV lights as they ran backward in front of her, a practiced art. 'Marta, will the deliberations be suspended because of the storm?' 'Ms. Richter, will Steere be found innocent?' 'What's next for you, Marta?' 'Got a book in the works?'

Marta didn't stop to kiss up or propagandize. Didn't even break stride. Let them print what they wanted; her spinning days were over and she didn't have any time to lose. She elbowed her way out of the throng, and they didn't follow because the assistant district attorney, Tom Moran, emerged from the courthouse.

'The gag order's still in place,' Marta heard Moran say, and felt her gut twist. The D.A. had been right all along. Steere was a cold-blooded murderer. Now Marta had to prove it. But how? The bravado she'd shown in the interview room had vanished, scattered by frigid blasts of snow and reality. What was she going to do? Get back to the office. Get her bearings. Go!

Marta hurried to the corner to catch a cab, pushing the sleeve of her trench coat aside to check her watch. Three-fifteen. How much time did she have? Until noon tomorrow? She reached the corner of Market Street, where the traffic was heaviest, and tried to hail a cab. Snow flew in her eyes. The storm was worse than she'd thought.

Snow fell in thick wet flakes, blanketing everything in sight. Office buildings, subway canopies, and parked cars were already frosted white, their outlines indistinct. Icicles like pointy daggers jabbed from the power lines. The stoplight in front of City Hall was frozen red, confounding the already congested traffic. The sky was overcast. Soon it would be dark.

Marta wheeled around at a loud screeching behind her. A shopkeeper was pulling a corrugated security gate over a glass storefront. The other stores were already closed, their lights out. Commuters flooded the sidewalk to the subway stairs, leaving work early. Philadelphia was shutting down, freezing solid. What was she going to do? She had only one night and it was in the middle of a fucking blizzard.

Marta waved harder in the gray shadow of City Hall. Traffic accelerated as it turned the corner around the Victorian building and jockeyed for the fast lane to the parkways out of the city. Cars spewed clouds of steamy exhaust, and a minivan angling for the lead sprayed snow on Marta's pumps. She spotted a cab and waved at it, but it drove by, occupied. Marta was struck by a memory appearing from nowhere.

Hey! She's standing at a curb. Waving. Cars speed by. Wind blows her hair. It's cold by the road. Winter in Maine. Hey, mister. Please stop!

BEEP! blared a bus, almost upon her. Marta, startled, jumped back to the curb as its massive wheels churned by, dropping caked snow from its treads. BEEP!

'You okay, miss?' asked a voice Marta only half heard as she spotted another cab halfway up the street. The cab's roof light glowed yellow. It was empty!

Marta dodged passersby and dashed to the cab, her briefcase and bag under her arm. Snow wet her face and eyes but she blinked it away. The cab crawled toward her up the street, its headlights shining dimly through the snow. Marta waved like a fool. As the two converged she thought she saw a shadowy figure in the backseat. Damn. The windows were too dark for her to see inside. Marta reached the yellow cab and pounded on the back window.

'Hey, hey!' she shouted, battering the pane with her fist. 'I need this cab!' An old man in the backseat recoiled from the window in astonishment, and Marta became vaguely aware that she was acting crazy, feeling crazy. Bollixed up by what she had to do and how little time she had to do it in. Marta tore open the back door of the cab. 'I need a ride uptown! It's an emergency!'