Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)

The judge was the Honorable Skinner Coffin. I’d never met him, but I knew who he was. He was in his fifties, reputed to be touchy and opinionated. Justine had once said that he excelled at “creative interpretation of the law.”

I didn’t know if that was good for me or bad.

While Judge Coffin was in conversation with his bailiff, I scanned the gallery. There was a low rumble of people whispering, shifting in their seats. Babies cried. I heard my name. I turned to see Robbie Pace, the new mayor, coming toward me.

I remember thinking how clean he looked in his blue suit, his face shining from a recent shave. He leaned close and said into my ear, “I wrote to the judge. Put in a good word. I think you’re going to be okay.”

“Thanks, Robbie.”

“No problem.”

Doors opened at the front of the courtroom, and Fescoe entered, came up the aisle. He stopped to speak to Mayor Pace, looking at me over Pace’s shoulder while they chatted. Robbie’s head bobbed in agreement, then Fescoe nodded at me and went to the back of the gallery.

The doors opened again, and Justine came through them, a stunning picture of grace, fresh as a new rose, her smile weighted with sadness. She came up to me. Stopped short of hugging me. Contact was expressly forbidden.

“We’re all with you, Jack. Everyone at Private. We’re reaching out to street contacts, sifting through everything we’ve found, and we will keep at it until we’ve got something useful. Are you all right?”

“It’s good to see you.”

“I wish I could say the same. I know how bad it is in there.”

I thought, You can’t really know—and you should thank God for that.

I said, “So you don’t have anything?”

“Not yet. Tommy has an alibi.”

“So I heard.”

“His wife. He was home with her that evening.”

I sighed.

“We’re still digging,” said Justine.

“I’m okay,” I said.

“I know.”

Why had I slept with Colleen?

Why hadn’t I resisted that impulse?

Justine wished me luck, and then the bailiff called out a number. Caine said, “That’s us. Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 60

THE ASSISTANT DISTRICT attorney was Eddie Savino, still in his twenties, dark, handsome, and on his way up—at least he gave that impression.

Savino said, “Your Honor, Mr. Morgan murdered Colleen Molloy, one of his girlfriends. He shot her three times in the chest. We recovered his DNA from inside the victim, to put it delicately.”

The ADA smirked, shot a glance at the gallery, didn’t get a reaction, and went on.

“And the special circumstance in the charge is that Ms. Molloy was six weeks pregnant.”

“Go on,” said the judge. “And can the flourishes, Eddie. There’s no jury. Just me.”

“Yes, Judge,” said the ADA. He smiled charmingly. “The murder weapon was a .45-caliber handgun registered to Mr. Morgan, concealed in some bushes about fifteen feet from his front door. The bullets from that gun are a positive match to the bullets extracted from the victim’s body.”