Along Came a Spider (Alex Cross #1)(82)

It was a difficult problem and dilemma for the jurors. Was Gary Soneji/Murphy a brilliant and evil sociopath? Was he aware, and in control, of his actions? Had there been an “accomplice” to the kidnapping and at least one child-murder? Or had he acted alone from the beginning?

No one knew the truth except maybe Gary himself. Not the psychology experts. Not the police. Not the press. And not me.

Now how would the jury of Gary’s “peers” decide?

The first real event of the morning occurred when Gary was escorted into the packed, noisy courtroom. He looked his usual clean-cut and characteristically boyish self in a plain blue suit. He looked as if he worked in some small-town bank, not like someone on trial for kidnapping and murder.

There was a smattering of applause. It proved that even kidnappers can have a cult following these days. The trial had definitely attracted its share of weirdos and sick creeps.

“Who says America doesn’t have any more heroes?” Sampson said to me. “They like his crazy ass. You can see it in their shiny, beady little eyes. He’s the new and improved Charlie Manson. Instead of a berserk hippie, a berserk yuppie.”

“The Son of Lindbergh,” I reminded Sampson. “I wonder if this is how he wanted it to turn out. All part of his master plan for fame?”

The jury filed into the courtroom. The men and women looked dazed and unbearably tense. What had they decided—probably very late the night before?

One of the jurors stumbled as they moved one by one into the dark mahogany jury box. The man went down on one knee and the procession behind him stopped. That one brief moment seemed to underscore the frailty and humanity of the whole trial process.

I glanced at Soneji/Murphy and thought I saw a faint smile cross his lips. Had I witnessed a tiny slipup? What thoughts were racing through his head now? What verdict did he expect?

In any event, the persona known as Gary Soneji, the “Bad Boy,” would have appreciated the irony of the moment. Everything was ready now. An incredible extravaganza. With him at center stage. No matter what, this was the biggest day of his life.

I want to be somebody!

“Has the jury reached a verdict?” Judge Kaplan asked once they were seated.

A small, folded slip of paper was passed to the judge. Judge Kaplan’s face was expressionless as she read the verdict. Then it went back to the jury foreman. The process of due process.

The foreman, who had remained standing, began to speak in a clear but shaky voice. He was a postal worker named James Heekin. He was fifty-five, and had ruddy, almost crimson, coloring that suggested high blood pressure, or maybe just the stress of the trial.

James Heekin proclaimed, “On two charges of kidnapping, we find the defendant guilty. On the charge of the murder of Michael Goldberg, we find the defendant guilty.” James Heekin never used the name Murphy, just the defendant.

Chaos broke out all over the courtroom. The noise was deafening as it echoed off the stone pillars and marble walls. Reporters raced for the telephones in the hallway. Mary Warner was emotionally congratulated by all the young associates on her staff. Anthony Nathan and his defense team quickly left the room, avoiding questions.

There was a strangely poignant moment in the front of the courtroom.

As court officers were leading Gary away, his wife, Missy, and his little girl, Roni, ran up to him. The three of them fiercely hugged. They sobbed openly.

I had never seen Gary cry before. If it was a performance, it was another brilliant one. If he was acting in front of the courtroom, the scene was entirely believable.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Not until a pair of court officers finally pried Gary away and led him out of the courtroom.

If he was acting, there hadn’t been a single false move. He was completely absorbed with his wife and little girl. He never once looked around the courtroom to see if he had an audience.

He played it perfectly.

Or was Gary Murphy an innocent man who had just been convicted of kidnapping and murder?





CHAPTER 67


PRESSURE, pressure,” Jezzie sang along with the tune playing loudly inside her head.

The skin was tight against her forehead as Jezzie maneuvered down the winding mountain road without caution or fear. She leaned into every curve, keeping the powerful bike in fourth gear. The fir trees, jutting boulders, and ancient telephone wires were a blur as she sped along. Everything was fuzzy. She felt as if she’d been in free-fall for over a year, maybe for her whole life. She was going to explode soon.

Nobody understood what it was like to be under so much pressure for so long. Even when she was a kid, she had always been afraid of making a single mistake, afraid that if she wasn’t perfect little Jezzie, she would never be loved by her mother and father.

Perfect Little Jezzie.

“Good is not good enough,” and “Good is the enemy of great,” her father used to tell her almost every day. And so she was a calculating, straight-A student; she was Miss Popular; she was on every fast track she could find. Billy Joel had recorded a song a few years back, “Pressure.” That was an approximation for the way she felt every day of her life. She had to make it stop somehow, and now maybe she had a way.

Jezzie downshifted into third as she approached the lake cottage. All the lights were on. Otherwise, everything around the lake seemed at peace. The water was a sleek black table that seemed to merge with the mountains. But the lights were on. She hadn’t left them on.