Triple Cross (Alex Cross #30)(75)

It was a good thing. By the time her bailiff told everyone to rise, the six benches on both sides of the main aisle were packed with journalists, attorneys, court buffs, and lookie-loos. Twoomy, a tall brunette with sharp features, took the bench and called the court to order.

“We have a full arraignment docket, so I would like to move quickly this morning,” Twoomy said, peering out at the audience. “Counsel, when your client is called and the charges are read, I want a simple guilty or not guilty. Are we clear? Guilty or not guilty. You’ll get a chance to tell your side of things when I consider bail.” The judge looked over at her clerk. “First case, Randy?”

“United States versus Thomas Adrian Tull,” Randy said. “Multiple homicide charges.”

Lindy York, Tull’s defense attorney, stood and carried her attaché case to the defense table as Danielle Carbone, the assistant U.S. attorney assigned to the case, said, “As many as nineteen, Your Honor.”

“Alleged homicides, Your Honor,” York said.

A U.S. deputy marshal led Tull into the courtroom.

The writer wore an orange jailhouse coverall. The handcuffs on each wrist were clamped to steel rings on either side of a padlocked leather belt. His hair was disheveled. His face was still swollen, and the area around his eyes had turned purple and dark.

“Judge, my client is obviously not being protected adequately,” York said.

“Mr. Tull?” Judge Twoomy said.

“My own fault,” Tull said hoarsely. “End of story.”

The judge looked at the marshal. “See that he gets medical attention.”

“Yes, Judge.”

“Charges, then, Randy.”

The court clerk read out a total of thirty-two charges ranging from first-degree murder of the members of the various families to conspiracy to commit murder in the case of the Allison family.

Judge Twoomy stared at Tull, who stood with slightly slumped shoulders beside his attorney. “How do you plead, Mr. Tull?”

The writer rolled back his shoulders and said forcefully, “Not guilty.”

“So noted. Bail?”

Carbone, the prosecuting attorney, said, “We seek remand, Judge. Mr. Tull is a wealthy man and—”

Acting shocked, Tull’s attorney said, “Remand? Are you kidding? Judge, my client is a world-renowned writer who specializes in describing the intricacies of law enforcement and judicial systems both here and abroad. He—”

Cutting her off, Carbone said, “Judge, the evidence against Mr. Tull is simply overwhelming. We have DNA that puts him at the scene of at least one of the family murders, video that puts him at another family’s home, website searches that keyed on the Allison family, and we just learned that a pistol found in a storage unit leased by Mr. Tull has tested as a match for all the murders.”

The writer looked like he’d taken a baseball bat to the gut. He bent over for a second, then straightened up, shock and disbelief all over his face. “That is wrong. That is wrong, Judge! I have never—”

Judge Twoomy banged her gavel hard and shook it at Tull. “You will end this outburst, Mr. Tull. Now.”

He shook his head, looking like a prizefighter who’d been walloped.

The judge, irritated, said, “Please, in the future, let counsel speak for you, Mr. Tull. Things will go better for you.”

Tull leaned over and had an intense conversation with York, who did not look happy when she said, “My client wishes to speak to Dr. Alex Cross, Detective John Sampson, and Agent Edward Mahoney. After arraignment.”

“Request for remand granted, Ms. Carbone. Ms. York, your client can be visited in the holding facility here or after his transport back to the federal holding facility.”

“Here,” Tull said, and he looked over his shoulder at me, Sampson, and Mahoney. “Let’s do this here and right now.”





CHAPTER 84


A FEW MOMENTS AFTER the marshal led the writer out of the courtroom, we followed Tull’s attorney into the hallway.

“I don’t know what he wants to tell you, but I am against it,” York said.

“Maybe he wants to confess,” Sampson said.

“That’s not happening,” she snapped. “He would have told me that.”

The marshal who’d accompanied Tull came up to us. “His transport doesn’t leave for another twenty minutes if you want to talk to him here.”

“I am slammed for time. I have a meeting with the director,” Mahoney said, glancing at his watch. “I can wait until he’s back at the federal holding facility later this afternoon.”

I said, “I’d like to see why he’s so insistent on talking now.”

“Me too,” Sampson said.

“Okay,” Mahoney said, “but get it all on video.”

The marshal led us through a door, down a flight of stairs, and past a series of holding cells. Tull was in the third cell on the right, waiting for us with conviction in his eyes.

His attorney went to him. “I advise you again to say nothing, Thomas.”

Tull looked past her at us. “I didn’t kill the Kanes. Ask Volkov.”

“We tried,” said Sampson, who was filming the conversation with his phone. “Volkov’s a hard man to find.”