The People vs. Alex Cross (Alex Cross #25)(50)

I shook my head, seeing little Judge Larch striding up onto the bench in a way that made her seem ten feet tall, larger than life. A stroke?

I said, “What if she can’t go on?”

Anita sighed. “It will be a mistrial.”

I shut my eyes. “And months before any kind of verdict.”

“Let’s wait to hear the diagnosis.”

“I’ve got some bad news too,” I said. “The videos weren’t monkeyed with. At least, according to the metadata.”

There was a pause. “And how do you know that?”

“A well-placed source in the FBI told me last night.”

When Anita spoke again, she was irritated. “And you didn’t think it smart to alert me or Naomi? We’ve lost twelve, maybe fifteen hours of—”

“The news was pretty devastating. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.”

She sighed and said, “Well, I’m trying. My people are still working on those videos despite what the FBI tells you. And I do have a bit of good news. The saliva tests are done. I’ve put in a call to an old chemist friend in San Francisco just to make sure I’m interpreting the results correctly, but let’s just say they’re interesting.”

“Can they clear me?”

“Given our inability to impeach the videos, no, it’s not enough. But if I’m right, with luck, we’ll be able to muddy the prosecution’s waters a bit, show there were mitigating circumstances.”

I started kneading my forehead and said, “Mitigating circumstances? Sounds to me as if I should be getting my affairs in order.”

There was a long pause before Anita said, “Always better to be prepared.”





CHAPTER


66


THE FOLLOWING TWENTY-FOUR hours were some of the lowest of my life. When Bree came home, I took her for a walk and told her what Anita had said. We held each other for the longest time.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Bree said.

“Makes me wonder what I did to deserve this.”

“No self-pity. What do we do?”

“No self-pity, and we move to protect you, Nana, and the kids,” I said. “I can’t have you all being punished for something you didn’t do.”

The next morning, after church, we went down to my basement office, shut the door, and made a list of things that would have to be done if I was convicted. Transfer my personal bank account to Bree. Find a trustee to step in to oversee my grandmother’s philanthropic foundation. Transfer sole medical authority for Jannie and Ali to Bree. Transfer authority on the kids’ college funds to her. Ask Nana Mama if she still wanted me as the executor of her living will. Make Bree my executor should I die in prison.

“I feel like we’re getting ready for a funeral,” Bree said.

There was a knock on my office door.

“Dad?” Jannie said.

“We’re busy, sweetheart,” I said.

“There’s someone here to see you.”

I closed my eyes. When did people stop believing in Sundays?

“Tell them to come back tomorrow.”

Nana Mama said, “I think you’ll want to come out.”

Throwing up my hands in surrender, I went over, opened the door, and found Sampson and my father, Peter Drummond, a big, robust black man in his late sixties, standing there in the hall. Drummond had a face almost devoid of expression due to nerve damage associated with a large burn scar that began beneath his right eye and spread down much of his cheek to his jaw.

“Dad?” I said.

“I came to provide some moral support,” Drummond said and he gave me a hug and a clap on the back. “John picked me up at National.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Nana Mama said.

“It is a surprise,” I said. “It’s … good. Is Alicia here too?”

“Indisposed, but sends her prayers,” Drummond said.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Nana Mama said. “I’ll make a big breakfast.”

Afterward, my dad, Bree, Sampson, and I took a walk. My father asked a lot of questions. Drummond knew as much about murder as we did and more about enduring tough times than we could imagine. He’d worked sheriff’s homicide in Palm Beach County, Florida, for thirty-two years. Before that he’d served in the first Gulf War, where he was caught in an oil-well explosion that burned his face.

After we’d walked several miles and I’d brought him up to speed on everything, he said, “I know your case looks bleak, son, but you can’t lose hope. I’m living proof of that. I lost hope of ever seeing you or Nana or your children, and then there you were down in my neck of the woods, looking for Reverend Maya. Miracles happen every day.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” Sampson said, and he checked the time. “I’ve got to go. Promised Billie I’d watch the Redskins game with her.”

“Any progress with the blondes?” I asked. “Anything from that latest video of Gretchen Lindel? The one showing her hanged?”

Sampson glanced at Bree and then shook his head. “I haven’t heard about that one. But on my end, it feels like I’m banging my head against a brick wall.”

“And the new partner?”