The Last Precinct - Cornwell Patricia (читаем книги онлайн TXT) 📗

"Yes." Tears well up.

MR. PEANUT WAS BEHIND THE MOTEL, IN THE BOT-torn of the swimming pool. She had bricks tied to her back legs. The juror in the flower-printed dress begins to cry. Another woman juror gasps and puts a hand over her eyes. Looks of outrage and even hate pass from face to face, and Berger lets the moment, this painful, awful moment stay in the room. The cruel image of Mr. Peanut is an imagined courtroom display that is vivid and unbearable, and Berger won't take it away. Silence.

"How could anybody do something like that!" the juror in the flower-printed dress exclaims as she snaps shut her pock-etbook and wipes her eyes. "What evil people!"

"Sons of bitches is what they are."

"Thank God. The good Lord was looking after you, He sure was." A juror shakes his head, the comment directed at me.

Berger paces three steps. Her gaze sweeps the jury. She looks a long moment at me. "Thank you, Dr. Scarpetta," she quietly says. "There certainly are some evil, awful people out there," she gently says for the jury's benefit. "Thank you for spending this time with us when we all know you're in pain and have been through hell. That's right." She looks back at the jury. "Hell."

Nods all around.

"Hell is right," the juror in the flower-printed dress tells me, as if I don't know. "You've sure been through it. Can I ask a question. We can ask, can't we?"

"Please," Berger replies.

"I know what I think," the juror in the flower-printed dress comments to me. "But you know what? I'll tell you something. The way I grew up, if you didn't tell the truth you got your bottom spanked, and I mean hard." She juts out her chin in righteous indignation. "Never heard of people doing the things you all have talked about in here. I don't think I'll sleep a wink ever again. Now, I'm no nonsense."

"Somehow I can tell," I reply.

"So I'm just going to come right out with it." She stares at me, her arms hugging her big green pocketbook. "Did you do it? Did you kill that police lady?"

"No, ma'am," I say as strongly as I have ever said anything in my life. "I did not."

We wait for a reaction. Everyone sits very quietly, no more talking, no more questions. The jurors are done. Jaime Berger goes to her table and picks up paperwork. She straightens it and gets the edges flush by knocking them on the table. She lets things settle before she looks up. She picks out each juror with her eyes, then looks at me. "I have no further questions," she says. "Ladies and gentlemen." She goes right up to the railing, leaning into the jury as if she is peering into a great ship, and she is, really. The lady in the flower-printed dress and her colleagues are my passage out of troubled, dangerous waters.

"I am a professional truth-seeker," Berger describes herself in words I have never heard a prosecutor use. "It is my mission_always_to find the truth and honor it. That is why I was asked to come here to Richmond_to reveal the absolute, certain truth. Now all of you have heard that justice is blind." She waits, acknowledging nods. "Well, justice is blind in that it is supposed to be supremely nonpartisan, impartial, perfectly fair to all people. But"_she scans faces_"we aren't blind to the truth, now are we? We've seen what has gone on inside this room. I can tell you understand what has gone on inside this room and are anything but blind. You would have to be blind not to see what is so apparent. This woman"_she glances back at me and points_"Dr. Kay Scarpetta deserves no more of our inquiries, our doubts, our painful probing. In good conscience, I can't allow it."

Berger pauses. The jurors are transfixed, barely blinking as they stare at her. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your decency, your time, your desire to do what is right. You can go back to your jobs now, back to your homes and families. You are dismissed. There is no case. Case dismissed. Good day."

The lady in the flower-printed dress smiles and sighs. The jurors start clapping. Buford Righter stares down at his hands clasped on top of the table. I get to my feet and the room spins as I open the saloon-type swinging door and leave the witness stand.

I FEEL AS IT I AM EMERGING FROM A BROWNOUT AND avoid eye contact with reporters and others who wait beyond the paper-shrouded glass door that hid me from the outside world and now returns me to it.

Berger accompanies me to the small, nearby witness room, and Marino, Lucy and Anna are instantly on their feet, waiting with dread and excitement. They sense what has happened and I simply nod an affirmation and manage to say, "Well, it's okay. Jaime was masterful." I finally call Berger by her first name as it vaguely registers that although I have been inside this witness room countless times over the past decade, waiting to explain death to jurors, I never imagined I would one day be in this courthouse to explain myself.

Lucy grabs me, hugging me off my feet and I wince because of my injured arm and laugh at the same time. I hug Anna. I hug Marino. Berger waits in the doorway, for once not intruding. I hug her, too. She begins tucking files, legal pads into her briefcase and puts on her coat. "I'm out of here," she

announces, all business again but I detect her elation. Goddamn, she is proud of herself and ought to be.

"I don't know how to thank you," I tell her with a heart full of gratitude and respect. "I don't even know what to say, Jaime."

"Amen to that," Lucy exclaims. My niece is dressed in a sharp dark suit and looks like a gorgeous lawyer or doctor or whatever the hell she wants to be. I can tell by the way her eyes fix on Berger that Lucy recognizes what an attractive, impressive woman Berger is. Lucy won't stop looking at her and congratulating her. My niece is effusive. Actually, she is flirting. She is flirting with my special prosecutor.

"Got to head back to New York," Berger tells me. "Remember my big case up there?" she dryly reminds me of Susan Pless. "Well, there's work to be done. How soon can you come up so we can go over Susan's case?" Berger is serious, I think.

"Go," says Marino in his rumpled navy suit, wearing a solid red tie that is too short. Sadness crosses his face. "Go to New York, Doc. Go now. You sure as hell don't want to be around here for a while. Let the hoopla die down."

I don't reply, but he is right. I am rather speechless at the moment.

"You like helicopters?" Lucy asks Berger.

"Never would you get me in that thing," Anna pipes up. "There is no law in physics that accounts for one of those things being able to fly. Not one."

"Yup, and there's no law in physics for why bumblebees can fly, either," Lucy good-naturedly replies. "Big fat things with teeny wings. Blllbbllblllblll." She imitates a bumblebee flying, both arms going like mad, just giddy.

"Shit, you on drugs again?" Marino rolls his eyes at my niece.

Lucy puts her arm around me and we walk out of the witness room. Berger by now has made it to the elevator, alone, her briefcase under her arm. The down arrow glows and the doors open. Rather unsavory-looking people step out, coming for their judgment day or about to watch someone else go through hell. Berger holds the doors for Marino, Lucy, Anna and me. Reporters are on the prowl, but they don't bother trying to approach me as I make it clear by shakes of my head that I have no comment and to leave me alone. The press doesn't know what just happened in the special grand jury proceeding. The world doesn't know. Journalists were not allowed inside the courtroom, even if they obviously are aware that I was scheduled to appear today. Leaks. There will be more, I am sure. It doesn't matter, but I realize Marino is wise to suggest I get out of town, at least for a while. My mood slowly descends as the elevator does. We bump to a stop on the first floor. I face reality and make a decision.