The fourth partner, Ethan Rapley, was at home in the attic, as usual, working on a brief in support of some insipid motion. He would read about it tomorrow.
A handful of the lawyers were old buddies who came to cheer Patrick on. Escape was a common, usually unspoken, dream of many small-town lawyers trapped in an overcrowded, boring profession where expectations were too high. At least Patrick had the guts to chase the dream. There was an explanation for the dead body, they were sure of that.
Arriving late and pushed into a corner was Lance. He had loitered around back with the reporters, taking the measure of the security. It was quite impressive, at least for now. But could the cops keep it up every day during a long trial? That was the question.
Many acquaintances were present, people Patrick had known only in passing but who now suddenly claimed to have been his dearest friends. Some in fact had never met Patrick, but that didn't stop their idle chatter about Patrick this and Patrick that. Likewise, Trudy suddenly had new friends who had stopped by to scowl at the man who had broken her heart and abandoned precious little Ashley Nicole.
They read paperbacks and scanned newspapers and tried to look bored, as if they didn't really want to be there. There was movement among the deputy clerks and bailiffs near the bench, and the courtroom instantly grew quiet. The newspapers were lowered in unison.
The door next to the jury box opened and brown uniforms poured into the courtroom. Sheriff Sweeney entered, holding Patrick by the elbow, then two more deputies, then Sandy brought up the rear.
There he was! Necks strained and stretched and heads bobbed and weaved. The courtroom artists went to work.
Patrick walked slowly across the courtroom to the defense table, his head down, though from behind the sunglasses he was searching the spectators. He caught a glimpse of Havarac on the rear wall, his scowling face speaking volumes. And just before he sat he saw Father Phillip, his priest, looking much older but just as amiable.
He sat low, his shoulders sagging, chin down, no pride here. He did not look around because he could feel the stares from every direction. Sandy put his arm on his shoulder and whispered something meaningless.
The door opened again, and T.L. Parrish, the District Attorney, entered, alone, and walked to his table next to Patrick's. Parrish was a bookish sort with a small ego, contained ego. No higher office was calling him. His trial work was methodical, absent of any trace of flamboyance, and lethal. Parrish currently carried the second-highest conviction rate in the state. He sat next to the Sheriff, who had moved from Patrick's table to where he belonged. Behind him were agents Joshua Cutter, Brent Myers, and two other FBI types Parrish couldn't even name.
The stage was set for a spectacular trial, yet it was at least six months away. A bailiff called them to order, made them stand while Judge Huskey entered and assumed his perch on the bench. "Please sit," were his first words, and everyone obeyed.
"The matter of State versus Patrick S. Lanigan, case number 96-1140. Is the defendant present?"
"Yes, Your Honor," Sandy said, half-standing.
"Would you please rise, Mr. Lanigan?" Huskey asked. Patrick, still handcuffed, slowly pushed his chair back and got to his feet. He was semi-bent at the waist, with his chin and shoulders down. And it was no act. The depressant had deadened most parts of his body, including his brain.
He stiffened a bit.
"Mr. Lanigan, I'm holding a copy of an indictment returned against you by the grand jury of Harrison County, in which it is alleged you murdered one John Doe, a human being, and for this you have been charged with capital murder. Have you read this indictment?"
"Yes sir," he announced, chin up, voice as strong as he could make it.
"Have you discussed it with your attorney?"
"Yes sir."
"How do you wish to plead?"
"Not guilty."
"Your plea of not guilty is accepted. You may sit down."
Huskey shuffled some papers, then continued: "The Court, on its own motion, hereby imposes a gag order on the defendant, the attorneys, the police and investigating authorities, any and all witnesses, and all court personnel, effective now and lasting until the trial is over. I have copies of this order for everyone to read. Any violation of it will result in contempt of court, and I will deal harshly with any violators. Not one word to any reporter or journalist without my approval. Any questions from the attorneys?"
His tone left little doubt that the Judge not only meant what he said, but relished the thought of going after violators. The lawyers said nothing.
"Good. I have prepared a schedule for discovery, motions, pretrial, and trial. It's available in the clerk's office. Anything else?"
Parrish stood and said, "Just one small matter, Your Honor. We would like to get the defendant in our detention facility as soon as possible. As you know, he's now at the base in a hospital, and, well, we-"
"I just talked to his doctor, Mr. Parrish. He's undergoing medical treatment. I assure you that as soon as he is released by his doctor, then we'll transfer him to the Harrison County Jail."
"Thank you, Judge."
"If nothing else, then we stand adjourned."
He was rushed from the courtroom, down the back stairs, into the black Suburban as the cameras clicked and rolled. Patrick nodded then napped as he was returned to the hospital.
Chapter 18
"THE ONLY CRIMES Stephano possibly com-JL mit±ed were the kidnapping and assault of Patrick, and convictions were unlikely. It happened in South America, far from U.S. jurisdiction. The actual assault was conducted by others, including some Brazilians. Stephano's lawyer was confident that they would prevail if pressed to trial.
But there were clients involved, and a reputation to protect. The lawyer knew all too well the FBI's ability to harass without actually prosecuting. It was his advice that Stephano cut the deal-agree to spill his guts in return for the government's promise to grant immunity to him and his clients. Since no other crimes were involved, what was the harm?
The lawyer insisted on sitting with Stephano while his statement was taken. The sessions would last for many hours over several days, but the lawyer wanted to be there. Jaynes wanted it done in the Hoover
Building, by his men. Coffee and pastries were served. Two video cameras were aimed at the end of the table where Stephano sat calmly in his shirtsleeves, his lawyer by his side.
"Would you state your name?" asked Underbill, the first of the interrogators, each of whom had memorized the Lanigan file.
"Jonathan Edmund Stephano. Jack."
"And your company is?"
"Edmund Associates."
"And what does your company do?"
"Lots of things. Security consulting. Surveillance. Personnel research. Locating of missing persons."
"Who owns the company?"
"I do. All of it."
"How many employees do you have?"
"It varies. As of now, eleven full-time. Thirty or so part-time, or freelancers."
"Were you hired to find Patrick Lanigan?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"March 28, 1992." Stephano had files packed with notes, but he didn't need them.
"Who hired you?"
"Benny Aricia, the man whose money was stolen."
"How much did you charge him?"
"The initial retainer was two hundred grand."
"How much has he paid you to date?"
"One point nine million."