Sandy hovered over him, anxious to make sure he was okay. Sheriff Sweeney dismissed the deputies, and they moved into the hall to wait for the next transfer.
"Coffee?" Sandy asked.
"Please, black."
"You okay, Patrick?" Sweeney asked.
"Yeah, sure, Raymond, thanks." He sounded meek and scared. His hands and knees shook and he couldn't make them stop. He ignored the coffee, and despite both hands cuffed together adjusted his black sunglasses and pulled the bill of his cap further down. His shoulders sagged.
There was a knock on the door, and a pretty girl named Belinda eased her head through just long enough to say, "Judge Huskey would like to meet with Patrick." The voice was so familiar. Patrick raised his head, looked at the door, and said softly, "Hello, Belinda."
"Hello, Patrick. Welcome back."
He turned away. She was a secretary in the clerk's office, and all the lawyers flirted with her. A sweet girl. A sweet voice. Had it really been four years?
"Where?" the Sheriff asked.
"In here," she said. "In a few minutes."
"Do you want to meet with the Judge, Patrick?" Sandy asked. It was not mandatory. Under normal circumstances, it would be downright unusual.
"Sure." Patrick was desperate to see Karl Huskey.
She left and the door clicked behind her.
"I'll step outside," Sweeney said. "I need a cigarette."
Finally, Patrick was alone with his lawyer. He suddenly perked up. "Couple of things. Any word from Leah Pires?"
"No," Sandy said.
"She'll get in touch soon, so be ready. I've written her a long letter, and I'd like for you to get it to her."
"Okay."
"Second. There's an antibugging device called a DX-130, made by LoKim, a Korean electronics outfit. Costs about six hundred dollars; about the size of a portable Dictaphone. Get one, and bring it with you whenever we meet. We'll disinfect the room and the phones before each little conference. Also, hire a reputable surveillance firm in New Orleans to check your office twice a week. It's very expensive, but I'll pay for it. Any questions?"
"No."
Another knock, and Patrick slouched again. Judge Karl Huskey entered the room alone, robeless, in shirt and tie with reading glasses perched halfway down his nose. His gray hair and wrinkled eyes made him appear much older and wiser than forty-eight, which was exactly what he wanted.
Patrick was looking up and already smiling when Huskey offered his hand. "Good to see you, Patrick," he said warmly as they shook hands, the cuffs rattling. Huskey wanted to reach down and hug him, but with judicial restraint he limited the contact to a soft handshake.
"How are you, Karl?" Patrick said, keeping his seat.
"I'm fine. And what about you?"
"I've had better days, but it is good to see you. Even under these circumstances."
"Thanks. I can't imagine-"
"Guess I look different, don't I?"
"You certainly do. I'm not sure I would recognize you on the street."
Patrick only smiled.
Like a few others who still professed some level of friendship for Patrick, Huskey felt betrayed, but even more so he felt great relief in knowing that his pal was not dead. He was deeply worried about the capital murder charge. The divorce and the civil suits could be dealt with, but not murder.
Because of their friendship, Huskey would not preside over the trial. He planned to handle the preliminary matters, then step aside long before the important rulings were due. There had already been a story about their history.
"I assume you will enter a plea of not guilty," he said.
"Yes, that's correct."
"Then it will be a routine first appearance. I'll deny bail since it's capital murder."
"I understand, Karl."
"Whole thing won't take ten minutes."
"I've been here before. The chair will be different, that's all."
In twelve years on the bench, Judge Huskey had often been astonished at the amount of sympathy he could muster for average people who'd committed heinous crimes. He saw the human side of their suffering. He saw guilt eat them alive. He'd sent to prison hundreds of people who, if given the chance, would have left his courtroom and never sinned again. He wanted to help, to reach out, to forgive.
But this was Patrick. His Honor was almost moved to tears at the moment. His old friend-bound and dressed in a clown suit, eyes covered, face altered, nervous and twitchy and scared beyond words. He'd like to take him home, feed him some good food, let him rest, and help him pull his life together.
He kneeled next to him, and said, "Patrick, I can't hear this case, for obvious reasons. Right now I'll handle the preliminary stuff to make sure you're protected. I'm still your friend. Don't hesitate to call." He patted him very gently on the knee, hoping he didn't touch a raw spot.
"Thanks, Karl," Patrick said, biting his lip.
Karl wanted eye contact, but it was impossible with the sunglasses. He stood and headed for the door. "Everything's routine today, Counselor," he said to Sandy.
"Are there a lot of people out there?" Patrick asked.
"Yes, Patrick. Friends and enemies alike. They're all out there." He left the room.
THE COAST had a long and rich history of sensational murders and notorious criminals, so crowded courtrooms were not uncommon. No one could remember, though, such a packed house for a simple first appearance.
The press had arrived early and taken the good seats. Since Mississippi was one of the remaining few states with the good sense to ban cameras from the courtroom, the reporters would be forced to sit and watch and listen, then put in their own words what they saw. They would be forced to be real reporters, a task for which most of them were ill-equipped.
Every big trial attracted the regulars-clerks and secretaries from courthouse offices, bored paralegals, retired cops, local lawyers who hung around most of the day, sipping free coffee in the clerks' offices, gossiping, examining real estate deeds, waiting for a judge to sign an order, doing anything to stay away from the office-and Patrick attracted all these and more.
In particular, there were many lawyers present just to get a glimpse of Patrick. The papers had been filled with stories about him for four days now, but no one had seen a current photo. Rumors were rampant about his appearance. The torture story had elevated curiosity even more.
Charles Bogan and Doug Vitrano sat together in the middle of the pack, as close to the front as they could get. The damned reporters beat them to the courthouse. They wanted to be on the front row, near the table where the defendant always sat. They wanted to see him, to make eye contact, to whisper threats and vulgarities if at all possible, to spit as much bile as they could in this civilized setting. But they were five rows back, waiting patiently for a moment they thought would never come.
The third partner, Jimmy Havarac, stood along the back wall and chatted quietly with a deputy. He ignored the stares and glances from people he knew, many of whom were other lawyers who secretly had been delighted when the money vanished and the firm lost its fortune. It would have been, after all, the largest single fee earned by any firm in the history of the state. Jealousy was the natural tendency. He hated them, as he hated virtually everyone else in the courtroom. A bunch of vultures waiting for a carcass.
Havarac, the son of a shrimper, was still stout and crude and not beyond a barroom brawl. Five minutes alone with Patrick in a locked room, and he'd have the money.