The courtroom was in an uproar.
The Chief Justice said in alarm, "Mr. Chotas..."
Napoleon Chotas took another swallow. "Your Honor, the prosecutor's case is a mockery of justice. George Savalas did not die at the hands of this woman. The defense rests its case."
The clock struck twelve. A bailiff hurried up to the Chief Justice and whispered.
The Chief Justice pounded his gavel. "Order! Order! We are going to recess. The jury will retire and try to reach a verdict. Court will reconvene at two o'clock."
Peter Demonides was standing there, transfixed. Someone had switched bottles! But no, that was impossible. The evidence had been guarded every moment. Could the pathologist have been that wrong? Demonides turned to speak to his assistant, and when he looked around for Napoleon Chotas, he had disappeared.
At two o'clock, when the court reconvened, the jury slowly filed into the courtroom and took their seats. Napoleon Chotas was missing.
The son of a bitch is dead, Peter Demonides thought.
And even as he was thinking it, Napoleon Chotas walked through the door, looking perfectly healthy. Everyone in the courtroom turned around to stare at him as he walked to his seat.
The Chief Justice said, "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?"
The foreman of the jury stood up. "We have, Your Honor. We find the defendant not guilty."
There was a spontaneous burst of applause from the spectators.
Peter Demonides felt the blood drain from his face. The bastard has done it to me again, he thought. He glanced up and Napoleon Chotas was watching him, grinning.
Chapter Eight
The firm of Tritsis and Tritsis was without question the most prestigious law firm in Greece. The founders had long since retired, and the firm belonged to Napoleon Chotas. There were half a dozen partners, but Chotas was the guiding genius.
Whenever people of wealth were accused of murder, their thoughts invariably turned to Napoleon Chotas. His record was phenomenal. In his years of defending people accused of capital crimes, Chotas had scored success after success. The recent trial of Anastasia Savalas had made headlines all over the world. Chotas had defended a client in what everyone thought was a clear-cut case of murder, and he had won a spectacular victory. He had taken a big risk with that one, but he had known that it was the only way he could save his client's life.
He smiled to himself as he recalled the faces of the jurors when he had taken a swallow of the syrup loaded with a deadly poison. He had carefully timed his summation so that he would be interrupted at exactly twelve o'clock. That was the key to everything. If the judges had changed their fixed routine and gone past twelve o'clock...He shuddered to think what would have happened.
As it was, an unexpected occurrence had arisen that had nearly cost him his life. After the recess, Chotas was hurrying down the corridor when a group of reporters blocked his path.
"Mr. Chotas, how did you know the cough syrup wasn't poisoned...?"
"Can you explain how...?"
"Do you think someone switched bottles...?"
"Did Anastasia Savalas have...?"
"Please, gentlemen. I'm afraid I have to answer a call of nature. I'll be happy to answer your questions later."
He hurried on to the men's room at the end of the corridor. A sign on the knob read: OUT OF ORDER.
A reporter said, "I guess you'll have to find another men's room."
Napoleon Chotas grinned. "I'm afraid I can't wait." He pushed the door open, walked in, and locked it behind him.
The team was inside, waiting for him. The doctor complained, "I was beginning to get worried. Antimony works fast." He snapped at his assistant. "Get the stomach pump ready."
"Yes, doctor."
The doctor turned to Napoleon Chotas. "Lie on the floor. I'm afraid this is going to be unpleasant."
"When I consider the alternative," Napoleon Chotas grinned, "I'm sure I won't mind."
Napoleon Chotas's fee for saving Anastasia Savalas's life was one million dollars, deposited in a Swiss bank account. Chotas had a palatial home in Kolonarai - a lovely residential section of Athens - a villa on the island of Corfu, and an apartment in Paris on Avenue Foch.
All in all, Napoleon Chotas had excellent reason to be pleased with his life. There was only one cloud on his horizon.
His name was Frederick Stavros, and he was the newest member of Tritsis and Tritsis. The other lawyers in the firm were constantly complaining about Stavros.
"He's second rate, Napoleon. He doesn't belong in a firm like this..."
"Stavros almost bungled my case. The man's a fool..."
"Did you hear what Stavros did yesterday in court? The judge almost threw him out..."
"Damn it, why don't you fire that Stavros fellow? He's a fifth wheel here. We don't need him, and he's hurting our reputation."
Napoleon Chotas was only too well aware of that. And he was almost tempted to blurt out the truth: I can't fire him. But all he said was, "Give him a chance. Stavros will work out fine."
And that was all his partners could get out of him.
A philosopher once said, "Be careful what you wish for; you might get it."
Frederick Stavros, the junior member of Tritsis and Tritsis, had gotten his wish, and it had made him one of the most miserable men on earth. He was unable to sleep or eat, and his weight had dropped alarmingly.
"You must see a doctor, Frederick," his wife insisted. "You look terrible."
"No, I...it wouldn't do any good."
He knew that what was wrong with him was something no doctor could cure. His conscience was killing him.