Double Jeopardy Read online

  “Well … no.”

  “Mr. Moroconi isn’t the man who threw you into the trunk, is he?”

  “No.”

  “You spent the entire drive to White Rock Lake alone in the trunk of the car, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were then assaulted by six men, one after the other, correct?”

  Cavanaugh jumped to her feet. “Objection, your honor. Asked and answered. I see no reason to drag the witness through these horrible events a second time.”

  Hagedorn pursued his lips unpleasantly. “I assume Mr. Byrne is building toward something new.”

  “That’s correct, your honor.”

  “Then you’d better get there quickly. But the objection is overruled.”

  Travis continued. “Mary Ann, you were assaulted by two black men first, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the third man beat you, then rolled you over facedown, right?”

  Her head slowly lifted. “Yes. But—”

  “And you remained facedown for the remainder of the assaults, right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And after the last man finished, you were tied to the back of the car. Still facedown, right?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  “And you remained in that position when you were placed in the trunk again, barely conscious, then deposited on the roadside hours later, where you remained until you were discovered by the police the next morning, correct?”

  “That’s … correct.”

  “Did Mr. Moroconi put you in the trunk?”

  “N-No.”

  “Did he take you out and leave you on the side of the road?”

  “No, that was someone else. The first one.”

  The jury was watching him now—Travis could see it out of the corner of his eye. They were beginning to follow his line of reasoning. “Miss McKenzie, you said you didn’t see Al Moroconi in the parking lot. You obviously didn’t see him when you were locked in the trunk. When you arrived, it was a dark, moonless night, and you were immediately accosted by your assailants. The third man, to use your own words, pressed your face into the mud. You remained facedown in the mud until you were put back in the trunk—by another man—and subsequently tossed out on the roadside—by another man.”

  A few of the jurors were nodding. Nonetheless, Travis decided to ram the point home. “Ma’am, you didn’t see Al Moroconi in the parking lot, you didn’t see him in the car, and you didn’t see him at the crime scene. When did you see him?”

  Tears were once more streaming down her cheeks. “I—I don’t know exactly.” She released a heart-wrenching cry. “But it was him. I know it was.”

  “Isn’t that because you want it to be him? Because you want someone to be punished for the horrible crime visited on you?”

  “Objection!” Cavanaugh shouted.

  “Sustained.”

  Travis proceeded undeterred. “Miss McKenzie, can you tell me with absolute certainty that the man sitting at defendant’s table is the man who assaulted you?”

  She raised her chin defiantly. “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Take a good look, ma’am. I want you to be certain.”

  “I’m certain. He’s the one. I’ll never forget that face as long as I live.”

  “I see.” Travis approached defendant’s table. “Sir, would you please produce your driver’s license?”

  He did so.

  “Permission to publish this to the jury?”

  Hagedorn nodded.

  Travis handed the license to the bailiff and waited as it was slowly passed down the two rows of jurors. “As you can see, ladies and gentleman, the man now sitting at defendant’s table is Charlie Slovic, a nice gentleman who runs the courthouse coffee shop. He switched places with the defendant during the break. Mr. Moroconi is waiting out in the hall.” He turned toward the back of the room. “Sergeant.”

  The sergeant at arms stepped outside and returned with Moroconi. Together they walked to the front of the courtroom.

  “As you can see, there is a resemblance between Charlie and my client. Both have dark hair, a medium build, medium height. But they are far from identical twins. Any clear-thinking person should be able to tell them apart.” He turned toward the witness. “Mary Ann, isn’t it true that you identified Al Moroconi simply because he was the only man in the lineup who came close to fitting your general description?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Isn’t it equally true that you would’ve identified any medium-sized, dark-haired male in that lineup? Just as you identified Charlie Slovic in the courtroom today?”

  “No,” she said weakly. “I—I—saw him—”

  “That’s all right, ma’am. We’ll let the jury answer that question. Nothing more, your honor.”

  15

  11:45 A.M.

  AT THE LUNCH BREAK, after the jury was excused, Travis left his client in the trusting custody of his five guards. He needed to stretch his legs. Unfortunately, traffic out of the gallery was slow. This case was drawing standing-room-only crowds and five minutes passed before the courtroom emptied. He pushed his way toward the door, only to find himself face-to-face with Curran McKenzie.

  “What did you bring me today?” Travis asked. “Her baby pictures?”

  Curran stared at Travis, his face fixed like granite.

  Obnoxious wimp. Travis tried to push past him. “If you’ll excuse me …”

  “Sarah and I saw what you did to our sister up there,” Curran said as his kid sister appeared beside him.

  “Every defendant is entitled to cross-examine his accusers. I was just exercising my client’s constitutional rights.”

  “This is all a game to you, isn’t it?” Curran said with undisguised contempt. “An entertainment. An easy way to make a buck.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, kid.”

  “The hell I don’t. You’re a whore, Mr. Byrne. A filthy, two-bit whore.”

  Sarah McKenzie took her brother’s arm. “Curran, let’s leave. We don’t want any trouble.”

  Still glaring, Curran followed his sister out of the courtroom.

  “Self-righteous prig,” Travis muttered to himself.

  Cavanaugh strolled up beside him. “A meeting with the president of your fan club?”

  “Not exactly. That’s Mary Ann McKenzie’s brother.”

  “I know. I’ve had some heated conversations with him myself. He’s more interested in results than the legal process.”

  “So he’s furious with you, too.”

  “I never said he was furious. We’ve just had heated conversations. Lest you forget, Travis, I’m one of the good guys.”

  “And what does that make me? I’m just doing my job.”

  “That’s what they said at Nuremberg.” And on that note, Cavanaugh left the courtroom.

  Travis started after her, but a figure passing just outside the courtroom doors caught his eye. Was that …? My God, it was! It was the man from the bathroom, the son of a bitch with the cigarette.

  A tremor of cold fear shot through Travis’s body. He’d spent the past twenty-four hours fantasizing about what he would do if he ever saw that man again, and now that he had, he was paralyzed.

  He forced himself forward, consciously moving one foot at a time. He was not going to let this man get away. Finally getting in gear, he rushed out of the courtroom and plunged down the corridor.

  Just as Travis rounded the corner a reporter stepped in front of him, almost tripping him. “Excuse me, Mr. Byrne. I’m from the Morning News. Could you please answer a few questions?”

  “Get out of my way!” Travis growled.

  Another reporter, a woman with a minicam operator hovering behind her, blocked his path. The red light on the minicam flickered. “Surely you can answer just a few—”

  “Not now!” Travis shouted. He shoved her aside. The woman fell back against the minicam operator and both tumbled to the floor. An elderly gu
ard shouted at Travis as he plunged down the corridor. He burst out the front doors of the courthouse.

  He looked up and down Commerce Street, but saw no sign of the man from the bathroom. If that’s who he had seen. At any rate, the man was gone now.

  The sun went behind a cloud, and it started to rain. A flurry of umbrellas covered the courthouse steps as the guard tottered out the door. “I’m sorry, Mr. Byrne, but rules are rules. We can’t have you—”

  “I’m sorry, Harry. Thought I saw someone I knew. Guess I was wrong. I’ll come back and apologize.”

  “Well … I reckon that’d be all right.”

  Travis returned to the courthouse, glancing back over his shoulder. Had that been the same man? He was almost certain it was.

  And if so, what did he want? Or who did he want?

  16

  6:22 P.M.

  THE FEDERAL MARSHALS TRANSFERRED Moroconi from the courthouse to the midway detention room, where he waited for county sheriff’s men to escort him back to his cell. The feds didn’t have their own holding cells in Dallas County; they had a contractual agreement with the state to use their space as necessary.

  The marshals pushed Moroconi into the detention room and began looking around impatiently. “I don’t know where the hell those state cops are,” one of them grumbled. “Lazy slobs. They think their whole life is one big trip to the doughnut shop. Never want to do a damn thing they don’t absolutely have to.”

  He removed Moroconi’s handcuffs and shoved him down in a chair. “They think they have it so tough. They ought to take a walk on the federal side, just for a day or two. Spend an hour at Leavenworth. Find out what tough really is.” He sneered at Moroconi. “Couple days with scumbags like you, they’ll be begging for a nice job at Burger King.”

  “The feeling’s mutual,” Moroconi mumbled.

  The other marshal’s eyes flared. “Wiseass. Let me bust him in the chops, Frank. We’ll say he was trying to escape. Just once, that’s all. I’ll make it count.”

  Marshal Frank grinned. “I’m sure you would, Jim, but forget it. This sleaze is on trial, remember? If he shows up in court tomorrow all beaten up, the prosecution’s case goes into the dumper. And our ass is grass.” He leered eye to eye with Moroconi. “We’ll just wait. After he’s convicted, he’ll be sent to the pen. And the cons there just love rapists.”

  “Oh yeah,” Marshal Jim replied. “Those that give, so shall they receive.”

  The two men laughed uproariously and walked to the door. “Now we’ll be right outside, Moroconi. Don’t even think about trying to leave.”

  “Shucks, Frank, don’t spoil the fun. I’d like to see him make a break for it.” Marshal Jim patted his pistol. “I’d enjoy having the opportunity to apprehend a fleeing felon.”

  Still laughing, the two men strolled out the door and locked it behind them.

  Moroconi sat in his chair, inhaling deeply, trying to suppress his temper. Miserable bastards. I’d like to meet them just once when they didn’t have a goddamn holster strapped around their bloated bellies. He made two more entries on his mental list of people he wanted to take care of, along with Travis Byrne and his old pals Jack and Mario.

  Once he was certain they were not returning, Moroconi walked to the far left corner of the room. He examined the paneling on the ceiling. Standard sound-resistant panels held in place by thin metallic strips. He’d tried them the first night he was left in here—they wouldn’t budge. But tonight just might be different.

  He counted panels, starting with the one directly above his head. Six to the right, two to the north, three to the left. That’s what the man said. He drew his chair beneath the panel, stood on the chair, and pressed up.

  It moved. Standing on his tiptoes, he pushed up and tossed the panel back. Yes! Mr. FB-fucking-I actually came through.

  Moroconi grabbed one of the now exposed cross beams and pulled himself up into the opening. Not an easy task, but he hadn’t been doing those chin-ups on the bunk bed in his cell every night for nothing. As quietly as possible, he replaced the ceiling panel. Careful to put his weight on the cross beams, he slithered through the small enclosed space between the ceiling and the roof.

  Eventually, Moroconi reached a small ventilation window on the far wall of the building. Pushing with all his strength, he moved the rusty window slowly upward. At last the opening was wide enough for him to slip through, feetfirst. He lowered himself out, then dropped onto the porch just outside the front doors of the building.

  The lights inside the lobby were on. Moroconi could see his two federal friends silhouetted inside. He thumbed his nose silently, then turned away. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the steps until he had already stumbled over them. Losing his balance, he tumbled down the steps and crashed headfirst onto the concrete sidewalk.

  “What the hell?”

  Moroconi rolled over and saw Marshal Frank running to the door, pistol raised. Damn those goddamn steps!

  Moroconi jumped to his feet, sprang up the steps, and slammed the edge of the door on Frank’s hand. Frank screamed and dropped his gun.

  Marshal Jim rushed through the other door. Moroconi tackled him, knocking him back into his buddy. In the half second that bought him, Moroconi picked up Frank’s gun.

  “Son of a bitch,” Frank said breathlessly. “That’s my gun.”

  “Then I’ll give it to you,” Moroconi replied. He fired. Blood spurted from Frank’s neck. The wounded man’s face went ashen, then he crumpled to the floor.

  Panicked, Marshal Jim turned and ran. Moroconi shot him in the back.

  Moroconi shoved the gun in his pants and sprinted toward the street. He knew he had to hurry. Cops and sheriffs and marshals and every other cocksucker wearing a badge would descend in a matter of moments. He bolted toward downtown Dallas, where he knew he could lose himself in no time at all.

  17

  6:45 P.M.

  HERE THEY WERE AGAIN—MARIO, Kramer, and Donny—gathered together in Mario’s downtown office. These little status reports had become a regular unpleasantness in Mario’s life since the latest crisis developed. Occasionally they accomplished something; more often they did not. Either way, another meeting meant more time with Kramer. And that made Mario’s blood run cold.

  Not that Donny was much better. He’d come in earlier to beg his uncle Mario to make him a lieutenant. Right. In the first place, Mario explained, you can’t be a lieutenant unless you’re a made man, and Donny wasn’t. What’s more, Mario thought but did not say, you can’t be a made man until you’ve successfully completed a hit, Donny, and you couldn’t successfully complete a hit on a butterfly. Donny was fortunate Mario had agreed to accept him at all. There’d been a lot of bitching among the boys. Understandably so.

  “You never told me, Donny,” Mario said. “How did your introduction to Mr. Byrne go?”

  “Smooth as shit,” Kramer answered for him, “ ’cept that Donny almost got himself turned into a hostage.”

  “I did not!” Donny said. He leaped off the sofa. “Byrne got one good shot in, that’s all. When I wasn’t looking. I got out of it right away.”

  Kramer laughed. “You got out of it when my man Mr. Hardcastle smashed Byrne’s head against the wall. Otherwise you’d be doing time in the federal slammer right now.”

  “That’s not true! Uncle Mario, make him shut up!”

  Mario raised his hand. “Boys, boys, boys. Let’s not behave like children. I take it Mr. Byrne received our message?”

  “He received it all right,” Kramer said. “Like a swift kick in the balls. Problem is, he’s too dumb to take it to heart.”

  “Are you certain of this?”

  “Positive. Hardcastle was in the courtroom today. I got a full report.”

  “What? He went in person!”

  “Relax, he was careful. Byrne never saw him.”

  “For your sake, I hope you’re right.” Mario fell back and made a steeple with his fingers. At least Kramer hadn’t gone himself
. Kramer probably couldn’t get near any law enforcement officer in the entire state of Texas without being identified. “What was your man’s evaluation of Byrne’s courtroom performance?”

  “He’s good,” Kramer said. “What’s worse, he’s shrewd. He’s not actin’ like Moroconi is a great guy—or even that he likes him. He’s not sayin’ that the rapes didn’t happen and he was a real sweetie pie to the victim. He made one point—that she didn’t get a good enough look to identify Al. It ain’t much, but if he makes the jury believe it, he’ll win.”

  Mario brooded for a moment. “I thought you told me this case was a guaranteed conviction. With a long sentence attached.”

  “That’s what my contacts at the police station were sayin’. I guess that was before Byrne made the scene.”

  “I don t know why you’re acting like this Byrne prick is so great,” Donny said, pouting. “He’s just a stupid, fat policeman.”

  “Who almost broke your hand,” Kramer added.

  “That’s not true!” Donny ran up to Mario’s desk and hovered. “Uncle Mario, tell him to stop saying that!”

  “Please, Donny. We’re not on a playground and this is not recess.”

  “But he’s picking on me!”

  Mario buried his face in his hands. It was hopeless. Absolutely hopeless. Perhaps he could tell Monica her son had been killed in a train wreck.

  “I don’t mean to be an alarmist,” Kramer said. “The feds still have a strong case. Odds are Al is going to do some major-league time. But I make no guarantees.”

  “Recommendations?”

  “Nothin’ drastic. Not yet. I’ll keep an eye on Al. And Byrne. You said before we’d take more … extreme measures if necessary. I hope you meant it.”

  Mario, folded his hands. “I meant it.”

  “Good. Then I’ll continue to monitor the situation carefully.”

  Mario raised his chin. “They’ve found Seacrest.”

  “I know. I made sure they did.”

  “Perhaps you should make sure Mr. Byrne knows, too.”

  Kramer grinned. “Not a bad idea.”

  “Do you need more associates?”