As they turned a corner, Taylor saw the road ahead was blocked with a mob of reporters, cameramen, news vans, and trucks of every type, with microwave towers jutting into the sky for live feeds.
“Jesus,” she muttered. “Look at that.”
Wesley Talmadge, a thin, graying man in a dark suit, spoke up from the backseat. “You two know the drill, right?
Neither of you says a word.”
“Don’t worry,” Michael said. “I wouldn’t know what the hell to say anyway. I’ve never seen anything like that.”
Carey expertly slowed the car to a crawl and worked her way as close to the police station as possible, then pulled the car to the curb and stopped it. Immediately, the throng descended on them. Taylor watched as a blur of bodies, microphones, video cameras, cables, all piled in around the car. Michael got out of the right-hand side of the car, next to the curb, while Talmadge got out of the left and quickly worked his way behind the car and back around to stand next to Michael.
Taylor pushed out the passenger’s side door as well, and edged up to Michael.
“Mr. Schiftmann!” a voice cried. “Mr. Schiftmann, how do you-”
“Mr. Schiftmann!” another voice yelled. “Are you guilty?”
“How do you plan to plead?”
Taylor felt like they’d been descended upon by a pack of wolves. Someone shoved her back against the car and her shoe buckled under her, twisting her ankle. Michael shifted to help her, then he got pushed back. Talmadge held up his arms and motioned the crowd away.
“Please,” he said loudly, firmly. “Please step back.”
“Can you give us a statement?” a voice in the back of the herd yelled.
“My client,” Talmadge said forcefully, pausing to give the reporters time to point their microphones in his direction,
“will have no statement at this time. However, he proclaims his innocence and looks forward to getting his day in court at the earliest possible time so he can prove these scurrilous and unfounded accusations false. That’s all for now, folks.
We’ve got an appointment to keep.”
The crowd seemed to part as Talmadge stepped forward into them. Michael reached back, took Taylor’s hand, and pulled her along behind him. Taylor kept her head down, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, struggling to stay connected to Michael. As they approached the entrance to the building, the crowd seemed to divide even further.
Suddenly Michael stopped, and Taylor almost bumped into him.
She raised her head and saw a man standing in front of them wearing a gray suit and white shirt, with a blue-striped tie. His hair was cut short and his face was deeply lined. Taylor thought he looked tired as he stepped forward and faced them. Behind him, four uniformed police officers stood close by, watching, along with a young Hispanic woman who seemed to be staring especially hard at them.
“Mr. Schiftmann?” the man asked as he approached. Everything around them seemed to quiet. Taylor heard traffic noise in the distance and thought she heard the whirring of video cameras.
Michael nodded. “Yes.”
“Are you Mr. Michael Schiftmann?”
Again, Michael’s head went up and down. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Detective Gilley of the Metro Nashville Police Department’s Murder Squad. I have a warrant for your arrest.”
Gilley turned and motioned to one of the uniforms, who approached Michael with a pair of open handcuffs. The officer stepped up to Michael, gently took him by the elbow, and pulled one hand behind his back. Michael let go of Taylor’s hand with his left and held it behind him.
“Are the handcuffs necessary?” Michael asked.
“Yes, sir, it’s standard procedure,” Gilley answered. “Mr.
Schiftmann, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.
You have the right to an attorney …”
As the detective droned on, Taylor felt the world start to spin. She fought to hold on. She looked over at Talmadge, who stood next to his client, stone-faced, serious. He looked over at her, nodded his head almost imperceptibly, and winked.
“Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?” Gilley asked.
“Yes.”
“Then come with me, sir.”
Michael turned and faced Taylor. “You okay?”
Taylor took a deep breath and held it for just a moment, trying to clear her head, to get oxygen to her brain. “Yes, I’m fine. You take care, and I’ll see you in a few hours.”
Michael leaned over, kissed her quickly. As if he were going off to work or a dentist’s appointment or to run a casual errand …
“We’ll call on the mobile when we know the time for the arraignment,” Talmadge said as he got in step behind Michael and the officers.
Taylor was left alone in the middle of the pack. She suddenly felt frightened, isolated.
“May I ask you a question, please?” someone shouted.
A microphone on a long boom pole suddenly appeared in front of her face. She felt someone grab her elbow and jerked around, startled.
It was Carey. She had a firm grip on Taylor’s arm. “C’mon,”
she said. “Let’s get you out of here.”
CHAPTER 29
Thursday morning, six weeks later, Manhattan The war began in earnest the afternoon of Michael’s arrest.
The DA’s press conference and the arrest warrant had been the first skirmish. They fired a few shots, just to test the enemy’s resolve. Talmadge fired back with just enough force to show that he wasn’t going to be pushed around when he openly announced Michael Schiftmann was looking forward to his day in court.
The arraignment was the first big battle. District Attorney Collier demanded no bail. Talmadge countered with a demand for release-on-recognizance. Collier countered again with an eight-figure bail request. Talmadge fired back with a demand for minimal bail.
In the end, Criminal Court Judge Harry Forsythe settled on a million-and-a-half bail. Michael put up one hundred thousand dollars and the deed to his Palm Beach condo.
Forsythe also, as Steinberg predicted, confiscated Michael’s passport.
Then they went home.
Two days later, the New York City police executed a search warrant requiring Michael to provide DNA samples for forensic purposes. An enraged Michael wanted to fight the search warrant, but Abe Steinberg convinced him there was no point. In Steinberg’s office, a medical technician pulled a dozen hairs from Michael’s head, swabbed the inside of his mouth with a cotton swab, and did a blood draw. The evidence was collected and secured, then shipped off to the lab at the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation in Nashville.
Meanwhile, in Nashville, Talmadge filed a motion for discovery. Thirty days later, a large file was delivered to his office. He went through the file sheet by sheet, paragraph by paragraph, then caught the next plane to New York.
Abe Steinberg met him in the lobby and shook hands with his old friend and protege. “How are you, Wes?” he asked, laying his left hand on Talmadge’s shoulder.
“Good, Abe, good.”
“How was the flight?”
Talmadge smiled. “Food’s pretty good on first-class, even these days.”
Steinberg smiled back at him. “C’mon, our boy’s back in my office already.”
Talmadge followed as Steinberg led the way down the hall. “How’s he holding up?” he asked.
Steinberg shrugged. “Hard to tell. I’ve seen better, but then again, I’ve seen worse.”
The two walked down a long hallway to a suite of offices occupied by the most senior partners in the firm. Steinberg stopped as they entered the suite and faced Talmadge.
“Before we go in,” he said, “I want to know. What’s it look like?”