It was a photo and the voiceover was going on about how everyone was shocked—shocked!—that Luther Brady had been arrested for murder. Then they switched to a live feed from outside the Bronx House of Detention for Men where Brady had spent the night. A pretty, blond news face was standing on the curb while a hundred or so protesters shouted and waved signs behind her.
After some prefatory remarks she motioned a young woman onto the screen. Jack recognized the eternally cheery Christy from the temple. Only today she wasn't cheery. She stood there in her gray, high-collared jacket with the braided front, tears streaming down her cheeks as she blubbered about the injustice of it all. That a wonderful man like Luther Brady, who'd bettered so many lives the world over, should be accused of murder, it just… it just wasn't fair!
"Fairer than you'll ever guess, my dear," Jack muttered.
Next the blond reporter brought on another familiar face—the Aryan poster boy, Atoor. In contrast to Christy's grief, Atoor was angry. Color flared in his scrubbed cheeks as he denounced the police, the DA, and the city itself.
"It's a witch hunt! It's religious persecution! We all know that the old-time entrenched religions call the shots in this town, and obviously they've decided that Dormentalism is becoming too popular for its own good. So the solution is to trump up charges against the head of our Church and throw him in jail. What next? Burning him at the stake?"
Jack applauded. "Well said, young man! Well said! But let's not burn him at the stake yet."
If the Penn cops were earning their pay, there'd be lots more shit raining on the Dormentalist roof real soon.
With that in mind, he headed out the door for Gia's. The baby was scheduled for a follow-up ultrasound in just over an hour.
2
"I can't believe it!" Luther said.
This whole situation was a horror, and it worsened at every turn.
Bail denied… the gavel bang after those shocking words still rang through Luther's head like a slammed door.
Arthur Fineman, the criminal attorney Barry had referred him to, didn't appear too worried. He seemed so out of place in this dingy meeting room in the detention center, like a Monet that had somehow fallen into a garbage dump. His suit looked even more expensive than Barry's, and his Rolex flashier. Considering his hourly fee, he could well afford both.
Luther, on the other hand, felt dirty and disheveled.
And humiliated… forced to walk a gauntlet of reporters and cameramen as he'd been led—handcuffed!—to and from the Bronx courthouse on Grand Concourse.
"Don't worry. We'll appeal the denial of bail."
Luther tried to contain his outrage, but some of it seeped through.
"That's all well and good, fine for you to say, but meanwhile I'm the one who stays behind bars. Every day—every hour—that passes with me locked in here, unable to defend myself to the public, only makes it worse for my Church. Only one side of the story is getting out. I need to be free to present my side to the media."
Fineman shifted in his seat. He was deeply tanned and combed his silver mane straight back so that it curled above his collar.
"The DA managed to persuade the judge that you're a flight risk."
"Then it's your job to unpersuade him. I am not a flight risk. I'm innocent and that will be proven in court!"
Flight risk… the Bronx DA had argued that since the Dormentalist Church was a globe-spanning organization, its leader might find shelter among his devoted followers anywhere in the world. Fineman had spoken of Luther's lack of criminal history, of his obvious ties to the city, even offered to surrender Luther's passport and post a two-million-dollar bond. But the judge had sided with the DA.
Luther was convinced now that someone high up was pulling the strings in this plot against him.
"We'll worry about that later. The first thing I want to do is have you held here pending our appeal."
"What do you mean, 'held here'? I want you to get me out!"
"I mean that until I do get you out, I want you here as opposed to Riker's."
Luther's heart quailed. Riker's Island… home to some of the city's most violent criminals.
"No… they can't."
Fineman shook his head. "If you can't make bail or, as in your case, you're denied bail, that's where they put you."
"You can't let them!"
"I'll do my damnedest to prevent it."
"That's not saying you will, that's only saying you'll try."
Fineman leaned forward. "Mr. Brady, I'm going to be frank with you."
A sting of alarm raced through him—this couldn't be good—but he didn't let it show.
"I should hope so."
"They have a good case against you. So good that my contacts in the DA's office tell me there's talk of seeking the death penalty."
Luther squeezed his eyes shut and began again the mantra that had sustained him through the endless night in this concrete-walled sty. This cannot be happening… this cannot be happening!
"But before the DA does that," Fineman added, "you may be offered a deal."
Luther opened his eyes. "Deal?"
"Yes. Let you plea to a lesser charge that—"
"And admit I murdered a man I've never met or even heard of until after he was dead? No, absolutely not. No deals!"
A deal meant prison, probably for most if not all his remaining years. Prison meant that his life's work, Opus Omega, would remain unfinished. Or worse, finished by someone else… someone else would claim the glory that Luther deserved.
No. Unthinkable.
"They'll regret this," Luther said, anger seething through his fear. "I'll put thousands—tens of thousands—in the streets outside the courthouse and outside this prison. Their voices will shake these walls and—"
Fineman raised a hand. "I'd go easy on the protests. So far the DA hasn't mentioned those photos. If you push him too hard, he might release them. Just for spite."
"No… no!"
"Look, Mr. Brady. I've already put someone on the dead man, to dig up anything and everything known about him. I've got to tell you, in just a matter of hours he was able to come up with whispers about blackmail. This plays right into the DA's hands."
"Doesn't it play into our hands too? If the man was a blackmailer, it means he had to have enemies. We can—"
"But your pistol has been identified as the murder weapon, and the victim's prints are on it; probably his blood as well. And the photos found in his home were of you."
Luther could take no more. "I didn't kill him!" he screamed. "Do you hear me? I didn't do it! There must be some way to prove that!"
Fineman didn't seem the least bit ruffled.
"There is. We need someone, anyone, who can vouch for your whereabouts at or near the time of the murder."
Luther thought of something. "My E-Z Pass! It will show my tolls to and from the cabin on the night of the murder!"
Fineman shook his head. "That proves that your transponder made the trip, not you. I need a person, a living, breathing person who saw you far from the crime scene that night."
Luther thought of Petrovich. Maybe there was a way to have him vouch for Luther's presence at the cabin that night without incriminating himself.
"There might be someone. His name is Brencis Petrovich. He, um, made a delivery to the cabin Sunday night."
"Do I dare ask what?" Fineman said.
Luther looked away. "I'd rather you didn't."
3
"What's wrong, Jack?" Gia said. "You're not yourself today."