The girl on the floor of the mall was not going to die.
Cindy charged. She took off like a sprinter and crossed the space between her and the gunman in one breath. He heard her coming, he felt her coming, and as he turned, bringing the gun with him, she launched herself into the air. She was small, but so was he, and they collided heavily, both crumpling to the tile. She was on top of him, but he hit her hard with the side of the gun, and the impact made her limp.
Twenty seconds.
Somewhere in her mind were the shouting and the thunder of the police. Somewhere close by was Jonny. But not close enough.
He pushed her off him as if she were nothing but a toy. He rolled onto her chest, crushing her, holding her down. She smelled the sourness of his breath and saw his tattoos glowing with sweat. She grabbed his forearm, but he was stronger, and so she bucked her head forward and sank her teeth into his wrist, tearing away skin. He howled. The gun fell. In rage, in pain, he clapped her forehead with the heel of his hand, and her skull shot back against the stone floor.
Circles of burning light burst like ripples in her head, and each ripple dizzied her. There was no more time, no more countdown of seconds, just a merry-go-round that wouldn’t stop. She was vaguely aware of him above her, aware of a velcro pocket ripped open, of another gun in his hand. His knees were on either side of her chest. She struck him, but her hand was like a mosquito, easily brushed away.
Footsteps pounded. Chaos. Noise. Voices.
The gun was in her face.
Bullets rang from the police, but no bullets touched him, as if he were shielded. She saw his lips bend into something like a smile. The end was near, but so much could happen at the finish. The barrel touched her cheek, like a kiss. His finger caressed the trigger. More bullets came, more guttural shouts, but the tumult was meaningless. There were only two people in the mall. Him and her.
He leaned down and whispered.
‘I am God,’ he told her.
Then in a single smooth motion, he shoved the barrel of the gun into his own mouth and blew off the back of his head.
34
Janine had never given much thought to walls. As a rule, she didn’t like them. She preferred to stare through windows. Her office had large windows, and so did her house, and there was something about the openness of the view that made her feel free. Which she wasn’t. Not anymore. She realized as she looked around the drab holding cell that walls were about to become a big part of her life, and she would need to make peace with them.
Clothes, too. The uniform of prisoners at the women’s correctional facility in Shakopee consisted of jeans, a denim shirt, and sneakers. She had no need of fashion anymore. She’d already decided to donate her wardrobe to charity for sale at an auction. The executive from the American Heart Association told her they’d make a lot of money that way. He looked sheepish about admitting that people would bid astronomical sums to own the clothes of a surgeon-turned-murderer. Janine wondered who those strange people were, and whether they would actually wear her clothes in public.
Archie waited for her to regain her focus. She found herself mostly unable to think since the verdict. Even knowing the likely outcome, she really hadn’t taken time to consider what it meant for her. And now, with all these changes in front of her, she found she could barely concentrate. She was being carried along by a river, and it would take her wherever it wanted.
‘The appeal process will continue,’ Archie said. He looked calm, but there was no jovial smile and no jokes today. He wore his pressed, tailored suit, which reminded her that he was part of a club — the outside world — of which she was no longer a member. She didn’t hold it against him.
‘On what grounds?’ she asked.
‘There are always grounds. We’ll analyze the transcript. Technicalities may seem like small things, but they can loom large on appeal.’
She allowed herself a smile. ‘And really, Archie, how often does this bear fruit?’
He rubbed his salt-and-pepper goatee. He didn’t bury the truth for her under false hope. ‘Not often.’
‘No. I didn’t think so.’
‘This Ross Klayman incident may change things, however,’ Archie said.
Janine thought about the mall, where she’d often walked and shopped. She thought about Cindy wrestling a gunman and saving a teenager’s life. A hero. From time to time, Cindy had talked about being jealous of Janine and about how physical therapists helped people but they didn’t really save people. Which was all wrong, in Janine’s view. She wondered if Cindy felt differently about herself today.
‘What a terrible thing,’ Janine said. ‘What makes a man do something like that?’
‘I don’t think there are any answers to that question. Even so, the fact that Jay saw this man with a gun — and that Klayman did this—’
‘Ross Klayman didn’t kill Jay. Let’s not kid ourselves.’
Archie studied her with his sharp blue eyes. ‘You don’t know that for sure, Janine. Do you?’
She got the message. It’s not about reality. It’s about the law. ‘I just don’t want to exploit this tragedy.’
‘It’s not exploitation. It’s a reasonable question given the facts and given Klayman’s behavior.’
‘I hear you, Archie,’ she said. ‘Now can we get back to the real world?’
The lawyer nodded. ‘Judge Edblad will probably announce a sentence at the hearing next month. The guidelines call for a sentence between twenty-two and thirty years, and given your history and the lack of aggravating factors, I think we can expect a sentence on the lower end. I’ll argue for a downward departure from the guidelines but, candidly, I don’t expect it.’ Archie hesitated. ‘Here’s something for you to consider, Janine. A confession and statement of remorse might get sympathy from the court.’
She smiled sweetly. ‘Even if I didn’t shoot him, Archie?’
They stared at each other for a long time before her lawyer shook his head. It was one of the only times she’d been able to see inside his mind. He thought she was guilty. ‘No,’ Archie replied. ‘I can’t advise you to say something that isn’t true.’
‘Well then. What does all of that mean in terms of time in prison?’
‘You can typically expect to serve at least two-thirds of your sentence before being considered for supervised release. So if the sentence is twenty-five years, that would be almost seventeen years of time in Shakopee.’
Some of her coolness faltered. She hadn’t dwelt on the reality, but seventeen years was a lot of reality. The prime of life gone. She would no longer be young or beautiful at the end. She would be a felon in her mid-fifties with little money left and no profession. It was almost harder to imagine stepping back onto the street than spending the years behind the prison walls.
‘Seventeen years,’ she murmured.
Archie was silent. No doubt he’d seen this drama play out many times before.
‘What will it be like?’ she asked.
‘Prison life is mostly about routine and rules,’ he replied.
‘How exciting.’
‘You can have visitors.’
‘There’s no one to visit me,’ she said.
He had no answer for that one. She had no parents. No siblings. No friends who would travel to see her. And no husband, obviously.
‘Do I have to worry about my physical safety?’ she went on.
‘In general, no, but there are always risks. Most of the inmates are non-violent offenders, but Shakopee is the only women’s prison in the state. Women who commit violent crimes go there, too.’