Morin buttoned his suit jacket as he stood. "Yes, Your Honor, we do indeed," he said. In flawless and flowery prose, he recounted the incalculable harm that would be inflicted on the First Amendment rights of all citizens were the plaintiff's requests to be granted. After enduring three minutes of breathless oratory, Verone yawned widely and loudly, causing Morin to stop in mid-sentence.
"Do you have any information to present to me here that is not already played out in your written response?" Verone asked, taking advantage of the brief silence.
Morin smiled coyly, as though he had been waiting for this opportunity. "Yes, sir, Your Honor. In addition to all of the arguments thus far presented, the defendant feels that the entire issue is moot, due to events of this morning, in which the information sought by the People's petition was already provided by alternative means."
Stephanie's mouth dropped. She hadn't been back to the office since nine o'clock that morning, and no one had told her anything about alternative means. What the hell kind of game was Petrelli trying to play, anyway?
"I have no idea what counsel is talking about," she said in reply to the judge's inquisitive look.
Verone's gaze returned to Morin. "Enlighten us all, Mr. Morin, please," he said.
Morin told of the Nicholsons' return from vacation, and of their discoveries upon their arrival home. "Several points are proven here, Your Hohor," Morin concluded. "First, that good police work does not have to involve civil rights violations, and second, that the Commonwealth's Attorney's office is wasting a lot of people's valuable time-and my client's valuable money-just to win a few votes."
"That last comment was uncalled for, Your Honor," Stephanie objected.
"On the contrary, Miss Buckman, I believe that it is overdue," Verone shot back. "I think we all know what's going on here. Your boss is taking a bath on this case, and he'll try anything to win, including leaving you out to dry all alone with this turkey of a petition. Miss Buckman, I want you to go back to your office and tell Mr. Petrelli that there is no provision in the Constitution whereby it can be suspended to support the political aspirations of prosecutors. Tell him if he tries a stunt like this again, I'll throw his butt in jail for contempt. Is that clear?"
Gilstrap, John
Nathan's Run (1996)
"Yes, sir," Stephanie said with a smile. She could just see herself saying those things to Petrelli. God, what she would give to do it and still have a job.
"Petition denied?' The gavel sounded like a pistol shot.
The gun made Nathan feel safer. The heft of it in his hands, the press of it against the small of his back gave him the sense that the odds were more even. Like The Bitch had said, it was dangerous for a kid his age to be wandering around alone at night. If some bad guy chose him as his prey, Nathan would be ready.
He saw in a Western once how this cowboy had developed a reputation as a killer, and even though he tried to hang up his guns and get on with his life, the bad guys wouldn't let him. People felt compelled to prove themselves against his reputation. Well, Nathan was a famous killer now. He had told everybody that it was an accident, but maybe they wouldn't believe him. Maybe somebody would want to prove themselves against him.
Yeah, he'd be ready, all right. He'd made up his mind to take the gun with him. Like the clothes he'd borrowed from the Nicholsons, this gun would somehow be returned once he was across the border in Canada.
The Honda in the garage posed a bit of a problem. It had a standard transmission, and he remembered from the fun farm how tricky they could be. In fact, the hardest he'd ever seen his grandfather laugh was the first day Nathan had gotten the old Ford to move, jerking and jolting across the field, spewing gravel everywhere. He just prayed that he still remembered how to do it.
The laundry was finished now, and he'd already cleaned the place up. He had another note to write, but that wouldn't take long. With three hours to go till dark, he had nothing left to do but wait. The waiting drove him nuts. For two days now, he'd been stuck inside, unable to do anything but wait and worry.
After a while, boredom began to wear on you, making your mind play tricks. Boredom made you hear things that weren't there, and think things that weren't right. Sleeping was about the only activity that made real sense, but he was way too keyed up for that. Besides, he'd slept like a log that morning.
The digital clock on the VCR switched to 6:00 and he thumbed the POWER button on the wimpy little six-button remote. You couldn't even punch in the channel you wanted; you had to go through the numbers one at a time. He flopped backwards onto the couch but bounced back to his feet when the pistol in his waistband objected. He drew it out and lay back down, resting the gun on his chest.
Nathan was the lead story on the news again. They were again showing the grainy picture of him in his bloody coveralls. They cut to a picture of the BMW before Nathan could pick up on what the announcer was saying.
".. believe they have located the vehicle used in day two of Nathan Bailey's daring escape attempt from the Juvenile Detention Center in Brookfield, Virginia. According to police sources, a BMW sportscar matching the description of the vehicle taken from the residence where the young man spent the night last night was recovered in a church parking lot in Jenkins Township, Pennsylvania, about thirty miles north of Harrisburg. For the details, we go to… "
He turned it off. This wasn't possible. In just a few hours, the cops had undone a two-day head start, and Nathan still had hundreds of miles to go. His mind raced for a solution, for a way to get ahead of them again.
Think, he told himself. There's a way. There's got to be a way.
He rolled back up to a sitting position, his bare feet flat on the floor. He needed to take a look at where he was. What could they know? They knew he was somewhere around the town, but they couldn't know where. They'd look for him in the woods, and they'd talk to people, showing his picture around. Could that hurt him?
Oh, shit! The guy in the car! Damn! Damndamndamndamn! Sure as hell, they'd made eye contact. When the guy heard the news, he'd remember. Nathan suddenly hated himself for taking stupid chances. He'd traded everything for a couple of extra minutes of rest. He was an idiot! A fool! He was thinking like a goddamn kid, and now they had caught up with him! They were going to take him back there, and they were going to try him for murder and they were going to convict him and they were going to send him away for the rest of his life and it was all his own doing! Goddammit!
A wave of despair overcame Nathan with such force that it took his breath away. Despite his thinking and his planning, despite his prayers and all the work he'd put into laying out his routes, it had all come down to stupidity and luck. He realized now that he'd been stupid even to entertain the notion of getting away.
And luck. Hell, he'd been leaning on luck for years. He clearly saw for the first time that the hope he'd been foolish enough to hold on to since the day his father was killed had only been fueled by luck. Real life had nothing to do with it. Everyone and everything had abandoned him. God let him have a few good years just so he could know how awful the future would be. That was God's little joke. Ha, ha, let's all get a good laugh at Nathan! Look at that poor son of a bitch! He actually thinks there's such thing as good fortune! He actually believes that nothing bad can happen to people who are good! Ha, ha, ha! Great joke!
No matter how dark the days, there had always been a few scattered rays of sunlight in his soul. Now, suddenly, even that comfort was gone. He had the sensation that he was in a dark room without any doors. He was so alone.