Max hadn't handled Barnett's original case, only the appeal. But he wasn't stupid. He knew there had been others. Other women, all murdered with the same M.O. and the signature gunshot wound up through the jaw as if the killer had hoped to remove the victim's identity by shattering her teeth. It didn't matter. Barnett had only been charged with Rebecca Moore's murder. Why the hell would Barnett even be asking about the others?
"What others?" Max finally asked, though he didn't want to know.
"Never mind," Barnett said as he spat out a piece of fingernail then crossed his arms, rucking his hands under his armpits. "You know I don't have a fucking dime to my name, man," he said, changing the subject. "I know you said I don't have to pay you anything, but I feel like I owe you."
Max almost let out a sigh of relief. This was a much safer topic. If there had been others, he didn't want to know about them. As far as Max was concerned there had been only one case, one eyewitness. And now there was no eyewitness and no case. If Barnett wanted to get something off his chest he could find a fucking priest. Yes, he preferred that Barnett worry, instead, about paying his debt.
Max knew Jared Barnett was the kind of man who wouldn't like feeling that he owed anyone. He also knew it was a big deal for Barnett to even admit that he might owe him. And that's what he wanted his client to focus on. Max had heard rumors that, after Barnett had been read his sentence of death by the electric chair, he turned to his court-appointed attorney, poor James Pritchard, and told him that it appeared he didn't owe him anything more for his help than a hole in the head. Max liked the idea that Barnett thought he might feel indebted to him. In fact, he was counting on it. "I think we can work something out," he said.
"Sure. Whatever you decide."
"But first I have to warn you. There's a media circus outside waiting for us."
"Cool," Barnett said, standing up. And that's exactly what he looked like-cool and collected, that same lack of emotion that had carried him through the trial and sentencing and every aspect of the appeal process. "So what's the going rate?"
"Excuse me?"
"What are these media blood-suckers willing to pay for an interview?"
Max scratched his head, his own nervous habit which he immediately caught and turned into a smoothing of his hair. Though he wanted to rip his hair out, instead. Christ! He couldn't believe this. The son of a bitch was going to fuck everything up. Money? He expected to be paid for being interviewed?
Max had to watch his temper. He couldn't make it sound as if he even cared whether or not they did the interviews. He couldn't make it seem as though Barnett was doing him a favor. He didn't want Barnett thinking these interviews would be his payback. He needed to think quickly. He needed to appeal to Barnett's core values, to those few essentials that made him tick. One of which, certainly, was not money.
"You're going to be a celebrity overnight, my friend," Max told him, smiling and shaking his head as if he could hardly believe it. "I've got messages from NBC News, 60 Minutes, Larry King and even Bill O'Reilly's The Factor. You're going to have something money can't buy. But I can understand if you'd rather tell them all to go screw themselves. Whatever you want to do. It's entirely up to you."
He watched as Barnett thought it over, forcing himself to keep quiet, to pretend it didn't matter. He concentrated on breathing, on not thinking about how much he wanted this, how much he needed this. He tried to keep his fists from balling up. And in his mind he couldn't stop repeating, almost like a mantra, "Don't you dare fuck it up."
"Bill O'Reilly actually wants me on his show?"
Max swallowed another sigh and calmly managed to say, "Yep, tomorrow night. It's up to you, though. I can tell him…hell, I can tell them all you don't want to put up with the whole lot of them. Whatever you want to do."
"That O'Reilly guy always thinks he's so tough." And now Barnett was smiling again. "I wouldn't mind telling a few of those assholes what I think."
This time Max smiled, too. Perhaps he could control Barnett, after all, but he'd need some sort of insurance. For the first time since he'd met Jared Barnett, Max allowed himself to look deep into those dark, vacant eyes, and now he allowed himself to admit the truth. He knew Jared Barnett had, indeed, killed that poor girl seven years ago. Not only did Max know it, he was counting on it.
CHAPTER 1
Tuesday, September 7
10:30 a.m.
Hall of Justice- Omaha, Nebraska
Grace Wenninghoff hated waiting. The air in courtroom number five felt like a hot, wet towel wrapped around her neck. There were too many people, jammed inside, generating too much heat. The squeaking of chairs as people shifted in their seats and an occasional cough interrupted the silence, but that was all. Judge Fielding's presence kept the crowd agitated but quiet as he looked over the papers in front of him, taking his time, not a hint of sweat or discomfort on his face.