"The judge won't let you withdraw while the jury's out. It's too late in the game. It's prejudicial to me, infringes my constitutional rights."
"Don't you lecture me," Marta shot back, though she knew he was right about her withdrawal. "I suborned perjury for you."
"Suborn perjury, my my. You can talk the talk, can't you? So can I. You didn't suborn perjury because I didn't testify in my own defense."
"It's a fraud on the court—"
"Enough." Steere cut Marta off with a wave. "Here's what happens next: the verdict comes in by noon and I go free. Then I hold a press conference where I tell the world that the mayor is a smacked ass, the jury system is a blessing, and you're the best whore money can buy."
Marta froze. Her fingers squeezed the handle of her briefcase. Rage constricted her breathing. She felt choked, with Steere's polished loafer on her throat.
"Then we'll go to the Swann Fountain for the victory celebration," Steere continued. "We can play footsies, just like old times. After that I'm booked to St. Bart's on a Learjet that'll take off from Atlantic City if Philly is snowed in. I love the beach, don't you? Hate the water, but love the beach. Want to come?"
Marta only glared in response. She wouldn't be used like this. Not by him. Not by anyone. She reached for the door of the interview room.
"Aw, don't go away mad, honey," Steere said.
"I have work to do."
"What work? You just proved me innocent."
"Right. Now I'm going to prove you guilty."
Steere chuckled behind tented fingers. "There's no evidence."
"There must be."
"The police couldn't find any."
"They didn't have the incentive I do."
"And you'll find this evidence before the jury comes back? By noon tomorrow?"
"They won't be out that long," Marta said. She yanked the door open to the sound of Steere's laughter, but as furious as she was, she knew it didn't matter who was laughing first. Only who was laughing last.
2
The Criminal Justice Center in Philadelphia is a newly built courthouse and the holding cells adjoining the courtrooms resemble small, modern offices. Clear bulletproof plastic has supplanted atmospheric iron bars and the white-painted cinderblock walls are still clean and relatively unscuffed. Elliot Steere's cell contained a white Formica bench, a stainless steel toilet, and a half-sink. Steere was the only prisoner on the floor and because of transportation problems caused by the snowstorm, would be staying nights in his holding cell during jury deliberations. He crossed his legs as he read the Wall Street Journal and pointedly ignored the older guard standing in front of him like a penitent.
"I can't do it, Mr. Steere," the guard said, glancing over his shoulder. The other guard was out on break but he'd be back soon. Frank didn't want to get caught standing in Steere's cell. "I tried, but I can't."
Steere didn't look up from his newspaper. "Yes you can. Try again."
"I can't. The hallway's full of reporters. They got TV, cameras, everything. They're right outside the door, all the way to the elevators. In the lobby downstairs, too." The guard shook his head. "It's too chancy."
"You'll find a way."
"There is no way. Somebody will see me. Somebody will wonder, why's he goin' in and out? You know how reporters are. They're already sayin' you got special privileges."
Steere skimmed the front page. "Don't worry about the reporters. The snow's the big story, not me. It says right here, 'East Coast Hit by Major Snowstorm.' I'm not even above the fold today."
"I can't do it, I swear. I couldn't get it through the metal detector."
"You've done it before, Frank."
"Today is different. Today the jury's out. Everybody's walking around. Watching. Waiting. It's crazy out there." The guard shifted nervously from one new shoe to another. Orthopedic, they were, three hundred bucks a pair. Orthotics, the doc called them. Frank had never been able to afford them before; they weren't covered on his lousy HMO. "Believe me, it's nuts."
Steere turned the page.
"Please." The guard's lined forehead shone with sweat. "I got you the newspaper."
"I think I'm entitled to a newspaper."
"Sure you are. Don't get me wrong." The guard kept shifting his feet. Not that they hurt, he could stand forever in these babies. Walk all day, even at the mall with Madeline. Didn't have to wait in the car like a goddamn dog. "The newspaper was no problem, no problem at all, Mr. Steere. But this is a whole'nother thing. Maybe I could get you a Coke from the machine."
Steere flipped to the stock quotes and skimmed the columns. "Good news. Hampden Technologies is up two points."
"I could get ice, too. From the lounge. Take me five minutes, tops."
"Uh-oh. Potash is down another point." Steere cracked the wide paper to straighten out a crease. "Still holding your potash, Frank?"
"Yeah."
"Do you think that's wise?"
Frank Devine swallowed hard. He'd started investing small amounts on Steere's say-so when the trial started. Steere was right each time, and Frank made real money. Steere had picked up a tip on potash last month, and Frank socked all he had plus what he could get from his brother-in-law— seventeen grand— on the stock. Consolidating my holdings, he told his Madeline. Big shot, she'd said, scowling. Now his seventeen grand was worth thirty and when he cashed out he'd buy whatever he needed. Two hundred goddamn pair of shoes. Orthotics, whatever.
"Frank? I asked you if you think it's wise to hold potash."
"I guess it's… wise." The guard watched Steere scan the quotes, his eyes going up and down the rows, but he couldn't tell anything from Steere's expression. He never could. Steere was like a freak that way. "Do you think it's wise, Mr. Steere?"
"If you guess so."
"I'm still ahead of the game," the guard said. He wasn't stupid, goddamnit. He'd learned a lot about stocks since the Steere trial started. "It closed at thirty yesterday."
"What was it this morning? Did it dip?"
"No, sir." The guard had checked with his brother-in-law, who found out from the computer. Frank didn't know much about computers and felt too old to learn.
Steere kept reading.
"Well, uh, should I sell it, Mr. Steere?"
"I don't know. I guess you should." Steere's eyes stopped at mid-column. "Then again, I guess you shouldn't. What do you guess, Frank?"
"I usually guess what you guess," the guard said, trying to make a joke, though he felt sick inside. It was so quiet he could hear his stomach groan.
Steere turned the page.
Frank shifted his feet.
Steere skimmed the quotes.
"Mr. Steere," Frank said, "should I hold potash or sell it?"
Steere's attention never left the newspaper. "I don't know if I'd hold it. It failed to make a new high. Made an attempt, but failed."
"How bad is that?" Frank's dentures stuck to his lips. "I mean, is that bad? It sounds bad."
"It depends."
"On what?"
"On how you feel at strike two."
Frank laughed, but it came out like he was choking.
From behind the paper, Steere said, "The phone, slugger. Bring me the fucking phone."
* * *
"What are you wearing?" Steere said into the flip phone. He was kidding, but there was a stiffening between his legs just the same. He'd been in jail almost a year.
"I'm in a meeting," she said in her professional voice, loud enough for the people around her to hear. She was a star and she knew it. Steere imagined her in the meeting, every inch the career woman, at least on the outside.
"You still have that bra, the black one with the lace?"
"I can't talk now, really. The gang's all here. Movers and shakers, even a city editor. Right, Marc?" she called out. "Call me back when you have your schedule. Gotta go." In the background Steere heard hearty masculine laughter.
"Wait. I need you to do something. Get to the file and destroy it."