Marta skimmed the addresses. Bustleton Pike. Wolf Street. Ninth Street. Baltimore Avenue. E Street. Apartments and houses, all around the city. She looked again. All the addresses were in Philadelphia. Marta thumbed through the pages to double-check. None were from suburbs or towns outside the city. So? What did this file have to do with Darning's murder? Marta stared out the frosty windshield, thinking. A dusting of snow lay on the truck's hood, too thin to conceal its dings and dents.
Suddenly she heard an engine sound and a jingling in the distance. The sound got louder, coming from the main drag. Marta slouched low in the driver's seat and watched the street from the driver's side mirror. A new snowplow drove past the cross street with chains jangling on its tires.
Marta checked her watch. 8:30. Her gut tightened. She was late. The business day had started. People were moving around. Snow dripped off the trees like raindrops. She had to get going. Fast. She gathered the papers into a stack, shoved them back into the envelope, and stuck it in her purse. She'd have to do her thinking on the way back to Philly. She wondered what the jury was doing. Would Christopher be able to do the job?
Marta tossed the file aside and twisted on the ignition. It made a noise, then nothing. The truck wasn't turning over. No! Not now, for God's sake! It was working before! This wasn't fair. It couldn't be happening. Marta tried to stay calm and remember what Christopher had told her.
Be patient. She just needs to warm up. Don't flood the engine.
Fine. Marta fed the gas gently and turned the ignition key. It cranked, then died.
Talk to her. She likes when you talk to her.
"Start or I'll sue your fucking ass!" Marta shouted as she hit the ignition. The truck started right up.
A law degree was a good thing to have.
* * *
Marta twisted the pickup onto the island's main drag and headed south. The file jiggled on the duct-taped passenger seat. The street stretched in front of her like a landing strip of melting snow, and Marta drove past the house where Bogosian's body lay. No one was around and there were no cars in the driveway. The house looked shuttered and closed.
Marta's stomach felt queasy. She had killed a man and was leaving his body in the snow. Strangely primal feelings of respect for the dead welled up. She thought of her father's simple grave, then her mother's. Marta had paid for her headstone, but didn't even go to the funeral. She sped up, trying to leave her emotions behind.
A car drove by in the opposite direction and its driver negotiated carefully past her in the slippery snow. Marta tugged her hood up and pulled it low over her forehead. She couldn't afford to be recognized. The guards' murders and her vanishing act had to be all over the news. She wished she could find out what was going on. She tried the truck's radio again, twisting the black dial uselessly. No soap.
Marta pressed the gas pedal and the truck sputtered slightly before it picked up speed. Along the strip she could see one or two stores opening up, a bagel shop and a 7-Eleven. She steered the pickup off the island and onto the rotary that led to the causeway, following Route 72. Light traffic traveled the highway, the drivers driving with caution in the snow.
Marta kept her face low and checked the clock. 9:16. She wouldn't get to Philly for hours. The jury would have been in session all morning. She hoped Christopher was delaying the jurors' final vote. She would need the time to piece together the file. She didn't understand the significance of the driver's licenses, but she knew who did. Alix Locke. The newspaper offices were right in Philly. Marta would find Alix, tell her she had the file, and make a deal. A long prison sentence could be very persuasive to a woman accustomed to cashmere.
Marta drove the pickup as fast as road conditions allowed. The highway had been plowed and salted, and mounds of snow at the shoulder were dissolving to gray slush. Snow-covered scrub pines and reedy white birches reappeared, but Marta had no time for reminiscing now. The truck hiccuped slightly, so she kept the gas flowing. She checked the fuel gauge. Still a quarter-tank left.
The truck hiccuped again. What was happening? The truck lurched slightly, then coughed. Marta eased off the gas. The truck slowed down and its coughing turned to hacking. Was something wrong with the engine? The hacking sounded terrible. Marta thought the thing would vomit blood.
"Don't you dare!" she shouted, but this time the truck wouldn't be intimidated. The warning light on the dashboard flickered to red. The engine stalled and was silent. The truck coasted to a stop in the middle of the deserted highway, almost a hundred miles from Philadelphia.
49
Judge Harry Calvin Rudolph sat atop the mahogany dais and scanned his courtroom. Elliot Steere sat alone at the defense table, wearing yet another Italian suit, one that everybody but judges could afford. The assistant district attorney, Tom Moran, slumped in his chair at the prosecution table, his eyelids curiously at half-mast. The gallery was empty except for the trial junkies who inhaled the Steere case like hot pizza. Any reporters able to get to the Criminal Justice Center in five feet of snow were scattered in the designated area in the very back row. Siberia, where they belonged.
Judge Rudolph checked his watch with a discreet twist of the wrist. It was barely ten o'clock in the morning, but no law required him to wait for a studio audience. He banged the gavel. "I am convening this hearing in the matter of Commonwealth v. Steere to ascertain that the defendant Elliot Steere's waiver of his right to counsel is knowing, intelligent, and voluntary. Let's begin. Mr. Steere, please rise."
"Yes, sir." Steere stood up in front of his seat. He had no lawyer but he hardly appeared powerless. On the contrary, with a rested, confident expression, he looked as in control as he felt.
"Mr. Steere, you sent me a letter in this matter, did you not?"
"I did, sir."
"Is this the letter you sent me, Mr. Steere? You may approach."
Steere walked to the bench like a seasoned litigator and examined the letter the judge handed him. "It is, Your Honor."
"You wrote this letter yourself?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"You sent it to me last night at approximately one o'clock in the morning, is that correct?"
"Yes, Your Honor. I asked one of the guards to take it to you, since I had no lawyer."
At the back of the courtroom, two reporters scribbled notes into steno pads. A sketch artist sat next to them, drawing hastily. Steere looked even taller in her sketch.
"You may be seated, Mr. Steere."
"Thank you." Steere returned the letter to the judge and strode back to his chair at counsel table. He took his seat, crossed his legs, and brushed his pants leg into order.
Judge Rudolph turned to the assistant district attorney. "Mr. Moran, my law clerk has provided you with a copy of Mr. Steere's letter. Did you receive it?"
"Huh?" The assistant district attorney started in his seat, his eyes red-rimmed and bleary. The stiffness of his three-piece suit seemed to be the only thing holding him up, like a legal El Cid. His head was full of the colicky crying of the twins. On the legal pad in front of him were a set of scribbled calculations and each number was multiplied by two.
Judge Rudolph waved the letter like a white flag. "Did you get a copy of Mr. Steere's letter?"
"Yes, I got it, Your Honor." Tom cleared his throat and tried to stay awake.
"Does the Commonwealth have any objection to its being admitted into the supplemental record?"
"No, Your Honor."
"Fine," Judge Rudolph said. "Would the court reporter please mark this letter as the next exhibit?" The judge handed the letter across his desk to Carol the court reporter, who had to stretch to take it. Tom watched her skirt hike up her slim, muscled thighs. His wife Marie used to have great legs. Now they were puffy and red pimples dotted her calves. She smeared tubes of cortisone cream on them every night. Tom hoped the leg zits went away soon.