The Immortal Read online

  I frowned, resenting his question and his attitude. “American justice is not founded upon opinion polls, Mr. Brown. Every accused person is innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Every defendant is entitled to the best defense possible.”

  “The best money can buy, you mean.” Brown grinned at me, an odd mingling of cynicism and amusement in his eyes. “Tell me, Claudia—do you think you’ll ever get tired of working for pond scum?” He lowered his voice and edged closer. “You and I both know the renowned senator killed that girl. I’m no expert at what you do, but I’ve been watching Mitchell long enough to figure that he sat down one afternoon with pen and paper and made two lists—one of reasons to keep her, the other of reasons to kill her. If he keeps her, he gets a few cheap thrills and he can swagger with the other guys who have trophy mistresses. But he also gets saddled with an illegitimate child, maybe even a nasty custody hearing and a public divorce. He gets smeared in a way not even the Teflon Senator can shake off. He gets hurt—badly.”

  The amused look suddenly left his eyes. “Did you know the bulk of the senator’s fortune comes from his wife? If the current Mrs. Mitchell were to divorce her husband, the money for mistresses and campaigns and society gatherings would evaporate. Not all of it, but enough to cramp ol’ Chad’s style.”

  I crossed my arms and pointedly looked away. “It’s a moot point; she’ll divorce him anyway. You can’t expect her to stay married after he confessed to the affair—”

  “All I’m saying,” Brown interrupted, picking up his glass again, “is that for the next few months I’m going to be checking up on Mrs. Mitchell’s welfare. If the senator is cleared—and, due to your good work, I strongly suspect he will be—I’m sure Mrs. Mitchell will initiate divorce proceedings. If anything happens to her before the divorce is final—and, due to your good work, I strongly suspect something will—I’ll be calling you again, Miss Fischer. I’ll want to know how you can sleep nights.”

  It was a remark designed to sting, and it did. I stared in silence as Brown drained his drink, then picked up his recorder and snapped the power off. “Have a good night.” The smile he shot me held a touch of malice. “I’ll be in touch.”

  I gave him a black look. “Wait a minute, Brown—”

  The oak doors of the pub burst open, and a red-faced cameraman leaned into the room. “They’re back,” he yelled, his eyes searching for his crew. “The Mitchell jury is coming back.”

  I glanced at my watch. They’d been out only three hours.

  Waiting for a jury verdict—and I’ve waited for dozens of them over the course of my career—must be a bit like the experience of childbirth. Most of my friends are married and into the family scene now, and even though they were 90 percent sure of their babies’ sex before the little darlings entered the world, an uncertainty still existed—what if the technician misread the sonogram?

  What if I misread these jurors?

  A high-speed verdict like this one almost certainly meant unanimous consent from the beginning of deliberations. The Marvin Maxwell jurors took four hours to declare the movie star innocent of a savage double murder, so I supposed this panel could find a senator innocent of one murder in only three . . .

  Or they could look at the evidence and find undeniable guilt.

  I flipped open my notebook again and studied the names printed there. Laurie Dorset might have wavered, but I didn’t think she possessed the charisma or leadership skills to convince anyone else to change sides. Elizabeth Mattingly had leadership ability, but she had never demonstrated much interest in anything unrelated to herself. Alan Armstrong was a lifelong Democrat and appeared to approve of Mitchell, but he also had a wife and evidenced strong family values. In the jury room, could he have unveiled an aspect of his personality that I missed?

  Exhaling slowly, I closed my notebook and loosely folded my arms across my chest. Too late now for second guesses and recriminations. The die was cast. The jurors had called the judge at four o’clock, and His Honor, eager to finish this extended case, had decided to reconvene at this late hour rather than prolong our misery another day.

  Now the judge sat erect in his chair, his eyes on the empty jury box. At their respective tables, the attorneys for the prosecution and the defense waited silently. Senator Chad Mitchell sat in a wooden chair in front and to the right of me. Though he had crossed his arms and legs in a studied posture of nonchalance, I couldn’t help but notice that a small drop of sweat gleamed on his upper lip. Not even the senator was totally confident.

  Somewhere beyond the oak door in the front of the courtroom, the jurors were gathering their belongings, perhaps even exchanging addresses. They had been together for six months, more than enough time to form lasting friendships. Mindful of the waiting television cameras, the women would be smoothing their hair and applying lipstick, the men adjusting their neckties.

  Finally the bailiff opened the door. Juror number twelve, Thomas Orr, entered first, his eyes downcast as he made his way to the first chair on the back row. The other jurors followed, several modeling Orr’s hunched posture and lowered gaze.

  My heart began to thump almost painfully in my chest. Chad Mitchell’s wasn’t the only life at stake here. If the senator went to prison, any lawyer acquainted or affiliated with the law firm of Wilt, Kremkau, Colby, and Stock would call on me about as quickly as they’d volunteer for an IRS audit. And if Tom Brown printed a story reporting that I’d been the jury consultant for the trial that sent Senator Mitchell to prison, I might as well leave New York State. Mitchell’s supporters would hound me until my dying day.

  I shivered, then rubbed my hands over my arms, trying to bring some warmth back into my body. Why was I expecting the worst? If the panel came back with a guilty verdict, the senator should bear the blame. One couldn’t argue with facts, after all, regardless of what happened in other celebrity murder trials. I had done the best work I could do, and if the jury chose to vote according to their consciences instead of their politics, Colby should understand. After all, lawyers lost big cases every day.

  The heavy door slammed with an emphatic sound, and the judge rapped on his desk with the gavel. “Madame Chairman,” he said, fixing Elizabeth Mattingly in a direct gaze. “Have you reached a verdict?”

  “We have, Your Honor.”

  “The defendant will rise.”

  Senator Mitchell and Ross Colby stood behind the defendant’s counsel table. The attractive Hilton Hotel executive handed a folded slip of paper to the bailiff, who handed it to the judge. I studied the judge as he opened the paper and skimmed it, but the man was skilled in the art of nondisclosure. “You may publish the verdict,” he answered, and as he handed the paper back to the bailiff, I searched his face for some flicker of emotion, even a twitch of satisfaction or frustration . . . there was nothing.

  As the bailiff opened the paper, Elizabeth Mattingly stood to her full height of five feet nine inches and faced the defendant. In that instant, I knew.

  “In the case of the state of New York versus Mitchell,” the bailiff read, “on the count of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant, Chad Myers Mitchell, not guilty.”

  Mattingly broke about a dozen rules of courthouse protocol as she flashed a heart-stopping broad smile at Mitchell. “Innocent of all charges, Senator!” she called.

  The courtroom erupted. As Stephanie Glazier’s weeping parents embraced each other, the senator hugged his lawyer, the jurors broke into applause, and the sea of reporters surged forward, recorders and pens at the ready.

  The judge rapped for order, and the mayhem ceased almost as suddenly as it had begun.

  I glanced at the prosecutor, who might well call for a polling of the jury to establish that the verdict had been unanimous, but Howard Nardozzi sat motionless, his gaze fixed to his legal pad.

  After glancing at Nardozzi, the judge returned his attention to the panel. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’d like to thank you for the many months you invest
ed in this case. You have done your duty as citizens, and we thank you. You are dismissed.”

  The courtroom waited in silence as the members of the panel stood and exited through their special doorway. I noticed that nearly all of them took a moment to send a congratulatory smile winging toward the counsel table for the defense—there were so many teeth showing, the courtroom could have been mistaken for a dentists’ convention. Elizabeth Mattingly even grinned at me.

  A whirlwind of giddy relief swirled in my head as the judge concluded the trial. At the moment of release, the press pack swept through the gate between the gallery and the courtroom, forming a solid phalanx around Colby and Senator Mitchell. I stood, hoping for a moment to congratulate my client, but soon realized that this was neither the time nor place for private congratulations.

  “Senator Mitchell,” one reporter called as I stooped to pick up my briefcase, “to what do you owe this overwhelming vindication?”

  I expected Mitchell to say something about justice and his faith in the American legal system. I did not expect him to lean over the railing and lift me to my feet, his strong arm pulling me toward him in a ferocious bear hug. “I owe everything to my brilliant lawyer and this talented woman,” he said, his bright smile dazzling against his tanned skin. “Ross Colby and Claudia Fischer believed in me. They believe in justice. They believe in the American legal system. And they, my friends, are why I am not only a free man tonight, but also an innocent one.”

  I tried to smile as the flashbulbs flickered, but I’m pretty sure I only flinched uncomfortably. I endured the weight of that iron arm around my shoulders for as long as I could, then ducked away and left the senator to face his public with his lawyer.

  The pressing crowd let me pass without comment, but I caught Tom Brown’s eye as I moved through the doorway. “Congratulations,” he mouthed across the mob, but his somber eyes were as remote as the ocean depths.

  I shrugged off the burden of guilt he thought I should be carrying and made my way into the crowded hallway. The excitement level there was as high as that of the courtroom, and a profound sense of weariness settled over me as I claimed my coat and fought my way into it. I glanced at my watch—6:30. With luck, I’d have just enough time to catch a cab, go home and change, and meet Kurt for dinner.

  The horde outside the courtroom showed no signs of dispersing, but I managed to thread my way through and reach the entrance lobby. I took a moment to smile at the guards who lingered at the security checkpoint.

  “All finished?” Sam asked. He was an older man with an easy and congenial manner. We had often exchanged pleasantries when I passed through the checkpoint.

  “All done,” I answered. I paused beside the metal detector. “And I don’t know when I’ll see you again, Sam. My calendar’s looking a little bare at the moment.”

  “Miss Fischer!”

  As I glanced behind me I saw the strange bald man who’d been shadowing my movements. He was shouldering his way through the crowd, coming my way with his hand uplifted, his gait purposeful.

  I turned to Sam. “I don’t know who that man is, but I don’t think I want to talk to him,” I whispered, turning up the collar of my coat to shield my face. “Can you stall him for a moment? Give me long enough to catch a cab.”

  “I’ll hold him for you.” Sam spoke with quiet firmness. “You just go on, and I’ll take care of this fellow.”

  Nodding my thanks, I hurried away.

  TWO

  “TO YOU, DARLING.” KURT LIFTED HIS GOBLET AND LIGHTLY TOUCHED it to mine. “Congratulations on a job well done. Your trial was all over the news tonight. Even CNN did a piece on it, so that means you’re getting international coverage.”

  I felt myself flushing under Kurt’s compliment. “Well, it wasn’t exactly my trial. And if the defendant had been anyone other than a United States senator, we probably wouldn’t have gotten any coverage at all.”

  “But you did get it.” There was something pleased, proud, and vaguely possessive in the way Kurt looked at me. “And tomorrow every lawyer on the eastern seaboard will know that Claudia Fischer is the jury consultant to hire for important cases.”

  I’ll admit it—part of me reveled in his open admiration. But I resisted the unsophisticated temptation to crow right in the middle of the Rainbow Room and instead picked up my fork. “I certainly hope so. But there’s no way of knowing what tomorrow will bring.”

  Kurt picked up his fork too, but then he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Is the wolf still at the corporate door?”

  “We’ll be OK for another month.” I stabbed at a piece of lettuce and tried to keep the worried note from my voice. “Colby promised me a bonus if we won. It will cover the balloon payment on the loan but little else because the trial took longer than I planned. We’ll be in the black for about a month before expenses drive us into red ink again.”

  Kurt took a bite of his salad, his eyes gleaming blue and mischievous in the candlelight as he thoughtfully studied me. “You know I’d bail you out in a heartbeat,” he finally said. “We can keep the deal on a professional level. My practice could loan you the money over a long term with a very attractive interest rate—”

  “Thanks, Kurt, but no. I want to make it on my own.”

  “Don’t be silly, Claudia.” His lips thinned with irritation. “We’re going to be married in less than a year, and then what’s mine will be yours anyway.”

  “Not exactly—your practice and my firm will never be community property.” I tried to glare at him, but I just can’t be angry with Kurt when those summer sky blue eyes look up at me. I don’t know how his parents ever disciplined him.

  He shrugged off my objections and returned to his salad. “Then you’ll just have to find another client—preferably one with deep pockets.”

  “I may have one.” I paused until he looked up again. “I checked my messages just before coming here. According to Rory, I have an appointment tomorrow morning with a representative from the Global Union. The man’s name is Darien Synn.”

  “Global Union?” His brows knit in puzzlement. “That name is familiar, but I’ve never heard of Darien Synn.”

  “Rory said the organization is based in Rome. I don’t know much about it myself, but the appointment’s not until eleven o’clock. I’ll have time to scour the Internet and see what I can find.”

  Kurt’s eyes were still abstracted, but they cleared as he shook his head. “It doesn’t sound like a law firm.”

  “I don’t know what it is.” I stabbed at my salad again. “But as long as they want to talk business, I’ll listen. Trials like Senator Mitchell’s don’t come along every year, so I can’t afford to sit back and wait on the celebrity cases.”

  “Speaking of opportunities”—Kurt grinned at me, his eyes suddenly alight with mischief and inspiration—“I was thinking that maybe you and I should give a dinner party for the senator. You know, a celebration-type thing. Then you could introduce me to Mitchell, and I could—”

  “Kurt Waldron Welton!” Aghast, I stared at him, knowing what suggestion lay on the tip of his tongue. “You aren’t seriously thinking of trying to solicit the senator as a patient.”

  “Why not?” he countered, his golden brows rising nearly to his hairline. “Anyone would need counseling after a trial like that. After all, the man has been accused of murder, he is estranged from his wife, his children aren’t speaking to him, and his career is uncertain. It’s a wonder he hasn’t sought out a psychologist before this.”

  “I am not going to let you accost my clients.” I rolled my eyes, amazed that my fiancé could engage in what amounted to high-class ambulance chasing. “If Mitchell wants counseling, I’m sure he can afford to find his own shrink. Goodness, Colby employed two different psychiatrists during the trial. They both found Mitchell mentally competent and physically fit.”

  “Those were trial docs, Claudia; they say what they’re paid to say.”

  “They were reputable psychologists
, and they wouldn’t lie . . . I don’t think.” I waved away the topic. “Enough, Kurt. I’m not throwing a party for Mitchell. I wouldn’t care if I never saw the man again. If he wants to refer a client, I wouldn’t refuse the work, but”—I couldn’t stop a shudder—“something about him gives me the creeps.”

  “And that’s ample evidence that he needs a psychologist.” Kurt lifted his glass again and peered at me over the rim. “Think about it, Claude—you might be doing some other woman a great favor if you introduced me to the senator.”

  Feeling restless and irritable, I brought my hand to my forehead, shielding my eyes from Kurt’s persistent gaze. Twice in the last few hours I’d been reminded that Chad Mitchell might be a walking time bomb, but what could I do about it?

  Absolutely nothing.

  Kurt turned his smile up a notch. “Come on, Claude, don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “Yes, you are. I don’t have to be the Seer to read you like a book.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Maybe not, but I know something that is. Today someone e-mailed me this list of messages for a shrink’s answering machine. After the greeting, the voice says, ‘If you are obsessive-compulsive, press one repeatedly. If you are codependent, please ask someone to press two for you. If you have multiple personalities, press three, four, and five. If you are paranoid, we know who and what you are. Stay on the line so we can trace your call.’”

  I stared at him in amused wonder. “Kurt, I read those a week ago. They weren’t funny then, either.”

  His eyes widened in pretend surprise. “You don’t think so? I thought they were hilarious.”

  I looked up in relief as the waiter approached with our entrées. In less than sixty seconds Kurt would have his lobster, so he’d have to stop talking and eat.

  Until then, he seemed determined to continue: “If you are delusional, press seven and your call will be transferred to the mother ship.”

  I closed my eyes and nodded, my attention drifting away on a tide of fatigue.