made up Middleton’s business district, it now shared space with antique
shops, restaurants, a grocery market, a huge bed-and-breakfast and a
service station that was all-brick in keeping with the architectural
tradition of the area. Huddled within walking distance was a row of
offices where the shingles of many a respected county lawyer hung with
simple grace.
Normally quiet except on Friday morning, which was motions day for the
civil and criminal docket, the Middleton Courthouse now held a scene
that would have caused the town’s forefathers to do somersaults in their
final resting places. At first glance one could almost imagine that the
Rebels and the Union Blue had returned to settle, once and for all, the
score.
Six television trucks with thick call letters emblazoned on their white
sides held forth directly in front of the courthouse steps. Their
broadcast masts were already rising skyward.
Crowds ten-deep pushed and prodded against the wall of sheriffs
reinforced by grim members of the Virginia State Police who stared
silently at the mass of reporters pushing pads, microphones and pens
into their faces.
Fortunately, the courthouse had a side entrance, which was at this
moment surrounded by a semicircle of police, riot guns and shields front
and center, daring anyone to come near. The van carrying Luther would
come here. Unfortunately, the courthouse did not have an inside garage.
But the police still felt they had matters under control. Luther would
only be exposed for a few seconds at most.
Across the street, rifle-toting police officers patrolled the sidewalks,
eyes sweeping up and down, looking for the glint of metal, an open
window that shouldn’t be.
Jack looked out the small window of the courtroom that overlooked the
street. The room was as large as an auditorium with a hand-carved bench
that rose a full eight feet high and swept more than fifteen feet from
end to end. The Amer- I ican and Virginia flags stood at attention on
either side of the bench. A lone bailiff sat at a small table in front
of the bench, a tug boat before the ocean liner.
I Jack checked his watch, eyed the security forces in place, I then
looked at the crush of media. Reporters were a defense attorney’s best
friends or worst nightmare. A lot depended on what the reporters thought
about a particular defendant and about a particular crime. A good
reporter will cry loud and hard about his or her objectivity on a story
at the same time they’re trashing your client in the latest edition,
long before any verdict is in. Women journalists tended to go easier on
defendants accused of rape, as they tried to avoid even the appearance
of gender-bias. For similar reasons, the men seemed to bend over
backward for battered women who had finally struck back. Luther would
have no such luck. Ex-cons who murder rich, young women would
receive the battering rams of all wordsmiths involved, regardless of
sex.
Jack had already received a dozen phone calls from Los Angeles-based
production companies clamoring for Luther’s story. Before the guy had
even entered a plea. They wanted his story and would pay for it. Pay
well. Maybe Jack should tell them yes, come on in, but only on one
condition. If he tells you anything you have to let me in on it, ’cause
fight now man, I’ve got nothing. Zip.
He looked across the street. The armed guards gave him some comfort.
Although there were police everywhere last time and the shot was still
fired. At least this time the police were forewarned. They had things
pretty much under control. But they had not counted on one thing, and
that one thing was now coming down the street.
Jack swung his head around as he watched the army of reporters and plain
curious turn en masse and race to the motorcade. At first Jack thought
it must be Walter Sullivan, until he saw the police motorcyclists
followed by the Secret Service vans and finally the twin American flags
on the limo.
The army this man had brought with him dwarfed the one that was
preparing to receive Luther Whitney.
He watched as Richmond exited the vehicle. Behind him stepped the agent