“Benton,” I said, “would you happen to know why Norring was carrying epinephrine? What is he allergic to?”
“Apparently, to shellfish. Apparently, he keeps EpiPens all over the place.”
While they continued to talk,, I checked the lasagna in the oven and opened a bottle of Kendall Jackson. The case against Norring would take a very long time, if it could be proven at all, and I thought I understood, to a degree, how Waddell must have felt It wasn’t until close to eleven P.M. that I called Nicholas Grueman at home.
“I’m finished in. Virginia,” I said. “As long as Norring is in office, he’ll make sure I won’t be. They’ve taken my life, goddamn it, but I’m not giving them my soul. I plan to take the Fifth every time.”
“You will certainly be indicted.”
“Considering the bastards I’m up against, I think that’s a certainty anyway.”
“My, my, Dr. Scarpetta. Have you forgotten the bastard representing you? I don’t know where you spent your weekend, but I spent mine in London.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“Now, there’s no guaranteeing that we can slide this around Patterson,” said this man I used to think I hated, “but I’m going to move heaven and earth to get Charlie Hale on the stand.”
14 January 20 was as windy as March but much colder, and the sun was blinding. as I drove east on Broad Street toward the John Marshall courthouse.
“Now I will tell you something else you already know,” Nicholas Grueman said. “The press is going to be churning up the water like bluefish on a feeding frenzy. You fly too low, you lose a leg. We’ll walk side by side, eyes cast down, and don’t turn and look at anyone no matter who it is or what he says.”
“We’re not going to find a parking place,” I said, turning left on 9th. “I knew this would happen.”
“Slow down. That good woman right there on the side is doing something. Wonderful. She’s leaving, if she can ever get the wheels turned enough.
A horn blared behind me.
I glanced at my watch then turned to Grueman like an athlete awaiting last-minute instruction from the coach. He wore a long navy blue cashmere coat and black leather gloves, his silver-topped cane leaning against seat and a battle-scarred briefcase in his lap.
“Now remember,” he said. “Your fried Mr. Patterson decides who’s going in and who isn’t, so we’ve got to depend on the jurors to intervene, and that’s going to be up to you. You’ve got to connect with them, Kay. You’ve got to make friends with ten or eleven strangers the instant you walk into that room. No matter what they want to chat with you about, don’t put up a wall. Be accessible.”
“I understand,” I said.
“We’re going for broke. A deal?”
“A deal.”
“Good luck, Doctor.”
He smiled and patted my arm.
Inside the courthouse, we were stopped by a deputy with a scanner. He went through my pocketbook and briefcase as he had a hundred times before when I had come to testify as an expert witness. But this time he said nothing to me and avoided my eyes. Grueman’s cane set off the scanner, and he was the paragon of patience and courtesy as he explained that the silver top and tip would not come off, and that there truly was nothing concealed inside the dark wood shaft.
“What does he think I have here, a blowgun?” he remarked as we boarded the elevator.
The instant the doors opened on the third floor, reporters descended with the predicted predatory vigor. My counselor moved quickly for a man with gout, his strides punctuated by taps of his cane. I felt surprisingly detached and out of focus until we were inside the nearly deserted courtroom, where Benton Wesley sat in a corner with a slight young man I knew was Charlie Hale. The right side of his face was a road map of fine pink scars. When he stood and self-consciously slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket, I saw that he was missing several fingers. Dressed in an ill-fitting somber suit and tie, he glanced around while I preoccupied myself with the mechanics of being seated and sorting through my briefcase. I could not speak to him, and the three men had the presence of mind to pretend they did not notice that I was upset.