Cold truth

Chapter 32

Late September in Kansas City is a crapshoot. If it rains enough in the spring and summer, the leaves burn with fiery orange, apple red, and veins of gold. Too dry, and the leaves just burn in lifeless, brown piles raked against curbs on the days the city allows its people to strike a match. Morning might bring a warm sun hung in a pure blue sky like a child's water-paint wish, or it might belt the city with a cold, low-slung, cast-iron-cloud skillet that causes a run on antidepressants.

Friday was the last day of September and it dawned promising nothing. Mason ran in Loose Park, the shadows fighting with the sun, the clouds running interference, a raw mist spitting at him. Finished, he chose a black suit, not certain whether he would look tough like Blues in black or be mistaken for an undertaker.

He didn't know what Jordan was going to do. Abby had spent an hour with her the day before, leaving without an answer but with a message that Jordan wanted her parents to be in court Friday morning.

Mason wanted Jordan to accept the plea bargain because it would save her life, something he couldn't promise. He wanted her to turn it down because he wasn't convinced of her guilt, a doubt he couldn't shake. He wanted her to take the deal to protect him from Centurion, an impulse that shamed him. He wanted to fight and win to save them both.

The courthouse steps were thick with microphones and cameras, electronic limbs hinged to talking heads doing the play-by-play, casting side bets on which way the scales of justice would tip. Mason pushed through, stopping only when Sherri Thomas held him up with her Channel 6 mike like it was a short saber, Ted Phillips aiming his camera at them.

"Mr. Mason, is it true that Jordan Hackett will plead guilty this morning? Did she kill her therapist and her brother? Is it true that she'll serve life without parole to avoid the death penalty?"

The rest of the pack descended on Mason, surrounding him with outstretched microphones, the brass handrail alongside him vibrating like a tuning fork. "I'll make my comments in the courtroom," Mason said.

"My viewers have the right to know if a murderer is going to be back on the streets," Sherri said.

"Your viewers have the right to the news when it happens, not when you make it up," Mason told her.

Sherri's next question was lost in the roar when another reporter spotted Arthur and Carol Hackett getting out of a car, both dressed in mourning black. The reporters surged toward them, leaving Sherri and Mason in their wake. Sherri signaled Phillips, who lowered his camera, covering its flashing red light with his finger, pretending he'd turned it off. Sherri toggled her microphone switch off, lowering it to her side, Mason catching her when she switched it back on, tossing her head back and her chest forward to distract him.

"Is it easier to make a deal when you know your client is guilty?" she asked.

Mason smothered her mike with his hand, leaning in close, pressing against her breasts. "Stick this in someone else," he whispered in her ear.

Clearing courthouse security, Mason caught an elevator, its door closing, shutting out Centurion Johnson and the don't-fuck-with-me look he leveled at Mason. Mason gave Centurion credit for having the balls to show up. It was the perfect way to proclaim his innocence of any charge that might come his way. Only an innocent man would put himself under that spotlight.

The hallway outside the courtroom was clotted with people jostling for a seat in the courtroom. Mason sliced through them, ignoring offered backslaps and handshakes, relieved when he reached the privacy of the offices and witness rooms that, together with the judges' chambers, made up the inner realm of the courthouse.

There were two courtrooms at the end of the floor, facing each other across the hall. One belonged to Judge Pistone, who would conduct the preliminary hearing if no deal were reached. The other belonged to Judge Brendan Tanner, the Circuit Court Judge who would decide whether to accept the plea bargain if Jordan agreed to it, the judges' respective roles dictated by the different functions of Associate Circuit Court Judges and Circuit Court Judges. An interior hallway connected the offices of each judge and their staff out of the sight and reach of the public.

Mason met Jordan in a room reserved for lawyers and witnesses. She was wearing the same outfit Abby had picked out for her, though it had lost the fresh snap of new clothes. She smiled weakly, her balled hands drumming against her thighs.

"It's almost time," Mason said.

"Yeah, I know. I know," Jordan answered, breathing deeply, not able to steady herself. "Okay," she said. "I'll do it. I'll take the deal."

"You're sure?" Mason asked, careful not to push.

Jordan nodded, chewing her lip. "I'm sure."

"We'll be in front of Judge Tanner. The prosecutor will announce the terms of the plea bargain. You and I will stand in front of the bench. The judge will ask you a lot of questions to make certain you understand your rights. All you have to do is answer yes to all of his questions and we'll be out of there in thirty minutes."

"Then what?" she asked.

"Then you start the rest of your life."

The spectators had split themselves roughly into thirds, one third grabbing seats in Judge Pistone's courtroom, another third betting on Judge Tanner's, and the last hedging in the hallway. No announcement was made that a plea would be entered. Instead, the news filtered out like a scent, and Judge Tanner's courtroom quickly filled, the bailiff making way for Jordan's parents, everyone else left to hustle in a herd version of musical chairs, the music stopping when the judge's bailiff said, "All rise."

Mason surveyed the room. Patrick Ortiz anchored his counsel table, flanked by an assistant nervously checking the details of the typed plea-bargain agreement Jordan had signed moments ago. Samantha Greer sat behind Ortiz in a hard, unpadded wooden chair, mouthing "smart decision" to Mason, who shrugged in reply. A courtroom deputy stood on raised toes, scanning the crowd, a Secret Service wannabe.

Arthur Hackett leaned heavily on the rail separating the public seats from the lawyers, the bailiff's well-intentioned efforts mistakenly seating the Hacketts directly behind the prosecutor. Carol Hackett, dark glasses gone, held onto Arthur's arm.

The back wall of the courtroom was standing room only, lined by Blues, Mickey, Harry, Claire, Abby, and Rachel Firestone. Mason's life in a lineup, he thought to himself, pleased they had come. Blues was playing street stare with Centurion, standing in the far corner, winning when Centurion faked a laugh and sat down, Judge Tanner taking his seat first, the bailiff instructing everyone else to be seated.

Unlike Judge Pistone, who shrank in his courtroom, Judge Tanner embraced his. A product of Kansas City's private schools and country clubs, Tanner came to the bench a conservative, evolving into a liberal, championing individual rights, now a favorite of the criminal defense bar. Mason believed that the assignment of Jordan's trials to his court helped convince Patrick Ortiz to plea-bargain. Judge Tanner was a big man with a ruddy face and silver hair whose broad shoulders spread under his black robe, his oversized presence commanding the courtroom.

"Call the next case," the judge instructed his bailiff.

"The State of Missouri versus Jordan Hackett," the bailiff replied.

"I understand that we are here for the entry of a plea. Is that correct, Mr. Ortiz?" Judge Tanner asked.

Ortiz rose, unbuttoning his suit jacket. "Yes, Your Honor. The defendant has advised us that she will plead guilty to two charges of second-degree murder in the deaths of Gina Davenport and Trent Hackett. In return, the State recommends that she be sentenced to concurrent terms of fifteen years to life imprisonment with no parole until the completion of the minimum term of fifteen years, at which time she would be released."

"Is that a correct statement of the agreement, Mr. Mason?" the judge asked.

Rising, Mason answered, "It is, Your Honor."

"Very well," the Judge continued. "The defendant will come before the court."

Mason loved the courtroom. It was the grandest stage, hosting the greatest drama, a venue where life stood still, holding its breath, waiting for a judge or jury to raise their thumbs up or down. It was a vault, guarding justice, dispensing disappointment to losers and miracles to winners. At moments like this, the audience disappeared for Mason. The prosecutor, the bailiff, the court reporter all faded as he and his client stood before the court alone in the last silent instant before unthinkable fate became real.

"Miss Hackett," Judge Tanner began. "Do you understand the charges that have been brought against you?"

"Yes," Jordan said, her eyes on the floor, her voice a subdued murmur.

"You understand that you have been charged with two counts of murder in the first degree and that, if convicted, you could be sentenced to life in prison or death by lethal injection?"

"Yes," she answered, an involuntary tremor rippling through her.

"You understand that you have the right to a trial by a jury of your peers, that you have the right to confront and cross-examine the witnesses against you?"

"Yes."

"You understand that the State has the burden to prove its case against you beyond a reasonable doubt?"

"I do."

"You understand that by asking me to accept your plea of guilty to the lesser charge of second-degree murder, you give up all those rights and that you will serve fifteen years in the state penitentiary before you can be released?"

"Yes," Jordan said, forcing her answer.

"Knowing all these rights, and knowing the evidence the State has against you and after conferring with your attorney, is it your desire that I accept your guilty plea?"

Jordan turned to Mason, eyes wet, mouth trembling. He nodded to her.

"Yes," Jordan said. "I do."

"And is that because you are, in fact, guilty of these crimes?" Judge Tanner asked.

The judge's question hit Jordan like a slap, jerking her head up as she stiffened, her face red, stung by the demand for a confession.

"Miss Hackett, are you in fact guilty of these crimes?" Judge Tanner repeated.

Mason held his breath, choking on his doubts of Jordan, who squared her back and answered, her voice filling the corners of the courtroom, echoing the rage Mason thought had expired.

"No, Your Honor. I am not."

Judge Tanner gaveled his courtroom into submission, stifling the outbursts caused by Jordan's departure from the script. Behind him, Mason heard Carol Hackett cry, "My God," Arthur shushing her, the judge exempting them from his demand for order. Jordan held steady, waiting for the judge's next question.

"Miss Hackett, perhaps you misunderstood my question," Judge Hackett began.

"I understood it, Judge."

"Miss Hackett, before coming into this courtroom today, you signed a plea agreement with the prosecutor, did you not?"

"Yes," she said.

"I have a copy of that agreement before me, Miss Hackett. In it, you state your intention to plead guilty to these charges. I cannot accept this agreement unless you tell me that you are guilty. Do you understand that?"

"I do," she said, tightening her grip on Mason's hand.

"I must warn you, Miss Hackett. If you return to this courtroom at a future date asking me to approve a plea bargain, it is unlikely that I will do so."

Patrick Ortiz interrupted. "Don't worry, Your Honor. There won't be another plea bargain in these cases. We're going to trial and we're asking for the death penalty."

Judge Tanner stared down from the bench grim-faced. "Mr. Mason, do you wish to confer with your client before this hearing is concluded?"

"No, sir. My client says she's innocent and that's good enough for me. We'll be ready for trial."

Abby wormed her way through the crowd, reaching Mason and Jordan at the same moment as Arthur and Carol Hackett. The courtroom deputy kept others away, his hand on Jordan's shoulder, a firm reminder that she was still the property of the State. Carol held to the fringes, Arthur easing inside the deputy's grasp, wrapping his arms around his daughter, their heads bowed together.

Mason couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could feel it. Abby leaned into Mason, letting her tears seep into his sleeve, then pulling herself up, straightening her clothes and her face, leaving Mason in the courtroom with his client and her parents. When at last the deputy insisted, Jordan's hand slid down her father's arm, lingered at the wrist, brushed across his fingers, tracing the lifeline across his palm, their connection interrupted but not broken.

Arthur let go, following his wife to the hallway, stopping at the door, looking back at Mason, who watched from the center of the courtroom, the last to leave. "Please, Mr. Mason," he said. Mason nodded his promise in reply.