Final Justice

NINETEEN

When Sergeant Kenny led Homer C. Daniels from what the Daphne police department called the detention area into the administrative area and toward the chief’s office, Daniels was even more firmly cuffed and shackled than Jason Washington thought he would be.

The chief of police had gone into his supply room and come out with a white canvas bag labeled “Prisoner Restraint System.” It held three belts made of thick saddle leather and heavy canvas, a Y-shaped chain, and some other accessories. The system looked as if it was rarely used, if it ever had been.

Washington could now see how it worked when installed. The waist belt buckled in the back. On the front, connected to it with heavy chains, were handcuffs. Daniels could move his cuffed wrists no more than a few inches. Daniels’s ankles had smaller versions of the waist belt around them. A short length of chain connected the two ankle restraints together, so that he had to walk with small steps. Another chain ran up his back, split into two, then went over his shoulders and connected with the waist belt. His ability to bend was severely restricted. Washington wondered how he was going to sit down in the restraint.

When Sergeant Kenny led his shuffling prisoner through the door of the chief’s office, Washington said, “Time,” and punched one of the buttons on his Tag Heuer chronograph.

“I never saw anyone actually push the buttons on one of those fancy watches before,” Steve Cohen said in mock wonderment.

Washington held his wrist up so that Cohen could see the dial.

“It is also extremely useful when preparing soft-boiled eggs, Steve. One needn’t make wild guesses about whether three and a half minutes have passed or not.”

“I’m impressed.”

“And well you should be.”

Three minutes and forty seconds later, Sergeant Kenny came through the door, a very large Daphne police officer went in, and then Kenny walked to his office.

“He wants to take a leak,” Kenny said.

“Time,” Washington said, punched several buttons on his watch, and then said, “Splendid.”

Precisely five minutes later, Washington said, “Sergeant Kenny, will you please escort Mr. Daniels back to his cell, so that he may relieve the pressure on his bladder?”

“The more I think about how that guy gets his kicks, the more I’d rather have him piss his pants,” Kenny said.

“That, while a very interesting thought, would almost certainly, as Mr. Cohen would quickly tell us, violate Mr. Daniels’s civil rights,” Washington said.

“Let him have his leak, Kenny,” Cohen said.

It took seven minutes and twenty seconds for Mr. Daniels to be shuffled back and forth to his cell.

“Time,” Washington called, as Daniels shuffled through the door into the chief’s office.

Not quite ten minutes later, Washington said, “Matt, go tell the chief that if Mr. Bernhardt wishes to consult with his client…”

“Yes, sir,” Matt said, and left Kenny’s office.

“Jason, what does your screenplay have to say about Daniels wanting to talk privately with his lawyer?”

“I don’t think he will,” Washington replied. “But if he does, it can only accrue to our advantage. I don’t think he’s seen him since the chief got the search warrants. He would tell him that, I’m sure.”

Roswell Bernhardt, Esq., came into the room. The large Daphne police officer standing outside the chief’s office opened the door for him and he went inside.

“Time,” Washington said, and pushed buttons on his watch.

Matt appeared a minute or so later.

“You are prepared, I presume, Sergeant Payne? You’re on in eight minutes and fifteen seconds.”

“Yes, sir.”

Eight minutes later, Washington said, “Good luck, Matt.”

Matt, carrying a tape recorder and two microphones, walked across the room, waited for the Daphne uniform to open the door, then walked into the chief’s office.

And four minutes after that, came out again.

“You’re on, Steve,” Washington said.

“Yeah, but I’m not going to get canned if I give a lousy performance,” Cohen said, and walked across the room.

Five minutes after that, Chief of Police Charles Yancey came into Sergeant Kenny’s office.

“Am I going to be in the way here?”

“Of course not,” Washington said. “And it gives me the opportunity to tell you again how appreciative we all are for all your assistance.”

“This isn’t my first murder,” Yancey said. “But I’ve never been around a sleazeball, murdering pervert like this before. Or seen big-city cops at work.”

“We work exactly the same way as you do.”

“The hell you do. Kenny told me what you did-are doing. Is it going to work?”

“Sometimes it does, and sometimes it doesn’t. It largely depends on the interrogator.”

“And that young sergeant is that good?”

“We are about to determine that,” Washington said.

“Kenny told me about the run-in you had with the FBI. Does that happen all the time?”

“I don’t know about all the time. But it happens far too frequently, I’m afraid. They seem to be very concerned with their image.”

“They always-between you and me, a couple of cops- seem to look down their noses at us.”

“Odd,” Washington said. “I seem to have heard that before somewhere.”

Yancey smiled at him.

“You want to go get a cup of coffee while you’re waiting?”

“You’re very kind, but I’d rather stay here.”

“Hell, I’ll get it,” Yancey said.

He hadn’t made it out of the administrative area when the door to his office opened and Matt Payne-carrying the tape recorder and microphones-and Steve Cohen came out.

Cohen walked to Washington.

“Mr. Daniels asked to confer with counsel, privately,” he said.

“How did it go, Steve?”

“Matt did a hell of a good job, and I’m not saying that for any reason but giving credit where due.”

“I expected nothing less,” Washington said. “What are they going to talk about, would you think?”

“Probably my refusal to offer more of a deal than life without the possibility of parole.”

“You didn’t tell me about that.”

“You didn’t ask,” Cohen said. “The boss wants this guy off the streets permanently. I told her I had the feeling that there are unsolved rapes, maybe even murder-rapes, all over the country that are going to surface now that we’ve caught this guy.”

“Detective Lassiter spent fruitless hours on the telephone…”

“Calling big-city departments. I don’t think she would have gotten around to Daphne anytime soon.”

“I grant your point.”

“Well, anyway, Eileen said we couldn’t count on that, and she decided we have enough to go with here with no deal except life without parole.”

“Eileen’s tough,” Washington said, admiringly.

“Personally, I’d like to see the sonofabitch strapped to the gurney,” Cohen said. “But that’s emotional. The interests of the people are best served by ensuring that he’s behind bars permanently, rather than taking a chance that he’ll walk, or get out in ten years.”

“Isaac ‘Fort’ Festung,” Washington said. “He was sentenced to life and he’s walking around France eating grapes.”

“Yeah.”

“Any developments there?”

“The goddamn French are still dragging their heels. I think it has more to do with giving us the finger than anything else.”

“Anyone but Eileen would have probably given up,” Washington said. “She’s as tenacious as she is tough.”

He smiled.

“What’s funny?” Cohen asked.

“I just remembered ‘appealing to a higher jurisdiction,’ ” Washington said.

Cohen laughed.

When the Hon. Eileen McNamara Solomon had been on the bench, a just-convicted felon, facing a long prison term, had jumped up from his seat in her courtroom, run to a window, crashed through it and jumped to his death in the interior courtyard of City Hall.

When asked by the press how she felt about this lamentable incident, Judge Solomon had replied, “I can only presume he was appealing to a higher jurisdiction.”

Matt came into Kenny’s office.

“I forgot one thing before I went in there,” he said. “The minute I opened my mouth, my back teeth began to float.”

Cohen laughed.

“That happens to me,” he said. “Usually ten minutes into a thirty-minute concluding statement.”

“Your bladder problem aside, Matthew,” Washington said, “how would you assess your chat with Mr. Daniels?”

“I don’t know,” Matt said.

“You ‘don’t know’?” Washington asked, incredulously.

“I think he knows we have him,” Matt said. “But what his reaction to that will be, I have no idea. He may decide to take his chances. What has he got to lose?”

Washington grunted noncommittally.

Three minutes later, Roswell Bernhardt, Esq., came out of the chief’s office and said that in exchange for a written guarantee that the City of Philadelphia would not seek the death penalty, his client was prepared to make a full statement, cooperate fully with the investigation, and waive extradition.

At five-thirty-five, Mr. Walter Davis walked up the marble steps of the Rittenhouse Club and entered the building through its revolving door. He stopped long enough to check the Members Board, and to see that the brass nameplate reading MARIANI, R had been slid to the left, so that it was now under the IN heading.

He found Commissioner Mariani in the paneled bar with First Deputy Commissioner Coughlin, which didn’t surprise him. But with them at one of the round tables was Brewster Cortland Payne II, Esq., which did.

Mariani waved Davis over. The men shook hands. Davis sat down. A waiter appeared and Davis ordered a scotch, rocks. The others held up their hands in a silent gesture meaning they didn’t need another one just now, thank you.

Davis wondered how long they had been here. He sensed that the drinks on the table were not the first round.

“We’re having a little celebration, Walter,” Mariani said. “I’m glad you were free to join us. I didn’t give you much notice.”

“It’s always a pleasure, you know that. What are we celebrating? ”

As if I didn’t know.

“Mr. Homer C. Daniels has agreed to waive extradition.”

“And he is?”

As if you don’t know.

“You don’t know?”

“I’m not sure,” Davis said.

“He’s the man who tied the Williamson girl to her bed with plastic ties, committed obscenities on her body, and then killed her.”

“And you’ve got him?”

“The Daphne, Alabama, police have him. He was apprehended by one of those civilian neighborhood watch outfits, apparently in the act of trying to break into some other young woman’s apartment. He’s a dealer in fancy cars, from Las Vegas.”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised, Walter,” Coughlin said, “if he’s been doing this sort of thing all over the country.”

“A civilian neighborhood watch outfit? If this wasn’t so serious, that would be almost funny. You’re sure he’s the doer, Ralph?”

“We’re sure. We sent Sergeant Payne down there to check him out. Payne said everything fit, but just to make sure, I sent Jason Washington down there, and Eileen Solomon sent Steve Cohen. Not only does everything fit, but he gave Payne a statement and, as I said, has agreed to waive extradition. ”

“Washington and Cohen are in Alabama?” Davis asked.

“I thought you would have heard, Ralph,” Mariani said, innocently. “Washington said the FBI had been there to offer their assistance.”

Davis shook his head, “no.”

“But whatever assistance we can provide, Ralph,” he said. “All you have to do is ask.”

“Thanks, Walter,” Mariani said. “We appreciate that.”

He smiled at Davis and went on:

“So what I’m celebrating is that an hour ago Eileen Solomon called to tell me that she had just spoken with the Attorney General of Alabama, who told her-in case Daniels changes his mind about waiving extradition-that the governor of Alabama would authorize his extradition just as soon as we place the request before him. And just a few minutes ago the homicide detective… Joe D’Amata, I think you know him?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“… called Denny from the airport to say he and the others, including several lab people, are indeed going to be aboard the five-fifty flight to Alabama. Joe’s carrying the request-for-extradition packet with him in case it’s needed.”

“You apparently have this pretty well sewed up,” Davis said.

“It looks that way, Walter. And what Denny and Brewster are celebrating is young Payne’s faultless performance- starting with his finding this fellow down there- on his first time out as a homicide supervisor.”

Mr. Davis’s scotch rocks was served.

He raised his glass to Brewster Cortland Payne II.

“To Sergeant Payne,” he said. “And at the risk of making Denny angry, Brewster, you know how much I would like to have your son working for the Bureau. And the offer is still open.”

“So is Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo and Lester’s, Walter, but the police department seems to have him firmly in its clutches.”

“Before Steve and Matt get into the wine and become incoherent, ” Washington said, “I think an analysis of where we are and where we have to go would be in order.”

Mr. Cohen gave Lieutenant Washington the finger.

They were sitting in upholstered chairs around two tables pushed together in the Bird Cage Lounge at the Grand Hotel.

Perhaps understandably, they were the object of some curiosity on the part of other guests. There were two enormous black men who looked like brothers, one of them in police uniform. There was a second uniformed police officer, a small man. There was an attractive young woman in the otherwise all-male ensemble, but she seemed to be sitting as far away as was possible in the circumstances from the only young man in the group. And finally, there was a dignified man in a double-breasted gray suit and finely figured necktie sitting beside a man with wildly unruly red hair, who was wearing an open-collared yellow polo shirt and a yellow-and-red plaid jacket.

“Where do we stand legally, Steve?” Washington asked.

“Joe D’Amata’s in the air right now,” Cohen said. “He’s got the warrant for Daniels’s arrest and the request-for-extradition packet, in case Daniels changes his mind about waiving extradition-”

“And if he does?” Washington interrupted.

“Eileen has talked to the Alabama attorney general,” Cohen replied. “He told her the governor will sign the extradition order as soon as he gets it. If we have to go that route, I’ll have to go to Montgomery, which raises the question ‘How do I get there’?”

“Mr. Cohen,” Chief Yancey said, “if you have to go, we can get you there in probably a little less than three hours. It’s a straight shot up I-65. The troopers would be happy to carry you.”

“The state troopers?”

Yancey nodded. “We do it all the time. We call it a handoff. A car would pick you up here, then go as far as he usually patrols up I-65. Another trooper car would meet you there. And maybe another one before you got to Montgomery. But they’ll get you there, and be happy to do it.”

“Well, that would really solve that problem,” Cohen said. “But let’s hope it doesn’t prove necessary.”

“Kenny?” the chief asked.

“I’ll set it up, in case we need it,” Sergeant Kenny said.

“Okay, that settles that,” Cohen said. “Now, where was I? Okay. With Joe on the airplane are two lab technicians, we don’t know who yet, and two detectives, ditto. They’re going to change planes in Atlanta, fly to Pensacola, pick up a rental car, probably two rental cars, and then drive here, to the world-famous $37.50 No-Tell Motel, where Matt and Olivia are staying.”

“I had a call from Peter Wohl, Steve,” Washington said. “We know who the detectives are. Mutt and Jeff.”

“Really?” Matt asked. “What are they going to do when they get here? And what about Stan Colt?”

“All I know is Inspector Wohl said that’s who he’s sending, and what they’re going to do is sit on Daniels’s truck as long as it’s here, and when we locate a truck, or trucks, large enough to haul Daniels’s truck-with contents-back to Philadelphia, they’re going to ride back with it.”

“When are you going to search the truck?” Chief Yancey asked.

“Where we are legally with that, Chief,” Cohen said, “is that Matt has statements from Fats Gambino and you, Fats’s stating that he saw Daniels lock the truck and trailer in his locked and guarded lot, and the truck has been there, under guard, since then. Yours states that the keys in your possession believed to be those to the truck and trailer were taken from Daniels at the time of his arrest and have never left police possession since that time. Tomorrow, the lab technicians will make an examination to see if anyone has forced any locks, and be prepared to testify they saw no evidence of such. I don’t know for sure, but what they will do then is probably see what prints and whatever they can get from the exterior of the truck-stuff that might get lost between here and Philadelphia-and then conduct a cursory search of the interiors of the truck and tractor. If they don’t find a body-which is not entirely out of the question here-or something else spectacular, they will seal both tractor and trailer as well as they can, and supervise the loading of it onto whatever we finally get to haul it back to Philadelphia.”

“That seems like a hell of a lot of work,” Yancey said. “Taking everything to Philadelphia.”

“It is,” Cohen agreed. “My boss is concerned-and so am I-about preserving the chain of evidence. We’ve got three jurisdictions here. Philadelphia; Daphne-Baldwin County; and because the truck is in Mobile, Alabama-Mobile County. But I think it’s under control. Legally, the search will be executed by the Mobile police, using the search warrant the Mobile County judge issued. Matt and I-and to cover all the bases, Mutt and Jeff, too-will be there. And if you can send somebody-”

“I think Sergeant Kenny and I can find time to be there,” Yancey interjected.

“Then any of us, or all of us, can testify under oath that Philadelphia police and Daphne police witnessed the search- and had control of the evidence-from the time the Mobile police exercised their search warrant-and put Daniels’s keys in the locks.”

“Kenny and I will be there,” Yancey repeated, and then asked, “How are you going to get him to Philadelphia?”

“That’s yet to be determined,” Washington said. “I have given Sergeant Payne a list of other people from whom he and Detective D’Amata should take statements, which should keep them gainfully occupied for the next day or two. Detective Lassiter and I have reservations for a flight leaving Mobile at one-fifteen tomorrow afternoon. That may or may not provide time for me to speak with Detective D’Amata…”

“I’m going back tomorrow?” Olivia asked.

“At one-fifteen,” Washington said.

She was obviously surprised at the announcement. So was Matt. But when he looked at her, there was no mistaking what the coldly furious glint in her eyes meant.

She thinks I knew all about it. Hell, she thinks I asked Washington to send her home.

“… but inasmuch as Mr. Cohen and Detective D’Amata will have three hours together in a car coming back here, I don’t see that as a problem. Do you, Sergeant Payne?”

“No, sir.”

“In that case, our business having been completed, you may summon a waiter and you and Steve can begin to drink yourselves into oblivion.”

“If that’s all, sir, may I be excused?” Olivia asked.

“Olivia, I hope you understand that was an attempt at humor. We’re going to have a very few drinks, and then dinner.”

“I have a headache, sir.”

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“No, thank you. I just don’t feel-”

“I understand,” Washington said, as, ever the gentleman, he rose to his feet. “I’m sure you’ll feel better by morning.”

“Would you like me to take you to the motel, Olivia?” Matt asked.

“I’ll get a cab, thank you just the same.”

“I don’t know if they have cabs,” Matt said.

And really hope they don’t.

“We have the next best thing,” Chief Yancey said. “Kenny?”

Kenny spoke to the microphone pinned to his shirt.

“Barbara-Anne, send whichever car is closest to the Grand Hotel to give Detective Lassiter a ride to her motel. She’ll be outside the front door.”

“Thank you very much,” Detective Lassiter said.

They watched her walk out of the Bird Cage Lounge.

“Didn’t want to ride with you, huh?” Mickey O’Hara asked. “Is that what they call ‘a lover’s quarrel’?”

“Go to hell, Mickey,” Matt snapped.

“What is bothering her, Matt?” Washington asked. “Something obviously is.”

“I think she thinks I arranged for her to be sent back,” Matt said.

“I can quickly straighten that out, if you’d like.”

“She wants to stay in Homicide,” Matt said. “Is there any chance she can? She’s a pretty good cop.”

“Your loyalty is commendable…”

“Is that what it is, ‘loyalty’?” Mickey said.

“Mickey,” Washington said, coldly angry, “sometimes, as now, you don’t know when to stop.” He turned to Matt. “As for her staying in Homicide, that, I’m afraid, is self-evidently out of the question. And you should know it is.”

Matt couldn’t think of a reply.

“And I just thought of something else,” Washington said. “When I spoke with Commissioner Coughlin, he suggested that your father might like you to call. And I had the feeling that the commissioner would not consider a call from you to be an unwelcome intrusion on his time.”

“Well, I guess I’d better do that right now,” Matt said. “Before I become incoherent.”

He got up from the table and went through a plate-glass door to an area between the hotel building and the bay. They could see him taking out his cellular.

“I think what we have here is raging testosterone,” Cohen said. “And I’m not making fun of him.”

“For that reason, I was deaf to his insolence,” Washington said. He looked between Chief Yancey and Sergeant Kenny.

“I think a word of explanation is in order. Sergeant Payne is carrying his father’s badge. Shortly before Matt was born, his father was killed on duty, answering a silent alarm. Deputy Commissioner Coughlin was his father’s best friend. He is Matt’s godfather.”

“Being a cop’s in his blood, huh?” Sergeant Kenny said.

“Prefacing this by saying I am-perhaps too obviously- fond of our young sergeant, I sometimes wonder if he’s not flying a little too high for his experience.”

“He did a good job with Daniels, Jason,” Steve Cohen said. “Absolutely professional.”

“And now he knows it. That’s my point, Steve. Our Matty is not burdened with over-modesty.”

“And he’s going to be money in the bank on the stand,” Cohen pursued. “If we’re taking a poll, I’d say Matt is a hell of a good cop.”

“I associate myself with the shyster,” O’Hara said. “Now, can we get something to drink, for Christ’s sake?”

“The Nesbitt residence,” the Nesbitt butler answered the call.

“Brewster Payne, Porter. Is Mr. Nesbitt available?”

“I’m sure he will be at home for you, Mr. Payne. One moment, please.”

Several moments later, Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III, Chairman of the Executive Committee of Nesfoods International, Inc., who had been practicing with a new putter on the practice green behind the left wing of his home, came on the line.

“If you weren’t my lawyer, I’d be happy to hear from you. What’s the bad news you really hate to have to tell me this time? IRS, or something else?”

“Actually, Tom, this does have a certain IRS connection.”

“Oh, God, now what?”

“Your assets have been seized and you may have to go to prison.”

“I don’t think that’s funny.”

“I had drinks with Denny Coughlin at the Rittenhouse just before I started home.”

“Jesus, I didn’t even say the appropriate things about Matty, did I? It was all over the TV. You must be proud as hell of him. Hell, we all are.”

“I am. I just spoke to him. He confirmed what Denny Coughlin told me. There’s no doubt this is the fellow who killed the Williamson girl.”

“And now what happens to him? He pleads he had an unhappy childhood, and they award him damages?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen. As a matter of fact, the only thing Denny seemed worried about is how to get him back to Philadelphia.”

“He’s going to fight extradition? Do we have diplomatic relations with Alabama?”

“The problem is one of transportation, Tom. Bringing him back on the airlines poses a number of problems, as you can well imagine. The press, for one. The restrictions on even policemen carrying firearms on airplanes, for another.”

“Cut to the chase, Brewster. Your pal Denny Coughlin would like to use Nesfoods’s Citation to bring this character back here, right? And suggested you call me?”

“No, he did not. I really don’t think using your airplane has ever entered his mind.”

“This is your idea?”

“Which I had moments ago, just before I called.”

“After drink number what?”

“Four, possibly five.”

“You’re my legal counsel- counsel me. Why should I?”

“Well, for one thing, all expenses would be fully deductible.”

“As you have so often pointed out to me, you have to spend money before you can claim it was spent for business purposes and is thus deductible from income. You know how much it costs to operate that airplane.”

“It would have undeniable good public relations aspects, Tom.”

“And your pal Denny had nothing to do with this idea of yours, right?”

“I told you he didn’t, Tom,” Payne said. There was a chill in his tone.

“So you did. And I’m still listening.”

“My thought is that there would be benefits to both parties if you were to telephone Alvin Martin and say it has come to your attention-you may use my name, if you like-that the police are having a problem transporting this fellow back here, and that Nesfoods International, as concerned, good, corporate citizens of our fair community…”

“And you just happen to have the mayor’s unlisted number, right?”

“No, but I have one he gave me in case I ever wanted to get in touch with him, day or night.”

“Let’s have it.”

Homer C. Daniels looked up as the door to his cell slid open. A moment later, the enormous black sergeant and the nearly-as — big white cop who followed him around appeared at the entrance, carrying the prisoner restraint system.

“You want to stand up, please?” Kenny ordered.

“Is all of this necessary?” Daniels asked. “I’m cooperating. I’m not going to try to get away.”

“It’s procedure,” Sergeant Kenny said, gesturing with his finger for him to turn around.

If I had my way, you white trash pervert, you’d spend the rest of your life in this thing.

“If you have to go to the john, do it now,” Kenny ordered. “You won’t have another chance for a while.”

“Where am I going?”

“You agreed to waive extradition to Philadelphia, right?”

Daniels nodded.

“That’s where you’re going.”

Daniels relieved his bladder.

Sergeant Kenny and Officer Andrew Terry put the belts on Daniels. Then each put a hand on his arms and led him, shuffling, out of the detention area, down a corridor, and through another door.

They were now outside.

There was a line of police patrol cars, two with Daphne police department insignia on their doors, two with STATE TROOPER lettered largely on their trunks, and two black sedans-a Ford and a Mercury-with several antennae on their trunks and roofs but without police insignia. There were also, incongruously, both a red Ford Mustang convertible and a Lincoln Town Car in the line of cars.

A flash went off and Daniels saw that a redheaded man in a loud sports coat had taken his picture with a digital camera.

The rear door of the Daphne police department car nearest to the door was open, and Sergeant Kenny led him to it, taking care that he didn’t bump his head, and then got in beside him, pulled the seat belt over Daniels’s lap and then closed the door. The big white cop got behind the wheel.

When he looked out the window, Daniels saw the young homicide sergeant from Philadelphia, the homicide detective who’d shown up a couple of days before, the assistant district attorney, and four other men in civilian clothing who could have been detectives or lawyers.

As he watched, they distributed themselves among the other cars.

There was another flash, and Daniels saw that the redheaded man had taken his picture again.

Sergeant Kenny spoke to the microphone pinned to his shirt.

“We’re ready here.”

“Where are we going?” Daniels asked.

“You have to sign the waiver before a judge,” Kenny said.

The line of cars began to move, in a sweeping circle, through the parking lot. Daniels saw that the lights on the roof of the state trooper car leading the procession were flashing red and blue, but only on that car.

They came out of the Joseph Hall Criminal Justice Center onto a four-lane highway. Two more Daphne police cars blocked traffic in both directions to permit the convoy to enter the highway.

The convoy turned left and moved at just under the speed limit out of Daphne and toward Fairhope. Several times, cars ahead of the convoy spotted the warning lights and, thinking it was a funeral procession, respectfully pulled left and slowed-or stopped-and looked in vain for the hearse and flower car.

In Fairhope, at a shopping mall, the convoy turned left off U.S. Highway 98, and then, a half-mile down a two-lane macadam road, turned left again into a complex of one-story brick buildings.

Daniels saw a sign: “Baldwin County Satellite Courthouse. ”

The car with Daniels in it stopped about halfway down the building. As Kenny got out of the backseat, bright lights came on, and when Daniels got out, he saw that he was being videotaped by cameras bearing the logotypes of three different television stations.

With Kenny holding one arm and a state trooper the other, Daniels shuffled into the building and was led to a small courtroom. The courtroom, to judge by the signs on the walls, was often used as the place where driver’s license tests were administered.

Roswell Bernhardt, Esq., was sitting at one of two tables facing the judge’s bench. He stood up, gave his hand to Daniels, and then watched as Kenny removed the prisoner restraint system, and then motioned for him to sit beside Bernhardt.

The Philadelphia assistant district attorney, and another man who looked like a lawyer, sat down at the other table facing the judge’s bench, laid briefcases on it, and then checked their contents. The young homicide sergeant and others took seats in the first couple of rows of benches.

A large man in a two-tone brown police-type uniform-he had both a badge and a large-caliber revolver-looked into the room, pulled his head back, and then, a moment later, stepped inside.

“All rise!” he ordered.

Everybody stood up.

A pleasant-looking man wearing a judge’s robe-who looked as if he was no stranger to heavily laden tables- entered the room and sat down in a high-backed leather chair.

“The circuit court of Baldwin County is now in session, the Honorable Reade W. James presiding,” the man in the brown uniform intoned.

“Good morning,” Judge James said. “Please be seated.”

Everybody sat down.

“The court recognizes the presence of the attorney general of Alabama,” Judge James said. “And why are we so honored?”

The man sitting beside Steve Cohen stood up.

“Good morning, Your Honor. If it pleases the court, may I introduce Mr. Steven Cohen, who is an assistant district attorney of Philadelphia, Commonwealth of Pennsylvania?”

“Good morning, Mr. Cohen. Welcome to Alabama. You have business to bring before this court?”

“Good morning, Your Honor. May it please the court, a warrant has been issued in Philadelphia for the arrest of Mr. Homer C. Daniels alleging violation of Paragraph 2502(b) of the Criminal Code of Pennsylvania, which is Murder of the Second Degree. It is my understanding, Your Honor, that Mr. Daniels, who is present with counsel in this court, is willing to waive his rights to an extradition hearing and prepared to return to Philadelphia to answer this and other related charges.”

“Which are?” Judge James asked.

“In brief, Your Honor, Murder of the Third Degree; Rape; Involuntary Deviate Sexual Intercourse; Robbery; Theft; Receiving Stolen Property; Aggravated Assault; Simple Assault; Recklessly Endangering Another Person; Burglary; Criminal Trespass; Possession of Instrument of a Crime; and Abuse of a Corpse.”

“Mr. Bernhardt,” Judge James said, “may the court presume that the man beside you is Mr. Homer C. Daniels, and that you are serving as his counsel?”

Bernhardt stood up.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Daniels-” Judge James said, and interrupted himself to say, “would you please rise, sir?”

Homer C. Daniels stood up.

"Have you any problems with Mr. Bernhardt serving as your counsel?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you aware of the nature and specifics of all the charges being brought against you in Pennsylvania?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And has Mr. Bernhardt explained that, should you desire, you have the right in the law to ask for an extradition hearing, at which you may offer evidence as to why you should not be returned to Philadelphia to face any and all charges laid against you there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And having been made aware of your rights in the law in this matter, you wish to waive same, which means that sometime within the next ten days, your person will be turned over to appropriate Pennsylvania law enforcement officers, who will then return you to Pennsylvania, there to face whatever charges have been laid against you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This court is satisfied that Mr. Daniels is aware of his rights in this matter, and is voluntarily waiving same,” Judge James said, and made a gesture which Steve Cohen correctly interpreted to mean that he could now place the appropriate documents before Mr. Daniels.

He walked to Daniels’s table, laid a bound legal folder before Daniels, and handed him his pen. Daniels quickly scrawled his signature on them.

“May I approach the bench, Your Honor?” Cohen asked.

Judge James waved him to the bench. Cohen handed him the legal folder. James looked at it for a moment, then signed it.

“You understand, Mr. Cohen, that the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania must take Mr. Daniels into custody within ten days?”

“Your Honor, Sergeant Matthew Payne, of the Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia police department-and other Philadelphia police officers-are present in this court, and prepared to take custody of Mr. Daniels within the time prescribed. ”

“Then that would seem to conclude this matter,” Judge James said, and stood up.

“All rise!” the man in the two-tone brown uniform ordered.

Everyone stood up.

Judge James left the courtroom.

Sergeant Kenny began to place Daniels in the prisoner restraint system. When he was finished, Kenny and the state trooper led him shuffling back through the satellite courthouse and put him back in the rear seat of the Daphne police car.

Then the convoy left the satellite courthouse complex, went back to U.S. Highway 98, and turned left onto it. Three miles farther along, it turned left onto a two-lane macadam road, and half a mile down that turned into the Fairhope Municipal Airport.

There the convoy drove onto the parking tarmac and up to a Cessna Citation. There was an almost identical Citation on the ramp, and half a dozen other business aircraft.

Mickey O’Hara jumped out of the Lincoln and ran up the line of cars to be in place when Daniels was taken from the Daphne police car.

He was there in plenty of time to see the little ceremony.

The attorney general of Alabama got out of one black Mercury and walked toward the Daphne car holding Daniels. The driver and the state troopers moved quickly to stand behind him.

Steve Cohen walked up to the car. He had ridden with O’Hara in the Lincoln. Matt Payne and Joe D’Amata took up positions behind him. Chief Yancey, several of his officers, and Detectives Martinez and McFadden stood to one side.

At a nod from the man in civilian clothing, one of the state troopers opened the door of the police car and helped first Sergeant Kenny and then Mr. Daniels out.

“Mr. Daniels,” the man said. “I’m Baxley Williams, Attorney General of the State of Alabama. And this is Sergeant Matthew Payne, a Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, police officer, who has a warrant for your arrest.”

Daniels did not reply.

Williams turned to Matt.

“You may now take custody of the prisoner.”

Matt put his hand on Daniels’s arm. Sergeant Kenny took his hand off.

Cohen signaled D’Amata with a finger. D’Amata took handcuffs from his belt, went to Daniels, and put them on him.

“Sergeant Kenny, you want to help me with this?” D’Amata asked.

Kenny began to remove the prisoner restraint system.

When he had finished, D’Amata said, “Come with me, please,” and led Daniels toward the Cessna Citation.

Matt walked quickly to the airplane, got there first, and went inside.

When Daniels came into the cabin, Matt showed him where he was to sit, the rearmost seat, usually occupied by the steward. Then he took handcuffs from his belt, added one cuff to Daniels’s left wrist, and snapped the other around the aluminum pipe work of the seat.

D’Amata watched.

Steve Cohen came aboard, followed by Mickey O’Hara.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Matt walked forward and knocked on the cockpit door. A man in a blue shirt with first officer shoulder boards opened it.

O’Hara took his picture.

“Any time,” Matt said.

The copilot walked through the cabin and operated the door-closing mechanism.

O’Hara took his picture.

Before the copilot could get back to the cockpit, there was the whine of an engine starting.

Joe D’Amata went to Homer Daniels.

Mickey O’Hara took their picture.

“The law says you cannot be restrained during takeoff, flight, or landing,” D’Amata said. “The law also says I have the authority to use what force is necessary to ensure that you remain in custody. What I’m going to do now is take those cuffs off you. What you’re going to do is fasten the seat belt. If you even look like you’re thinking of getting out of that seat, I’m going to shoot you. Do we understand each other?”

Daniels nodded.

D’Amata took the cuffs off.

The Citation started to move.

From where he was sitting, Matt could see everybody waiting for them to take off.

He didn’t think they could see him through the darkened windows of the Citation, but he waved anyway.

The Citation taxied down the runway, turned around, and immediately began the takeoff roll.

Matt could see that at least half the law enforcement officers on the tarmac were waving goodbye at them.

When he stopped looking out the window, Mickey O’Hara took his picture.

There weren’t quite as many people, or representatives of the Fourth Estate, on hand to meet the Citation at the Northeast Philadelphia Airport as there had been when Stan Colt’s Citation had arrived. But almost.

The Hon. Alvin W. Martin was there, sitting with a group of prominent officials and citizens at tables in the Flatspin Restaurant whose windows provided a view of aircraft using the main runway.

These included Police Commissioner Ralph Mariani- who was there primarily because he heard over Police Radio that the mayor was headed for the airport-and First Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin-who was there because he wanted to be.

Sitting with them was Mr. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III, Chairman of the Executive Committee of Nesfoods International, who was there at the invitation of the mayor who intended to thank him publicly-that is, before the assembled TV and still cameramen-for his generous public-spirited offering of the airplane. Beside Mr. Nesbitt III was Mr. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV, a vice president of Nesfoods International, who was there because he had called the Nesfoods International aviation department and asked to be informed of the arrival of the Citation.

When word was passed that the Nesfoods Citation had just requested landing and taxi instructions, Mr. Nesbitt IV was engaged in conversation with Mr. Stan Colt, the film actor, who had somehow acquired a zipper jacket with the legend PHILADELPHIA POLICE DEPARTMENT on it.

Also sitting in the VIP section of the Flatspin, so to speak, were the proprietor, Mr. Fred Hagen; Mr. Brewster Cortland Payne II, Esq., and Amelia M. Payne, M.D. The latter two had been informed of the arrival time by Commissioner Coughlin. Mr. Payne was there as a proud parent. Dr. Payne was there both because she wanted a look at an interesting example of mental disorder and also because she wanted to see her little brother’s moment of triumph.

The Hon. Eileen McNamara Solomon had also found time in her busy schedule to be in the Flatspin, primarily because she wanted to have a look at Mr. Daniels, with an eye to evaluating how he might be evaluated by a jury should he change his mind-which she thought was a distinct possibility-about his confession, and claim his right to be judged by a jury of his peers.

Outside the restaurant, just inside the airport property- where a four-engine B-24 Liberator stood permanently parked as a memorial to Captain Bill Benn, USAAC, Mr. Hagen’s uncle, who had gone down flying a B-24 in World War II-a small coterie of more junior white shirts and their cars was also waiting for Mr. Daniels.

Captain Henry Quaire and Lieutenant Jason Washington of Homicide stood beside Captain David Pekach of Highway Patrol and the captains commanding the Eighth Police District and Northeast Detectives between the B-24 and the tarmac in front of the Nesfoods International Aviation Department hangar where the Citation would park.

Twenty or so uniforms-and their cars-waited in front of the hangar itself.

About three quarters of them, Deputy Commissioner Coughlin thought privately, had no real business being here. All that had to be done was to get Daniels off the airplane and into a patrol car and haul him off to the detention room in the Roundhouse basement. Sending a car- or even two-to go with the car with Daniels in it-there was a slight but real possibility of a flat tire, or a vehicular accident-would seem justified, but this was more like a circus than it should be. Homer C. Daniels was not the first-by a long shot-accused murderer to require transportation.

But Coughlin knew there was nothing he could do about it, even if he had the authority to order them all to go away. He understood their curiosity, their sense of proprietorship. This was a homicide, thus Quaire and Washington. Northeast Philadelphia Airport was in the area of responsibility of both the Eighth Police District and the Northeast Detectives Division, thus the presence of both of those captains commanding. And Highway Patrol had citywide authority, which is why Dave Pekach had felt free to come and watch Homer C. Daniels be returned to Philadelphia.

Mr. Michael J. O’Hara, who had gotten out of his seat the moment the Citation’s wheels had touched ground to take a final shot of Daniels in his seat-and had nearly lost his footing when it decelerated rapidly-was the first person off the plane.

He took up a position to get a shot of Daniels getting off the plane very much as Eddie, Colt’s “personal photographer, ” had taken when Colt had landed at the Northeast Airport.

Mr. Steven Cohen got off next, followed by Detective D’Amata, then Daniels, again wearing handcuffs, and finally Sergeant Payne.

The Eighth District commander and the Highway Patrol commander walked up to the airplane and a Highway car, an Eighth District car, and then another Highway car drove up.

Detective D’Amata put Daniels in the Eighth District car, then got in beside him. The three cars then drove off, leaving Mr. Cohen, Sergeant Payne, Mr. O’Hara, and the two captains standing beside the airplane.

“They want you over there,” Captain Pekach said, indicating the grouped VIPs.

Sergeant Payne looked carefully around the field. He did not see Detective Lassiter.

There had not been much for the press to record for posterity. It had taken less than a minute to get Daniels off the plane and into the Eighth District car. Having nothing else to do — something the mayor had counted on-the press turned their attention to him.

The mayor smiled first at Steven Cohen, Esq., and shook his hand, and then smiled at Sergeant Payne and shook his hand. District Attorney Solomon, also an elected official, was photographed shaking Mr. Cohen’s hand.

The mayor waved Mr. Nesbitt III to his side.

“I have a brief statement to make,” the mayor began. “A terrible tragedy took place in our city, and nothing can ever make that right. But I want to take this opportunity to say how proud I am not only of our police department and the office of the district attorney but of our concerned, involved citizens as well.

“As soon as it came to his attention that as the result of some really first-class investigative work by the police department, and some really first-class legal work by Mrs. Solomon and her associates, the man charged with this heinous crime was in custody in Alabama, Mr. Nesbitt, of Nesfoods International, called to offer the use of his corporate aircraft-at no cost whatever to the city-to bring the accused murderer to Philadelphia to face justice. Thank you, Mr. Nesbitt.”

“It seemed the least we at Nesfoods could do, Mr. Mayor,” Mr. Nesbitt said. “Nesfoods International likes to think we are responsible corporate citizens of Philadelphia.”

“And I have to say this,” the mayor went on, “there has been some unfortunate, and in my judgment, unfair comments in some of the press lately to the effect that certain police officers were spending too much time protecting my good friend Stan Colt from the ardor of his fans, when what they should have been doing was trying to apprehend a murderer. I think this proves beyond any doubt that our police can do both things at the same time.”

Mayor Martin did not take questions. He turned and ducked quickly into his waiting limousine.

Mr. Nesbitt III shook hands with Sergeant Payne and ducked into his waiting limousine. District Attorney Solomon said, “Good work, you guys,” and got into her unmarked Crown Victoria.

Commissioner Mariani shook Sergeant Payne’s hand and got into his Crown Victoria.

Captain Quaire and Lieutenant Washington walked up.

“What next, boss?” Sergeant Payne asked.

“Come to work in the morning,” Washington said, “after you finish your detail with Dignitary Protection. I understand Mr. Colt is leaving at eleven-fifteen tomorrow morning.”

“I was supposed to leave after the last thing tonight,” Stan Colt said. “But I didn’t want to leave without seeing you. I want to hear everything that happened.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Matt said.

“Bullshit. After this thing tonight, I’m throwing a little thank-you party at La Famiglia. You, Mickey, your pal Nesbitt Four, Terry, a handful of others.”

“Stan, I don’t know…”

“It’s all laid on. You can’t say no now. I gotta go. One more lunch-which I’m already late for-and this thing tonight, and then I’m done.”

Commissioner Coughlin nodded, which Detective Payne correctly interpreted to mean was an order to him to attend Mr. Colt’s little thank-you party tonight. And to tell him everything that happened.

Mr. Colt then punched Sergeant Payne in the shoulder and got in his limousine. Highway Patrol officers kicked their bikes into life and, sirens growling, led the way out of the airport.

“If my children,” Brewster C. Payne said, “don’t mind having lunch with a couple of old men, Denny and I are about to have ours.”

“He doesn’t have any choice in the matter,” Dr. Payne said. “I want to hear about this guy.”

“So do I,” Deputy Commissioner Coughlin said. “How about right here at the Flatspin? They do a really nice Mahi-Mahi.”