“You are all guilty of sending my wife to the grave, if that’s where this ends up. So are those eleven ninnies you saw fit to put into the jury box with her. I’m telling you this: you lawyers-you want some work? It’s coming. I’m coming. Are you ready? I’m coming strong. I’ll get you a whole big pile of work to do.” He counted off on his fingers. “I am suing the city. I am suing the state. I am suing the ninnies. And you can damn well be certain I am suing KBS Television and the company that owns it and Mr. Marshall Fox and that prostitute wife of his!”

I looked over at Megan and mouthed, “Prostitute?”

Megan answered in a low voice, “You might want to tell that reporter friend of yours. I think that’s a scoop.”

Spicer looked out over his small crowd. “Where are the reporters? I’m sick of talking to you people. I need to speak to the God-fearing Christians out there. Some people with common sense. They need to hear what I’m saying. Those women who were killed last year were whores! Marshall Fox is an indiscriminate fornicator. Let the swine go down with the swine. Why should taxpayer dollars be spent on any of this? Why should my wife be sent to her death on account of a pack of godless sinners? Where’s the press? We need to get the word out. Have you got them locked out? I guess they’re in on the conspiracy with the rest of you heathens. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of it all. Ye shall know my strength and ye shall fear my wrath, you sniveling pack of whores!”

Lewis Gottlieb stepped forward. His demeanor was impeccably calm and civil. “Mr. Spicer, I hear all that you’re saying. I honestly do. This is a terribly delicate situation. I feel horrible about what has happened to your wife. Matters should not have been allowed to reach such a point, and on behalf of the court and the state of New York, I want to apologize personally to you and your family. But please, we need to contain the damage here, we don’t-”

Spicer interrupted. “Gottlieb, is that right?”

The attorney inclined his head. “That’s correct.”

“I’ll be suing you, too! Personally!”

The attorney demurred. “What you need right now is to be alone with your wife. This is not the time to be raising a holy fuss. Your wife’s health should be your only concern right now. If there is-”

“My wife’s health had better be your concern. All of yours. Is anybody listening to me? I want to talk to the press, and I want to do it right now! What’s going on here? Am I under some sort of house arrest?”

Peter spoke up. “Mr. Spicer, we really do not want this trial to fall apart. The wise thing is to wait until we’ve heard from Judge Deveraux-”

“Him?” You’d have thought Spicer had just stepped on a land mine. “Sweet Jesus and Mary, the man in the black robes. I wouldn’t cross the street to spit on him.”

Lewis Gottlieb had had enough. “You are a contentious low-life little shit is what you are.”

As the attorney started forward, Spicer leaped to his feet. “I don’t think any killer of the Lord Our Christ is going to judge me one iota.” He grabbed the chair he’d just been sitting in. Before he could lift it, Peter Elliott lunged forward and grabbed hold of it. Spicer tried to yank it free, but Peter had a good grip. With his free hand, he tried to move Gottlieb back, but the elderly gentleman tripped on his own feet and went tumbling to the floor. Spicer cried out.

“Baby killer! Heathen pig!”

Peter sunk his fist hard into Spicer’s stomach. The man doubled over and the police leaped into action, two of them taking hold of Spicer while another one pulled Peter away from him. Spicer continued bellowing, “Heathens! Blasphemers!”

Peter snarled at him, “Just shut the hell up, would you?” as the policeman guided him over to the far wall. Lewis Gottlieb was helped to his feet. He slid into a chair. Spicer was still thrashing to free himself of the police grip, and he attempted to kick the elder attorney, but the police jerked him out of range. Gottlieb waved a freckled hand in the air, like a wizard concluding a spell.

“Please take that man away from here. I’d like to consider assault charges. Please detain him somewhere until this has been sorted out.”

Spit was flying from Spicer’s mouth. “I demand to see my lawyer!”

Gottlieb dusted off the arms of his jacket and addressed the man. “Luckily for you, Mr. Spicer, there are plenty of lawyers who would cross the street to spit on you.”

He waved his hand again at the policemen. “For goodness’ sake, take him away.”

33

LEWIS GOTTLIEB WAS CHIDING his protégé.

“You’ve got to let a man like that put his own fool head in the noose. He’ll do it. He did it. I sacrificed my can, and then you come along and actually assault the damn fool. What in the world were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry, Lewis. It was the slur.”

“Oh, the slur. Screw the slur. You think I haven’t lived my entire life on the edge of a slur? I could care less at this point. Especially from a psycho like our Mr. Spicer. The point is that now he can charge you with assault.”

“The list of charges Bruce Spicer wants to bring is so long it’ll take him a year to get around to that one.”

“Let’s hope.”

Megan and I were sitting with the two lawyers in the hospital cafeteria. Gottlieb, it turned out, had smacked his elbow fairly hard on the floor when he’d gone down and had injured it somewhat. The attorney’s jacket was hung carefully on the back of his chair, and the left sleeve of his shirt was rolled up to his biceps so he could hold an ice pack to the injury. Peter was looking glum. He knew he’d screwed up in attacking Spicer. Gottlieb’s demeanor was surprisingly wily.

“The trial’s sunk, that’s obvious,” the elder attorney declared. “Bruce Spicer’s big mouth is not going to be denied. And a forewoman with a husband like that? If Fred Willis doesn’t demand that Sam declare a mistrial, I will. This is the most hackneyed affair I have ever been involved with.”

Peter groaned. “New trial. I think I’ll just shoot myself now. How are we going to pull that off? The entire country’s been handicapping this one up close and personal. What rock are we going to look under to get an untainted jury at this point?”

“I’m afraid that’s going to be your problem, young squirrel,” Gottlieb said. “I’ve got eighteen holes calling my name, and this time they will not be denied. It would have been nice to add Mr. Fox’s pelt to my collection, the self-righteous son of a bitch. But don’t worry, Peter. The groundwork’s been laid. The country knows what kind of sicko Fox really is. You’ll be fine. Detective Lamb here and Joe Gallo did a superb job of boxing that little prick into the corner, and the evidence isn’t going anywhere. We’ll take some public relations hits, no doubt about that. You’ll get your usual clamor that mistrial means the man must be innocent. Just ignore all that. Don’t get caught up in the sideshows. That’s all an idiot like Bruce Spicer is, a sideshow. And there’s your irony. Spicer hates Marshall Fox’s guts, but all he and his wife have succeeded in doing is giving the man a whole new day in court. Spicer’s got his agenda over here and his brains out in West China somewhere.” He turned to me. “Now that you’ve seen him in action, is my idea so crazy?”

Megan asked, “What idea is that?”

Peter explained, “Lewis believes we should be considering whether Spicer had something to do with Zachary’s and Robin Burrell’s killings.”

Gottlieb interjected, “Not ‘something to do with.’ Stop pussyfooting around, Peter. My contention, Ms. Lamb, is that Bruce Spicer’s our killer.”

Megan turned to me. “You were looking into this?”

“Lewis mentioned his theory to me the day I got dunked in the East River. I haven’t really had a chance to pursue it.”