Tuesday, September 7

10:30 a.m.

Hall of Justice- Omaha, Nebraska

Grace Wenninghoff hated waiting. The air in courtroom number five felt like a hot, wet towel wrapped around her neck. There were too many people, jammed inside, generating too much heat. The squeaking of chairs as people shifted in their seats and an occasional cough interrupted the silence, but that was all. Judge Fielding's presence kept the crowd agitated but quiet as he looked over the papers in front of him, taking his time, not a hint of sweat or discomfort on his face.

Grace reached for her water bottle, took a careful sip. Come on, let's get this over with, she wanted to yell, but instead tapped her pen against her blank legal pad to keep her foot from doing the same. The judge scowled at her without raising his head, his eyes looking at her through his bushy gray eyebrows and over the wire-rim glasses hanging at the tip of his nose. Her pen stopped in midair. He went back to examining the papers.

Rumor was that the maintenance crew had shut off the air-conditioning in the whole building over the long Labor Day weekend, not expecting the return of ninety-degree weather. Yet, Grace couldn't help wondering if Judge Fielding had purposely shut it off in his own courtroom, hoping to make them all sweat. It wouldn't be the first time. Fielding loved to make attorneys sweat…sweat and wait. That combination today couldn't be a good sign, though Grace tried to remain optimistic. As optimistic as a prosecutor could be with the humidity threatening to turn her usually straight, short hair into something worthy of a Chia Pet. She knew she'd need more than optimism today.

She glanced across the aisle at Warren Penn from the high-priced law firm of Branigan, Turner, Cross and Penn. No sweat visible there, either. How did he manage it in that three-piece suit? She had hoped to see his client, the defendant, Jonathon Richey, in shackles and an orange jumpsuit, reducing the city councilman to the cold-blooded murderer he really was. Instead, Richey wore a steel-blue suit and crisp white shirt with red-and-blue tie. The slick politician didn't look affected in the least by his arrest or the allegations against him. In fact, he looked rather smug, and Grace worried that some old-boy network had already taken care of the outcome of this case. Judge Fielding had a reputation of protecting his inner circle. Could he do it in front of a crowd of spectators and under the scrutiny of the media?

Beneath her own jacket Grace could feel her silk blouse sticking to her skin. She glanced down at it to make sure it didn't look as bad as it felt. What a day to wear silk. The blouse had been a birthday gift from Grandma Wenny, who had been trying to dress Grace in pink since she was six years old, although her grandmother had reassured her that this was fuchsia, her German accent making it sound like some erotic, slightly naughty color. Thinking about that made Grace smile.

She watched Judge Fielding, looking for signs that they'd be proceeding soon. He flipped over another page and started at the top with his index finger. Geez. This was only the bail hearing. At this rate, she couldn't imagine how long the trial would take.

She reached to rub the knot still gathered at the base of her neck. The three-day weekend had been too short. Her husband, Vince, insisted they could live with the stacked boxes everywhere. Easy for him to say, he was leaving for Switzerland tomorrow morning. Sure it was business-a new client insisting on meeting his American account rep face-to-face. Grace and Emily would be left to live with the chaos. But the boxes weren't the cause of the knot at the back of her neck.

She loved their new house, although it was far from new, a century-old Victorian with plenty of character and enough space for them to convert part of it into a mother-in-law suite-or in this case a grandmother suite-for Grandma Wenny. The renovations were a pain in the neck-yes, maybe even a partial cause for the very real pain in her neck. There'd been workers tramping in and out of their house, leaving mud and sawdust and holes where walls once were. Still, Grace knew all of this was the easy part. The real work, the real challenge, would be in convincing Grandma Wenny to leave her South Omaha home, the small drafty two-bedroom, mouse-infested bungalow where she had lived for over sixty years, where she had raised three children and one granddaughter, a grand-daughter who had pledged-actually pinkie-swore-to take care of the stubborn old woman.

"Ms. Wenninghoff," Judge Fielding bellowed, grabbing her attention.

"Yes, Your Honor." She stood up casually, resisting the urge to wipe her damp forehead.

"Please continue," he told her as if they'd been waiting only a few minutes and as if she had been the one holding them up.

"As I was saying and as you can see from the arrest warrant, Mr. Richey was arrested at Eppley Airport. Mr. Richey is a flight risk and, therefore, should be denied bail."

"Judge, this is preposterous." Warren Penn drew the word out so slowly it sounded like four words instead of one. He also took his time standing up, then moved out from behind the defense table as if he required additional room to make his statement. Grace guessed it was more for the benefit of towering over her.

"Mr. Richey," he continued in the same drawn-out manner, "is a businessman. He was simply making a business trip. This trip has been on his calendar for months. I have his appointment calendar and phone logs available for Your Honor." He waved a hand at the pile on the defense table but made no effort to get them. "Jonathon Richey," he went on, "not only owns a local business here in Omaha, but he's a city councilman. He's a deacon at his church and president of the downtown Rotary Club. His wife, two of his three children and all five of his grandchildren live within this community. Mr. Richey certainly does not pose a flight risk. Taking all this into consideration, Your Honor, I'm sure you'll agree that Mr. Richey should be released on his own recognizance."

Grace watched Judge Fielding nod and start flipping through the papers again. This was ridiculous. He couldn't possibly be buying any of this crap. Not unless he was looking for an excuse. She glanced over at Richey. Was there some under-the-table deal already set up? He still looked too calm, too cool for this sauna. Grace rubbed her neck again and was disappointed to find it damp.

"Your Honor." She waited until she had his attention, then she pulled out an envelope from her file folders and stepped out from behind the prosecution table. "If I understand correctly, Mr. Richey owns a business that specializes in commercial and residential computerized heating units." She looked over at Warren Penn, waiting for his nod of confirmation. "I have his United airline ticket that was confiscated at the time of his arrest." She made her way forward to hand over the envelope with the ticket inside. "I'm just wondering, Your Honor, what kind of heating business Mr. Richey might have in the Cayman Islands."

She heard the crowd behind her hum and whisper and shift in their seats.

"Mr. Penn?" Judge Fielding was now looking over his glasses and down his nose at the defense attorney. To Grace's disappointment, Warren Penn didn't flinch.

"Mr. Richey meets with his clients, often in a designated place that the client requests."

Grace wanted to roll her eyes. That Fielding was even considering this was crazy. But here he was again, flipping over papers as if he had missed something in the documents he had already examined.

She turned back to her table and noticed Detective Tommy Pakula sitting two rows down, shifting in his seat, impatient and ready. He was dressed for court, a collared shirt and tie, jacket and trousers, just in case she needed to call him today. Instead of calling him, she reached down behind her chair and pulled up the duffel bag.

"Your Honor," she said, bringing the bag out in full view of Judge Fielding, but more importantly in full view of the courtroom, "there is one more thing Mr. Richey had in his possession when Detectives Pakula and Hertz arrested him at Eppley Airport. He had this travel bag with him. If he was not fleeing the country, perhaps Mr. Perm might explain this." Grace unzipped the bag and turned it upside down, allowing the stacks of hundred-dollar bills to fall out onto the table.

This time the room erupted. Several reporters clamored out the door. Warren Penn shook his head as if, of course, he had an explanation for this, too. Grace scanned the room, and now she noticed that Jonathon Richey's smug look was gone.

"Okay, okay," Judge Fielding yelled, ignoring the gavel. He seemed pleased that his voice could still silence a room.

"Your Honor," Warren Penn began, but was interrupted when Fielding put up a hand.

"Bail denied." He stood even as he added, "Court is adjourned," and then escaped, not giving Warren Penn the opportunity to explain or argue.

Grace ignored the defense table as she repacked the duffel bag. The crowd had already turned into a crescendo of voices, shuffling feet and creaking chairs. She wouldn't need to worry about being accosted by reporters. They'd spend their energies on Richey, the price of being such an upstanding member of the community.

"Better make sure it's all there." She looked up to find Detective Pakula.

"Thanks for being here," she told him. He nodded, and she knew Pakula well enough to leave it at that, not to make a big deal of it.

"I found a witness who might be willing to testify against Richey."

"Might?"

"He needs some convincing. Doesn't wanna open his mouth if there's a chance he'll walk."

"He won't be walking," Grace said, finally shoving the last of the money into the bag. She knew where Pakula was going with this, and she didn't want to hear it.

"You know that and I know that. And that's what I'm trying to tell him." Pakula looked around, making sure no one was within earshot. "Our credibility's not riding too high right now with that asshole Barnett on every fucking talk show claiming the OPD framed him."

"Let him talk. Sooner or later he's going to screw up, and when he does I'll be there to nail his ass. Only next time it'll be for good."

"You and me both."

Grace knew the Barnett appeal had been eating at Pakula as much as it had been at her. In the last several months she had gone over and over the case against Barnett, hoping there was something, anything they might use. Five years ago, she had put her heart and soul into prosecuting Barnett, convinced that it was, indeed, Jared Barnett who had coerced seventeen-year-old Rebecca Moore into his pickup that cold afternoon in the dead of winter, probably promising her a warm ride home from school. But instead he drove her to a remote place where he raped and stabbed her repeatedly before shooting her through the jaw, shattering her teeth.