Got the Look (29 page)

And when is the appropriate time? asked the prosecutor.

Well, originally we thought it would be after the criminal trial was over and all the facts came out. But in light of the vicious attacks on her credibility, my client decided that the appropriate time to make that decision is right now.

All right, sir, said the prosecutor. If you'll indulge my asking the question one more time: Does your client intend to file a civil lawsuit against the accused if he is convicted of raping her?

Defense counsel was on his feet. Objection, Your Honor. This is all hearsay.

Wright said, Hearsay is allowed in a preliminary hearing, Judge.

The judge furrowed his brow, then answered in heavy southern drawl. Hearsay is allowable, Ms. Wright. But I feel most compelled to info'm the witness that by answering this question, it would appear that the attorney-client privilege is waived. The defense would then be free to question Mr. Talbridge as to all communications between himself and his client.

Talbridge answered, We're aware of that, Your Honor. We're waiving.

The defense counsel almost smiled. Objection withdrawn, Your Honor.

The prosecutor returned to the witness and said, Please answer the question, sir: Does your client intend to file a civil lawsuit?

She has decided that she will not under any circumstances file a civil suit against Mr. Montalvo.

Even if he is convicted?

Yes. Even if he is convicted.

Did she tell you why she came to this decision?

She is tired of being called a liar. She doesn't care about the money. She wants the man who raped her in jail. And she wants the world to know that.

Thank you, Mr. Talbridge. No further questions.

There was silence on the television screen. It was a bold move to put the victim's lawyer on the witness stand, but Andie hardly saw it as the stroke of genius that Charlene Wright had promised her. She was about to rewind the videotape, thinking that perhaps she had missed something. She held off, however, as the judge called for cross-examination by the defense.

Bravo, Mr. Talbridge, Montalvo's attorney said as he approached the witness. That was a gallant effort. But let me ask you something. In all the lawsuits you've filed in your distinguished career, have you ever sued anyone more wealthy than Gerard Montalvo?

I've sued many wealthy people.

I'll bet you have. That's exactly why your client hired you, isn't it? Because you get the big bucks?

She hired me because I'm an experienced trial lawyer.

How many times have you met with your client, Mr. Talbridge?

Just twice, actually.

Twice? the defense counsel said, sounding somewhat surprised. Okay. What did you discuss the first time you met?

She wanted to know her rights as the victim of a violent crime. She was concerned about whether Mr. Montalvo would be entitled to bail, what hearings she as the victim would be allowed to attend, and whether she would have any input into the DA's decision to plea-bargain the case.

Did you also advise her of her right to sue Mr. Montalvo for money damages if he was convicted?

Yes, I did.

So from your very first meeting, that subject was discussed.

Yes, it was.

The lawyer's chest swelled with satisfaction. Thank you, sir. How about your second meeting with the alleged victim. When was that?

Last night.

And did you discuss the possibility of suing the defendant at that meeting?

Not exactly. We discussed the possibility of a settlement offer.

Oh, I see. So, throughout this preliminary hearing, you and your client have been angling toward a settlement strategy that would allow her to get her hands on some quick cash. Is that a fair statement?

No, I wouldn't say that's fair.

Well, sir. How many millions did you intend to demand from Mr. Montalvo in this settlement offer you and your client discussed last night?

Actually, the demand is just one dollar.

The smugness drained from the lawyer's face. It was as if he'd just swallowed his tongue. Excuse me? Did I hear you say one million dollars?

No, sir. My client will agree to settle all civil claims she may have against Mr. Montalvo for the grand sum of one American dollar. No admission of liability on his part is required. In exchange, she'll sign a general release that forever discharges Mr. Montalvo from any and all civil liability. It's her way of putting this money sideshow behind us once and for all. She's sick and tired of the smear campaign that your client has conducted.

Objection, Your Honor!

She is fed up with Mr. Montalvo's accusations that she is in this for the money.

Judge, I object to -

And she wants to show the world that all she desires is for the man who raped her to spend the rest of his life in jail.

Judge, I strenuously object to this grandstand stunt.

It's no stunt, Your Honor. I have the signed release with me today, and I'm prepared to deliver it just as soon as Mr. Montalvo opens his wallet and hands me a crisp one-dollar bill.

I move for a mistrial!

This isn't a trial, said the judge.

You know what I mean, Judge. This proceeding is an outrage.

I don't know about that, said the judge. But I would like to see counsel in my chambers. Right now.

The screen went black, and the speakers hissed with static. Andie hit the Off button on the remote control, then rose from her chair and switched on the lights.

Well, said Martinez, that was unlike any preliminary hearing I've ever seen before. Beautiful, really. They completely gutted Montalvo's claim that she was lying out of greed.

They did much more than that, said Andie.

How do you mean?

We're dealing with a kidnapper who drowned a completely innocent woman in an underwater cave because a million-dollar ransom wasn't the right number. Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it?

What?

She looked away, as if afraid to answer her own question. What's he got in store for the woman who lowballed him in a televised court proceeding?

Martinez drummed his fingers on the tabletop, thinking. There's only one way to answer that, Henning.

What's that?

Find this guy. Fast.

Chapter
43

The one-eyed monster was staring at her again.

Mia's mangled toe was no longer a source of constant pain, but the throbbing returned upon the mere sight of the video camera. Clearly there was a Pavlovian association imbedded in her subconscious; her captor wouldn't go to all the trouble of setting up the camera unless he intended to hurt her.

She waited in silence, seated on the hard floor with her legs extended straight out in front of her. As usual, her hands and ankles were bound with plastic handcuffs. The room was completely dark, save for the narrow tunnel of brightness that shot like a laser from the tripod. It was a tightly focused beam, a rope of light that seemingly tethered her to the video camera. Her kidnapper had used the same lighting system before. That first time, however, the beam of light had been directed straight at her face with blinding intensity. This time, the focus was different, and the difference was troubling.

The spotlight was aimed below the waist.

Mia could feel her body temperature rising, the combined effect of frayed nerves and the halogen bulb. Her captor was a silhouette in the shadows, lurking behind the glowing spotlight. She couldn't really see him, but somehow she felt his stare. Then she heard his footsteps. Finally, she saw the knife.

He was towering over her, the steel blade glimmering in the bright light. She didn't dare make eye contact. She stared down into her lap, which only heightened her anxiety, as the spotlight was aimed at her most private zone.

He got down on one knee, his face contorted and unrecognizable behind the tight nylon stocking. A wad of cotton or something similar in his mouth distorted his voice. Don't make a move, he said, brandishing the knife just inches from her cheek. She was terrified, but she complied to the letter, barely even allowing her chest to swell with each shallow breath. She knew the price of disobedience.

With a flick of the knife, her hands were free. Another quick swipe, and the ankle binders were broken. He rose and stepped back behind the camera. Mia remained motionless, still heeding his order not to move.

Take off your pants, he said.

Not very long ago, a command such as that would have met with defiance, or at least indignation. Those days were over. Without a moment's hesitation, she unbuttoned her jeans and unzipped the fly. She worked her pants down steadily, around the hips and past the knees - fast enough to satisfy him, but not so fast as to arouse suspicion. She pulled them off one leg at a time and then laid them aside. He'd said nothing about removing her underwear, so she left it alone.

Sit yoga style for me.

She was afraid to ask for clarification, so she guessed that he wanted her to sit baddha konasana, a position she'd learned in a stretching class at her health club. She sat upright, her knees bent and flaring outward, the souls of her bare feet touching and the heels drawn inward toward her groin. She felt somewhat vulnerable, but it was better than spread-eagled.

Good, he said. Now move your feet forward a little - away from your body.

So much time in captivity had stiffened her joints, and she found it impossible to move her feet without a helping hand. She pushed gently against her heels, sliding the feet away from her, all the while remaining in the yoga position.

Very good. He adjusted the spotlight. It was aimed straight at her crotch, but she felt no embarrassment. Only fear.

Hold it right there, bitch.

Mia didn't move. She wanted to close her eyes and begin her mental escape, but she remembered how furious that had made him the last time, how he had mashed her toe even harder whenever she looked away from the camera. She kept her eyes wide open this time, staring straight into the blinding spotlight, as if seeking the refuge of darkness in the brightest point of light. She wanted to find her safety zone, that trancelike state of numbness that carried her through the worst of times. She was unable to concentrate, however. Try as she might to detach herself from the moment, she could still sense his unnerving presence, almost feel him moving about the room. She heard him coming toward her, and she started at the sudden clamor beside her. It was the sound of the bucket hitting the floor, the same bucket that he had left with her earlier. She peered cautiously over the rim, just like the last time. The only thing inside was the lightbulb. In a sudden blur he smashed it with his heel, and the loud pop made her heart skip a beat.

Take it, he said.

She glanced toward the camera, but otherwise she didn't move.

Do it! he shouted.

She trembled as her gaze drifted back to the broken lightbulb, the twisted filament, the razor-sharp shards of thin glass.

I said do it!

Do what? she asked, barely audible.

Don't talk back to me. Just do it. Show him.

What are you talking about?

You know exactly what I'm talking about. Show him, damn it.

Show who? Show what?

She could hear the anger in his heavy footsteps as he hurried to her side, grabbed her by the hair, and jerked her head back. He pressed the broken lightbulb into her palm, curled her hand into a fist, and squeezed until the sharpness sliced her skin. Blood oozed from her clenched fist like water from a sponge, but she contained her scream, denying him that satisfaction.

What do you want me to do? she said, her voice quaking.

I want you to show him, he said as he grabbed between her legs. He was squeezing hard, bringing tears to her eyes, nearly ripping the old scar tissue from the inside of her thigh. Show Jack Swyteck how you cut yourself. Teresa.

Chapter
44

Even at three o'clock in the afternoon, it seemed only fitting to hold the most important meeting of the trip over the most important meal of the day. So Jack chose the Five Points Diner, where breakfast was served 24/7. The sign out front would lead you to believe that five points meant the tines of a fork, but it actually referred to downtown Atlanta's best-known intersection, where Peachtree connects several major thoroughfares. The old diner wasn't exactly the area's shining jewel, but it was convenient, just a few MARTA stops south of Charlene Wright's midtown office, not far from the courthouse and the glimmering gold-leaf dome of the capitol building. Most important, it was directly across the street from Bud's Bail Bonds.

Jack wasn't sure if there actually was a Bud or if it was just a catchy trade name for a guy named Wilbur or Maurice. A little checking around with local attorneys confirmed that there was indeed a Bud, better known as Ball-Bustin' Bud. It required no imagination on Jack's part to discern how a bail bondsman earned a name like that. Bud operated much like any other bondsman. If a judge set your bail at one hundred thousand dollars, you gave Bud ten grand, and he posted bail. The ten thousand was nonrefundable. If you skipped, Bud was out ninety Gs. At least until he found you. That was where the ball bustin' kicked in. And rest assured, Bud would find you. Eventually.