

MONSTER WORLD

by

TJ McLaughlin

Monsters Are What Monsters Do

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

TJ McLaughlin on Smashwords

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Monster World

Copyright © 2012 TJ McLaughlin

Cover art by TWP Grafix

All characters depicted in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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Adult Material

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents
Chapter 1 - Book 1 The Crime

Chapter 2 - Book 2 The Trial

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MONSTER WORLD

Book 1 The Crime

SATURDAY JULY 5 2000

It was a summer night in Los Angeles. Cool. With a need to be hot. Low riders, aglow with eerie under lighting, floated slowly up and down Sunset Strip like alien space ships on the prowl for human specimens. On the sidewalks the expressionless faces of tourists, painted by neon lights, gawked vacantly at the panoply of characters peopling the strange universe they found themselves lost in. The skin heads, the multi-tattooed, the body pierced, the punks, the hippies, the rappers, the hookers, the dealers, the homeless junkies, all of them giving off an aura of existing in a world apart. A world impenetrable by any but their own. "You can't know what it's like to be me," might be their John Belushi like motto.

Image is everything, they revel in their image in a frantic desperation to make a statement. To be a statement. To be the star of the show. To carve out a little corner of celebrity for themselves. A way to be seen while remaining invisible. A way to be like a somebody instead of feeling like a nobody. I am my image, my image is me. A despotic identity rules.

In a luxury apartment overlooking the parade of polarized personalities below a beautiful young woman, Nancy Love, sat on a white leather couch in her living room. She sat with her arms wrapped around her legs forcing her knees up against her chin. She stared out in front of her as if her eyeballs were somehow being sucked out of their sockets. Straining her eyes to see things differently than they were, to envision a different scenario of how things had turned out for her. She had come to Hollywood full of dreams. They had turned into a horrible nightmare.

An ominous looking figure stood over her. He wore an athletic suit, gray with red striping. The open jacket exposed a hairless muscular chest resplendent in gold chains and medallions. One such adornment bore the golden initials "AC" for Armando Cruz. He stared down at his prey through cold, penetrating, dark eyes. His face, disfigured with many pockmarks, emanated a raw merciless power. As he stood in silence over the cringing woman beneath him one might suspect he was somehow inflicting punishment on her by his mere presence.

The woman suddenly jerked her body convulsively as she desperately gulped for air through the oppression that left her little room to breathe. Armando sat down next to her on the arm of the couch. He began to gently caress her frazzled blonde hair as he spoke softly, "Joo had a choice. Joo did have a choice. But now, joo see, joo are mine. Joo belong to me. Tha's right, joo are my property." Armando hooked his index finger under Nancy's chin and gently turned her face toward his and said, "But still, I give joo more choice."

A shudder rippled through the woman.

"Joo look nervous. Are joo nervous, Nancy?"

"I'm...you...your...I'm your..." she tried to speak the unspeakable.

"Look here," Armando put his hand in his jacket pocket, "I got something for joo." He took out a sandwich sized zip-lock plastic bag filled with white powder. He dangled it in front of Nancy's face, "See, a little something yust to help joo calm down so joo can make a good decision to the choice I give joo."

Nancy's face and body began to twitch uncontrollably as she eyeballed her desperate need wrapped in clear plastic. Armando stood up and moved in front of her. He bent down and poured some white powder on the toes of his Pumas. Nancy stared down at Armando's feet like a starving animal. She looked up at her tormentor struggling within herself to muster at least a semblance of dignity. It was hopeless. She was nothing. She had no life distinct from cocaine.

Nancy got down on the floor and hungrily began to snort her substance off of Armando's sneakers. Afterward she remained stooped down at his feet for a few moments. Then she clutched the back of her master's legs and looked up at him in utter submission.

Armando took out a switchblade and snapped it open as he said, "Jes, joo are mine now. I own joo. Joo know it, too. But, as I say, I give joo a choice. I own joo, unless joo wanna die. That is jour choice. I will have joo when I want joo. I will give joo to others when I want to. This is how joo will pay me the money joo owe me." He grabbed Nancy by the hair and pulled her head up to his waist as he put the knife to her throat, "This is how it is. I own joo or I kill joo. Joo unnerstan'? Joo unnerstan' Nancy Love?"

Nancy began to caress the back of Armando's legs and then she nuzzled her face into his crotch. Armando looked down at her with a smirk, "That's a good girl. I be good to joo too. I give joo all da dope joo want. Joo can even make a li'l money for jourself."

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Across town, at a rock concert, rows of young girls in obsequious adulation of Blade, lead singer of the heavy metal band, On The Edge, threw their panties and hotel keys on the stage before him as he sang;

Show me that you want me

Show me that you're mine

Get into that position

That shows me your submission

Get down there an' please me

But if you wanna tease me

You may as well be dead

So c'mon girl

An' give me some head

Like you know you love to do

The raucous music came on full force terrorizing the senses as Blade began stripping off his shirt to throw into the audience.

In one of the greenrooms backstage two children, a boy and girl, ages 8 and 10, respectively, sat on the floor staring wide-eyed at a pair of roadies sprawled out on a couch sharing a joint. The two pot-smoking cohorts regarded the kids distantly as they discussed their views on childcare.

Jake, a tall, gangly, bearded techie with a long face reminiscent of a collie was of the opinion that, "Fear is the thing. Ya gotta use fear t' get kids to behave like ya wan' 'em to."

Dell, a squat, plumpish, baby faced lighting assistant took exception to Jake's view, "Nah, all ya need is love, man."

"That's Beatle shit," Jake protested. "Fear's the thing...definitely fear," he insisted as he passed the joint to Dell, who asked, as if deeply inspired, "Fear? Fear of what? Fear of no love?" He took a deep toke quite satisfied he'd struck a fatal blow to his opponent's argument.

Jake looked at his crony with his face scrunched up in confusion and said, "What? You're goofy! That makes no sense whatsoever."

"Sure it does."

"You're stoned."

"The fear of no love," Dell began to explain enthusiastically, "if you're scared you won't be loved unless you obey someone..."

Shut up! My head's gonna explode," Jake said as he took the joint back from Dell and then said, "I know. Let's ask the kids. Hey kid...uh..." he stared vacantly at the children a moment and then turned to Dell and asked, "What's the kid's name?"

"Which one?"

"The boy one."

"Umm..."

"Um?" asked Jake, feigning disbelief, "What kind of name is Um? What's that short for? Um Uh?"

They both thought this was terribly amusing.

"But, okay," Jake continued as he struggled to control his guffaws, "I'm not one to judge. So, anyway," he said to the fearful boy, "umm, nice name kid. Um..."

Jake and Dell again found this to be uproariously funny and laughed hysterically at the notion of someone having the name "Um."

When their laughter subsided enough for them to speak Jake continued, "Yeah, um..." and again he and his crony broke up in hysterics while barely managing to speak. Dell finally blurted out in an English accent a la Monty Python, "This is too silly!"

"Much too silly!" rejoined Jake.

"Let's get a hold of ourselves, shall we!" Dell suggested through the laughter and they both immediately took hold of one another, literally. They held each other's arms and laughed on. Their hands moved up to each other's throats as they maniacally threatened one another to stop laughing. They began choking each other furiously. Their laughing gradually ceased as their faces turned red and they released their grips and gasped for air.

"What the hell were we laughin' about?" Jake asked rhetorically.

"Um..." responded Dell and again they were convulsed with laughing.

Jake, struggling to control himself managed to say, "Okay now let's...um..." he said bringing on more fits of laughter. "No, c'mon seriously now...um..." and still more laughter. It was getting painful for them both and with great effort they brought themselves to a precarious silence.

Jake focused intently on the two children and asked them like a madman terrorist, "If I threatened to pour gasoline all over you and set you on fire would you do exactly what I told you to do?"

The two children regarded their guardians in silence with wide-eyed trepidation.

"Awright," Dell protested, "that's enough you're..."

Just then two beautiful dark haired women charged into the room. They were both dressed in similar fashion. Rachel, Blade's wife, was wearing a tight black leather skirt, black hose, high heel boots and a halter. She had a small skull and cross bone tattoo with the word "poison" beneath it on her left side just below the collar bone. Rachel's friend, Dolores, "Dolly" as she was called, wore tight black leather pants, high heels and a halter. Both women had a few rings on their fingers and plenty of chains around their necks. They each had a large silver cross hanging from one of the chains.

The children were plainly terrified and Belinda meekly asked, "Have you come to take us home, mommy?" After surveying the scene and shooting looks to kill at the two baby sitters from hell, Rachel tenderly bent down to her children as her fierce murderous expression softened to one of dewy-eyed compassion. "Oh yes, my darlings," she said, "mommy's come to take you home."

Jake, in as sober a tone as he could asked, "So, you've come for...um..." and this sent the two hopped-up techies into more raucous laughter.

Rachel, regarded the two with disdain, "Maniacs!" she yelled at them.

Dell became suddenly serious and indignant as he said, "Hey, I represent that remark!" That brought on even more paroxysms of glee.

Rachel stared calmly at Jake and Dell a moment and then bowed her head with a deep sigh. She then busied herself getting her kids ready to leave and mumbled to herself, "Who in their right mind would leave young children with a couple of psychopaths?" Answering herself she said, "Anyone who doesn't give a damn, that's who." She then turned to her friend, Dolly, who was assisting her son, Josh, with putting on his jacket, "This is it, Dolly! I mean it! I have had it up to here! This is it!"

After the kids were all bundled up and ready to go the two women marched out of the greenroom, each with a child in hand. Blade, having just come off the stage a few moments before, met them as he was on his way to check in with Josh and Belinda. He was barefoot and shirtless having thrown his boots and socks into the audience along with his shirt. His slim, muscular, hairless torso appeared to be much younger than his face that was showing the strain of a grueling six-month tour. He appeared drawn and there were circles under his eyes, dark at the corners. This did little to diminish his good looks. The thirty-eight year old rock star was once described as a cross between Rod Stewart and David Bowie. "Imagine those two in the throes of a maculate conception," Blade once quipped when asked about that description of himself during an interview. "I bet it was Bowie who gave birth."

Blade was surprised to see Rachel backstage. The couple had been separated for about a year. They had recently been talking about reconciliation and their eventual reunion seemed imminent. Unexpected appearances by his wife, however, usually meant trouble. Blade greeted her cautiously, but friendly, and informed her that he was just about to bring the kids over to her place.

Rachel was livid and turned on her husband with the fury of a demon, "You were supposed to do that ten hours ago!"

"I got tied up," was Blade's apologetic excuse.

"With your dominatrix, no doubt!" said Rachel as she and Dolly continued on their way with the children toward the exit.

"Oh, that's funny," Blade said sarcastically while following close behind.

This spirited exchange drew more than a little attention among the backstage gathering. Crew members paid a passing interest. Caterers setting up for the tour-ending party and arriving guests gawked moronically at the spatting couple. Some followed them as though drawn along under a hypnotic spell. There were various journalists taking notes and shooting pictures at a somewhat respectful but, nonetheless, ringside proximity.

"Good-bye, Blade. And good riddance!" said Rachel as she reached the exit door.

"I'll drop by later to see you," Blade said hoping the good riddance remark was not meaningful.

"Never mind," Rachel said glaring at Blade with no mistake to her meaning.

"Okay, tomorrow then," Blade responded hopefully.

"Do you know what tomorrow even is?"

Blade was at a loss and simply said in as charming a manner as possible, "Sunday?"

Josh has a very important soccer game for the championship of the Peewee League. For which, by the way, he was supposed to be at practice earlier this afternoon and which, by the way, he missed because you're too busy screwin' around all the time."

"Yea! Well, what about you with your pizza boy!"

"My kids come first!"

Blade was about to say something about the time he walked in on Rachel and her "pizza boy" only a short while after they had been separated making it on the living room floor with their kids upstairs. Deciding not to he just said, "C'mon, Rachel, c'mon, this is no way for us to get back together."

"Good, 'cause we're not getting back together. Not ever!"

"What!"

"It's over, Blade! That's that and that's final. I want a divorce!"

With that Rachel, Dolly and the kids stormed out of the building leaving Blade abandoned amid all the backstage onlookers. After a moment he addressed the crowd as if nothing at all had happened, "Time to party!" he loudly announced and made his way through the crowd of onlookers to his dressing room.

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Outside the concert arena Armando Cruz, having completed his business with Nancy Love, was sitting on the car that Rachel, Dolly and the kids hurriedly approached. It was parked under a light post that was buzzing loudly as the bulb sporadically dimmed and brightened. Upon seeing the unwelcome dealer perched upon her Lexus Rachel hesitated momentarily. "Oh Christ," she muttered to herself, lowered her head and made a dash for the car with Belinda in hand as Dolly and Josh followed closely behind.

When they reached the shiny black Lexus Armando greeted Rachel by saying, "Joo have some money for me?"

Rachel got her kids and Dolly quickly into the car, shut the door and faced Armando, "I told you to get it from Blade."

"I was yust about t'do that," Armando said hungrily eyeing the beauty before him.

"Good! Good-bye then. I won't be needing your services any longer!" Rachel said emphatically as she opened the car door.

Armando, remained seated on the front fender and said, "That's okay as long as I get my money."

"You'll get it. Now get off my car!"

Armando didn't budge and said loudly to no one in particular, "Joo know jour friend Nancy Love? She pay me tonight."

A look of dread crossed Rachel's face as she visibly shuddered. She asked anxiously, "Is she..."

Armando smirked, "Is she what?"

"Get off the car you creep!" Rachel yelled as she got in the driver's seat, started the engine, shoved the gearshift in reverse and gunned it out of the parking place as Armando leapt off. He glared after her as she sped away. The angered Colombian spit in the direction of the vanishing car and then started toward the backstage door of the concert arena.

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The closing night party was already in full swing. The celebration marked the end of a long and very successful tour for On The Edge. It recaptured their standing as "the kick-ass heavy metal band of all time." For the moment anyway.

Blade and the rest of the band, now in their late thirties, had made an enormous comeback after having all but disappeared from view. On The Edge had put out an album five years before their latest one that featured all the songs they had previously declined to record because they hadn't thought them good enough. That judgement about the quality of the material was resoundingly confirmed by their critics and fans alike. The album was a dismal failure.

After a string of previously successful albums On The Edge had become victims of their overwhelming success, indulged themselves in their own celebrity and did not produce any new songs for years. The decision to release the once discarded songs as an album was a result of the arrogance that sometimes accompanies stardom. The rejection of the album was a rude awakening and the once high and mighty band found themselves fading into the ranks of the rock 'n roll hall of has-beens. On The Edge soon became overshadowed by clearly lesser bands. Two years after the release of the album of leftovers the group put out another one containing all the hit songs from their past albums and scheduled a tour to coincide with its release. The album and the tour were both met with a less than enthusiastic response. After that the group split up.

Blade's passion, however, was not doused by the failings and break up of On The Edge, they were ignited. He discovered a renewed commitment to his craft and felt the creative juices flowing through him once again. Most of the songs his group had produced over the years had been a collaborative effort. Blade had written the music and lyrics for a few numbers by himself but he had to wonder whether he could conceive a whole new album on his own. One thing for sure, he was intensely charged up about giving it a try.

After traveling incognito around the country for about six months gathering impressions from cities, suburbs and rural areas Blade holed up in the basement studio of his Mulholland Drive mansion for fourteen months and put together twelve songs he felt were the crowning achievement of his career. He then let it be known, by way of the rock world's grapevine, that he was looking for musicians to record a new album and possibly go on tour. The original members of On The Edge got together and angrily protested Blade's intention of reforming the group without them. Blade explained that, since it was all his work, their shares in the proceeds would not be what they had been in the past and for that reason he didn't think they'd be interested. "I didn't think you'd want a gig as my back up band," Blade said to them, "I mean the billing's gonna be like 'Blade On The Cutting Edge' or something like that. Ya know? It's my work. My album. My tour. You guys would be like studio musicians. You really wanna do that?" They all agreed it would be better than nothing and Blade told them to get an agent to represent them and to work out a deal with his agent.

When all the details were worked out the group rented an abandoned warehouse in a dilapidated industrial park on the outskirts of Cleveland, Ohio and after just eight weeks emerged with the twelve new songs ready for the recording studio. After completing the album they readied themselves for the tour that was to begin upon its release. The album was received with critical acclaim and went platinum within two months after it hit the stores.

Despite the packaging of the album and tour as Blade's solo act the group came together and performed better than ever. As far as their fans were concerned On The Edge was still in tact as the best rock band ever. The group's celebrity again radiated like a super nova in the galaxy of stars. It was, they now knew, an ephemeral light that would soon burn out. And this time, no rebirth would be possible.

In recognition of this they were more determined than ever to collect all the rewards and perks their celebrity had to offer for as long as it lasted. As Blade said to his band one night on tour after a concert, "This is our last ride on the big kahuna, guys. Once we hit the beach we'll be buried forever in the sands of time." He was thinking of maybe a good five year ride after which he was sure he'd be ready for a long peaceful retirement with his family in their luxurious new home he was having built in Marin County. There were, however, forces at work that would soon bring Blade's high and mighty ride to an abrupt and crushing end.

As of now, however, there was no end in sight and nothing to do but revel in all the spoils of rock star fame. The backstage party was gathering a wild momentum. The yellow painted cinder block walls were lined with large buckets of chopped ice filled with bottles of champagne between tables piled with all kinds of food from fried chicken to caviar, hot dogs to Beef Wellington, macaroni and cheese to sushi. Drugs of choice were openly being smoked and snorted and various dressing rooms were accommodating couples, threesomes, foursomes and whatever for intimate encounters of all kinds.

Among the throng of revelers were two detectives from the Los Angeles Police Department, Mike D'Angello and Steve Conner, who were Blade's friends. They had met him some years ago when they were patrolmen. The two had been dispatched to Blade's home regarding a domestic dispute. Blade was in his prime at the time and the young officers were somewhat bowled over when they found themselves in his presence. The rock star was charming and friendly and assured them that everything was fine. Rachel was at Blade's side with a slightly bruised face. "Sorry guys," she said sheepishly, "it was a false alarm. Nothing really." Blade invited the officers in for coffee and told them they were welcome to come by and visit whenever they wanted. Mike and Steve took him up on his offer and liberally used the tennis courts, the pool, the Jacuzzi and met many agreeable young women in the process.

Over the years Blade would hire his two friends, off the record, as security personnel during his Los Angeles events. In truth they were paid a generous fee to hang out and party. It was an assignment they found difficult to refuse. Mike felt somewhat compromised as a police officer by the arrangement but his partner's glib acceptance of it effectively buffered his concerns. Mike's worries about propriety were tempered enough by Steve's indifference to allow all the easy money and women to take precedence.

Mike, a burly, dark complexioned Italian in his mid-thirties, took in the party scene around him as if scanning for suspects. His partner, tall, slim, athletic looking, checked his watch that Blade had given to him as a gift, and said to Mike in a confidential tone, "According to my Rolex we're off duty now, Mike."

"Is that right?" Mike asked curtly.

"Yep. My Rolex is never wrong about these things. See it lights up whenever it's time to go off duty."

"It lights up, huh?" Mike said struggling to relax.

"Yes, it does. See?" Steve showed him the watch. "It lights up 'cause it's happy to be off duty."

"How'd I ever get teamed up with a nut like you?"

"Good karma, no doubt," Steve offered with a comically smug expression on his face that his partner couldn't help but laugh at.

"Let's get a drink," Mike suggested as he decided to try to loosen up.

"Now you're talkin'," said Steve as they headed toward the buckets of Champagne.

After downing a couple of glasses each and filling them again Mike said half jokingly, "So, Steve, now that we're off duty I guess there's really no reason for us to be here anymore."

Steve had his eye on an attractive shapely young woman who was wending her way through the crowd as if she was headed their way, "Well, you never know," he said nodding in her direction.

The woman, a very attractive redhead, wearing a skin tight see through dress with sequins lightly scattered over the vital areas, snuggled up to Mike and asked, "Ya got a light?" as she put a joint between her lips.

Mike looked around and grabbed a lit cigarette out of the mouth of a guy with a Mohegan haircut, "Thanks, pal," he said as he held it up to light the joint.

The woman giggled appreciatively saying, "Smooth."

After lighting the joint Mike looked askance at the cigarette in his hand and said, "We gotta crack down on this stuff!" He dropped it and ground it into the floor with the sole of his shoe.

The woman giggled some more and said, "So, what's your scene?"

"I'm a cop."

"You gonna arrest me?"

"I'm off duty."

"I think you oughtta frisk me at least."

"Well...uh..."

"A strip search."

Oh, definitely."

"I need discipline."

"Then, I'm your man."

"Oh no you're not!" Mike heard a strange sounding voice rudely say as a husky person in a three-piece suit and sporting a buzz cut muscled in between them, took the redhead forcefully by the arm and led her away.

As the two detectives stared dumbfounded after the odd looking pair the woman said like a little girl, "She's my daddy."

"Whoa!" Steve shook his head as if to wake himself up from a bad dream.

"Yea, whoa!" Mike echoed.

"That was another woman...wasn't it...in the suit?"

Mike asked seeking clarification.

"Kinda," said Steve.

"Yeah..."

Steve downed another glass of Champagne and caught sight of Armando slithering through the crowd and muttered, "Well, look who's here."

Mike upon seeing who it was said, "Mr. scum-of-the-earth."

Armando approached them and mockingly said, "Officers, I want to report a crime. Some bad guy is illegally parked in a handicap spot, joo better go stake it out, man."

Mike looked at him through a face contorted with contempt, "The only crime happening here is you."

"I never park where I no' supposed to," protested Armando calmly with a sneering smile.

"Oh yea? You'll slip up someday, mucho bad. When you do, we'll be all over you like sweat."

"Until then enyoy the party, man."

Armando moved off working his way through the crowd like a predator stalking prey.

"That's the guy we gotta put away," said Mike through clenched teeth.

"He's smart," Steve remarked with a hint of admiration.

"Shut up," Mike said in annoyance that his partner would find anything complimentary to say about such a creep.

Steve ignored the admonition and glanced aimlessly around the maniacally multiplying throng, "Hey," he said as he nudged Mike, "there's the man himself."

Blade had just emerged from his dressing room after taking a shower. He was wearing red leather pants, a T-shirt, leather vest and a new pair of boots.

He was immediately surrounded by a gaggle of groupies.

"Lining up his quarry," Mike observed.

"His harem for the night."

Blade embraced and kissed a few of the adoring girls. He paid particular attention to a cute little blonde.

"Look at her," Mike commented with a modicum of disdain, "she's what? Fifteen?"

"I dunno," said Steve deflecting his partner's scorn, "looks can be deceiving."

Blade was saying something to his assistant, Cody Tolkein, as he gingerly disengaged himself from the clinging swarm. Cody, who looked like a miniature clone of his boss and was always super charged with energy, opened the door to Blade's dressing room and let three of the girls go inside. He followed them in and closed the door. A few seconds later he came back out, looked around for Blade and noticing that he was headed toward Mike and Steve immediately went to join him.

"Hey guys," Blade greeted them, "what's up? Don't tell me you haven't scored yet."

"Mike thought he had one on the line but turned out he didn't have the right equipment," said Steve.

"Ah, well, the thing with lesbians is convincing them your penis is really an enlarged clitoris."

The cops chuckled.

"Which, of course, it is," Blade added, factually.

The laughter abruptly stopped.

Blade scanned the crowd saying, "But have no fear, guys I'll take care of ya." He turned to Cody and said, "See if you can find Natalie and Brenda."

"Okay," responded Cody and blasted off on his mission.

Mike, sizing up Blade like a salesman looking for a button to push, said, "So, where's Rachel?" He and Steve were still in the auditorium when Blade and Rachel were having their backstage quarrel. They had, however, heard some talk of the incident.

"She had to take the kids home," answered Blade pouring himself a glass of Champagne.

"You two gettin' back together?" Mike prodded.

"I dunno. Maybe," Blade said as though not interested.

"Maybe she's ready for a real man," said Mike posturing in a way that made the comment more offensive than the usual banter between friends.

"Actually, she has no use for 'real men', Mike. She's into young boys now. Pizza delivery boys to be exact," said Blade pleased to see the effect it had on Mike who was having a difficult time masking his displeasure.

Mike was in turmoil wondering if the remark was true or not. He wanted Rachel, he wanted her from the first time he laid eyes on her. She wanted him, too. He was certain of it. The only thing standing in their way was her marriage. Whenever that finally came to an end, and he had no doubt it would, then he and Rachel could at last be together.

Mike looked around the party for something to distract him from the image of Rachel in the sack with some punk kid. He caught sight of Armando and asked Blade as if conducting an interrogation, "What's he doing here?"

"Armando? He goes where ever he wants."

Cody returned from his mission and nodded to Blade.

"I see you got some young ones lined up for yourself over there, huh, Blade? Really young," Mike said continuing his questioning.

"You wanna check their ID?"

Blade said with a touch of condescension.

"It takes Mike awhile to adjust to being off duty," Steve said. "He needs to unwind with a party girl, that's all."

"Well, there's a couple of fine lookin' babes here who're just creamin' in their panties to hook up with a couple of real life coppers."

"Oh yeah?" Steve said with a hungry boyish smile.

"Oh yeah!" Blade echoed emphatically and turning to Cody said, "Take care of my friends here, Cody. Give 'em the keys to dressing rooms 6 and 7 and do the intros to Natalie an' her friend."

"Okay, c'mon guys," said Cody as he beckoned Mike and Steve to follow him.

"Have fun guys. Hope you brought your handcuffs," Blade said through a meaningful grin.

Steve snickered mischievously as he and Mike followed Cody through the boisterous crowd.

Blade then turned to put his arm around a beady-eyed man with a couple of strands of hair neatly combed over his bald head. He had been hovering around Blade's private little gathering licking his chops like a hungry jackal "Harvey, how we doin'?" Blade asked.

"Great. The tour was a smash. You're hotter than ever. I have you booked on an eleven o'clock flight to Rio tomorrow night..."

"Rio! Oh shit! I forgot all about that," Blade said grimacing toward the ceiling. "Cancel it."

"Ya gotta go, Blade. It's all arranged. It's a great market down there. They love ya down there. Oh, and the women...ah, Blade, all of 'em, the girl from Ipenema. I'm tellin' ya. You don't wanna miss this opportunity to expand your marketability while it's still expandable, if you know what I mean."

"Oh yeah, I know what you mean. But I'm tired Harvey. Tours over. Tell 'em I've got AIDS, or somethin'."

"Well, I'll see if I can postpone it. Ya gotta do it soon, though. It'd just be a TV appearance. Just you on some talk show. Chat it up a little, lip synch a few tunes, that's all."

"Lip synch! I don't lip synch! Who'dya think you're talkin' to here? Milli or Vanilli?"

"Never handled them."

"Yeah? Well, give them a call. Maybe they can do the gig in Rio."

"I'm telling you, Blade, Rio is a hot market for you. You can't afford to pass it up. Not at this time in your career."

"Yeah, sure, I'll see ya Harvey, okay," Blade said as he noticed Armando motioning for him.

"Sure, sure. Oh, and we'll need to look at the film footage of the tour," Harvey said quickly.

"Awright, set that up and let me know" said Blade as he moved off to join the drug dealer.

As he approached him he saw Armando grab a woman's butt. She turned around angrily with an outraged, "Hey!" But, upon seeing who it was, became as meek as a lamb. Armando rubbed her breast with the back of his fingers and said, "Nice dress."

The woman managed a smile saying nicely, "I'm glad you like it."

"Armando, que pasa?" said Blade.

Armando put his arms around the woman, grabbed her butt with both hands and held her tightly to him. He kissed her and said in her ear, "I'll see you later." He then turned to Blade, put his arm around him and walked him off to the periphery of the party. They stood near a wall displaying a fire hose encased in glass.

"Jour lady owes me big time, man," Armando said as though reluctant to break the bad news.

"Ah, the bitch. She swore she was off the stuff," Blade said with a little anger.

"Well, joo know," offered Armando by way of explanation.

"How much?" Blade asked with a sigh.

"Mucho. Thirty-thousand."

"You're pullin' my chain."

"Oh no, I no like that. That's no' my thing."

"Rachel went through thirty-thousand dollars worth of dope while I was on tour?"

"That's righ'. Her an' her friends."

"Could you send me an itemized bill?" Blade asked in mock seriousness.

Armando glared back at Blade unamused"

"Uh huh, awright, I'll get you the money tomorrow."

"I'll be at McDonald's tomorrow night. La Cienaga. Joo be there too."

"Okay. So, you wanna hang around here, have some fun?"

"I got business to take care of."

"I'm sure. Uh, listen, Armando...uh..." Blade hesitated a moment as if deep in thought, "Nothin'. See ya tomorrow."

Armando left the party and Blade moved purposefully through the throng and signaled to Cody who signaled in turn to a girl. Blade went into his dressing room. Cody brought the girl up to the dressing room door and left her there. After a moment of preening herself she opened the door and went in to join Blade and the three other girls that Cody had let in earlier.

................................................................................

After their encounter with Armando, Rachel, Dolly and the kids drove straight to Rachel's condo. A two story, three-bedroom luxury dwelling located on Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Blade had bought it for Rachel when they decided to separate. Besides being a magnanimous gesture on his part he wanted to keep his wife obligated to him, as well as close by. The condo was only about a five-minute drive from Blade's sprawling estate.

Rachel sat with her friend in the living room after getting her kids ready for bed. It was a large room with a semicircular couch situated about six feet out from a floor-to-ceiling window. It had a sliding curtain that was closed and an array of standing and hanging plants in front and above it. The ecru walls were adorned with framed posters from On The Edge concerts and album covers. A large state-of-the-art entertainment center filled the wall opposite the couch.

Dolly was sitting in the middle of the tan leather couch. She was hunched over the genuine redwood coffee table snorting lines of coke. Rachel had changed into blue satin lounging pajamas and was curled up at one end of the couch with her legs tucked under her. Her dark brown eyes flickered with mixed emotions, at once attracted and repelled as she watched her friend hungrily inhaling the white powder. Mellow jazz softly filled the space with a delicate calm.

"You have to quit that stuff, Dolly. You just have to do it," Rachel said matter of fact while wrapping strands of her hair around her index finger.

Dolly paused and looked at her friend a moment as if seriously considering her appeal and said, "I know," before diving down for another deep snort.

"If I can kick it so can you."

"You think you really can?" Dolly asked.

"Well, I've been off it for three whole days now," said Rachel really wanting it to count for something.

The doorbell sounded. Rachel went to answer it and found Robby standing on the front steps holding a pizza box. He was extremely good looking with just the right combination of cute and rugged features that Rachel found irresistible. She gave him a big smile and said, "Hi, Robby."

"Hi, you wanna pizza?" he asked holding up the large white box with a steaming pizza depicted on the cover and the words in red lettering 'Emilio's Pizza - Favorite of the Super Stars'.

"I didn't order a pizza," said Rachel as she stepped outside.

"I know," Robby answered with a sly grin.

Rachel chuckled, "So?"

"So, Miss Universe," Robby said as he sat down on the top step holding the pizza on his lap, "I got an extra one."

Rachel sat down next to him, "So..."

"A very special one," Robby said confidentially, "with mushrooms," he opened the box to show her.

"Uh huh, so I see."

"But what you don't see is that they're magic mushrooms."

"Oh really? Magic mushrooms..."

"Oh yeah, you eat this pizza with these mushrooms and you will have eternal youth. Look at me, I never told you this but I'm sixty years old."

"Are you?"

"Yes, I am." Robby closed the box and placed it on top of a hedge next to the steps.

"So, your youthful condition is all due to the magic mushrooms that are on this pizza?"

"Yes, but I must warn you, there are some side effects," Robby said as he leaned in toward Rachel.

"Of course. What are they?"

"You will never grow up and you will always be absolutely infatuated with whoever brought you the mushrooms..." the sound of a beeper intruded on their banter. Robby pushed himself off from the steps, checked the beeper on his belt and said as he picked up the pizza, "I gotta get goin'. Can I see you later?"

"Tomorrow night? About ten?"

"Great! See ya then. I'm not workin' tomorrow. I have an audition at Twentieth Century Fox for a part in a film," Robby said as he backed slowly away.

"An audition on Sunday?"

"Yeah, they called me today. They're holding extra auditions 'cause they haven't found what they're lookin' for."

"It's gotta be you! Good luck, baby, I know you'll be great," Rachel said loudly as Robby turned and disappeared down the slightly angled walkway lined with shrubbery. She heard his delivery van speed away as she went back inside.

Dolly was curled up on the couch staring dreamily into space.

"That Robby is so damn good lookin'. He's a god. A god delivering pizza with magic mushrooms," Rachel said as she stood between the foyer and the living room.

"Cool," said her friend thoroughly impressed.

Rachel started up stairs saying, "I'm gonna go tuck the kids in for the night."

Josh and Belinda were sharing a bedroom that night because Dolly was staying over. Rachel quietly peeked in and saw the two children lying wide-eyed awake in their beds. She came in the room, kissed Josh and Belinda on their foreheads and sat down on the side of Josh's bed.

"Mommy are you really going to divorce daddy?" asked Josh.

"Yes, Josh, I am," Rachel gently answered as she stroked his hair.

"Can I still see him?"

"Of course, you can. You can spend as much time with him as you want as long as he takes good care of you."

"He takes good care of me."

"Okay sweetheart. You get some sleep now. You have a big day tomorrow."

"Will daddy be there?"

"Well, you never know with him. I'm sure he'll want to be there. He loves you. He might even love me. He's just...he lives in another world."

"What world do we live in?" Belinda asked.

Rachel smiled down at her, "A wonderful one. Now you get some sleep in this wonderful world that we live in. Okay?"

"Okay mommy. Good night."

"Good night, sweetheart."

"Good night mom," said Belinda.

"Night honey," Rachel said and went back downstairs.

Dolly was still sitting on the couch. Her body swayed slightly back and forth rhythmically and she appeared to be deep in thought. Upon entering the living room Rachel went straight to the entertainment center to reload the CD player.

"This music is so cool," Dolly said.

"What music? There's nothing playing. Hasn't been since I went upstairs," Rachel informed her.

"The music in my head, in my mind, my soul. My music that only I hear. I think it's cool," Dolly explained. "Ya know when I was goin' out with Speed he said I was his Muse. I inspired him to write his tunes."

"Now, his latest, whats'er name, Amy, inspires him," Rachel said as she sat down beside her friend.

"Yeah, bein' a Muse is a very short lived occupation. I think I'm ready for a comeback though. That's what my music's tellin' me."

The two women sat without talking for a few moments. Then Rachel said, "I love my kids."

"Yeah," Dolly sighed, "great kids."

"The greatest. I love them so much it scares me. I never really realized how much I care about them until..."

"Till what?"

"I dunno, until I decided to get my head straight, I guess. It's like I suddenly woke up from some chaotic dream to find I have two wonderful kids. God, I was crazy...and I somehow protected them from...myself. Don't ask me how. It just amazes me when I look at them. I can't believe they're really mine. They're so perfect."

"Yeah, they're adorable."

"I'm so lucky...I thought I'd be dead by now. I thought we'd all be dead by now."

"Yeah, I know. Me too."

"I really did. I thought I would've overdosed by now or that Blade would've done us all in."

"Mmm," Dolly emphasized.

"I think that's what attracted me to him, though. That threat of violence."

"I know, it's weird."

"Now it scares me. Blade scares me. He could kill me. I know he could. I don't think he ever loved me. Or me him. We just had a mutual irresistible attraction, an out of control passion."

"Uh huh..." Dolly readily agreed and then, puzzled about what she was agreeing with, asked, "Passion for what?"

"Sex, death and rock an' roll. Especially death."

"Oh yeah, right."

"We have to split now. Me and Blade. We just have to. I'm afraid, though. I'm afraid that Blade will end it all with violence. I dunno, I might've welcomed that at one time. But not now. I've changed. I know I have. It's weird. I'm feeling like all the sentimental garbage that people think is worth shovin' down your throat all the time means something. I'm getting choked up at those stupid homecoming type TV commercials. You know the kind. Joe Blow comes home from the army and makes the coffee..."

"Joe Blow? I thought it was John Doe..." Dolly wondered aloud.

Rachel looked puzzled and Dolly said, "Anyway, yeah, those commercials, they make me cry too, when I'm alone."

"I never said they made me cry. A little teary maybe," Rachel said defensively.

"It's okay Rache," Dolly said as a knowing confidant, "it's okay for us to cry. We got pussies."

Rachel chuckled distractedly and then said, "We gotta get straight, Dolly. I know that now. I know that with my whole heart and soul. I'm through with Blade and that whole life style. Gotta get clean from the drugs. Really, totally clean."

"I guess," Dolly said sadly.

"Yeah, I know, I don't want to either. The idea of going straight. I hate it. I fight it off. I mean, what's the point. All we're doin', all anybody's doin' is avoiding the void. Existing from one fix to the next, one needle, one pay check, one snort to the next, one sex act, one day off, one fantasy to the next with nothing beyond it. The void. Our fear of the void. Fill it with whatever nonsense you can find. Whatever turns you on. Religious fanatics, junkies, skinheads, sports fans, politics...it's all the same. We know too much, Dolly. It's too much, it's just too much to know...that there's nothing more than this."

"Yeah, what a bummer," Dolly chimed in absently.

"My kids, though. I love my kids. I want my kids to live. I don't know why, but I have hope for their future. A stupid ignorant hopeful hope...it's insane. I never felt more insane, but I hope their lives will be good. I hope for something somehow...magic mushrooms...something..."

"We have to be brave."

"I'm gonna need you Dolly. I'm gonna need you to get straight."

Rachel and Dolly hugged each other, cuddled up in each other's arms and listened to the music in silence.

.................................................................................

Ginny Walters was the woman Blade was most fond of. She had a special place in his heart. He visited her often and always made a point of dropping by her place whenever he got back in town after a prolonged absence. It was always a pleasure for Blade to be in her presence. Her blue eyes, strawberry blonde hair, rosy glow on a creamy complexion and temperate disposition contrasted sharply with Rachel's appearance and demeanor. Blade was in bondage with Rachel and in love with Ginny. He dreamed of someday being with Ginny but wondered if he would be capable of the kind of love that she would expect from him. It filled him with sadness to think that he wouldn't be able to fulfill her expectations and he was more than a little afraid to find out if he really could.

Ginny had been a fan of On The Edge from the start. She happened to be at the hole-in-the-wall club where the band gave its first public performance. While they were gyrating through their last number Ginny did something that would forever endear her to Blade. After vigorously shaking a half-full bottle of Bud she began to spray the remaining contents at all the band members. The rest of the audience immediately began doing likewise. Then Blade and the rest of the band jumped off the stage with bottles of beer of their own and gave back to the audience as good as they got. During this melee Blade grabbed Ginny by the hand and led her backstage to the club's old and long-unused kitchen. The beer soaked pair had a good laugh about the craziness she had started. Blade grabbed her to him and kissed her passionately and wanted to know if she would go back to his place. Ginny said she was there with someone but she gave Blade her number and told him not to forget her when he got famous which she predicted would be very soon.

That was during Ginny's young and wild years which were sandwiched in between an over all conservative middle class lifestyle. Her schooling consisted of private catholic institutions until college when, against her parents wishes, she attended USC. It was there that she found, and occasionally indulged, her wild side.

Since her graduation she'd been working as a legal secretary at a prestigious Los Angeles law firm, Lindsay, Crouse & Morgan. She had kept up a friendship with Blade that was sometimes difficult to justify. There was definitely a part of her that wanted him. She knew that. On the other hand there was also a part of her, the better part, she thought, that recoiled at the very idea of coupling with such a retrograde. This better part of her, however, was not all that attracted to any of the men she met in her mainstream existence. Not nearly as attracted as she was to Blade. Hence, she seldom dated and had never come close to marriage, or even an engagement.

For that to happen she figured she would either have to marry Blade or meet some corporate executive who's hot looks and animal magnetism would toss Blade forever into her trash file of rejects. The former seemed a remote possibility, the latter, Ginny knew, was ridiculously farfetched. She thought, a third possibility might be the charm. Her attraction to Blade might somehow diminish thereby giving some less exciting man a chance to shine. She knew she was only kidding herself about that. After all, Blade had presented her with many opportunities to become disenchanted with him. Like shacking up with her younger sister for a month in Acapulco. Ginny was furious when she first found out about it and swore she'd never see Blade again. But finally rationalized it, as she did with all of Blade's questionable behavior. Her sister was merely a stand in for her. It was Blade's way of getting closer to her. She accused her sister of sleeping with Blade out of jealousy. This strained her already shaky relationship with her family. Ginny's parents did not approve of her "obsession" with the "degenerate rocker". They constantly advised her to seek counseling and "exorcise the demon" from her body, mind and soul once and for all. After Blade had his way with their other daughter Ginny's parents drew a line in the sand. Either she was on their side of that line or she was on Blade's side. Ginny wished her family well. Her fate was sealed.

Ginny's devotion to the rock 'n' roll icon was not something she could manage with any degree of satisfaction. He presided over her life like a demigod. Her worship of him was like a drug addiction. She needed him in her life one way or another no matter what. It was all she could do to keep from throwing herself at his feet and begging him to be hers alone. It was even more of an effort to keep her abject lust for him in check. Ginny's resolve to keep her feelings restrained was steeled by her deep abiding conviction that the only way to keep Blade coming back was to keep him out of her bed, to keep herself special to him. She knew that was the only chance she had of ever having Blade all to herself someday.

Ginny had not attended the last performance of the On The Edge tour that Saturday night. Blade always sent her a ticket for the first performance of an LA gig. That was on Thursday night. As usual she had gone alone and sat in a cheap seat up in the rafters. She did not go backstage afterwards. Blade knew she was there.

Ginny watched the show greatly moved by the waves of wild adulation the audience generated in response to Blade. That adulation she felt was directed at her as much as it was at the star of the show because of the intimate connection she had with him. She allowed herself to get caught up in the frenzied passion of the crowd with a total abandonment. The intense excitement, along with a pair of Ben Wa balls, brought her to orgasm. That was as close to making love to Blade as she would let herself get.

Saturday night she spent at home waiting for her dream man to appear. She sat serenely on her living room sofa watching a PBS special, Lawrence Olivier and Joan Fontaine in Wuthering Heights, her favorite movie of all time. She was so glad when she saw the time slot it was listed for in TV Guide. It was the perfect drama to set the mood to meet with Blade. To get her into playing the heroine of an unrequited love.

The door buzzer sounded just as the ghosts of Kathy and Heathcliff were walking into the moor. Ginny went to answer it in melancholy thoughtfulness. She was wearing an ankle length nightgown of gothic proportions and moved furtively toward the door like a tormented spirit. She opened it just a crack and peeked through.

Blade said, "Hi."

"Hello there, stranger," Ginny responded softly.

"Okay if I come in?" inquired Blade.

"I guess so," Ginny pondered without moving.

Blade looked at her a moment and the asked, "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, but you should've called first."

"You knew I'd be here."

"Yes, but you should have called me."

Blade put his face up to hers in the door space, "I did call you. I guess you couldn't hear me."

Use a phone next time," Ginny said dryly sarcastic.

"Oh, call you on the phone? Well, why didn't you say so?" Blade asked mockingly stupid.

Letting Blade in Ginny said, "You are a Neanderthal."

"Please. You flatter me," said Blade as he walked into the living room.

Following closely behind, Ginny said, "I heard something just now."

Blade turned to her saying, "That was me. I said, 'please, you flatter me'."

"I mean from the spies I have watching your every move," Ginny said a little exasperated with Blade's foolery.

"Oh really? What have they told you?"

Blade and Ginny sat on the sofa and she said, "That you're getting a divorce."

Taking a deep breath Blade said, "I dunno, Ginny. Rachel and me had a little spat. I don't think it's anything serious."

"No?"

"Not really. I don't think we could really break up for good."

"Do you still want to be with her?"

"I don't know if wanting has anything to do with it."

"You mean it's like a bad habit?"

Blade smiled and said, "You and me. I think about you and me together." He put his arm around her.

"Yeah, me too," Ginny sighed snuggling into Blade's embrace.

"Do ya?" Blade nuzzled his head against Ginny's and said, "I feel really good when I'm with you, Ginny. I feel like new. Rejuvenated."

Ginny looked up at Blade misty eyed and he leaned in to kiss her but she turned away.

"I care about you Blade," she said softly.

"You have a funny way of showin' it."

"Well, you are a married man."

"And if I wasn't?"

"I dunno."

Blade looked at her in an analytical way and asked, "Do you have a problem making up your mind?"

Ginny thought a moment and said, "I dunno," and they both chuckled. Ginny went on, "If you weren't a famous rock star maybe I'd know better how I felt about you. Instead of maybe bein' just star struck, ya know?"

"Yea, well, I think my glorious career is over."

"Why? Your tour was great."

"Yea, but I can't take it anymore. I think I've had it. I'd like to get a place somewhere no one else knows about and live there with you for the rest of our lives."

"Really?" asked Ginny snuggling back under Blade's arm.

"That's my fantasy."

"Oh," Ginny said sadly.

"Yea, you're my fantasy woman."

"I don't want to be a fantasy anymore."

"Well, we could make it more of a reality," Blade said as he moved in to kiss her.

"The reality is your marriage," Ginny responded as she pushed Blade away.

"Well, as far as I know, yeah," Blade said as he sat back into himself.

"Why do you want to stay with someone who's always threatening to leave you?"

"I dunno. We have a bond, I guess. No matter how much we might want to break it off. The bond is always stronger. Our bonding rituals could get a bit strange..." Blade's voice trailed off as if he were lost in thought.

"How strange?"

"You don't wanna know."

"Oh come on, you can tell me."

"Well...okay, one thing we were into there for a while was, uh..." Blade paused a moment. There was a far away look in his blue eyes as he became immersed in an intense memory. "Well," he continued, "we had this thing about coming as close to death as possible while making love." Ginny stiffened slightly and tried not to look at Blade. We had this huge barn of a house in Connecticut at the time. It actually was a remodeled barn. Bought it after the release of my first album. The living room had a very high vaulted ceiling. Under the ceiling at the height of the walls there were two wooden beams spanning the width of the room. In the walls at either end of the room I put in large brass hooks about waist high. We'd tie a rope in each of the hooks and throw them over the wooden beams so they hung down about ten feet or so from the floor. At the end of the ropes there was a hangman's noose. We placed unlit candles directly under the knotted ropes that were secured by the hooks. The stereo was blastin' rock. We had, I dunno, about a hundred lit candles scattered all over the place. That was the only source of light. Rachel and I would go into separate rooms to prepare. We'd agree to enter the living room at the start of a certain song. She'd come in wearing a flimsy negligee and I'd wear nothing but a G-string type of thing. So, we'd dance around each other awhile, we'd embrace, stroke each other, lick, bite. I might throw her around, rough her up a bit. She might do the same to me. Then at some point I'd rip off Rachel's nighty so she's totally naked. We'd light the candles under the knotted ropes in the hooks. Dance around a little more. Then Rachel might embrace me and slide down my body while pulling off my G-string. Then we'd get up on the chairs that were placed under the hanging ropes and put the nooses around our necks. Rachel would leap onto me, wrap her legs around me and we'd begin to make love. Eventually I'd kick the chair out from under us and we'd hang suspended from the ropes around our necks as we worked up to orgasm. The candles under the knots were in the process of burning through. We'd reach orgasm while swinging in the air possibly to our death. Of course, by this time the flame under the knots would be burning through enough for the ropes to break. We were only supposed to be hanging at the end of the rope for no more than a few seconds. But we never knew. There was always that element of risk.

"One time I remember Rachel's rope broke first while mine was still holding. I thought for sure I was a goner. Orgasms were so intense for me and Rachel. Finally the rope did break and we both fell to the floor and continued to make love for the rest of the night..."

The two would-be lovers sat in silence. Ginny sat very still staring out in front of her. Blade quietly reflected on his memory.

"I tell ya Ginny it was such a rush, nothing else like it, the most incredible emotions and a kind of intense light show goin' on in your head...Ginny...Ginny."

Coming back from where ever she was Ginny muttered, "I wish you hadn't told me that."

"A bit too much, was it?"

"I'd like to be alone now."

"Sure, okay...you're probably better off without me ...I'll call ya...g'night..." said Blade quietly as he got up from the sofa, "Got a big day tomorrow. Family thing. Better go home an' get some sleep," he added as he bent over and kissed Ginny on top of her head. He looked down at her a moment and then left.

..................................................................................

SUNDAY MORNING JULY 6

It was a gloomy affair. The sky above the athletic field where Josh was to play his soccer match was filled with dark foreboding clouds. Occasional rays of sunlight shown through the overcast heavens like beacons of joy only to be closed off by ominous black monsters that seemed to be conspiring in a hostile takeover of the sky forever.

Rachel, dressed very conservatively in a stylish cream colored pant suit, stood by a section of bleacher seats along with Belinda and Dolly as they watched Josh warming up with his soccer team. Belinda rhythmically nudged herself against the seats and looked over her shoulder from time to time straining to see what she wanted to. "Is daddy coming, mommy?" she asked as if burdened by the question. Her large sad eyes seemed to belie her cute pixie like looks, a darkness beaming out through sunshine.

Rachel was annoyed by the question and absently answered, "I dunno, Belinda. I dunno."

Rachel wanted Blade to be there for the kids but she was half hoping he wouldn't show at all. That would make it easier for her to deliver the fatal blow to their dying marriage. If he did show, Rachel was prepared to drive a stake through the heart of their relationship then and there. She wasn't sure she could do it alone and was depending on her family to help hammer in that stake. She needed them to get to the athletic field before Blade arrived. Rachel had called her mother that morning to let her know the plan for sending Blade a message loud and unmistakably clear. It was a cruel plan. Of that she had no doubt. She also knew it was necessary. She just hoped she would not waver in her resolve to carry it out.

That resolve was being severely tested by a persistent, horrifying memory.

"I hope daddy comes," Rachel heard her daughter say.

"Oh God..." Rachel pleaded her case to the heavens as she stepped away from Belinda. She stopped in front of Dolly a moment and said, "Oh Dolly...I'm so...I keep thinking about things...things I've done...terrible things...I can't believe the way I was...I wonder if I really can change..."

Dolly gently stroked her friends back and Rachel moved off to be alone with her thoughts.

She was remembering a time about two years ago.

It was after Blade returned from his clandestine trek around the country and just before he started writing the songs for his new album. He and Rachel were stoned on coke and speed. The bedroom of their luxurious Malibu beach house was eerily lit by a profusion of candles. They wore T-shirts and sweat pants and were sitting on the bed leaning against the headboard. Josh and Belinda, then six and eight, were asleep in their rooms.

Rachel had a spaced-out spooky expression on her face and mumbled something unintelligible.

"Huh," uttered Blade half consciously.

"The kids...they've had a good childhood," Rachel managed to say struggling for articulation.

"A great childhood," Blade answered dreamily.

"The best," added Rachel.

"Better than I ever had."

"Better than mine, for sure," Rachel said resentfully.

Those who knew Rachel's family might have thought her childhood to be perfect in every way. Seemingly doting parents, a lovely home with all the creature comforts that anyone could wish for her. Rachel's experience, however, would severely contradict that image. As a child she had been under constant pressure to fulfill her parent's image of what it was to be "normal". They were oppressive in striving to raise the perfectly normal family.

When Rachel was only ten years old she started developing breasts. This was not acceptable. Her father was especially upset about it. He called her a freak and told her that no daughter of his could ever be a freak. He ordered Rachel's mother to bind his daughter's breasts. Rachel kicked and screamed in protest. She was hit viciously and repeatedly by her father. He threw her to the floor and held her face down, straddling her and pulling her head back by her hair. Rachel felt his hardness pressing against her butt. "Bind her now!" He shouted furiously at his wife. But she couldn't go through with it, "You let her go! Now! You monster! Let her go!" At that moment he ejaculated, screamed in torment and collapsed on top of his daughter's writhing body. You get off her! Now! You pervert!" his wife shrieked. He slithered off, crawled away till he managed to get on his feet and defeatedly left the room. Rachel's mother held her sobbing, terrified daughter to her breasts and that was the end of the regime of normalcy.

Rachel's father was devastated at the grotesque distortion of his picture perfect family and for two years did not even acknowledge Rachel's existence. She went through a period of rebellion, hanging out with older boys, smoking, drinking and having sex. When she was eleven she ran away with a fifteen-year-old boy and they lived on the streets for a few months before she was found and brought home by the police. She continued her wild ways and her father, after he deigned to recognize her presence, would sometimes lash out at her in anger and smack her around. Rachel's mother would intervene when she could and her father eventually stopped the abuse. He sunk into a depression for a couple of years and lost his job. The family had to move to a less affluent neighborhood and Rachel's mother went to work. Rachel's father finally did get back on his feet, found a new job and tried to act as if he was in charge of things again.

Standing alone on the sidelines of the soccer field Rachel momentarily recalled her own childhood to help explain her less than motherly intentions in the memory that kept haunting her.

She thought she must have been a fearsome sight that night, sitting on the bed with Blade, strung out on drugs and full of hate.

"Our kids had a really good life," Rachel reiterated.

"Better than anyone's," Blade said.

"And we did it. We gave that to them. We made it all possible."

"Yea..." Blade said with a sigh of satisfaction.

"But now it's over."

"Over? What's over?"

"Soon they'll be just another couple of fucked up teenagers."

"Mmm."

"They die now their lives are perfect."

"Yeah."

"What would they have to look forward to anyway? The whole world's goin' to hell. It's all out of control. Holes in the sky...pretty soon the sun'll just burn the flesh right off of us. An' everyone'll be ravaged by some super virus of some kind that'll make AIDS look like a bad case of the flu. We're so pitiful. Human beings are so fuckin' pitiful. Ruining everything...oceans, rain forests... We need Jim Jones to rule the world an' throw a global-kool-aid-party. Dr. Kervorkian show us the way. Lead us all like Lemmings into the sea of death. So, what're we hangin' around for? See...everyone knows...everyone knows it's all over for us, for the human race. That's why everything's so crazy. The violence, the greed, the fanatics, the hate. We hate ourselves is what it is 'cause we don't know how to be. No one really knows how to be. We're all...guessin'...play actin'. That's all. It's over. I'm tellin' ya. It's all over for us an' we know it, but we go on acting as if we don't know it. We all know it. We fool ourselves by fooling each other, each an' every minute. Every, 'Have a good day,' is pure foolery, pure desperation. Oh, sure, maybe there's a chance of some miracle happening...Christ on the taco, that was the sign...Jeez...Statues oozin' body fluids. What the hell is that! God must be nuts. Statues cryin' tears and bleedin' blood. What the hell is that? My little baby Jesus doll pooped his diaper. Ya gotta believe. Ya know! Our heads are so filled with fantasy how the hell are we supposed to tell what's real? How are we supposed to deal with reality? Hell we don't even know what it is. Reality...It's all over for us. That's the reality. Forget it. Now, go get the kids. The time has come. It's over for us. It's time to go."

Blade was under Rachel's spell and said softly, "They'll die as innocents."

"They'll be safe."

"Yes..."

There was a silence as Rachel stared at Blade intensely. Finally, she exploded, "Well!"

"Huh?" Blade reacted as if waking from a dream.

"Go get the kids!"

"Get the kids? What for?" he asked suddenly at a loss.

"What have I just been telling you?" Rachel asked in an exasperated fury.

"Oh that, uh, yea...well I mean you're not really serious..."

"Go get the kids," Rachel demanded.

"You can't be serious..."

Rachel's face began twitching grotesquely.

She flew into a vicious rage and threw herself on Blade clawing, biting, kicking and screaming. Blade just tried to control her at first but realizing that wasn't enough he began an offensive of his own. He started beating her off while shouting, "You wanna die! You wanna die! Will that make you happy! Huh! Will that make you happy!"

After a few good punches to her head and body Rachel realized she was getting the worst of it and ran out of the room in a fright. She went right to a phone and dialed 911, "My husband's trying to kill me! Send somebody over here quick...8256 Mulholland Drive...Hurry!" After hanging up she ran out of the house to hide in the bushes until help arrived.

In the meantime Blade came out of the house looking for his distraught wife. He walked around the yard still a bit stupefied from the drugs, "Rachel... Rachel, where are you? It's okay darlin'. It's over. C'mon, we can do it later. Off the kids and ourselves some other time. Soon. I promise. It'll be soon enough. Rachel. Rachel..."

When the patrol car pulled up to the closed front gate at the foot of the driveway Rachel ran out of the bushes and pushed the button to open it screaming for help.

Two young beefy policemen got out of the patrol car. The one Rachel ran to them.

"Who did this to you?" one of them asked.

"Just get me outta here!" Rachel pleaded.

Blade approached them saying, "Rachel, it's okay darlin'..."

She cringed into the officers and cried out, "Keep him away from me!"

"Is he your husband?"

"Yes," answered Rachel.

"Did he beat you up?"

"Yes."

The cop approached Blade with his flashlight. Seeing a somewhat familiar face asked, "Hey, aren't you...uh, somebody...uh..." and then it hit him, "Oh man, Blade, from On The Edge!" He turned to his partner, "Jeff, look, it's Blade." He then turned back to Blade and asked in a friendly inquisitive way, "So, what's goin' on here?"

"Just a misunderstanding," Blade said.

"We're gonna have to take you to the station," the cop that was comforting Rachel said maintaining his professional objectivity.

"You really think that's necessary?" Blade asked casually. "You guys know Mike D'Angello and Steve Conner, right?"

"Sure."

"Yea, sure."

They'll vouch for me." The two cops looked at each other and Blade continued, "I'll get my wife taken care of and everything'll be fine."

"Whatd'ya say ma'am?"

"Don't listen to him," she said bitterly.

"Rachel..." Blade pleaded.

She turned her head away from him.

"Sorry pal, you're gonna have to come down to the station. You drive yourself there while we take your wife to the hospital and get a statement from her."

"Awright, if that's the way it has to be," Blade grudgingly acquiesced.

Rachel got treated at the hospital where pictures were taken of her battered condition. Pictures that somehow made it to the front page of the leading tabloid the very next day. Blade pleaded no contest to a charge of assault and battery and was sentenced to pay a fine of one thousand dollars and do community service. He paid the fine but continually dodged the community service until his lawyer got it rescinded because Blade's notoriety made it impossible for him to make an appearance anywhere without drawing huge, unmanageable crowds.

At the time Rachel felt perfectly justified in what she had done and played the part of the innocent victim to the hilt. She wallowed in all the sympathy and support she got from her family, her friends and all the media hotshots of the feminist movement.

Reflecting on the whole affair as she paced the sideline of the soccer field, Rachel was totally disgusted by her behavior. She feared that Blade would arrive before her family and she'd kneel down before him and beg his forgiveness. Maybe she should, Rachel thought. Maybe she would if she could be sure it would do any good. But, no. What she was sure of was that she and Blade had to go their own separate ways, forever. That was that. No question about it. She just prayed that she wouldn't have to face her husband alone that dark and gloomy day.

"Mommy! Mommy!" Rachel heard her daughter call out excitedly.

"Huh..." a dopey Rachel muttered as she looked around trying to get her bearings.

Dolly had been standing close by her friend watching, wondering what planet she was on. "You just wake up from a dream?" Dolly asked.

"From the nightmare that was my life," Rachel said as she went toward her excited daughter.

"Mommy, look! It's Grammy and Grampy!" Belinda ran to meet them as they walked toward the field from the parking area.

Rachel's eyes filled with tears as she saw her mother, father, sister and brother coming her way. It was like an apparition. They had descended through the clouds on a beam of sunlight as Gabriel trumpeted their arrival. She cursed herself for imagining such sentimental garbage but couldn't help being affected by it and she broke down in tears as her family approached.

"What is it Rachel?" Her mother, a tall thin woman with a well-lined face, asked as they hugged each other.

"Oh, everything..." said Rachel as her mother handed her a handkerchief, "my life. I've been such a fool." Rachel embraced her mother again and sobbed in her arms.

"Now, now," her mother comforted.

"I have," Rachel insisted, "I really have. I don't deserve you guys. The things I've done..." She paused to blow her nose. "I see everything so different now," Rachel continued through her sniffles, "I want to change. I really do. But I'm so afraid... I've been strung out for so long on the dark side of life...I don't know if I can make it all the way back into the light."

"Of course, you can," Rachel's mother said with an enthusiasm that was almost disingenuous. It sounded forced but Hedda's strong face and sincere blue eyes gave the sentiment credence.

"Just get rid of that moron you're married to," Rachel's father, George, chimed in. He was a large, droopy-faced man emanating a studied air of importance.

"Now, George..." Hedda gently admonished.

"No, dad's right," Rachel said as she gave her father a brief but fervent hug along with a peck on the cheek. "And yes," she went on, "I'm filing for divorce tomorrow. Just like I said I would. I have to change everything. Make a new start. I want to for my kids, especially. I want them to live...to have a normal life. I want to be there for them better than I have been."

Rachel's sister, Meg, put her hand on Rachel's arm saying, "Are you sure this time? Really sure?" Meg looked her sister straight in the eye.

"Absolutely," answered Rachel. She tried to return her sister's gaze without blinking as though it was a staring contest like they used to have as kids.

Honest Injun?" Meg demanded with the cutest expression on her face.

Rachel took Meg in a moment as though wondering if she was for real and then said adamantly, "Yes, Meg, I am through with the Blade man for good. I can make it without him. I don't need him. I've got my kids. I'm going to start my own career. Be my own woman."

"Thatta girl!" shrieked Meg insisting on a high-five.

Rachel's brother, Mark, watched his two sisters with a smirk on his face. At nineteen he was the youngest of the three. He had long brown hair, blue eyes, and his mother's strong facial features. He watched the spectacle before him and was not impressed with all the palaver he was witnessing and asked Rachel pointedly, "You're own career doing what?"

Rachel turned her head to look at him and said defiantly, "I dunno. I'll find something."

"Collecting alimony. That'll be your career. Collecting a lot of alimony," Mark scoffed.

"Mark!" Meg scolded.

"Well, there'll be child support, of course," Rachel offered trying to vitiate Mark's comment.

"How can you just dump the guy?" asked Mark, "How bad can he be? He's been pretty good to us. I know that much. He's helped with my college tuition. That time we almost lost the house 'cause we couldn't pay the mortgage, Blade took care of that. Bought the house outright for us."

"I could've worked something out," George protested, his fleshy face quivering with bravado.

"Of course you could have, Dad," said Meg.

"I'll be paying it all back, too. I don't need anyone's charity," said George flapping his jowls.

"Oh look," Meg said indicating the parking area, "here he comes."

Having just emerged from his black Chevy Blazer, Blade was heading their way. He was wearing jeans, an old worn out sweatshirt, a cowboy hat and his trademark cowboy boots.

Rachel nervously started directing her support group toward the stands saying, "Okay, everyone, let's get seated. Remember, I don't want him sitting with us. So fill in the whole row here."

There was room for ten people in each row. Two other people were sitting in the row Rachel picked out. In her group there were six adults, including herself, plus Belinda, making a total of nine people altogether in that row. Rachel saw to it that everyone was spaced out just so to make it look like there was no room left for another. When all her co-conspirators were in place Rachel took the end seat to make sure Blade would not be let in. She knew how he could charm his way passed custom agents with a suitcase full of drugs and she wasn't going to let him work his magic on someone less committed to her plan than she was.

Blade approached the seats and smiled as he said with a perfunctory wave, "Hey everybody."

There was some fidgeting among the cabal but no one acknowledged Blade at all. Though Mark and Belinda did furtively glance his way.

"What's goin' on?" asked Blade with a little chuckle in his voice, "Ya gotta seat for me here?"

"This row's filled," Rachel said looking straight ahead.

"Rachel, what're you talkin' about. There's plenty of room. C'mon scoot your cute little tush over and le'me have a seat."

"You heard me. This row is full. There's no room for you here."

"C'mon, Belinda can sit on my lap."

"I said there's no room."

"I don't believe this. Look Rache I came here to sit with my family and watch my son play soccer. Now move over and let me sit down with ya."

"It's over Blade, forget it," Rachel said flatly, "we're through. That's final."

Blade stood over her in silence a moment. He looked at her with a measured rage that everyone took note of. His jaw muscles were popping and his nostrils quivered. Finally he took a deep breath, abruptly turned away and went to sit up on the top row. There were five other people sitting there who acted as if they were unaware of the embarrassing scene.

The soccer game had started. The ball was kicked near the sideline in front of the section of seats where Blade and Rachel sat apart. Josh and an opponent raced to be the first to get to it. "C'mon Josh! C'mon Josh!" Meg and her father yelled. Josh was winning the race. He looked up at the stands where his family sat. Noticing his father sitting alone his stride slowed and his opponent, who was just a couple of steps behind, collided with him and sent him flying. Josh's teammates started to shout at him to get up and get the ball but he failed to do so. He was slow to get up and the other kid got the ball. Josh limped back to the game glancing behind him a couple of times toward the stands.

"That's okay Josh! Go get 'em!" his clan yelled out in encouragement.

Belinda turned around to see her father and when he looked back at her she said, "Hi daddy."

"Hi sweetheart," he said with a soft smile.

"I still love you," Belinda said plaintively.

"I know and daddy loves you."

Rachel found herself glancing back at Blade for an instant. As soon as he looked at her she turned away.

The game progressed and Josh, after recovering from the troublesome aspect of his ostracized father, played well. At one point he scored a goal to put his team ahead but as it turned out it was a losing effort. The other team won by a score of three to two.

At the end of the game Josh's team got together with their coach. They gathered by the team's bench that was across the field from the stands where all the families were now milling around waiting for their little ones. Blade jumped down from his lonely perch to join Rachel and her entourage. They were all talking about how well Josh played while trying to ignore Blade's encroachment. Belinda ran to her father. He picked her up and lifted her over his head before hugging her close. "Looks like we've got some tough times ahead sugar," he said. "But whatever happens you know that I love you very much and I always will. Okay?"

"Okay, and will you come to watch me do things too?"

"I sure will."

"If you and mommy got back together I'd be really really good."

"You are really really really really good," Blade said as he tickled a laugh out of his daughter and added, "And the problems between me and mommy are all mommy's and mine. You and Josh are not the cause of any problems. Okay?"

"Okay daddy," Belinda said as she squeezed a hug around Blade's neck and kissed him on the cheek.

"C'mon Belinda," Rachel said as Josh approached from the playing field, "it's time to go."

Blade lowered Belinda gently to the ground. She went over to Rachel who was holding Josh firmly by the hand. Blade gave him a thumb's up and said, "Nice game Josh."

Josh looked up at his mother and she reluctantly let him go. He ran to his father and Blade lifted him up, threw him into the air and caught him in his arms. Blade approached Rachel and her family offering to take them all out for lunch. George informed his soon to be ex-son-in-law that he had already made reservations for lunch. Reservations that did not include him. "We just weren't sure you'd be here," George explained with a self-satisfied smirk.

Blade kissed Josh on the cheek, lowered him to the ground and sent him back to his mother. Mark approached Blade and they exchanged a high five. Then Blade hugged Mark around the neck holding him tightly as he jokingly messed up his hair. Blade laughed and said, "You're gettin' too good lookin', pal." Mark responded by saying, "And you're gettin' too old, pardner," as he playfully threw some punches into Blade's stomach. The two laughed as they pushed each other away. Blade asked him how school was going. Mark said it was going just fine and that he was sorry for the treatment Blade had received from the others. "Yeah, well, we'll work it all out somehow," Blade said cheerfully. He waved good-bye to everyone and headed back to his truck.

................................................................................

"We're so proud of you, Rachel," said Hedda as she raised a glass of Champagne to toast her liberated daughter. Dolly, George and Meg joined in and held their drinks in the air. Belinda and Josh looked around at the grownups and then at each other. They reached for their Shirley Temples to join the toast, recoiled from doing so and hung their heads. Mark sat with his arms folded and watched the proceedings like a critic at a lousy show. Hedda finished the toast saying, "Here's to your new life and may it finally bring you the happiness you deserve."

"Here, here," Meg, George and Dolly chimed in and they all gulped down their drinks.

They were dining at La Casa del Mar located on a pier situated in a small fishing community north of LA. It had a ramshackle exterior, which seemed to be haphazardly pieced together with slabs of wood and belied the quality of the food and service to be found within.

La Casa, as it was familiarly known, got its fish fresh from its own fishing boats once or twice a day. The chef would hoist the catch onto the pier from the boat at eight in the morning and, if needed, at five in the afternoon. As the boat was approaching the restaurant the captain would radio the chef to inform him of their catch. The chef would tell him what he wanted so the fishermen could ready the order for the hoist. Whatever remained after the chef's order was filled was sold at a nearby fish market and the fishermen divvied up the proceeds.

Fish was the specialty at La Casa but it was not the only delicacy served at the exceptional eatery. Steak, that was specially flown in from Omaha, was also on the menu and there were a variety of Mexican dishes to choose from. It was quite a popular place and always seemed to be packed with people. Fishnets containing artifacts of the sea were draped along the ceiling. The walls were decorated with harpoons, ships' steering wheels, mounted fish, and the like. Strategically placed blackboards displayed the specialties of the day.

Rachel's party sat at a large table in front of a bay window with a view of the Pacific. The ocean, however, did not reflect the image of its name on that day. The gathering storm had unleashed its brewing violence during the drive from the athletic field. The sea was a torment of white caps and spectacular arrays of lightning rippled across the dark sky. Crescendos of restaurant shaking thunder halted conversation among the diners whose silence lingered on moments after a thunderclap had come and gone. As the silence became evident the talk gradually resumed, only to be interrupted again by the cacophony on high.

"Wow!" Josh said, wide-eyed at the stormy spectacle pictured in the window. Bolts of ferocious lightning flashed through the sky like crazed sunbeams. He loved the storm and wished there could be even more thunder to stop the talking he didn't want to hear. Belinda remained quietly within herself as though indifferent to the weather as well as the conversation.

"So, Rachel," George asked his daughter, "d'ya think, his highness, got the message?

"If he didn't there's more where that came from," Rachel said assuredly.

"Atta girl," George chortled encouragingly.

"So, what's next Rache?" asked Meg with a wide-eyed enthusiasm that made her brother groan. "Get with it you butthead!" Meg venomously scolded.

"Go choke on your dildo, you nympho-crackhead," came Mark's rejoinder.

"I'll kill you!" Meg threatened through clenched teeth barely in control of her fury. "I swear I will, you say one more word..." a blast of thunder from the heavens put Meg's rage to shame and she bit her lip as tears welled up in her eyes. When silence again ensued she said, "It's not fair. I know I've made some mistakes, did some crazy things, but for you to constantly throw them back in my face..."

"Let's just drop it, for God's sake," George pleaded.

"Yes, let's!" Hedda said firmly. "We're here to celebrate Rachel's new beginning. Let's not spoil it with a lot of unnecessary bickering. Okay?"

Meg nodded holding back her tears and Mark signaled his compliance with a shrug of indifference.

The waiter came with the food. For Josh it was a taco supreme. Belinda had ordered her father's favorite, shrimp scampi, even though she wasn't too fond of garlic. Rachel had broiled swordfish with an enchilada on the side. It was steak for Mark and Dolly. George and Hedda went for the king crab.

As they began eating, the sky was showing a patch of clearing on the horizon and the thunder was getting less severe, more distant and sporadic.

"So, Rachel" Hedda said, "do you have any firm plans for yourself or are you just fishing around for the time being?"

"Well, I've been thinking about becoming an agent. A talent agent. I have some contacts. I might try to hook up with an established agency or go it on my own. See how that works out. I know of one young aspiring actor who I believe is a hot prospect..."

"Ooo, a hot prospect, huh?" said Mark with obvious sexual overtones. "Just how hot is he, Rache?"

Rachel chose to ignore her pest of a brother and continued musing about her future. "...I have a sense about talent. When I first saw this guy I knew he had it. And all he did was deliver a pizza..."

"Oh yea? Didja eat his pepperoni?" asked Mark raising and lowering his eyebrows a la Groucho Marx.

"Mark," Rachel said, "grow up!"

"Yeah, Mark, get a life," sister Meg chimed in.

"Jeez, you women can't take a joke."

"There's a time and a place, Mark, and this is not the time nor the place for your testosterone driven humor," Rachel scolded.

"Awright," said Mark, "I'll have a big glass of milk, bring up my estrogen level and groove right into the female delusional thing."

"What are you..." Hedda threw up her hands in exasperation at her son's comments. "Where do you get such ideas?"

"No wonder you don't have a girl friend," said Rachel.

"No, he has to take women by force," Meg declared.

Mark threw her a dirty look and Meg answered, "Margery Blaine told me you date raped her."

"Date rape," Mark said sarcastically. "She wanted me to use a condom, I didn't and we did it anyway. That's all."

"And that's rape," Meg insisted.

"More female delusion," was Mark's reply.

"That's enough!" said Hedda emphatically, "George, do something."

"Your mother's right, kids," George said judiciously, "you have to learn to conduct yourselves civilly if you want to get along and get ahead in this world."

"Yeah? Tell that to Howard Stern," was Mark's response.

At this point Dolly couldn't help giggling and quickly excused herself from the table.

"So, you were saying, Rachel dear," Hedda coaxed.

"Well, his name is Robby, the pizza delivery guy, and the first time as I saw him I knew he had something, a special quality. I told him he should be an actor. And guess what? He said he was! Isn't that incredible!"

"Yeah, imagine that," Mark mocked, "an aspiring actor in LA with a peon job. Who'd've thunk it?"

"Mark, you are incorrigible," Hedda scolded with a contained exasperation.

"Just ignore him, mother," Rachel said, "he's still in his juvenile stage and nothing he says could matter in the least. Nothing could dampen the optimism I feel today for my future. I've been so lost, went so far astray, I didn't ever think I'd be able to find my way back. But, now I know I can. I can find myself in you mom," she put her hand on her mother's and put her other hand on her father's, "and in you dad..." Meg moved her head forward to get Rachel's attention, "...and in you sis, of course. I know I can rely on your support and that's what will give me the strength to get my act together and become my own woman once and for all."

"I know you will, Rachel," Hedda said, "I believe you can accomplish whatever you put your mind to. After all, you are my daughter."

As this was said, George made a strange grunting, gurgling noise as though straining to say something through a complex of crossed wires in his nervous system. A bottleneck of thoughts and opinions that could not be sorted out impeded his speech. His jowls shook, he adjusted himself in his chair and the animated expression on his glowing moonlike face gave the impression that he was uttering some pearl of wisdom. The eruption was attended with some degree of wonder by the others. Except for Belinda and Josh who took no notice. They had tuned out from the adults, thoroughly immersed in their own little worlds.

Dolly returned to the table and sat down as Hedda said, "Yes, Rachel, you know you can count on us. We'll be there for you no matter what."

"You be sure to get all that's coming to you," said George punctuating the air with his index finger and added, "all that you deserve. Make sure your ex-to-be doesn't have any secreted bank accounts or stocks and bonds squirreled away under fictitious names or corporations. All kinds of tricks he could pull. I'm tellin' ya. I wouldn't trust that guy as far as I could throw him. Never did."

"Don't worry, dad, I've got it covered. I got the best lawyer there is. He won't let anything slip by. Once it's all settled you won't have a financial worry in the world, ever again."

"Well, that's, uh, not, uh, inconsequential but...uh...I mean that's not the point. The money's yours, you certainly earned it with what he put you through. The women, the drugs, the beatings..."

Josh looked like he was going to cry and Rachel said, "Okay, okay dad, no need to dredge it all up. Let's focus on the future."

"Yeah," Dolly said, "Blade sure has his faults, and don't we all, but, you know, he's got his good points too."

"Well, sure, we're all human," George responded, "but some of us less so than others."

"The future folks, okay?" Rachel adamantly reminded them all.

A silence fell on the party as they all finished eating their main courses. It was broken only with desultory comments about the food and how the weather was improving. When the dessert arrived Mark started in on an amusing in depth analysis of Josh's soccer game, which entertained, and relaxed everyone and the meal ended on a convivial note toasting Josh for his excellent play.

The drive back to LA was a quiet one charged with some tension in the air. Nobody wanted to say anything that might start a war going in the crowded car. George was behind the wheel and would occasionally hum softly to himself along with the softly playing radio tuned into a country station. Hedda sat next to him and next to her was Meg. Josh slept on his mothers lap in the back seat while Belinda sat alternately on Dolly's and Mark's lap. Rachel thought about her date later that night with Robby. How wonderful it was going to be to celebrate with him and make plans for their future together. Rachel knew what she wanted for herself but worried whether she really knew how to go about getting it.

...............................................................................

Armando Cruz learned at an early age how to get what he wanted through intimidation and violence. He had grown up in a small town in Colombia whose law and order was executed by an all powerful drug lord. It was a company town. You either worked in the drug business or in a business that provided those in the drug business with all the necessary goods and services. Other than that you were left to beg, scrounge or steal for survival.

It was a town with a severe line drawn between the haves and have-nots. Located among the foothills of the Andes Mountains one's status was indicated by the elevation of one's home. The drug lord's villa was a veritable fortress perched on top of the highest hill and the upper echelon of the drug lord's staff occupied the luxurious homes just below it. The richly appointed homes beneath those belonged to the rest of the drug lord's employees from management to labor. Regular business people and their employees along with all the government officials who were, of course, appointees of the drug lord, occupied the neighboring hillsides. In a small valley to the west of the main section of the city the rest of the population lived in squalor.

In 1978 the Cruz family was among the haves. Armando, Sr., forty-two years old, his lovely wife Conchita, thirty-five, their four children, Armando, Jr., the oldest at sixteen, Arturo, twelve, Pablo, four and Maria, one year old, were living privileged, affluent lives. Armando, Sr. was the manager of one of the "cooking" operations. These were small campsite factories scattered throughout the surrounding countryside that produced cocaine hydrochloride from the cocaine base that was mostly imported from Peru and Bolivia. For eighteen years Mr. Cruz had done very well for himself and his family and they all expected their prosperity to continue well into the next couple of decades. After that Armando, Sr. could retire and collect the extremely generous severance package the drug lord made available to those who he allowed to have long term careers within his little fiefdom.

The Cruz' knew that there were certain risks involved in their situation, but those seemed remote in the continuing moments of their good fortune. All was rosy and they couldn't imagine that it would ever be any different. The bad things happened to other people. Armando, Sr. and Conchita had great plans for their retirement. A beautiful house by the seashore for them. College and legitimate careers in mainstream society for their children.

Armando, Jr. had dreams of becoming a great military leader, like Cortez or Alexander. Someday Armando Cruz would conquer all of South America, make it all one country like the United States and become its president. Armando's parents thought he might be aiming too high but their son was resolute in his grand ambition and they knew that once he set his mind to something there was no possibility of changing it. His dream was fixed in his sights and he was absolutely confident that he would someday achieve it.

However, on one particular day in his sixteenth year everything changed. Armando, Jr. woke up as usual in his luxurious brightly decorated bedroom only to be crammed with the rest of his family into a tiny, squalid shanty with only the few possessions they had been able to gather as they were rudely sent packing, without explanation, by the drug lord's army of thugs. They had become the other people that bad things happened to.

The shanty they were summarily escorted to was a fifteen by twenty foot room with a dirt floor and a piece of burlap hanging in the doorway. A crudely cut opening in the back wall served as a window. An old piece of oilcloth with faded flowers was tacked over it. This miserable little space was part of a complex of shanties in the valley where the disenfranchised lived. A labyrinth of makeshift shelters built with whatever refuse was available and suitable. Scraps of plywood and plasterboard, scavenged from various building sites around the town, were highly prized materials. Bricks, stones, tarpaper, cardboard and sticks were also ingeniously utilized in the anarchic construction of the shanty development.

The hard luck residents of this jerry-rigged complex did not co-exist with one another as one big happy family. For the most part it was every man, woman and child for themselves. The architecture of the shanty complex certainly did not lend itself to any sort of centralized social system. Its many cornered narrow alleyways formed an intricate maze that gave one a sense of permanent isolation. The labyrinth of Shantytown was extreme in its complexity. It could take up to a month for adults of average intelligence to become adept at finding their way around. Even familiarity with the corridors of the ramshackle complex could not completely erase one's feeling of being lost in its randomness. Also, the very crudeness, hopelessness and penury of the living conditions were in no way conducive to the formation of social alliances.

One of the things that did motivate collective action for the denizens of shantytown was the arrival of new blood. Initiation parties were formed to quickly acclimate all newcomers to the shantytown way of life. The Cruz' were no exception. During their first night in shantytown Armando and his family were visited by a whole gang of their new neighbors who rudely crowded into their little hovel. They began to rummage through all of their belongings. They took whatever they wanted, including some clothing off their victim's bodies, and even, as the Cruz' were horrified to discover after they were left in their half-naked state of shock, the one year old. They had taken little Maria. Armando's mother went crazy and began screaming at and beating on her husband who put up no resistance. He took the punishment like a lifeless punching bag until his wife collapsed on the dirt floor in exhaustion.

Armando, Jr. went to his mother, sat down beside her and stroked her hair to try to comfort her as well as himself. He was filled with a feeling that he hated. It was fear. He hated it even more than the gang of thieves that had just destroyed his family. He hated that feeling even more than his father who he blamed for their disgraceful downfall. The fear was so intense he was immediately transformed by it. Everything he had been, everything he had known, everything that had meant anything to him had suddenly been annihilated. He felt all alone in an alien universe where he needed to be reborn, recreated into a creature that would never feel such abject debilitating fear ever again. In that moment the boy became not a man but a monster. Armando looked down at the cringing pathetic creature his father had become. There he was writhing and groaning in agony on the floor. This abject weakling was no longer his father. No longer a man. He was a vile thing that needed to be killed. Armando instinctively felt that his father had become nothing more than excess baggage in their new surroundings where survival was all. He needed to get rid of him. Armando picked up an iron frying pan the thieving horde overlooked and beat his father's brains in. Then, with the help of his mother, who was strangely revived by her son's action, lifted the body up against the wall and shoved it out through the window where it dropped down into a pit of filth.

Mr. Cruz was not to blame for his family's descent into the nether regions of their once beloved town. It was the policy of the drug lord to send this or that employee packing at his own whimsical discretion whenever he thought it necessary to reacquaint his personnel with his omnipotence. It was also important to keep the hellhole of Shantytown packed with desperate people. Such a seething cauldron of anarchy provided the drug lord with a constant supply of utterly ruthless men that could be turned into highly effective assassins. Also, the young women of shantytown were there for the taking. The most attractive ones were used to sweeten bribes to state officials or to serve in the drug lord's mansion in whatever capacity he chose.

The drug lord was kept abreast of the goings on within the confines of shantytown by a few of its residents who were meagerly paid as informants. He knew whenever there was a space to fill, who was showing promise as an assassin and which young girls were blossoming into valuable commodities. The city's understaffed, highly paid police force was part of the drug lord's personal army. They were instructed not to interfere with the nefarious affairs of the shantytown residents unless their activities encroached upon the privileged communities. The police were also instructed to protect those businesses and government agencies that remained in the good graces of the drug lord and to ignore those that for one reason or another had earned his disfavor. Word soon spread through shantytown when a business was up for grabs or when there was a price put on a politician's head. Fifty dollars was the going rate for a local pol's assassination and there was never any shortage of applicants to collect that meager bounty. Of course, no politician could really pose a threat to the drug lord's activities but an occasional assassination of one of their numbers for ostensible subversive activity provided extra incentive for their complete cooperation.

It might strike one as odd that Armando and Conchita Cruz, or anyone else, would allow themselves to be subjected to such random acts of tyranny. But, like everyone else, the Cruz' never thought the ax would fall on them. Most of the people in the drug lord's employ did not suffer at his hands. Evictions to shantytown and assassinations were extremely rare and for the great majority they always happened to other people.

Armando proved to be a quick study in learning how to fend for himself in the gruesome environment he had suddenly been thrust into. After killing his father he felt capable of anything. A feeling of overwhelming power coursed through him as he paced the confines of his tiny new home and told his mother and brothers that everything was going to be fine. He would take care of them. There was nothing he could not do. That whole first night he paced back and forth like a caged beast and plotted a strategy. First thing to do was establish himself in shantytown as a force to be reckoned with, eventually gain a reputation as someone to be feared, catch the attention of the drug lord and get on his payroll in some capacity or other. Armando knew that was the only possible way to get him and what was left of his family out of the horrible mess they were in.

The next day Armando put his plan into motion. He wasn't exactly sure how he was going to go about it, but a strategy was presented to him by the action of his neighbors. They no longer manifested themselves as a mob. Lone individuals would stop and look in on the new arrivals to see if they might still be preyed upon in some manner. Armando would greet them with an icy glare, step up into their face and ask them what they wanted. The wary predators seeking easy pickings went immediately on their way. Armando thought this was good but not good enough and he came up with something better.

Armando, his mother and two brothers huddled together on the floor in a back corner of their shack as if they were frightened rabbits. When the next visitor came by he was emboldened by what he saw and entered the Cruz' home as if he owned it. He approached the cowering family with lascivious eyes focused on Conchita. Armando sprang up and kicked the man hard in the groin. The intruder doubled over and collapsed in excruciating pain to the floor. Armando continued kicking him about his body and head until he was nearly unconscious. The rest of the family pounced on him and stripped him of his shoes and clothing, stood him up and sent him on his way. They were able to repeat this stratagem two more times. After that no more visitors appeared at their door.

This was good. They were making progress. Again they had shoes and clothing and the absence of further visitors meant that word must have gotten around that the Cruz' were no longer easy prey. Also, Armando found a bill worth 20,000 pesos folded up under the insole of one of the shoes he had just procured and a few coins in the pocket of one pair of pants. In another there was a half eaten bar of candy and in the third he found a small jar containing several small insects wrapped in spider webbing. Armando soon learned that this was a source of food for some of the residents of their new habitat.

Armando spent the rest of the day familiarizing himself with the maze of narrow corridors that ran throughout the shantytown and once he found his way out he explored the surrounding area. On the edge of the town proper he found a small bodega that served the people of shantytown. He bought only as much food as he could stuff into his pockets. He did not want to be encumbered with bundles on the way home nor did he want to attract the attention of any predators that might be lurking about by carrying packages of groceries. He also bought a candle and some matches. As he placed his merchandise on the counter in front of the store's clerk Armando noticed a carton cutter lying next to the cash register. He put a package of peanuts he was buying on top of the cutting device and as the clerk was counting out his change from the register Armando picked up the peanuts along with the cutter and put them in his pocket. Now he had a formidable weapon and he thought with a great deal of pleasure how he might use it to gain a really fearsome reputation.

Armando's next move was to join in with the roving bands of shantytown youths who would occasionally enter the city, seek out suitable victims and openly attack and rob them. The police presence there was negligible and there were no police officers who had the slightest inclination to confront a "desperate pack of wild animals" for any reason. There were certain things that the police would have to respond to like an attack against one of their own, a government official, or other prominent citizens. The youth gangs knew the rules and had no problem abiding by them. They didn't need to go after protected people. There was plenty of other game to be had.

Armando saw an opportunity. Instead of mugging people one by one why not have a lot of people giving you money all the time in return for protecting them from being mugged? Armando told his idea to Ricardo, a swarthy, rugged, good looking eighteen year old that everyone was afraid of. If he got him on his side the rest would be easy.

Ricardo balked at Armando's idea, "Either way we are taking their money, mugging them. You want them to agree to being mugged instead of getting mugged by force?"

"When they get mugged by force they get hurt," Armando responded. "They will pay us not to get hurt."

"But I like mugging people."

Armando assured Ricardo that they would still have to go on mugging people to get others to pay for protection and to remind those who were paying what they were being protected from. Ricardo smiled at Armando, shook his hand and hugged him with an unwelcome ferocity. This was a great idea! Armando was a genius! He would do whatever Armando wanted to carry out the plan.

So, a leader emerged from the anarchy of shantytown. Armando's idea was put into action. He and Ricardo recruited ten others to join them. They gave themselves a name, The Conquistadors, and let it be known around shantytown that they would be calling the shots from then on. There were some other youths who took exception to this and Armando became their prime target. Eliminate him and that would be the end of The Conquistadors. Armando, in turn, saw that his opponents had a leader by the name of Roberto and Armando targeted him for elimination.

One night Armando waited outside in the shadows of shantytown for Roberto to return from a bout of drinking at the makeshift bar near the bodega. When he appeared he was accompanied by two of his cronies who walked on either side of him. Armando took out his carton cutter, slid the razor blade out and stepped out of the shadows to confront his enemies. They stopped dead in their tracks upon seeing who it was before them and thinking they were about to be set upon by Armando's gang looked quickly around them like frightened rabbits. Armando laughed at them and said he was alone, that he didn't need any help to kill punks. Satisfied that Armando was indeed alone Roberto and his two cronies looked at each other as they realized what this meant. Armando was theirs. They started closing in on him. Armando calmly stood his ground and when they got close enough he took a swipe at Roberto's face with the razor and slashed his cheek to the bone. Roberto yelled out and collapsed to his knees with his bloody face in his hands. His comrades stood petrified a moment before slowly backing away from the razor wielding menace. "Now watch this," Armando told them as he lifted Roberto's head up by the hair and cut his throat from ear to ear. Roberto gurgled and thrashed about as the blood gushed out of him like a river burst through a dam. "That's what happens to people who want to mess with me." Armando said to his stupefied audience and added, "Pleasant dreams," as he left them there to ponder his handiwork.

The Conquistadors under Armando's leadership was split into two groups. One group would do the muggings and the terrorizing and the other group would provide the protection. These two groups were perceived to be separate factions and that was just what Armando wanted. The second group was known as The Demons. It was their job to keep the townspeople in fear for their lives while The Conquistadors offered protection. It was chump change from individuals at first but the operation was eventually expanded to include businesses. This was a bold move by Armando and was sure to attract the attention of the drug lord.

The neighborhood bodega was the first to be victimized. The Demons trashed and looted the place and beat up the owner. The next day Armando explained to the demoralized businessman that there was only one way to prevent such incidents from happening. The owner agreed to Armando's terms. His bodega was not part of the drug lord's domain. Encroaching into that domain was the next step in Armando's plan.

The business owners complained to the drug lord about their plight and he was not pleased with what he heard. Such anti-social behavior could not be tolerated. It threatened the very principles upon which the drug lord's fiefdom was based. He ordered the immediate assassination of Armando Cruz and he recruited Ricardo, under threat of death, to carry it out. Ricardo agreed and was given a pistol, a German Luger, with which to do the job. He was to execute Armando publicly outside of shantytown in the presence of The Conquistadors and The Demons.

The next day Ricardo suggested to Armando that they hold a group meeting with both factions of their gang for solidarity purposes. He told Armando there was talk among the Demons of splitting off to do their own thing and as leader he needed to address the problem with everyone present. Armando listened stone faced to what he knew was not true. He put his hand on Ricardo's shoulder, thanked him for bringing the problem to his attention and told him to set up a meeting the next day.

That night while Ricardo slept Armando paid a visit to his cell. At the head of his mattress of layered cardboard Armando saw something that explained everything. It was the Luger with its grip on the floor and its nozzle, pointing upward, leaning against the wall. It was a beautiful sight. Armando saw in the gun his escape from the ugly world he was trapped in. He picked it up and said quietly to Ricardo, "Thank you my friend," before leaving on his way to drop in on the drug lord himself, Pedro Gorando.

When Armando was twelve he was among a group of other privileged children to be given a tour of Gorando's villa. Being militarily minded Armando noticed it was a well-fortified structure and the only possible way for it to be penetrated was from the rear. That would require scaling three hundred feet of vertical rock. Totally prohibitive for a large-scale invasion but not for a determined assassin.

Armando strapped the Luger around his neck so that it hung down his back and left shantytown vowing never to return again. He made his way to the far side of Gorando's little mountain, easily climbed the couple of thousand feet of gradually rising terrain and with a few hanging-by-his-fingernail-scares while scaling the three hundred feet of steep treacherous rock he was able to reach the drug lord's lair.

Once on the grounds it was relatively easy to sneak into the Drug Lord's bedroom where he slept. Armando gently nudged the gun into Gorando's mouth. The drug lord stirred in his sleep, put his hand up to his mouth, felt the gun and was startled to wakefulness as awareness of what was happening flooded his consciousness. It seemed to Armando that the drug lord was about to try to yell out for help so he shoved the gun to the back of his throat. Gorando gagged and Armando warned him to keep quiet or he would surely kill him. "I want to talk to you," Armando said. Gorando nodded.

Armando slowly removed the gun from Gorando's mouth and said, "I am Armando Cruz. I think you must be very impressed with me right now, ey, Pedro Gorando? You wanted to have me killed but I could be much more valuable to you alive. You wanted to kill me and put an end to the Conquistadors. But why kill someone who only wants to serve you. Give me a job with you. I think I've proven myself to you. Give me a job and that will eliminate the Conquistadors who will not survive without me and you will get a loyal, capable servant in the bargain." Armando put the gun into Gorando's hands and with outstretched arms said, "If you don't agree, kill me. Kill me now as you wanted to. I put myself at your mercy as your loyal servant."

................................................................................

SUNDAY NIGHT JULY 6

The McDonald's on La Cienega was one of those that had pretensions of being an actual restaurant. Its exterior of gray aluminum siding and large windows, with hanging plants inside them, seemed inviting enough but the interior with its bright lighting and not-so-comfortable chairs was still designed to encourage patrons to gobble up their food-like substances and exit the premises as fast as they had been served.

The parking lot was large and on Sunday night it was constantly busy with cars pulling in and out of the entrance and exits. The line of cars around the building leading to the drive-up window was jammed, moving now and then at a snail's pace. Other cars crawled around looking for parking spaces that were about to be vacated.

The overcrowding was a result of people not only wanting to buy fast food but also fast drugs as well. The parking lot happened to be the main office of entrepreneur Armando Cruz. He was very busy that night hopping in and out of his customer's cars one after the other while his associate, Raul Ramirez, stood by as a lookout.

Raul was a big man built like an NFL lineman. He wore a T-shirt, khaki pants and, like his boss, a pair of Pumas. He had a flat round face with deep-set eyes and thick lips. His head was shaved.

As Armando exited from a customer's Lincoln Town Car, Raul pointed to a silver Corvette occupied by two handsome, well-groomed college students. Armando dressed in a safari suit, which he liked doing business in because of the many pockets, took note of Raul's find and said, "Ah jess, our pretty-boy-friends back again for some cheap thrills."
"No' that cheap," Raul said.

"No, and maybe this time very expensive," Armando said as he and Raul made their way over to their waiting customers.

"Hey, dude," the driver of the Corvette greeted Armando real chummy like.

"Hey man," Armando clasped hands with his prey, "long time no see."

"Yeah, well, gotta go t' school once in a while. You know how it is."

"Oh jes, jes, I know how it is," Armando said mockingly sympathetic. "Now, what can I do for joo?"

"Some of the white lady would be good."

"Oh I got that white lady. And I got another white lady to go along. A nice joung fresh white lady look like Elle McPherson. Joo be crazy for her."

"What're you pimpin' now too?" asked the young man behind the wheel as if he was in on the scene.

Armando was immediately in his face like a cobra going in for the kill, "Don' get fresh with me boy I cut jour fucking tongue out!"

"Hey! Hey, I didn't mean nothin'!"

Armando backed off a bit and said as if giving commands, "I got a girl for joo. She show joo a hot time. Both of joo. A hun'red dollar each and I throw in the coke."

The driver looked over at his buddy who gave a shrug, "She's real hot, huh?" the driver asked Armando.

"Oh jea, joo yust give her some coke she do whatever joo want."

"She'd do the two of us?"

"At the same time."

"Awright! Let's do it dude!"

"A hun'red dollars each," Armando demanded and after the money was handed to him he took a pad out of his pocket, wrote something on it and handed the driver the sheet of paper he tore off saying, "Okay joo go to this address, joo tell her I send joo. Her name is Nancy. Give her some coke an' do her all nigh'," Armando slipped them a packet of coke. "Joo do whatever joo wan' with her. Joo tell her I say so."

"Cool dude!"

Armando reached into the driver's shirt pocket and took out an expensive looking cigarette lighter and said, "I like this. I think I keep it."

"Oh sure, okay," the driver said gulping down his pride, "what the hell, it's yours. See ya."

Armando looked after the Corvette as it pulled away saying, "Mother fuckin' pretty boys. Fuckin' rich mother fuckin' pretty boys."

Raul was puzzled, "Why joo let'em have it so cheap? Only a hun'red dollars for the woman an' the coke?"

"Oh no, they will pay. Everything. Joo see," Armando said as he took out his cell phone and dialed. "Jorge," he said into the phone, "...jes...In about twenty minutes pay a little visit to Nancy Love, joo know...jes...there'll be a couple of pigeons there for joo with mucho dinero...si." He closed the phone and lit a cigarette with his new lighter, "Joo know Raul, I own this fuckin' world. This sick fuckin' world. An' I take whatever I want. Bu' joo know something, I take people's life, I take their money, but its yust taking little extra things like this," he held up his new cigarette lighter, "that really turn me on. I do whatever I want" and spotting another customer said, "Less check on those ones over there."

Raul looking the other way toward the parking lot entrance said, "Mira aqui."

"Que?"

"It's the Blade."

Armando looked over in the direction Raul indicated and said, "Ah jes, good. Very, good."

As Blade drove his Bentley into the parking lot Armando and Raul walked up to the car and got in the back seat.

Armando said, "Blade, how joo doin'?"

"Awright. I guess."

"Joo got my money."

Blade turned to Cody and said, "Go get the food. I'll have a Big Mac, fries and a coke."

"Okay," Cody said as he exited the car.

"The money?" Armando reminded.

Blade watched Cody walk in front of the car toward the restaurant. Then he said quietly intense to Armando's reflection in the rear view mirror, "I changed my mind Armando."

"Joo change jour mind?" said Armando grimacing incredulously.

"Yep, Rachel an' me are splittin' up. An' I'm not payin' for her drugs no more."

"No?"

"Nope. She gets enough money from me to pay for 'em herself."

"So, she has the money for me now?"

"Well, she should have it, yea."

"I don't think so."

"Well, I'm not pickin' up her tab any more."

"She told me that joo would pay, man. I don' like to get jerked aroun' like this," Armando whined like a spoiled child.

"All I know is I ain't payin'."

"Then, we got a problem," Armando said suddenly turning deadly serious. "We got a big problem. I need to get pay. An' if I don' get pay tonigh' something bad has to happen to somebody."

A tense silence ensued that Blade found suffocating.

In the back seat of the Bentley Armando noticed a pair of gloves and a knit hat on the floor near Raul's feet. He motioned for Raul to pick them up. He did so and handed them to his boss. Armando looked over the items, put on the gloves and held the hat in his hands.

Finally Blade had to say something, "Rachel has the money. She'll pay. Don't worry."

"Oh, I no worry. I get pay. One way or other, I get pay. Maybe it be more fun if she don't pay me with money. There's other ways she could pay me. Joo know what I mean, Blade?"

Blade was not liking what he was hearing and said, "Look, she'll pay you. Okay? It'll be awright. I'm tellin' ya. No need to go roughin' her up or nothin' like that."

Armando said emphatically, "I have to have the money tonight! Joo get it?"

Blade took a deep breath and said, "Well, she's on her own now. I got nothin' to do with it."

"Awrigh', that's okay. That's the way joo wan' it," Armando said as if it was an ominous warning.

Blade remained deadly silent as he clutched the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.

"I have a little business to take care of right now," Armando said, "an' then I go see jour Rachel."

He and Raul got out of the car. Blade noticed Armando wearing his gloves and holding his hat and asked, "What're you doin' with my stuff?"

"Oh, yust a little souvenir of the famous Blade. Lead singer of On The Edge," Armando said as charming as could be.

Blade smiled faintly saying, "Go on, get outta here," and watched the two wend their way through the cacophony of car engines, radios, horns and the squawk-box at the drive through asking customers if they'd like to try a happy meal.

Blade sat quietly thoughtful, eyes unfocused, his hands firmly on the steering wheel until Cody came back with the food. They drove off as Armando and Raul got in their Pontiac Le Mans.

On the drive home Blade was in a talkative mood. He felt anxious about his decision to cut Rachel off but was determined to stick to it. He talked to distract himself from changing his mind. He nibbled on his French fries as he drove and held court on what he saw as the malignant nature of the McDonald's corporation, "I'd like to see some research on cancer rates before the opening of a Mcdee's somewhere and after it's been in business awhile."

"Where?" Cody asked with his mouthful.

"Anywhere. I'd bet a million you'd see a dramatic increase in cancer cases after the McDonald's opened. Ya know, it's weird, Mcdee's is peddling carcinogens while at the same time they have these Ronald McDonald hospices for cancer patients. What's that all about? Guilt? Sure they sell us billions of carcinogens a year, they facilitate the spread of cancer in their customers, but it's okay because they'll take care of them when they get the disease. So, that makes it okay. And the way they use kids. They try to make obnoxious kids seem cute in their commercials. Pester your parents to death for a happy meal, they say, and we'll give you a free toy connected with the latest blockbuster dinosaur movie. What a sick fuckin' world. Ronald McDonald's gotta be a satanic pied piper leading kids right into his house of cancer. What a sick fuckin' world! I feel a song comin' on, Satan's Pied Piper...let's see...

We've got the fun food and the toys for you

Don't let your parents keep you away

We'll show you how to drive them totally insane

Till they bring you in for a treat and a prize

You are the children of the world and we prey on you

You are the stars of our ads...da da da...

"I dunno I'll have to work on it. Yeah, in a few years down the road McDonald's, Burger King and all of them are gonna be just like the tobacco industry today. It'll be found that they knowingly sold cancer-causing products to unwitting customers and conspired to cover up such knowledge with PR images of caring for the sick and giving money to charities. What a sick fuckin' world."

"Big Mac's good though," Cody said as he opened up another.

"Yeah, they taste good like once a year."

"So, did you get everything straightened out with Armando?"

"Oh sure, everything's cool."

Blade and Cody stuffed some more French fries into their mouths and drove on in silence the rest of the way home. When they got there Blade parked the Bentley in its usual spot in front of the house by the pathway to the door. Cody grabbed his bags of food and said as he got out of the car, "Well, I got some phone calls to make. Give me a buzz if you need me for anything."

"Awright, see ya later. I'm gonna work on that song," Blade said as he walked up the pathway with his own bundle of goodies.

Cody went around the side of the house to his little cottage in the back. It was 9:30.

..............................................................................

After leaving the McDonald's at 9:15, Armando had Raul drive him to the house where he was keeping Nancy Love. They parked a couple of houses away where they'd have a good view without announcing their presence.

"There's the Vette," said Raul as he pointed to the silver Corvette parked in front of Nancy's new home.

"Jes, good, the pretty boys took the bait," Armando said staring at the house calmly expressionless. "They be all naked by now and screwin'," he went on. "Jorge should be here soon."

They waited in silence for a few minutes until a black Crown Victoria slowly approached. Armando gave Raul a key and he passed it on. The exchange was quick and inconspicuous. Jorge hardly stopped his car as the key was tossed onto his front seat. He continued on and parked behind the silver Vette.

Raul and Armando watched as Jorge let himself into the house. A car slowly drove by them, pulled into a driveway a few houses down the block and was swallowed up by its garage. Turning their attention back to Nancy's place Armando and Raul became pleasantly engrossed as they imagined what was taking place inside. At one point they looked at each other and smiled slightly.

When Jorge came out about ten minutes later he hopped in his car, backed into a driveway, drove up next to the Le Mans, handed Raul some money and returned the key.

"How much you got?" asked Armando.

"Fourteen hun'red an' change," answered Jorge.

"Take out seven hun'red," he told Raul, "give me five an' joo keep two an' give the rest back to Jorge."

"Thanks, boss," Jorge said gratefully.

"Yeah, boss, thanks," echoed Raul.

"Joo, earn it. I be in touch wit' joo."

"Okay, boss," Jorge said as he drove off.

Armando put the money into his wallet and said, "Le's go."

Raul started the car and slowly pulled away from the curb, made a broken U-turn, drove back down the street and asked Armando where he wanted to go next.

"Now we visit Rachel," Armando said. "Joo know, that Nancy Love, she some fine lookin' woman. I fuck her jesterday. But Rachel, oo, jes, she some piece of ass, that one. So, we go there now to see her an' maybe I get a li'l piece of that ass if she don' have the money."

"Oh jes, I would love a piece of that ass myself."

"Okay, joo can have, what they say, 'sloppy second'."

"Oh tha's good. I take that. I hope she don' have the money now."

Armando suddenly became enraged at his subordinate, "Fuck that, man! I wan' that fuckin' money! No piece of ass is worth thirty-thousand dollars joo estupid moron! She don' have the money! I tell joo what! I cut jour cock off and stuff it in her mouth! Joo like to have sex that way?"

Raul cowered away from his irate boss while trying to drive, "I'm sorry, Arman. I was yust talking. I didn't mean nothin'."

As suddenly as he had become angry, Armando was perfectly calm again, "That's okay, I yust don' like estupid talk like that. I tell joo what. Even if she do have the money, we'll fuck her brains out together anyway, joo an' me. What joo think of that?"

"Awrigh'," Raul smiled, "jou're the boss."

"Joo got that right," Armando said as he picked up Blade's gloves off the dashboard, "I like these gloves." He put them on, held his hands up to his face, rotated them back and forth and said, "There a li'l worn out, but I like them. I don' know about the hat," Armando said as he put the wool skull cap on his head, looked in the rear view mirror, turned to Raul and asked him what he thought.

"It's okay," was Raul's noncommittal response.

"How do I look?" Armando pressed.

"Joo look good," Raul said.

"As good as Blade?"

"Joo look even better."

"I wear this for Rachel maybe she go for me like this. Maybe I remind her of Blade and she want me bad." Armando started singing one of Blade's songs, "Show me that joo wan' me, Show me that jou're mine..." He went on repeating the lyric over and over until they neared their destination. "Turn here, this way. That's her place up there." Armando instructed.

...........................................................................

Robby had also been getting ready to pay Rachel a visit. He couldn't wait to see her. He was also very anxious just to get out of the house. He was living with his father and stepmother at the time because the guy he had been sharing an apartment with suddenly up and left leaving Robby to pay two months back rent on his own. He couldn't afford to do that so he had to move out. The roommate also absconded with Robby's television set, stereo and guitar. The TV set was still being paid off. So, homeless and in debt Robby was forced to go back to living with his parents.

He would have rather stayed with his mom but she told Robby that since her divorce from his father she was really enjoying herself for the first time in her life. She didn't want her son around to cramp her style. He knew what that meant. Whenever Robby had visited her, there would invariably be some guy lounging around on the patio drinking beer or sitting in the living room in his shorts. "I'm having a ball, kiddo," she'd say, "and best of all your father's paying for it."

So, reluctantly, Robby went to his father. He knew it would not be a pleasant experience living in his father's house but he also knew it wouldn't be for long. He'd soon be out on his own again. There was no question in his mind about that. His father's brand of 'tough love' would be all the incentive he would need to make as quick an exit as possible from the stultifying confines of the palatial mansion he once called home.

Robby's father, George Thanos, was a self-made man and felt very much the master of his fate. He had a monster ego that he fed by exaggerating his own talents and achievements and downgrading others, especially those close to him. That was part of his regimen of "tough love". A convenient phrase provided to him by the self-serving, self-appointed saviors of "family values".

George Thanos was a meticulously groomed individual of fifty years. He had a full head of salt and pepper hair, a mustache that was trimmed just short of the old handlebar style and a goatee. His posture and bearing, head high, chest out, was studied and long practiced to give the appearance of being taller than his less than average height. He had classic good looks, a long thin straight nose, strong chin and intelligent eyes whose smallness was the only flaw in an otherwise perfect face. Had they been a bit larger, like his son's, he would have been a true Adonis and not the falsely imagined one he was in his own mind.

As a long time importer-exporter, Mr. Thanos, had managed to build a thriving enterprise for himself. He had also been fortunate with investments. His most lucrative moneymaker was Microsoft. He happened to get ten thousand shares of the stock when it was at a relatively low price as part of a buy out deal with a one-time business partner of his.

Thanos had invested in a health club facility that he decided he wanted out of when he estimated that its value had peaked. The Microsoft shares were in lieu of cash that his partner was short of. Thanos took the shares and when Microsoft value rose precipitously Thanos wanted to sell but his accountant strongly advised him to hold on to them.

The killing Thanos eventually made with the Microsoft stock became one of his major bragging points. He'd tell you that he saw early on that Microsoft had much more moneymaking potential than did his health club investment and, so, he had engineered the selling of his share of the business specifically to get hold of the Microsoft stock.

Thanos started his import-export business after he got out of the army in 1964. He had been stationed in the Philippines and had met some Japanese businessmen at a popular watering hole in Manilla. Their business was electronic transistors. They informed Thanos that their company made the best and least expensive transistors in the world and they were looking to gain a foothold in the US. An American presence was imperative and that's where Thanos came in. His role would be to import and promote the product.

Having been reared at a time when "Made in Japan" meant junk, Thanos was skeptical and extremely reluctant to seal the deal. No way was he going to make a fool of himself by trying to hawk products with that label on them. He felt mortified just thinking about the prospect.

His suitors were not deterred and persevered in their attempts to recruit the reluctant soldier. The young Corporal cut a fine figure in his military uniform. He had the bearing of an officer and appeared to be diligent and reliable.

The businessmen were well aware of the stigma attached to Japanese products that still persisted in the minds of many Americans even though Japan had been producing high quality goods for sometime. So, Thanos was given a tour of one of their manufacturing plants in the Philippines where engineers explained why the transistors they designed performed better and lasted longer than any of their competitors' products. Thanos was also plied in other ways. He was treated at fine restaurants, provided with high priced escorts and given gifts, like transistor radios.

Finally convinced, Thanos shook hands on the deal and asked for a low cost loan to get started with. It was readily agreed to.

Thus, Thanos Importing was born and the business rode the cresting wave of what was to become a booming Japanese economy.

Mr. Thanos would tell everyone that he had seen Japan's meteoric rise in economic vigor coming long before it ever happened and had purposely sought out contacts with Japanese businessmen while he was stationed in the Philippines. He would tell you he had specifically requested duty in the Far East just so he could make those vital connections. Yes, Mr. Thanos was a legend in his own mind and he surrounded himself with people who believed in and validated his mythology. He especially sought out women who, as he told them about himself, exhibited wide-eyed fascination.

As a young impressionable girl fresh out of a strict catholic college for women, Thanos' first wife, Janet, had been totally smitten by the force of the Thanos persona. She readily picked up on all her fiancé's cues about how to support his precious self-image and initially accepted her role in its perpetuation with a strong sense of purpose. Over the years, however, Janet eventually grew weary from the burden of having to constantly bolster an image that she increasingly found to be at odds with the man himself. Finally, it was her husband's shameful treatment of their son that thoroughly and irreparably tarnished the Thanos image for her. She saw him as a complete and utter phony.

Without the facade Janet didn't know who he was, she only knew who he wasn't.

Much conflict ensued from that sea change in her perspective. Not only conflict in her marriage but in herself. Having been propped up by her husband's fabled persona her self-esteem suffered at his unmasking. She took to drinking more than she was used to.

Thanos could not tolerate the scurrilous attacks on his precious image with such ridiculous statements as, "You might see your son in a better light if you didn't insist he live up to that fantasy self-image of yours."

"What kind of nonsense is that? You drink too much that's your problem," Thanos would gruffly say in response.

"I see who you really are. How vulnerable and sensitive you really are. That's what you try to hide. That's what you see in Robby that you find so intolerable."

"That's a bunch of malarkey. I don't know what the hell you're talking about and neither do you. So go have another cocktail and watch a stupid soap opera and leave me out of your cockamamie psychobabble."

"There's nothing cockamamie psychbabbly about it. Just look what you're doing to your son with your impossible image to live up to..."

"I'm teaching him to be a man. What the hell would you know about that!"

And so it went for the last couple of years of their marriage until Thanos sent his wife of twenty years packing. He kept the house and the kids, Robby and his daughter, Jackie, and gave Janet a very generous alimony settlement. He presented it to her in a grand style befitting the larger than life image that he hoped she would finally accept as his real self and to which she would feel forever indebted. Thanos threw a lavish party at the Beverly Hills Hotel to celebrate his divorce. It was a grand banquet attended by all of Thanos' friends and business associates along with his wife's friends and family. At the end of the feast an enormous cake was carried in by four men and placed on the head table where Thanos and Janet sat together. A male stripper jumped out of the cake and after a few bumps and grinds in his gold sequined bikini presented Mrs. Thanos with the settlement papers. The well tanned muscle bound performer then held up a diamond necklace for all to see. It had a large diamond studded dollar sign hanging from it. He danced around with it, rubbed it all over his body, stuffed it down his bikini and acted like he was having sex with it while he mouthed the words to a Donna Summer disco hit, "...she works hard for the money..." which was blasting out of two telephone-booth-sized speakers at either end of the head table. Toward the end of the song the dancer placed the necklace around Janet's neck. The spectators, some of them on their feet, were yelling, screaming, shrieking, whistling, gesturing at the spectacle before them, as if to make sure they were part of the momentous occasion.

Thanos remarried on the very same day the divorce was finalized. Two months later Robby dropped out of college, got a place of his own and announced he was going to be an actor. Thanos did not approve. He had other plans for his son. He wanted Robby to come to work for him where he could continue to keep him under his thumb. "This is all your doing," he complained bitterly to Janet over the phone. Her reply to that was, "So, Robby wants to be an actor. And you think that's my doing? I don't think so! It's actually more a matter of, like father, like son. Your whole life is an act!"

Thanos hung up on his ex after angrily declaring her to be totally drunk and insane.

He resigned himself to the fact that he had lost his son. He was sure Robby had absolutely no chance of making it as an actor. "He just doesn't have what it takes," he told his daughter, "Robby unfortunately takes after his mother. You, on the other hand, are the fortunate recipient of your father's genes and you, Jackie, are now in line to inherit Thanos Import-Export, which will someday be renamed Thanos and Daughter Import-Export." Jackie, totally enamored of her father was thrilled at the prospect.

Having resolved the issue of his son's betrayal in his own mind as a done deal, Thanos was in no mood to call out the welcome wagon for his sudden reappearance on his doorstep. "You what?" he indignantly asked his son, "You're out of the house not more than a year and already you come back with your tail between your legs like a whipped dog? I always knew you didn't have much gumption but I didn't know you were a complete wimp of an utter failure. So, the answer's no. You can't come back here to live."

"I don't wanna live here. I just need a place to stay for a while," Robby explained.

"Go and stay with your mother. You always were a mama's boy," Thanos growled.

"I asked her but, I dunno, she likes being alone now, I guess."

"Alone," Thanos said with cynical derision. Then, posturing in front of his son like a demigod, he said with melodramatic flair, "So, I have to come through. It's all up to me. Isn't that the way it always is? Everybody depends on Thanos. You know why? Because I never asked anyone for anything. I never had to. I made things happen. I started with nothing and look what I achieved. I didn't make my fortune by depending on others, boy. Oh, I know you find this boring, a waste of your time and that is precisely why you'll never amount to half of what I have." Thanos eyed his son with disdain threw up his hands and said, "So, stay here. What's the difference? You'll never learn. I'm very disappointed in you. But I don't know why I should be. I know I shouldn't expect anything of you. I guess there's just something in me that's a cockeyed optimist, that keeps hoping for a son that would exceed his father's expectations as a real son of mine certainly would."

Robby felt increasingly humiliated by his father's lecture and wrestled with himself about what to do. He felt like telling his father to go to hell, but he couldn't think of where else he might go. He would just have to put up with the degrading commentary that was crushing him to bits.

Such treatment never got easier to take no matter how often it was dished out. Robby was constantly being put down by the person he looked up to and admired more than anyone else in the world. Still, he wanted to please his father in the worst way and deep down he was mightily determined to do just that. Someday. Somehow.

Robby knew he would have to do something really spectacular, something heroic, something his father couldn't help taking notice of because the whole world would be singing his praises. That's what it would take for his father to say the words Robby longed to hear, "I'm proud of you, son." Until then he'd just have to put up with his father's criticisms as best he could.

On that Sunday night, as he was getting dressed for his date with Rachel, Robby was toying with the idea of suggesting to her that they live together. That would certainly be a very welcome solution to his present predicament. On that particular night, however, he wasn't feeling very confident about making such a suggestion. He wasn't feeling confident at all.

His audition earlier that day had been a disaster. He had an abundance of nervous energy working for him when he showed up at the studio to read for the part and that was good, "The butterflies," Robby liked to say, "are just my engines revving up in neutral. Once I get into gear with the actual audition I'm zoomin' along on all cylinders like a fine tuned Indy car." The trouble that day was he ran out of gas while waiting to be called. They were way behind in the schedule and it was over two hours before his turn came. By that time he was drained of emotion. He did the reading like a mechanical toy winding down. As he read his lines he saw in his mind how perfect he was for the part and got an image of how it should be performed but he just couldn't viscerally connect with it. He was so upset and embarrassed he dropped the script and stormed out of the studio soon after the reading had begun.

When he got home he was feeling like crap and his father didn't help the situation, "So, Marlon," he asked in his most eloquent form of mockery, "did you get the part?" Robby just passed him by to go upstairs to his room. "I didn't think so. You just don't have it kid. When're you gonna get smart to yourself?" He raised his voice as Robby neared the top of the stairs, "What're you gonna do with yourself? Your sister's got the business now so what're you gonna do? Permanent Pizza delivery boy?"

Robby shut the door to his room, switched on his stereo and turned the volume up on a soundtrack of ocean waves to help him relax. He paced around his room awhile and then stood before his bureau mirror and performed his version of the famous Robert De Niro scene from the movie Taxi Driver, "You talkin' t'me? You talkin' t'me? Are you talkin' t'me?" He then made a big deal about turning around to see who else was in the room and said, "I don't see anyone else around here." He formed his hand into a gun and fired into the mirror.

Oh man, if only he could get a part like that. Or even do something like Travis Bickel. Something heroic, rescuing someone in desperate straits.

Robby laid down on his bed and got lost in fantasies of performing heroic deeds to astonish the world. His reverie, however, was soon disturbed by his father who opened the door, poked his head in and said, "By the way I'm gonna be on TV. A friend of mine's producing a TV movie and said I'd be perfect for one of the featured roles. How about that? I guess we'll see who has the talent in this family, hey, Robby boy?" Thanos snickered as he closed the door.

Robby felt as if his father had stuffed a live grenade down his throat that totally shredded his insides. He lay on his bed immobile, not breathing and felt as though he had lost the will to live. After some moments he struggled to take a deep breath, exhaled and took another deep breath. He repeated the process until he was breathing again in a reasonably normal way.

Oh God, he had to get out of that house. He couldn't put up with the brutal mortification at the hands of his father any longer. "Gee dad," he said aloud as if his father were still in the room, "that's great you got a part in a film, but did you ask if maybe there was something in it for me, too?"

Robby was really hurting and his thoughts turned to Rachel. Once he saw her he knew he'd instantly feel better about things. They'd talk, listen to some music and make love. No matter how depressed or upset Robby got it never seemed to affect his love making abilities. At least he had that to look forward to.

Maybe when he and Rachel were lying together in bed, enrapt in the afterglow of their naked intimacies, he'd feel better about broaching the subject of their living together. Oh yeah, that would be the ideal situation, he and Rachel together forever. Robby, totally reinvigorated by that prospect, jumped off the bed, stripped off his clothes, took a shower, got dressed and left for Rachel's at about twenty-five after nine.

.................................................................................

Raul pulled up in front of Rachel's place at 9:39 according to the display in the dashboard and Armando said, "Okay, I go in the front, an' joo drive aroun' the back, an' wait for me there."

"Okay," said Raul.

"Now, I go to have some fun."

Armando was still wearing Blade's hat and gloves. He pulled the knit hat down tight on his head so it was just above his eyebrows. He got out of the car, walked through the gate and up to the front door as Raul drove around to the back.

Rachel had just tucked her kids in for the night and was getting ready for Robby's visit. She wore a black dress, full length with a zipper in the back and a scooped, cleavage-showing neckline. She was expecting Robby any minute, eager young stud that he was. So, when the bell sounded Rachel opened the door and gasped.

"Oh it's you," she said with obvious repulsion.

Armando looked her over salaciously and said, "Aren' joo glad to see me?"

"Actually, no. Whad'you want?"

"Joo know," Armando said as he attempted to enter the house.

Rachel stepped outside and shut the door behind her. Then she said, "I told you. Get the money from Blade."

"Are joo here all alone, Rachel?" Armando asked.

"My kids are upstairs."

"All safe an' sound in there little beds?"

Rachel shuddered at the ominous way Armando spoke of her kids. She felt trapped on the stoop and went down the steps to the walkway. "If you're lookin' for Blade, he's not here," she said trying to control her voice from quavering. "Try him at home."

"No. I'm no' lookin' for Blade." Armando said as he slowly, menacingly moved down to Rachel. "Got no beeniss with Blade. Got beeniss with joo."

"I told you. Blade will take care of it."

"He says no. No, he wont. That's what Blade says."

"You spoke with him?"

"Jes."

"And he said he wouldn't pay?"

"Jes. That's what he say."

"He will, though. He's mad at me right now. Try him tomorrow. He'll give you the money then."

"There is no more tomorrow!" Armando said with a furious but controlled intensity, "I need to get paid tonigh'. One way or other."

"Whadd'ya mean?"

"There are other ways joo can pay me," Armando said as he made a move toward Rachel.

"Uh, look," she said stepping back, "I'm expecting company any second now. A cop friend of mine."

Armando grabbed Rachel by her hair, took out his knife, snapped out the blade and put it to her throat, "Joo are gonna pay! Now! If no with money then with jour life or jour body! An' I take jour kids too if joo don' pay! Joo unnerstan?"

Rachel whispered helplessly, "Yes."

Armando let go of her hair and grabbed on to the zipper on the back of her dress. While he tugged at it Robby arrived on the scene. Armando turned to see who was coming down the walkway from the front gate and Rachel took the opportunity to try to get free of her attacker but Armando struck her hard on the head with the blunt end of his knife knocking her semiconscious to the ground. Robby yelled out, "Hey, hey, hey!" as he ran toward Armando. "Whatd'ya think you're doin'?" Robby demanded.

"What's it to joo pretty boy?" Armando grabbed Robby and pushed him into a little fenced in alcove off to the side of the walkway.

"You just better get the hell outta here, man!" Robby warned heroically.

"Oh jeah, so joo can have this woman, pretty boy!" Armando said with a vicious anger. Robby took a deep breath, as someone might do before yelling out for help. Armando was quick to react with his knife. He slashed the front of Robby's throat severing his vocal cords. "Now whatd'ya got to say pretty boy?"

Robby staggered around in shock with his hands up to his neck.

"How joo like that?" Armando jabbed his knife and sliced it into Robby's face a few times saying, "Huh, pretty boy? Now maybe joo not so pretty? Me an' Rachel goin' to have some fun, an' joo ruin ev'ryting."

Robby was overwhelmed. The reality of what was happening was unacceptable and he refused to give it credence. He stood in a stupor like an uncomprehending statue.

Armando noticed Rachel stirring on the ground. He turned toward her, lifted her up by her hair and held her up from behind. "Now, watch dis," he said to Robby as he plunged his knife repeatedly into Rachel's body.

Robby watched horrified making gentle protestations with his hands.

"Joo don' like that, pretty boy?" Armando taunted, "Huh? Whatchoo gonna do abou' it? Huh? And whatchoo gonna do abou' this?" He put the blade to Rachel's throat and slashed it deeply from ear to ear. The blood gushed out like an open fire hydrant. Robby stared in a helpless daze. "Jea, take a goo' look, pretty boy. This is the last thing Joo ever see."

As Armando came at him with his bloodied knife Robby suddenly woke up to the reality of the situation and entered into the fight of his life. He lunged at Armando and tried to pull the knit cap down over his attacker's eyes. Armando jabbed the knife blindly into Robby's body repeatedly as he tried to pull his hat off his eyes. After Armando managed to get it off he shoved his victim violently against the fence in the rear of the alcove, turned him around and grabbed him around the chest. Robby struggled, grabbed at the gripping hand on his chest and pulled off the glove as his attacker fatally slashed his throat. Robby slumped to the ground. Armando then quickly walked down the passageway that led to the back of the house.

................................................................................

Blade had taken his Big Mac and what was left of his fries down to his basement studio, sat down at his keyboard and began working out a tune for his new song while nibbling on his food. He found it difficult to keep his mind on the music as he became increasingly concerned about leaving Rachel in the lurch. He felt like talking to someone about it and tried to phone Ginny but all he got was her answering machine. Blade left a short message for her to call him back right away. He tried to return to composing. But after playing a few bars his mind focused on the image of Rachel being at the mercy of Armando. Damn, I must've been crazy, he thought. No telling what that maniac might do to her! Blade got up from the keyboard and paced back and forth. After a while he checked the time. It was 9:43. He tried calling Ginny again but she still didn't answer.

Okay, let's get rational here, Blade tried to calm himself. All Rachel has to do is call him, he reasoned. If she doesn't have the money that's what she'll do. He was sure of it. So, Blade decided to wait. Besides, he thought, a little scare from Armando might make her realize that she still needed him. It just might make things different between them.

Then, suddenly, without thinking Blade found himself dashing up the stairs, opening his wall safe, taking out wads of money, stuffing it in his pockets and running out to his Blazer. He started it up and took off for Rachel's. On the way, though, he suddenly took a detour from his normal route as he again wondered if he shouldn't just let it be. He tried again to get Ginny on the phone to discuss it but again the machine answered. Blade knew what she'd say but wanted to hear her say it. He imagined Ginny would tell him to get his butt over to Rachel's pronto. Which is exactly what he finally decided to do and drove over there like a madman.

As was his habit he drove to the back and saw Raul get out of the Le Mans as he pulled in behind him. Blade got out of his truck and said to Raul, who immediately went to meet him, "So, you're still here. That's good. Where's Armando?" Blade said as he started for the back door.

"Joo hol' on a minute, man," Raul said firmly as he blocked Blade's way with his enormous mass, "Armando is doing beeniss."

"Whad'ya mean?" asked Blade worried, confused and suspicious, "What kind of business?"

Armando appeared from the side of the house. His clothes were bloody and so was the knife in his hand.

Blade looked at him. Air exploded out of his mouth as if he was punched in the stomach. "What the fuck!" was his voiceless reaction. Then he quietly asked as if he didn't want to know, "What happened? What have you done?"

"Collected a debt," answered Armando matter of fact.

Blade confronted him with an enraged whisper, "You son of a bitch! If you hurt Rachel..."

He stepped in with raised fist. Armando countered with his knife slicing a couple of Blade's fingers. He recoiled into himself and cried hoarsely, "You bastard! Son of a bitch! What've you done?"

"Joo wan' to see? I show joo." Armando started toward the pathway to the front of house. Blade stayed still. "C'mon," he turned to Blade and asked, "joo want to see?"

Blade was shoved from behind by Raul and he slowly followed Armando along the passageway. When they got to the scene of the slaughter Blade was horrified and gasped violently for breath as he struggled to remain upright. "Oh my God...Oh my God" he kept repeating.

Armando pushed Blade toward the bloody body of his wife lying lifeless on the ground and said, "Take a goo' look an' learn jour lesson."

Propelled forward Blade struggled to remain upright and avoid falling headlong into the bloody mess. Once he got his balance he stood motionless, aghast in the puddle of Rachel's blood.

"Le's go now, Blade. Le's get outta here," Armando said as he reached out and tugged at the shoulder of Blade's jacket. Zombie like, Blade responded and started to follow Armando toward the back of the house. Armando turned around to confront his incapacitated companion, "Now joo listen to me Blade," he said intensely, "if joo love jour kids..."

Blade, as if ice water was thrown on his face, said, "Oh my God, the kids...are they..."

"Jour kids are fine. An' if joo want to keep them that way joo say nothing of this to anyone. Not anyone. Joo unnerstan'? Or else."

"Or else..."

"I kill them."

"No..."

"Oh jes," Armando responded. "An if not me, if I'm locked up, I have somebody do it for me."

"I won't say nothin'," Blade said quietly, convincingly.

"That's good."

"I got your money," Blade offered, eager to please.

"Good."

"Just don' hurt my kids."

"I won't. Unless I have to."

"You won't have to."

"Okay then, no problem."

They continued on their way to the back of the house. As they came upon a little cubbyhole along the side of the cement pathway where a little green shrub with dainty white blossoms grew, Blade felt faint and stepped into the niche a moment to lean against the wall.

Armando stopped to turn around. He noticed with interest that there was one set of bloody shoe prints on the cement walk behind him and they were Blade's. He looked down at his own shoes and saw there was some blood on the tops of them. He lifted a leg and crossed it over his other leg so the sole of his shoe was facing up. There was no blood.

Armando looked at Blade leaning against the wall and with a great deal of enjoyment said, "So, I give joo a little shock, hey? That's good. Now joo feel my power. That's good. I know joo won' say nothing now." Armando then reached his hand toward Blade and said with tender encouragement, "Le's go now. Joo be okay."

Blade took his hand to steady himself as he stood up from the wall and they continued on their way to the back. Just before they got there Blade, for some inexplicable reason, stopped frozen in his tracks, suddenly turned around and raced back to the bodies. He stood over the body of his wife having again stepped in her blood. He calmly surveyed the scene as if to memorize every detail. He then walked a second time down the cement walkway leaving another set of bloody boot prints.

When he got to the back of the house Armando instructed Raul to help Blade into the passenger side of the Blazer. Armando got into the driver's seat and told Raul to follow in the Le Mans.

"Joo're in no condition to drive," Armando explained to Blade as he got in behind the wheel still wearing one bloodied glove.

They drove over to Blade's house. It was a very quiet Sunday night and the streets were empty. Armando parked haphazardly by the curb on Don Quixote near Blade's driveway. It was about ten o'clock.

"The money."

Blade handed over handfuls of cash, "Is that enough?"

"I let joo know."

Armando got out of the SUV leaving behind traces of Rachel and Robby's blood on the seat and the steering wheel from his clothes and hands. Before closing the door he said to Blade who was still sitting in the passenger seat, "Joo remem'er what I tell joo, Blade."

"Yea, don't worry, I won't say nothin'."

Armando got into his car and he told Raul to drive around to the rear of Blade's house. They drove slowly down the street surveying the area intently. There was still no one to be seen. Along the rear of Blade's estate there was a link fence lined with bushes. Three cottages could be seen on the other side. Armando noticed a light shining from a rear window in one of them. He told Raul to stop the car and get out. Armando got out also and walked around the car and up to the fence. "Give me a boost." Armando said. Raul formed a stirrup with his hands and lifted his boss to top of the fence. Having done so Armando purposely dropped the bloody glove to the ground on the other side of the fence. He then told Raul he wanted to stand on his shoulders. After doing so Armando was able to lean in and reach the roof of the cottage which he thumped as hard as he could three times with the fleshy side of his fist. Armando then told Raul to let him down.

"Why joo hit the roof like that?" asked a bewildered Raul as he and Armando got in the car.

"Maybe somebody come out now an' find the glove."

"Ah, si. Blade will be in big trouble."

"Oh si, big trouble," Armando said smiling.

They drove off slowly, quietly.

................................................................................

Blade remained seated in the passenger seat of his Blazer for an endless time in a space that was infinitely void. The brutal slaying seemed so wildly out of place he felt disconnected from reality. What he had seen must have been a nightmare. He sat in his truck waiting for the comforting realization that it, indeed, had only been a bad dream.

Faint images of his recent experience began to float around the periphery of his dimmed consciousness. There was no order or sense to them, no sequential logic, just a jumbled kaleidoscope of images coming and going with none more pressing than another. Munching on a hamburger in his studio, Rachel's bloody body, playing the guitar, taking Armando's hand, wading in blood, Raul's hulking body blocking his way, Rachel's bloody body. There didn't seem to be any real significance to these images but they persisted until something eventually managed to motivate him.

Feeling himself move, Blade opened the car door, stepped out on to the sidewalk and slowly began walking toward his driveway. He punched in a code and unlocked the pedestrian gate next to the vehicle gate and entered his premises. As he approached the doorway he noticed a limo parked behind the gate on the other side of his property. He noticed it as an object in his field of vision without connecting it to anything meaningful. Blade opened the door and went inside.

As he reached the second floor-landing Blade heard something buzzing. He entered his bedroom and without fully realizing what he was doing picked up the intercom phone on the bed stand and said, "Yes?"

A man's voice told him that his limo was there to take him to the airport.

Why did that seem odd, Blade wondered to himself. "Okay, I, uh, was in the shower. Still packing. Be there in a few." He pressed a button on the wall that opened the driveway gate and told the driver that he'd be right down. He hung up the intercom phone and felt his heart start pounding as his sense of reality rudely began to reinstate itself. His mind suddenly accelerated. A limo to the airport? For what? Oh God! The limo driver must have seen him going in the house. The Rio trip? But he told Harvey to cancel it. He told the driver he was in the shower. Maybe Harvey just forgot to cancel the limo. The cops are going to be questioning him. He was at the scene. No way he can admit to that. The driver saw him walk into the house. Maybe a trip to Rio would be the best thing. Get out of the country and let his lawyer handle everything. The kids! Oh God! The Kids! They're all alone at the condo! He opened a drawer in his night stand, took out a bottle of pills and chugged a few valium down with what was left of the glass of water on his night stand from the night before. What if the kids wake up and find the bodies? That would be too awful. Should he call 911 and report it? No, they'd know it was him calling. They'd ID his number. They'd know he was involved. Wait. He could go over there in the limo and pretend to discover the bodies himself. The driver would be a witness. But why would he go over there? To drop something off? To say good-bye? But what if someone had already found the bodies? Some passerby? Somebody must've seen something or heard something by now and called the cops to investigate. He had to convince himself that the kids would be fine. If he did nothing there was a good chance they would be fine. They certainly wouldn't be fine if Armando suspected Blade of talking to the cops. If he was out of the country there'd be no suspicion of that. It would, of course, cast suspicion on him for the murders, but what the hell, he knew he'd be the number one suspect anyway. He was implicated up to his pierced ears in the crime already.

He phoned his agent and asked him if Rio was still on. "Yes," Harvey answered, "I left you a message. It was just too late to cancel. There was some clause in the contract that stipulated a payment of a hundred thousand dollars if we reneged on the agreement after a certain date. So..."

"Okay, sure, I'll go then. I'll phone you when I get there."

"Okay, good," said Harvey.

Blade hung up the phone and immediately began a hasty job of packing a suitcase. He took more money out of the wall safe. When he got to Rio he'd have to arrange for his funds to be transferred to a bank down there. He wondered, did Brazil have an extradition treaty with the US?

He suddenly thought to take a quick shower and change his clothes. After the shower he put Band-Aids on his finger cuts and put the clothes and boots that he had worn over to Rachel's in a small duffle bag. He got dressed in jeans, a T-shirt and a suede jacket, picked up his luggage and went downstairs. Before going out to the limo he went down to his basement studio and put his guitar into its case to bring along with him.

Blade left his house with the compact duffle bag on his shoulder while carrying his suitcase and guitar case in either hand. Cody was standing by the limo talking to the driver. He told Blade about a noise he had heard in the back of his cottage like somebody banging into the wall and that he thought it might be a prowler. Blade let the limo driver take the luggage from his hands but kept the duffle bag on his shoulder. He told Cody to get a flashlight and they'd take a look around. Blade told the driver he had to check something in his truck and would be right back. What he wanted to do was check to see that it was locked. It wasn't, and the keys were still in the ignition. Blade got the keys, set the lock and returned to the Limo. Cody was there with a flashlight but Blade told him he didn't have time to search the property if he wanted to make his flight. He told Cody it was probably nothing and not to worry about it.

Blade thought the noise Cody told him about might have been made by Armando coming on his property to spy on him to make sure he didn't call the cops. With that in mind Blade decided not to set the burglar alarm. For if it really was Armando prowling around he could set it off and maybe get caught in his blood stained attire. He might blame Blade for his capture and take his promised revenge on the kids.

Blade said to Cody in a loud voice so that Armando, if he was in the bushes somewhere, could hear what he was saying, "Okay, I'm off to Rio."

Blade got into the limo and was driven out of the gate near where his truck was parked on Don Quixote. He noticed then that the truck was angled in toward the curb with its rear end sticking out a bit too much into the street. He found himself furious at Armando for not at least parking the damn truck properly and expressed himself with a short intense exhalation of air that made an exasperated noise. Blade tried to cover and said the first thing that came into his mind, "Whew, it's hot."

Blade immediately felt the stupidity of his remark. It wasn't hot at all. It was downright cool. "Well, not that it's hot out. I just got out of a hot shower...took a hot shower and then ran around packing like a crazy man. Guess that's why I feel so damn hot. I wasn't expecting you. Thought the trip had been canceled. So, anyway, I'll open the window here, sit back, relax and cool down. Why don't you put up the partition so I won't be tempted to talk to you and can get some rest."

"Sure thing," the driver said as the partition was raised.

Blade had his window down all the way and was on the lookout for an opportunity to somehow dispose of the duffle bag containing his bloodied clothes and boots. That activity was momentarily interrupted, however, as he remembered about not having set the burglar alarm. If Armando had been lurking about on his property he would certainly have vacated the premises by then. Blade took out his cell phone, called Cody and told him he had forgotten in his rush to set the alarm and would Cody please do it for him. Cody said he would, of course, and Blade gave him instructions on how to do it. He asked if Cody had heard any more noises. Cody said that he hadn't. Blade hung up and resumed his search for an opportune dumpsite for his duffle bag.

It was not until the limo entered LAX that an opportunity presented itself. The limo was moving along a two-lane one-way airport drive. The lane on the right was occupied by a garbage truck intermittently stopping along the way to empty litter baskets from the sidewalks. Blade's limo was directly behind the garbage truck and his driver was looking for an opportunity to pass it as a line of cars were passing in the other lane. The garbage truck stopped and a sanitation man went and got a litter basket off the sidewalk and emptied it into the back of the truck. Before getting back in the cab of the truck he hit a switch to bring the truck's compressor into action. Just then the limo driver swerved into the other lane to pass the garbage truck. Blade quickly stuck his duffle bag out the window and shoved it clear so that it would fall as intended into the truck's large receptacle, be crushed in with the rest of the garbage and eventually dumped in a landfill where it would, he hoped, remain forever lost.

Blade wasn't sure whether he hit his target or not. As he shoved the duffle bag out the window his view of it was obscured by the side of the garbage truck as the limo passed by. He could only hope that it made it into the truck and that the limo driver was to busy maneuvering through traffic to notice what he was doing. Ditto for any people in the cars behind him. Well, it was a chance he had to take whatever the result.

Blade sat back in the limo's plush interior. He began to feel more relaxed. The full effect of all the valium he had taken was finally kicking in. He felt as though he didn't have a care in the world. He had the illusion that the horrifying scene he had witnessed earlier was indeed just a bad dream he had finally woke up from. He was on his way to Rio where he thought he might be staying a while. Who knew how long? It depended on how things played out with the current situation. Maybe he could arrange for a tour. Bring the band down and tour South America. Brazil, Venezuela, Chile, Colombia. Yeah, Colombia. Visit the drug lords. Hell, he'd given them plenty of business over the years what with using and incidentally promoting the use of their product. Maybe they'd back Blade's tour of their continent? They could do that out of their petty cash drawer. Well, whatever...his mind rambled on.

The limo pulled into the TWA departure ramp and stopped by a red cap who was waiting on his next job. Blade got out on the right side of the car next to the curb, gave the porter a ten dollar bill, told him he was in a hurry to catch flight number 185 and said he had two bags for him. The porter gave him two baggage receipts and said he'd take care of them. The limo driver had popped the trunk and put the luggage out on the curb. The porter quickly picked them up, put them on his cart and hurried into the terminal. Blade handed the driver a twenty and said, "Good driving. I think I'll make it," as he hurried on his way into the airport terminal.

The limo driver was trying to think what was wrong with the picture. Getting back in the limo he realized he hadn't seen the duffle bag. He checked the back seat and saw that it wasn't there. He turned around looking for the porter's cart but couldn't get a good view of it as the porter pushed it through the terminal doors. Well, he thought, Blade must have given it to the porter when he first got out of the limo.

At the ticket counter Blade was told there'd be a slight delay because of a connecting flight that had not yet landed and he was welcome to wait in the luxury lounge until boarding. Blade smiled at the petite, perky redhead whose name tag read "Jenny" and said, "Okay, so why don't you take a break and have a drink with me."

"I don't think I'm your type Mr. Heavy Metal Rock Star. I'm a Christian," Jenny proudly informed what she imagined must surely be the spawn of Satan.

"Well, as a famous man once said, 'Christ is cool.' It was either Beavis or Butthead. Can't think of which one. Can you?"

The ticket agent looked passed the demon and asked pointedly, "Can I help you Ma'am?"

Blade turned around to see a rather homely woman of about twenty-five with stringy dirty blond hair. She had a twinkle in her eye, though, and flashed Blade a charming smile that he found quite attractive. "It was Beavis," she said and added with a nervous giggle, "I'm a big fan of yours."

"I'll see you later then," Blade said as the woman stepped up to the ticket counter and he headed for the lounge.

Before he got there, however, he thought better of it. There'd certainly be a TV in the lounge and it might show some late breaking news that he might have a personal interest in which would prevent him from taking the flight. So, he put on his shades, hunkered down in a plastic chair in a public waiting area and hoped he'd be able to get on the plane before the incident at 1221 Laurel Canyon was somehow brought to his attention in the presence of others. That would certainly put him in an awkward position and would prevent him from continuing on his trip. The clock on the wall said 11:08.

................................................................................

Earlier, at approximately 10:15, a couple, walking their dog, noticed a stream of red liquid slowly trickling on to the sidewalk from under the front gate of 1221 Laurel Canyon. The dog sniffed it and then raised its head and sniffed the air in the direction where the bodies lay and began growling. High hedges surrounded the property and the pathway was angled such that the front of the house could not be seen from the sidewalk. The dog was becoming increasingly agitated and the couple began walking away as they discussed what they should do about their disturbing discovery. Reluctant to look into it any further on their own they decided the best thing would be to hurry home and call the police.

A patrol car arrived at the crime scene at 10:33 and the young officer, struggling to control his queasiness at the grizzly sight, radioed his find into headquarters. Upon a careful search of the house he discovered Josh and Belinda sound asleep in their beds and radioed that information so they could be properly taken care of.

Soon the area was a swarm of vehicles flashing red, white and blue lights. Patrol cars, detectives' cars, meat wagons, all converged on the place like a ravenous horde of scavengers staking claim to the mortal remains as their meal ticket. Various police personnel, in uniform and plainclothes, continually ducked under the yellow tape surrounding the property as they went in and out of the crime scene in a business-as-usual manner.

The two homicide detectives assigned to the case were Steve Conner and Mike D'Angello. They arrived just after the second patrol officer did. Mike knew the address. He had stopped by there to say hello to Rachel a couple of times since her separation. He did not, however, immediately connect 1221 Laurel Canyon with Rachel's place, automatically thinking of it as just another job to go to. It dawned on him on the way, "Holy shit!"

"What?" asked Steve as he cautiously drove through a red light.

"It's Rachel's place, Blade's wife, 1221 Laurel Canyon."

"No shit?"

"Yeah, it's her place awright. I've been there a couple of times."

"Really? Anything I should know?" Steve asked suggestively.

"No, you moron."

"Jeez, they found two bodies, male and female," Steve mused. "Ya think maybe it's a murder-suicide, husband-wife thing?"

Mike rubbed his hand over his face and said shortly, "Let's go find out."

When they got to the scene they were greeted by the responding officer who told them what he had found. He then pointed out the couple who had called it in to 911.

"Have you identified the bodies?" Mike asked.

"No, not yet," replied the officer.

Mike and Steve went over to the couple standing by one of the patrol cars.

"I understand you called 911," Mike said as he approached them.

"That's right," answered the man.

"I'm detective Mike D'Angello and this is my partner Steve Conner."

"How do you do?"

"What exactly did you see?"

"Just some blood on the sidewalk."

"How'd you know it was blood?"

"Well, we didn't. It was the dog. We were walking our dog at the time, the dog sniffed at it and then looked toward the house and started to growl and bark like, I dunno, like he sensed danger, I guess, so we went right home to call 911."

"Did you see anyone in the area? Any vehicles? Anything suspicious, out of the ordinary?"

"No, it was pretty quiet. A couple of cars. There was a guy walking his dog down the block a ways. That's' all."

"Okay, you can go home now. We'll be in touch."

Mike and Steve entered the crime scene and viewed the bodies.

The female victim lay obliquely across the pathway on her side in a fetal position with her head bent away from her body at an inappropriate angle. A knit cap was on the ground near the alcove where the male victim lay. He was on his back. His eyes were wide open staring into the heavens as if still trying to comprehend what had happened. Between his head and shoulders was a bloody mess that once was his neck. "Jeez, looks like someone lost their temper," Steve quipped.

Mike stared down at the body of the female.

"Is that Rachel?" Steve asked.

"Can't tell for sure, but I think so, yeah."

"And the guy?"

"Don't know."

Mike moved in to get a closer look at the female victim's face, bent down and nodded to Steve saying, "Yeah, it's her." Mike straightened up and found his ability to suppress the deep anguish he was feeling quite remarkable. After all, the gruesome sight of the savagely butchered body of someone he loved or, at least, lusted after, was something his training had never covered. It made him feel good to have such complete control over himself and be able to keep his mind on the business at hand. He asked a nearby uniformed officer if the coroner had arrived yet and he was told that he hadn't but was on his way.

Mike and Steve moved on to further examine the crime scene. The first thing they noticed was two sets of bloody shoe prints on the cement walkway that went to the back of the house. Steve brought up the possibility of two killers but Mike thought the two sets of shoe prints seemed to be similar. "Maybe they were twins who dressed alike," Steve offered in jest.

"Yeah, the Doublemint twins go berserk. Good story for the tabs."

"Hey, detectives, look over here," an officer who was poking around the alcove called to them.

Mike and Steve went over to him. He had uncovered a bloody glove that was under some foliage near the male victim.

"Okay, good work," Mike said to his young colleague, "now we're getting somewhere. Get some photos taken," Mike instructed, "and leave it there for the lab boys," he added, referring to the criminalists who had not yet arrived.

"Yeah, and now see if you can find the perp hiding in the bushes," Steve joked to the officer who responded with an uncertain grin.

Mike's mind was racing. Rachel and Blade had a fight two nights ago and she had demanded a divorce. The couple had a history of domestic violence. Blade had pleaded no contest to a charge of battering his wife about a year ago. Blade's a big rock star who's used to having things his way. Who thinks of every woman as his personal property. Not only is Rachel dumping him, but she's dumping on him by dating a younger guy who was probably the male victim. He remembered Blade saying something about a pizza boy. It all fits, Mike concluded. Blade did this in a jealous rage. Mike could hardly contain his growing excitement at the prospect of putting handcuffs on Blade. Of having him in his control. Mike was itching to get over to Blade's place. He gave Steve a nod to follow him out the front gate.

The area in front of the condo had become a magnet for the media. They hovered around the periphery of the carnage like vultures hoping to pick up some scraps to feed on after the jackals were through. Two local news vans were parked across the street and their crews had video cams scanning the area, reporters interviewed everyone they could and a helicopter was heard fast approaching overhead. A few of the neighbors stood in front of their homes to gaze upon the disquieting scene.

"Nothing more we can do here," Mike said to Steve outside the gate. Then, looking his partner directly in his eyes, Mike said confidentially but with great intensity, "I think we need to go over to Blade's place. He did this, Steve. He's the perp. It all fits. There's no other explanation. He's the killer and we're gonna take him down. So..."

Mike was interrupted by the arrival of his Captain. The two detectives filled him in on the situation. He listened carefully to the report and asked Mike if he was absolutely sure about the identity of the female victim.

"Yes, sir. No doubt about it," Mike said emphatically.

"Okay, we'll need to inform the husband," the Captain said as though thinking aloud. Then said more decisively, "You two go on over there, break the news and see what he has to say."

Mike broke for his car like a pent up bronco out of his holding pen. The Captain looked after him with an unusual interest.

"That's one dedicated cop," said Steve over his shoulder as he slowly followed his partner.

Mike drove like a man possessed. He was hoping to find Blade in the act of burying bloody clothes in his backyard or burning them or hiding the weapon. Something. "Uh, Mike," Steve said calmly, "if you're going to drive like a maniac at least put the light on the roof."

Mike reached for the police light resting on his side of the dash, switched it on so it was flashing blue, reached out the window, stuck it on the roof of the car and reiterated his suspicions about Blade.

"Well, yeah, Blade might've done it. That's certainly a possibility," Steve remarked judiciously.

"No question about it. I'm sure of it. I feel it in my gut and know it in my head. It's gotta be him. It's just gotta be."

"Okay. If it is him it'll be easy enough to prove what with the shoe prints and the glove we found."

"That's him on the corner," Mike said intensely as he indicated Blade's estate. He pulled up to the gate, got out of the car and picked up the intercom phone. He listened to it buzzing as he looked through the gate and said, "The place looks deserted." He then tried to push the gate open but it was locked. He put the phone back up to his ear. "There's no answer," he told Steve.

"Maybe he's asleep."

"There's a housekeeper." Mike hung up the phone and told Steve to stay there while he went around to the other side of the driveway to check the other gate.

"If he did the crime ya think he'd be at home waitin' for us to call on 'im?" Steve asked as Mike went on his way after retrieving a flashlight from the car.

As he turned the corner on the other side of the estate Mike noticed Blade's Blazer parked askance to the curb. He thought that very suspicious, as if the driver was in too much of a hurry to attend to the correct parking procedure. He walked up to the vehicle cautiously with his flashlight on and shined it along the outside of its passenger side. Stepping up to the closed window Mike illuminated the interior and got very excited upon seeing what looked very much like blood stains on the tan leather of the driver's seat. He went around the truck to the driver's window, which was also closed and lit up the inside from that angle and saw red smears on the side of the console. Mike took a step back from the truck as he realized his hunch about Blade was becoming a solid case. Something else caught his eye as he held the flashlight on the driver's door. A little spot of red right underneath the door handle. He moved in for a closer look and was beginning to feel as if he had won the lottery.

After checking the other gate and finding it locked Mike started back to go around the block. He took out his cell phone and put in a request to get the lab boys out to 8256 Mulholland first thing in the morning. As he walked up to Steve he said, "You won't believe what I found."

"Okay I won't believe it. What'd you find?"

Mike told his partner, relishing every word.

"So, you think it's blood?" asked Steve thoughtfully.

"I know it is."

"So, now whadda we do?"

"We gotta get inside," Mike said as he grabbed onto the iron wrought bars of the front gate like a man possessed.

"Mike," his partner cautioned, "take it easy. We can't go in there. We can't just..."

"I know, I know, but here's the situation. The guy's wife is murdered. There's blood in his truck and no answer from the house. No signs of life. Maybe there's people hurt in there. We gotta go in. Now give me a boost up."

Steve crouched in front of the gate with his hands interlocked between his legs. Mike stepped into Steve's hands and was hoisted to the top of the gate where he lifted himself up and over. Hanging on the inside of the gate with his arms stretched it was only about a five foot drop to the ground. He released his grip and let himself fall to the blacktop driveway where he landed squarely on his feet. The driveway gate was electronic and had to be opened with a code as did the gate for pedestrians. The pedestrian gate, however, could be unbolted manually from inside.

He let Steve in and they approached the front door of the house. After ringing the doorbell twice with no response the two detectives began to walk around to the back of the house where the cottages were. On the way they looked everywhere around them. The silver beams from their searchlights, erratically sweeping through the darkness like a Hollywood premier in miniature, displayed bits and pieces of the estate, the bushes around the house, a window, a diving board, a corner of the tennis court, a tree trunk, a Jacuzzi, a patch of grass, the windows and doors of the three cottages.

"Which one is Cody's?" asked Steve.

"The one on the left."

They went up to the door and Mike energetically shattered the stillness of the night with the brass knocker. He and Steve listened intently for any sounds of movement inside. There were none and Mike forcefully knocked again. A faint light appeared in the front windows of the cottage and then the light over the door came on. Cody peaked through a vertical row of small windows next to the door and recognizing the two men opened it. His face was creased, his hair frazzled. He wore a faded T-shirt that read "Just do it" and a pair of boxers. His eyes were already wide-awake belying the rest of his sleepy appearance. Mike's energetic knocking reminded him of the banging noise he had heard earlier that night and he woke with a heart racing start. "What're you guys doin' here?" Cody asked nervously.

"We're lookin' for Blade," Mike said.

"He's not here."

"You know where he is?"

"Yeah, Rio."

"Rio?"

"Yeah."

"Rio de Janeiro? Brazil?" asked Mike in disbelief.

"Yeah, well, I mean, you know, he's on his way. Why what's goin' on? Someone report a prowler?"

"What time did Blade leave?" Mike asked.

"Um, let's see, I guess it was about 10:15. He had an eleven o'clock fight."

"What airline?" asked Mike as he took out his cell phone.

"TWA."

As Mike dialed the phone he said almost as an after thought, "Rachel's been murdered."

Cody stared at Mike uncomprehending the statement and said, "Excuse me?"

Mike talked into the phone asking for TWA's number as Steve explained to Cody what had happened.

"Damn," Cody uttered quietly stunned, "I think there was somebody prowlin' around here tonight..."

"Hello, this is detective Michael D'Angello LAPD homicide division. I'd like to know if an eleven o'clock flight to Rio has left yet. It has...five minutes ago? We need that flight turned back to LA. We found the wife of one of the passengers on that flight murdered tonight...I understand, I'll send someone over there with authorization right away." Mike turned to Cody and asked as he dialed into headquarters, "What makes you think there was a prowler?"

"I heard this noise earlier tonight..."

"What time?"

"I dunno, um, around ten."

"Captain...D'Angello here..." Mike said into the phone, "Yes sir...Well, the murder victim's husband is on a TWA flight to Rio out of LAX. We need to have it turned back... Right...We're at Blade's house talking to his personal assistant... Right...okay good." Mike disengaged the phone and continued questioning Cody. "Awright then, what kind of noise did you hear?"

"It was like a bam bam bam against my back wall. Shook me up, and the picture on the wall."

"So it was pretty violent."

"Yea."

"Did you take a look around?"

"Well, I was goin' to get Blade and I saw a limo in the driveway and the driver standin' there. I wasn't expecting that..."

"You weren't expecting the limo?"

"No."

"Why not? I thought you said Blade had a gig in Rio."

"Yeah, but I thought he cancelled it."

"Why'd you think that?"

"He told me."

"Blade told you he had cancelled it?"

"Yeah."

"When did he tell you that?"

"Actually, I heard him tell his agent to have it cancelled."

"When was that?"

"Last night. At the backstage party."

"Uh huh, okay, so you were saying..."

"Huh?"

"About the noise...investigating the noise you heard..."

"Oh, yeah, uh, so I saw the limo and Blade came out of the house carrying his luggage. I told him about the noise and he said I should get a flashlight. I went back to my cottage to get it. When I came back out Blade said he had to leave to catch his plane and I came back here to my cottage."

"So you just heard this noise. You didn't see anything?"

"I was too scared to look around by myself."

"But you didn't call 911?"

"No, there wasn't anything more after that and so, I dunno, I just didn't think to report it."

"Okay, I'm gonna take a look around back. Is there anyone in the house now? The housekeeper?"

"No, she's not here now."

"Uh huh. Can you get into the house?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Okay, you take detective Conner into the house while I take a look around. That is, with your permission, of course."

"Sure, go ahead."

In back of the cottage there was a narrow alley between the rear wall and a chain link fence about seven feet high with thick shrubs growing along the street side. There was a lot of growth intruding through the fence and reaching for the cottage wall. Mike observed that none of it had been broken or torn and the alleyway seemed undisturbed. Nonetheless he made his way cautiously down the length of the wall. There was still no telling who or what he might find. As he neared the air conditioner sticking out of the Cody's window he examined the wall to see if there were any telltale signs that someone had slammed against it or hit it in any way. He found nothing to indicate any sort of collision with the wall.

As Mike turned to go something lying near the base of the fence glistened in the corner of his eye. He beamed his flashlight on it and what he saw caused an adrenaline rush that severely challenged the capacity of his heart. It was another bloody glove. After taking a quick look all around the cramped space of the alley, Mike stared down lovingly at the glove and put the whole thing together in his mind. All the pieces, one glove at the crime scene, the other one tossed in the back of Blade's place, the blood in Blade's truck... Mike didn't need to go any further. Blade was his. Now he, Mike D'Angello, was calling the shots. Blade was his bitch now. The rock star was about to fall. Oh, what a pretty sight that would be. And he, Mike D'Angello, would be the one to bring the star crashing down to earth and to bury him six feet under. Oh God, he felt like jumping up and down and shouting for joy, HEY EVERYBODY LOOK WHAT I FOUND! I'M FREE! I'M MY OWN MAN AGAIN!

When Mike went around to the front of the property police personnel were taping off the area. His Captain informed him that Blade's plane would soon be heading headed back to LAX. He was also told of possible blood evidence being found in the house. Mike could hardly contain himself but did manage to maintain a professional demeanor as he led Steve and the Captain back to the alleyway to show them his miraculous find. Having done that he and Steve followed by a couple of uniformed officers made their way to LAX in a rush of excitement at the prospect of making the biggest arrest of their careers.

................................................................................

When the announcement came over the loudspeaker that the flight would be turning back to LAX due to "suddenly unfavorable weather up ahead" Blade sat calmly at his window seat, leaned his forehead against the glass and looked out where there was no escape. Still under the influence of the valium, Blade's emotions were like distant relatives gathered around his death bed, barely recognizable. There was a faint sense of dread that his very life would no longer be recognizable. Also, a hint of grief was spawning inside of him along with a feeling of guilt for Rachel's horrifying departure from this earth. A part of him wanted to confess to the crime, wanted to take responsibility for it. Vaguely aware of those feelings he tried to sort out his predicament in a rational manner.

Blade figured the plane was being turned back because the murder had been discovered. He was, most likely, a suspect. He knew there would be some incriminating evidence against him, but he really didn't think it would amount to anything substantial. Nothing a good lawyer couldn't handle. Unless, of course, someone had seen him toss the duffel bag.

As the plane made its way back to LAX Blade put himself in the proper frame of mind to face what was to come. All he knew, he told himself, was that his trip to Rio had been interrupted and that was, for the moment, the most significant event in his life. He totally focused on the rerouted flight and what that meant in the normal scope of things. Getting to Rio that night was a high priority because he had a TV station expecting his arrival for an evening interview. So, he called for the flight attendant and asked her if she had any idea about when the flight would be rescheduled. She said no, she didn't. Then Blade asked her if it would be okay for him to use his cell phone and she told him it would but to make it short.

Blade called his agent who answered on the first ring. Quicker than Blade had expected, "The plane's been turned back, Harvey," said Blade. "Something to do with the weather. See if you can find out when I can get another flight and make the arrangements." As Blade spoke he could hear Harvey saying, "Oh my God..." over and over. "Hey take it easy, Harvey, it's no big deal."

"Oh my God. Oh my God. You don't know yet. Oh my God. I don't want to be the one to tell you. Oh my God."

"Tell me what?"

"Oh my God, Blade, the most terrible horrible thing happened. Oh my God how can I tell you How can I tell you Rachel's been murdered. Oh my God I just told you..."

Blade chose not to understand what he was being told. "Harvey calm down what're you trying to say. What happened to Rachel?" He was talking loud and drawing attention to himself from the other passengers.

"Oh my God I have to tell you again. Oh, Blade, I saw it on the news not five minutes ago. Rachel, murdered at her condo. She's dead Blade, murdered."

"Rachel murdered? I don't believe it. Are you sure? The news? They could be wrong."

"It must be true. That must be why your flight's been turned around. Oh my God."

The flight attendant came by and signaled Blade to cut the phone. "I gotta go Harvey. Meet me at the airport." Blade shut off the phone and dropped it to the floor as he hung his head in his hands. He then sprung up out of his seat and headed for the lavatory. The flight attendant followed close behind asking what was wrong, if there was anything she could do and saying they were going to be landing soon. Blade bolted for the lavatory and once enclosed within its confines took the Band-Aids off his hand, dropped them in the commode, wrapped a towel around the fist of his other hand, let out a grief stricken yell and smashed the mirror with his protected fist. He then manipulated his partially congealed wounds to open them afresh and pressed the newly bleeding cuts against the broken glass.

"What's going on in there!" The flight attendant asked as she knocked on the door, "What's the matter with you?"

"My wife's been killed!" Blade shouted, now in real agony.

"What! Where?" asked the attendant momentarily disoriented, "On the plane?"

For Blade the floodgates of his pent up emotions were wide open and he thoroughly indulged himself in giving it full expression. He let out another blood curdling scream that stunned the attendant into silence.

After regaining her composure she told Blade he had to come out of the lavatory immediately or she'd have to call the Captain. The other flight attendants and a couple of passengers had gathered around the disturbing scene. Finally, it was decided among the attendants to inform the Captain of the incident.

Blade remained locked in the lavatory for the rest of the flight. It was the Captains decision to leave him be. The Captain had been informed about what had happened to Blade's wife. The Captain thought trying to force Blade out of the lavatory would do more harm than letting him stay where he was until they landed. The weather was right for a smooth landing so Blade wouldn't get knocked around too much in there. The police would be boarding the plane after the landing and they'd be better suited to deal with the situation.

................................................................................

The police cars were out on the runway awaiting the arrival of flight 185. There was an orange truck in front of them that would lead the way to the plane when the time came. On its rear panel the words FOLLOW ME were printed out in huge lettering using orange light bulbs.

Mike D'Angello was practically foaming at the mouth at the prospect of taking Blade into custody, "We're gonna have to watch his reaction very closely when we give him the news. I mean, you know, he knows what we're gonna tell him but he's gonna have to try to act as if he didn't know. So pay very close attention when I break the news to the scuzzball."

"Mike," said Steve in mock reprimand, "this is Blade you're talking about. Our good friend, Blade."

"Friend," Mike scoffed, "he had nice toys to play with, that's all."

"That he did. Very nice toys. I'm gonna miss them very much."

"Yeah, well maybe we oughtta just stick to bein' cops from now on," Mike said as he noticed the FOLLOW ME sign start flashing. The truck slowly pulled away. The two detectives followed in their car along with a patrol car behind them. Also included in the convoy was a TWA vehicle that carried a stairway apparatus to attach to the plane. It had been decided that, after landing, the plane would taxi to an unused portion of the runway, away from the terminal, so it would have easy access to take off again and resume its flight once Blade was removed.

After a slow two-minute ride the police motorcade arrived at the aircraft and the ground crew went right to work moving the stairway into position. When it was all set the police officers were given the okay. As they went up the stairs and watched the door of the plane open Mike said, "Oh God, this is gonna be fun."

The detectives and two uniformed officers were met by the Captain. He informed them of Blade's actions during the turnaround. Mike was very disappointed to find out Blade had already heard about the murders. He was also troubled by the fact that Blade had the opportunity of giving a public performance as the grief stricken husband.

Once inside the plane, the Captain gave Detective D'Angello the key to unlock the bathroom door and said, "He's all yours."

They were shown the way and Mike knocked loudly on the door saying, "Andrew Wussmann! It's the police! Open the door!"

There was no response. Mike unlocked the door and opened it to see Blade slumped into himself on the floor with his back leaning against the toilet. "Let's go, Mr. Wussmann," Mike said as he motioned to an officer to lift him out, "it's time to go."

Blade was unceremoniously extricated from his cubby-hole. He stood still a moment supported by the cops and said softly to Mike as if embarrassed, "Did you have to use my real name?"

"Let's go, get him outta here," was Mike's gruff response.

"That's a nasty cut on his hand," a flight attendant noted, "it should be seen to immediately."

"An officer can bandage it up in his cruiser," Mike said gruffly.

Blade was summarily escorted through the first class cabin, out the door, down the stairs and into the cruiser where he was driven to the police station.

As Mike and Steve were walking toward their car a flight attendant called to them as she came down the stairs. She was holding a jacket that she handed to Mike saying that it belonged to Mr. Wussmann.

"Oh jeez," Mike said scratching his head, "I almost forgot! We're gonna need to get Mr. Wussmann's luggage off the plane."

He handed the jacket back to the flight attendant and asked her to see if the baggage stubs were in the pockets. They were. Mike noticed the Captain standing in the plane's doorway and motioned for him to come down. He was told about the luggage problem and he said it would be taken care of right away. Mike thanked him and said there'd be a police officer out to collect the luggage later. The Captain said it would be waiting in the airport security office.

................................................................................

At 11:46 PM the phone in the Thanos' bedroom rudely jangled sleeping nerves awake. The conditioned response of reaching for the phone at the sound of the bell was set in motion even before Thanos became conscious of the ringing. He woke up just as his eager hand grabbed the receiver. There was often a reward attached to the other end of the line. A big fish to be landed, as in a lucrative business deal or a new investment opportunity. He loved the phone. He became a creature of mythic proportions. The telephone cables, like long spindly tentacles, stretched out around the earth in search of prey. He always imagined the little voice speaking into his ear on the other end of the line as belonging to a midget, a pipsqueak. Thanos could easily overpower them. The voice he now heard was unfamiliar to him and that made its owner seem even smaller.

"Mr. Thanos?" asked the voice as if in supplication to its master.

"Yes," Thanos said, elongating the word with a rising inflection like a powerful king might as a warning to an annoying underling that the disturbance better be about something worthwhile.

"This is Captain Jenkins of the Los Angeles Police Department."

Thanos' image of the person was awarded full midget-status. "I see. What can I do for you Captain?"

"We have someone here at the station who we believe is your son. I'd like you to come down and verify that for us."

"Look, if my son's in any kind of trouble that's his problem. He's an adult now and..."

"Your son is Robert Thanos? Born August 10, 1973? Whose address is 1324 Morton Drive?"

"Yes..."

"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, sir. We found the body of a young man we believe to be your son."

"The body?"

"Yes, and we'd like you to come down for identification purposes. We'll send a car to pick you up if you like."

"That won't be necessary. I'll be right down."

"Thank you, sir."

Thanos continued holding the phone to his ear in a kind of daze. He heard the click of the disconnect. This infuriated him. He was the one to terminate phone calls, not the other party. He took the receiver away from his ear, looked at it a moment and slammed it down in its cradle. "The son of a bitch hung up on me!" he said angrily.

"Who was it?" asked his wife as she propped up her pillow against the headboard.

"Oh...just..." Thanos uttered, unsure of what to say. That bothered him too. Uncertainty was not part of his image. Okay, then he'd just have to take charge of the situation. Whatever it was. Who were the police after all but his servants. They were asking for his help with a problem only he could solve. "They need me down at police headquarters," he told his wife importantly.

"Police headquarters? What for?"

"They need my help with something," Thanos said in the tone of voice that meant for his wife to leave it be. He got out of bed, dressed, got into his Cadillac El Dorado and headed for the police station. He stopped at an all night donut place on the way for a cup of coffee and a cinnamon bun. On the way out he bought a box of "assorted" for the cops on the night shift.

As he entered the police station Thanos thought at first glance that he must have made a mistake. Were it not for the uniformed officers going about their business Thanos would have sworn he was in the lobby of a hotel. It was a spacious, bright and airy hall with a highly polished floor of black and white squares. A large glittering chandelier hung over the center, under which a young personable officer sat at a reception desk. Beyond him there was a partition that ran the width of the lobby. The bottom section was about four feet high and solid, the middle section was glass and the top section served as a large canvas for a balmy mural of a palm-treed beach. Spaced along in the glass section there were three speaking holes and below them were semicircular holes at counter level used for passing things through. Behind the glass police personnel could be seen at work at their desks.

Thanos approached the reception desk and was asked, "Can I assist you?"

"I'm here to see Captain Jenkins," Thanos said as if relaying something highly confidential and significant.

"See the desk sergeant at the window, please," said the receptionist as he pointed behind him.

"Where's your coffee bar?" Thanos asked with a knowing chummy smile.

"Our what?"

"You know, where do you get your coffee when you take a break?" Thanos held the box of donuts in front of him and nodded at it as if it were a clue.

"Oh," the receptionist looked at the donut box and then at Thanos somewhat confused, "uh, the squad room."

"Well, this is for you," Thanos handed him the box, "would you put it by the coffee pots? Just a little treat to show my appreciation for the job you do. Oh, I donate to the PBA too. Don't think I don't. Every year. This is just a little something extra for the troops on the front line."

"Okay, thank you," he said as the young officer took the box and looked at Thanos with a bewildered smile.

Thanos marched right up to the window. One of the officers behind the glass noticed his approach, got up from his desk and stationed himself at the middle speaking-hole. Thanos charged right over to him and said, "Captain Jenkins is expecting me. Mr. Thanos? I think it's rather important."

"Mr. Thanos," said the sergeant as he perused a computer monitor, "yes sir. You can go right through that door on your right. I'll buzz you in."

"Okay, thank you," said Thanos as he slowly moved away from the window, "I brought some donuts for you guys. Left them with the receptionist. Hope you get one before they're all gone."

The desk sergeant shrugged as if to say, "Okay I'll play along", stuck his face in the speaking-hole and in an ominous play-acting voice said to the receptionist, "Jorge Luzano, don't eat all the donuts."

Thanos chuckled while pointing at the receptionist to accentuate the command and then indicated the officer behind the glass with his thumb as if to say you better do what he says. "Have a good night, officers" he said chummily as he was buzzed through the door. He was met by another officer, a female, who brought him to the Captain's office. "Mr. Thanos, to see you, sir," the officer said after she opened the door to let Thanos in.

"Thank you, sergeant," the Captain said as he stood up behind his desk.

The sergeant left closing the door behind her. Thanos went up to the desk and shook the Captain's hand.

"Mr. Thanos," said the Captain.

"Captain Jenkins," said Mr. Thanos.

"Have a seat," the Captain offered, indicating a folding metal chair with black vinyl covered cushioning in front of his desk.

"Thank you," Thanos said, gushing with appreciation as if he'd just been offered a seat on the New York Stock Exchange. "You've got one hell of a job Captain. I must say I don't envy you. Don't know how you do it. I guess it's just one of those things, either you're cut out for the job or you're not. Takes a special kind of man to do what you do."

"Well, it's like my mother said to me when I told her I was gonna be a cop, 'A cop,' she said, 'you must be crazy'."

Thanos managed a chuckle. He thought that was the appropriate response to the Captain's anecdote but he was really not amused. He felt that what the Captain said did not jibe with the sentiment in his own statement. Thanos took it as a personal affront. Not to be outdone, he snapped right back with what he thought was a zinger of his own, "Like I said, it takes a special man," he said with significant emphasis on the word special.

The Captain laughed and wondered about the mischievously smiling man with the flamboyant mustache seated across from him. At first Jenkins had thought his behavior was due to nervousness, but now he wasn't so sure. Thanos seemed to him to be totally engaged in his appearance there as if he was some kind of entertainer. Perhaps, Thanos was just trying to avoid dealing with the unpleasant possibility of his son's demise. If so he was doing a bang up job. So much so the Captain was at a loss about how to broach the subject. "I must have woke you up with my phone call earlier," the Captain said as a way of working into it.

"Yes, yes, as a matter of fact you did. But, heck, you're just doing your job."

"I was wondering, what with your being half asleep at the time, if you heard everything I said?"

"Oh, no, listen, I wake up like that," Thanos snapped his fingers. "You said you might've found the body of my son," he said to prove his point that he was wide-awake at the time of the call.

The Captain regarded Thanos in quiet amazement. The guy must already be in denial, he thought. "That's right," Jenkins said. "Do you know if your son was acquainted with a Mrs. Rachel Wussmann?"

"A Mrs...?" Thanos questioned and then said in a peculiarly lighthearted manner, "Oh no, was he messin' around with somebody's wife?"

Captain Jenkins looked down at his desk and decided to quit trying to figure Thanos out. "Well, we don't know about that. What I need you to do now is come downstairs with me to the morgue and take a look at the body."

"Oh sure. Just lead the way," Thanos said cheerfully.

Down in the morgue Thanos looked at the rows of triple stacked stainless steel body drawers and quipped, "Looks like Japanese hotel rooms."

Thanos was being led along the stacks by the Captain and an assistant coroner neither of whom acknowledged the remark. The coroner stopped at one particular drawer and pulled out the slab on which the body in question rested. The coroner looked at Thanos as if to ask, 'Are you ready for this?' Thanos nodded and said, "Let'er rip."

The coroner gave the Captain a quick look of disbelief regarding Thanos and lifted the sheet to reveal the head of the corpse underneath. Thanos stepped in for a closer look and shaking his head said to the body of his son, "So, this is how you wind up?" He stepped back and said to the Captain matter-of-factly, "Yep, that's him. That's my son. It's Robby awright. No doubt about it." Then, after a slight pause, he said, "What a shame, huh?"

The coroner placed the sheet back over Robby, closed the drawer and said, "I have some papers for you to sign, Mr. Thanos. If you don't mind?"

"Sure thing," Thanos said, "unpleasant business, this."

In the coroner's office Thanos looked over the papers he was to sign that gave custody of his son's body to the coroner and gave permission to perform an autopsy. Thanos looked up from reading the papers and asked, "What about funeral expenses?"

"What about them?" the coroner asked at a loss.

"Well, I mean, after all, I'm signing my son's body over to you. You're taking custody of him to carve him up for your own purposes. It seems to me that he becomes your property and, as such, I think it only fair that you share in picking up the tab for the funeral expenses."

After gaping a moment at Thanos the coroner said, "I've never heard of such a thing and I'm sure there's no legal justification for it."

"My son's brutally murdered. A victim of an out of control crime rate that the county officials are responsible for and you tell me there's no justification for the county to take care of the funeral?"

"No legal justification, no," replied the coroner.

"Sign the papers if you would, Mr. Thanos," said the Captain, "it's the normal procedure. You can take your claim up with our legal department tomorrow, if you like."

"Okay," Thanos relented and signed the papers.

"Now, if you don't mind I'd like to ask you a few questions upstairs in my office."

Once they were seated again in the Captain's office Jenkins asked Thanos whether he knew what his son's relationship was with Rachel Wussmann. Thanos told him that he knew nothing about it.

"Did he ever mention her? Ever talk about her at all?"

"No."

"Did he ever mention anyone by the name of Blade?"

"Blade?" Thanos repeated the name like it was something distasteful in his mouth, "That's a name?"

"He's lead singer with the rock band On The Edge."

"Oh?" Thanos said with a slight shrug.

"So, your son never mentioned him to you?"

"No."

"Alright, Mr. Thanos, you can go now. Very sorry for your loss and thank you for your cooperation."

They stood up and shook hands. "Yes, well, glad to be of help." He turned to go and then suddenly stopped and asked, "Oh by the way, have you informed my wife? Well, I mean my ex-wife, of course, Robby's mother?"

"No, uh..."

"Well, that's awright. I'll take care of that," Thanos said in a grand and magnanimous way. He then turned slightly again toward the door but immediately stopped and stepped up to the Captain's desk and said, "You know, it just occurred to me, uh, bullet proof vests..."

"What about them?" asked the Captain wondering what that had to do with anything.

"Well, you know the Japanese are state-of-the-art with the bullet proof vest, the lightest weight, the most protection. Why they'll even stop a Teflon bullet."

"Really?" asked the Captain still wondering.

"Oh yes. Now..."

The phone rang. The Captain picked it up, "Cap'n Jenkins here...Yes...good." He hung up the phone and informed Thanos that he had some other business to attend to.

"I'd like you to have those bullet proof vests. I can get you a good deal on 'em."

"You'll have to talk to acquisitions about that," the Captain said as he held the door open for Thanos.

"Right. Of course," Thanos said and walked briskly through the door with his chest out and head high.

................................................................................

When Thanos got home from viewing his son's body at the morgue he went to the kitchen and made himself a glass of chocolate milk. He sat down at the table and sipped it slowly between long, pensive moments in which the hum of the refrigerator seemed unusually loud. He sat immobile for minutes at a time watching the steady dripping from the faucet and listening for the sound of the water drops on the metal sink.

When his wife came in the kitchen in a pale blue silk robe and her hair up in curlers saying, "What's the matter with you? What's going on?" Thanos did not acknowledge her presence.

She took a step closer to the table, "Thanos!" she demanded.

Thanos remained still keeping his eyes on the faucet and said evenly, "Robby was supposed to fix that faucet. Just one of the many things he never accomplished in his life. I was just down at the police station to identify Robby's body." He turned to Marsha and said as though annoyed, "Yeah! He went out and got himself killed tonight!" With the tips of his fingers Thanos pushed the glass of chocolate milk away from him. "Ya know Marsha," he said, "I always knew the kid was a loser but this... I mean, even I didn't think he could possibly be this big of a failure. But, there it is!"

"Robby's dead? Is that what you're saying here? Robby's dead?" Marsha asked incredulously.

"Yeah! That's what I'm saying. The pizza boy goes out and gets sliced up like a pizza!"

"Thanos..." Marsha was lost for words, "Well, I guess you must be in shock."

"Shock? Oh yeah, I'm in shock awright." Thanos hunched over leaning his forearms on his thighs. "Ya know, Robby's always been a loser. Oh, I could tell you things...I always asked myself, 'How can this kid be mine?' There's no way, no way my flesh and blood's gonna turn out like such a nincompoop."

"Thanos! How can you talk like that?"

"It's true." Thanos straightened up and sat back in his chair. "There's no way he was my kid," he said, "there's just no way. My ex liked to fool around, ya know. Call the plumber tomorrow and get that goddamn leak fixed," Thanos demanded throwing a hand in the air toward the sink and then, as if addressing an auditorium full of people, said, "Now, Jackie. My daughter. She is my child. I have no doubt about that. She's a winner. A total winner, one hundred percent all the way. Robby...no, he's not mine. That's not to say I'm gonna disown him, or anything like that. Because as far as you and the rest of the world are concerned he was my kid and I'm gonna be out there fightin' for him. He has my name after all and I'm gonna see to it that he's remembered and the world's gonna know that you don't mess with a Thanos without payin' for it, without payin' for it big time!"

Marsha stood at the edge of the kitchen table completely befuddled. She did not know how to take what she was hearing. Her husband of four years suddenly appeared to her to be a stranger. She felt a stranger to herself. Her natural impulse to grieve for her stepson, whom she had grown quite fond of over the years, lay stillborn inside her. Grief seemed out of place in the face of Thanos' state of mind.

It all seemed like a terrible dream to her. Robby killed and all his father could do was call him a loser? It was hard for Marsha to believe what Thanos was telling her was true, that Robby was really dead. She was half expecting him to chuckle and say it was all a joke. But no, she knew what he had told her was true. The only explanation for her husband's behavior was that he was in shock. Marsha approached him and stroked his head tenderly and said, "Let's get some sleep, teddy bear."

"You go ahead," Thanos said as he took his wife's hand and kissed it, "I'll be up in a little while. I need to think this thing through. But you know what?" Thanos said as he got up from the chair and put on his jacket. "I'm not at all tired and I have to be the one to tell Jackie about this. I don't want her hearing it on TV or anything like that. So, you know what? I'm gonna drive over to the campus now and tell her."

"I'll go with you."

"No, I'd rather be alone with her when I break the news. I'll bring her right home with me tonight and we can all commiserate together tomorrow."

"Okay, I guess. Are you sure you'll be okay? Driving and all?"

"I'll be fine. I'm wide awake."

"Are you going to call Jackie before you go over there?"

"No. It's Sunday night so she'll most likely be in her dorm asleep at this late hour. Best not to wake her until I get there. That way I know she won't hear the news from anyone else."

Marsha felt extremely irritated with her husband's self-assured, smug attitude. His overweening confidence was what she found most attractive about him but she also found it to be most infuriating when she thought it was misplaced. As far as his daughter was concerned it was terribly misplaced. Jackie's first year in college was not devoted to scholastic excellence. It was dedicated to becoming the party girl of the year. Thanos, however, remained oblivious to that fact. As far as he was concerned Jackie was in summer school because she wanted to be not because she had to be. The willful ignorance of his daughter's true situation and the pristine image of her that Thanos had chiseled into his mind of stone drove Marsha up the wall. As her husband kissed her on the forehead Marsha felt an irresistible urge to ruffle his feathers. "You really think she's asleep in her dorm?" she said, a bit more derisively than she wanted to.

Thanos gave her a look.

"Well, she is a college student after all. And you know what they're like."

"I know my daughter."

"Okay, suppose she is in bed. Is she in bed alone?"

Thanos glared at his wife as he folded his arms and said in the harsh tone that could make Marsha wither inside, "I suggest that you either remind yourself that you are my wife and behave accordingly or that you go upstairs, pack your things and leave this house for good."

Marsha burst into tears and threw herself into Thanos' arms and said through her sobbing, "Forgive me for not understanding you. You are the strongest, most powerful man I've ever known. I get frustrated sometimes that I can't understand you. I feel as though I'm a stranger to you. That you couldn't possibly love me. I...I adore you, Thanos. I worship you."

Thanos removed himself from his clinging wife. She collapsed into a chair. "You never had it so good, lady," Thanos declared. "And don't you forget it. Now go up to bed and await my return."

................................................................................

Thanos' daughter, Jackie, had been an A student all through high school and planned to continue that record in college. The Thanos' home was only an hour's drive from the UCLA campus but Jackie chose to live in a dorm rather than waste two hours a day commuting. It was time she could put towards other things, like studying. She was enrolled in a program for which grades mattered. Having breezed through high school as a top student it was certainly not in her plans to have to take classes during the summer break to complete her freshman year. It was quite a blow to her ego when she wound up having to do exactly that. Disgusted with herself Jackie was determined to get back on track with her studies in summer school.

Luckily her roommate for the summer session was a very studious girl, Laura Krantz. Laura was in summer school by her own choice. She wanted to finish college in three years. She was quiet and during the regular school year had hung out with the "nerd herd". She was tall and thin but not without a figure. Her straight brown hair was cut at her jaw line and her bangs covered her forehead to just above her big brown eyes.

In contrast Jackie was outgoing and vivacious with a flair for the dramatic. Everything she did seemed to resonate as performance art. Her auburn hair was full and naturally wavy. She was not at all glamorous or beautiful but she knew how to use what she had and present a very attractive image.

Their first day as roommates, Jackie and Laura didn't have much to say. Jackie was more than a little perturbed about the prospect of being cooped up with a "computer with hair" for two whole months. Laura felt very uncomfortable in the presence of a wild party girl who'd probably try to get her drunk every night.

The next day, after having thought it out, Jackie changed her mind completely about Laura. After all, if she was really serious about hitting the books she could not have asked for a better roommate. Jackie had to admit that she could use a friend who could help keep her focused on her studies. After classes that day Jackie went for a jog around the campus to refresh herself before settling down to the hours of study before her. She thought about her new friend, Laura, as she ran. Jackie had no doubts that they would become friends. She had always been totally confident in her ability to wend her way into anyone's life as she chose. She figured Laura to be the type of person to whom friendship was something deep and abiding. Someone who would demand an insular intimacy that served as a sanctuary from the rest of the untrustworthy world. They would, Jackie mused, need to cultivate a special closeness that was jealous of the very space between them.

Back in the dorm after her run, Jackie, took a shower and as she was toweling off Laura came in. Jackie sat naked on her bed with her right ankle resting on her left thigh as she used the towel to dry her foot. Her ample breasts were squeezed together by her arms as she used her hands together to manipulate the towel between her toes. She was going to say, "Hi," but was silenced by Laura's reaction to her. She found it puzzling to say the least. Upon seeing Jackie, Laura stopped dead in her tracks, stared down at the floor a moment and then slowly, furtively turned her gaze back on her naked roommate. She seemed to Jackie to be disturbed. Laura's dark brown eyes lingered a moment on her roommate's nudity and then abruptly looked away. She paused for a second and headed straight for her desk, unloaded her books from her backpack and sat down to study.

Jackie leaned forward resting her arms on her legs as she quietly regarded her enigmatic roomie who was sitting with her back to her. This is really going to be a challenge, Jackie thought. She put the towel aside on her bed and pulled on a pair of white lace bikini panties and an old T-shirt that was cut off just below her breasts. She took the towel off her head, whipped the air a couple of times with her hair and said, "I won't use the blow dryer if it'll bother you."

Laura leaned her elbows on her desk, put her face in her hands, deeply sighed and said in a muffled voice, "That's okay."

"Are you upset about something, Laura?" Jackie asked cautiously.

Laura dropped her hands on to her opened book, her head tilted back a moment as she took a deep breath and said, "Nooo," as an elongated sigh.

"Well, I don't know about you but I can't live like this," said Jackie. She stood up from the bed, marched over to the side of her desk which was next to Laura's, leaned her butt against it, folded her arms and said, "Either we have to come to some kind of understanding, some kind of livable...living arrangement or we need to...find other roommates."

Laura turned slightly in her chair toward Jackie and said without looking at her, "I agree."

"Okay!" Jackie roared with her arms outstretched like a cheerleader, "We agree!" Laura flickered a gentle smile her way and Jackie, encouraged, said, "As for me," she leaned forward toward Laura with her hands between her thighs, "I say let's try to get along."

Laura's eyes quickly alternated between looking at Jackie and looking away.

Jackie continued, "Now, to be perfectly honest with you, Laura... I love that name, by the way, it's so feminine. Unlike the androgynous 'Jackie'. Anyway, to be honest, I have selfish reasons for wanting us to get along, if we possibly can, and I think we can," Jackie stood away from her desk, grabbed a hold of her chair, placed it facing Laura and sat down as she said, "See, I know I screwed up this past year, screwed up big time. I dunno, I just went wild, but I think that's behind me now. I mean, I wasn't at all like that in high school. I was at the top of my class, on the student council and, you know...well, I was more like you...and, I think if we could get along, if we could even be friends, I think that would really help me get back to my old self..."

Laura slumped back in her chair with her hands folded in her lap, looked at Jackie with a sparkle in her eye and said, "I really love your hair."

Jackie smiled and said, "Thanks."

Laura got out of her chair, opened a trunk at the foot of her bed, took out a blow dryer, went over behind where Jackie was sitting, plugged it in and began drying her hair.

Jackie was flabbergasted at the sudden and extreme change in Laura's behavior toward her. At first she felt like protesting that Laura didn't have to do that, but she thought better of it. She figured it was Laura's way of expressing her willingness to try to make a go of it. Besides her attentions felt good.

Laura stroked Jackie's hair with one hand while wielding the dryer in the other, "I wish I had hair like you," she said admiringly, "it's so full and rich and wavy and silky soft. You're lucky. You're really attractive."

"Your not so bad yourself, there, Laura."

Laura shut off the blow dryer and asked, "You really think so?"

"Uh huh, I like your look. It's unique," Jackie said as she looked up at her new friend.

"You find me attractive then?"

"Yeah, I mean, you know, you're not the glamour type but you shouldn't let that bother you."

Laura turned the dryer back on and said, "I kinda think I'm okay lookin' but it's nice to hear you say it." She finished drying Jackie's hair, "That'll do it," she said and stepped around in front of Jackie, pointed the dryer down at her crotch a moment and said in a mockingly professional way, "And let's not forget the short and curlies."

Jackie laughed.

Laura turned off the dryer, laid it on her desk and said, "Now, le'me brush it out a little bit for you, okay?"

"If you really want to, sure."

"I'd love to."

Laura got a brush from her nightstand, positioned herself behind Jackie and began caressing and brushing her hair.

"Oh, that feels so good."

Laura bent down to smell Jackie's hair and asked with her lips close to Jackie's ear, "Mmm, what kind of shampoo do you use?"

Jackie adjusted herself slightly in her seat. Something stirred inside her, "Um, it's, um, Pantene."

"It smells so good," Laura said softly into Jackie's ear.

Something's happening here, Jackie thought. And to her amazement she was welcoming it. She turned her head toward Laura's. Their eye's met. Jackie felt as if there was a magnetic field locking them together. Laura looked down at Jackie's mouth and then back into her eyes. Jackie moved her lips next to Laura's saying, "You wanna kiss me?"

Yeah," Laura said as she lightly brushed against Jackie's lips with her own, "I wanna kiss you. I've always wanted to kiss you."

Their lips came together. Jackie opened her mouth and Laura's tongue eagerly entered. Laura moved in front of Jackie and knelt down before her as the two continued kissing. Jackie spread her legs so Laura could come closer to her. Laura put her hands on Jackie's breasts and then pulled Jackie's shirt off over her head. She began sucking and gently biting on Jackie's nipples. Jackie groaned with pleasure and started pulling at Laura's shirt. Laura pulled it apart, the buttons went flying and the shirt came off. The two impassioned girls stood and embraced each other and kissed and fondled their way over to the nearest bed where they continued their love making long into the night.

Jackie and Laura became inseparable companions and did not hesitate to display their affection for each other in public. This was hardly a groundbreaking event since it was not uncommon for same sex couples on campus to hold hands and hug and kiss in the open. But, there was still an element of boldness, of pushing-the-envelope about it that Jackie found exhilarating. She felt she had gained the status of royalty. A person to be gossiped about, stared at, admired and in some circles celebrated. The whole affair suited Jackie's flair for the dramatic like a spandex body stocking. She found a vibrancy to life, a quiet excitement to everything she did. This was, she thought, without a doubt the absolutely, positively best time of her life.

Laura, as Jackie had suspected, proved to be a very good influence on her. It wasn't long before she was getting A's on all of her schoolwork. It was sexy to study and to shine in the classroom. On a typical night Jackie and Laura would study together for hours either in their dorm or the library, take a dinner break, hit the books again for a few more hours and then snuggle up together in bed for the night. It was there that Thanos found his daughter on the night of her brother's murder.

After explaining why he was there to the female security guard in the lobby of his daughter's dormitory, Thanos was escorted to Jackie's room by the guard, "I think I should go in alone," he told her. "You can leave the door open. I'll just wake her up and tell her I need to talk to her. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?"

"There's a vacant room two doors down," the security guard informed Thanos while indicating its location with her hand.

"Good," Thanos said. He opened the door to his daughter's room and entered the semi-darkness carefully. With the door kept ajar by the security guard Thanos was able to see Jackie and another girl asleep together in the bed to his right. As he approached closer he saw that his daughter was lying on her side with her head nestled into the crook of the other girls arm. The bed covers were down around the girl's waists and they were bare breasted. Jackie's arm lay across her bed partner's chest and Thanos could tell that her leg under the covers was draped over the other girl's legs. Thanos stood over them in amazement for a couple of moments and then leaned down to whisper in his daughter's ear, "Jackie," he touched her shoulder gently, "Jackie, honey..." She stirred and so did Laura. Thanos nudged her shoulder a bit and said, "Jackie, it's me, it's your father."

Jackie turned and squinted up at him and whispered hoarsely, "Dad..." and she suddenly sprang awake pulling the covers over her, "Oh my God, dad? Oh my God, what're you doing here?"

Laura woke up and asked sleepily, "Jackie, what is it?"

Thanos said quickly to his daughter, "I need to talk to you. Put on a robe and come out in the hall." He turned and left the room abruptly. He heard Jackie explaining things to her roommate who he heard say, "Who? You're what?"

Out in the hall the security guard said she'd leave Thanos alone now and went toward the stairway door where she exited. Jackie came out in a blue terry cloth robe and seemed terribly upset. "Dad," she said, "I can explain."

Thanos looked at her quizzically and asked, "Explain what?" Jackie turned slightly toward the door of her room and was about to speak when her father protested, "Oh that, listen I know how you women are together. It's always amazed me how intimate women can be with each other as friends. Kissing and hugging like you were lovers or something. That kind of closeness you have with each other, it's really something."

"Uh, yeah," Jackie uttered grateful for her father's naiveté. Then she asked him what he was doing there.

Thanos took his daughter's arm guided her to the empty room. They went in and sat on the edge of one of beds' uncovered mattress. "Something terrible has happened, Jackie. I hate to be the one to tell you but I thought better from me than a TV anchor man..."

"Tell me what?"

"It's Robby..."

"Robby?"

"Yes."

"What about him?"

"He's been killed, Jackie. He's dead."

Jackie's hands abruptly covered her mouth as she gasped in horror. "Dead? Robby's dead?" she asked, "How? What happened?"

"He was murdered."

"Oh my God, no! Oh no!"

"I'm afraid so," Thanos said as he put his arm around his grieving daughter to try to be of some comfort.

"Are you sure?"

"I saw his body at the morgue."

"Oh how horrible...Oh Daddy," Jackie sobbed and collapsed into her father's arms. He held her close for a couple of minutes.

When she had sufficiently recovered Jackie went back to her room to get ready to go home with her father. Laura was sitting on her bed in a nightshirt. She saw that her friend was distraught and gently asked her what was wrong.

"It's none of your business!" Jackie answered angrily as she busied herself with packing.

"Jackie..." Laura uttered, quite stunned by her lover's vitriol. "What's wrong? What're you doing? Where're you going?"

"Just..." Jackie turned to face Laura fiercely, "...leave it alone."

"Okay, so your father caught us together and he's angry, but..."
"This has nothing to do with that. But dontcha see? We're not allowed to be happy. Not in this world. It's a stinking horrible miserable place," Jackie punctuated her tirade with slam-dunking her clothes into a suitcase. "You and me? That was wrong," she said as she took off her robe and started to dress, "too perfect. We're not supposed to have that. And my brother had to pay for it with his life goddammit!"

Laura was flabbergasted at that remark. She had no idea what Jackie was talking about. All she knew was that Jackie was very upset about something that happened to her brother. She got up from the bed to get close to her.

"No! Don't come near me!" Jackie said emphatically. "I never want to see you ever again! Not ever!" She zipped up her jeans as if she were trying to flip herself over with the force of it. "I'll be back for the rest of my stuff," she said and bolted out the door.

................................................................................

The first order of business for Mike and Steve when they arrived at the police station was to have Blade view the body of his wife for purposes of identification. Rachel's family had been summoned earlier to identify their loved one but Mike wanted to see how Blade would react in the presence of his wife's mutilated cadaver under the cold bright light of the morgue. As Mike and Steve were walking along the morgue's fluorescent-lit hallway with the suspect between them Blade's in-laws were just on their way out accompanied by the Captain. Hedda, George and Meg cringed in disgust as they saw Blade headed their way. Meg lashed out with a vicious attack as they passed by, "You did this! You killed my sister! Maniac!"

Blade flinched slightly at the onslaught and mumbled as if to himself, "What the hell was that?"

"In here," said Mike as they approached the wide swinging stainless steel doors to the autopsy area.

The coroner stood by Rachel's slab and pulled the sheet down just below her shoulders.

As Blade viewed the lifeless, disfigured and somewhat swollen body of his wife he had, at first glance, no sense of recognition and said softly, "That's not Rachel."

Mike's face quivered with anger, "Whatd'ya mean..."

Steve thought Mike was about to physically attack Blade and stepped between them saying, "Easy Mike." He then suggested to Blade that he take a closer, more careful look.

Blade complied and as the image of his wife became apparent in the ghostly lump of mutilated flesh before him he felt sick to his stomach and began retching. "I'm gonna be sick," he managed to say between his dry heaves. Steve was about to show Blade the way to the nearest toilet but Mike stopped him as he grabbed Blade's arm saying, "Cut the crap Blade, Mr. Wussmann, that is. Your not..."

"Get that man out of here now!" the coroner demanded.

Things were not going as Mike wanted them to and he was furious. Blade was cleverly portraying himself as the shocked and grieving husband in front of credible witnesses. Mike was certain such a portrayal, effective as it was, wouldn't amount to a hill of beans next to the mountain of evidence against the suspect, but it galled him to no end to have anyone, at any time, conned into thinking Blade was anything other than the monstrous murderer he knew him to be. "I've had enough of his crap," he told Steve as they waited outside the bathroom door for Blade to finish puking, "I'm goin' upstairs. Bring him up to interrogation when he's through in there. We'll give 'im an Oscar and then I'll wring a confession out of 'im. Guaranteed."

Once upstairs Mike went to see the Captain and informed him that everything pointed to Wussmann. There could be no doubt about his guilt.

"We can't charge him yet," noted the Captain. "Just do a routine questioning. See what he has to say."

"We gotta charge him tonight. If we don't we're gonna lose some crucial evidence," Mike warned.

"Like what?" asked the Captain.

Mike explained how he had wound up taking possession of Blade's jacket as they left the airplane, "There was this kinda bulky business envelope sticking out of the inside pocket. I took a peek. It had a wad of thousand dollar bills stuffed in it."

"Which," said the Captain, "is a little detail that we can know nothing about at this time."

"Right. Unless Wussmann's formally charged. That's why we gotta charge him tonight. He walks outta here and that important piece of evidence never existed."

"Yea, well," the Captain said thinking things over, "give him the jacket in the interrogation room and ask him about it. Ask him what's in the envelope. Ask him if you can take a look. See what develops."

"No problem really. I'm countin' on a full confession in about ten minutes from now."

"No rough stuff, Mike," the Captain warned. "Do it by the book. This is high profile remember."

"Throwing all the evidence in his face will be rough enough," Mike said as he left the Captain's office.

Blade was sitting at the table in the interrogation room with a white Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of him. Steve was explaining to Blade that they just wanted him to answer some routine questions to help them with their investigation. Blade listened, sipped his coffee and felt himself becoming extremely alert. The game has begun, he thought, it's time to see who's got the better moves.

Mike entered the room with Blade's Jacket over his arm and held the case file in his hand. "Well, Mr. Wussmann..."

"Oh you can call me Andy," Blade said real friendly like.

Mr. Wussmann," insisted Mike," you're feeling better I take it."

"Oh you take it awright. You take it anyway you can get it," Blade said with a glint in his eye.

Already close to losing it Mike said angrily, "You wanna be a fuckin' wise ass I'll start bouncin' you off the walls here and now and see what smart comments you come up with then."

"Jeez, what a grouch. I don't have to be here ya know."

Mike took a deep breath, calmed down and said, "That's right. That's right. But, since you are here, willingly, cooperate with us. Otherwise there's no point in your being here."

"True."

"Awright then," said Mike as he sat down next to Steve and across the table from Blade, "do you have any idea who might've wanted to kill your wife?"

"No."

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Uh, let's see," Blade rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger and pinched the bridge of his nose, "what's today?"

"Today is...well it's early Monday morning now."

"Okay, I saw Rachel at my son's soccer game which was on Sunday around noon."

"That's the last time you saw her alive?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, this is your jacket. You left it in on the plane." Mike handed it over to Blade. He took it and laid it on the table. "The stewardess found your baggage claim tickets in the pocket and we arranged for your stuff to be taken off the plane before it left again for Rio."

"Oh," Blade murmured disinterestedly.

"So, what was this trip to Rio all about?" Steve asked casually.

"I had a gig down there."

"Well, ya know, Mr. Wussmann, I gotta tell ya," Steve said in a friendly confidential way, "we got a problem with some things here."

"A problem?"

"Yeah," Mike glared at Blade with his eyebrows raised, "we got a big problem."

"Well, I'm just dyin' to hear what it is," said Blade with an exaggerated interest as if humoring a five year old.

"He's pissin' me off Steve."

"Take it easy, Mike," Steve patted him on the shoulder as he got up and paced the floor. "Truth is we got a lot of problems, and we'd like to get them straightened out with you. I'm sure you'd like to get them straightened out with us, too."

"Well, of course, I would," said Blade like a model citizen.

"Good. Now, one thing...about the Rio gig..."

"Yeah?"

"Cody said it had been cancelled."

"He did?"

"That's what he said."

"Well, I wanted to cancel it but I couldn't. It was too late."

"Uh huh, so Cody...it was just a misunderstanding on his part...that it had been cancelled?"

"I guess."

"Okay, so where we're you when your wife was killed?"

Ah, a trick question Blade thought and said, "Whatdya mean...I mean, I dunno...I mean, how should I know...I mean, uh, do you know when she was killed?"

"Approximately."

"Awright, then. Now we're getting somewhere," Blade smiled, satisfied that he had gotten through one dangerous intersection.

"Where were you between, say, nine and ten?" Asked Mike.

Blade bowed his head slightly to rub his forehead with his fingers and said, "I dunno, le'me see...I went to McDonald's with Cody...sometime around nine...I guess," Blade made a mental note to call Cody whenever he could, "and uh...we got some take-out...drove home...I, uh,..oh yea, I got an idea for a new song on the way home and went into my studio to work on it for a while...and then later the limo guy started buzzin' me and eventually I let him in."

"Why not right away?"

"I was creatin', man. Genius at work, type of thing. I say that in all modesty." Blade smiled.

"Okay, did you finish writing the song?"

"No."

Another detective came in the room, handed Steve a file and left. "Excuse us a moment," Steve said as he gestured to Mike to join him.

"I need to make a phone call."

The two detectives looked at one another thinking that their suspect wanted to call a lawyer.

"I can make a phone call can't I?"

"Sure," Steve said, "you can use the phone at my desk."

"Uh, no thanks, I'll use one of the pay phones in the lobby. You guys have your little conference and I'll be right back."

Blade called Cody and told him to say whatever he wanted to the police but not under any circumstances was he to mention anything about Armando and Raul being at McDonald's. "You never saw them there. I can't tell you how important it is that you just forget you ever saw them there. Okay? You got it? You can say anything else. You can say you saw me do the murders if you want but nothing about Armando or Raul? Okay?" Cody voiced his agreement. Before hanging up Blade asked Cody to leave his phone on. "I'll be calling you whenever I'll be gettin' outta here. I might need you to come pick me up. Me and the kids. They've got them here somewhere. I guess I have to play their little game a while longer before I can get them back."

Back in the interrogation room Mike and Steve were looking over a statement by the limo driver who had been summoned to the police station earlier.

What the detectives found most interesting was the limo driver's assertion that he had seen someone walk to the front door of the house from the gate opposite to where he was standing. The limo driver said he didn't get a real good look at the guy. It was dark and he was some distance away. He did say it was a tall, slim man who entered the house. He entered without having to be let in by someone inside.

Blade came back into the interrogation room and said, "I don't know how much longer I'm good for, guys. Can't we do this tomorrow?"

"Just a couple more things, Mr. Wussmann. Have a seat," Mike said.

The three of them sat down at the table and Mike said, "We have a statement here from your limo driver."

"Uh huh," Blade barely said as if he was beyond caring.

"He says here that he was buzzing you over a period of ten minutes without a response. It wasn't until after he saw someone of your description enter the house from the direction of the other gate...it wasn't until then that you answered the buzzer."

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah!" echoed Mike aggressively.

"So?"

"So...you told us you had been inside all the time working on a song."

"Yeah, well I was, but I did go out to the truck to get my cell phone to take with me on the trip."

"Uh huh, so when did you cut your hand?"

"Uh, when I punched the mirror on the airplane."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, really."

"You planned to use your cell phone in Rio?" Steve asked.

"Your cell phone wouldn't work in Rio," Mike sneered.

"It works on the way to the airport."

"You own a pair of leather gloves," Mike asked in a way that sounded more like a statement than a question.

"I gotta get outta here," Blade said as he stood up from the table, "I'm really tired. Call me tomorrow about noon."

Mike stood up and shoved Blade back against the wall, "You're not going anywhere till we get some answers, punk."

"That's Mister Punk, if you don't mind."

Mike grabbed Blade by his shirt, pulled him away from the wall and slammed him against it a couple of times as he said, "No, I don't mind, Mr. Punk, 'cause I'm about to put you away for good. Now, si'down before I break your head!" Mike whirled Blade around and shoved him back in the chair.

"Jeez," commented Blade, "what'd I ever do to you?"

"You've had this comin' for a long time, sucker!"

"What is it? You didn't like the girls from the other night?"

"Shut up you stinkin' low life! I'll ask the questions!"

"You had a thing for my wife, didn't ya, Mike? Oh yea, you had it bad for her. She tol' me how you always came on to 'er."

"Is that why you killed her?" Mike taunted, "Out of jealousy?"

"Ha! That's a laugh. She thought you were pathetic, Mike. A real chump. Braggin' about your size to her, how well hung..."

Mike got right into Blade's face, "You're a dead man! You're gonna die for this!

"Ah, the ultimate trip. I'm looking forward to it, really. But the thing is, about Rachel, she's very tight. Tryin' to impress her with how big you are was pretty lame. But hey, now that she's dead, she's all yours. Grease her up, hop on the slab with her an' have a ball..."

"You sick mother fuckin' freak! Nothin's gonna give me more pleasure than watchin' you die!"

"Oh I don't know about that, go on give my wife a go. She's better dead than anything you'll ever have alive."

Mike grabbed Blade and again slammed him up against the wall, "I shoulda put you away a long time ago for the drugs, the little girls, beatin' up on your wife...But we gotchoo now mother fucker! We gotchoo dead t'rights! You're goin' down for this one pal! You're a dead man walkin'!"

Blade spit in his face and Mike went ballistic. He turned Blade around, threw him onto the table and was about to pounce on him when Steve intervened and the Captain entered the room.

"Take it easy, detective!" the Captain commanded. "Now, take off, D'Angello. I'll take it from here."

"This is my case!" Mike yelled in desperation, "An' his ass is mine!"

"Oh, it's my ass you want. You know, I always wondered about you, Mike."

Steve tightened his hold on his partner as Mike made a move toward Blade.

"You're obviously too close to this case, Mike," the Captain stated.

"I'm...I'm okay...I'm okay..."

"No. You're not. I'm reassigning you."

"Re...assigning me?"

"That's right. It's for the best."

"No, that ain't right. I need to nail this guy. Me! I need to do it!"

"That's the problem."

"Even your own know what a loser you are, you pathetic piece of shit," Blade said with searing contempt.

Again Steve needed to restrain Mike. The Captain had to help subdue the out of control detective who was screaming that he was, "...gonna kill the scum!" The Captain shoved Mike hard up against the wall, pressed himself against him and told him in no uncertain terms to cool it or take a suspension. Mike nodded his understanding. Steve escorted him out of the room. The Captain turned his attention to Blade.

"What is it?" Blade asked, "You cops have it in for me, for some reason?"

"I'm sorry about that. Won't happen again. Some personal matter between you and him I take it?"

"He was hot for my wife."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah, big time."

"Well, that's not really important now is it?"

"No, I suppose not. Then again it wasn't really important before either."

"Let's talk about the murder of your wife, Mr. Wussmann."

"I'd rather not."

"What's in the envelope?" The Captain asked indicating the inside pocket of the jacket that was lying on the table.

"Oh, just some mad money for Rio."

"Really? How much?"

"Oh, I dunno a few thousand."

"Okay if I take a look?"

"Go ahead. Whatever floats your boat."

The Captain took the envelope out of Blade's jacket and laid the money out on the table. "Looks like a lot of money there. A lot more than just mad money as you say."

"I'm rich. That's pocket money."

"I'd like you to give us a blood sample. Would you consent to that?"

"Sure."

"There are many troubling aspects to this case as far as you're concerned, Mr. Wussmann. I'd also like photos taken of those cuts on your hands."

"Okay."

"There was a glove found at the murder scene. Did you know that?" Blade sat still. "One bloody glove was found at the murder scene. Then, another bloody glove was found. Another bloody glove that matches the one found at the murder scene. Do you know where we found that other bloody glove, Mr. Wussmann?" Blade remained motionless. "That other bloody glove was found in back of the guest cottages on your property. On your property, Mr. Wussmann. On your property." Blade continued to be unimpressed. "So, what are we to make of that, Mr. Wussmann?" the Captain asked pointedly, "How did that bloody glove get to be on your property?"

"Looks like someone's trying to set me up," Blade finally said as if it was obvious.

"And who might that be?"

Blade shrugged, "An over zealous police detective perhaps."

The Captain chuckled, "You might have something there if it weren't for all the evidence that seems to be stacking up against you. We think there's blood evidence on and in your truck. A bloody glove that matches the one at the murder scene was found in your backyard. Your limo driver says he saw someone of your height and build enter your home at a very suspicious time. There are bloody shoe prints at the murder scene. Do you think we'll find a matching pair of shoes in your closet, Mr. Wussmann? We've got you with a motive, an opportunity, a record of abuse. We've got you trying to flee the country. No one needs to set you up, Mr. Wussmann. You're gonna be drowning in bloody evidence. Now, why not save us all a lot of time and bother. Tell me, did you kill your wife?"

"Gee, I thought you'd never ask."

"Did you kill your wife?"

"All men kill the thing they love...the coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword."

"Yeah?" the Captain coaxed hoping a confession was in the offing.

"Yeah, and me? I'm a coward."

The Captain let out a disappointed, "Hmmph," and called Lt. Conners in to take the suspect to have his blood taken.

................................................................................

Jerry Lake would never call himself a coward. Not even in jest. He spent his whole adult life trying to become the ballsiest journalist that ever was, that ever would be.

He got his start with CBS News as a war correspondent during the Viet Nam conflict. His reports from the battlefield were blatantly anti-American. A stance he adopted not because he wholeheartedly believed in it but because it was the boldest, most controversial one to take. His job was not, as he saw it, to report the news. His job was to be the news. It was a perverse ambition that skewed his judgement. He indulged in his anti-war fervor so much that many of his reports did not get on the air. The CBS news executives deemed them too subversive.

According to the Jerry Lake legend, however, it was those reports alone that turned the CBS news department against the war in Viet Nam. It was those rejected reports that changed the minds of the executives and finally instigated the on-air questioning of America's involvement in Viet Nam. Lake's self-centered focus blinded him to the influence of the information leaked from the State Department, which clearly indicated there was no real military or political interests to justify the war. There were, however, corporate interests. It was after they got hold of that information that CBS management changed its mind about the war.

Still, they were impressed with Jerry having gotten it right so early on. And even more impressed with the extremely high ratings for his appearances. He had received more mail in his short time as a correspondent than most did during their entire careers.

Jerry Lake did have a way of getting under people's skin. His style of reporting was unique. He would focus in on the camera with intense fiery eyes and deliver his reports as if they were as significant as his last words might be before facing a firing squad. He had a dramatic delivery punctuated by a staccato cadence emphasizing particular words or syllables with an urgency that demanded attention. His desperate sincerity made his self-centered, overblown rhetoric seem forthright and conscientious, "I am beleaguered on a daily, sometimes hourly basis with displays of unheralded atrocities against the innocent men, women and children of this historically battered nation," went one of his reports from Viet Nam. "Unheralded atrocities of which you at home, in the comfort and safety of your living rooms, are shown only the tamest of the lot. But even those, even the tamest of the lot should be enough to convince John Wayne himself that this is an evil war, an unpatriotic war, a war unfit to be called an American war.

"Everyday I risk life and limb to bring the horrid truth of this holocaust to you, the American people. If I do lose my life reporting the utter senseless savagery of this war, and it serves in some small way to end this insanity, my sacrifice will not have been in vain. This is Jerry Lake reporting from the front lines of Viet Nam." He would stare meaningfully into the camera as a barrage of mortar fire would be discharged behind him.

Jerry Lake found the image of the crusading journalist to be the perfect vehicle for the engines of his lust to be adorned by. It helped charm the pants off many an army nurse. He met more than a few of them because he chose to spend most of his time in MASH units. Not only were they the only place near the front lines where a guy could get laid but they were also, and, more importantly, the safest. Jerry was as concerned with his safety as he was with portraying himself as being unconcerned with it. Whenever he did venture to the front lines he always waited for positions to be secured before showing up to do a report. There was, of course, some risk involved even then but not nearly as much as he portrayed.

The army nurses were good to have while on the job in Viet Nam but on his visits back home to New York City he had his eyes on more exciting game and he managed to "bag some real beauties". He was amazed how easy it was to get the cover girl, the socialite, the film star into the sack. It was the Sixties, the time of radical chic and there was an ample supply of celebrity women who wanted to be a part of it. Jerry Lake was one of the leading lights of the "In-thing" and being partly black made his radical allure even more attractive.

Unfortunately Jerry was not that well endowed in the sexual apparatus department. That was something he chose not to dwell on for it only served to vex him with a sense of inadequacy. He concentrated on other things. Like inflating his larger than life size image. He made a point of only bedding down with women who were obviously turned on by his enormous image. Women who he felt "moistened their panties" merely by being in his presence. Those were the women he "conquered". Any woman who did not show an obvious interest in him was conveniently found to be unattractive.

Jerry was always on the lookout for bigger and bigger game. On one of his visits to New York during a break from his Viet Nam assignment he got wind of a bit of underground news: A big Hollywood starlet was planning a trip to Hanoi to meet with the Viet Cong leader, Ho Chi Min, and show her support for the North Vietnamese cause. She was one of the most beautiful and desirable women in the world and now it was revealed to Jerry that they had a connection, a very vital connection in their anti-war sentiments. She must have seen his scathing reports on the CBS Evening News. She must have been impressed with his work. Hell, it was probably his reporting that persuaded her to adopt her pro-Viet Cong stance. That is surely what must have inspired her to plan her trip to Hanoi, Jerry happily thought.

He felt sure he could have her if he could somehow arrange a meeting with her. So, why not just call her up! It's not like they were totally unknown to each other. It's not like they were complete strangers. He'd seen her in the movies, she'd seen him on TV. She probably wanted him as much as he wanted her. Probably even more. Oh yes! Jerry felt the excitement growing inside him as he imagined what their first meeting would be like. They would go through the motions of all the inane pleasantries hardly able to contain their mutual lust for one another. They'd hem and haw through some meaningless small talk, look anywhere but in each other's eyes and...

Jerry got her private phone number from the news department and called her from his office.

"Hello," she answered.

Oh my God! It was her! Right off the bat! She answered the phone! Jerry wasn't ready for that. He thought it would be a secretary or housemaid. It was definitely her voice, though. No one else had a voice like hers. There it was, right in his ear. That sweet, silky smooth, sexy voice. "Hi, how are you?" Jerry heard himself say in the most pathetically chummy way he could imagine and mentally kicked himself.

"Fine thanks. Who is this?"

"It's Jerry, Jerry Lake."

Oh no! The worst imaginable thing that could happen, a huge gaping void of silence. Jerry felt his whole cocky facade evaporating into nothingness.

"Am I supposed to know you?" he heard her ask.

"I'm the Viet Nam correspondent for CBS News."

"Oh yes. I have no comment."

"No, I..." He heard a click. She had hung up. She wanted nothing to do with him.

Jerry was stunned. He held the phone to his ear for a while hearing nothing but an ominous dial tone sucking the life out of him. But he held on, listening, desperately listening...for what? A miracle?

Finally, he reluctantly placed the phone back in its cradle and collapsed into himself. His whole self-image was careening inward at the speed of light. Its gravitational pull creating a black hole threatening to swallow him into its infinite void. He felt like a limp sack of medical waste. Absolutely worthless except for the ninety-six cents worth of minerals in his body, or however much it was. How worthless the body is, he thought. One's image is everything, it's one's very soul. Yes, image was everything and he'd have to be more protective of it in the future. Much more protective of it.

Totally despondent, there was nothing for him to do but cut his stateside visit short, get back to Viet Nam and start restoring his image. Screw a couple of nurses and do a really extreme piece of reporting. CBS was now in his corner, fighting his fight against US involvement there. He now had carte blanche for his coverage and could hopefully uncover some really inflammatory piece of news and get it put on the air. Something really big, really impressive.

But how could he do anything to compare to what that bimbo actress was about to do? Going to North Viet Nam and meeting with Ho Chi Min! God, that was ballsy! How could he surpass, or even equal it? There was nothing he could do short of joining up with the North Vietnamese Army. Jerry picked up the phone to arrange for his trip back to the war zone. Then lightning struck! He thought of a way to turn it all around for himself. A way to put that uppity actress in her place and put himself back in the spotlight on center satge. He'd do a negative piece on her! After all, it's one thing to question your government's policies but quite another to support the enemy. To come out on the side of the communists was absolute heresy! That's not what his protests were all about. They were about letting the Vietnamese settle their own affairs. It wasn't about siding with the North or the South. It was about what role the US should play. How the US should conduct itself respecting foreign affairs. Going over to the other side was going too far and totally missed the point concerning legitimate protests by patriotic citizens. Yeah! That's the kind of spin he'd put on her little venture. He'd show the bitch who she hung up on. She wouldn't soon forget the name of Jerry Lake!

Oh yeah, Jerry thought, this will work out fine. Even better than the way he wanted it to. He was feeling his old self again and decided to stick around New York for a few more weeks before returning to Viet Nam. Ah, the hell with Viet Nam. Maybe he'd never go back. Maybe he wouldn't have to. He'd get his "Hollywood meets Hanoi" piece ready for the camera so it could be aired right after that meeting took place. Jerry thought he should get plenty of recognition out of it and that it would make him look better in everyone's eyes. Maybe he could get reassigned to Washington D.C. to cover the State Department or the Pentagon. It was like his father always told him. Look for your own advantage in things and take whatever steps are necessary to secure it.

......................................................................................

Reginald Lake, Jerry's father, was a Banker from the Caribbean Island of Antigua. The Lake family had lived there ever since it became a British colony in 1632. The Lakes were among the first English settlers who began growing tobacco. Andrew, who was the first of the Lakes to be born in Antigua, was instrumental in the introduction and development of a sugarcane crop on the Lake plantation. It proved to be a much more profitable venture and Andrew began buying the neighboring tobacco farms. Slavery was instituted and Andrew soon became a wealthy plantation owner living with his family in an elegant colonial mansion.

The Lake family went on accumulating wealth, property and power for over three hundred years. Even when the tide turned against their little island empire they were able to grow. In 1834 the slaves were emancipated, which depleted the plantation's profitability. Seven years after that there was a devastating fire that spread through much of the island and destroyed many businesses including much of the Lake plantation.

Not to be put off by a bit of bad luck, the Lakes began rebuilding. They also bought other properties for next to nothing from those who chose to leave the devastated island. The Lakes bought up nearly twenty-five percent of real estate in St. John's, the capital city of Antigua and over a third of the island's farmland. Then, two years into the island's rebuilding process it was hit by a large earthquake which destroyed most of the reconstruction and reduced to rubble much of what had been left standing after the fire. Four years later, in 1847, a major hurricane hit the island delivering yet another crushing blow to the people and economy of Antigua.

The loss to the Lake family over these cataclysmic years was enormous but not wholly catastrophic. They managed to ride out the difficult years and developed a deep attachment to the island. They came to regard themselves as indigenous people rather than colonists. Antigua had become in all respects their island, their home.

Jerry Lake's father, Reginald, was according to his uncle, Jeffery, "a bit of a loon". Other members of the family were kinder and called him eccentric. He had his own ways and did not follow the family traditions. He did not become a gentleman farmer and landlord as was expected of him and, the most shocking thing of all, he married a black woman, Viola Columbus, whose grandmother had once been a slave on the Lake plantation.

After his marriage, at the age of forty, Reginald had less and less to do with his blood relations. They could not bring themselves to welcome Viola into their homes so he refused to take part in any Lake family gatherings. He met with members of his family only on business matters and attended funerals and weddings. That his family might cut him off completely someday without a penny was never a concern for Reginald. For one thing, he never thought they would go that far. For another, he was quite secure in his ability to create his own wealth.

Ever since he could remember Reginald was interested in money. When he learned about lending and interest rates as a boy he was fascinated. He came to think that working for money was rather idiotic when one could be working with it. Why grow crops to make money when you could grow money itself, or lease property when you could lease money. Upon graduating from college, Reggie, as he liked to be called, moved to St. John's and bought himself a partnership in a struggling bank that catered to the city's black population. It wasn't long before Reggie was principal owner and president of Fidelity Savings and Loan. That was certainly an achievement but to Reggie the position was merely a means to realize his grander ambitions. He planned to expand the little neighborhood bank into an international financial institution.

It was the 1920s and Reggie saw an opportunity to make enormous profits from the situation in the United States. Prohibition made the rum that was produced in Antigua a much more valuable commodity than it ever had been before. Reggie financed the island's rum distillers to expand their operations. He also financed "exporters"; his preferred term for smugglers, to market the liquor to interested parties in the states. He later got involved in laundering money for organized crime and made another fortune from that enterprise. Reggie, of course, was never directly connected to anything unlawful. All his dealings were legal business transactions and his reputation as a respectable banker was never questioned.

When Viola married Reginald Lake it was not very well accepted in her family either. The idea of their daughter marrying an ex-slave-owner was not something for which Mr. and Mrs. Columbus found reason to celebrate. Besides she was nearly twenty years younger than he was. That and the fact that Mrs. Columbus' mother had been a slave in the Lake household was just too much for them to reconcile. Viola, however, was not about to accept her parents' rejection of her marriage. She regularly visited them and tried to soften their feelings toward her and her husband. Eventually she succeeded. Her parents finally came around to, at least, accepting Viola as being legitimately married. Afterward they even allowed Viola to bring Reggie along on her visits. Reggie would only occasionally accompany his wife to his in-law's home. He was not generally interested in social gatherings of any kind for any reason.

When Viola found herself pregnant in 1942 she thought it would be a good thing for the baby to be born in the United States so the child could have full citizenship there. Who would the child be on Antigua, she wondered. Surely the Lake family would reject him outright while her family would, perhaps, tolerate him at best? As a citizen of the United States Viola thought her child would have a better chance for acceptance than he would as a resident of Antigua. There was, of course, racism in the States. However, having money would, at the very least, provide sanctuary from that ugly specter and at best it could open doors that would otherwise be shut to a person of color.

Reggie agreed with his wife's plan and took a trip by himself to New York City to scout around for suitable living quarters. He found a house, a small mansion really, for sale in the Yorkville area of Manhattan's posh Upper East Side. He bought it and flew back to Antigua to bring the good news home. Viola was delighted and she and Reggie immediately began making all the necessary arrangements for spending the next year in their new home in the United States, their child's homeland to be.

Gerald Lake was born March 5, 1943, in Lennox Hill Hospital and was pronounced sound and healthy at six pounds seven ounces. Both parents were pleased with his Caucasian appearance. They thought it would make his journey through the world much less taxing. Viola was ecstatic with her "perfect little baby" and she could see through Reggie's stalwart English reserve that he was quite happy also.

Viola spent the next six months with her baby at the Yorkville house. Reggie spent most of that time there also, but had to take occasional business trips back to Antigua. He cautioned his wife not to leave the grounds of their property while he was away. Their house had a large patio overlooking the East River and Viola was perfectly content to stroll around there pushing her baby in his carriage or to sit in the sun and read while little Jerry napped. She would also walk back and forth in the huge living room with her baby in her arms. One time Viola stopped at a window and said to her son, "Look, little man, that's your hometown out there. See? That's where you'll always have a place to belong. A place to be somebody." Baby Jerry gurgled a toothless happy smile and threw his hands out in front of himself repeatedly as if trying to applaud.

It was for her children-to-be that Viola married Reggie. She didn't love the man himself, she loved him for what he could provide. She thought that was love enough for any man. The notion that a man, any man, in and of himself, could be worthy of a woman's wholehearted love and devotion was just plain crazy. She had seen the results of her older sister's desperate adoration of a man. Fiona was used and abused by the one and only love of her life until he ultimately discarded her. It destroyed her. Fiona wasn't the only one. Viola saw the same thing happen repeatedly to women who lost themselves in a man. Viola could not understand such behavior. It was like living your whole life in one moment. Pouring out your life's blood into an empty promise of forever. It was through one's children that one had meaning, that one merged with the eternal.

Viola wanted her children to have a chance to succeed. She wanted them to be able to achieve whatever they were capable of achieving without overwhelming obstacles in their way, like poverty and racism. She had certainly eliminated the poverty problem and alleviated the race issue to a large extent as well. All that remained was providing her children with love, affection and guidance to make it possible for them to fulfill all of her dreams. Viola had planned to have as many children as she could. That number turned out to be only one. Her next two pregnancies after Gerald resulted in miscarriages. Then her husband's sexual interest tapered off sharply and she never got pregnant again. So, all of her expectations became focused on her son.

Reggie had expectations of his son also but they did not jibe with Viola's. She wanted Jerry to make a difference in the world, to be a champion of the people, to fight for what's right. Reggie, on the other hand wanted his son to follow in his footsteps and become a renowned international banker. Viola filled her young son's head with dramatic renderings of her people's plight and impressed upon him the idea that black people needed a great leader to bring them together and make them a force to be reckoned with. To bring them out of the shadows and into the light. They needed someone with money, power and influence. Someone who knew that such things were worthless in and of themselves and had value only when directed toward improving humankind. "Someone like you young man," Viola would say to Jerry, "when you grow up."

Under his father's tutelage Jerry got a whole other perspective on things. According to his father money, power and influence were, indeed, worthless in and of themselves and were of value only when directed toward getting more money, power and influence. Jerry was advised by his father not to read too many books because, "...your head gets filled with too many ideas which cannot be validated and only serve to confuse matters." Reggie was a great believer in chess and when Jerry was eight years old he taught him how to play. "This will teach you to concentrate on manipulating things to your own advantage," Jerry was told. "You will learn how to defeat your opponent and learn to be indifferent to the suffering of those you defeat," his father went on. "You must one day defeat me, son. And you will. You will rise up, as I shall fall. You will crush me at the chessboard and feel triumphant. That is how it is. That is how it should be." Reggie admonished his son not to take on the problems of the world as his mother encouraged him to do. "The so-called problems are merely illusions. Things are the way they are. No one can change them. One is merely a player in the game. One must play the game to win. That's all."

Reggie and Viola never argued about their different visions of the world. They each knew there would be nothing to gain by such an exercise. Each of them was confident of having more influence over their son than the other. Neither Reggie nor Viola made any demands on Jerry to take on either of their views, they merely presented their case and left it up to him to decide. They agreed that no matter which perspective their son chose it would be of benefit to him to have learned about the other.

Jerry was attracted to his mother's vision of things and decidedly impressed with his father's. To become some great historical figure, a hero who could make made the world a better place was an enjoyable reverie for him to engage in. On the other hand according to his father such people did not really accomplish anything and often met with brutal and untimely deaths. Winning was something Jerry found absolutely rewarding. It gave him a feeling of being powerful. The power of making all the right moves, to go in for the kill and defeat your opponent was an incomparable experience.

Jerry was becoming an expert chess player and could beat other boys who were several years his senior. He looked forward to the day when he could beat his father and claim the throne, so to speak. He never got the chance to realize that ambition. In 1957, when he was fourteen, his father was killed in an automobile accident. Jerry deeply resented him for that and it caused him to seriously question his father's doctrine. For how could someone so powerful and in control allow himself to get killed by accident?

At Reggie's funeral Viola was curtly informed that the Lake family would have nothing to do with her or her son. That was just fine with Viola. It demonstrated to Jerry the inhumanity of the Lake tradition. Besides, Viola wanted nothing to do with her late husband's family. She planned to move to New York and continue raising her son there.

The Lake's, through their power and influence, had Reggie's marriage declared invalid and managed to lay claim to all of his assets leaving Viola and Jerry virtually penniless and without resources. However, the Lake's were not totally heartless. A monthly stipend of three-thousand dollars was arranged for Reggie's widow and her child for the remainder of Viola's life. Jerry, however, was cut off from any inheritance.

Jerry was in great turmoil over his father's death and over his family's maltreatment of his mother and him. His emergent view of the world was turned upside down, inside out and thoroughly scrambled. The sudden move to a whole new world furthered his discord. The confused and shaken young man clung to his mother in his psychological and geographical disorientation. During this time Jerry was determined to become a crusader for the downtrodden and vanquish the arrogance of power from the face of the earth forever.

One of the first things Viola did after they got settled in a comfortable duplex apartment in Manhattan on Thirty-first and Madison was to find a legal guardian to handle Jerry's affairs. Jerry's Caucasian appearance made it possible for him to pass as white and Viola thought it best for her to remain isolated from Jerry's world to avoid the scandalous issue of mixed race. Avoid it for as long as possible, anyway.

Viola wanted a legal guardian to act as a surrogate father to her son. She phoned the ACLU, explained her situation and asked them if they could recommend someone for her particular needs. This was an unusual request they told her but they would see what they could do. Viola wound up retaining the services of Michael Levine, a lawyer with a private practice who also worked with the ACLU. He was experienced in family matters and expressed an interest in Viola's case.

The first thing the lawyer did was to enroll Jerry in a suitable high school. Viola chose The Bryant School on Fifty-second Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenue because of its high scholastic rating and its progressive outlook. Mr. Levine would be kept abreast of Jerry's performance in school and would attend whatever school affairs required a parent's presence. The lawyer, intrigued by Viola's story, took it upon himself to do even more.

He asked Viola for her late husband's records pertaining to their estate. After studying them Mr. Levine flew to Antigua to investigate the actions and proceedings taken against Viola and her son by the Lake family. He was not surprised to find glaring legal discrepancies in the Lakes' seizure of Reginald's property. The aggressive attorney threatened to bring these matters to the attention of an impartial court. The Lakes, extremely jealous of their privacy, were eager to settle without any publicity and agreed to a lump sum payment of two hundred and fifty-thousand dollars and doubling the monthly stipend.

It was quite a coup and Viola was thoroughly impressed with Mr. Levine's commitment to those without power. She encouraged Jerry to adopt the crusading lawyer as his role model. Jerry, however, was having none of that. He was not going to put his faith in anyone else ever again. He would just stick to his own guns. If he was going to be a crusader it would be on his own terms in his own way. He didn't want or need a stupid role model.

Jerry's years at The Bryant School were fairly miserable ones. He had no friends and his teachers found him irascible. His grades were at the top of his class and he was the dominant player on the chess team but he had an attitude that was like an acetylene torch. If anyone got too close he'd cut them to the quick with the hot flame of his bitterness. Once burned by a Jerry Lake attack was enough to keep one at bay for good.

Mr. O'Toole found this out the hard way. He was a math teacher and the coach of the chess team. He invited Jerry's wrath one day during a meeting of the chess team by suggesting that Jerry be nominated for team captain. "Where the hell is that comin' from?" Jerry asked indignantly. "What kind of fool are you?" he went on relentlessly, "Nobody wants me as the God damn captain! You imbecile! And I don't wanna be the Goddamn captain! It's just a stupid fuckin' title that means about as much as the skid marks in your underwear! So don't try to do me any fuckin' favors so you can go home to your frumpy little wife and tell her what a good guy you are!"

Mr. Levine was informed of such incidents and, subsequently, so was Viola but neither one did anything about them. They both agreed it was something Jerry had to work out for himself. After all he wasn't doing anything really bad and Mr. Levine thought that the anti-social behavior would cease when it presented itself as an obstacle to something Jerry wanted. This turned out to be a prescient analysis by Mr. Levine and the something Jerry wanted was Harvard University. He applied there in his junior year and Harvard sent him and Mr. Levine a letter stating that Mr. Lake appeared to be more than qualified academically to attend Harvard but there was deep concern about his seemingly choleric behavior. The letter went on to say that Mr. Lake's acceptance would be put on hold for further review.

Jerry was absolutely stunned by his less than enthusiastic reception by the university of his choice and he spent a couple of weeks quietly sulking. In those two weeks he decided he had to change his ways and pondered how he would go about transforming himself from a "Mr. Hyde" to a "Dr. Jekyll". He saw how he would have to behave to get what he wanted and prepared himself for the various changes he would have to make. However, he saw the transformation not as a genuine attempt to change himself but as a means to an end. He would con other people into believing he was genuinely friendly, courteous and considerate as a way of manipulating things to his favor.

The scheme worked like a charm. Everyone was bamboozled by the new Jerry Lake. He was affable, charming, gregarious, cooperative, an all around good guy. He started getting invited to parties where he met girls and discovered sex. He found he could "fall in love" very easily with many different girls. He also found out he could fall out of love soon after he had sex with them. So, he thought, all he had to do was find a girl who he still loved after having sex with her and she would be the one for him. In the mean time he was having a ball. This good guy act sure was a lot more fun than being the prince of darkness all the time. He started believing in the act himself and eventually came to believe he really was a good guy, a good decent man who cared about people and world conditions.

He got accepted at Harvard, graduated tenth in his class and went on to law school, which he completed in two years. He took the bar exam in New York and easily passed it. He joined up with the ACLU "to help those in need". While working with society's unfortunate Jerry got the idea of bringing some of his cases to the attention of the New York media. They were interesting stories the public should be aware of. Like the nursing home operators who pocketed most of the money ostensibly targeted for patient care while the old and infirm patients got minimal care and lived in squalor. The CBS executive to whom Jerry pitched his idea was so impressed with the young lawyer's passion and eloquence Jerry was offered the opportunity to do the story himself. This was, of course, exactly what Jerry was angling for and accepted the offer without hesitation. Oh yes! TV journalism was where it was at! He could have an impact on the world and get paid for it as well. Get well paid for it.

From Jerry's initial spots on the local news he did eventually become a full time journalist. He earned his fame and fortune as a crusading do-gooder. The 'Crepe Crusader' as one critical newspaper columnist dubbed him, playing on Jerry's penchant for expensive French restaurants. He had a long and controversial career peppered with success and failure. At the time of the murders at 1221 Laurel Canyon Jerry Lakes' career was faltering. He was hosting a news discussion show on cable, Jerry Lake Live. The show had been receiving very low ratings and was about to be cancelled. He was in desperate need of something to regain stature.

When he heard about the murders and was thoroughly briefed on the details he decided to become the number one drum major for the whole media parade that was sure to follow. Jerry Lake would be the on air prosecutor of the case. A proxy DA, who would be instrumental in shaping public opinion and bringing the murderer to justice. The murderer, he knew, had to be Andrew "Blade" Wussmann. The evidence was overwhelming and, as "a lowlife force of evil", Mr. Wussmann certainly fit the bill as a maniacal killer. You could see in his performances alone that he was a proponent of violence. There was, also, his savage behavior off-stage, most significantly the wife beatings. There was no point in even considering any other explanation for the murders. Wussmann committed them. Anyone who believed otherwise had to be a deranged fan of Heavy Metal rock music whose brain was deeply fried from illicit drug taking.

................................................................................

After having his blood taken at the police station Blade called Cody and asked him to come take him and the kids home. Cody told him there were police guards posted at the gates and yellow tape was strung up all over the place. The main house was off limits but Blade and his kids could stay in a cottage. There was also a media watch strategically posted around the property. Blade told Cody that he wanted him to call a friend of his named Ginny. Cody informed him that they had already met over the phone.

"She called there?"

"Yeah, she told me who she was, I told her what was happening and she said she wanted to be here when you got back. I explained to her about the police an' all an' she said she'd wait for you in her car around the block on Don Quixote and you could stay at her place."

"Okay, you come and get us. We'll drive over there and hook up with Ginny. Thank God for Ginny." Blade hung up and immediately called Ginny on her cell phone. He told her he was at the police station and Cody was on his way.

"Why don't we all just meet at my place?" Ginny asked.

"Well, I suppose we could but the cops might be keepin' tabs on me. If I see we're being followed we'll just go home and I'll call you."

"And if you're not followed you'll come stay at my place?"

"Yeah."

Ginny said she'd be more than happy to have him and his kids stay with her as long as they needed to, or wanted to.

After the phone call Blade had pictures taken of the wounds on his hands and then went to see about Josh and Belinda. They were being kept in the Community Affairs office of the Police Department under the care of a social worker. She was a slight woman of about forty years with a large beak of a nose and beady brown eyes set close together. Her thin-lipped mouth seemed permanently taut. She constantly looked about her surroundings like a bird checking for predators.

When Blade entered the room with Captain Jenkins she sprang up from behind her desk and quickly placed herself between the two men and the children who were sitting together on a sofa. Josh and Belinda looked up from their coloring books and peered around their zealous protector to see who had come in the room. "Daddy, daddy!" they cried. Ms. Turner fixed a fierce stare on Blade and turning to the kids said, "Yes, dears, that's right it's your father. But you'll have to be patient a moment longer. I want a word with him and the Captain."

Ms. Turner gestured for the two men to step back out the door. Blade said, "I'll be right back kids," and joined the Captain and Ms. Turner in the corridor. The social worker closed the door and addressed the Captain in a quiet but urgent tone, "I'm not sure we should release these children into the custody of someone who is suspected of murdering their mother. No offense, Mr. Wussmann, it's just that I like to take all precautions when it comes to the welfare of children. You very well might be entirely innocent of the charges against you..."

"There are no charges against me," Blade said, "I want my kids now and I'm going in to get them." He looked briefly at the Captain who then looked at Ms. Turner with a helpless shrug. Blade started to open the office door, then shut it and asked, "What do they know?" indicating he was asking about his kids with a tilt of his head toward the door.

The social worker stared at Blade as if to accuse him and said, "That something bad happened to their mother."

Blade went back inside the office and Belinda stabbed his heart with her plaintive question, "Can we go home now, daddy?"

"Yes, sweetheart," Blade managed to say as he crouched down in front of the sofa, "we can go home now." He gently stroked her hair and said, "We'll all go home now."

Belinda nodded and Josh asked, "Will mommy be there?"

Blade felt himself breaking up inside and it was all he could do hold his composure, "No, Josh, she won't."

"Is she okay?" asked Belinda.

"Let's go now and I'll explain everything to you later. Okay?"

Blade held out his hands and Josh and Belinda slid off the sofa as they reached out to grasp their daddy's hand.

Outside the police station Cody was waiting in his Trans Am. Blade got in the front passenger's seat and slid it as far back as it could go so Josh and Belinda could sit on his lap. The car's radio was tuned to a rock station that played music without interruption for an hour at a time. Blade told Cody to pump up the volume. He wanted to discourage his kids from asking any more heart wrenching questions.

Blade held Josh and Belinda close to him and they soon fell fast asleep. He had Cody take a couple of errant turns to see if anyone was following them. There didn't seem to be so the plan was to meet up with Ginny and then drive over to her place. When they pulled up next to Ginny Blade wanted to jump out, get in her car and put his arms around her but he didn't want to disturb his children's comfort so he had Cody gesture for Ginny to follow them. She nodded her understanding and Blade found her to be at that moment the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. They drove off and for the first time in his life Blade felt truly loved. He always knew Ginny was in love with him but he never realized that she loved him. Now, having her be there for him, even though he was the prime suspect in his wife's brutal murder...it was just too much to hope for, to have her stick by him, and yet, there she was. Blade closed his eyes, thought about Ginny, felt the warmth of his kids next to him and basked in the womb of love he felt surrounded by.

When they pulled into Ginny's driveway Blade asked Cody to get out and open his door for him. As Cody got out of the car Ginny appeared at Blade's window and opened the door.

"I can't move. My legs are totally numb," Blade said. "Here, Ginny, take Josh."

Ginny bent down and took Josh in her arms.

"Try not to wake him," Blade whispered, "Cody, here, take Belinda into the house. I'll be in when my legs come back."

Cody and Ginny carried the kids into the house and Blade started working on his legs. He rubbed them, slapped them and stomped his feet on the car's floor to get the circulation flowing. Ginny came back out and said the kids were asking for him. She looked so beautiful standing there in the glare of the porch light. Her long shiny strawberry blonde hair glistened like that of a magical princess. Her blue eyes, sparkling with life, had the tenderest, most understanding expression that Blade had ever seen. She was wearing a flimsy silvery top with a plunging neckline. Blade focused on her nipples pressing against the silky fabric and a powerful passion swept through him as he looked up into her eyes. Before he knew what he was doing he lunged for her. His legs, however, were in no condition to support him and he stumbled out of the car and fell flat on his face.

"Here let me help you," Ginny said as she bent down to give Blade a hand.

He lifted himself to his knees with Ginny's help and then managed to get one leg up and out in front of him. Ginny took his arm and steadied him as Blade raised himself on his tingly feet. He put his arm around Ginny and she put her arm around his waist as they slowly made their way toward the house and up the porch steps.

Once inside Ginny told him the kids were in the guest room. Blade was about to make his way there when Cody, on his way out, said he had just called his girl friend and was going over to stay at her place.

"Okay," Blade said as he and Cody clasped hands, "thanks, man. Remember what I told ya."

About to answer with a casual "Sure thing," Cody checked himself up. He was suddenly stunned by the wave of solemnity emanating from his co-conspirator. He gulped down the lump in his throat and said in a whisper as if taking a sacred vow, "I will."

Ginny stood by in awe at the ceremony.

Never had she seen two men so utterly naked. Her hands went up to her face as if in prayer as she felt her love for Blade deepen.

Cody left and Ginny said through her hands with tears in her eyes, "I love you Blade."

Blade took her in his arms. "I've always loved you Ginny. I always will," he said.

Blade had felt as one with ten thousand people while performing on stage but never had he felt that close with just one person, until that moment. He and Rachel had perhaps been too much alike to feel close. There was never that much distance between them that had to be vanquished by a feeling of closeness. They had been claustrophobically bound to one another. Their intimacies were a struggle to be free of their imposed bondage. With Ginny in his arms Blade felt a profound intimacy formed out of their love for one another.

The embrace was a perfect moment. Neither Ginny nor Blade wanted it to end. But there were other things to attend to. Blade held Ginny at arm's length and said, "I'd better see to the kids."

"Yes, of course," Ginny said. "Can I get you something to eat or drink?"

"A brandy would be good."

Blade went to the guest room where Belinda and Josh laid wide-awake on their beds. The lamp on the bed stand between the beds was lit. Upon seeing Josh and Belinda on the beds under the light, lying as though petrified and staring lifelessly at the ceiling, Blade wanted to cry out to the heavens at the injustice of it all.

"Where are we, daddy?" Asked Belinda as Blade sat down beside her.

"We are in the home of a very special lady whose name is Ginny."

"Why? Why can't we stay at your house?" Belinda asked.

"Because there are a lot of people around my house who daddy doesn't want to deal with right now."

"What kind of people?"

"Oh, you know, media people, TV reporters, like that."

"What do they want?"

"Whatever they can get."

"Where's mommy?" Josh asked from the other bed.

"C'mon now," Blade said as he stood up and started to tuck Belinda under the covers, "let's get you to sleep now."

"Where's mommy, daddy?" Belinda asked as Blade pulled the covers up to her chin.

"Mommy's been hurt very bad. But I don't want you to worry because I'm going to take care of you."

"Will we see mommy tomorrow?" Josh asked.

"No, not tomorrow."

Blade looked at Belinda who he thought was about to say something. She hesitated and then said, "G'night, daddy."

Blade kissed her on her head and said, "G'night sweetheart." He did the same with Josh and told them to get some sleep.

As he was about to turn off the light Belinda asked her father if he would sleep in there with them. It was such a heartfelt supplication Blade could not have turned her down even under the best of circumstances. "Of course, I will, sweetheart. Just le'me get a blanket and I'll camp down right here on the floor between the beds. Okay?"

"Okay," answered Belinda with a wisp of a smile.

Ginny was sitting on her living room sofa as Blade came in. "I'm gonna sleep in with the kids. You got a futon or something I could put on the floor?"

"Um, let's see...I know. There's the cushion for the lounge chair. You could use that."

"Sounds good."

"I'll go an' get it. It's out on the lanai. There's your drink," said Ginny as she gestured toward the coffee table and left the room.

Blade chugged down the brandy and followed after her saying, "Well, this solves the awkward problem."

"The awkward problem?"

"Deciding on our sleeping arrangements for tonight."

"Nothing awkward about it. I wanted you with me in my bed," said Ginny as they entered the lanai.

Blade went to her and they kissed. Something occurred during the kiss. Something strange and wonderful. A merging from within themselves that took place outside themselves. It felt as if their souls, spirits, energies, consciousness were merging, entwining around and above them.

"What was that?" Blade asked.

"I think we just got married."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Again they kissed.

"I'll never feel alone ever again," Ginny said.

"Me neither."

Blade kissed Ginny gently on her forehead, picked up the cushion off the lounge chair and went into the guest room to sleep with his children.

................................................................................

MONDAY JULY 7

Early Monday morning the police had obtained a warrant to search Blade's home. The first officials of the search team to arrive on the scene were Criminalist Charlie Wong and his assistant Barbara Banaducci.

A slew of media crews had become fixtures around the estate since the story broke. Their cameras were constantly recording whatever was going on so they would be sure not to miss out on anything. Uniformed police officers kept an eye on the media to see that they remained in their designated areas. They were stationed across the street from the entrance gates to the sprawling, luxurious and, now, infamous mansion.

Charlie Wong, young, bright and ambitious, arrived on the scene full of self-importance for being assigned to such a high profile case. He could not help swaggering like the cock of the roost as he walked in and out of the main gate in the process of collecting evidence and storing it in his specially equipped van. His swagger became so exaggerated throughout the day that someone ignorant of the goings on might think there was a movie being filmed and Charlie was a character in an old slapstick comedy.

The slightly built Criminalist with youthful good looks had always wanted to be a police officer. A detective. He had tried twice to get through the police academy but he could never quite get over his phobia of guns. Whenever he had to handle a firearm he would invariably be overcome by nervousness and his hand would shake to the point where he could barely hold on to it. So, Charlie had to find another way to satisfy his law enforcement ambitions.

Becoming a criminalist, he supposed, was the next best thing to being a detective. He'd never make an arrest or grind a confession out of a suspect or get the glory of solving a case, but gathering evidence at crime scenes was at least a way of participating in the process. A way of being part of the action in a substantial, though, less notable way. Charlie had dutifully resigned himself to working in the shadows of the police detectives. But now, there he was, at the Wussmann mansion, the focus of prime time news cameras and the lead criminalist on one of the biggest cases in history. Charlie was going to make sure he was noticed.

As he entered into the rock star's main gate for the first time he heard himself being identified by name and occupation to the media by a police spokeswoman. It was like being announced at some star-studded Hollywood gala. Charlie's chest swelled, his swagger increased and to the astonishment of his assistant, who was following close behind, he passed through the gate and continued strutting on his way up the driveway so totally mindless of his whereabouts that Ms. Banaducci couldn't help but cry out, "Mr. Wong!"

Charlie took a couple of more steps before halting his prideful momentum. He stood perfectly still for a moment as he realized to his embarrassment that he had forgotten why he was there and entered upon a crime scene in an unforgivably careless manner. He lowered his head, turned around slowly, pointed down at the gravel driveway, cleared his throat and said authoritatively, "This is where the limo entered." He looked up at his assistant as if to see if she was paying attention to her master and asked her if that was not correct.

"Yes, sir," Banaducci answered wondering about her boss's tactics.

"Awright," Wong continued, confident that he was about to effectively cover up for his momentary lapse, "the limo driver said he saw someone enter the house from the other gate across the way."

"Yes, sir."

"So, we should start our investigation over there."

"Of course," Barbara said now under the impression that Wong had known what he was doing all the time.

"Let's go this way," said Charlie indicating the main gate, "and walk around the sidewalk to the other side. We can retrace the suspects trail up to the house."

Charlie started to walk out through the gate when he noticed a garbage truck had stopped in front of the cameras across the street blocking their view of him. He had to stall for time. He stopped and asked Barbara if she had her latex gloves with her. She said she had them. "Well, you better go to the van and get some extra pairs for both of us. It's very important to be sure we have plenty of clean gloves to change into as we collect evidence."

"Yes, sir."

Charlie stood with his eyes focused on the garbage truck hoping the errand he had sent his assistant on would be enough time for the sanitation crew to get on their way so the TV cameras could get another shot of him on the trail of a criminal. The sanitation men were just finishing dumping the garbage into the back of the truck and were now returning the cans to the curb. They came back and climbed on to the rungs on each side of the rear of their gargantuan vehicle.

"Too bad about the rock star," shouted the man on the side closest to Wong.

"Yeah," the man on the other side rejoined faintly audible, "he had some beautiful garbage."

"I bet he wished he had gotten some stuff in the back of this truck last night."

"You think he did it?"

"I'd be very disappointed if he didn't."

"Yeah, makes for a good story."

Barbara returned as the garbage truck was pulling away and informed her boss there were no extra pairs of latex gloves to be found anywhere in the van. Charlie told her they'd just have to make do with what they had. He then checked to see if the cameras were in sight again. Satisfied that they were, Charlie and his assistant started on their way around to the other gate. Once there they began looking for a blood trail leading up to the front door of the house from where the Blazer had been parked. Wong instructed Banaducci to be "very very careful" and to check out anything that remotely appeared to be a drop of blood.

"Yes, sir," was Barbara's enthusiastic response. She was eager to get to work.

"Okay, let's get started."

The tedious search of the driveway and the cement walkway to the front door yielded four drops of blood. There were two found on the driveway and two on the walkway. Inside the house a couple more blood drops were found on the parquet floor in the foyer leading to the stairway.

After the two criminalists finished collecting samples from inside they met Captain Jenkins and Lt. Conners outside. Conners had been kept on the case even though his partner had been dismissed. The Captain wanted one of the original investigating officers to remain on the case and accepted Conner's assurances that he could, unlike his partner, keep his cool and cast an objective eye on the proceedings.

"Hey Charlie," the lieutenant said.

The criminalist got up from his crouched position and joined the two police officers. "Cap'n, Lieutenant," he said in greeting them.

"How's it goin'?" the Captain asked, "Can I let my men in to search the place?"

"Yes, sir. We found blood evidence on the ground floor and upstairs but the basement studio was clean."

"Okay, I'll let my men in to take the place apart. We haven't turned up anything on the grounds. The suspect's vehicle has been impounded. When you get done here I want you to go over it inside and out."

"Yes, sir," Charlie replied and asked if they knew the whereabouts of the suspect himself.

"No, we don't," answered the Captain.

"But we do have his blood here," the lieutenant announced as he took out a folded envelope and removed a vial of blood. The Captain looked askance at Conner. Charlie was shocked that the suspect's blood was still in the possession of an investigating officer. At a search site, no less. However, he declined to say anything critical. He merely asked if that was the blood that had been taken at the police station the night before.

The Lieutenant put the vial back into the envelope and handed it over to the criminalist saying, "Yes it is. And it's all yours, Wong."

The Captain momentarily excused himself as he pulled Conner aside. They took a few steps away and the Captain confronted his lieutenant saying, "That vial was the blood taken from Wussmann last night?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, what the hell are you doin' carryin' it around with you? Why didn't you take it right over to the lab last night?"

"I was tired," Conners replied as if trying to figure out why the Captain seemed so upset, "and the lab is way out of my way home. I figured I'd just give it directly to Wong this morning. You know, seein' how we'd both here an' all."

"That's not procedure Lieutenant. That kinda thing would never have happened when I was workin' cases."

"Well, I didn't see the harm..."

"No. You didn't. That's the problem. I really oughtta sanction you. But if this got out...it's the kind of thing that could screw our whole case."

"Sorry, Captain. It won't happen again."

"It better not."

"You can count on it."

Returning to the criminalists the Captain asked Charlie what he had found at the scene of the crime. He told him they had found three drops of blood leading away from the bodies and some bloody shoe prints on the walkway.

"Uh huh," the Captain grunted, "okay, good." Jenkins told Conners to get some of the officers that were searching around the property to start on the inside of the house. Charlie said, "Good luck," and he and his assistant started down the walkway.

As the two approached the main gate Charlie suddenly picked up his pace leaving his assistant behind. Charlie was feeling really important. He was carrying the suspect's vial of blood in a paper bag. He felt as though he had bagged the culprit himself. As if he had just arrested Blade, solved the case and was bringing the outlaw to justice all on his own. And there were the cameras across the street recording the whole thing. The whole world would soon know the name of Charlie Wong. This was by far the grandest moment of his life! He swaggered through the gate like some berserk wind-up doll. So full of himself he strutted right passed the evidence van and didn't hear the shouts of his assistant until he was halfway down the block. He stopped dead in his tracks as he realized what had happened. A bit disoriented he turned around to face Ms. Banaducci.

"Where're you going?" she asked.

Charlie managed a wry smile and looking passed her said, "Are we out of sight of the cameras?"

Barbara turned to look. "I think so, she said.

"Okay good, we can get in the van now."

Charlie started for the van, and his assistant, after standing befuddled for a moment, followed her puzzling boss into the van and on they went to look over the impounded Blazer.

................................................................................

Blade woke up on the floor in Ginny's guest room with an intense hunger. He tried to remember the last time he had eaten anything. Oh yeah, McDonald's.

He was going to have to tell the kids that day. He was going to have to tell them that their mother was gone forever. With his head propped up on the pillow he could see the clock on the dresser. Almost ten, it said. The light coming in through the shades was subdued, a cloudy morning.

The pangs of hunger demanded to be attended to. Blade sat up on the lounge cushion between the beds and saw that the kids were still sound asleep. So peaceful were they. Their soft relaxed breathing measured out a time in which the awful event had not yet taken place. Would that time were real time. But they could not be spared. Blade would have to tell them that day before they saw it on TV. First he had to get some breakfast.

He was about to stand up by using the beds on either side of him as props but that was somehow suddenly decided against. That was weird. He was just about to do something and it was like a deactivation switch was triggered as a voice inside his head said, "Don't wake the kids."

Blade sat on the pink and white striped chaise cushion and pondered this unusual event. He was not used to second guessing himself. If that's what indeed had just happened. It was his habit to do what he wanted to, when he wanted to, without question. The moment seemed big, magnified as if he was on drugs. What is the big deal? He wondered. Okay, so he didn't want to wake up the kids. So, he wouldn't lean on their beds and disturb them. Okay, that's just obvious. A no brainer. No big deal.

Propping himself up with his hands on the floor Blade began inching himself quietly along the cushion until he was no longer pinned in between the beds. He stood up and went to the door. As he was about to open it he was again deactivated by a voice in his head that asked, "What about the kids?"

"What about them?" he thought.

"They might wake up?" it responded.

"Yeah. So?"

"They might wake up without you here in the room."

"Uh huh."

"Wouldn't it be better for them if you were here when they woke up?"

"I dunno. I s'pose so. Yeah."

"Well..."

"Awright, awright, awright."

Blade turned from the door in mild torment. He paced back and forth a couple of times. Stopped. Looked at his sleeping children and thought, "Why not just wake them up?" He decided against that right away, fearing the annoying voice in his head would butt in again. He looked around the room as though searching for an escape. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again. He lowered his head as he put his hand to his forehead. He was in real turmoil with himself. He was angered that he couldn't go and do what he wanted to do. That he was trapped there like a prisoner.

That was an ugly thought. Prison might be where he'd wind up. So, this is what it's like being in jail. He looked at his kids and thought, "No, in jail I won't have my kids with me." His expression softened, "And I won't be able to do this," he thought as he went to the door, opened it and called Ginny in a loud whisper.

She came almost immediately to the door and kissed Blade on the mouth and asked, "You want some breakfast?"

"Yea, but the kids are still sleepin' and I want to be in here when they wake up."

"You're sweet. I'll bring you some ham and eggs."

"And coffee?"

"Of course," Ginny said as she turned to go to the kitchen.

Blade closed the door gently and crossed over to an easy chair by the window where he sat down and pondered how he was going to break the news to his kids. Belinda stirred in her bed and she mumbled something in her sleep. Then her body twitched and she suddenly sprang into wakefulness and called softly for her mother. "Mommy," she said, as if testing the word's validity. Josh uttered a short, gentle, high-pitched sound and opened his eyes. He remained still, as though paralyzed. He looked scared.

Blade got up. Belinda stretched out her arms toward him and said, "Daddy."

Her father bent down and picked her up, hugged her to him and sat down with her on Josh's bed. Ginny opened the door with a cup of coffee in her hand and Blade waved her off. She said, "Okay," and retreated out the door as she pulled it closed. Blade extended his hand to Josh and pulled him up on his lap along with his sister. "Ya know, kids...Belinda...Josh... there are some really bad people in this world. Bad people, very bad people, who sometimes do very bad things to very good people. Last night some very bad person did something really bad to your mother."

Belinda asked, "How bad?"

"As bad as can be, darlin'. As bad as can be. Your mommy's gone. She's gone forever."

Deeply saddened, Josh and Belinda stared out into space and tried to comprehend the enormity of what their father had just told them.

"Why?" Belinda asked in a whisper.

"I don't know sweetheart. I don't know."

"Did she go to Texas?" asked Josh in wide-eyed wonderment.

"Texas?"

"Yeah, it's a big place an' you could get lost in Texas."

Blade lowered his head and bit his lip to try to keep from laughing. But try as he might he couldn't help himself. He reared back and let out great peals of laughter. He then buckled over from the side-splitting laughter which suddenly turned into wrenching tear-filled sobs. He hugged his kids tighter, kissed them and told them how much he loved them and would always take care of them no matter what.

"Can we go home now, Daddy?" asked Belinda.

"Soon, pumpkin. Right now I think it's better to hang out here at our friend Ginny's place."

"Why?"

"Because Daddy's house is being swarmed by news people and we'd never have a moment's peace there."

"Because of what happened to Mommy?"

"Yes. But I know you'll like it here. And I know you'll like Ginny. She's a very nice lady and...well, why don't we go and see her right now."

Ginny was in the kitchen scrambling eggs. The smell of coffee and food was very comforting.

"Good morning everyone," Ginny said as she brought the pan of ham and eggs to the table to serve her guests. "See those boxes on the counter, Belinda and Josh?" she asked.

The two kids looked at them in silence.

"I went out to the store earlier and got you some new clothes to wear. I hope you like them. You can try them on after breakfast. Okay?"

"Okay," Belinda said warming to the easy charm of her hostess.

Josh nodded vigorously following his sister's lead.

After breakfast the kids went into the living room to watch TV while Ginny and Blade had another cup of coffee.

"I think they're gonna be okay," said Blade.

"I'm sure they will," Ginny said giving Blade a reassuring look. They held their gaze a moment and then they both took a sip of coffee. Ginny asked Blade if he liked it?

"It's certainly strong enough."

"Mmm. I'm a caffeine fiend. What about you?"

"Oh yea, caffeine is a good drug."

Ginny looked in Blade's eyes and asked, "What about drugs?"

"What about 'em?"

"Well, aren't you like addicted to something?"

"No not really. I was always a binge user."

"Oh?"

"Yea, I never let the drugs take over."

"That's good. I guess."

"You don't sound to happy about it."

Ginny started to say something a couple of times before she finally said, "How screwed up am I? How screwed up am I about you? I make no sense when it comes to you. Never have I guess."

"Whatd'ya mean?"

"I don't really know you. Here I'm just finding out about your drug habits. I never knew that. I just assumed like one of your idiot fans that you were hooked on every drug there was. And part of me..."

"What?"

"Oh it's just stupid."

"No, what? Tell me."

"I think maybe I was hopin' that you were addicted so I could..."

"So you could..."

"Be..."

"Be..."

"So I could be the hero and help you kick the habit. Okay? I told you it was stupid. I dunno I guess I wanna know that you need me for something."

"I need you for everything, Ginny. For everything."

"You really do?"

"I really do."

"Do you?"

"I do."

"Then I'm very happy."

During this exchange their heads came closer and closer until they kissed. But only for an instant as Blade suddenly leapt up from his chair.

"What's the matter with you?"

"I was afraid the kids might walk in on us," Blade explained in a whisper as he tried to peek into the living room to check on them. "That'd be too weird for them, to see us kissing."

"You're right."

"You like my kids?" Blade asked as he leaned his backside against the kitchen counter.

"Yea..." said Ginny as if omitting a caveat.

"But..."

"Oh nothin'. They're great kids. Really. I like them a lot."

"Yeah. How they turned out so well, I'll never know."

"They must be somebody else's," Ginny heard herself saying as a lame attempt at humor.

Blade seemed hurt by the remark as tears welled up in his eyes.

Ginny got up from her chair to go to him but stopped and just gestured toward him with her hand, "Oh baby I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

"No, it wasn't you," Blade rubbed his eyes and went over to where Ginny was standing by the sink. He kissed her gently on the head, "It's just this whole mess. Those poor kids."

"I know," Ginny said, "but they'll be okay in the long run. Kids are so resilient. You just need to help them get through these next few days."

"I know. I'm gonna need you."

Ginny quickly kissed him on his cheek.

Blade said, "Why don't you take the kids out somewhere for a while."

"Just me and the kids?" Ginny asked as she sat down again at the table to finish her coffee.

"Yea."

"What'll you do?"

"I have calls to make. I'm gonna have to find out about funeral arrangements. I gotta talk to Cody, see what's goin' on over there. Call my agent and Rachel's family...stuff like that."

"Okay, now that the sun's come out I could take the kids to the beach."

"Hey, jeez, I just...I mean, what about your job?"

"That's all taken care of. I'm taking a couple of personal days."

"Oh good."

Blade reached into his pocket and gave Ginny a credit card. "The PIN number is zero-one-zero-one, Get some cash. You'll need to buy the kids some swim stuff and take 'em out to lunch."

"Okay, sweetheart," Ginny said with an overwhelming tenderness as she felt a bittersweet emotion at being part of the family she'd always wanted to be hers.

................................................................................

That night Jerry Lake Live devoted its whole hour to the Wussmann murder story. The program opened with video of the murder scene, the bagged bodies being carried out and slid into the coroner's van while Jerry Lake's voice announced, "It was a brutal and shocking murder by anyone's standards. Made even more so by its location. The serene and affluent Hollywood community of Laurel Canyon is certainly one of the last places one would expect such a gruesome crime to be committed."

The red light on the television camera directly in front of Jerry lit up indicating that his image was now on screen. "Good evening everyone," he said into the camera, "the murder last night of Rachel Wussmann and her friend Robert Thanos shattered the peace and tranquility of the virtually crime-free Hollywood community where they both lived. The two were savagely slaughtered in front of Mrs. Wussmann's condo at 1221 Laurel Canyon Boulevard where they were found by neighbor's walking their dog at approximately 10:15 at night.

"Rachel Wussmann, as you may or may not know, was the wife of Andrew Wussmann, better known as Blade, the lead singer of the heavy metal band On The Edge. A band noted for its violent and sexually sadistic material. Let's run the video and you'll see what I mean."

The video came up on the screen. Blade wore a red, white and blue Uncle Sam top hat, a Mao type jacket with a belt of bullets worn across it and a pair of colorful pants depicting various flags of different countries. Film images of war, rape and terror appeared behind him in a continuous montage. Red, white and blue strobe lights flashed through the smoke filled set as Blade sang to the hard driving raucous music:

Lord Satan God of this world

I want the power to rule the world

Give me what I want right here and now

I'll be your servant from my toes to my brow

I'll do whatever evil you want me to

I'll rape a Christian I'll kill a Jew

I'll be the greatest sinner

And eat a kid for dinner

An' rape an' kill an' rape an' kill

An' rape an' rape an' rape an' rape

An' kill an' kill an' kill an' kill

Rape kill rape kill raaaaape kiiillll

Lord Satan god of the world

Come let your power unfurl

Like the flag of my nation state

That will serve you if you make me great

I'll do whatever you want me to

I'll rape an Arab and kill a Hindu

I'll be the greatest sinner

So I can be a winner

An' rape an' kill an' rape an' kill

An' rape an' rape an' rape an' rape

An' kill an' kill an' kill an' kill

Rape kill rape kill raaaaape kiiillll

The video was cut short as Jerry Lake's voice was heard saying caustically that that was enough. He then appeared on screen and said as if the breath had been knocked out of him, "Wow! Pretty vicious stuff right there. And now we have these vicious killings. So, Jimmy Harmon, is this a case of life imitating art. The artist living his art?"

The rotund image of Jimmy Harmon appeared on the screen. He was a well-known defense attorney in LA who had a well-earned reputation for winning cases that seemed impossible to win. His favorite pastime was eating and it showed. He was a large, obese man with a huge appetite for work as well as for food. In spite of his size everything he did seemed light and effortless. There was a pleasant timbre to his deep resonant voice that made one want to listen to what he had to say. "Well, Jerry," he said in response to his host, "you know, the title of that song is Anthem..."

"Yes, a scurrilous and perverse distortion of American values."

"Well, no, not really," Harmon quickly countered, "the title, again, is Anthem. I think it's meant to be a kind of generic anthem, a comment on the questionable nature of nationalistic movements in general and the rape and pillage done in their name."

"Well, I think you're giving this lowlife a lot more credit than he deserves. You're not making a pitch to be his defense attorney are you?"

"If Mr. Wussmann asked me to represent him I would certainly consider it. Whether or not I would take the case would depend on a few things."

"Oh I think Wussmann can afford your exorbitant fee."

"My fee is never exorbitant. I've taken on cases at my own expense. My fee is based on what a person can afford therefore it is never exorbitant."

"Okay I don't want to split hairs here."

"Or fees?" Harmon joked.

"Or fees. But..."

"What my taking the case would depend on is Mr. Wussmann himself," Harmon went on, "I'd talk with him and listen to what he had to say and make a judgment on whether I could work with him, whether we were compatible."

"Okay, and I hope you live happily ever after. Now let's hear from Peter Holister, a prosecuting attorney in San Diego. What d'you think Pete? Is this a case of life imitating art? The artist acting out his art?"

"It very well might be that, yes," a well-groomed image said sincerely into the camera. "Mr. Wussmann is certainly a suspect. A prime suspect and most likely, from the evidence gathered so far, the primary suspect."

"So why hasn't he been arrested?"

"Well, the DA has to wait for the results of the preliminary blood tests for one thing. You want to be sure the evidence supports an arrest. Especially in a high profile case such as this."

"Uh huh, any other John Doe would be in the slammer by now but Mr. Famous Rock Star gets to walk?" Jerry Lake remarked.

"Ah ha, there's the rub," Jimmy Harmon interjected, "that's the real double standard talking. You see, it's not that the rich and famous get special treatment, they get treated the way people are supposed to get treated under the law, making sure all the i's are dotted and the t's are crossed before going ahead with an arrest. You see..."

"Okay, okay we're getting off topic here," the host of the show complained. "I want to hear from Peter Holister. Um, now, Peter, is there any doubt in your mind that Mr. Wussmann will be arrested for these murders?"

"Uh, not really. All the evidence seems to be pointing right in his face. We have him trying to flee the country right after the murders were committed. We have blood in his vehicle, yet to be determined as to whose it is, we have bloody shoe prints at the murder scene to which Mr. Wussmann's footwear is being compared as we speak. And we have a bloody glove found on Mr. Wussmann's property that seems to be a match to the glove found at the murder scene."

"Also, there's the cut on Mr. Wussmann's hand, Jerry added, "and the trail of blood leading from his haphazardly parked SUV into his house."

"We don't have the weapon yet," Peter Hollister noted.

"No, but a pretty clear motive. His wife with another man. Given Mr. Wussmann's penchant for violence it's pretty much a pat hand we've been dealt."

"Too pat if you ask me," Jimmy Harmon piped in. "Let's consider the evidence in light of the question of premeditation. If this was a premeditated crime it certainly was not executed like it was planned out. If Mr. Wussmann did it, would he leave a bloody glove on his property? Very sloppy there. Hardly part of a plan. On the other hand, he exhibits very good planning in that he gets rid of the weapon and the clothing that would have been bloodied in the commission of the murders. No bloodied footwear of Mr. Wussmann's has yet to be found. So, the evidence, compared with the lack of evidence, is very confusing to me. Now, if it was an unpremeditated crime, what was the provocation? Seeing his wife talking to someone in front of her house? Would that provoke you to a murderous rage? And where did he get the weapon? I don't believe Mr. Wussmann is in the habit of carrying a knife around with him."

"His nickname is Blade," the host of the show pointed out.

"Referring to his hard and sharp edged outlook on the world," Harmon rejoined.

"Perverted outlook," Jerry Lake asserted.

"That's in the eyes of the beholder, I suppose."

"Think of what the eyes of Rachel Wussmann and Robert Thanos beheld in their last seconds of life. We have to pause now for a word about Immodium AD."

"Good segue," Harmon quipped.

When Jerry Lake Live came back on the air the host said, "So, Jimmy, Jimmy Harmon, you were saying something about being confused by what you think is...what? Contradictory evidence?"

"No, I wouldn't say contradictory."

"What would you say?"

"I'd say the evidence compared with the lack of evidence doesn't seem to mesh. The carelessness, on the one hand, and the carefulness on the other. Blood all over the place, a glove in the backyard, the shoe prints, yet the weapon and the bloody clothes were carefully disposed of. It just doesn't add up."

"So, what's your point exactly?"

"My point is, I think the prosecution will be hard pressed to prove premeditation because of the lack of planning exhibited by the evidence. And the lack of sufficient provocation makes it difficult to prove it was a spur of the moment thing..."

"How about it Peter Holister? A no win for the Prosecution?"

"Far from it. I think what we might have here is a classic case of premeditation gone awry. The best laid plans of mice and men, that sort of thing..."

"It's a rat in this case," Jerry insisted.

"Right. All the evidence points to a planned murder that was in the process of being carried out when the unfortunate Mr. Thanos arrived on the scene and tried to come to the assistance of his friend Rachel..."

"You think it's a good plan to kill someone in their front yard?" Harmon asked.

"I didn't say it was a good plan."

"It's not even a bad plan. It's an idiotic plan, a preposterous plan that anyone with half a brain would never even consider. Not for an instant."

"Well, I'm not saying that was the plan. I'm saying, whatever the plan was, it didn't work out as planned and that accounts for the carelessness and the carefulness the evidence and the lack of it indicates. The murderer, let's say it was Andrew Wussmann, panicked, hurried from the murder scene, left a blood trail, dropped a glove and then later was able to regain his composure enough to dispose of the weapon and the bloody clothes and shoes and catch his escape plane to Rio."

"That works for me," Jerry said, "Remember we're not dealing with the most stable person in the world here. Andrew "Blade" Wussmann is famous for his out of control behavior. The question is, did he lose control altogether on July 6 and savagely murder two people. That's why we're calling this program, "On The Edge or Over The Edge?"

................................................................................

Sitting on the sofa in the living room with Ginny curled up beside him asleep Blade was watching Jerry Lake Live He thought about calling Armando to see if he could change the title of the show to Jerry Lake Dead.

He got Jimmy Harmon's number and called him. His service answered. Blade told them who he was and asked if they would page Mr. Harmon and have him return his call sometime that night. They said they would. Blade gave them Ginny's number and hung up.

He was impressed with the defense attorney who seemed to be speaking on his behalf. Blade thought Mr. Harmon had good instincts and that he was very perceptive in his analysis of the evidence. What really impressed him the most, however, was that Harmon understood his music. That meant there had to be, at least, some compatibility between them. So, they probably would be able to work together.

Blade had been aware of Harmon before but now his reputation as the up and coming super star trial lawyer of his generation took on new meaning. Described as a cross between F. Lee Bailey and Gerry Spence, Harmon was crafty, charismatic and persuasive. He was able to dominate a court room and hold it spell bound with his masterful cross examinations and spirited rhetoric. He was a good man to have on your side. Blade had a strong feeling that Jimmy Harmon would be his lawyer and he was looking forward to taking on the power of the state with the artful attorney as butt-kicker-in-chief.

There was, however, one bothersome detail that could prove to be a spoiler in Blade's design on things. That was the question of what he should and should not tell his attorney. If he told him the truth about what happened there was always the possibility that it could somehow be leaked out to the media in spite of the protocol of confidentiality. One of Harmon's aides might overhear the true story or read some notation about it and make a fast buck by selling the information to one of the tabloids.

So, under no circumstances, Blade thought, could he ever tell anyone what really happened. That was the only way he could be certain that the real story would never be revealed and his kids would be safe from Armando's wrath. But if Jimmy Harmon sensed that Blade was not telling him the truth he might not take the case. So, Blade decided he would just have to be totally convincing with the story that he decided to go with. He felt more convinced of it himself than not. What really happened seemed to be the fantasy. It was something so extraordinary he found it easier to convince himself that the story he made up was the reality rather than the nightmare that really took place.

Rachel was dead and part of him died with her. Blade would have to bury her along with the truth of what happened so that the better part of he and his wife could live on in their kids. When all was said and done nothing else mattered. That was the truth. The petty details of the murder were not important. Even if he came out with the actual events it wouldn't change a thing. It wouldn't change anyone's mind one way or the other about his guilt or innocence. People believe what they want to believe. What Blade wanted to believe was that he was never at the murder scene. It was all a bad dream. He found it easy to regard it as such in his mind. The power of denial was at work.

The phone rang. It was Jimmy Harmon. He told Blade he'd be more than willing to come over and talk to him. "Right now?" Blade asked. Harmon wanted to know where he was. Blade told him the address. The lawyer said he was in his car on his way home and was only a few minutes away from where Blade was. He'd be right over.

Ginny was awakened by the ringing phone and asked Blade who it was. "A lawyer. Jimmy Harmon. I just saw him on the Jerry Lake show. He's coming over to talk to me."

"He's coming over here? Now?"

"Yeah, he's on his way."

"Then I better get outta here."

"You stay right where you are. I want you here with me."

"What's he gonna think of you being with another woman the day after your wife was killed?"

"You're a friend. That's all. Relax. He's a defense lawyer."

Ginny looked at Blade a moment and then asked, "Don't you feel anything? I know you got teary-eyed this morning but that was for your kids. What about Rachel, though? Any grief over what happened?"

"I dunno. I dunno what I feel at this point. Part of me died with her and the rest of me hasn't gotten around to dealing with it. Rachel and I were like, I dunno, sentenced to be together by some evil judge. I feel like we're still together."

"God, you frighten me sometimes."

"You think I killed her?"

"You wouldn't be here if I thought that."

"I wouldn't?"

"I dunno. It doesn't matter."

"No?"

"You must have felt like killing her."

"Not really, Rachel was right to want a divorce. It was time. It was over for us. I knew that. Part of me was still addicted to her, to what we had...but, I dunno, I wasn't ready to go cold turkey. That's all. And, there was you..."

"What about me?"

"I was afraid that if I got divorced and was free to marry you..."

"What..."

"Well, I thought..."

"You thought, when finally faced with the prospect of our really being together, I'd find out that I really didn't want to be with you. You thought that maybe I really didn't want to be with anyone and was just using you as an excuse to be alone or to hide my homosexuality."

"Yeah, something like that. But I was never afraid you were a lesbian."

"No?"

"No, I was hopin' you were one," Blade said with a lascivious grin and an obscene leer in his eyes.

Ginny picked up a pillow off the sofa and started hitting Blade with it, "Oh you are so bad! I..."

They heard a car in the driveway and went to the door. It was Jimmy Harmon. Ginny told Blade that she just wouldn't feel comfortable with the lawyer and said she'd go to her room until he left. Blade opened the door and went outside to greet him. Mr. Harmon was just getting out of his slate blue Lincoln Town Car as Blade approached. "Mr. Harmon," he said, "I appreciate your coming so quickly."

They shook hands and Mr. Harmon said, "Don't mention it. I'm very interested to hear what you have to say."

"Well, let's go in and have a little chat."

Once inside Blade showed Mr. Harmon into the den and shut the door.

"Is this your place?"

"No."

"Are you here alone?" the lawyer asked.

"Why?"

"Well, I know I wouldn't want to be alone at a time like this."

"This is a friend of mine's place and my kids are here, too."

"That's good."

"Why?"

"Because I'd be suspicious if you were alone. It could indicate some sort of psychosis on your part. I'd tend to think you were guilty. In which case I'd probably suggest an insanity defense."

"Well, if it comes to a trial I don't think you'd have a very difficult time convincing a jury that I'm a psycho. My reputation being what it is."

"True. It's something we may have to consider."

"Now, hold on...Oh, I'm sorry, have a seat. You want a drink, coffee, anything?"

"No thanks, I'm fine."

The two sat opposite each other in easy chairs placed in front of Ginny's desk.

"Now let's get something straight right off the bat here. I'm innocent. I didn't do those murders. I wasn't even there. I'm not pleading insanity or copping to a plea of any kind. I plead innocent. That's that."

When Blade said, he "wasn't even there" it resonated in the lawyers mind as a peculiar thing to say. He wanted a moment to reflect on it and said, "I think I will have a drink if you don't mind. Bourbon, rocks?"

Blade was caught off guard for a second and then said, "Oh, sure," and went out to the liquor cabinet in the living room.

Harmon contemplated Blade's remark. It could be a manifestation of protesting too much, or an overstatement by someone who feels his back is to the wall or it might be a normal psychological tic in Wussmann's personality. It was too early to tell. As for now he could play with it..

Blade returned to the den and handed Mr. Harmon his drink and the lawyer said, "So, you were there?"

"What..." The question gave Blade a bit of a start but he quickly added, "Where?" as if he was just confused by it.

Harmon noticed the hesitation, "At your wife's condo."

Blade stood over the lawyer a moment as a little twinge of panic fluttered through him. He turned away to take his seat and to recover. "When?"

"Whenever. I mean were you there a lot?"

"I'd visit occasionally. I'd pick up the kids, drop them off..."

"When was the last time you were there?"

"Uh, let's see...It was the night I got into LA, so...Thursday, last Thursday. I picked up the kids."

Since the kids were at the condo the night of the murders the lawyer wondered if Blade hadn't brought them back at some point. Blade explained that Rachel had picked them up Saturday night at the arena where he had been performing.

"Okay, now, correct me if I'm wrong. You have boots that are custom made. Even the soles are specially made with a unique design."

"Yeah, there's a serpent carved in the tread."

"A serpent."

"Yeah, I had this thing about snakes as a boy. I was terrified of them."

"Now you walk all over them."

"Yeah, something like that."

"Okay, Mr. Wussmann, you know about the bloody shoe prints found at the murder scene."

"Yeah."

"Well, my spies have told me that those bloody prints show a design that is similar, if not exact, to the one you have just described to me as being on boots that you have especially made for you. If that turns out to be the case how can you say you weren't there at the murder scene?"

"Well, it coulda been anybody. I give stuff away all the time. I don't know how many pairs of boots I've given to stagehands, techies, fans. At concerts I throw clothes, jewelry, boots out to the audience. Sometimes I leave the stage totally naked."

"Okay, would you say you've given hundreds of pairs of boots away?"

"Oh yeah. Easily."

"What about the glove found in the back of your property?"

"Isn't it obvious. Someone's trying to frame me."

"Any idea who that might be?"

"No."

"Well, as I said, as you may have heard on Jerry Lake..."

"A polluted body of water if there ever was one."

"What..."

"Jerry Lake, a polluted body of water..."

"Oh, I see," Harmon chuckled, "yes, well, Jerry can be a bit caustic."

"Yeah, and as you said on his show, the evidence doesn't add up, and that's because it's a frame up."

"Well, that certainly works for me. Convincing a jury is quite another matter."

"Just see that we get at least one of my devoted fans in there. That'll ensure a hung jury, anyway."

"I don't know that the prosecution would let that go unchallenged. Letting a devoted fan on the jury."

"Screw the prosecution. What can they say? Hell, all twelve jurors should be my fans. Isn't that a constitutional guarantee? To be tried by a jury of your peers?"

"Yes..."

"Well, my fans are my peers."

"It's supposed to be an impartial jury."

"Oh they'd be impartial. They wouldn't decide I was not guilty till they heard all the evidence."

Harmon chuckled, "You're pretty funny."

"Hey, how about this. We argue that it would be futile to try this case because I have so many fans all over the world it would be impossible to seat an impartial jury anywhere."

"Don't give up your night job."

"I wouldn't cut it as a lawyer?"

"Would I as a rock star?"

"Nah, we already have a Meat Loaf. Don't think there's room for another one."

"Yeah, but I'd be more like a meatball."

"I guess rock 'n roll would not be as lucrative for you as lawyering is."

"No, I don't imagine it would."

"So, now I'm wondering about your fees. If you do decide to represent me."

"My fees are based on client income."

"Okay, but just so you know, I'm no Rockefeller. I'm only a rocker fella."

Harmon laughed appreciatively and said, "I'll keep that in mind."

"So, you think you might take my case?"

"At this point I'm inclined to, but let's wait and see what develops with the evidence." Harmon got up from his chair, as did Blade and the lawyer said, "In the meantime I'll act on your behalf if the need should arise. I advise you to keep a low profile. Don't talk to the media. Don't say anything more to the police. If they want to talk to you again, and they will, you tell them not unless I'm present and get in touch with me right away." Harmon started for the den's exit and Blade went to open the door. The lawyer paused at the door and said, "And uh, you said this is a friend's place? If it's a female keep her outta sight. I'll call you tomorrow. There's some other things I want to go over with you."

As the two walked toward the front door Blade said, "So, you like my music?"

"I like some of your stuff."

"Good comments, I thought, about Anthem."

"That's one of my favorites. Conjures up all kinds of associations of how our basic lusts play into grand political schemes, state power as the Evil One..."

"Sex and violence, ya gotta love 'em."

"You are identified very strongly with both in the public's mind."

"The public's mind is reptilian. React to a stimulus, that's all it knows. They see my Anthem video and they react to it without thinking. It's about violence therefore I'm violent."

"Are you?"

"Violent?"

"Yes."

"No."

"No?"

"No. I'm a wuss man."

The lawyer chuckled, said good night and left.

................................................................................

TUESDAY JULY 8

The next morning Ginny and Blade again sat together at the kitchen table after breakfast while the kids watched TV. There was some tension in the air.

After Jimmy Harmon had left the night before Blade went into Ginny's room and found her sound asleep. Somehow he felt awkward about waking her. Besides, he had again promised to sleep with Belinda and Josh. So, he left Ginny to her peaceful repose and went to sleep on the floor between the kid's beds.

When Ginny woke up she didn't know what to think. At first she thought it was still night and Blade was still talking to the lawyer. Then she saw it was morning. So, where was Blade? Why didn't he wake her up last night? Maybe he left. Maybe the lawyer told him to find someplace else to stay. She went to the kid's room, peeked in and when she saw that he was there her heart sank. She couldn't understand? Didn't he want to make love to her? Hadn't he wanted to for the last twenty years or so? Hadn't she wanted him to ever since they met?

Breakfast was a quiet affair except for an occasional comment or question from the kids. Blade suggested they all go down to the mall in San Diego for the day. The kids got excited about that and Ginny lent her half-hearted support to the idea. Blade sensed her displeasure and when the kids went into the living room to watch TV he said, "About last night..."

"What about it?" Ginny asked as if she couldn't imagine what he was talking about while at the same time making it very clear that she was furious with him.

"Ginny..."

"Well..."

"I wasn't sure somehow..."

"You weren't sure? You weren't sure? How could you not be sure!"

Blade motioned with his hand for her to keep her voice down as he indicated the living room with his head while he said, "I dunno, maybe it was the kids being here."

All the tension in Ginny seemed to unplug as she slumped forward slightly and said, "I know. I know. But I want you so much I ache all over, inside and out. My eyelashes ache for you."

Blade smiled, "Your eyelashes?"

"You know what I mean."

"Oh I gotta think about this eyelash thing. Could I work that into a song?"

"Stop teasing me and promise me that tonight will be our night."

"Don't you think we should get married first?"

"We got married last night, remember?"

"Oh yea. Okay Ginny, tonight's our night. All night."

"Promise?"

"I do."

"More coffee?"

"Half a cup."

They sipped their coffee in silence.

..............................................................................

As Blade, Ginny and the kids were driving down to San Diego Captain Jenkins and Detective Conner were on their way to the District Attorney's office with the case file for the murders at 1221 Laurel Canyon Blvd.

The District Attorney, Aaron Foster, and Assistant District Attorney, Martha Kent, were waiting with great anticipation to hear from the police about the biggest case of their careers. Foster, a veteran prosecutor, was the trial lawyer for one of LA's most notorious cases involving a serial killer who preyed upon the elderly. The attorney's great resourcefulness played a pivotal role in gaining a conviction in a trial that seemed destined for failure. The prosecution was apparently cursed by one of Murphy's Laws, whatever can go wrong will go wrong.

The defendant's mother was Foster's star witness. She was all set to tell the court everything she knew. One of the more damning things was that her son had come home with bloodied clothes late at night on more than one occasion. Once she saw him burn the clothes in the backyard. On one occasion, when her son came home with blood on him, it was on the eve of her and her late husband's anniversary. So, she remembered the date. It was on that very day that one of the murders occurred.

Before the trial got under way, however, the suspect's mother died of a stroke. Without the mother, no mention of the bloody clothes hypothesis could be heard in court. So, the defense moved to dismiss the charges. The judge admitted that the case was weakened but not enough to warrant a dismissal. There was still sufficient evidence for a jury to consider. The prosecution knew, however, that they were in trouble. The mother's testimony was pivotal to their whole case. It made their circumstantial evidence credible. Without it, an outright conviction, they were sure, was not in the cards and the best they could expect was a hung jury and hope for a retrial.

Foster, desperate to regain the lost ground, went to the mother's home with a warrant in hand to see if he could find something that had been overlooked. He did. He found some letters in an old tin candy box. Most of them were from the mother's sister, Jenny Arthur, in Columbus, Ohio. Foster spent the night reading them and at around 3:30 a.m. he thought he may have found what he was looking for. Later that morning he phoned Mrs. Arthur and asked her if she had saved her sister's letters. She said she had, "...every last one of them." "That's great!" exclaimed the near exhausted prosecutor and told the somewhat astonished Mrs. Arthur that he'd be on the next plane to Columbus.

What Foster had found was a letter from Mrs. Arthur to the suspect's mother which stated, "What you wrote me about your son was very disturbing. I understand perfectly your reluctance to alert the authorities. After all, family is family. Perhaps, it was as he said. Perhaps, he does get into fights. You know how young people can be." If Mrs. Arthur had letters from the suspect's mother detailing what she had told the authorities, it turned out she did, the judge might allow the letters to speak in court for the deceased witness.

The judge allowed it, the trial ended in a conviction, the sentence was life and Aaron James Foster was established as the leading light among the up and coming prosecutors in the DA's office.

Ten years ago Foster was first elected DA and one of his first official acts was to appoint a female prosecutor, Martha Kent, as one of his Assistant District Attorneys. It was a controversial appointment at the time. No female attorney had ever risen to such a position in LA County before. Ms. Kent, however, turned out to be well worth the trouble. In her ten years on the DA's team she had a perfect record of twelve convictions out of the twelve cases on which she served as lead prosecutor. She was attractive, articulate and had a way of molding witnesses and their testimony to fit seamlessly into her version of a particular case. Her powers of persuasion were remarkable in and out of the courtroom. Foster often marveled at her presentation of a case. "You're incredible," he told her, "you present your version of the facts in a way that makes it impossible for any other version to have any credibility whatsoever." How did she do it, Foster would ask her in amazement and Martha would smile and say something like, "It's all in the wrist," or "I do voodoo".

For as long as she could remember Martha could affect people in a way that made them want to please her. She didn't really know how she did it but learned how to use it expertly over the years to get her way. As a prosecutor she put it to good use in preparing witnesses to testify as she wanted them to and for influencing judges and juries to see things the way she saw them.

That special charm made her feel confident in her job. Her love life was another story. She had always been a magnet for the opposite sex. Every guy wanted her and she always chose the guy that every girl wanted even though she might be attracted to someone else. She just couldn't help herself. She had to have the guy who was most in demand. In college she chose the most eligible bachelor. He was the best looking, most popular guy in the school and Martha got him despite competition from much prettier girls. Martha was attractive enough, but there were so many other girls who put her to shame in the looks department who were willing to do just about anything to capture the best catch on campus. He, however, wanted to please Martha Kent and only Martha Kent. He told her as much, "Whatever makes you happy makes me happy. I don't really understand it, but there it is." They got married right after graduation.

Martha came to rely on her husband's total acquiescence to her needs, desires and ambitions to the point where it became the sole attribute of their relationship. Martha's career came first. That's what pleased her the most and she just took it for granted that her husband would be just as pleased as she was. In the beginning and for sometime afterward he was. After eight years of marriage, however, he discovered that there was no longer anything between them. He doubted there ever was. It had always been a one way relationship. Martha's way. He'd just been too dumb or blind to see it. When he told Martha how he felt she readily agreed to a divorce having long before realized that he had never been anything more than a trophy husband to her. The one everyone else wanted. Everyone except herself.

Martha now lived alone with her seven-year-old daughter, Rebecca, and was quite satisfied with her situation. She had a live-in housekeeper/nanny to take care of things at home and she felt totally liberated. Having her husband out of the house was a great relief. He'd been a pest, a kind of beggar lurking around the premises always expecting something from her. Something that wasn't hers to give. All she wanted was to be left alone to do her work and spend time with Rebecca. As for her sex life, brief flings with married men was the perfect solution. She had had such dalliances while she was still married herself. Her very first was with her boss, Aaron Foster.

Now, the two of them sat together in his office awaiting the arrival of the policemen. They had always maintained a very professional working relationship. Neither of them had ever mentioned their erstwhile affair to anyone else. They never even mentioned it to each other. It was good sex while it lasted and that was the beginning and end of it.

Martha sat in a dark brown leather sofa set along a sidewall of Foster's office. She wore a beige suit with a powder blue blouse open at the neck. The skirt was well above the knees of her crossed legs.

Foster was on the phone with the police commissioner, "Yes sir, I agree, it's extremely important that we close this case straightaway," he said and rolled his eyes. He listened as he and Martha exchanged knowing smiles. "Yes, they're on their way as we speak. I expect they'll be walking into my office any second now...Yes, I will...and you too, sir, thank you." Aaron hung up the phone and said, "Suddenly the police commissioner thinks he's my boss. What is it about this case that's makin' everyone crazy?"

The intercom buzzed. Aaron pressed a button and a squawking voice said, "Captain Jenkins and Detective Conner here to see you, sir."

"Send them right in."

Martha rubbed her hands together with the look of a predator in her eyes. She licked her lips.

Foster's secretary showed the policemen into the office. "Gentlemen," Aaron greeted them with hearty handshakes and indicated a couple of chairs in front of his desk, "Good to see you both. Have a seat and let's hear what you've got for us."

"Good news I hope," Martha said.

"Well, yes and no," Captain Jenkins replied somberly.

"Give us the yes part first," the DA said.

"Well, the evidence against Andrew Wussmann, the slain woman's estranged husband, is mounting by the minute. We have drops of blood that match his type at the crime scene and at his residence. Mr. Wussmann does not seem to have a clear-cut alibi for the time window in which the murders were committed. We have a match to the bloody shoe prints found at the crime scene with boots that Mr. Wussmann has custom made for him. The bloody glove found on Wussmann's property definitely makes a pair with the glove found at the murdered woman's home. We have him attempting to flee the country immediately after the murders were committed. There was a nasty cut on his hand. There was blood found inside and outside the suspects Chevy Blazer and inside his home. We haven't yet conclusively determined whose blood it is. The DNA results will be forthcoming. As for now, the blood types of the samples we've gathered are consistent with the suspect and the two victims."

"Good work Captain," the DA said, "now what's the not-so-good news?"

"We don't have a weapon. There were no bloody clothes of Mr. Wussmann's found. And, at this time, we are not aware of the defendant's whereabouts."

"You mean he flew the coop?" Martha asked with unmistakable annoyance.

"We don't know," the Captain responded with a measured calm.

"Well, I suggest you find out where he is and bring him in. We obviously have sufficient grounds to arrest the bastard. Right, Aaron?"

The DA nodded and said Judge Martin was in his chambers with an arrest warrant all drawn up. All Captain Jenkins had to do was present the judge with probable cause to make it official.

"Well, don't just stand there," Martha said acrimoniously to the officers before they had a chance to move, "go find that scum bag and arrest him!"

"Yes, ma'am," Captain Jenkins said curtly and he and Detective Conner turned on their heels and left the DA's office.

Martha jumped up from the sofa extremely agitated, "God, Aaron, Wussmann could be anywhere! With his money and connections he could be on his way to a country where we wouldn't be able to touch him!"

"Easy does it, Martha," the DA advised, "as the Captain said, we don't know where he might be. There's really no point in jumping to conclusions. What's with you, anyway? You seem extraordinarily worked up."

"Oh, I dunno. It's this case," Martha said collapsing back on the sofa. She went on gradually working herself up again, "This Wussmann. The Blade, as he calls himself. He's evil incarnate and I wanna put him away for good, six feet under, where he belongs. We've got 'im by the short and curlies. You heard the evidence. This case is a slam-dunk for a conviction, for a death penalty conviction, what with his priors for spousal abuse. And if that piece of garbage, that scum of the earth low life that he is, if he manages to..." Martha paused and took a deep breath, "Well, it would be such an outrageous travesty of justice if Wussmann managed to escape."

"Yes, it would. But as far as we know he hasn't. So, calm down and start preparing your case. This disappearing act of his will only make his guilt more evident. Just focus on your job and what we know of the facts and show me that you'll be able to handle this highly provocative case like the pro I know you are."

"Yes, sir," Martha said as she got up from the sofa and started for the door.

Foster was right behind her and gave her a little pat on her well-rounded butt and said, "Go get 'im tiger."

Martha turned her head and flashed a smile as she went on her way out the door.

................................................................................

As Jenkins and Conner were on their way back to police headquarters after getting the arrest warrant they got a call from Intelligence. They had located Mr. Wussmann. One of their scanners picked up a call he made on his cell phone to his friend Cody. The suspect was overheard saying that he was en route to the San Diego Mall for the day. "That's great," the Captain said and told Conner to head for the State Police Station. San Diego was outside the detectives' jurisdiction and they would have to enlist a contingent of State Troopers to assist in the arrest. Jenkins dialed the DA's office, "Aaron, hi, it's Jenkins. I got a bone for your pet pit bull, Ms. Kent. We located Wussmann and should have him in custody in about three hours. If the adorable Ms. Kent is as happy about that bit of news as she was unhappy before maybe she'd like to buy me dinner tonight."

"I'll be sure to ask her. An' good work, Captain."

"Thanks. We're on our way over to State Police Headquarters; maybe you should give them a call and let 'em know what's goin' on."

"I'll do that. Have you got the arrest warrant?"

"Oh, yes."

"Excellent."

"Get a cell ready for the Blade, Mr. DA, I think he's gonna be our guest for a long time."

"Looking forward to it."

"Talk t'ya later."

................................................................................

"Maybe I should go to Mexico," Blade said as if thinking out loud.

Ginny froze. Her eyes glazed over. She had been watching Josh and Belinda as they rode on a miniature train in the mall. Each time they passed by she would wave to them and they would wave back. It was not an excited energetic wave for Josh and Belinda but a cautious, timid one as if testing the air for flaws. This time around Ginny failed to wave. The children rode by staring at her, motionless.

Blade stood next to Ginny but she didn't feel close to him. He had stretched one of her red berets over his pinned up hair and wore sunglasses. When Ginny turned her head to look at him he appeared to her as a complete stranger. It wasn't only the disguise. He seemed totally into himself, cut off from the rest of the world. Cut off from her. When he said what he did about Mexico he seemed to be talking to himself. Ginny was terribly afraid. He sounded like a guilty person. She hadn't yet gotten a straight answer from him about the murders. She tried to tell herself that it didn't matter. Maybe it didn't. But she wanted to know. She dreaded confronting him about it more than anything. For the possibility seemed all too real that Blade, the man she loved, had committed those awful murders.

"Why?" Ginny whispered hoarsely.

"Huh?" Blade responded with a start.

Ginny thought he looked like a crazed animal. "Why should you go to Mexico?" She asked measuredly.

"The police think I did it."

The train had completed another lap and Ginny caught sight of Josh and Belinda and made a point of giving them a big wave. The kids responded this time with more enthusiasm than before. Ginny turned to Blade saying, "You didn't do it...did you...Blade..."

"They've got evidence," Blade said heavily.

"I know."

"Doesn't that tell you something?"

"No. I'll only believe what you tell me."

Blade hung his head a moment and said softly, "I might as well be guilty. I might as well be. Sure, what the hell. I am guilty. Is that what you think? Is that what you wanna hear? Okay, I'm guilty. Okay? Guilty as hell. Guilty as Satan himself..."

"What're you saying?" Asked Ginny is a desperate confusion.

Blade was tempted to let Ginny believe that he did commit the murders. He wanted to give her a way out, a way to divorce herself from him, if she wanted to. He hoped she didn't. What would she do, Blade wondered, if he did make such a confession to her? He felt a burning curiosity to find out if she would still love him even after he confessed to the crime. It almost got the better of him but he couldn't bring himself to say he did it. He couldn't tell her the truth either. He couldn't tell anyone what really happened. He was going to have to lie to her. Maybe Ginny would be able to tell that he was lying and think that he was lying because he was guilty. Blade wanted to tell her the truth. He wanted her to know. He just couldn't chance it.

"I mean," he said, "I feel so guilty...and...and everyone thinks I am..."

"Why do you feel so guilty?"

"Because...I was responsible...for..."

"Responsible? Responsible for what?"

"For what happened..."

"Yes..." Ginny said, coaxing.

"Yes."

"And?"

"I don't know...the evidence...the guilt I may just as well confess and get it over with."

"They'll execute you."

Blade and Ginny were silenced by that last remark. The unintelligible drone of voices in the hollow of the mall seemed to get louder but the silence between them was impenetrable. The mall sounds were of a different universe. Ginny still found herself unsatisfied considering Blade's reluctance to swear to his outright innocence. She felt reluctant, however, to demand a direct and unequivocal declaration from him. He looked so lost and vulnerable she was afraid to force the issue.

Blade was feeling like a trapped animal with no way out. He knew in his mind that his ideas of escape to Mexico or anywhere else were futile fantasies but his instinct to flee from danger was very persuasive. It forced him to regard taking flight as a real consideration.

"Where could I go?" Blade murmured to himself.

"The rides over, Blade," Ginny said.

Those words were like hearing his death sentence and Blade flinched at them, "What!"

"The ride, it's over," Ginny reiterated as she indicated the miniature train that had come to the end of its journey. All the little passengers were getting off and being collected by their moms and dads.

"Oh...yeah," Blade said as he turned his head to see Josh and Belinda running towards him. Blade crouched down to greet them with a big hug saying, "Here come the most wonderful kids in the whole world." They rushed into his open arms and snuggled up to either side of his face and Blade said, "Gosh that was a long trip you were on and we missed you so much, didn't we Ginny?"

"We sure did," Ginny agreed with a subdued but genuine enthusiasm.

Blade was about to tell his kids how much he loved them when something caught his eye. Down the mall's long main corridor he spotted a contingent of State Police escorting Captain Jenkins like he was a celebrity on tour. Blade stood up and whispered into Ginny's ear, "You don't know where I am." He made a subtle gesture with his head toward the approaching cadre. Ginny gasped slightly and nodded in understanding to Blade, who, after telling Josh and Belinda to stay with their "Aunt Ginny", walked casually over to a display of exercise equipment. He hoped his disguise would work as he looked over a Stair Master like an interested customer. He heard Captain Jenkins say, "Looks like his kids over there."

The cadre of police made their way over to Ginny who was holding Josh and Belinda's hands.

Captain Jenkins smiled at the kids and said, "Hi."

Josh and Belinda remained silent, expressionless.

Jenkins looked around the area and then focused on Ginny and asked, "Where is he?"

"Who?"

"You know who."

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

Ginny hated to lie and stammered, "N-no, I don't kn...know."

Jenkins looked at her with disdain and then bent down to the kids and asked them where their father was. They both pointed him out. Blade was walking as fast as he could away from them on a treadmill.

................................................................................

As Blade was being arrested the Thanos property was being taken over by the Press Corps. They had been camped on the front lawn since early morning waiting for a statement from the bereaved and shaken family. Strategically placed video cameras of various news organizations pointed toward the house ready to shoot the Thanos family as they emerged from the privacy of their home. A phalanx of still photographers crouched down along the front line loading, pointing, adjusting their cameras while waiting anxiously to take their shots. A dais sprouting a crowded bouquet of microphones was set up in front of the house where the "victims" would stand.

Jackie was putting the final touches on her appearance. Her hair had a carefully unkempt look that took her almost an hour to achieve. She rubbed her eyes vigorously to make them red like they were the night before when she was crying so profusely. She planned to cry during her statement for the whole world to see. Her make-up was understated. Just a foundation, mascara and eyeliner. She wore a rumpled sweatshirt, baggy jeans and sandals. It was the perfect look she thought as she viewed herself in her bedroom mirror. The phone on her nightstand rang but she didn't answer it. She knew it was Laura calling and she didn't want to speak with her. Even if it wasn't Laura she didn't want to speak to anyone in particular. She was about to speak to the whole world.

Thanos was in his den rehearsing his statement. He wanted to convey the enormous grief that he thought appropriate for the occasion. He would like to be able to sob for the cameras but knew that was not possible. It just wasn't in him. So he was practicing making his voice crack as though with heartfelt emotion. He had tried it repeatedly as he read his little speech into a cassette recorder and played it back. He thought it was sounding real good on the last couple of attempts. He would read up to a certain point, crack his voice and act all choked up as if he could not go on any longer. He'd show the world what it was to be a grieving father.

There was a knock on the door and Thanos went to see who it was, "Oh, it's you," he said after peeking through the slight opening, "come on in."

"Are you ready, Thanos?" asked, Marty Feldman, Thanos' attorney. He was a slight man with a bony face and tightly curled auburn hair. He had a bushy mustache which he imagined took attention away from his very large nose. "I could play Cyrano without make-up," was a favorite quip of his whenever he realized the mustache wasn't working from the way people looked at his prominently protruding proboscis. He explained to Thanos that the network news organizations wanted his statement for their broadcasts by noon.

"My son was murdered last night, for chrissake," Thanos said, "I'm not a goddamned trained seal waiting in the wings for his master's cue to go on stage and perform."

"Okay, sure, don't worry about the media. I'll make a statement for you and your family and tell them all to take a hike."

"No," Thanos said with heavy reluctance, "I should do it. For Robby. I should go out there and let the world know what a wonderful kid he was and how..." Thanos bowed his head and turned away from his attorney. Marty put his hand on Thanos' shoulder. "I'll be alright," Thanos said bravely. "See if Jackie and Marsha are ready. I'll be out in a minute."

Marty left the den and Thanos quietly cursed himself for not being able to crack his voice for the attorney to hear while he was talking about his son. Well, he thought, being in front of the cameras will help to inspire him. He just had to remember he was doing this primarily for Robby. He wanted people to know that he was a great kid worthy of genuine grief. Thanos had to show people that Robby was more than just the loser pizza boy they would probably judge him to be. No, Robby was a Thanos, and the world must know that to be a Thanos is to be a winner. Thanos would make Robby in death the winner he always wanted him to be in life.

Marsha sat on the living room couch in a frilly pink dress. Thanos thought she looked like a middle aged Barbie doll. "You look good, dumplin," he said to her as he came out of the den and went to peek out the window. The front lawn was a swarm of media personnel. Turning back to Marsha he asked, "Where'd Feldman go?" Without waiting for an answer he shouted toward the stairs for Jackie. She immediately came bounding down, her sandals slapping loudly on the steps. Thanos opened his arms at her approach. She flung herself into them and embraced her father as if fusion was her intent. "I love you, Daddy," Jackie whispered in his ear. "Me too you, honey," Thanos said as he pressed her even closer to him.

"Shall I try to find Marty for you, dear?" Marsha asked.

Father and daughter released their embrace and Thanos said, "See if you can find Feldman, honey."

"Okay, Daddy," Jackie said as she went on her way.

"Is that what she's going to wear?" Marsha asked as she watched Jackie go out through the front door.

"She's fine. She's in mourning for her brother. Robby wasn't your family. You don't know what it's like for her. Grief can make you do funny things," Thanos paused. This was the opportunity he was looking for to take back what he had said to his wife about Robby the night before. "Like those things I said to you last night. About Robby... Where the hell did that come from...I guess I just didn't want to deal with the pain...the grief..." Thanos bowed his head into his hands and his wife dutifully got up to comfort him.

"I know, dear," she said as she took him in her arms, "I knew you could not have meant those awful things you said last night about that dear sweet boy."

Much to his surprise Thanos felt a lump of grief inside him. It exploded and filled him with emotion. He broke down crying. "He was a great kid. A great kid," he said through his tears. "It was only a matter of time...he'd be a winner...I tried to teach him...he was learning...he just ran out of time..." Jackie and Feldman were heard approaching the living room and Thanos bolted into the dining room. He struggled to control himself wanting desperately to save his tears for the cameras.

After regaining his composure Thanos reentered the living room and sprang into action. "Marty," he said as he walked over to the lawyer, "is CNN here yet?"

"Oh yeah, they're here. Are you ready to go out there?"

"Yes."

"You want me there with you?"

"No, just the family."

"Of course, that would be best."

"You go out and make an announcement. Tell them we'll be out after they all participate in a moment of silence for the slain victims of this horrible crime."

"Okay, that's good. Remind them why they're here and set the mood for your statements. Very good. I like that. Yes, and..." the lawyer wanted to go on examining the question at hand when Thanos interrupted him. "Alright then," he said, "get moving. Tell them we'll not be answering questions. We'll give our statements and that will be all."

"Okay, I'll go out and make the announcement. All the mics are set up on the front stoop. I'll say a few words and call for a moment of silence. When everyone's quiet I'll come back in and you can go out and take your places."

"Right. Good. Now do it," Thanos quietly ordered and the lawyer went purposefully on his way.

Thanos extended his hands toward Jackie and Marsha. The two women almost sprinted toward him. Jackie got there first not having a demure lady like image to uphold as her stepmother did. The two women stood on either side of their object of admiration and Thanos told them to take each other's hand to form a little prayer circle. They did so and Thanos spoke in most solemn tones, "We are all in this together. Our common purpose is to give meaning to Robby's death and to let the world know what a one-of-a-kind wonderful kid he was. Worth a million from that no good bastard who killed him."

'Worth a million from that...' didn't he mean to say 'of' Marsha thought and was about to ask Thanos about it but he ushered his wife and daughter toward the front door.

Outside it had become empty of sound. The silence had an impact on Thanos, like a vacuum that had to be filled with his presence. Feldman came back inside and stood silently by the door. Thanos said in the quiet tones of an obsequious undertaker, "Let's go then, shall we."

Thanos went to the front door, opened it, stood aside for Marsha and Jackie to pass through and then followed them out to greet the subdued press corps. Thanos approached the microphones at the bottom of the front steps. He spoke first. "My name is George Thanos. I am Robby Thanos' father. This is his sister Jackie and stepmother Marsha. My daughter would like to say a few words first. Jackie..."

Jackie moved slowly to the microphones with head bowed. She stood silently for a moment, folded her hands to her breast and slowly raised her head. Tears were streaming down her face and she spoke softly, "I loved my brother. If you had known him you would have loved him too. He was a gentle loving soul who knew how to spread the joy of life. Now he's dead and there is no joy left in my life and much less joy in life as a whole. His brutal death..." Jackie struggled to check her sobbing, "His bru...His..." but she was too overcome to continue. Thanos put his arm around her and gently guided her into the arms of his wife.

Then he stepped up to the microphones and said with what he felt was a grief stricken look on his face, "Yesterday I had a son. Today I do not. He was the victim of a vicious, savage crime. He died a hero, trying to save another. Robby was a talented boy who had a promising acting career ahead of him. The world has been robbed of his unique talent and I have been robbed of a loving son," Thanos tried unsuccessfully to crack his voice as he said "loving son". He quickly turned away from the press and went back inside the house immediately followed by his wife and daughter.

Inside the foyer the three of them stood holding each other for some moments until Feldman, who had gone back out to officially close the proceedings, came barging in with a booming voice, "Thanos," he bellowed and immediately fell silent as he saw what he had interrupted. "Oh," he said apologetically. "I...uh...I'll..." he muttered while shuffling his feet, wringing his hands and looking around for an escape hatch.

Thanos separated himself from the two women and sent them off to the living room. He turned to his lawyer and asked curtly, "What is it, Feldman?"

"Well, I thought it went well. Your statements. I think we can expect calls from the various news and talk shows for an interview. Howd'ya wanna handle that?"

"That all depends. Let's see how it plays out. Le'me think about it a while. Go back to your office, Marty, and await my instructions."

................................................................................

After Blade was arrested Ginny drove back to LA with the kids. Blade told the police officers that she was their aunt and would take care of them. On the drive home Belinda and Josh were morosely silent. Ginny tried to explain things to them in a way that would give them some hope. "It's all a mistake," she told them, "your dad didn't do anything wrong. You'll see. They'll let him go real soon and you'll have him back before you know it. I promise." Her words, however, didn't seem to do any good.

The kids sat strapped in the back seat and Ginny had the rear view mirror adjusted so she could see them in it. They sat immobile in their new jeans and train-ride T-shirts. Their cute little faces were expressionless and their unmoving eyes devoid of any signs of life. Ginny had never before felt so completely cut off from other human beings. She had never felt so alone, so utterly helpless. For so many years she had felt helpless in the grip of her feelings for Blade but those feelings were her own. She was now, as were Belinda and Josh, in the grip of an impersonal power outside themselves. They were in the grip of the system. A system that Ginny hoped was concerned for the best interests of everyone involved, even though she knew it wasn't.

Ginny realized it would be in the best interest of Josh and Belinda for them to be with their family. Which meant getting them to Rachel's parents right away. Not knowing where the Wilson's lived Ginny called Cody on her cell phone. She explained what had happened and asked Cody to get in touch with the Wilson's. "Tell them how to get to my place," Ginny instructed, "so they can pick the kids."

The rest of the drive home was torture. The lifeless image of Belinda and Josh in the rear view mirror was too much to take. Ginny wanted desperately to do something to get a reaction out of them, to see some signs of life. She would have liked to adjust the mirror so she wouldn't be able to see them but she thought she better keep an eye on them. They might suddenly start crying or something.

Ginny thought about turning on a rock station really loud to distract Josh and Belinda but she was afraid there'd be stupid inflammatory comments being made by some juvenile shock-jock about Blade's situation. How else could she bring them out of their stupor? She felt she had to do something and some crazy ideas occurred to her. Like feeding them a few of the No-Doz tablets she kept in her glove compartment, or driving really fast and reckless through the speeding traffic, or suddenly pulling off the road and slamming on the brakes. To her surprise, Ginny, found herself executing the last one. She abruptly pulled over into the breakdown lane and screeched to a halt.

The kids didn't so much as blink. God, it was eerie. They were beyond Ginny's reach. How could she possibly get through to them? After a moments observation of the seemingly comatose children, however, Ginny thought that perhaps the children's zombie-like state was for the best. A way for their little nervous systems to initially handle the emotional overload. Simply shut down until they got to a safe environment. Ginny was overwhelmed with sadness that she did not qualify as a safe environment for them. The feeling of being part of a family that she had been cultivating over the last couple of days had come to an abrupt and agonizing end. It seemed the end of everything for her.

About an hour later Ginny pulled in her driveway. Cody was on the front lawn cowering in the presence of a woman who was yelling in his face. Upon noticing Ginny, Cody pointed in her direction and the woman immediately backed off. There was also an older woman in a safari outfit sitting on the front stoop. The younger woman, Meg, who had been chewing on Cody's face charged toward the car. The older woman, got up and started walking toward a Volvo parked on the street.

After glaring murderously at Ginny, the younger woman opened the back door of Ginny's car unbuckled the kids and gently helped them out. She took their hands and walked them to the Volvo. Ginny looked over at Cody. He subtly moved his head slowly from side to side with exasperation in his eyes. Once the young woman got the kids into the Volvo she closed the door and marched back toward Ginny who was still sitting behind the wheel of her car.

"Who the hell do you think you are taking custody of those kids! Just because you're one of that murdering bastard's hookers doesn't give you the right to interfere with this family! Haven't you and that homicidal maniac taken enough away from us! What kind of woman are you! Rachel's not dead a day and you're shackin' up with her killer and exposing Rachel's children to your dirty little...Don't you roll that window up when I'm...AAAhhh Oooww!"

Meg had put her hand inside the window trying to prevent Ginny from powering it up and got her wrist stuck between the window and the top of the car door. Ginny grabbed her hand to stop it from flailing wildly in her face. She squeezed the fingers together as hard as she could, put them in her mouth and bit down on them with all her might. Meg screamed in agony as Ginny drew blood. She then lowered the window and the woman who was trying to pull away fell back on her butt. She sat on the ground momentarily stunned and then started sobbing convulsively. Then, with some degree of difficulty, Meg managed to get up without using her bloodied hand. Then she staggered toward her car where the other woman waited in the driver's seat. Ginny got out of her car and shouted at the woman, "Yeah, that's right! I am a hooker! I've got AIDS! Now, so do you! Bitch!" The woman got in the car and it pulled slowly away as if departing from a quiet afternoon tea.

"What a loony bird!" Ginny remarked to Cody and spit out what was left of any blood in her mouth, "Who was that?"

"That was Rachel's sister, Meg and her mother."

"How did Blade ever get along with them?"

"He didn't really," Cody said as he sat down on the front stoop, "he never saw much of them and when he did it was just kinda polite nonsense small talk. They really liked his money, though."

Ginny sat next to Cody and said, "So, I guess they're all think that Blade's guilty."

"Oh yeah."

"He doesn't have a chance does he?"

"It doesn't look good."

"You think he did it?"

"I know Blade pretty well," Cody said softly with his head lowered toward Ginny. "He's a crazy son of a bitch in a lot of ways, but I just can't see him doin' something as outrageous as...what he's accused of."

"I really can't either, though I suppose you know him much better than I do," said Ginny as tears welled up in her eyes.

"Well, you must really be someone special to him."

"Why?"

"He never mentioned you."

At this bit of news Ginny was at first hurt but the look on Cody's face assured her that this was indeed a sign of being someone special in Blade's life and she smiled at him through her tears and said, "Oh, and that makes me special?"

"Yeah, I mean, you know, Blade would talk about everything, about everybody, every other woman in his life, ya know, so ya know, you gotta be somethin' really special. Someone like who he wanted just for himself like, ya know?"

"Yes, I think we do have something special and now he's gonna be in jail for the rest of his life...before this he was married...and now..."

"Well, he's got a good lawyer. Probably the best ever. If we're right about Blade bein' innocent...well, he's gotta have a good shot at gettin' off."

"I wanna pinch myself and wake up from this nightmare."

Cody looked away and said, "Life is God's nightmare."

"What?" Ginny asked, perplexed.

"Oh nothin'," Cody said with a self-conscious laugh. "It's just a thought I have now and then. I mean, you know, like people say sometimes that life is like a dream. An' so, if it is a dream it's gotta be God's dream. Like, who else's could it be. As a dream, though, it can also be a nightmare."

"What happens when God wakes up?" Ginny wondered.

"Well, I think God's in a coma. Not dead like some people say, just in a coma and He's never gonna come out of it."

"So, the nightmare goes on and on."

"Yeah."

"One question."

"What?"

"How could God become comatose?"

"God's will."

"He willed it on himself?"

"That's the only possible explanation."

"Why?"

"Eternity. Eternal wakefulness. It's a drag."

"Even for God?"

"Oh yeah. See, the eternal state that God's in can't change. God himself, or herself, or itself, or you know, whatever, anyway, God has no power outside of God's own self because, well, God is the eternal state. There is nothing outside of what God is. So all God could do was to change things within himself and he willed himself to be comatose for what would amount to an eternity and in one of his comatose dreams He created this universe."

"You have a lot of free time, don't you?"

"Yeah, maybe too much huh?"

"How about a drink?"

"Sure, okay."

................................................................................

A couple of hours after the media appearance Thanos received calls from The Today Show, Good Morning America, Hard Copy, Jerry Lake Live, and every other talk show in existence. All the calls, except one, were from various segment producers and Thanos told them all to contact his lawyer. The exception was Jerry Lake. He made the call in person and Thanos was quite impressed by that. When the phone rang Thanos thought surely it was another eager beaver producer ready to extol the virtues of their particular show by listing all the outstanding reasons why theirs was the only one Thanos need appear on. Thanos picked up the receiver and heard, "Hello, this is Jerry Lake. I'd like to speak with Mr. Thanos."

"You mean you represent the Jerry Lake show?"

"I am the Jerry Lake show."

"You're Jerry Lake?" Thanos questioned in disbelief.

"Yes, I am."

"Okay, yeah, now I recognize your voice. Forgive me, I've been getting calls all day from producers of all the other shows and..."

"I can imagine."

"I gave them all the bum's rush. Told them to contact my lawyer."

"I don't blame you. But if I might have a word with you," Jerry pleaded.

"Of course, uh, no, uh, I'm not about to give you the bum's rush Mr. Lake. I appreciate you calling. I enjoy your show."

"Thank you. I must say I wish...well, I'd give anything not to be talking to you given the horrible circumstances...And please accept my sincere condolences. I want you to know that my show is behind you and the Wilson family one hundred percent. I'm going to do everything I can to make certain that you get the justice you deserve. I want to get your story out to the American people and show the world what a total degenerate scumbag this homicidal maniac rock star is. This lowlife punk who calls himself Blade."

"Well, you certainly talk my language Mr. Lake..."

"Jerry, call me Jerry please, the magnitude of this tragedy supersedes all pretensions," Jerry said pretentiously.

"Yes, and, well, everyone calls me Thanos."

"I'd like to do a program with you and your family, Thanos, so America can get to know you and, through you, get to know your son. We need to put a human face on this horrid crime. We need to give the victims images and identities beyond their tragic end. Robby was how old?"

"Twenty-two. He was an aspiring actor and I believe he would have had a fine career in the movies."

"You have pictures of him?"

"Oh yes."

"Videos?"

"Yes, he's on a couple of our family videos."

"Are there any videos of him as an actor playing a part."

"He did a bit on one of the soap operas earlier this year. We taped it of course. I'm sure it's around here somewhere."

"Good. I'd like to show as much of Robby as possible and humanize him for the American people."

"He was a special kid."

"Yes, he sounds like a real winner."

"He was my son and I loved him very much. The grief is almost too much to bear."

"I understand, Thanos, and if you would grant me the honor of exclusive rights to broadcasting your story I guarantee..."

"Well, I don't want to limit myself to only a single venue. I mean, I understand demographics and I want as many people as possible to know..."

"Of course, and you have legitimate concerns there, but I can assure you absolute control over content, you will have complete authority over you and your family are presented. And forget about my show being only on cable because with exclusive rights, and the voracious public interest in this story, our ratings will be astronomically higher than any network show."

"Okay, I might agree to those terms but I would like the option to appear on at least one other program if I find it necessary to do so."

"All right but not for, let's say, one month after you first appear on my show."

"That's fine with me."

"Good, I'll have my people contact your lawyer..." Jerry said eager to get the deal done.

"Just one other thing," Thanos interrupted.

Jerry was becoming annoyed but held himself in check and said over graciously, "Yes, anything."

"Airing my story on TV," Thanos noted, "will be worth a lot of money to you and your producers, to your station..."

"Yes..."

"Well, I am entitled to a slice of that pie."

"Yes, that is certainly true, in a sense," said conjuring up all his diplomatic skills. "However, we need to be very cognizant of public opinion here. We do have to play the public relations game. I think it would be best if you appeared to be interested only in telling your story without seeking compensation for it. That would go a long way in establishing an unquestionable credibility for yourself. Which is, I would think, of paramount importance to you."

"Of course it is, and I am not by any means seeking to profit, personally profit, from this awful tragedy but I am in the process of starting a not-for-profit victims rights advocacy association in my sons name. I'm selling my business and will be devoting myself to this endeavor on a full time basis."

"That is very commendable."

"Thank you, but I feel it's the least I can do. So, if you could contribute a certain amount of money to the fund I'm setting up in Robby's name in return for my appearances on your show..."

"Well, of course, that's an offer I can't refuse."

"Good, and that way your payment would be a tax deductible donation. So, it's a good deal all around."

"Well, that's certainly acceptable to me. I don't think anyone, try as they might, can find anything mercenary about that arrangement."

"Good, then it's a done deal."

"Yes. Now, I'd like to meet with you and your family before we tape the show. I'm usually live but I don't want to have any restrictions on time for our interview. I'd like it to go on for however long it takes and then we can edit it for broadcast."

"And I would have a say about the editing?"

"Oh yes, you will have the final word on that, I promise you."

"Good."

"Whatd'you think about taping the interview at your home?"

"I think that's probably a good idea," Thanos agreed. Then, to give himself an out, said, "Of course, I'll have to consult my wife about that."

"I understand. Now as I said I'd like to meet you and your family before we tape the show just to break the ice as it were."

"Yes, well, how about tomorrow afternoon. Say about two?"

"Fine, I'll be there. If I have any conflicts I'll cancel them. I thank you Thanos and I'm looking forward to meeting you and your family."

"Thank you. I hope you will be generous in your contribution to my son's fund."

"Of course. Bye for now."

Thanos hung up and immediately dialed Feldman. "Is Marty there, it's Thanos."

Marty got on the phone and said, "Thanos, are you my only client? All my phones are tied up with TV producers who never produced a TV in their lives who wanna nail you down to a firm commitment to appear on their shows. I ask them how much, some say expenses and some say up to a hundred thousand. To them I say send me a contract. To..."

"Marty listen to me. Shut up a minute and listen..."

"I have ears all over myself. Talk."

"I just spoke with Jerry Lake. He called me in person. I agreed to be on his show. Now, we can only take money indirectly. I told him I was creating a fund in Robby's name for a non-profit organization devoted to victims of crime. His people will be contacting you about it, so get that non-profit set up right away. It's to be called Victim's Rights Advocacy Association."

"V-R-A-A? Vraa? Not a good name. It's gotta be an acronym like, uh, W-A-T-C-H, WATCH."

"WATCH? What's that stand for?"

"Uh, 'We Are The Crime Haters'?"

"Okay but why 'Watch'? What does a goddamn watch have to do with it?"

"Because it's time to do something?" Marty offered off the top of his head.

"Just stick with Victim's Rights Advocacy Association, Marty," Thanos said wearily, "don't confuse the issue."

"Well, how about A-V-R? Association for Victim's Rights. A-V-R is a lot better sounding than V-R-A-A. Believe me these things count."

"A-V-R... Okay, let's go with that. How soon can we get this up and running."

"A couple of days but we can begin operations as of now pending legal status. I think you should make an announcement through the media asap."

"We'll need an 800 number where people can call for information and to make contributions."

"What about offices?"

"I'll take care of that tomorrow. I'll be meeting with Jerry Lake tomorrow, too. We're gonna have to decide on an air date. I can make the announcement about A-V-R on the show."

"Find out what night they have the most audience," Marty suggested.

"Right. I think we can probably tape it on...heck, we better tape it tomorrow, now that I think of it. Lake wanted to meet with me first. But I think we better tape it tomorrow, edit it on Thursday and have it ready for Friday night. That should be a good night."

"As long as they start promoting it right away."

"Yeah, okay, they'll be calling you any minute now. Work out a contract and I'll call Lake and tell him we want to tape tomorrow."

..................................................................................

A prison guard led Blade to a conference room. Jimmy Harmon was seated at a table in an otherwise vacant space. There were two barred windows in the wall on the other side of the room from where Blade came in. The lawyer's attaché case was opened in front of him and he was sorting through some documents. He stood to greet Blade with a handshake. Blade extended both his hands in response, shackled as he was in handcuffs. After they shook hands Harmon told the guard to remove the "bracelets" and to leave him and his client alone for consultation. The Guard did so and when he had gone Harmon asked Blade how he was doing.

"I think I'm a much better person for the experience," Blade said with a trace of a smile. In truth, he had been feeling profoundly alone and utterly without hope. How could he possibly defend himself? The charges against him were like a crushing force that he had no way of escaping. There was just no way out. At least that's how he felt while sitting in his cell for three hours after being processed through the system. He was scared. Scared that he didn't want to fight back. That he was losing his will to live.

Harmon regarded his client somberly. He managed to hide his amazement at the change in Blade's appearance from just two nights ago. Dramatic changes. It was as if he had aged ten years. He was gaunt and sallow, a frightened, haunted look in his eyes.

"Have a seat, Andrew," Jimmy said softly.

Blade stared at his lawyer a moment as if trying to understand him. He began teetering and leaned on the table to steady himself before sitting down. Harmon sat down opposite his client. He looked over some papers and said, "I've just come from the DA's office where I got a copy of the case against you."

"Doesn't look good, does it," Blade said, quietly fatalistic.

"They have a pretty solid case. But I don't think it's quite as solid as they believe it is. There's room to maneuver. That's all we need. Where there's room to maneuver there's room to establish reasonable doubt. And that's all we have to do. We don't have to win this case. That burden is the prosecution's alone. So, hang in there."

"Yeah, right." Blade said hopelessly.

The lawyer leveled a look at his client and asked point blank, "Do you want to plead guilty? If you plead guilty I could get your sentence reduced to life imprisonment."

A jolt of fear rifled through Blade.

"Do you wanna plead guilty?" Harmon pressed.

"I dunno," Blade said hoarsely.

"That's good to hear."

"Room to maneuver?"

"Harmon smiled and said, "Now, let's get down to business. If I'm going to defend you, you're going to have to be straight with me. Anything you say to me is utterly confidential. I'm on your side here so there's no reason why you shouldn't be completely honest with me. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay. So, the first obvious question is, did you do it? Did you kill your wife and her friend?"

Blade replied calmly, "No, I didn't."

"Alright. Now to the case against you. First of all, there are the bloody boot prints that were found on the walkway at 1221 Laurel Canyon. On the face of it they put you right there at the scene of the crime. Were you there?"

Blade felt his resolve suddenly gel inside him and he answered, a little too forcefully perhaps, "No, I wasn't."

Harmon took account of his client. He recalled the first night they had met. Blade had also protested too much then about being at the crime scene. "You told me," the lawyer continued with his inquiry, "that you've given away many pairs of your custom made boots over the years..."

"That's right."

"The prosecution has three pairs of your boots that they confiscated from your home. Are there any more pairs of boots left in your home? Hidden away somewhere?"

"Not that I know of."

"Okay, so we have a hundreds of people out there with the exact same boots that you have. Over a hundred people with the exact same boots that left the bloody prints at the crime scene. So, maybe it was one of them. A deranged fan. A Mark Chapman."

"The guy who killed John Lennon."

"Right."

"Could be, I suppose."

"Have you ever read Catcher in the Rye?"

"No. Why?"

"Never mind, not important. Now, I looked at the boots that the prosecution has in evidence. I looked at the soles and they all looked fairly new."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, and I looked at the photos of the bloody boot prints from the crime scene and they seem like they were made by boots that were a lot more worn then the boots the prosecution has in evidence."

"Uh huh," Blade said thoughtfully as he realized it was an old pair of boots he had worn that fateful night and subsequently threw into the back of a garbage truck. With only new boots in evidence Harmon would be able to cast doubt about the boot prints placing him at the crime. This was getting interesting.

"So," the lawyer continued, "I'll get a forensic expert to look at all this and see what holes we can poke in the prosecution's case."

"So, I guess you're my lawyer."

"I would like to handle your case, yes."

"I'll have my business manager give you a call."

"Okay, good."

"Everyone thinks I did it don't they?"

"Well, not everyone."

"Everyone except my fans."

"Pretty much. Though, some of your fans think you're guilty."

"You get this from TV?"

"Yeah, they've done some polling, the various news organizations. Ninety percent of the people polled think you're guilty. Eighty-five percent of your fans think you're innocent. The rest think you did it, had good reason for doing it and it's nobody else's business."

"Who's going to get on the jury?"

"That doesn't matter. The jury will base its judgment on the facts of the case and how those facts hold up under a reasoned debate between opposing advocates."

"I've watched court TV and it seems jury selection is everything."

"It's an important factor and we will, of course, be part of the selection process," Harmon explained quickly and then abruptly changed the subject. "Now," he said raising his voice, "tomorrow you'll be arraigned. I'll see you at the courthouse. You'll be brought over by the sheriff's department. I'll have Cody drop off some of your clothes at my office for you to wear for court appearances. You can change in our conference room at the courthouse. Okay?"

"Okay, looks like you got it all covered."

"Anything else I can do for you?"

"Bail?"

"I don't think so. But I will press for a speedy trial."

"Some speed would be good," Blade said with a wry smile.

The lawyer exhaled a brief laugh through his nose, "Try to get some sleep." Harmon left the room and the guard entered immediately to cuff Blade and escort him back to his cell.

.................................................................................

Later that night Blade lay on the bed in his cell thinking about when he was a kid. How his mother would lock him in a closet for hours at a time. Sometimes all night, and one time for almost two days. She would do this so she could party with her boy friends or just keep him, "the little prick", out of her way. Thelma, his mother, had anywhere from three to five different guys visiting her on a regular basis at any given time. A couple of the men were more or less permanent fixtures who always reappeared after dropping out of sight for months at a time. Thelma would tell Blade that she thought one of them might be his father. "Can you tell, sonny boy, if any of 'em is your daddy?" she'd ask him tauntingly. "D'ya feel some kind of magical mystical connection to any of the dirty bastards, you little prick?"

Little Andy would just look at her with big eyes hoping to see his other mother appear. The one that hugged him, kissed him, bought him presents, read to him and tucked him in at night. That side of Thelma was all too scarce as far as little Andy was concerned. He regarded the one who tormented him as a weird stranger who only looked like his mother. Blade remembered how he felt back then. The utter denial that the bad Thelma was his mother and the absolute belief that the good Thelma was the only mother he had.

He remembered how he used to imagine the way in which the transformations from good mother to bad mother happened. It was the genie in those bottles she drank from. Or ray guns from interplanetary wars would sometimes miss their target, hit people on earth and make them act nasty. Once, Andy got the idea that it had to do with the face his mother would sometimes put on. So, one night he snuck into her bedroom, took all her make-up and hid it under his bed. That was a mistake, he soon found out, because the mother with the plain face locked him in the closet all day when she discovered where her cosmetics were. She threw her terrified son in the closet and swore she'd throw him out with the trash the next day.

As a result of being trapped inside dark closets for eternities, little Andy devised a way to thoroughly escape without physically leaving his suffocating confines. He acquired the ability to create daydreams that had all the power and reality of nightmares, but they were good dreams. In the dark closet a faint shaft of light that shown through a crack in the ceiling became a glistening beam of golden magical brilliance. On the floor of the closet the beam of light revealed a thick, luxurious, maroon carpet beneath him with the name, 'ANDY', inscribed on it in glistening golden letters. The magic carpet would rise up into the beam of light that miraculously served as an escape hatch through the roof. Andy floated slowly upward until he was above the house. Then he soared into the sky like a rocket. He would fly into the kingdom of the clouds and visit with the cloud people. They would emerge from the clouds to greet him as he landed on a giant cumulus. They'd celebrate his arrival by picking him up, tossing him up in the air and catching him in turn. It was a joyous event. Andy loved the exhilaration, the fear and the trust involved in it. When tossed in the air he feared that he would fall back down through the clouds but he trusted that he would always land safely in the soft comforting arms of one of the cloud people. And so he did.

After the celebration of his arrival Andy and his vaporous friends would play all sorts of games. The clouds, at the behest of the cloud people, could transform themselves into anything Andy wanted. Bumper cars, for instance. Andy loved bumper cars and so did the cloud people and with just the thought of bumper cars in their heads the amusement park vehicles would instantly materialize and Andy and his friends would hop into them and bump each other silly.

As he lay on his cot Blade regretted he no longer had that mind tripping ability. The prison was quiet except for a faint constant vibrating sound that permeated everything. The yellowish green cinder block walls, the bars, the floor, the stainless steel sink and toilet, everything was a conduit for that dreadful noise. Blade found it very annoying when he couldn't block it out of his mind with other stimuli, or with sleep. Thankfully there was a lot on his mind this sleepless night. He wondered if there might be some self-fulfilling prophecy at work in his life. Or some kind of Karma working against him.

He had been imprisoned by his mother as a child and now, as an adult, by the state. Wrongly imprisoned by both. Was there something in his psyche as a result of his youthful imprisonment that triggered his getting thrown in jail as an adult? He wondered if he hadn't planned it all exactly as it happened. He knew Armando. He knew what he was capable of. He knew he had put Rachel in a vulnerable position, put her at risk by refusing to pay what she owed the drug dealer. Blade had feared the very thing that happened. He knew he had felt like killing Rachel that day at the soccer field. He also knew it was only a feeling. A feeling he had felt before. It had never occurred to him to act on those feelings.

But what if, without thinking, he had somehow transferred his killer rage onto Armando? What if the drug dealer picked up some undercurrent in his demeanor or speech that night at McDonald's that was interpreted as an enticement to kill his wife? What if he had somehow communicated to Armando a subconscious desire to kill Rachel?

When Blade thought back on the hideous events of that gruesome night they seemed to have been preconceived in his mind. All his actions, his arrival at Rachel's condo, seeing Armando in bloody clothes holding a bloody knife, trying to punch him, getting stabbed in the hand, viewing the massacred bodies...it all seemed like he was acting in a drama that had been rehearsed in his mind. Blade could not, however, no matter how hard he tried, recall any premeditation on his part to harm his wife in any way. Still, he couldn't shake the overwhelming conviction that the murders had all been meticulously planned out, engineered and instigated by him alone.

The image of Rachel's ravaged and bloodied body haunted him. His mind was tripping out on her murder. He imagined her throat being slashed and the blood gurgling out of the wound, or forcibly spewing out of her mouth as visible but silent screams of horror. He could see her body slumping to the ground as Armando plunged the knife into her repeatedly like a killing machine. Blade's killing machine. He had wound him up and set him on her. Instructed him that Rachel was up for grabs. She's on the ground now and Armando is still stabbing her as she lay there dead in a growing puddle of blood.

Blade felt the life draining out of his own body as the murderous image played over and over in his mind. A torment of hell the likes of which he could never have imagined was upon and within him. Pure agony. Pure unadulterated torture. A million leeches sucking the life right out of him. Sucking the soul out of every particle of his being. Abject fear continually shot through him as if he were in a free fall. Falling out of the sky too fast for even the cloud people to catch him.

.................................................................................

WEDNESDAY JULY 9

At around 8:30 a.m. Jerry Lake, sipping cafe au lait in the back of a limo, was approaching Thanos' home. One van carrying the camera crew and their equipment and another van full of assistants followed. Jerry was pleased with Thanos' decision to go ahead and tape the show without a prior interview. He felt it would give the taping more of an edge if it was totally unprepared. "We have a great opportunity here," Jerry said to his number one producer, Gladys Jefferson, who sat next to him in the back of the Lincoln limousine, "a great opportunity to have this family, the Thanos family, share their terrible grief with the whole world. A catharsis on a global scale is what it will be. And, yet, a catharsis as intimate as that in a confessional. What a marvelous thing for us to do. And we'll be rewarded handsomely for our good work with extremely high ratings." Jerry beamed a big smile at Gladys and went on, "Oh yes, this whole case will put us over the top with a momentum that we can ride on forever." He put his hand on her leg.

Gladys, a very attractive twenty-nine year old African-American, had been, like most women on Jerry Lake's staff, the object of his routine advances on countless occasions. The joke among the female staff members was, "If you're looking for advances in your career Jerry Lake's the guy to work for as long as you don't succumb to his advances." The women who did were soon given the ax. Gladys kept focused on her career and kept the relationship with her boss strictly professional. "Yes," she said as she removed his hand from her leg and ceremoniously placed it on the car seat, "I'm sure there will be a great deal of interest in this story. It's a huge opportunity for everyone."

"Except that murdering bastard, Wussmann," Jerry said ignoring the rebuff. Then like a man on a mission added, "He's gonna fry. And we're gonna see to it that he does."

"Lethal injection," Gladys corrected. She hated it when her boss made such obvious and self-serving pronouncements. She'd seen it during his taped interviews with serial killers. He'd make gratuitously disdainful comments to them that, she thought, came off as complete posturing on his part. It seemed that Jerry needed to make as clear a distinction as possible between himself and the degenerates sitting across from so the audience would be able to tell them apart.

"Huh..."

"It's death by lethal injection here in California," Gladys corrected.

"I know that. I was speaking metaphorically, as it were."

"He certainly deserves to die, this Wussmann," Gladys said getting back in line with her boss.

"Even that's too good for him. It's times like this I wanna believe in hell ever after."

There he goes again with the overkill, Gladys thought. "Are we that much better than Wussmann?" She asked pointedly. "I wonder. I mean aren't we part of it? Could this have come at a better time for us? Could we have arranged for anything better than this? The show was about to go under. We would have been lucky to last another week. Two brutal killings, and we have cause to celebrate."

"The unseen powers-that-be have always been in my corner, Gladys," Jerry pompously pronounced just before exiting the limo that had pulled up in front of Thanos' house. The chauffeur opened the limo door. Jerry stepped out and squinted at the brightness of the daylight the tinted windows of the limo blocked out. He put his sunglasses on and looked around at the palatial estate before him. A three story Mediterranean style home with a six car garage surrounded by sprawling, meticulously manicured lawns handsomely appointed with large oaks and delicate Japanese maples. "No exterior shots and no interior shots either," he said to Gladys who was also surveying the scene next to him. "We'll pick out the homiest looking room and tape the interview there. Instruct the camera crew that we want tight shots of the family members and that's all. We want to focus on their grief, not their opulence."

"Right. People are less inclined to be sympathetic toward the rich."

"Exactly."

Thanos appeared on the front stairs in his bathrobe and slippers. Jerry called to him and asked him if it was okay if his crew started setting up their equipment. Thanos said, "Sure, the place is yours."

Jerry joined Thanos on the front stoop and said, "Good, you haven't shaved. I suggest you remain unshaven for the shoot. Also, dress down. We want to convey with images what you're feeling inside."

"I understand. My daughter is a wreck and believe me she'll look like one too. She won't be dressing up for the cameras. Well, you saw her yesterday at our press conference..."

"A very moving experience."

"My wife on the other hand... Well, asking her to dress down would be like asking her to appear totally naked. She wasn't Robby's mother anyway. Not that she isn't beside herself with grief for him but..."

"I'll have my producer talk to her. She's very persuasive about these things."

"Alright, fine."

Jerry inquired about Robby's mother and shouldn't she be part of the program. Thanos had called his ex-wife to tell her about all the media interest. He suggested that she participate for Robby's sake and show the world how much he was loved. Janet declined, saying that she did not want to become a professional victim. Thanos told Jerry that his first wife had problems and she just didn't have the strength to express her feelings to the public.

Jerry said he understood and then called for Gladys who was giving instructions to the crew.

"Yes, Jerry," Gladys said as she hurried toward him.

"Gladys, this is Thanos."

"Pleased to meetchya," Thanos said extending his hand.

"Glad to meetchoo, I just wish it were under different circumstances. I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Gladys, I want you to talk with Mrs. Thanos about her wardrobe," Jerry instructed. "We don't want her wearing anything extravagant and have Randy do her make-up. I want her to look as though she isn't wearing any."

"Right."

"Come. I'll take you to her. She's upstairs," Thanos said as he opened the front door for her.

"Okay, thank you."

Gladys and Thanos entered the house and Jerry followed. He stood in the middle of the spacious foyer featuring white marble flooring and an elegant staircase curving its way up to the second floor. Thanos bellowed down to Jerry from the upstairs landing to make himself at home as he and Gladys disappeared down a hallway.

A couple of crew members came in with some lighting equipment and one of them asked where they should set up. Jerry told them he didn't know yet and to leave the stuff in the foyer until he found a suitable location.

Jerry moved into the living room. It had a fireplace, large windows, many plants and an enormous television screen flush to the wall. A circular couch of black Naugahyde was placed in front of it.

"Hi!" Jerry heard a woman's voice behind him and turned around to see Jackie in sweat pants and an oversized T-shirt coming his way from the foyer. "Dad told me you were here. I'm Jackie." Jerry took her outstretched hand and introduced himself. "You look better in person," she said with a fetching smile.

"You watch my show?"

"Oh, now and then," Jackie said playfully teasing and then asked Jerry if he'd like to see Robby's room.

"Yes, I'd like that," Jerry said and wondered if that might be a good place to do the taping.

Jackie put her arm through Jerry's and pressed herself close to him. He could feel her breast pressing into him. "Robby was an actor," Jackie said as she guided Jerry toward the foyer, "I think he could've been a big star one day. He certainly had the looks and a great personality. Everyone loved him. He was a real charmer," she went on about her brother as they climbed the stairway.

Once inside the room Jackie got teary and Jerry comforted her with a long and close embrace which he broke off as he felt himself getting aroused. Jackie smiled at him through her teary eyes and said, "Let's get out of here." She grabbed Jerry's hand and led him down the hall, into another room. It was her bedroom. She closed the door behind them. "I need it Jerry," she said quietly, demurely, "I need to be with a man right now. I need to feel life inside me. I know you want me. I felt you wanting me. And I want you. That's all. Nothing more. No strings. Nothing. Just this." Jackie took off her T-shirt and Jerry's eyes widened as he beheld what were, possibly, the most beautifully perfect breasts he had ever seen. Jackie took Jerry's hand and put it on her. Jerry felt her nipples harden as he gently caressed them. Jackie offered him her mouth. Jerry kissed her and then kissed her again with mounting passion. Jackie started undoing Jerry's belt. She pulled down his zipper, sat down on the bed and pulled his pants off along with his underwear. She took his cock in her hand and put it in her mouth. Jerry ran his hands through her hair as she sucked away while gently massaging his balls. "Oh baby you're good!" Jerry uttered a little too loudly and thought he better get this over with. "Le'me have your pussy now, baby," he whispered to her.

Jackie laid back on the bed.

Jerry pulled off her sweat pants. She wasn't wearing panties and Jerry stared at her nakedness a moment. Jackie turned herself over and got up on all fours and said, "Do me like a doggie. Fuck me like a dog."

Jerry put his hand on her vagina. It was wet and inviting and he entered her with a punctuated thrust. Jackie screamed out and continued to vocalize her pleasure with gusto as Jerry worked like a battering ram. He was aware of a little voice in the back of his head telling him to stop, they're bound to be heard, someone will come in...but he could not stop. "Is the door locked?" he asked.

"Yes!" came Jackie's enthusiastic response.

Jerry wasn't sure if she was answering his question or not. It seemed to be part of her vociferous oo-ing and ah-ing. Thrusting himself inside Jackie with each word he said, "Maybe...you...should...keep...it...down...a...little..." With that he climaxed and then so did Jackie. She wailed with utter abandon, collapsed on the bed, turned over on her back and told Jerry that was the best she ever had.

"I never had anyone better," Jerry answered as he pulled his pants back on. "You better get ready now. Just wear what you had on before," he said as he punched in a number on his cell phone. He put it up to his ear and when his assistant answered he said, "Gladys have a camera ready to shoot in one minute outside Jackie's room."

"What?" Gladys asked in deep consternation.

"Just do it!" Jerry commanded.

Jackie had thrown on her clothes and Jerry told her to start thinking about and grieving for her brother because that's what had been going on in there all this time, "You were sobbing inconsolably and I was trying to comfort you."

"Ya did a real fine job of it, I'll say that," Jackie said smiling.

"Jackie, your brother, your dear departed brother..." Jerry admonished her with a grotesquely pleading grimace.

Jackie responded and tears started welling up in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks.

"Oh you're good, girl. You are good."

.................................................................................

Ginny was terrified that Wednesday morning. She had gotten a call from the DA's office the night before asking her to appear at the office of Martha Kent for an interview. She called Jimmy Harmon and he told her to relax and tell the truth. She told him she wanted to see Blade that morning before the interview and asked the lawyer if he could get her in to see Blade as one of his assistants so she could visit with him without a glass partition between them. The lawyer said that would not be a good idea. He told her the jail did have Wednesday morning visiting hours between ten o'clock and noon.

Ginny arrived at the jail at ten-thirty and sat waiting in the visiting area for Blade to be brought in. Finally he appeared being led like a blind man by a big, burly, black guard. Ginny couldn't help but gasp at the sight of Blade. Gaunt, haggard, a shadow of his former self. She could not help thinking that he looked like a guilty man. A terrible feeling swept through her. She quivered inside, repulsed by the man she loved. She imagined herself sliding off her chair on to the floor and crawling out the door for shame. Instead, she sat up straighter than usual and held her head up high.

Blade sat down on the other side of the window between them. He stared at her blankly. Ginny looked away, looked down at her trembling hands, looked anywhere she could until she got summoned the will to face the ghostly image before her. "I'm on my way to the DA's office," she stated vapidly. A guard came over to her and informed her that she needed to use the phone hanging at the side of the window to talk to the prisoner. She picked up the phone and indicated to Blade that he should do the same. He didn't respond and Ginny, in a sudden burst of anger that shocked her as much as anyone, got up from her chair and rapped on the window violently with the phone to get Blade's attention. He regarded her vacantly. The guard came over and admonished Ginny to control herself or she'd be asked to leave. She ignored him. Blade finally picked up his phone. Ginny sat back down and asked Blade if he could hear her.

"Yeah," Blade answered faintly.

"I'm on my way to the DA's office."

"That's nice."

"Nice?"

"I dunno."

"What's happened to you?"

"I got arrested. For murder. They put me in jail."

"Oh my God, Blade!" Ginny broke down in tears at the utter hopelessness in Blade's voice and eyes. "You didn't do it, Blade! I know you didn't do it. You couldn've done it. You've got to fight them. Don't give up, Blade. Please don't give up."

"I'm really tired, Ginny. I can hardly breathe."

"I love you Blade. I thought it didn't matter to me whether you were guilty or not. It does matter, though. I couldn't bear the thought of your guilt. I know you're innocent. I know in the heart of my heart that you could never do such a thing. Never. I'm here for you, my love. I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you. We'll fight this thing together and we'll win. You'll see! We'll win. I promise you."

Blade managed a faint smile and said, "Okay." He tried to make a fist of defiance and shake it in front of him but he didn't have the strength to completely close his hand into a fist and it looked as though he was giving Ginny the "jerk-off" sign. A prisoner nearby laughed saying, "Yeah, that's about all you'll be doin' in here."

Neither Blade nor Ginny heard the comment, oblivious to everything but themselves. Ginny told Blade to go and get some rest. She stood up still holding the phone to her ear, "I've gotta go. Is there anything I can bring you?"

Blade shrugged slightly and cast his eyes downward. Ginny was just about to leave when Blade looked up at her. She saw a sparkle of life in his eyes that had not been there before. He smiled weakly and gave a little nod of his head. Ginny smiled back at him and nodded in affirmation. Blade turned away in his chair and struggled to rise. A guard came over to assist him. Ginny watched as he staggered out of the visiting area.

................................................................................

Later, preparing for his arraignment with his lawyer in one of the courthouse's anterooms, Blade was a wasted empty shell. Pale as a ghost, gaunt as a homeless wino, a haunted, lifeless look in his distracted eyes. Jimmy Harmon had to lead his hapless client around like a blind man. In trying to communicate with him before he was to appear in court the lawyer felt he had to talk to him as if to a five year old. "The officer will take you into the court. Into another room. A bigger room. I'll be there waiting for you. The officer will bring you to me. A woman in a black robe will be sitting at a big desk. She will ask you how you plead. And you will say...what?"

When Harmon first laid eyes on Blade that day he had to wonder if his client might want to change his plea. "God, he looks guilty as hell," he muttered to Judy Adams, his assistant.

"Could be grief, and all the stress," Judy offered.

"Yes, it could certainly be that," Harmon readily agreed. But when Blade wasn't answering him about the upcoming plea he regarded his young assistant with grave doubt in his eyes.

Judy was about to coax Blade into saying not guilty but her boss quickly motioned for her to zip it.

"I don't think he understood what you said," Judy whispered.

"Blade," the lawyer said confronting his distraught client directly, "did you kill your wife?"

A look of sheer terror crossed over Blade's face. His eyes widened as if they would burst but somehow he managed to shake his head "no" before collapsing into himself so violently that he almost knocked himself out of his chair. Judy quickly moved in to prop him up and steady him against the table they were all sitting at and said, "I think he could use some nourishment. Some sugar, I'll go get him a coke."

"Hurry, we only have a few minutes left," Jimmy said as Judy hurried out the door.

Blade mumbled something incoherent. Jimmy looked at him a moment and asked, "What was that?"

Blade leaned against the table, his arms dangling at his sides. He looked like a crazed psychotic with his emaciated appearance. Again he tried to speak, "Am I bin punich or summin?"

After rolling the words around in his mind a couple of seconds they became intelligible to Harmon as, 'Am I being punished, or something?' "Well, not yet, Mr. Wussmann..." the lawyer was about to explain but was interrupted.

"Is mmfar he...?" Blade muttered.

"Sorry, what?"

Judy came back in the room with a can of coke.

"Sss'ree, I sso ss'ree," said Blade with profound sadness.

I can't understand..."

"Sorry," Judy said as she opened a can of coke and handed it to Blade.

"Huh?" her boss inquired at a loss.

"I heard him as I came in. He was saying he was sorry, 'so sorry'," Judy informed Harmon confidently while still holding the can of coke in front of her unresponsive client.

"Oh yeah, okay. He said something else before, I couldn't make it out."

Judy put the coke up to Blade's lips and coaxed him to take a sip, "C'mon, take a little sip, it'll make you feel better, c'mon, that's it, that's a good boy," Judy patted Blade's head as he inhaled a little soda. Blade coughed gently a couple of times and drooled on himself. Judy quickly took a tissue out of her purse and cleaned him up. Blade looked up at his attendant as if he was a helpless infant and it pierced Judy's heart.

"We're ready for him now," a court officer said as he came in the room.

Jimmy Harmon slammed his fist on the table in front of Blade and said loud and emphatic, "Listen up, Wussmann! Blade! You're going into court now. Don't say a word until I tell you to. Okay?"

Blade was all but carried out of the room by the officer while his lawyers followed right behind him. The courtroom was jam packed with onlookers and reporters. As Blade was brought in, the gallery, astonished by what they saw, could not hold back their shock at the wasted figure of the once vital rock star. Waves of verbal reaction swept through the gallery as the judge tried to establish order with a vigorous use of her gavel and an angry warning to the spectators, "WE WILL HAVE ORDER IN THIS COURT OR THE GALLERY WILL BE CLEARED! ORDER IN THE COURT!"

The crowd settled down rather quickly after the judge's outburst. No one wanted to miss out on the spectacle of the moment. "Docket number 946834. State of California v Andrew Wussmann," announced a court clerk. "The charge is two counts of murder in the first degree."

"How does the defendant plead?" The judge asked nonchalantly looking down at her desk as if she had other things on her mind.

Jimmy Harmon nudged his client and Blade managed to say in hoarse whisper, "Not guilty."

"My client pleads not guilty, your honor," Harmon announced loud and clear.

The judge turned to Assistant DA Martha Kent and inquired about bail.

"The suspect brutally murdered two people and was aboard a plane headed for Rio de Janeiro an hour later, your honor. We ask that the suspect be held without bail."

"Your honor..." the defense attorney began.

"Save it counselor. The court agrees with the prosecution on this one. The defendant will be held without bail," the judge decreed and unceremoniously called for the next case.

Blade was helped out of the courtroom by two officers, one on each side of him holding his arms. The defense lawyers walked in front of them. Harmon opened the door to the hallway where the anterooms were located and watched along with his assistant as Blade was taken out the rear door to the prison van.

"Whatd'ya think?" Judy asked her boss.

"He's innocent," was Harmon's confident reply.

"How can you tell?"

"In the condition he was in, if he was guilty, he wouldn't have been able to resist confessing. No way."

"Okay then, let's go get an acquittal," Judy suggested as if it would not be any problem at all.

Jimmy smiled and said, "Right, let's go."

................................................................................

As Blade was being arraigned Ginny was shown into the ADA's office. Martha Kent stood up behind her cluttered desk and greeted Ginny warmly, "Ms. Walters, hi, I'm Assistant District Attorney, Martha Kent." She offered Ginny the chair in front of her desk and thanked her for coming on such short notice.

"I had nothing else to do," Ginny said cryptically.

"Oh, really?" Martha She flashed a smile at Ginny and sat down, "Sorry, you were saying?"

"Yes, well, as of today I'm a woman of leisure. I've been fired from my job."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

"Mmm. Fifteen years I worked for them. You'd think they could have at least given me the benefit of the doubt."

"I'm not sure I follow exactly. Why were you fired?"

"Because of my association with Blade, your prime suspect, Mr. Wussmann...seems I've tarnished the good name of Lindsay, Crouse and David."

"Well, I'm sure that that will all be rectified once they find out that you are cooperating with us as a witness for the prosecution."

"A witness...for the prosecution?" Ginny asked with some difficulty.

"That's right. But that depends."

"On what?"

"On what you have to tell us."

"I don't know anything," Ginny said as she turned her head toward the door behind her.

"Well, that's what we're here to determine," Ms. Kent explained as she noted her subject's discomfort with pleasure.

"How could I possibly be of any help to you?" Ginny twisted the straps of her handbag that she held on her lap.

"I just want to ask you a few questions to find out."

"Find out what?"

"Whether you might be of value to our case."

"If I am, I get my job back?" Ginny asked pointedly.

"Possibly. If you were let go because you were seen as a cohort of a homicidal maniac they might take you back when they see that you'll be testifying against him."

"How can I testify against him? I don't know anything," Ginny pleaded.

Ms. Kent turned on the tape recorder on her desk, identified herself, her subject, the time and the date and got down to business. "On the night of the murders, after Mr. Wussmann was interviewed by the police he spent the night with you. Is that right, Ms. Walters?"

"Yes...with his kids at my place."

"He had phoned you earlier that evening, is that correct? Before the murders."

"Um, let me think... I don't recall talking on the phone. Oh, now I remember, I went to a movie that night."

"Sunday night?"

"Yes."

"What'd you see?"

"The Kid."

"What theater?"

"Am I a suspect?"

"An accomplice perhaps."

"I see."

"A man kills his wife along with her lover and immediately goes and shacks up with another woman... Well, it does look suspicious."

"Not to me."

"No?"

"No, not at all. Blade is a friend. He was in trouble. He needed a place to stay with his kids where he would not be beleaguered by the media. Furthermore, if we were in cahoots together we certainly would be careful not to be seen together."

"When was the last time you saw Mr. Wussmann? That is, before the murders."

"He came to see me Saturday night after his concert."

"Did he spend the night on that occasion?"

"No. He had never spent the night at my house before Sunday."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"That's difficult to believe."

"It's true."

"No one would believe it."

Ginny sat stoically silent.

"I don't want to prosecute you, Ms. Walters. But unless you cooperate with our investigation I'm afraid you only increase the suspicion which already casts you in a rather bad light."

"I don't see how I can be of any help to you."

"On Saturday night did Mr. Wussmann say anything to you that might indicate his intention to harm his wife in anyway?"

"Not at all."

"What did he say about her?"

"That they were trying to work things out together."

"Work things out?"

"Their marriage."

"Come on, Ms. Walters, we know that Mr. Wussmann and his wife had a nasty fight Saturday night backstage after the concert. She told him they were through."

"That's happened before."

"If Rachel divorced Mr. Wussmann you and he could then be together. Correct?"

"Possibly."

"So you admit it was more than a friendship between the two of you."

"We were never lovers if that's what you mean."

"Whether that's true or not, and I doubt it is, you and Mr. Wussmann had plans to be together when Rachel was out of the way."

"If they were ever divorced, yes. We discussed the possibility."

"A divorce would cost Mr. Wussmann at least half of everything he has. Wouldn't it be better if you and he could be together with all of his money?"

"That's ridiculous. Half of what Blade has is a fortune."

"He was obsessed with his wife wasn't he?"

"I don't know."

"He never talked about that with you?"

Ginny shifted in her chair and folded her arms.

"You know, you will be asked these things in a court of law, under oath. If it is determined that you committed perjury, thus impeding our investigation, you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Not only for perjury but for obstruction of justice as well. You will serve time. I promise you that. And it will all be for naught. Because, believe me, Ms. Walters, you're not doing Mr. Wussmann any good by withholding anything he might have said or done. That only makes it appear that you have reason to lie and that makes Mr. Wussmann seem even more guilty than he appears to be as it is. So the best thing you can do is to be honest and truthful about your relationship with the accused and answer my questions without reservation. We're not out to get you. We're not out to get Mr. Wussmann. At this point we just want to get the facts. Okay?"

"Well, then, you have to believe me when I tell you that Blade and I were never lovers."

"I didn't say I didn't believe you. I said it was hard to believe. But if you insist it's true, then, okay, I believe you."

Ginny smiled. She was warming up to the ADA and found herself wanting to cooperate with her.

"That's better. I'm really not your enemy, Ginny. May I call you Ginny?"

"Sure."

"You can call me Martha."

"Okay."

"Would you like some coffee, a soda, anything?"

"No thanks, I'm fine."

"Okay. Now...I hate to start in on the questions, now that we're on friendlier terms. I know how difficult this must be for you. Believe me, it's not something I enjoy. However..." Martha paused, cocked her head, looked at Ginny with a gleam in her eye, turned of the recorder and said, "But you know what...what's the number of the firm you work for?"

"369 4307"

"Your immediate superior?"

"Mr. Crouse."

Martha dialed the number as she stared at Ginny with a pensive look, "Hello, this is Martha Kent, Assistant District Attorney, may I speak with Mr. Crouse...Thank you... Hello, Mr. Crouse...Fine thanks. And you?...Good...Well, I understand Ginny Walters was let go by your law firm because of some misunderstanding about her and Andrew Wussmann...Yes, well I want you to know that in investigating the case we've found no evidence of collusion on Ms. Walter's part. Quite the contrary, she is cooperating with the DA's office in our prosecution of the case and we think she will be an invaluable witness against the accused. So, perhaps you could...You will? That's grand, thank you." Martha hung up and said to Ginny, "Mr. Crouse said he will review the decision to fire you and thinks it will probably be reversed."

"Really?"

"Well, after all, they fired you under a false impression. Isn't that right?"

Ginny was lost in thought. She was feeling more relaxed. Less inclined to resist the ADA's will. This bothered her. It didn't seem right. Anyway, what did it matter? She really didn't know anything. There was nothing she could say to incriminate Blade. So, she might as well just play along with Ms. Kent and get it over with.

The ADA studied Ginny quietly for a moment and then spoke her name as if to ask if there was anyone home.

"Yes?" Ginny responded with her full attention.

"You were fired under a false impression? Isn't that right?"

"Oh yes, yes, that's right, of course."

"Now," Ms. Kent said as she turned the recorder back on and got up from behind her desk. She walked around to the front and leaned back against it bending slightly forward from her waist toward Ginny. "All I want you to do," she said, "is to answer my questions truthfully. We need to dispel all the innuendo about you and the suspect that's spreading out there like wildfire. The best way to do that is for you to tell me what I want to know. Alright?"

"Yes."

"You say that you and Mr. Wussmann were just friends?"

"That's right."

"For how long were you friends?"

"Let's see, I was seventeen when I first met him and that was about seventeen years ago."

"I see. Yes, well that makes your just being friends very plausible. Mr. Wussmann is not the type to have a prolonged affair with anyone. He must have had a sexual interest in you, however."

"Well, we talked about it."

"So, you were the woman he could never have and he found you extra attractive for that and extra special too I would think."

"Possibly."

"Did Mr. Wussmann ever mention anything about wanting to kill his wife or do violence to her in any way?"

"No, I don't think so..."

"I want you to think about these questions now and over the next few days and let me know if you remember anything relevant."

"Okay,"

"Ms. Walters, do you know that Mr. Wussmann killed his wife and Robby Thanos?"

"Did he?"

"Don't you know he did?"

"No. I'm not sure."

"Are you sure he didn't do it?

There was no response.

"Ginny! Are you sure he didn't do it?

"Well...not really, I guess."

"I know for a fact that he did. He killed his wife and her friend. The evidence is overwhelming."

"Yes, I know."

"Has he explained to you how there can be so much evidence against him without him being guilty?"

"No."

"Of course he hasn't. Because there is no possible explanation other than he did it. I've been a prosecutor for a long time Ginny and, believe me when I tell you, evidence doesn't lie. I've never been on a case before where the evidence was so mountainous and so convincing. Mr. Wussmann did the killings. He is a murderer, Ginny, and you need to come to terms with that fact and accept it."

"Yes...I guess...."

"You need to come forth with whatever you know. For your own peace of mind you need to unburden yourself of his guilt."

The dam burst and Ginny broke down gushing tears. She sobbed violently as though to exorcise a demon from her inner depths. Martha moved in. She stood beside Ginny and put her hand on the distraught woman's shoulder. Ginny collapsed, wrapped her arms around the prosecutor's waist and sobbed into her belly.

"I know, I know," Martha said in consoling tones while petting Ginny's hair, "I know how hard it is to admit that someone you love is a criminal. I know, but you'll feel better when you tell us everything. I promise..."

"He...he...tol'...he told me he was guilty," Ginny managed to blurt out in her anguish.

Martha felt the dampness of Ginny's tears soaking through her dress, "What was that?" Ginny was convulsed with cries of torment. Martha grabbed her by the shoulders and began to shake her violently, "What was that you said!" But there was no getting through to her. Martha slapped her hard across the face. The shock of pain got Ginny's attention and Martha repeated her question, "What was that you said Ginny?"
"Uh..."

"About Blade? What he told you."

Ginny stared dumbly a moment at the intensely earnest face in front of her and mumbled as though empty of life, "He said he was guilty."

Martha looked into Ginny's eyes a moment and then stood up releasing Ginny's hold on her. She gazed down on the spent woman, turned the recorder off and said quietly with a sneer, "So much for true love." She then walked around to the front of her desk and called through the intercom for one of her associates.

"Well, congratulations, Ms. Walters, you just became our star witness. You will not be allowed to visit Mr. Wussmann until the trial is over. Not that I'd think you'd wanna see him anymore."

A pale emaciated young man in an ill fitting suit and a dingy white shirt with a paisley tie wrapped under an over sized collar entered the office with an eagerness that bordered on the insane.

"She's ready for you now," Martha said. Then she addressed Ginny, "This is Mr. Annandorf, Ms. Walters, he'll be taking the rest of your statement. You'll be hearing from me again.

Ginny stared motionless in front of her.

"Mr. Annandorf," Martha said as she indicated that he should leave and take the woman with him.

A bit slow to catch the drift of what his superior wanted him to do he stared blankly at Martha a moment and then suddenly sprang into action as she was just about to become less subtle with her instructions. Annandorf grabbed Ginny by the arm and yanked her out of the chair. "Come with me," he said and pulled her through the door like a rag doll.

Martha looked after them a moment and pursed her lips. She sat down and punched a number into the phone and put it on speaker mode, "Shirley, put me through to Aaron."

Martha opened a compact that was lying on her desk and looked at herself in the mirror. "Well?" She heard Aaron ask as she became concerned about what appeared to be an emerging blemish on her chin. "She cracked."

"Well done, tiger. Who's next?"

"Rachel's friend, Dolly."

"What's the angle?"

"She saw Mr. Wussmann get the cold shoulder from his ex-wife and in-laws at the soccer game Sunday afternoon. I think she'll remember him as having murder in his eyes."

"She will if you have anything to say about it."

"I'll have a lot to say about it."

"I just betchoo will. Le'me know how it goes."

Martha was about to say, "I will," when she heard the click of Aaron's receiver in her ear. She pulled the phone away, held it out in front of her, said, "Up yours!" and placed the receiver in its cradle with a controlled fury. She hated it when Aaron played those I'm-the-boss-and-you're-not games. Which was most of the time. He always had to do something to make her feel like a lowly subordinate. He had never done that when they were lovers. Martha reflected on their relationship for the umpteenth time and thought that perhaps she should see about rekindling their affair. She was sure that Aaron still wanted her. That's why he was shoving his power in her face all the time. Of course, what he really wanted to do was... The intercom buzzed. Dolly had arrived for her interview.

................................................................................

THURSDAY, JULY 10

It was almost show time and the mood on the set of the Jerry Lake program was that of subdued excitement. The interview with the Thanos family was ready to go. Great hopes for high ratings, greater revenues, continued employment and all around commercial success were held in check by the seriousness of the program's subject matter and by the need to focus on the job at hand. The air-conditioned studio was charged with the concentrated energies of all the show's participants from those setting up the TelePrompTer to the star of the show himself. The camera people, make-up artists, lighting technicians, producers, directors, everyone performed their tasks with the precision and timing of a well-rehearsed ballet. Every action had a purpose and all was synchronized by the approaching airtime. The setting of a spotlight, applying a bit of blush to the pale cheek of a panelist, checking the TelePrompTer text for accuracy, positioning the cameras, all of it leading step by step to the start of the show.

"Good evening everyone. I'm Jerry Lake and tonight we have a very special program for you entitled 'A Greek Tragedy'. Yesterday, along with my crew, I visited the Thanos family. Robby Thanos was tragically slain along with Rachel Wussmann on Sunday night, July 6, just four days ago. The Thanos family, which now consists of George Thanos, father of Robby Thanos, Robby's sister Jackie and stepmother, Marsha, were courageous enough to allow an interview to take place at their home. Thanos, as Robby's father is familiarly known, explained to me they were doing it for Robby, to keep his memory alive and let the world know what a fine young man he was and how beloved he was by his family.

"Thanos is a self-made man who worked hard to establish himself in the import-export business and managed to build one of the most successful firms of its kind ever. As a loving father and husband he provided for his family all the best that money could buy. But the Thanos family has suffered a loss that no amount of money could ever begin to compensate for. Thanos and family are, in their grief, as devastated as any family would be, no matter what their income, over the tragic fate that has befallen one of their own.

"After a brief commercial break I'll show you the interview in its entirety and afterward we'll talk with Thanos, the man himself, live, right here in the studio. After this..."

A very sincere man appeared on the TV screen. Dressed in a gray suit, he delivered his commercial message in a soothing confidential tone. "Does the phrase, 'Have a seat,' put you in a state of terror due to the pain of swollen hemorrhoids? Have your bowel movements become excruciating ordeals for the same reason? End the pain and embarrassment of hemorrhoidal agony with Anal-Rite. Not a messy cream or greasy ointment, Anal-Rite is a soothing gel that comes in a tube with an easy to use applicator. Or, get the easy inserting suppositories. Anal-Rite, with its fast acting anesthetic, kills the pain on contact while it goes to work to heal and eliminate your insufferable condition. Remember, with Anal-Rite, everything comes out right in the end."

As the commercials were airing Jerry Lake was nervously asking various members of his staff if anyone had seen Thanos. He was supposed to be at the studio by then and Jerry was getting worried.

"What'll we do if he doesn't show?" Gladys asked her boss as he paced back and forth on the set.

"How's that profile of Wussmann coming along?"

"Not ready. Not completely. We could go with what we have but you'd have to pretty much improvise the voice over."

"No, I don't want to use that till it's ready. We'll show that tomorrow night. Dammit! I want Thanos tonight. Nobody else's got 'im. Only me, Jerry Lake has 'im. Right?"

"Right."

"So where the fuck is he?"

The stage manager signaled Jerry that it was one minute to airtime.

Gladys' cell phone rang. It was Jack Morgan the show's co-producer. "He, what?" Gladys said incredulously into the phone and immediately turned to Jerry and said, "Thanos wants more money!"

"Thirty-seconds, Mr. Lake," the stage manager warned.

"Give it to him. Make the deal. Whatever he wants."

Gladys protested saying, "This is blackmail!"

"The man's in grief," Jerry said as he moved to his position behind the set's large desk. "He's starting some kind of charity in Robby's name. That's what the money's for."

"...five...four...three...two...one...go."

Camera one's red light came on and Jerry switched on his well-polished broadcast persona without skipping a beat, "Welcome back to the program ladies and gentlemen. Later, as promised, Thanos, the father of the slain young man, whose life was so ruthlessly cut short Sunday night at 1221 Laurel Canyon, will be with us here live after we show you the visit we had with the Thanos family at their lovely home. Here's that piece of film for you now."

The last shot was shown first. After the interview was completed Jerry's arrival was filmed and that was the opening shot. Jerry's limo was shown on its way up the driveway. It was a tight shot that did not display any of the lavish surroundings. Thanos, Jackie and Marsha were then shown standing just outside the front door of the house as if awaiting Jerry's arrival. This was also a tight shot, careful not to show the opulent mansion behind them. As the limo pulled to a stop Jerry got out and greeted the family somberly. Jerry's voice-over explained what was happening, "I arrived at the Thanos home around nine in the morning. There's Thanos, his daughter Jackie next to him on the right, and the other woman is Thanos' second wife, Marsha."

Gladys was not as successful as she would have liked regarding Marsha's appearance. She was heavily made up, wore a very expensive looking pantsuit and was resplendent in gold jewelry. The contrast between her well-crafted luxurious appearance and the well-crafted unkempt appearance of Thanos and Jackie was quite striking. Was any less affected than another? Gladys asked herself as she watched the show on a backstage monitor.

Marsha was not featured much in the interview which focused primarily on Robby's blood relations. The stepmother's one contribution was to say how Robby was just like a son to her and that she grieved his passing with all her heart and soul. The shot abruptly ended there. Marsha had batted her eyelids and grimaced in such a grotesque manner that it looked unfortunately comic. Gladys and Jerry could not help themselves from laughing uproariously when they first viewed the film in the screening room. "Oh my God she's doing the mask of tragedy!" Gladys managed to say through her laughter. They agreed that that little bit of theatrics would have to be cut out of the final presentation.

Jerry's voice-over continued as he and the Thanos family were seen entering the front door, "While my crew was getting set up for the interview Jackie took me upstairs to show me her brother's room."

A shot of Robby's room came on the TV screen.

"As she reminisced about her beloved brother, and dear friend, Jackie became overcome with grief and she had to get out of his room. We went to another room where I tried to console her as best I could. As we were leaving that room the camera was there to record it."

A shot of the door to Jackie's room is shown. It opens. Jerry has his arm around a sobbing Jackie as they emerge. She looks a wreck. Disheveled and racked with heaving sobs. Jerry speaks to the camera, "This, ladies and gentlemen, is the face and form of tragedy. The wounds inflicted on this young girl are as real and as damaging as those that caused the death of her brother. Part of her own self has been murdered. The part that the life of her brother had occupied. It has been torn out of her like the fetus of an unborn child. Torn out of her by the knife that slew her beloved sibling. Her wounds, as you can see are just as painful."

It was a powerful scene and almost too disturbing to watch. The rest of the interview was anti-climactic so Jerry had that scene shown again at the end of the piece. He loved it and thought it to be one of the crowning achievements in his whole broadcasting career.

"What was really going on in that room, Jerry?" Gladys asked in the limo on the ride back from filming the interview. Her boss looked at her, grinned with a glint in his eye and said coyly, "I'll never tell." Then he became serious and said, "But all that matters is that image of the grieving sister. It was profound, moving and genuine. A veritable masterpiece."

................................................................................

FRIDAY, JULY 11

The ratings for Jerry Lake Live on Thursday night were sky high and it became the show to watch for all the latest on the Laurel Canyon murders. The star of the show signed a lucrative five-year contract with a guaranteed minimum of one million dollars to be paid in full if his show was cancelled at any time before the contractual date. He was back! Jerry Lake was Back! Back in! A player! Big time! Jerry Lake was the media-man-in-charge of the most publicized murder case in history. There was no keeping him down now. He'd ride the wave of the public's ravenous interest in the Wussmann murders all the way to a prime time network show of his own. "You see if I don't!" he declared triumphantly to Gladys as he sat in his office with his feet up on his desk. "And you're comin' with me, girl. You'll be right there with me at thirty Rock with your very own office high above the hustle and bustle of the greatest city on earth." Jerry then got a little misty eyed as he looked into Gladys' eyes. He got up, walked around his desk to where she was sitting on the other side. He extended his arms toward her and said, "I couldn't have done it without you."

Gladys, feeling that an embrace at this time was more than appropriate, stood up and let herself be closely embraced by her boss as she hugged him back. She was genuinely moved by her boss's emotional overture. Jerry held her closer to him. Closer and longer than Gladys thought was warranted considering the sentiments being expressed. She felt something moving around her pubic area. Jerry was getting aroused. His hand slid down her back to grab her ass and he began to whisper as he tongued her ear, "Oh Gladys how I've longed..."

Gladys twisted herself around with a forceful movement of her body and managed to wiggle free of her boss's grasp. Jerry stared at her in disbelief and asked, "What? What's wrong?"

"Our relationship works, Jerry, because it's professional. So, let's just keep it that way shall we?" Gladys said with calm conviction as she tidied her dress and hair.

"Okay, sure. Whatever you say. But you don't know what your missin'," said Jerry with a wink.

Gladys was about to say, "Not much from what I hear," but restrained herself. Then said, charmingly, "That's why I can resist you." She gave Jerry a playful smile as she walked out of his office.

................................................................................

SATURDAY JULY 12

It was three days after the plea hearing. Jimmy Harmon was at the jail to meet with his client, who had been under a doctor's care since entering his plea of not guilty and spent a couple of days in the infirmary receiving treatment for severe stress and anxiety. When he came into the conference room where his lawyer was waiting for him Harmon noticed the difference in his client's appearance with a great sense of relief. He wasn't exactly the picture of health, the lawyer noted, as Blade sauntered listlessly to his chair, but neither was he the walking cadaver that he was at his arraignment.

"Are you on medication?" Harmon asked.

Blade smiled slightly without speaking.

Harmon again asked Blade if he was on medication.

"Great drugs in this place, man. I think I could get to like it here," Blade said dead serious before grinning facetiously at his lawyer.

"What are you taking?"

"I dunno some kind of downer. All I know is I'm feelin' grooooveee. I feel like writin' silly little hippie love songs to the prison guards. My new friends."

"Do you remember the arraignment? Do you remember being in court on Monday?"

"Vaguely, yeah."

"You officially pleaded not guilty."

"I did?"

"Yes. Was that the correct plea? Not guilty? You are not guilty, right?"

"Yeah."

"I believe you. But you have to admit there's an awful lot of evidence against you. Most people think you are guilty."

"Most people think that this, the year 2000, is the first year of the new millennium."

Harmon chuckled at Blade's remark and then turned serious saying, "Look, Mr. Wussmann, I believe you are innocent of what you've been accused of. I thought the case against you was fishy from the start. But I want to be sure that you're being honest with me. I mean, I can't help thinking there's something else to this, something that you're holding back for some reason."

Blade remained silent as he stared through the bars of a window and saw a piece of the blue sky between a couple of office buildings. The trail of a jet could be seen disintegrating.

"Mr. Wussmann?"

"Yeah, it's like I said, I don't know what else you want me to tell ya."

"Everything. Just the way it happened. That's the only way I can defend you properly, effectively."

"What if I told you that I can't tell you? I can't tell you everything just the way it happened for a very good reason. What if I told you that?"

"Whatever you tell me does not get out of this room, ever."

Blade was staring through the row of windows of wired glass that lined the upper half of the wall between the conference room and the corridor. A correction officer's torso was moving back and forth in front of the windows keeping an eye on Blade's meeting.

"Can he hear us?" Blade asked.

"No, not at all," Harmon answered. Then turning to the windows said loudly, "Hey officer! You are one ugly son of a bitch!"

Blade watched the pacing guard intently for a reaction and then chuckled as there was none. He looked at Jimmy Harmon a moment. "Okay, here's how it went down," Blade said softly. He told his lawyer the whole story.

Jimmy Harmon listened intently to his client's tale comparing it in his mind to all the rest of the facts in the case. He thought it all fit seamlessly together. After Blade finished Harmon asked him how he thought the bloody glove might have gotten there on his property.

"Armando. Maybe he put it there. Or the cop who claimed to find it. Gotta be one of them."

"Hmm, yeah, and we'll have to go with the cop, D'Angello. I read a transcript of your initial interrogation. Lots of bad blood between you two. We could show motive for his wanting to frame you."

"Definitely."

"Awright. Thanks for telling me the whole story. Now we can work together as a team. I appreciate it."

"You can't tell anyone else, not even your associates."

"I know. I won't," Harmon said. Pointing to his head he.added, "This is a vault."

Harmon then went on to state the defense's position, "So then, it will be our contention that you were at home the whole time after your return from McDonald's. And until the limo arrived you were, for the most part, in your downstairs studio working on a song."

"Right. Are you okay with that?"

"Whatd'ya mean?"

"Well, it's not exactly the truth."

"No. But the real truth here is that we cannot tell the truth. The real truth is also that you did not commit the crimes you are charged with. The prosecution has to present what they believe to be the truth based on their interpretation of the evidence. What they believe to be the truth, however, is not the truth. It's a fiction, a lie. All we have to do as the defense is to trash their case. We'll be doing the same thing the prosecution is doing. That is, putting a scenario together from the evidence. We can present a different version of things as a counter measure to the prosecution's version just to show that other versions are just as plausible as theirs, if not more so, and therefore establish grounds for reasonable doubt. The truth is you are not guilty. That's essential. That's the truth we have on our side."

"Cool."

"So, again, thank you for your honesty. I appreciate how difficult it was for you to tell me."

"Well, I'm glad I told you. I'm glad I could tell someone else about it. Makes it a little easier for me to deal with. I still fear for my kids, though. Now their safety is in your hands as well mine."

"I understand," Harmon said with a thoughtful gravity.

The two men shook hands and then, as Harmon put his briefcase in order, he asked Blade if there was anything he wanted like food or books.

"If you could get me a guitar and a music note book."

"Not sure a guitar would be allowed. And a music note book?"

"Yeah, it's like a spiral note book with blank musical staffs. You know, to write music on?"

"Sure, okay, I'll have Judy take care of that. We'll be dropping by every now and then. Either one or both of us. And you can call us whenever you want."

"Whenever I'm allowed to, you mean."

"Yeah," Harmon nodded solemnly. He signaled to the guard that he was ready to leave. The guard opened the door and Harmon charged through it like a linebacker out to sack a quarterback. The guard got quickly out of his way before entering the room to shackle Blade and take him back to his cell.

Book 2 The Trial

The defense pressed the Court to set an early trial date. Jimmy Harmon repeatedly reminded everyone that a speedy trial was a constitutional right. The prosecution kept trying to put the trial off indefinitely. They wanted as much time as they could get "to prepare for this most demanding case in a proper manner," as District Attorney Aaron Foster put it.

In most cases Courts will comply with the prosecution's requests for setting trial dates. The Wussmann case was not, however, most cases. It was the most publicized case in history. The intense interest in every little detail of every aspect made it very difficult for the DA's office to maintain its familiar coziness with the Courts. Jimmy Harmon relished the opportunity to use media scrutiny and public awareness to turn the tables on what he called "prosecutorial complacency regarding due process".

Harmon held periodic televised press conferences and accused the prosecution of purposely dragging their heels to delay the proceedings. "They don't want a speedy trial," Harmon said at one point, "they don't want witnesses' memories to be fresh. They want time to work on the memories of witnesses. Time to mold them to concur with the prosecution's version of the case."

The prosecution vehemently protested such outlandish slander and proclaimed their absolute dedication to "the swift dispensing of justice".

"It would seem to me," Jimmy Harmon responded, "that the prosecution is more interested in dispensing with justice."

The tenacious defense attorney never let up and the DA's office felt the pressure. They were not used to being continually held accountable for their conduct in the open forum of the media. It was upsetting to the prosecution's modus operandi.

The DA, Aaron Foster, was, as he was wont to say, "in the business of getting convictions". He saw the Court as an extension of that business. It was supposed to show favor to his objectives and that's what he had come to expect. With the Wussmann case, however, the Court had been feeling the pressure from all the hype and exposure. The Constitutional right to a speedy trial could not be ignored in the media spotlight. A trial date was set for January 16, 2001. Only six months after Blade's arrest.

During that time the magnifying glass of the global media spied into every little nook and cranny of the Wussmann case and exploited it from every possible angle. Their appetite for information was relentless and ravenous. They covered every aspect within and around the case including demonstrations by fans of On The Edge who were protesting Blade's arrest and imprisonment. A spokesman for the protestors who went by the name Slaughterhouse Rage became a favorite of the televised coverage. He was a tall, intense young man with a wiry muscular build that he was not shy about displaying. A favorite outfit of his was tight black leather pants and a vest on his otherwise naked torso. He had long wavy brown hair, a ring through his nose, another through an eyebrow and was resplendently tattooed.

During one of his TV interviews, at a demonstration in front of the County Jail where Blade was being held, a young eager female reporter made the mistake of calling him "Mr. Rage" and she became the brunt of that eponymous emotion as the militant rock fan lashed into her with a seething vengeance. "Hey! Don't call me mister! I'm no mister!" he insisted with a rabid vehemence that startled the reporter who kept apologizing as the diatribe continued. "To call me mister is like to call me a slave. Mister is the title given to the slaves in this society. 'Ms.' is another one that means slave. Ms., Miss, Mrs. and Mr. they're all slave titles. I'm nobody's slave, but I'll work like a slave till my man Blade is free to do his art again." At this point Slaughterhouse Rage grabbed the microphone and spoke into the camera. The petite journalist was no match for the muscular Rage but she was determined not to let the scepter of her status be taken from her. She hung on to her microphone for dear life as Slaughterhouse ranted on. "Blade is a political prisoner," he declared. "He was framed by the cops. The cops did the murders and then planted evidence to make Blade look guilty. It's a conspiracy by the powers-that-be to silence him. Because his art brings it all home, man. Blade don't suck up to the powers-that-be. That's why they had to bring him down..."

"Unfortunately, we have a break coming up..." the reporter said loudly as she wrestled with the charged up rock fan to bring the microphone closer to her. Slaughterhouse Rage took the microphone in both his hands to continue his tirade. As he brought the microphone up to his mouth he lifted the reporter clear off the ground and he managed to say before the camera cut away to pan the horde of demonstrators, "Hang in there Blade we'll getchyou out!"

At the other end of the spectrum there were people like Mrs. Arthur Stevens. She had long been a local leader of a group advocating the classification of salacious rock lyrics as pornography. The group was called MALL for Mothers Against Lurid Lyrics. It sought legislation that would require records, tapes and compact discs that contained songs about violence and sex to be sold exclusively in pornographic stores. Mrs. Stevens, a forty-three year old homemaker and mother, commented about the Laurel Canyon murders on a TV talk show, "Violence begets violence," she said, "I'm not surprised this happened. Mr. Wussmann has advocated violence and has indulged in violent behavior his whole life. Is it any wonder that he committed those brutal crimes? Violence is like a drug. One can become addicted to it. One needs to commit greater and greater acts of violence as one's addiction takes hold. You can hear it in Mr. Wussmann's so-called music. He is a violence junkie. Impressionable teens take his message of glorified violence to heart and they come to regard violence as the solution to whatever problems they might be having."

There was not much middle ground between the opposing views of Mrs. Stevens and Slaughterhouse Rage. People were either absolutely convinced of Blade's culpability or avidly professing his innocence. Some of the latter felt he should be set free whether he did the crimes or not. There did not seem to be any bridge at all between the clash of opinions put forth by Mrs. Stevens and her counterpart. What the two did have in common was that they were both creations of the media. Media creations created by a media creation. On The Edge presented a media generated image that tapped into particular perspectives and gave birth to singular entities with names like MALL and Slaughterhouse Rage.

The media did its best to exploit the gap between the opposing sides. Conflict is a necessary ingredient for dramatic presentations. Drama holds people's attention and that is, of course, good for TV ratings and for selling newspapers. It was out of the question for anyone to suggest that it was not possible to know for a fact if Wussmann really was guilty of the murders or not. It was also out of the question for the media to step aside and declare the Wussmann case to be strictly a matter for the courts to grapple with and resolve.

The media would not allow for such sensible perspectives. The waters of its fishbowl must always be turbulent, controversial. Not that anyone's really in charge. We're all floundering around in the fishbowl while watching what's taking place in the fishbowl at the same time. It's a precarious existence. Grasping on to extreme views of one kind or another gives one the illusion of being anchored.

..............................................................................

Apart from the media spectacle the players in the unfolding drama of the Wussmann case still had their everyday lives to lead. Cody and Ginny had become close friends during the months preceding the trial. Ginny never did get her job back at the law firm and had been working as a waitress at an exclusive Beverly Hills restaurant where she was making more money in tips than she ever had at Lindsay, Crouse and David. Of course, she had no benefits as a waitress but could easily afford to pay for her own health insurance and contribute to an IRA account if she wanted to. But, she didn't. She no longer had any interest in such things.

Cody worried about her. All too frequently he would wait for her to meet him at a restaurant or movie theater without her showing up. Cody would go to Ginny's home and invariably find her passed out drunk on the couch or the floor. Cody spent as much time with Ginny as he could without it destroying his own personal life. Brenda, Cody's long time girl friend broke up with him because she was jealous of his relationship with Ginny. They did, however, reconcile after Ginny met with Brenda, told her what the situation was and assured her that she and Cody were just friends.

Ginny, Brenda and Cody would on occasion go out together or spend an evening at one of their homes. Cody was determined to keep Ginny's weakened spirit from completely dissipating. He would tell her that he was absolutely convinced that Blade did not do the murders and would certainly be found not guilty. Cody also reminded Ginny of how special she was to Blade and how much she meant to him. He told her that she and Blade would be together for the rest of their lives once the trial was over and he was set free.

Most of the time Ginny responded favorably to Cody's pep talks but sometimes she remained despondent. She needed to hear it all from Blade. She needed to hear him tell her all the things that Cody was telling her. Sometimes Blade had his agent, Harvey, give her a message. They were just vague communications delivered by a disinterested party who would say things over the phone that sounded like a statement from a computer. "Blade says he loves you and will be with you soon," Harvey would enunciate mechanically. Ginny would try to take the words to heart but they somehow always missed the mark.

Ginny might have been more receptive to such second hand messages if it weren't for the terrible guilt she felt at betraying her love. She hated herself for caving in to Martha Kent's relentless pursuit of the half-truth. The wily prosecutor had gotten her to say that Blade told her he was guilty. Later, however, after calmly reflecting on that Tuesday afternoon in the San Diego Mall, Ginny was not sure that Blade had said that at all. It was certainly not a clear declaration of guilt on his part but only an expression of a sense of guilt that anyone might feel at the unfortunate death of a loved one. Under pressure from the tenacious Ms. Kent, Ginny had become flustered and her gravest fears overtook her. She blurted them out as if they were absolute truth and made it sound as if Blade had confessed to committing the murders.

How could she take those words back now after they were carved in stone? Carved, as it were, on Blade's headstone? Her damning words were part of a sworn statement that she had signed and by doing so she felt she had sealed Blade's fate. Her words were certain to put him on death row. How could she retract them now with any credibility? The jury would think she was only changing her story to protect the man she loved. They would be certain to believe the words she had spewed out of herself like venom. A venom that was now eating away at her insides. How could she have ever said such a thing about the man she loved if it weren't true? How could she have said that he admitted his guilt if he hadn't? What possible reason would she have to lie about that? That's what the jury and everyone else would think. Ginny's imprudent words spoken in a moment of weakness would forever be etched in peoples' minds as the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

"Maybe I did it on purpose," she said one day to Cody. "Maybe I wanted Blade to die. Maybe I was afraid that he would kill all my hopes and dreams of our being together. I mean, what would he want with little old me after all the exciting beautiful girls he's had? So, to prevent that from happening, to see to it that Blade would not be capable of killing my dreams, I killed him. And now I can go on dreaming of what we would have had together, just the two of us, forever. I can go on dreaming of how great it would have been with us. How Blade would have given up his wild ways just to be with me alone. How we would have lived happily ever after. It's a wonderful dream that I know now will never happen. But I can still go on dreaming."

"Whatd'ya do all day," Cody asked, "watch soap operas?"

Ginny heard the good-natured teasing of her friend but was too preoccupied with the dilemma of her life to enjoy it. "What am I gonna do, Cody? How can I possibly face Blade in court and...I'm like the angel of death..."

Cody took her hand in his, looked her in the eye and reminded her that Jimmy Harmon would also be in court.

Ginny had met with the portly defense attorney for lunch one day. She told him about what transpired during her grilling by Ms. Kent. Harmon found it to be of great interest, especially the phone call to Ginny's employer. He assured her that, at worst, her testimony would be a wash. "During my cross," he told her over a double order of fried shrimp, "you'll have the opportunity to explain everything. You'll simply tell the truth and the jury will believe you." Ginny was comforted by the lawyer's assurances only for the duration of their lunch. Nothing he could have said could have ever changed the fact that she had denounced the man she loved. She had turned on him like a vile thing and that filled her with a self-loathing and shame that she kept trying to expunge from herself with mega-doses of alcohol and drugs. Her frequent excursions into drunken and doped-up oblivion were also implemented to deal with the specter of the trial that loomed over her like a noxious cloud of smog. She dreaded her upcoming appearance in court more than death itself.

................................................................................

One week before the trial was to begin, the DA, Aaron Foster, and ADA, Martha Kent, called the members of their team together for a meeting. It was held in a conference room two doors down from the DA's office. The room was a rectangular box featuring a long, highly polished oak table surrounded by twelve wooden chairs. In the back of the room an American flag stood in one corner and in the other corner the state flag of California. On the wall between the flags there were framed color photos of the California Governor and the Mayor of Los Angeles. Fluorescent light shone down from the ceiling through plastic grates.

Captain Jenkins, Mike D'Angello, Steve Conner, Charlie Wong, Barbara Banaducci and Aaron Foster sat around the table engaging in small talk while awaiting the arrival of Martha Kent. There was excitement in the room. The upcoming trial was sure to be an astounding success for the prosecution. They had put together a body of evidence that was overwhelmingly incriminating toward the defendant. Their brilliance would be dazzling. The prosecuting attorneys would move inexorably toward a guilty verdict that would result in a death sentence. With the global interest in the infamous-rock-star case it would be their turn to shine in the media spotlight instead of degenerate psychopaths like Wussmann. He would be brought down in shame while they would be raised up in glory.

Martha Kent charged into the conference room and marched up to the head of the table. She acknowledged no one and got right down to business. "Okay listen up people," she said, as if addressing a crowded auditorium, "before going to trial I wanna know how each of you is going to testify. First, we'll hear it all together so if there are any discrepancies that need to be worked out we can take care of them now before we get into court and start stepping on each other's toes. If any one has a different idea about what anyone else is saying, speak up. Let's get it all sorted out now.

"After this group get-together I might need to meet with some of you individually. All depending on what I hear today. Okay! Now, let's see..." Martha picked up a clipboard off the conference table and looked through a couple of pages, "Detective D'Angello."

"Yes, ma'am," Mike said as he squirmed a little in his seat.

"You sir, are a definite liability. Your history with Wussmann, your outrageous behavior while interrogating him are bad enough. The fact that they cast suspicion on a major piece of evidence is even worse. Whatever possessed you to search the back of Wussmann's property by yourself is beyond me. It's not proper procedure and you know it. If I had my way you'd be cited for it. That was a lame-brained stunt if there ever was one. There are good reasons for police procedures, Detective. Had you and your partner found the bloody glove it would have been much better for us. There would not have been all the suspicion there is now about planting evidence." Martha paused and glared a moment at the beleaguered detective. "Has the defense subpoenaed you to take the stand?"

"No Ma'am."

"Hmm, they're probably waiting to see if we call you," Martha said to herself. Then turning to the DA her expression and demeanor softened. "Whatd'you think Aaron?" she asked. The DA was about to answer but Martha continued on, "If we put D'Angello on the stand the defense gets to cross-examine him. Given the detective's asinine behavior in this case the defense would have little difficulty casting doubt on his testimony. If we don't put him on the stand the defense will and they'll discredit him, and through him, the whole investigation."

"I think were going to have to put the detective on the stand," the DA said, "and deal up front with the questionable aspects ourselves."

Steal the thunder from the defense," Martha said as if to say, 'Of course, why didn't I think of that!'

"Exactly. We'll present Detective D'Angello as the decent cop he is," Aaron said in an attempt to take some of the sting out of Ms. Kent's vitriol. "A decent cop," the DA reiterated, "who lost it there for a moment in his interrogation of the suspect. Who can blame him? Given the nastiness of the crime. I think the jury will forgive him for losing his temper over it."

"The defense wants the tape of the interrogation," Martha informed the DA.

"Let them have it," Aaron said casually. "It shows Wussmann up to be a real creep. I don't think they'll wanna use it."

"Okay, but I think Jimmy Harmon will destroy D'Angello on the stand after he hears what's on the tape."

"He's gonna hear it anyway from Wussmann."

"True," Martha smiled at Aaron in appreciation of his wisdom. Then she turned back to D'Angello with murder in her eyes. The diplomacy Aaron Foster tried to inject into the proceedings was completely lost on her. Ms. Kent lashed into Detective D'Angello with a vengeance that made everyone squirm in their seats. "Well, you are one hell of a liability to an otherwise airtight case, Detective. Have you thought of maybe doing us all a favor by eating your service revolver?"

Aaron Foster thought about admonishing his ADA for her heartless words but he was much too captivated by her cruelty. It floored him. It always had. He had been subject to it himself at times during their onetime affair. In the face of Martha's intense scorn he found that he became more thoroughly aroused than he ever had before and Martha's talent for malicious slander had become a ritualized part of their sex. Mr. Foster did not feel sorry for Detective D'Angello. He envied him and got excited as he imagined Ms. Kent's mean, tight-lipped, narrow-eyed attack being directed at himself. Aaron wanted Martha to direct her fury at him and only him. He was ready to beg her for it.

"You're a disgrace to Law Enforcement," Martha said as she continued her abasement of D'Angello, "and you should be made an example, you should be publicly humiliated to prevent this kind of thing from ever happening again. It just amazes me how utterly scurrilous your behavior was. God! Were you really after Wussmann's wife?"

"No. That's all in that creep's screwed up head."

"And you found the glove on Wussmann's property. Right? You didn't plant it there did you?"

"No, I found it there."

"Who the hell's gonna believe you? Everyone thinks you were out to get Wussmann. You worked for him, you and Conner. He set you up with women?"

"We met some women through him, yeah."

"Aaron, how is all this gonna look? The detective hung out with the defendant, had sex parties and lusted after his wife! If that comes out at trial it could prejudice our whole case."

"Well," the DA snapped to attention as if waking from a nap, "we'll see what we can work out with the judge. Maybe we can confine D'Angello's testimony to nothing but his work at the crime scene."

"On what grounds?" Martha asked.

"Relevancy?" Aaron asked. "What relevance is it to the case that the detectives were acquainted with the defendant? That has no bearing on the matter of Wussmann's guilt or innocence. I don't think it will be difficult to get a judge to suppress all that on the grounds of relevance."

"Maybe."

"Even if the judge does allow all of D'Angello's dirty laundry to be strung up all over the courtroom it wouldn't be a complete disaster for our side," Aaron said, now thoroughly immersed in his role as DA and again trying to repair the damage done by his assistant's harsh treatment. "After all," the DA continued, "Wussmann was paying D'Angello very generously for little work and supplying him with party girls. So where's his motive for wanting to pin a murder on his benefactor by planting evidence?"

"What about the interrogation tape?"

"D'Angello was applying a tried and true method of interrogation: Play the suspect's game to lead him into a trap or get him to crack."

"But Wussmann got D'Angello to crack."

"That's not the first time a suspect has gotten the better of a cop during an intense interrogation. And Wussman's assertion about the detective lusting after his wife is insubstantial hearsay."

"Okay, so you really don't see D'Angello as a huge problem?"

"Not at all."

"Well, okay, you've reassured me about that and I'm feeling much better about this case already. So, whatever happens, we put D'Angello on the stand as our witness and if all goes well, if the detective can restrain himself from violently attacking the judge and jury, his testimony will be a wash. It won't accomplish anything but at least it won't hurt us. Now, Mr. Wong..." Ms. Kent turned her attention to the criminalist.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I looked through all your evidence logs last week and everything seemed to be in order... Whatd'ya think Aaron? Put Wong on right after the cops?"

"Either him or the coroner."

"Mmm, the coroner, yes, of course, what was I thinking? This case is a doozie." Martha paused a moment and rubbed her forehead with her fingers. "So, okay," she went on, "the coroner gets on the stand after the cops. He tells how the victims were killed, describes their wounds in grisly detail, we show the horrible photos to the jury and establish the time of death. Then Mr. Wong takes the stand. He gives details of the evidence he collected at the crime scene and at Wussmann's home. Then we bring on the DNA experts. Okay! Now, I want you all to be on top of the details, we need you to be sharp as tacks on the stand, give your facts with self-assured authority. I'll start with the detectives..."

Kent grilled D'Angello and Conner for a couple of hours about their investigation and their involvement with Blade prior to the murders. She was satisfied with their performance and thought if they did as well in court the jury would find them to be credible. It was just after one o'clock when she finished with the detectives so she declared an hour lunch break, "I want you all back here ready to go at two o'clock sharp!" Martha announced forcefully. She stood and watched them all file out. Barbara Banaducci was the last one to leave and Martha asked her to close the door after her.

Aaron was still seated at the conference table stuffing papers into his briefcase. Martha was standing next to him with her butt pressed against the table's edge. She was wearing a short-sleeved cleavage-showing white blouse, a tight powder blue skirt that was well above the knees and white panty hose. Without moving off the table she slid down toward Aaron, got between him and the table and straddled his legs. Aaron leaned back to look into Martha's eyes. "Whatd'ya think we should have for lunch, Aaron?" she asked suggestively.

He smiled, forgetting about the talk he intended to have with the ADA about her somewhat over-aggressive behavior and said, "Each other?"

"Good answer. Why don't you lock the door and turn off the lights."

...............................................................................

When Mike D'Angello, Steve Conner, Charlie Wong and the rest of the group involved in the DA's prep session started filing back into the conference room they found Foster and Kent sharing a pizza and engaged in a discussion about a videotape.

"I don't think we oughtta use it, Aaron," Martha said as best she could through a mouthful of pepperoni pizza with extra cheese.

"The tape doesn't show the particular events your witnesses are testifying to," the DA said. "It's not relevant."

"I don't see that it gives us anything at all to work with. Do you?"

"Well, it certainly seems to isolate Wussmann from the adults. You get a sense of his being ostracized from the family. He only interacts with the kids. We could do something with that, perhaps."

"Do we really have time to develop a whole new line of thought here?" Martha asked and then answered her own question, "I don't think so."

"Not unless we really had to."

"I don't think we really need to."

"I don't either. Let's keep the tape in cold storage, so to speak. We might, at some point, have use for it. You never know."

"And let's keep it to ourselves. It's not something the defense needs to see. It isn't germane to anything. It's not really evidence."

"I agree."

Everyone had come back into the conference room. They were either already in their seats or standing around having low-keyed conversations.

"Okay everybody, let's get back to work. Please take your seats. Mr. Wong you're on the stand now."

Charlie sat up a little straighter in his chair, stuck out his chest and looked around the room to bask in the attention he was getting.

Martha asked him about the techniques of evidence collection in general and about the particular evidence he had gathered at the crime scene and the suspect's residence. "Blood was drawn from Mr. Wussmann by the police," Martha asked at one point, "is that correct?"

"Yes," Charlie answered.

"It was drawn at the police station after the suspect's initial interview with the police the night of the murders. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"The suspect's blood sample was brought over to your lab immediately afterward? Is that correct?"

Charlie hesitated.

"What's the problem, Wong?" Ms. Kent asked impatiently. "We can't have any pauses in your testimony. Any pause whatsoever and the jury might construe it as uncertainty about what must be perceived by them as hard and fast facts."

"Well," Charlie muttered as he looked to Captain Jenkins for guidance. He didn't get any and managed to say in spite of the tension in his throat, "Yes, of course, I got the sample in my lab."

"Right after it was taken at the police station?"

"Yes," Charlie lied, thinking that was what he was supposed to do. Tell people what they want to hear, he learned over the years, that's how you get ahead.

................................................................................

The night before the first day of the trial Blade had an unexpected visitor. Chaplain O'Connor. He was an intense young man who had a very deliberate way of speaking. A large round head sat on top of a small frame and made one speculate that the priest's slow, cautious way of moving might be employed as a way of keeping his head balanced on his skinny neck. His high forehead was invariably furrowed under the curls of his light brown hair. His blue eyes seemed constantly consumed with worry. The Chaplain decided to visit Blade on his own, informally. He wore jeans, a flannel shirt and a tweed jacket with suede elbow patches.

A prison guard opened the door to Blade's cell and let the chaplain in. Blade was hunched over his music note book with pencil in hand. He looked up at his visitor momentarily and then went back to his note book a moment. Then he closed it, placed it on his cot along with the pencil and asked the new arrival what he was in for.

"Well, no. Actually, I'm one of the prison chaplains."

Blade groaned.

"Yes, I know you requested not to have a chaplain visit you but I'm not necessarily here officially. I thought you might like some company. Being so isolated, because of your celebrity, must be an added punishment for you."

"You're a minister?"

"A priest."

"Catholic?"

"Yes."

"Does the Pope smoke dope?" Blade asked as if it was a serious question.

"Why do you ask?" The priest inquired with an apparently deep interest.

"Uh, you know, it's a rumor goin' around." Blade said and then asked what his visitor's name was.

"Father O'Connor."

Blade snorted, "You want me to call you Father?"

"You never had a father, did you?"

Blade looked at the priest dead pan.

"I've done some research on you."

"Oh, brother, father, mother. What is it you want with me? I mean, you wanna be pals? You say you're here unofficially and I'm supposed to call you Father? What's your name, unofficially?"

"Bill."

"Ya got any wine on ya, Bill?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Bill shrugged and said, "No reason."

"I thought priests were required to always carry a flask of wine around with them."

"Not at all."

"Have you ever had sex, Bill?"

"Wine, women and song, huh? That's what you're into."

"Well, no, not really. It's sex, drugs and rock an' roll."

The priest looked down at Blade with a weak attempt at a smile and asked him if he believed in God.

"Well, I dunno. There are so many to choose from. How d'ya decide?"

"There's only one true God."

"Yeah, that's what they all say, Bill. You have any proof?"

"The Son of God died for you, Andrew. What more proof do you need?"

"Yeah, Jesus," Blade said shaking his head, "what a way to go. He must've been a great disappointment to his father. What was his name? His earthly father?"

"Joseph."

"Yeah, Joseph."

"Why would Jesus be a disappointment to Joseph?" The priest asked eager for a theological discussion.

"Well, Bill, Joseph was a carpenter. Right?"

The chaplain nodded.

Blade continued, "So, he teaches his son to be a carpenter. Ya know? He taught his son Jesus how to be a carpenter so he'd be able to nail pieces of wood together. Not to get himself nailed to pieces of wood. So, he must have been a big disappointment."

"Are you trying to shock me?"

"No. But don't you think that's ironic? A carpenter nailed to pieces of wood?"

"It has no relevance."

"Now, I might wind up getting put to death by lethal injection. And my mother taught me how to shoot up."

"It doesn't look good for you, does it?"

"I got a good lawyer."

"What can he do for your soul?"

"Buy me more time to work on it."

"Are you serious about that?"

"About what?"

"Working on your soul."

"Oh, well, that sounds like official business, Bill," Blade raised his eyebrows and stared at the priest as he said his name.

"Saving your soul is all that matters whatever you wanna call me."

"Ah, but it's all show business isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"You have your script to perform and you want me to buy into your story of things. Right?"

"You could look at it that way, I suppose," the priest said somewhat wearily, "if you don't know it to be the truth as I do."

"You believe it to be the truth."

"Yes, I do."

"Okay. I don't. I don't see any way I could ever come to believe a fantasy to be reality. I mean, all the scientific evidence is stacked against what you believe. Isn't it?"

"You believe the so-called evidence? What's evident to me is the beauty of Faith. Our reason is of this world. But this world was not created by itself and our reason cannot fathom creation. So, our reason is very limited as far as truly, deeply knowing what's beyond this realm, what's behind it all. This world, this life is the fantasy. There is more truth in the biblical creation than in any of Darwin's theories."

"Well, I don't believe in them either."

"What do you believe in?"

"I used to believe in the cloud people."

"The what?"

"Cloud people. People made of clouds who lived in the heavens."

"Really."

"Yeah. They were my childhood Gods ya might say."

"Now that you're an adult what is it you believe in?"

"All I know is I'm alive now and someday I'll be dead. While I'm living I'll do the things that make me feel alive."

"That's it?"

"Yeah."

"In that case...I pity you."

"Does that make you feel good and superior?"

"No. It makes me feel bad and inferior when I fail in the Lord's work. When I see someone who is lost and I find myself helpless to show him the way. That's not a good thing. Not a good feeling."

"Well, you gave it a shot."

"Perhaps I could visit with you again."

"I dunno. Company's okay now and then but you have these ulterior motives. Can't you love me just as I am?"

"God loves all men."

"And what about women?"

"Yes, of course, He loves them also."

"Okay, you know, um, just making sure, so I know the big guy's not gay up there runnin' after all the little angel boys like some of you priests like to do with the altar boys. Or so I've heard. After all, I mean, you believe we're made in God's image, so if priests are chasin' after altar boys it might follow that the big guy is doin' the same with the little angel boys. I dunno, it's all very confusing to me. All the image stuff. I know, in my career, I was an image. It wasn't really my image. It wasn't my self-image. It was more like a prefabricated image that I stepped into and assumed. Created out of the cultural stew, so to speak. To some people I was like a god. That's what they wanted me to be. They created me in their image. And I think we created God in our image rather than the other way around. And why would this God you believe in only speak to the Jews? I mean, if He's the one God for everyone why wouldn't He speak to everyone? You know, He picks out this one little tribe and allows the rest of the world to go on worshiping false Gods? Is that an intelligent thing for a universal God to do?"

"To question the mind of God is an arrogance we should not indulge in," the chaplain remarked piously. He looked down at Blade with knit brow and enigmatic smirk and said he'd pray for him.

"Good," Blade said, "does that work like a COMSAT type of thing?"

"How's that?"

"When you pray for someone, is it like a communication satellite? You know. The signal goes up to the satellite and then it's sent back to a receiver. You send a prayer up to God and then he sends it back down to whoever you're prayin' for?"

"Something like that, yes."

"Okay, I'll let ya know if anything comes through."

"Have a good day," the priest said. Blade thought he caught a measure of disdain in the priest's tone and expression. The priest turned away, called for the guard and was let out of the cell. Blade went back to his note book.

.................................................................................

The courtroom assigned to the Wussmann trial was one of the smaller ones available. It was chosen purposely for that reason, to keep the number of spectators to a minimum. The notoriety of the case was sure to be a magnet for all kinds of people. Among them, fans of On The Edge who might tend to become unruly during the course of the trial. "Hell, they'll think it their duty to disrupt things," Judge Martinez commented to one of his colleagues during an afternoon of golf.

Judge Jose Martinez, a balding middle-aged man with an air of infinite patience about him, did not know whether to consider the prospect of presiding over the 'trial of the century' as a stroke of luck or not. "If it is luck," he said to his wife, "it's probably bad luck. The only really good luck I ever had was meeting you, my dear."

The judge's foreboding about the Wussmann trial made him take firm control of the proceedings immediately after he got the assignment. He chose the small courtroom so there would only be room for the press corps, family members of the victims and of the defendant plus a few selected spectators. Judge Martinez also decided to allow the trial to be televised. "Better to keep people at home watching TV than have them trying to force their way into the courtroom," the judge commented privately. His public statement on his decision was a homily to the freedom of the press and the people's right to know.

The courtroom was packed with reporters from all over the globe. The families of the victims were there. Thanos and his daughter, Jackie, sat together in the front row on the prosecution's side of the aisle. In the second row sat George and Hedda Wilson with their daughter, Meg. Their son, Mark, declined to attend the trial. He didn't see how his presence in the gallery would be of any value whatsoever. George, Hedda and Meg said they owed it to Rachel to be there.

"All rise!" the court clerk bellowed as Judge Martinez entered the courtroom and assumed his position of authority. After acknowledging the presence of the prosecutors and the defense attorney's the judge asked if they were ready to begin. They said they were and Judge Martinez called for the jury to be brought in. After the jurors were seated the Judge welcomed them, informed the court of his expectations concerning proper decorum during the trial and then invited the prosecution to make their opening statement.

Martha Kent thanked the Judge as she rose from behind the prosecutors' table. She wore a gray suit jacket and tie in the style of traditional male attire. Her skirt was knee length and slit on one side. Her hair was a mass of ringlets, which fell onto the heavily padded shoulders of her suit jacket making it appear as if she had no neck.

Martha approached the jury box to begin what she anticipated would be the trial of her life. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, welcome." Her adrenaline was pumping and she trumpeted her opening line like a sideshow barker. She paused to try to calm herself. She looked at the jurors and smiled contritely. "Today we begin a journey," she continued more in control, "a dark journey into the anatomy of a horrible crime. But there is light at the end of the tunnel, the light of justice. You, the jury will provide that light when you find the defendant, Andrew Wussmann, guilty of murder in the first degree. There cannot, as you will see, be any other verdict possible in this case." Now she was getting into it, hitting her stride, making her points, on top of her delivery.

"I have been a prosecutor for eleven years and I must tell you I have never, in any of my cases, had the overwhelmingly convincing body of evidence that I will present to you in this trial. We will present to you a mountain of evidence against Mr. Wussmann. We have here a defendant known for his violent outbursts. On one occasion he was arrested for beating his wife. He has no substantial alibi for his whereabouts at the time of the murders. The defendant was seen entering his home soon after the murders were committed. A bloody glove matching the one found at the murder scene was discovered on his property. Bloody boot prints at the scene of the murder match the boots the defendant has custom made for him. Hairs from his head were found inside the hat that was left at the murder scene. His hand was cut on the night of the murders and he left a trail of blood drops leading from his Chevy Blazer into the foyer of his home and there were traces of blood found in the defendant's vehicle that matched the blood of both victims.

"We will prove that Andrew Wussmann committed the brutal murders at 1221 Laurel Canyon Boulevard with premeditation. We will prove it to you beyond a reasonable doubt. We will prove it to you beyond a shadow of doubt, beyond any doubt whatsoever. The evidence will show with absolute authority that the defendant is guilty of these horrendous crimes. No doubt about it.

"Now, as convincing as the physical evidence is in this case it does not account for motive. Motive is one of the criteria necessary for making a case against a defendant, along with opportunity and means. Mr. Wussmann certainly had the opportunity. The location of the murders is a mere five minute drive from his home. He could have left his home, done the bloody deed and then returned to his home all within a matter of minutes. Fifteen to twenty minutes. That's all he needed. The defendant cannot account for his time from approximately 9:30 to 10:00 p.m. on the night of the murders. There we have a whole half an hour unaccounted for. It was during that time that Andrew Wussmann went over to his wife's home and brutally stabbed Rachel Wilson and Robby Thanos until they were dead. Then the defendant had a limo take him to the airport where he boarded a plane bound for Rio de Janeiro.

"As to motive? Simple. Jealous rage. His wife was leaving him for a younger man. Mr. Wussmann was a big star with a macho image, the image of a man who controls women, who uses women as he pleases. It is he who discards them when he decides he's through with them. Women do not reject him. This is a man who would take your young daughters, use them for a night and toss them out with the garbage the next morning."

"Objection, your honor!" Jimmy Harmon cried out as he popped up from his chair like a jack-in-the-box. "There's nothing in evidence to support such claims."

"Sustained," Judge Martinez ruled in favor of the defense and admonished Ms. Kent to keep focused on the relevant issues.

Ms. Kent nodded her compliance and picked right up where she left off. "His wife's rejection was too much for this arrogant, ego-maniacal heavy metal rock star to take. His image was his fortune. It was his whole career. Without it he would have nothing. He felt threatened by Rachel and what she could do to his image. He felt threatened by the younger man in Rachel's life. An aging rock star sees an up-and-coming movie actor taking over his life and he can't take it. He snaps. He lashes out in a vicious, heinous act of murder.

"So, we have motive, means and opportunity all present and accounted for. Mr. Wussmann killed his wife and her friend. During this trial we will establish for you, the jury, a clear-cut case of guilt. An air-tight, clear-cut case with which you will have no reservations about finding the defendant guilty of first degree murder and, thus, sentencing him to death. That is the justice that this case demands. Thank you." The prosecutor looked the jury over and made eye contact with those that returned her look. She took a couple of thoughtful steps backwards and then turned away to take her seat.

Jimmy Harmon sat perfectly still gazing lazily out in front of him at nothing in particular. He continued in this vein for several seconds until Judge Martinez finally asked if he was ready to make his opening statement. "Oh, sorry your honor," Jimmy said snapping to attention, "I was waiting to hear the pin drop." The remark elicited some stifled giggles in the gallery. A couple of jurors smiled to themselves and lowered their heads, shaking them slightly from side to side.

The tall, obese lawyer sprang to his feet as if he were a lithe dancer. "A very eloquent statement by Ms. Kent," he said as he approached the jury box, "But I'm happy to inform you that her words were hollow. The prosecution will not be able to prove its case. Because they really don't have one. Ms. Kent will not be able to back up her boast about presenting you with an 'air-tight' 'clear-cut' case that will inevitably lead to a conviction. What?" Harmon put both his hands on the front of the jury box and leaned forward, "Does the prosecutor think that you are sheep and will follow her lead wherever she takes you?" Harmon stepped back and over to one side so all the jurors had a view of Blade sitting at the defense table across the room from them. "I am as certain of this man's innocence as Ms. Kent is of his guilt." Harmon announced as he gestured confidently toward his client with his outstretched arm. "I am confident that I can defend Mr. Wussmann against the prosecution's accusations. But I would not presume to predict what you, the jury, will decide. I do, however, have absolute faith in you, in each and every one of you. Absolute faith that you, in your wisdom, will divine the truth amid the clash of opposing viewpoints you will hear in this courtroom."

Harmon paused and looked at the jury with a deep admiration. Then, after abruptly breaking off his gaze, he looked away thoughtfully and said, "Let me first talk about image." The defense lawyer turned his attention back on the jury and addressed them in a friendly matter-of-fact way, "Yes, my client, Mr. Wussmann, had an image. Perhaps he still does in the minds of some people. Perhaps that's all he is in the minds of some people. An image. Perhaps there are some of you here on this jury who perceive Andrew Wussmann as an image. As a violent out-of-control rock star capable of committing the vicious murders he's accused of. But anyone who thinks that the defendant's show business image is the real man himself is sadly mistaken. You must keep in mind that we are not gathered here in this courtroom to evaluate an image. We are here to evaluate evidence of a crime. Even if my client was, in fact, the violent creature his image depicts, even if you believe him to be capable of violence, that can have no bearing on your judgement of the evidence. If it was Satan himself sitting over there at the defense table you could still not convict if the evidence was not convincing.

"The evidence is what you are asked to judge, no matter what you might think of Mr. Wussmann. If the evidence is not convincing, and I will show you that it is not, you must reach a verdict of not guilty. You must not let an opinion you may have of the defendant influence your evaluation of the evidence one way or the other. You must focus on the presentation of the evidence without prejudice to any opinions you may have of the defendant. Justice is blind to everything but the evidence."

Harmon paused a moment and looked over the jury as a way of bonding with them and to try to get an idea of who was with him, who was not and who might be as yet impartial. He then began to pace up and down in front of the jury box talking to no one in particular.

"I first heard about the murders at 1221 Laurel Canyon Boulevard on a television news program. A grisly double homicide. A male and a female. The woman was the estranged wife of a controversial rock star with a reputation for violent outbursts and who was once arrested for spousal abuse. The police had found one bloody glove at the scene and another in the back of Mr. Wussmann's home. There was some blood found on the outside of his vehicle. There was also a hat found at the murder scene much like the one Mr. Wussmann had worn recently during the filming of a music video. In less than two hours after the murders Mr. Wussmann was on an airplane bound for Rio de Janeiro. The limo driver who drove Mr. Wussmann to the airport said no one responded to the buzzer at the front gate until he saw someone enter the house by the front door. Someone who matched the height and build of Mr. Wussmann. The day before the murders Mr. Wussmann and his wife were seen engaged in a heated argument. She threatened divorce."

Harmon ceased his pacing, faced the jurors and spoke to them in a confidential tone. "I listened to the news report. And my first thought about it was - This is all too pat. I thought - Someone's handing this guy to the police on a silver platter. Why did I think that? Because what was being reported was nothing more than what I call peripheral evidence. And it was suspicious peripheral evidence to boot. It just did not gel. One thing, and the most conspicuous thing about the report was the absence of a weapon. The police had not found the murder weapon. To this day they have still not found the murder weapon. But they claim to have all this other evidence oconveniently pointing toward my client. There's something else they haven't found. Like articles of Mr. Wussmann's clothing that might have had some blood on them from repeatedly stabbing two people to death. No such articles of clothing are in evidence.

"So, we are asked to believe the preposterous notion that my client took pains to get rid of the murder weapon and all the bloodied clothing but carelessly dropped a glove in his own back yard.

"And who found the glove there? A detective. One lone detective found the glove in a remote area behind a row of guesthouses that showed no signs of anyone having recently trespassed there. The detective who found the glove, Detective D'Angello, was taken off the case because of his prior involvement with my client. All we have is his word alone that the glove was found where he said he found it. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, all this casts grave doubt on the evidence that the prosecution believes is so damning to my client.

"These are not the only grounds for doubt. During the initial interrogation of Mr. Wussmann, which was conducted by D'Angello, the detective assaulted my client while declaring a personal vendetta against him. That's when he was taken off the case. Now, I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, are we supposed to believe that it was just a coincidence that this particular cop, and this particular cop alone, happened to find the bloody glove? Contrary to proper police procedure he went off on his own and claimed to have come across a very incriminating piece of evidence in an obscure area where no one had been for months, for maybe a year. He went and got the other detectives and showed them the glove. But how did it get there? Again, we have only Detective D'Angello's word that he found the glove where he said he did. We have only the word of someone who, by his own admission, had a vendetta against Mr. Wussmann.

"There are many more questions about the so-called mountain of evidence against my client. There are many more discrepancies and gaping holes in the prosecution's case that we will expose as the trial goes along. The pieces of evidence they will present to you are obviously to good to be true. It's a pity the DA's office didn't notice that. For not only have they accused the wrong man, they have let the real murderer get off scot-free. That is a shame.

"Now, you may ask, who might the real murderer be? Well, that's not the job of the defense, to find the guilty party. Our job is to defend the innocent and challenge the prosecution to prove their case beyond a reasonable doubt. We are obliged to question their version, their interpretation, their opinion, and offer other reasonable explanations of our own. There is, for instance, the possibility of some sort of drug related violence in this case. Not to speak ill of the victim, but Rachel Wussmann was known to be a rather heavy user of cocaine. If necessary, we will hear corroborating testimony to that fact. Rachel also had friends and acquaintances who used drugs and the savagery of these murders could be the result of someone ingesting the drug known as PCB. I bring this up only to present valid alternatives to the commission of this heinous crime. Alternatives which the prosecution never investigated in their rush to judgment to accuse Mr. Wussmann. They had an agenda to nail my client. Mr. Wussmann was set up, framed, and the DA, lured by a seemingly open and shut case, took the easy road rather than conduct a proper and thorough investigation. It was easy. But it was not just. And that's why we're here in this court. You, the jury, are the final arbiters of what is just. You represent the consummate power in our system of justice. It is your judgement that is paramount in these proceedings. In you resides the most awesome responsibility of seeing that justice is done. That is all we ask of you. That's all Mr. Wussmann asks of you, to see that justice is done. Thank you."

.................................................................................

After the trial was adjourned for the day Thanos and Jackie walked out of the courthouse with the Wilson's, George, Hedda and Meg. When they got outside the women went off to get the cars while Thanos and George discussed the trial's opening day while they stood waiting on the sidewalk.

"Well, it's underway," Thanos declared in grand fashion as he surveyed the scene around him. Across the street there were demonstrators corralled within a designated area by uniformed police officers. "DIRTY COPS FRAMED BLADE" and "STOP STATE OPPRESSION" read a couple of the placards bobbing up and down above the demonstrators' heads. Chanting could be heard from a motley group of longhaired individuals meandering around inside the fenced-in area. They chanted repeatedly in the familiar sing song way, "You can jail the artist but not his art. His art lives on in us."

Thanos took it all in calmly and reiterated his statement, "It's finally underway."

"Yes, it certainly is. A good thing too," George Wilson said in a spirit of camaraderie.

"Quite a good start, I thought, by Ms. Kent. Quite a good opening statement. A powerful cataloging of the evidence," Thanos declared with total confidence.

"An excellent opening statement by the prosecution." George Wilson readily agreed, "The evidence seems airtight."

"If the defendant was any sort of man he'd confess and get it over with."

"Does he really believe he can win?"

"Who knows what he believes. He's not human," Thanos said, his face contorted as if he had just tasted something vile.

George Wilson mimicked his associate's expression and said, "A scum sucking bottom feeder is what he is."

"A total low life aberration. Everything about him is criminal. It's a goddamn crime that he had children."

"Oh, now wait a minute. I don't know about that. Josh and Belinda are wonderful kids, as good as angels!" George Wilson's back was up. He saw so much of Rachel in his grandchildren it made him feel that she was still alive. She was still alive in them. No one was going to malign those kids if he had anything to say about it.

"They oughtta be locked up and made sterile the two of 'em." Thanos was all puffed up and lecturing with his finger in Wilson's reddening face. "They have the genes of a deviant." Thanos went on. "They've inherited the genes of a homicidal maniac. They need to be in prison and sterilized."

"No, no, no. It was Wussmann's upbringing that made him so twisted. He never had a father and his mother abused him. I'm not saying that excuses anything, he's still responsible. It's not a genetic thing. He didn't have the proper upbringing that's all."

"Look, I don't know about you, but me, I'm a winner. And my kids are winners. Robby was a winner. He hadn't had the chance to prove himself yet but he was a winner. Take my word for it. My daughter, she's a winner. Why are my kids' winners? Not their upbringing, though they did have a good one. A very good one. But it wasn't their upbringing. It was how that upbringing was assembled in themselves. They had the genes of a winner and so responded to their upbringing as winners. If someone's evil they can be brought up in a monastery and still turn out evil."

"No, there's no evidence to back up such a notion," Wilson insisted, "I believe that a good upbringing is all that matters. Our Rachel brought Josh and Belinda up. That fiend she was unfortunate enough to marry had nothing to do with it. Our grandkids are the image of goodness itself. You can't tell me any different."

"Well, we'll see."

A car pulled up to the curb and George, anxious to get away from Thanos' infuriating assertions, opened the door to get in. As he was transferring his weight from his foot on the sidewalk to the one in the car he noticed, much to his embarrassment, that he was getting in the wrong vehicle. Thanos' daughter was sitting behind the wheel. George got flustered and tried, from his awkward position, to jerk himself around and get back on the sidewalk. In doing so he wrenched his back, fell on the edge of the car seat, bounced off and fell to the curb crying out in pain.

Thanos told Jackie to pull up a bit so he didn't have to step over George to get in the car. She did so. Thanos informed George, who was writhing and groaning on the pavement, that his wife and daughter were on their way to take care of him. He then got in the car and he and his daughter drove away.

................................................................................

Gloria Evans had watched the opening statements on TV as she lounged by the side of her swimming pool at her luxurious Beverly Hills mansion. She was a long established movie star and had met Martha Kent at various Hollywood social events over the last few years. The two developed a casual acquaintance which, they were sure, would have become a close friendship had their schedules permitted more contact. Whenever they did manage to meet they always lamented how little they got to see of each other and they always made a date to get together in the next few days. A date which either one, or both, invariably had to cancel.

At their very first meeting, a cocktail party before the gala premier of a new Gloria Evans' film, the two women struck up an instant rapport, "Isn't it funny how you can feel you know someone who you never met before?" Gloria remarked to her new friend. "When I look at you," she continued, "it's like looking into a mirror. Not that I think you look like me, I'm much the glamour girl and you the girl next door, but it's such a familiar image that I see in you. Maybe you reflect what I want to be."

"Or your true self," Martha offered. "I know what you mean though. I feel kind of the same when I look at you."

"Do you?"

"Oh yes, I see something of myself in you. Definitely."

"Sisters. We must be sisters separated as infants by cruel parents who produced children only to sell them at the highest bid to childless couples desperate for a little-one of their very own."

"Sounds like you're writing your next movie."

"I might as well. I couldn't do any worse than the junk that's being scribbled out these days. The film you're about to see, for example."

"Your film."

"Oh it's my film alright. Nobody else's. That's for sure. You watch closely and you'll see the only thing the film has going for it is my dazzling performance. I'm in every frame of the movie. I insisted on that right form the start. Had it put in my contract. I knew the film was a clunker as I was reading the script."

"Why'd you do it?"

"They made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

"Big bucks?"

"No. I always get big bucks. No, the studio agreed to let me produce my next film myself."

"Oh. That's great. Have anything in mind?"

"Not yet. But that's enough about me. What about you? Tell me about you."

"Well, I'm a lawyer with the District Attorney's office."

"Here in LA?"

"Yes."

"How many cases have you tried?"

"Five, so far."

"How's it goin'?"

"Quite well. I've gotten convictions in all my cases so far."

"That's it then. That's the connection. We're both stellar performers."

"Funny you should say that."

"Why?"

"Well, that's how I think of a trial. As giving a performance. It's like Star Search. I do my act. The defense lawyers do their act. And the audience, the jury, picks the winner."

"A trial's not about evidence and proving your theory of a case?"

"Those things are important. They're like the script. They provide the story line and the dialogue but what wins a case is out performing, out shining the other contestant."

"I think I'll play a lawyer in my next film. I'll hire you as a consultant. Big bucks. You won't mind moonlighting a bit will you? You won't really have to do anything. Just keep me company."

The next film never happened. Gloria was diagnosed with breast cancer and underwent a mastectomy. A period of radiation treatments followed and the glamour queen became somewhat of a recluse. Eventually she had reconstructive surgery performed. "I'm a fifty-six year-old woman with tits that stand out like a teeny bopper's," she told Martha over the phone a few days after her operation. "I may as well have the rest of me done so I don't look like an old, antique Victrola with high tech knobs."

After she had a face lift, a tummy tuck and a butt tightening she called Martha again. "I feel like a brand new blow-up doll. Maybe that could be my next film. A blow-up doll that comes to life. Or a woman who's turned into a blow-up doll by an evil sorcerer."

That was a few months before the murders of Rachel Wussmann and Robby Thanos. Gloria called Martha as soon as she heard about them to find out if she would be working on the case. When Martha said she would be Gloria told her she had met Blade once and he had come on to her like a horny dog. "He was very aggressive in his overtures," Gloria said, "but I turned him down. He was more than a little scary. The lust in his eyes was menacing. He looked at me like he wanted to fuck the life out of me."

Martha readily understood where her friend was coming from and assured her the menace would be permanently neutralized. Gloria expressed her absolute confidence in Martha's ability and said she would watch every minute of the trial.

What Gloria saw on the first day disturbed her to no end. She was appalled at Martha's appearance and called her at home that very night. "Martha, darling, it's Gloria."

"Gloria, hi, how are you? So nice to hear from you again."

"I caught your act today on the tube."

"Really? How'd I look?"

"Well, first of all, lose that 'I wanna be a man' look. It doesn't work for you. You know, the suit jacket and the shoulder pads, the tie. And you really must do something with your hair."

"My hair?" What's wrong with my hair? I had it done especially for this trial. You don't like it?"

"I've never seen anyone with a poodle cut who didn't look like a dog."

"Oh great! It's really that bad. Here I am on TV thinking I look fantastic. Oh I feel like such a fool!"

"Not to worry. I've made an appointment for you tomorrow at 7:00 a.m. with Cristof. He's absolutely marvelous. He doesn't normally work such early hours but I explained the circumstances and told him he could name his price. He came up with a doozie, too. But not to worry, my treat. He'll fix you up just fine. My make-up girl will also be there. She'll show you how to make up better for the camera."

"Gloria, how can I ever thank you enough? You're an angel, an absolute angel," Martha said overwhelmed with gratitude.

"A fallen angel, if any. All I ask of you in return for my awesome generosity is that you rid the world of this evil incarnate, Andrew Wussmann."

................................................................................

On the second day in court Martha Kent appeared with her new look. Her hair, no longer a mass of curls, was styled in a smooth professional looking page boy.

Judy, sitting at the defense table with Harmon, whispered to her boss, as she leaned in toward him in front of Blade, "What's with the make-over?"

"I don't know," the burly defense lawyer whispered back, "but the women on the jury will see the drastic change as a sign of insecurity. The men will just see her as more attractive."

Blade looked at Harmon with admiration for what he took to be an astute observation. "Should we send her a thank you card for helping our case?"

"I'll think about that," said Harmon sharing a quick smile with his client.

Ms. Kent called her first witness, Rachel's closest friend, Dolores Ingram. Dolly, was dressed to the hilt in a tight black dress that exposed her breasts to just above the areola. A silver chain necklace held a silver cross between her ample cleavage. She had her hair drawn back into a long ponytail. Large silver rings hung from her pierced ears.

Martha was livid when she saw how her introductory witness was dressed. She had told Dolly to be sure to have a wholesome conservative appearance. Her testimony was vital for setting the tone for all that followed and it was important that she present a temperate image that the jury would be sure to have confidence in. God, Martha thought to herself, she looks like a hooker.

After Rachel's death Dolly tried very hard to go straight. She went to a clinic for treatment and managed to stay off drugs for a whole week after she completed the program. As the trial was approaching she went back to the clinic and this time she lasted a whole month without taking any narcotics. She accomplished this feat by having sex at least three times a day with men, with women and with men and women in group sessions. As the trial drew near, however, her nerves got the better of her. She began taking valium three and four at a time just to keep from feeling that flesh and bone were about to dissolve from sheer terror.

Dolly did not want to have anything to do with the grisly murders of Rachel and Robby. It was a horrible thing that she wanted to forget. If she had to be involved in the whole mess it would be as she saw fit. She did not want a prosecutor or anyone else defining things for her. She thought about the evidence against Blade and, as convincing as it was, she could not for the life of her imagine for one-second that he was the murderer. Even if she knew for a fact that he was she would not want to be a party to pronouncing the death sentence on him. That's what really terrified her about the ordeal ahead of her as a witness for the prosecution. The thought that Blade could go to his death due in part to her testimony shriveled her whole existence into an organism of pure fear and absolute dread.

Before entering the courtroom to testify Dolly swallowed two valium on top of the three that she took before leaving home. Even with that mega-dose she still felt a bit shaky, though sedated enough that her fear would not get the better of her. Things had a dream like quality to them. The judge appeared to be a very distant figure sitting up high on his bench. She had the feeling she was watching a movie that she was in with someone else playing her part. She saw and heard herself being sworn in. Then she took her seat in the witness box and was asked to give her name and to spell it. She gave her name and fell silent. "Would you spell your name please?" asked the clerk.

"Oh, sure. Which one?" Dolly inquired.

The clerk looked at the judge and the judge looked at Dolly a moment and then asked her how many names she had.

"Well, I have two...no, three."

"Is your real name Dolores Ingram?"

"Yes, but that's only two of them. I also have a middle name."

The judge regarded her in silence a moment and then politely asked the witness to spell her last name for the court.

"Oh...sure..." Dolly answered as if she was struggling to get the concept of the request straight in her mind, "Okay, I-N-G-R-A-M." She spelled the letters painfully slow and then asked, "Did I get it right?"

The court finally erupted in laughter and the judge gaveled for order while smiling in spite of himself. Martha Kent's head was in her hands as she wondered what on earth she had done to deserve this. The laughter in the court subsided. Martha stood up and approached the witness box with a measured stride thinking about how to rehabilitate a witness who hadn't even begun her testimony. Every other case she had tried in her extensive career had their own novel situations, and they were something Ms. Kent found most stimulating, but this was one for the books.

"Ms. Ingram," Martha began cautiously.

Dolly responded before the prosecutor could say anything else, "Oh you can call me Miss. I want people to know I'm single. Just in case there's an eligible bachelor out there," Dolly said with a smile and a wink at Ms. Kent.

"I must ask you to respond only to my questions, Miss Ingram and to keep in mind why we are here."

"Oh yes, of course. What was the question again?" Asked Dolly like a good conscientious citizen.

Ms. Kent got a bit unnerved and snapped, "I haven't asked you a question yet!"

A ripple of stifled giggles and chuckles reverberated through the courtroom from the gallery. The jurors looked at one another, at the judge and the prosecutor as if to ask, "What the hell is going on here?"

The judge instructed the witness to settle down and listen carefully to Ms. Kent so she could know when she was being asked a question and know what the question was. "We understand," the judge continued, "that you may be somewhat nervous about your appearance here. Just relax and pay attention to Ms. Kent. That's all we ask. So, please don't say anything more unless it is in response to a question by the counselors. Is that clear?"

Perplexed, Dolly wondered aloud, "Counselors?"

"The attorneys, Miss Ingram," the judge said, "the lawyers."

Dolly was about to say something in response, but the judge quickly held up his hand and told her there was no need to respond verbally, "Just nod your head if you understood what I said or shake it if you didn't."

The confused witness stared at the judge a moment and then lowered her head. Everyone in the courtroom waited anxiously for her response. She turned her head slowly toward the judge as if afraid to look at him and then in apparent agony shrugged her shoulders at a loss. Some twittering was heard and Martha decided she'd have to grab Dolly's attention and keep her tuned in whatever it took.

"Were you Rachel Wussmann's best friend?" Ms. Kent asked confronting the witness head on in an aggressive but not belligerent manner.

"Yes, we..."

Martha quick to cut her off said, "Yes, you were her best friend?"

"Yes."

"Good. Please remember to keep your answers brief. A 'yes' or 'no' will do nicely most of the time."

Dolly was now focused intently on the prosecutor looking as if she was trying very hard to understand what had been said to her and then she ventured to say, "Yes?" as if hoping that was the correct word to use.

"You knew Rachel Wussmann for many years? Is that correct?"

"Yes," answered Dolly very proud that she knew the answer to the question.

"How many years were you friends with Rachel?" Martha asked cautiously.

Dolly seemed momentarily stumped and said faintly, "Yes?"

Martha laser-beamed a look at Dolly with a ferocity that made the heavily sedated witness flinch. "Yes," Dolly blurted out, "many years! We were friends! Rachel and I! Many many years!"

"Too many to count?" Martha offered as a peace offering.

"No," answered Dolly being helpful, "I could count them if you want me to."

"That won't be necessary," Martha said as she wondered whether she should cut this witness' testimony short. "Let's just state for the record that you and Rachel were friends since high school."

"Yes."

"You also know the defendant Andrew Wussmann, also known as Blade? Isn't that true?"

"Oh yes," Dolly responded making a point of not looking in Blade's direction.

"You knew them intimately as a married couple? Is that correct?"

"Oh," Dolly said as she contracted into herself slightly and smiled sheepishly. "Well...we did swap occasionally. That's when I was married also, of course..."

Oh my God! Thought Martha. This was a totally unexpected remark and Martha was at a loss as how to handle it. Such behavior by the murdered woman might tend to give her a reckless, wild image. Worse yet, it suggested that the defendant was not really the jealous, possessive type, capable of killing his wife in a fit of anger over her being with another man. Martha would just have to ignore the comment, quickly get on to something else and hope the jury would forget it. "Did you ever see the defendant, Andrew Wussmann, angry at his wife, Rachel?"

Dolly paused and looked at Blade sadly and then looked back at her questioner and said, "Yes."

"Did they fight a lot?"

"As much as anyone else I guess."

"How many times did you see them fighting?"

"Oh, I dunno..."

"Too many times to count?" Ms. Kent asked in an accusatory fashion.

Dolly was at a loss how to respond.

"Did you ever see Mr. Wussmann strike his wife, your dear friend Rachel?"

"Once, I think...accidentally..."

"Would you care to refresh your memory by reading your deposition?"

"My what?" asked Dolly and then she looked up at the judge respectfully contrite and said, "I don't think I have one of those your lordship...or I mean your judgeship...your... honor!"

"Oh yes you do," Ms. Kent insisted, "here are your statements that you gave to me when I interviewed you before the trial." The prosecutor placed the transcript of the witness's deposition before her on the stand. "They're all written down in this book. Everything you said..."

"Oh, I say a lot of things."

"Yes, you do and you're talking yourself very close to contempt of court, Ms. Ingram!"

"Really?"

"Yes, really!"

"I don't mean to be. I'm..."

"That'll be enough, Ms. Ingram. I'll give you one last chance to cooperate with this court. If you don't I'll be forced to treat you as hostile."

"Hostile? I'm anything but..."

"Your honor," Martha said pointedly to the judge.

"I will instruct the witness one last time," the judge said. "Answer the questions that are asked with as few words as possible. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Continue counselor."

"On the afternoon of the murders did you attend a soccer game with Rachel's family?"

"Yes."

"Rachel's son Josh was playing in the soccer game?"

"Yes."

Rachel's family was there as well. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Rachel's mother, father, sister and brother were there to see Josh play soccer. Correct?"

"Yes."

"And Rachel's daughter, Belinda was also there? Is that right Ms. Ingram?"

"Yes."

"So, it was a family gathering?"

"Yes."

"Rachel's family?"

"Yes."

"What about Josh and Belinda's father? The defendant, Mr. Wussmann, was he there?"

"Yes."

"Did he arrive with Rachel and his children?"

"No."

"He came later on? Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"After the game had started?"

"What?"

"When did Mr. Wussmann arrive? Before or after the game had started?"

"Uumm, I'm not sure."

"What happened when the defendant arrived?"

"Well, he came up to where we were all sitting and said 'Hi'."

"Did he want to sit with you all?"

"Yes."

"Did he?"

"Sit with us?" asked Dolly confused.

"Yes," Ms. Kent said sharply.

"No, he didn't."

"Why not?"

"Rachel didn't want him to. She wouldn't let him."

"What was the defendant's reaction to that?"

"He didn't like it."

"Was he angry?"

"Objection," cried Jimmy Harmon.

"I'll rephrase the question," Martha said and then continued with her witness. "When he was refused a seat by his wife, how did Mr. Wussmann respond?"

"Well, he just looked at Rachel. Stared at her."

"How? How did he look?" Ms. Kent insisted.

"Like he wanted to kill her," Dolly said softly.

"Could you speak up please? How did the defendant look at Rachel when she refused him a seat?"

"Like he wanted to kill her," Dolly reluctantly repeated.

"You saw the look on his face?"

"Yes."

"How did it make you feel?"

"Scared?"

"You found it a scary look?"

"Yes."

"Have you been a friend of Mr. Wussmann's for a long time?"

"Yes."

"Do you still regard him as a friend?"

"Yes, I do."

"And you still feel a sense of loyalty to him, even now?"

"Well...I suppose..."

"Is it difficult for you to testify against Mr. Wussmann?"

"Uh huh."

"Is that a yes, Ms. Ingram?"

"Yes."

"You don't want to believe that Mr. Wussmann, who is a friend, actually committed the murders he's accused of? Is that right?"

"That's true, yes."

"But you saw him that Sunday afternoon at his little son's soccer game staring at his wife in a threatening way? Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Reluctant as you are to believe there was murder on Mr. Wussmann's mind you can't ignore what you saw that day? You saw him staring at his wife Rachel in such a way that made you think he wanted to kill her? Is that right?"

"Objection, your honor. Asked and answered. Ms. Kent is belaboring the point. Can we please move on?"

"Objection sustained. You were spinning your wheels there counselor. Let's keep things moving forward, shall we?"

"Of course, your honor," Martha said contritely and then turning her attention back to Dolly asked her if Blade's mood had ever changed after that menacing moment.

"No," Dolly replied, "he was real spooky after that. Kind of hanging around the edges and looking, I dunno, dark."

"What happened after the game was over?"

"We all went out to lunch."

"All?"

"Everyone except Blade."

"Mr. Wussmann?"

"Yes. He offered to take us all out but Rachel told him no thanks and that he was not invited to join the rest of us for lunch."

"How did the defendant react to that?"

"Same as before."

"With a murderous stare?"

"Yes."

"The night before the soccer game. Saturday night. Do you remember spending time with Rachel?"

"Yes."

"Did she talk to you about her husband, Mr. Wussmann?"

"Yes."

"Rachel and her husband had a fight that very night. Did they not?"

"Yes, after the concert."

"And Rachel told Mr. Wussmann that it was all over between them. Correct?"

"Yes, for, like, the tenth time," Dolly said in an attempt to trivialize Blade and Rachel's rift.

"Did she ever announce it to the whole world as she did that night? Did Rachel ever declare her desire for a divorce in public before? Like she did that Saturday night to all the onlookers backstage?"

"No. I don't think so."

"So this time was different..."

"Calls for a conclusion!" Harmon objected, springing to his feet in a flash.

"Sustained," the Judge ruled.

"After the fight that night," the prosecutor continued, "Rachel talked to you about her husband. Didn't she?"

"Yes."

"What did she tell you?"

"Objection! Hearsay," the defense cried.

"Goes to state of mind," Ms. Kent explained.

"Objection overruled," the Judge opined. Then he turned to the jury and said, "You are not to regard the witness's statement as fact but merely as reflecting Rachel Wussmann's state of mind."

"What did Rachel say about the defendant?"

"She said it was time for them to part."

"What else did she say?"

"Well, she told me she was afraid..."

"Afraid? Afraid of what?"

Dolly was unresponsive and Ms. Kent pressed on. "Of Blade?" she asked, "Was Rachel afraid of Mr. Wussmann?"

"Yes," Dolly finally had to admit.

"Why? Why was she afraid?"

"She thought..."

"Yes?"

"She thought he would kill her."

"That's what she told you?"

"Yes."

"And you saw murder in Mr. Wussmann's eyes the very next day at the soccer field? The very day of the murders?"

"Objection!" Harmon bellowed.

"Withdrawn," Ms. Kent rejoined immediately. She then thanked the witness and resumed her seat at the prosecution's table.

As Jimmy Harmon stood up behind the defense table to begin his questioning of the witness the judge asked him how long he thought his cross-examination would take.

"I'm not sure, your Honor."

"More than half an hour?"

"Oh no, I don't think so, no."

"Alright then, proceed."

"Thank you." Harmon took off his half-frame reading glasses and placed them on the table as he collected his thoughts.

Peter Forrister, an associate of Harmon's, entered the courtroom, hurried down the aisle and offered his boss a note. Jimmy, not wanting to be disturbed from his cross, indicated that he should give it to his assistant, Judy Adams. Harmon turned his attention to Dolly. He smiled and said, "Good morning, Miss Ingram," with a special emphasis on the 'Miss'.

"Good morning," Dolly answered beaming back a smile of her own.

"You're being such a good friend of Mr. Wussmann's," the defense attorney began as he approached the witness box only to be vociferously interrupted by his young assistant.

"Your Honor!" Judy blurted out.

"What is it?" Inquired the judge visibly annoyed.

"We need to approach!"

"Alright counselor, but this better be good," the judged sternly warned the fledgling lawyer.

Harmon was initially stunned by his young assistant's sudden command of the court. She had been a promising but timid presence in the first couple of cases on which she had worked with him and this outburst was totally unexpected. Harmon was glad to see her take charge and hoped to God it was justified. Judy was about to charge right up to the bench but her boss signaled her to stay put as he moved quickly toward her.

"What's goin' on, Judy?" Harmon quietly asked.

"We just got word that Kent has a videotape of the soccer game with some footage of Blade on it," Judy said as she handed Harmon the note.

"What?" Jimmy asked in a whisper as he looked at the note.

"Yes, apparently one of the soccer Dad's had a video camera," Judy whispered at manic speed, "and after the game he shot some footage of Blade when he recognized who he was. We just got a call from him, a Mr. Johnson. He was watching the trial on TV and wondered if we knew about the tape. He had given it to the DA's office because he thought it might be useful."

"And the prosecution doesn't want us to see it," Harmon mused.

"Exactly," Judy chimed in.

"Okay, don't mention this yet..."

"Counselor, we await your presence," said the judge as he stood with the prosecution team at the sidebar.

"Right away your Honor."

Harmon and Adams approached the bench. Jimmy told the judge that due to some new information he would like to suspend his cross examination of the witness, "But," he added, "if the prosecution would like to call their next witness that would be fine with us."

"Is that acceptable, Ms. Kent?" asked the judge as if ordering her to find it so.

"Yes, of course, your Honor," she answered as she eyed the defense suspiciously.

The prosecution called Edna Peterson to the stand. She had also been at the soccer game and was going to corroborate Dolly's description of Blade's menacing demeanor.

Back at the defense table Harmon told Judy to go out and phone the gentleman who took the video and see if he could give her an idea of how Mr. Wussmann appeared in it.

"Okay," Judy said as she started to rush off.

"Wait!" Jimmy said as he held her arm and added, "And then get back here pronto."

"Right."

Harmon watched Judy walk quickly out of the courtroom and then turned his attention to the questioning of the witness by the prosecution. Nothing of real importance was going on but as the defense lawyer listened and watched the witness he got the impression that she was mouthing the words she was saying like a parrot, or more to the point, perhaps, like a ventriloquist's dummy. It was as though she didn't really believe what she was saying but she really wanted to believe what she was saying. Harmon got the distinct impression that Edna Peterson was diligently backing up everything Dolly had said about Blade's murderous looks just because she thought it was the right thing to do.

"He was just a menacing presence. He scared me. He just lurked around like a terrorist the whole time," Mrs. Peterson said.

Harmon had to smile at that. He looked at Blade who took the cue and smiled back at him with all the charm and innocence he could muster.

Judy came back and told Jimmy that the man who shot the video said that Blade seemed relaxed and jovial in much of what he recorded.

"Great," said Harmon and then addressed the court. "Your Honor!"

"Now what?" the judge asked impatiently.

"Your Honor, forgive the interruption, but a serious matter has just come to my attention. We need to air it on the record but without the jury present."

"Very well," muttered the judge as he looked at his watch. "Let's see, it's just about lunch time. The jury is excused for lunch," he announced, "and is instructed to return to court at two o'clock."

After the jury filed out of the courtroom the judge asked the defense attorney what this was all about.

"Well, your Honor, it has come to our attention that their exists a certain videotape..."

Martha Kent and Aaron Foster immediately huddled together in what seemed to be an urgent discussion.

"...that was taken at the soccer game in question," Harmon continued. "This videotape we understand is in the possession of the prosecution. An item of evidence that was not made available to the defense as is required by law. We would like that videotape handed over to us before this trial goes any further. We would also like time to review this material and evaluate it before the trial resumes."

"Of course, counselor, that would only be fair," the judge said benevolently to Harmon. Then, turning his attention to the prosecutors, he asked them if there was such a videotape and when they answered that there was the judge's expression turned sour as he said, "Well, Ms. Kent, Mr. Foster, I hope you're not going to try and offer some lame explanation for this outrageous dereliction of your duty as officers of the court. For there can be no explanation that would suffice to excuse your conduct in this matter. Of course, I'm sure you do have some elaborate justification to offer for such...shall I say, negligence, to put it in the best possible light, so, for the record you may have your say."

"The videotape in question, your Honor," Martha Kent blurted out as she sprang to her feet, "was, we believe, just tossed aside without a thought. It was deemed of no consequence to the trial. We did not consider it evidence of any kind. We, of course, should have handed it over to the defense but, as I said, it was so immaterial we just forgot about it."

The judge sat back in his chair, gave the prosecutors a stern look and said, "The Court has little tolerance for such questionable conduct. You are hereby fined one thousand dollars each for this transgression and there better not be anymore surprises like this in store for me because next time I'll bring you up on charges before the bar."

"Yes, your Honor. We're very sorry about this oversight."

"Mr. Harmon?"

"Yes, your Honor?"

"Will the rest of the day be enough time for your review and evaluation of the material in question?"

"That would be fine, yes."

"Very well. The prosecution will deliver said videotape into the hands of the defense forthwith. Court is hereby adjourned until nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

.................................................................................

"You know what's so good about this tape?" Jerry Harmon asked to no one in particular after he, his client, and his assistants Judy and Peter finished viewing it for the first time in one of the courthouse's conference rooms.

"What?" Blade asked.

"You didn't know you were being filmed. You weren't putting on for the camera. That's the beauty of this recording. Along with the fact that it obviously, blatantly gives the lie to the prosecution's opening testimony. It's beautiful. I am deeply moved by this whole turn of events. Not only by what the tape shows, but that the guy who filmed it called us about it, that he was watching the trial on TV, wondered about the discrepancy between his video and what the prosecution was presenting and took the trouble to inform us of his concern. It's so great the way it worked out. It's like divine providence. If we had been given the tape before trial it would not have been half as useful. As it is now the tape zaps the prosecution with a triple whammy. Their witnesses, their very first witnesses are impeached, the prosecution looks stupid at best and our client can be seen on the afternoon of the murders cavorting playfully with his kids. Is God on our side here or what?"

"Yeah, can we give the closing statements tomorrow?" Blade asked jokingly.

Harmon laughed and said, "Okay, we'll show the tape tomorrow in court, declare that the prosecution has no case and ask the judge to dismiss the charges."

"Why wait 'till tomorrow? Let's do it now!" Blade egged his attorney on enjoying the fantasy.

"I wish we could, but right now we have more urgent matters to attend to."

"Like what?" asked Blade.

There was a knock on the door and Peter went to answer it.

"Like lunch!" Harmon announced as the delivery boy came in with the food they had ordered earlier. He set the carton down on the conference table and handed Harmon the tab. "How ya doin' Pablo?" Harmon asked as he took the bill and looked it over.

"Awright," the young Mexican answered, "I start night school next week."

"Great, you're gonna do just fine, Pablo," Harmon said as he paid the bill adding a ten dollar tip.

"Gracias, Señor Harmon. Muchas gracias."

"De nada mi amigo. You do well in school and that will square it."

"Yes, sir," Pablo said smiling as he left the room.

Judy, Peter and Blade had been unpacking the food and sorting it all out. Harmon sat down and they all began to eat.

"One thing I noticed today kinda struck me weird," Blade said after taking a bite of his roast beef sandwich.

"What's that?" His lawyer asked between mega-bites of the first of three bacon cheeseburgers. Two more, wrapped in foil, sat on the table next to a double order of French fries.

"Martha Kent was wearing a silver cross just like my wife used to wear. Rachel's mother and sister were wearing them too."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it just seemed to me to be a little too chummy if ya know what I mean."

"Yes, well, that would be highly inappropriate if there was some connection there. I'll check it out."

"Sounds like it's gonna be a fun day for the defense team. Are we gonna be kickin' some butt or what!" Judy exclaimed as she stood up and pumped her fist in the air before eliciting high fives from her companions.

"Awright, Judy!" Blade cheered her on as he slapped her hand. Returning to his lunch he said, "You got yourself one hell of a teammate there, Jimmy."

"Oh I know," Harmon responded, "I knew during Judy's initial interview that there was more there than meets the eye. A storminess smoldering beneath her calm and quiet exterior. But I never expected a volcano! I'm wondering now, since this is the first appearance of the legal predator in you Judy, what it was that set you off? What is it about this case that's transformed you from a shy little wallflower into a raging tiger?"

Judy finished chewing a bite of her tuna fish sandwich, swallowed it, took a sip of soda and said with an air of playful ceremony, "Two things. First and foremost, our esteemed client, Andrew "Blade' Wussmann, who I do not for one-second believe capable of the ghastly thing he is accused of and whose music, I might add, was a great inspiration to me when I was in law school. That something could be so free, so wild and yet so structured and in control...I dunno, it was like me inside out and it really sustained me in all my down in the depths hopeless periods that I frequently experienced in school."

Blade and Judy were caught up in the moment gazing into each other's eyes. Harmon asked Judy what the other thing was that egged her on and she quickly became hostile. Her eyes narrowed and she spoke with controlled fury as she said, "That bitch-and-a-half, Martha Kent. Ooo, I hate her guts! That little sanctimonious know-it-all who's never lost a case. I wanna split her ego open, shove it down her throat and choke her with it!"

"Okay, Judy," Harmon said chuckling, "but don't lose your cool. Don't let it get personal. Keep it professional."

"Oh I will. Don't you worry about that."

"I know you will." Jimmy smiled at her and then said, "Now, tomorrow after I castigate the prosecution for withholding the video tape I want you to handle the cross issue. If Kent is wearing that particular piece of jewelry I want you, Judy, to bring it to the attention of the court."

"Oh I would like nothing better, thank you."

"Yes, it should be a fun day for us tomorrow."

................................................................................

That night on Jerry Lake's TV show there was a rather different discussion of the day's events. "Good evening everyone. Welcome to Jerry Lake Live," the host opened the program. "Well, it was a shaky start with the prosecution's first witness, Dolores Ingram, who appeared, to this reporter, to be unnerved by the prospect of testifying against her once close friend, Andrew Wussmann. But, eventually she delivered what can only be called devastating testimony against the infamous rocker known as Blade, the erstwhile lead singer of the heavy metal band On The Edge. Ms. Ingram, known to her friends as Dolly, was Rachel Wussmann's dearest friend and confidant, and she testified today about Rachel Wussmann's fears that her husband would kill her. Dolly also bravely testified that the very next day she witnessed Mr. Wussmann glaring at Rachel with what was unmistakably, in her words, a murderous stare. Let's see the tape..."

The court scene appeared on the screen. It showed Dolly testifying about Blade looking as though he wanted to kill his wife after she made it clear to him that he was not welcome to sit with her and her family at the soccer game.

When the tape ended Jerry Lake came back on camera and said, "Now, in the next piece of tape, ladies and gentlemen, Prosecutor Martha Kent goes on to ask the witness about her conversation with Rachel the night before the murders took place. The Saturday night of Blade's final concert when he and Rachel were seen arguing furiously backstage. Let's see the tape."

A wide shot of the courtroom appeared on the screen. Martha Kent was in the process of questioning Dolly.

"What did Rachel say about the defendant?"

"She said it was time for them to part."

"What else did she say?"

"Well, she told me she was afraid..."

"Afraid? Afraid of what? Of Blade? Afraid of Mr. Wussmann?"

"Yes."

"Why? Why was she afraid?"

"She thought..."

"Yes?"

"She thought he would kill her."

"And you saw murder in Mr. Wussmann's eyes the very next day at the soccer field? The very day of the murders?" The tape ended there without showing the defenses objection and the prosecutor's withdrawal of her question.

"She thought he would kill her," Jerry Lake repeated the words darkly as his image came back on screen. Then he said with a demonstrative shiver, "Chilling. Isn't it? But not surprising, given the violent heavy metal low-life-scum we're dealing with here."

Tom Spencer, a famous defense attorney, posed a question as his lean and hungry image appeared on the screen. "Well," he said, "if Mr. Wussmann was such a low life scum what was this supposedly perfect, innocent and wonderful woman, Rachel Wilson, doing with him in the first place?"

"Battered women often have no choice about getting free from their batterers," Doris Singleton, a lawyer and women's rights advocate, responded indignantly.

"Rachel was getting free from him. So, then, maybe she wasn't battered," Mr. Spencer responded.

"They had been separated. That gave Rachel time away from her battering husband so she came to see him for what he was," Ms. Singleton explained.

"But how did she get away from him to begin with?" Tom Spencer persisted. "If battered women can't see any way out of the relationship how did she manage a separation?"

All the other panelists suddenly felt compelled to have their say and everyone began talking at once. Jerry talked over them in a forceful but restrained manner, "Hold it, hold it! Hold on now! One at a time, please."

The panel quieted down and Jerry continued with the discussion. "I know," he said, "it's always the strategy, isn't it? A strategy of desperation really, in defending someone who is obviously guilty, as Blade, as Andrew Wussmann is, it's always the strategy to trash the victim and try to put the blame on her for getting killed. The defense wants to make it seem likely that any number of people could have killed Rachel Wussmann because of her questionable life style. Jimmy Harmon, in his opening statement pathetically hinted that Rachel's involvement with drugs might have led to her being killed."

"Yes, Jerry, it's absolutely absurd to think that some punk junkie committed these brutal murders. Junkies just don't go around doing things like that. It's ridiculous," Jody Hopkins said with authority.

"Oh yeah, right," Tom Spencer said, "junkies are all fine upstanding citizens who..."

Jerry Lake interrupted him saying, "We have to take a quick break for these commercial messages. Be right back."

An attractive woman in sexy nightwear appeared on the screen. She was sitting on a bed next to a sleeping man. She was totally engrossed with her lap top computer. She could barely be heard ooo-ing and aah-ing with pleasure until she suddenly screamed with delight as though she was having an orgasm. The sleeping man next to her stirred a bit, she regarded him with an impish smirk and then turned her attention back to her lap top as if it were an expectant lover. A voice over says, "Trading on the stock market has never been more exciting."

As the commercials ran Jerry Lake was consulting with one of his associate producers, Jane Kurkowski. She was a short, plump woman with a pale complexion who appeared quite ghostly next to her well-tanned boss. "How many new sponsors have come on board today?" Jerry asked her smacking his lips.

"Quite a few," Jane replied while she organized some papers in her hands. "Too many to handle really."

"Really! And how much has our price for an ad gone up?"

"It just about doubled overnight."

"Well, Jane, ya know, I've been thinking lately about the show. About the format. I think the show should have more segments."

"More segments?" Jane asked and studied her boss's face as if she were trying to count the pores.

"Yes, more segments. Instead of the five we have now, say six, or even seven. You think that's a good idea?"

"Oh yes, yes, it's brilliant," Jane said obsequiously.

"I'll leave it to you to work out the details of implementing the change," Jerry said suggestively.

Jane quickly picked up on her boss's cue and said, "Well, let's see, if we added two more commercial breaks then you'd have your seven segments."

"More commercials..." Jerry mused, "I suppose you're right. I don't suppose that I could just announce to the viewers that we had come to the end of one segment of the show and were about to begin a new one? I don't suppose that would work without taking a break. Would it?"

"No, I wouldn't think so,"

"Well, I really don't like the idea of more commercials taking time away from the show...but if that's your decision..."

"Definitely my decision, yes," Jane said with authority.

"Then more commercials it is. I'll just have to learn to live with it."

"We can space them out," Jane said, "so as not to interfere all that much with the flow of the show..." Jane stopped speaking as she noticed her boss was no longer listening to her. His mind was clearly on other matters.

"Right now as I stand idly by," Jerry said softly in a kind of reverie, "the TV slot machine is paying off big time. It's got jackpot written all over it. And it's all mine. How much am I making? How much money? How much richer am I right now than I was just two minutes ago?"

"I dunno, I'm not sure. A hundred thousand?" Jane guessed.

"Oh that's a conservative estimate my dear. A very conservative estimate," Jerry said as he slowly drifted away from his doting associate. He raised his head and looked down at her out of the corner of his eye. "Now don't bother me with sponsors and commercials!" Jerry announced angrily for all to hear, "I don't care about that crap! I have a show to do!"

"Yes, Mr. Lake. I'm very sorry," said Jane with obvious contrition. She knew the game and played it well.

"Thirty-seconds, Mr. Lake," the stage manager warned.

Jerry took his seat behind the desk and studied some papers in his hand.

"Ten-seconds."

Jerry put the papers down and muttered something to the guest who was sitting at the side of the desk. The two smiled as the stage manager said, "On the air."

Jerry looked into the camera and welcomed the audience back. He then turned to Jody Hopkins, a New York Lawyer and former assistant DA. "Don't you think," Jerry asked, "given all the evidence that we know about in this case, evidence pointing squarely at the accused, with reportedly even more damning evidence to be brought out during the course of the trial, and in light of today's graphic testimony, depicting the defendant as a seething cauldron of violence, I mean, really, is the case over for Wussmann on the first day?"

"Well, ordinarily I'd say it's just to soon to tell," Mr. Hopkins replied, "but in this case I just don't see how the defense is going to effectively counter the amount and quality of evidence against this defendant."

"Never count Jimmy Harmon out..."

Jerry checked the TV monitors embedded in the top of his desk to see who was talking. It was Tom Spencer, "But, Spencer," Lake said, "even you have to admit he's got a tough row to hoe with this land fill of evidence covering his client."

"No doubt. But to sit here and proclaim the trial over after only the first day is ridiculous. The witnesses haven't even been cross-examined. And, I don't know what that...what you didn't show in your videotape, was the sidebar, what was that all about? It seemed to be called because of, well, maybe some new information. I dunno, but Jimmy Harmon declined to cross-examine the prosecution's first witness, damning as she was, and a Jimmy Harmon doesn't do that without good reason. So, let's just wait and see and not go gleefully jumping to a death sentence like a gaggle of silly ghouls."

"Watch those sexist remarks buster!" Doris Singleton chimed in.

"Sexist! What do ghouls have to do with sex?" Tom Spencer asked incredulously.

"Hey, ghouls just wanna have fun!" Cindy quipped.

"Ghouls? I thought he said girls," Doris said.

"Well, turn up your hearing aid," Tom Spencer teased.

"Our hearing impaired friends...I bet they just loved that remark," Doris scolded.

"Could we try to stick to the topic here and not get all side tracked with all this politically correct demagoguery? Mr. Lake?" Spencer finally pleaded.

"Yes, let's all try to stick to the topic at hand. Shall we? Let's not deteriorate here to the level of some network talk show. Jody Hopkins..."

"Yes, Jerry?"

"Of course, you're not saying outright that the trial is over. Are you?"

"In his small-minded way, yes, I think that's exactly what he's saying," Cindy said with a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

"Hey, take the pressure off your brain, Cindy, and stand up!" was Jody's reply.

"Ifyogowertobadhijurkaliwouplatyrethsayres..." came the cacophonous garble of voices with everyone talking at once.

"Hold it hold it, c'mon gang, one at a time," Jerry implored. "Jody, you were saying..."

"All I'm saying is that given the first two witnesses and what we know the evidence in this case to be, overwhelming evidence, really, I find it hard to believe that even the magical miracle worker, Jimmy Harmon, can effectively defend against it."

"He whipped your butt pretty good didn't he, Jody?" Spencer asked tauntingly.

"He won his case against me, Spencer, if that's what you mean. But, uh, we had no where near the amount of incriminating evidence that Aaron Foster and company have in the Wussmann case."

"You had plenty of evidence to win your case and Harmon out lawyered you," Tom Spencer insisted, "and you know it. Now you wanna see Harmon lose whether his client is innocent or not."

"Now just one damn minute," Jody protested, "I don't have to sit here and listen to this sophomoric abuse from the likes the most unscrupulous defense attorney that ever walked the face of the earth."

"Unscrupulous...you wouldn't know a scruple if it occurred to you. I doubt one ever did. Or ever will, for that matter."

"C'mon now, boys, you can meet behind the gym after the show," Jerry quipped and turned his attention to another guest, "Cindy..."

"Yes, sir?"

"Jody certainly has a point. It doesn't look good for the defense in this case."

"Ya know, that's really not the question as I see it," Cindy Arnold stated forcefully.

"Okay, what is the question, Cindy, as you see it?"

"Well, you ask, is it good for the defense, or is it good for the prosecution and although there is, of course, a measure of competitive sport in a trial between the two sides, the question is - How does it look for our system of justice? Everyone wins when a fair trial is presided over by a fair-minded judge no matter what the outcome. That's the perspective I like to take rather than which side's scoring the most points."

"Alright then," Jerry said, "from your perspective so far, does this trial seem to be a winner for the system?"

"No, it doesn't."

"Why not? You can answer that right after this. Gotta take a break. Our producers insist. Be right back."

A middle aged, heavyset man sits on a living room couch in his underwear. He's smoking an enormous cigar from which thick billowing smoke is emitted. A woman enters the room. She's wearing a floral print dress. An expression of severe disgust is on her face at the sight of the cigar smoking man. She holds up a spray can of "Odor B-Gone" air freshener and suddenly she turns into an environmental control agent wearing a white protective suit from head to toe. She points the can of "Odor B-Gone" at the man on the couch and presses the button. A laser beam shoots out from the spray can and obliterates the man in a puff of smoke. The laser then turns into a paint spray that the woman scatters all around and the room is magically transformed into a beautiful flora and fauna filled atrium. The woman morphs into a more attractive version of herself and a good-looking young man beckons suggestively for her to join him on the couch. A voice is heard saying, "Odor B-Gone. Let it freshen up your whole life."

After the commercials Jerry again appeared on screen and said, "We're back and Cindy Arnold was telling us what she thought of the state's case after the first day of the Wussmann trial. Cindy..."

"Well, this is just an impression, Jerry," Cindy said, "but I felt the prosecution, Martha Kent, seemed to be engaging in, or at least, attempting to engage in a kind of mind control over her first two witnesses. It seemed a very carefully scripted exercise...I dunno, it just seemed overly contrived."

"Oh give me a break!" Jody Hopkins protested, "This is a trial for goodness sake. These were Martha Kent's witnesses. As a lawyer she asks preconceived questions and has a pretty good idea of what the answer's gonna be from her own witnesses."

"And that to a certain degree is contrived," Cindy said.

"Well, of course it is, that's just my point, it..." Jody rejoined.

"My point," Cindy interrupted, "goes to the degree of contrivance. Perhaps I should've said it looked...well, as a matter of fact, I did say it looked overly contrived. More contrived than what is normal."

"Well, sure if you're looking for it to be there you'll find it."

"No, you know what it was? It was a disconnect there between the prosecutor, Ms. Kent, and her witnesses. I got the feeling she was acting more like a puppeteer or a dictator. It was just something in her posture, in her demeanor, that struck me as odd, out of place..."

"Well, time's up for this segment, gotta go," Jerry said, "time for a word from our sponsors.

...............................................................................

The first order of business for the third day in court was to deal with the matter of the videotape before the jury was brought in. Jimmy Harmon addressed the court. "Your Honor," he began gravely and spoke as if apologizing for his words, "I know you already passed sentence on the prosecution for their negligence in not handing over the video tape but I must say that after viewing it I believe the prosecution got off easy. I believe it was a deliberate act on their part to keep the tape from ever getting into our hands. I believe this because..."

"Counselor," the judge interrupted.

"Yes, your Honor?"

"I viewed the tape as well and though I can understand how you've come to your conclusions there is nothing to substantiate any outright wrongdoing on the prosecution's part. I have made my ruling on this matter. Now let's move on."

"Yes, of course. After the jury has been seated I would like to play the video tape for the court and then cross examine the prosecution's witnesses whose testimony we heard yesterday."

"Very well. Officer, bring the jury in."

As the jurors were filing in Blade and his defense team huddled together at their table. Judy reported to them what she had found out about the silver cross that Martha Kent wore pinned to her lapel. It was given to her by Rachel's sister, Meg. The cross was the same type worn by Rachel when she was alive. Hedda, Dolly and Meg also wore one in remembrance of Rachel and as a token of solidarity in seeking justice for her.

"Great work, Judy," Harmon said, "do your stuff after the jury is seated."

The last of the juror's were just then taking their seats and the judge asked, "Are you ready to proceed, Mr. Harmon?"

"Yes, your Honor, I am."

Judy stood up and said, "Just a minute, your Honor!"

The judge glared at her. "What is it, Ms. Adams?" He asked as if lying in wait to pounce on her at the first opportunity she gave him.

"I've noticed a certain piece of jewelry that Ms. Kent is wearing to be strikingly similar to those worn by members of Rachel Wussmann's family. The cross you see there on Ms. Kent's lapel is a replica of the cross that Rachel Wussmann wore and is now worn by Rachel's mother and sister as a way of expressing their devotion to their loved one. That's all fine and good, your honor, of course, but for the prosecuting attorney to join with them in their private grief is, I think, highly inappropriate. She is here to represent the people of Los Angeles County not a selected few."

Judge Martinez scrutinized the young Ms. Adams a moment and then turned and asked Ms. Kent if there was any validity to the defense's charge.

"Well, yes, your honor," Martha said, "I wanted to show my support for the slain woman's family."

"A fine sentiment to be sure but highly inappropriate for an officer of the court. Kindly remove the article of jewelry in question and try to keep in mind where your affiliations lie."

"Sorry, your Honor," Martha said as she removed the cross from her lapel and sent a killer look Judy's way, "I didn't think a show of sympathy toward the Wilson Family would so offend the court."

"You didn't think, counselor," the judge scolded, "you didn't think at all. You have an official capacity here in representing the people of Los Angeles County, as Ms. Adams has correctly pointed out. Your personal feelings are your private concern and should not get mixed up with your public responsibilities. Such a mixture can be deadly to our system of jurisprudence and may have influenced your professed forgetfulness with regard to the video tape."

"I'm so sorry, your Honor," Martha said with a hint of sarcasm. She was not one to give in easy about anything. "I didn't realize being human would be so abhorrent to the court."

"If you find your position as assistant DA to be inhuman perhaps you should look elsewhere for employment," the Judge offered indifferently.

Martha was about to say something in reply but the judge cut her off, "Now that's enough on that topic. And I really hope I've made an impression on you, counselor, because your skidding along the edge of a mistrial here. So, I warn you, be on your best behavior from now on, or else."

"Yes, your Honor," said Martha contritely.

"Alright, then," Judge Martinez pronounced the matter closed and turned his attention to the defense. "Mr. Harmon," he said, "are you ready to continue?"

"Yes, your Honor. We would like to begin with our cross examination of Miss Ingram."

"Very well," the judge said taking the change from the defenses stated plan in stride. He nodded to the bailiff who called Dolores Ingram to the stand.

During the colloquy between the judge and Martha Kent, Harmon decided to call Dolly to the stand before showing the videotape to the court. He would have the witness refresh the court about her impressions of Mr. Wussmann at the Sunday soccer game and then show the videotape for all to see. Afterward he would ask Dolly to match it to her testimony. He would then call Edna Peterson and ask her the same thing.

Dolly, who had received a dressing down from Martha Kent regarding her "call girl" outfit of the day before, decided to dress even more salaciously for her second day of testimony. The angry prosecutor called Dolly at her home soon after court had adjourned to instruct her once again on what she should wear. "I'm not your goddamn manikin!" Dolly responded to the would-be makeover artist just before hanging up on her. Who the hell does she think she is, Dolly though, the fashion police?

The image of what she would wear came to her in a flash. A tight black mini skirt, a black lacy low cut bodice, fish net stockings, platform shoes and her long wavy hair displayed in all its glorious fullness. To top it off, a heavy make-up job with extra long false eye lashes. Oh yes, Dolly mused, that is the true image of me and the truth is what it's all about. "Right, Ms. Cunt?" Dolly said aloud, using the vulgar nickname she had given to the 'persecuting' attorney as she also referred to her.

As Dolly strutted up to the witness stand in her provocative outfit she again elicited waves of whispered commentary from the gallery. Martha Kent dropped her head into her hands while Blade looked at his friend with an appreciative sparkle in his eyes.

Jimmy Harmon got up from his chair as Dolly was taking her seat in the witness box. He questioned her to recap her testimony. Dolly had some difficulty remembering exactly what she had said and had to occasionally refer to the transcripts.

"We're now going to show you and the court a video tape that was inadvertently taken of the defendant at the very event where you characterized him as a menacing, threatening presence to be feared by one and all. Roll the tape, Peter."

There had been a giant TV screen erected in the courtroom and positioned up in the front corner opposite the jury so everyone could see it. The video showed Blade at the end of the soccer match when he was hugging his kids and cavorting with Rachel's brother, Mark. The image presented him as a loving father and as a genial friend of the Wilson family. It completely contradicted the testimony of the prosecution's first two witnesses.

As the tape ended with Blade saying good-bye to Rachel and her family with a big smile on his face Jimmy Harmon confronted the witness about the demeanor of the defendant shown on the tape and her description of him that she had just testified to.

"I'm absolutely flabbergasted. I didn't remember him as being so friendly. But, you know, it was earlier, like before the game started that he was so upset at Rachel."

"He was upset with her?"

"Yes."

"He was upset because he got the cold shoulder?"

"Yes."

"And you found that to be so unreasonable?"

"Well, no, not really."

"You testified, Miss Ingram, that the defendant displayed hostile behavior throughout the time he spent there. Isn't that correct?"

"Well, he was kinda angry."

"Kinda angry? Is that your testimony now, Miss Ingram? That Mr. Wussmann was 'kinda angry'?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"Uh huh, well, since you were so mistaken about his demeanor just before he was leaving the soccer field, why should we take your assessment as to Mr. Wussmann's demeanor when he first arrived there?"

"Well, you can imagine how..."

"No, Miss Ingram," Harmon interrupted the witness, "we are not in the business of imagination here. We are not interested in what you imagined Mr. Wussmann's demeanor to be. Can you now tell us, after viewing the video tape, that you are absolutely sure about the testimony you gave here yesterday and earlier today to be true and accurate?"

"Well, no," Dolly said looking here and there while batting her false eyelashes, "I'm not sure of anything right now, to be perfectly honest."

"That's what we're after here, Miss Ingram, for you to be perfectly honest. Thank you I have no more questions of this witness."

"Any redirect, Ms. Kent?" asked the judge.

"Yes, your Honor," the prosecutor said. She stood up and approached the witness.

Dolly primped herself as if preparing for battle. She readjusted her posture by sitting more upright, brushed back her hair with her hand, pushed up her half-exposed breasts and pointed them directly at the prosecutor.

"Miss Ingram," Martha Kent said, "let's just relax a minute here and think back to that day at the soccer field. Put everything else out of your mind. Get rid of any notions about what you think you're supposed to say. Just remember now, as best you can, Mr. Wussmann's attitude toward his wife when he told her it was all over between them."

Dolly smirked and then said, "He was pretty angry."

"No more questions," Martha said as she abruptly turned away from what she knew to be a lost cause.

"Well, Blade, had heard that so many times before from..." Dolly offered to explain.

"That'll be all, Ms. Ingram," Martha said with emphasis on her preferred title of address and then appealed to the judge to dismiss the witness.

Jimmy Harmon then called Edna Peterson to the stand for her cross-examination. The defense attorney did as expert a job defusing her inflammatory statements about his client as he had done with Dolly. Even better, in fact. He got Mrs. Peterson, as she preferred to be called, to go on a rant about the evils of heavy metal rock and how the defendant was the devil incarnate. It was such a devastating cross Harmon wondered how his adversary would go about trying to rehabilitate her.

Martha Kent rose slowly from her chair and stood with her head hung low for a moment or two in silence.

"She's praying for lightning to strike," Judy whispered to Harmon and Blade.

"To strike her witness or the courthouse?" Blade asked softly.

"Herself, perhaps," Harmon quipped.

Martha Kent lifted her head and looked up at the ceiling a second and then looked over at the jury. She studied them for a moment and then approached the witness to begin her redirect. "Mrs. Peterson, that was quite a diatribe against the defendant and his so-called art form. Would you say you are prejudiced against Mr. Wussmann?"

"I dunno about that. I judge him by what I know of him," Mrs. Peterson stated unequivocally.

"By his music?"

"Yes."

"The violent lyrics?"

"Yes."

"Do you feel passionately that a violent nature must be responsible for those lyrics?" Ms. Kent asked.

"Yes, I do," responded Mrs. Peterson with conviction.

"Do you believe Mr. Wussmann has been and perhaps still is a corrupting influence which you, as a mother, have to protect your children against?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Was it that good and healthy maternal instinct that prompted you to rail so against, Mr. Wussmann?"

"I object your honor," Harmon said, "leading."

"Sustained."

"The defense objects to maternal instincts, Mr. Harmon?" Ms. Kent asked pointedly.

"Your Honor," Harmon pleaded somewhat exasperated.

"That'll be enough of that, Ms. Kent."

"Just a few more questions, your Honor," Martha pleaded. After getting the okay she turned back to the witness and asked, "Just because you are so passionate in your words against the defendant perhaps you appear to the court to be extremely biased against him. But just because you believe deeply in something doesn't mean it's a false belief, does it?"

"Objection!" Harmon rose to his feet on the grounds of relevancy.

"Sustained. The jury will disregard that last question by the prosecution. Ms. Kent..."

"I'll move on, your Honor."

"Thank you."

"Now, Mrs. Peterson, when you first saw the defendant at the soccer match that Sunday afternoon did you know who he was?"

"No, I didn't."

"And you formed your initial impressions of the defendant before you knew who he was?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Those impressions were not changed at all when you found out who he was, were they?"

"Not at all."

"Those impressions were gathered when Mr. Wussmann first arrived at the soccer field? Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"The menacing look on Mr. Wussmann's face that you saw happened at a time well before any camera was filming him? Is that right?"

"Well..."

"That murderous expression was not shown on the video tape that we saw here today, was it?"

"No."

"It makes you wonder whether the defendant was aware the camera was on him when he played the part of Mr. Family Man..."

"Objection!"

"Sustained," the judge declared and then turned on the prosecution. "Ms. Kent, you're trying my patience," he said sternly and admonished the jury to disregard what Ms. Kent had just said.

"No further questions," Martha said as she made her way back to her chair.

"Good," the judge said sighing with relief and then asked the defense if there would be any re-cross.

"A couple of questions, your honor," Harmon said as he stood.

The judge grunted slightly as he motioned to the defense attorney to go ahead.

"Mrs. Peterson," Harmon began as he slowly approached the witness, "how can we be sure that your impression of Mr. Wussmann the performer was not inadvertently projected on to Mr. Wussmann himself after the fact?"

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Could it be that you saw someone, someone you didn't know at the time, who was somewhat angry? Could it be that you noticed the anger but didn't think too much of it until you found out it was the infamous lead singer of a heavy metal band that you despise? And could it be that it was then and only then..."

"Objection, compound," Martha Kent declared.

"Sustained."

"Okay, one at a time," Harmon instructed himself. "Mrs. Peterson," he said turning his full attention to her, "isn't it possible that the so-called menacing stare you came to believe you saw in my client's eyes was really only a little anger?"

"No."

"Isn't it possible that you interpreted a somewhat angry look as a menacing look only after you found out that the person in question was someone you admittedly hate?"

"No."

"Are you so absolutely sure because of your hatred for my client?"

"I saw what I saw."

"And you saw the video?"

The witness gave no indication that she heard the question.

"Ma'am..." Harmon prompted her.

"Yes, I saw it," Mrs. Peterson said with heavy reluctance.

"And that was the same man you said you saw looking menacing the whole time he was there at the soccer field?"

"He must've known he was being filmed."

"Excuse me, Mrs. Peterson, that's not the point. Whether or not Mr. Wussmann knew he was being filmed, which, of course, by the way, he didn't know, because if he did he would have mentioned it to me so that we could have made efforts to obtain it, but that's not the point. The point is, you say you saw him as threatening the whole time. Obviously he wasn't a menacing threatening ogre in the video, so, would you say your perception of Mr. Wussmann was accurate?"

"It was...you're trying to..."

"Your honor..."

"The witness will answer the question."

"What was the question? I forget..."

"I think the jury knows the question and the answer," Harmon said with finality and informed the court that there would be no more questions of the witness.

The judge dismissed Mrs. Peterson and the jury. The rest of the court's day was taken up with legal questions about evidence and procedure that were argued by the lawyers in front of the judge without the jury present.

................................................................................

After court was adjourned the prosecuting attorneys met in the DA's office to discuss the day's events.

"Oh my God, Aaron," Martha Kent sighed as she sat down in front of the DA's desk, "we got killed today. Absolutely slaughtered."

"There's a lot of trial to go yet. It's not how you start, it's how you finish that counts," Aaron said devoid of conviction. He had a strange ominous foreboding about the case and it lay heavily on his chest all day. He was terrified of losing such an apparently open and shut case. It could bring an end to his burgeoning campaign for mayor. Hell, it could ruin his whole career.

"I need some donuts," Martha replied only half-attentive to Aaron's futile attempt at optimism. "Ask your secretary to round us up some donuts."

Aaron did so on the intercom and after studying his cohort's now focused expression asked, "What's brewing in that brilliant mind of yours, my dear?"

"Why did Mr. Johnson call the defense about his tape?"

"Because he wanted to be part of the trial? He wanted his fifteen minutes in the spotlight?" Aaron suggested impugning Johnson's motives and avoiding any allusion to the more righteous cause of fairness that might have played into the citizen's decision.

"But why give us the tape to begin with? Why not give it to the defense in the first place?"

"They made good use of it as it is," Aaron noted.

"Exactly."

"What? You think there's more to this?"

"Well, it does seem rather a little too coincidental, doesn't it? Mr. Johnson just happens to be watching the trial at that particular time? He calls the defense right away because what the witnesses were saying didn't seem to concur with his video? I mean, if Mr. Johnson wanted justice done would he have bothered to call? If he gave us the tape wouldn't that indicate to you that he was on our side? But if he's really on the side of the defense, and was all along..." Martha said suggestively.

"You mean he might've had some hidden agenda here?"

"Suppose he did go to the defense with the tape before he brought it to us. Suppose Harmon told Johnson to give the tape to us?"

"Why?"

"In hopes that we would see Mr. Wussmann in a different light, perhaps. That we would see him as a good guy after all and question whether he was really capable of committing those horrible murders on the same day he was being Mr. family man. Orrr," Martha elongated the word as she got up from her chair, her train of thought gaining momentum, "maybe it was all a set up. If the defense knew that we had a video tape in our possession that they knew we would rather they not see..."

"Then they could call us on it if things turned out that way."

"Things did turn out that way and they did call us on it. And now," Martha went on, pacing in fits and starts, this way and that, "we have to consider when Wussmann planned to kill his wife and lover? What if he had it all planned before that Sunday soccer game? What if he had himself taped while he acted the part of the congenial family man? What if there's some connection between Wussmann and Johnson. Some tangential yet substantial connection?"

"That would certainly turn today's disaster around for us. A total U-turn," Aaron said just to humor his lover. He thought her hypothesis to be farfetched at best. The weight on his chest was getting heavier. Damn this case, he thought.

The secretary brought in a box of donuts, placed them on Aaron's desk and promptly left the office. Martha waited for the door to close before she attacked the box stuffed with an assortment of sugared, iced and creme filled donuts. She picked out a chocolate covered creme filled and flipped the box in Aaron's direction. He chose a glazed.

"Okay," Martha said between bites, "we need to investigate the possibility of a connection between Johnson and Wussmann."

"A very quiet investigation."

"Who's our best operative for such a sensitive assignment?" Martha asked as a blob of creme filling fell on her blouse. She scooped it up with a finger and put it in her mouth.

"I'll talk to Captain Jenkins. See what he thinks."

"Do it now. We need results right away," Martha said matter of fact as she stuffed the rest of her donut in her mouth and immediately reached for another.

Aaron Foster picked up the phone and dialed the Captain's number before he realized he was doing it. He thought he must've been thinking of doing the same thing at the exact time that Martha suggested he do it. "Hello, Captain. Aaron Foster here...No, it wasn't a good day for us. That's the reason I'm calling..." Aaron explained the situation and what they wanted to do about it and Jenkins suggested that he himself conduct the investigation. "Well," Aaron said, "I think you've chosen the best man for the job. That's for sure... Thank you."

"Who's his choice?" Martha asked, quietly intense.

"He thought it would be best if he investigated Johnson himself."

Martha stood still as if in deep thought about something.

"Is that okay with you?" Aaron asked.

"Oh sure," Martha answered absently and then quickly added, "meet me at the no-tell in about half an hour." She turned on her heels and left the office. Aaron immediately told his secretary to order his car to be ready and waiting in fifteen minutes. He did not feel up to a session of hot and heavy sex but he knew if he didn't show up at the motel there'd be repercussions that might adversely affect an already jeopardized case. He and Martha needed to work together without any unnecessary friction between them. Besides, a good screw might be just what he needed to get his mind off of the disastrous direction the trial seemed to be headed in.

................................................................................

Captain Jenkins sat back in his chair after the DA's call and wondered about it. The suspicion of a connection between Johnson and Wussmann seemed to him to be reaching, at best. At worst it was a symptom of a prosecution gone awry. Just to be fair, though, he gave the DA the benefit of the doubt and tried to accept his version of the Johnson/Wussmann connection as he pieced it together in his mind.

Right away he had a problem. He always thought the crime to be a spontaneous act of fury and never agreed with the premeditation theory. Of course, Jenkins went on thinking, it might have been a premeditated crime that went awry and as a result the murders were committed in a spontaneous manner. Okay, sure, so, Wussmann planned to kill his wife and lover. Or, perhaps he only intended to kill his wife that Sunday night, at her home. With his kids there? His kids - who might have easily seen him at some point. Maybe Blade and Rachel were on their way out when Robby showed up and all hell broke loose. But certainly the Wussmann's wouldn't be going out and leaving the children unattended. And if they were on their way out they would have been going out the back where Wussmann usually parked.

Jenkins could not even get started with this premeditation theory. Giving it one more shot he thought perhaps Blade could have parked quietly in the back, walked to the front and hid himself in wait for Rachel's lover to show. Blade's in the bushes, or off to the side, waiting. The boy friend shows up. He goes to the door. Rachel answers it and then they start to go out...No. Again, Rachel wouldn't leave the kids alone. So, Blade confronts the boy friend as he approaches the condo and Rachel comes out to see what's going on. Blade kills them one at a time.

The evidence showed that Rachel was killed first. So, what was Robby doing while she was being stabbed multiple times? On the sidelines applauding? No, it just didn't make sense. If someone had the forethought to have themselves video taped for use as a defense in a murder trial they would have the sense to plan a murder so that its execution would be meticulous. This crime was too messy for someone like that. Anyway, who would ever imagine that a videotape depicting them being a nice guy would have any merit in their murder trial? It's absurd, Jenkins thought, iabsolutely loony.

The Captain sat back in his chair, lit a cigar and tried to fathom what was going on with the DA. Two days into the trial and the prosecution's acting as if they're totally lost. Wussmann has Johnson make a tape of him? Then Johnson hands it over to the prosecution? It's crazy!

Of course, Jenkins knew he'd have to make some inquiry into the matter just to cover himself. For, while his experience told him of the improbability of a Johnson/Wussmann connection, his experience also told him that anything was possible. And, he had to admit it was kind of strange that Johnson would think of giving the tape to the DA at all. What was his motive? Of what value did he think it would be?

................................................................................

Martha Kent waited impatiently for her lover to arrive. Pacing up and down in the motel room between the foot of the bed and the dresser she muttered to herself, "That bastard. He's not coming. After all I went through. I'll kill him. Look at me!"

She stopped and looked at herself in the mirror. She was wearing a black bustier, a G-string with clasps on the sides for easy removal, thigh-high fishnet stockings and spike heels. "All dressed up and no one to fuck! What an idiot I am! What a damn fool! I oughtta stand out in front of the door and grab the first truck driver I see. Get 'im in here and..."

The door opened and in walked Aaron. "Well, it's about time, lover boy," Martha said as she stood facing her tardy beau with her legs spread and her hands on her hips, "I think you need a good hard spanking. Crawl over here to me on your hands and knees!"

Aaron put up his hand wearily in protest.

"Do it! Do it, now! You dog!"

Realizing he had no will to resist, the aroused DA got down on the floor and crawled on all fours toward his mistress who undid the clasps on her G-string and tossed them on the bed.

"Lick me here!" Martha said as she pointed to her pussy.

Aaron lifted up his head to do as he was commanded. "Beg me first you scum! Beg to lick me!" his mistress demanded. Aaron stood erect on his knees with his arms out in front of him and his hands bent at the wrists. He began panting and licking his chops as he hungrily eyed Martha's vagina. "Oh! Is that what you want you naughty doggy? You want Martha's pussy? You wanna lick Martha's hot wet pussy? Well, you don't deserve to tongue my clit and lick up my pussy juice you bad dog you. No! You don't deserve it! But since you're doing such a good job at begging, little doggie, Martha's gonna let you eat her luscious love dumpling until she drowns you in her cum. Lick me now, dog!"

In spite of his weariness Aaron got increasingly excited as he begged for his mistress' pussy and at her command he hungrily shoved his face between her legs and worked his tongue like a man possessed. "Ooo! Oh! Ah!" Martha moaned ecstatically. She was finding it difficult to remain standing as her knees began buckling under her. Aaron, while continuing his avid cunnilingus, nudged Martha toward the bed until she flopped back onto it. Aaron then stood up and took off his pants and briefs. He got on the bed straddling Martha between his knees. He moved his body up toward her head and said, "Now you're gonna suck my cock like you never sucked it before." He shoved his hardon into Martha's mouth saying, "You're gonna take it all baby down your throat and swallow every last bit..." Aaron suddenly arched violently back from his waist and thrust himself so forcefully into Martha's oral cavity that she began to choke. Her boss let out the most God-awful groan she had ever heard and then suddenly collapsed on top of her. With all her might Martha managed to push herself free from under the heavy weight. Aaron was clutching his chest and turning as red as a glowing hot ember. Sweat was pouring off him as if it was raining the stuff.

"Oh my God! Aaron! Aaron! Oh my God!" Martha kept saying over and over as she tried to control her panic by flailing her arms in the air. After several moments of that meaningful exercise Martha went to pick up the phone on the night table to call 911 but immediately thought better of it. "You can't be found here," she said to the apparently dying man. "You can't be found here."

Aaron gasped and his body suddenly relaxed into an apparently lifeless heap. "Don't be dead! Don't be dead on me, you bastard!" Martha shrieked a little too loud she thought. She regained her composure and got up the courage to feel for Aaron's pulse. She was greatly relieved to find it still faintly there. Then she decided she had to get Aaron's pants back on. He was lying on his back at the foot of the bed on a diagonal. One leg draped over the side and the other over the foot of the bed. He still had his shirt and tie on. His shoes and gartered argyles were also still in place. Martha got down on the stained carpet that was riddled with cigarette burns and picked up the DA's briefs. She took hold of Aaron's ankle dangling on the side of the bed and moved it over to the other leg at the foot of the bed. She let go of the ankle to put the briefs on and the leg snapped back to its prior position at the side of the bed. Martha repeated the process of getting the legs together. She then took both ankles in her hands and lifted them up in the air until Aaron's body shifted on the bed so that his legs would stay together. Back down at floor level Martha found the briefs and slid them onto the DA's still shod feet, up over his ankles, calves, knees, thighs and finally got them into place. Next, she did the same with his pants. He was all dressed now and ready to go. But, where? Where could she take him? How could she take him anywhere? How could she get him out of the motel room and into his car?

Martha got up from the bed and began pacing the floor trying to think of a way out. There was none. There just wasn't any way she could think of to get the DA out of there without anyone knowing. She was stumped. No way could she get an unconscious, one hundred eighty-five-pound man off the bed, out the door and into a car. Then it hit her! She'd have to revive him. Wake him up. Bring him around. The way to do that, Martha figured, was to throw ice cold water on him. She reached for the pitcher on the dresser and bolted for the door where she froze with her hand on the knob. The image of herself that she had glimpsed in the dresser mirror as she picked up the pitcher halted her in her tracks. The realization of how she was dressed stunned her consciousness. She kicked off her spike heels, slipped on her slacks, pulled her sweater on, put on her penny loafers, checked herself in the mirror, fussed with her hair a bit and then went out to fill the pitcher with ice. Martha hurried out the door but didn't take two steps before making a sudden U-turn. She had left the door open and thought she better close it in case someone happened by and noticed a near lifeless body sprawled out on the bed. She shut the door hard and checked to see if it was locked it was. Martha again headed straight for the ice machine by the motel's office but again stopped in her tracks when she, "Oh my god!" realized she didn't have the key. It was in the room on the dresser. Damn! She'd have to go into the office and ask for a spare.

That was the last thing she wanted to do. She, nor Aaron, had ever stepped foot in the office or dealt with any of the motel personnel. The system of reserving a room was tailor made for anonymity. Potential customers would phone a certain party who would assign them a room number at Hernando's Hideaway Motel for the time requested. Then, when the time came, the customer would drive around the motel office, stop along the far side and push a button to extract a sliding drawer from out of the wall. The customer would then put into the drawer an envelope with the payment in it and the pre-assigned room number written on the back. The drawer would retract and then open again with the room key in it.

There was, however, no contingency plan for a lock out. Martha was on her own. She decided the best thing to do was march into the office with bold authority like she owned the place, ask for the key, turn on her heels and be gone before the motel manager had time to dwell on her appearance. As an experienced prosecutor she knew that recognizing faces was a tricky proposition if a witness had only a brief look at a suspect. Of course, now with her daily TV appearances in court she had to admit she was not an unknown quantity anymore. However, the chances that a manager of a no-tell motel would be watching Court TV were probably very slim. So, if she could get in, get the key and get out of the office all in one fell swoop she felt confident her identity would remain forever unknown at Hernando's Hideaway.

"I know a dark secluded place. Where no one ever knows your face." The old song kept running through Martha's mind as she stood by the ice machine trying to decide whether she should fill the pitcher right then or wait until she got the key. "It's called Hernando's Hideaway. Ole!" The song became increasingly insistent, bringing Martha back to a more innocent time in her life.

Imagining an imagined time of imagination when she was a youngster, smooth riding, gliding on air, her mother driving the car with the radio playing. Whenever "Hernando's Hideaway" came on Martha's mom would sing along with it while making spooky and comic faces at her daughter who giggled and laughed with delight at the child her mother became.

Martha decided to get the ice after she got the key. So, with empty pitcher in hand she entered the motel's office. A woman stood at the manager's desk. Her dark hair was frazzled, unkempt, as was the rest of her appearance. She had on pair of old worn out sneakers that seemed to be about two or three sizes too big for her feet. One was laced part way and the other had no laces at all. Her legs were unshaven. She wore a pleated skirt and a shabby stained old sweater. Martha couldn't see her face but she could hear her faint voice speaking words as if in a dream, "I could make money here. And, you know you'd get yours. Or you could do me too if you wanted to."

"I don't think so, Lucy. We don't work it like that here," the manager said. He looked at Martha briefly with absolutely no interest.

"I'm a...whatd'ya call it...a antroprooneer. That's all. I see a need here that I could fill."

"Look, just get outta here will ya!" ordered the manager, a middle aged man with close-cropped hair around his baldness and a bushy mustache. He looked past Lucy and asked Martha what she wanted.

"I need the key to number six."

The manager turned to the keyboard behind and to the right of him, turned back to Martha and told her that room was occupied.

"I know that!" Martha said a little exasperated, "It's my room."

"So, why d'ya need the key, then?

"Because," the impatient Martha Kent said as she held up the pitcher to punctuate her explanation, "I locked myself out."

"You're here alone?" asked the manager incredulously.

"Right now I am, yes," Martha lied.

"Well, I can't let ya have a key."

"What! Why not?"

"Is just not how we do things here."

"It's not how...How am I supposed to get into my room?"

"I can letcha in," the manager said as he turned to the key board. "That was number six, you say?"

"That's right. I have to get some ice. I'll meet you there," Martha said on her way out of the office. She stopped at the ice machine and quickly filled the pitcher. The manager came limping out the office door toward her and she went on her way to her room. Martha wanted to get to the door first so she could position herself to be able to slip inside as soon as the door was unlocked. That way she had a chance of preventing the manager from peeking in and seeing Aaron comatose on the bed. The hobbling manger was still a few doors away when Martha reached her destination. She stood and watched the manager's painful progression with interest.

"Viet Nam. Land mine," the manager explained.

"Oh, I see. I'm sorry," offered Martha as the limping veteran approached.

He looked at her a moment as though from another dimension where her sentiments had no place. It wasn't a bitter look or one of disdain, Martha thought. It was a knowing look that said, "I know where you're at. I know where I'm at. But you don't know where I'm at." There was a simple acceptance of the facts in those blood shot eyes, of the unbridgeable distance that can exist between two people. The old soldier put the key in the door, unlocked it and went on his way.

"Thank you," Martha said suddenly after a moment of respectful silence that she found herself rapt in.

The man limped away.

Martha watched his torturous journey a moment longer and then remembering her mission rushed in the room, closed the door, locked it, went into the bathroom, put the pitcher of ice under the bathtub faucet, filled it with water and dumped it all over her unconscious lover. Aaron sprang to life sitting up suddenly like a Frankenstein monster. He gave out a yell that pierced Martha's heart and gave her goose bumps. Aaron flip flopped around on the bed, clutched his chest and grimaced. "Are you trying to kill me?" he barely managed to say.

"We're getting out of here," Martha ordered as she grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up to a sitting position on the bed. She then crouched down and put Aaron's arm around her shoulders, "C'mon Aaron, stand up a little. I can't do this myself. We gotta get you outta here."

"Where are you taking me?" The bewildered DA asked as he strained to stand.

"I just want to get you in your car, drive you down the road somewhere and then call 911 to let them know where you are."

"Just take me to the hospital."

"I've gotta get my car away from the motel after I drop you off and by that time the EMS will be taking good care of you. Okay?"

They were at the door. Martha opened it and took a look around. "Okay, let's go," she said and supporting Aaron as best she could the two wobbled and wove their way to the car. Martha drove the ailing DA down the street, got out of the car, told him to slide himself over to the driver's side and then went to a pay phone to call 911. After that Martha went back to the motel, collected her things from the room, got in her car and headed for home where she planned to be when she heard on the news about the DA's near fatal heart attack.

................................................................................

"Mr. Johnson? Brad Johnson?"

"Yes, that's right."

Captain Jenkins flashed his badge and identified himself.

"What's this about?"

"I'd like to ask you a few questions about your video tape of Andrew Wussmann."

"Oh, sure, come on in."

Jenkins entered the modest apartment, which did not measure up to the status of the man who lived there. It was a two-bedroom on the second floor of a middle class complex a few blocks away from Sunset Strip. It was for the most part a temporary resting place for yuppies just out of school before making their move to a split-level in the burbs. The living room was modestly furnished with one half devoted to exercise equipment featuring a tread mill and a set of barbells. Brad Johnson was a middle-aged mass of flab. "You're an executive vice-president with American Express?"

"Yes, that's right," Mr. Johnson said as he indicated to the Captain that he should have a seat. Jenkins perched himself on the edge of the seat of a recliner that was set at a diagonal to the left side of the sofa where Mr. Johnson sat down. He asked the Captain if he was being investigated for some reason.

"Oh, no, nothing like that. This is just routine." The Captain took out a small notebook that he would scribble in from time to time during the interview and said, "The video tape you took of Andrew Wussmann at the soccer game just surfaced at the trial yesterday, as you know, and we need to get some background information about it."

"Like what?"

"Well, I suppose you went to the soccer game with a camera to film your son."

"That's correct."

"So, how did you wind up filming Mr. Wussmann?"

"Well, the game was over and I had some tape left...I got the urge to be paparazzi, I guess."

"Had you ever seen Mr. Wussmann, or, Blade, as he's known, before that day?"

"No."

"Ever been to one of his concerts?"

"Captain, the last concert I attended was Altamont."

"Altamont, ey?"

"Yeah."

"Pretty wild concert, that was."

"Extremely so."

"Some people say Wussmann's group On The Edge are the Rolling Stones of Heavy Metal," the Captain remarked in a friendly manner.

"I've heard that, yes," Mr. Johnson said without much interest.

"You agree?" the Captain asked.

"I find them comparable in some ways."

"Are you a fan of On The Edge?"

"I have some of their albums."

"Really!"

"Is that so remarkable?"

"Doesn't fit with my image of an American Express exec. Neither does this apartment."

"My ex-wives."

"And On The Edge? How do they fit in?"

"American Expression?" Mr. Johnson offered trying for some humor.

"Uh huh," the Captain uttered as he regarded Mr. Johnson distantly. "So," the Captain got back to business, "at the soccer game, when did you realize Blade was there?"

"I was standing on the sidelines before the game talking to one of the referees, an acquaintance of mine. There was a little commotion at one of the stands. I looked over and saw this guy in a cowboy hat and shades and nothing registered until I saw him move to the back of the stands. Then I thought it might be Blade."

"Why?"

"Just the way he moved. He's got this kind of rhythmic swagger that's a trademark."

"You said you'd never seen him before."

"Never in person. I've seen him on TV. Award shows and music videos," Mr. Johnson explained. He sat back in the sofa with his arms folded and legs crossed.

"Uh huh," the Captain muttered as he wrote something in his notebook. He looked up at Mr. Johnson and asked, "And then what happened?"

"Huh?"

"At the soccer game."

"The game started and I watched and filmed some of it."

"So, when did you decide to film Wussmann?"

"The game was over. My ex took our son home with her right away and I thought it'd be a kick to have my own private video of a heavy metal rock star."

"Did you ask him if you could film him?"

"Nope. I didn't think I had to."

"Well, if you're a fan as you say, why not go up to him and get his autograph or something?"

"I find that kind of thing really awkward. I'm not really interested in shaking his hand and saying...what? 'Gee I really like your music?' I mean my connection to Blade and On The Edge isn't personal. I don't want it to be personal. I know him in his music and that's really the only way I want to know him."

"Yet you took the video of him. That's pretty personal, isn't it?"

"No. It's pretty impersonal, if you ask me." Mr. Johnson was getting anxious for the police officer to leave.

"How so?"

"Well, getting personal with someone...they need to be involved in the process too," Mr. Johnson explained with some annoyance. "I mean, really," he went on, "what's so personal about filming someone without their knowledge, without their participation. It was all one sided, impersonal. It was like he was a bug under a microscope or something."

"Why did you give the tape over to the DA?"

"Well, when I realized it was taken on the day of the murders I thought it might have some relevance."

"Why? What did you think it showed that would be of any use to the DA?"

"Well, I didn't really know if it would be of value or not."

"So..."

"I figured I'd let the DA decide that."

"I see. Well, that makes sense. But you didn't let the DA decide did you?"

"Whatd'ya mean?"

"Didn't you think the DA decided that your video wasn't relevant? Didn't you somehow come to that conclusion?"

"No, I don't think so."

"You don't?"

"No."

"What then?" Captain Jenkins felt he had Johnson on a hook and he wanted to keep him there until he could reel him in.

"What then, what?"

"Whatd'ya think the DA decided about your video?"

"I didn't know."

"You didn't know. No. But what did you think?"

"I didn't think anything?"

"You must've thought something. You must've thought something to make the call to the defense lawyer."

"I wondered if they knew about it."

"Why would you wonder about a thing like that?"

"Because I'm a wonderful guy."

"Oh yeah!" the Captain was losing patients.

Just then a man came in the apartment. A good-looking well-tanned younger man in skintight faded jeans, a sleeveless mesh T-shirt and a diamond stud earring. He was carrying a pair of roller blades.

"Hi Mark,"

"Hi, Brad. What's up?"

"Nothing. Why don't you go and shower, we're just about through here."

"Sure, okay."

Jenkins watched the young man saunter into the bedroom and was annoyed by the flirtatious look he received from him as he closed the door. Jenkins turned slowly to look at Brad. He regarded him a moment with eyebrows raised.

"What?" Mr. Johnson asked sharply.

"Oh nothing. Nothing at all."

"You are through here, aren't you?"

"Um, Le'me see..."

"I really don't have to answer any of your questions. I think you've asked enough. I wish you'd go now. What's this all about anyway?"

"One more question. How'd you happen to be watchin' TV in the middle of the day? Weren't you at work? In your office?"

"I was on a break."

"Ten minutes? Fifteen? Half-hour? What?"

"I don't remember exactly."

"Tell me this. How much of the trial did you see that day? From what point to what point?"

"As I said, I don't have to answer these questions."

"Does your, uh, roommate work?"

"That's enough, I said."

"Was he with you at the soccer game?"

"I want you outta here right this minute. I'm calling a lawyer."

"That's fine, but look, I'm not here to hurt you. In fact, just between you and me, I thought the whole idea to question you was pretty ridiculous. Okay? But if you're going to start evading my questions then the DA will probably want to pursue this matter with you on a more official basis. If you come clean with me and I'm satisfied that there is no further need to look into this matter then that is what I'll report to the DA and I assure you the matter will be dropped immediately and we'll forget all about you. So, if you don't want your life turned upside down and inside out and made a public spectacle of by an outright investigation, level with me here and be done with it."

"Okay, look, I think my roommate must have called the defense lawyer. He was watching the trial, he had seen the tape before I sent it to the DA, and I'm sure he wondered how the prosecution could say what they did about Blade considering what he knew to be on the tape. He didn't tell me in so many words that he called Jimmy Harmon but who else could it have been? He adores Blade. Those records are all his. He introduced me to On The Edge. Through Mark I came to see the artistry in Blade's work where before I only saw anarchy. It was quite a revelation."

"Uh huh, well why didn't you just tell me this in the first place?"

"Mark is such an innocent. I didn't want him involved. To have some prosecuting attorney take him apart like a frog in a biology class would be an act of cruelty."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Was Mark at the soccer game?"

"No."

"We'll find out if he was, ya know."

"Well, he wasn't."

"Well, okay, your story sounds right. See, that wasn't so hard was it," Captain Jenkins said as he got up from the chair.

"So, that's it?" Mr. Johnson also stood up.

"That's it. I don't see any conspiracy here considering what you told me. Of course, if we find any contradictions in your story, then you'll be hearing from me again."

"In that case it's good-bye forever, Captain."

................................................................................

What would I do upon hearing the DA was taken ill? Martha Kent asked herself. She was at her home alone drinking a martini at the bar in the living room. She had given the housekeeper a hundred dollars to take her daughter out for dinner. As she thought things out she admired her new look in the mirror behind the bar. What would I do as a colleague and a friend who was just informed of her boss's sudden heart attack and subsequent hospitalization? Let's see, I would immediately call the hospital to inquire about his condition. Yes, and then I'd call his wife and try to console her. Martha knew, Ginger, Mrs. Foster, over the years from social affairs. The two of them always hit it off well and would sometimes talk about getting together for lunch or shopping which they did a couple of times before Martha and Aaron had started their first affair. Yes, of course, I'd have to call Ginger, Martha thought, as she poured herself another martini.

The phone rang. Martha twitched and spilled her drink a little as she was about to take a sip. After knocking back a large dose of the intoxicant she picked up the phone on the bar and said, "Hello."

"Martha, it's Elroy Haines," he was one of the ADAs doing fieldwork on the Wussmann case. He asked Martha if she had seen the news.

"No," Martha said, "why?"

"It's Aaron, he's had a heart attack."

"Oh my God, no!" Martha said and thought it sounded quite convincing, "Is it serious?"

"I don't know," Elroy told her, "I just saw it on the news."

"What hospital is he in? Do you know?"

"Mercy."

"Oh yes, Mercy on us all, But what hospital...Oh, you mean Mercy Hospital. Sorry, can't get my mind around this awful bit of news," Martha dissembled and thought it was an inspirational performance.

"I know. It's too bizarre. Everything's going wrong for us on this one so far," Elroy lamented.

"Well, le'me turn on the news now. And I better make some calls. I'll talk with you later Elroy. Thanks for letting me know."

Martha hung up the phone, turned on the TV news and dialed Ginger's number. It was busy. The television image was coming into focus. A TV journalist stood on the street where Aaron Foster had been treated by paramedics, "I'm standing here on Carmenara Street. A sleazy section of our fair city that is dominated by no-tell motels where you can rent rooms by the hour," he said into the camera. Then, turning away to indicate Hernando's Hideaway across the street behind him he continued. "This is one of those motels in the background here. And," the reporter went on with a dramatic gesture and a step to his right, "it was a mere fifty yards down the street that DA Aaron Foster was found slumped over in his car apparently suffering from a heart attack. An anonymous woman phoned 911 to report a man in trouble. Little did she know she was saving the life of one of LA's most prominent citizens. Mr. Foster was attended to at the scene and rushed to Mercy Hospital where he remains in stable condition. Chuck..."

A split screen of the studio anchorman and the reporter on the street now appeared on the television. The anchor man Chuck said, "Any ideas yet, Barry, on what the DA was doing in that 'sleazy', as you called it, neighborhood?"

"We have no official word on that as yet. I guess we'll just have to wait to hear from the man himself as to what business he had in this particular area of town."

"I guess he might have been passing through there to get to somewhere else."

"That's a possibility, Chuck, sure. I think it's ironic, though, that only a month ago our law enforcement agencies went on the airwaves to warn citizens away from visiting this section of town. And here we have our chief law enforcement officer taken seriously ill here."

"That is ironic, Barry, very ironic."

"That's pure irony itself in a nutshell," co-anchor Michelle offered.

"Thanks for that report, Barry," Chuck said as Barry's spot ended. Chuck turned to Michelle and said reverentially, "He did one heck of a job on that one, didn't he, Michelle."

"He certainly did, Barry. That irony part was terrific."

"Terrific," Chuck echoed. "And now we have a report from Andrea Martin standing right outside Mercy Hospital where the ailing DA is being treated. Andrea, what can you tell us?"

"DA Aaron Foster was admitted to Mercy Hospital at approximately 6:45 tonight. His condition was at first called critical but since has been downgraded to serious, but stable. Foster has been under a great deal of pressure with the high profile murder case now in court, The People v Wussmann. Which is, of course, the trial of the rock star known as Blade, lead singer of the heavy metal band On The Edge for the murder of his wife and her friend, Robby Thanos. Chuck..."

"Any word yet, Andrea, about when we might hear a statement from the DA? When he'll be well enough to talk to the press?"

"No, nothing definite, Chuck, as far as that goes. The doctor I spoke with told me that his patient would need at least two to three days of absolute rest before he would allow the DA to hold a press conference. But perhaps he, Mr. Foster, would be able to release some kind of initial statement to the media in the next day or so."

"Excellent work, Andrea, thank you."

"Thank you, Chuck."

"What a great job she gives...I mean does. What a great report she gives, is what I meant to say. That Andrea Martin is one crack reporter...I mean great, great reporter."

"Freudian slip, Chuck?" Michelle asked with an upbeat chuckle.

"No thanks, I already had one," Chuck quipped with a forced joviality that Michelle parroted.

"Oh brother," Martha sighed in disgust and poured herself another martini.

The phone rang. It was KBC-TV wanting to get a statement from her. Martha told them, "No comment," and hung up. She then called Ginger again and this time she got through.

"Hello," a shaky voice answered.

"Ginger?" Martha ventured cautiously.

"Yes..."

"It's Martha Kent."

"You've heard?"

"Yes. I'm so sorry. I wouldn't worry too much, though. He'll make it through this. He's a tough ol' bird."

"Yes...of, course."

"It's this case. It's a real pressure cooker we're in."

"Yes, I suppose..." Ginger said faintly.

"If there's anything I can do..." Martha offered.

"Well, I was just about to leave for the hospital. Aaron's office called earlier and offered to send a car over but, I don't know, for some reason I refused. I was angry with them. Blaming them, I guess. Anyway, I'm really in no condition to drive. Could you arrange for a car to be sent over for me?"

"I'll do better than that. I'll come and get you myself."

"Oh no..." Ginger protested.

"Oh yes! I was just getting ready to go to the hospital myself. I'll be at your place in about ten minutes. Okay?"

"Okay, Martha, thank you."

................................................................................

Captain Jenkins was at home totally absorbed by the TV news At the moment there was a shot of the front of Mercy Hospital. A large banner hung on the building just under its name. It read 50TH ANNIVERSARY OF DEDICATION TO HEALTHY LIVING. The voice of the reporter, Andrea Martin, was heard saying, "We're still here at Mercy Hospital as you can see. A very proud institution celebrating fifty years of service to the community. And tonight dedicated to saving the life of the District Attorney of Los Angeles County, Aaron Foster."

The camera panned down for a close up of Ms. Martin and then a split image appeared on the screen of Michelle in the studio and Andrea on location. "Andrea..."

"Yes."

"Hi, this is Michelle in the studio."

"Yes, Michelle?"

"We just now got word from our eye in the sky," (A little inset of a helicopter appeared on the screen.) "that the DA's wife has left her house and she's apparently making her way to the hospital."

"You know that's so ironic. Mrs. Foster was to be honored tonight at a benefit dinner for Mercy Hospital. She was to receive a Medal of Service award for her very lucrative fund raising efforts on behalf of the hospital. And here she is visiting her stricken husband in that very same hospital."

"That is incredibly ironic, Andrea," Michelle chimed in cheerily and then said, "I think the DA's wife should be arriving any time now."

Andrea turned toward the curb in front of the hospital's entrance and said, "Yes, I think I see her...and...yes, I'm pretty sure that Martha Kent, the assistant DA on the Andrew Wussmann case, is driving the car. How ironic is that! The assistant DA driving the DA's wife to the hospital where he lies seriously ill perhaps because of stress from the same trial that Martha Kent is assisting him on." Andrea said as she moved toward the curb with the camera following behind her. There were only a few reporters on the scene at the time and Andrea was able to station herself right next to the arriving car.

Martha Kent got out of the car first and walked around to the passengers' side saying loudly, "Mrs. Foster will have no statement at this time. She is as you would expect, quite distraught about her husband's mishap and I ask you to respect that."

As Martha turned to open the door for Ginger the reporters fired questions at the assistant DA, "Do you know what the DA was doing on Carmenara Street?" "Is there some connection to the Wussmann trial in that part of town?" "What kind of adverse effect will this have on the trial?" "Was Mr. Foster unusually upset about the way the trial was going?"

Martha strode right by all the badgering reporters with her arm around the anguished wife and entered the hospital without saying another word.

"Well, there you have it. Two strong women on their way to bring support and comfort to an ailing husband and colleague. Back to you Michelle."

"Thank you, Andrea. You'll still be there when they or either one of them leaves the hospital I'm sure. We'll get back to you then."

"Oh sure, I'm not going anywhere. You can count on that," Andrea said emphatically.

"Alright, Andrea, thanks again."

"What a trooper she is."

"Whew, you said it. Total trooper. And now a word from our sponsor..."

Captain Jenkins turned the TV off and reflected on this bizarre turn of events. It was the most peculiar case he had ever been associated with. He couldn't make sense of the crime, the detectives' behavior, the befuddled prosecution and now this mess. The bewildered captain rubbed his forehead vigorously, grimaced with tightly shut eyes and came to the conclusion that there was just no way to figure it all out.

................................................................................

At the hospital reception desk Martha and Ginger were directed to the second floor ICU where the DA was being treated. On their way to the elevator the mayor, along with his entourage, passed by. He stopped to offer a few words of encouragement for the DA's wife. He took her hand, held it in both of his and said, "He'll pull through fine. He's a tough ol' bird. He'll be glad to see you, my dear. It's just the tonic he needs right now, I'm sure." The mayor executed a reasonable facsimile of a smile as he released Mrs. Foster's hand and with a brief nod of recognition toward the ADA went on his way.

"Was it just me or did the mayor of our fair city seem just a tad disappointed at the prospect of my husband's pulling through?" Ginger asked Martha as they watched the mayor and his people walk away.

"Oh, definitely," Martha responded with a knowing grin.

The DA and the mayor had become political rivals in the last couple of years. Aaron Foster was planning to run for mayor himself in the next election. He had steadily been gaining support since declaring himself as a candidate recently began to lure some of the mayor's backers away from him. The biggest issue was crime and the city's budget. The present mayor was supposedly intent on cutting back expenses and the DA accused him of gouging the Justice Department's budget to the point where the District Attorney's office was barely scraping by. "The mayor has taken a tyrannosaurs sized bite out of our ability to take a bite out of crime," the LA Times quoted Foster as saying at a campaign fundraiser. "Meanwhile," the quote continued, "City Hall has given itself a humongous raise, ordered a new fleet of limousines and the mayor has taken, at the public's expense, several so-called good will trips, a.k.a. vacations, to many exotic locations around the globe. And, more trips are planned."

That was the DA's public strategy. Privately, Foster let it be known to the mayor that the District Attorney's office had in its possession a little black appointment book that once belonged to an infamous LA call girl and madam who was then serving time for solicitation and tax fraud. The mayor's name appeared several times in the book on various dates and established him as one of the madam's favorite customers. The DA made it clear to the mayor that he had no intention of using such material for political purposes but he could not absolutely ensure that it would not somehow be leaked to the press. "I just wanted to warn you of that possibility," Foster told the mayor, "so that, if, God forbid, someone in my office got a hold of that little black book and decided to make some money by selling it to The National Enquirer... Well, that would be a shame but, you know, at least you wouldn't be caught completely off guard."

Prior to the madam's arrest the mayor's office tried its best to shield her from investigation. There were other high officials who were also very interested in protecting her to keep themselves from possible exposure. When the mayor's office got wind of a pending investigation into the madam's affairs pressure was put on the DA to look the other way. There were other more serious criminal activities the DA should be investigating, the mayor insisted. Foster knew it would not be politically advantageous for him to ignore the mayor's "advice" nor to recklessly expose him and other luminaries in a scandal. But he also wanted something on them, something he could use for leverage. So, he appeared to comply with the mayor's request while "inadvertently" bringing the madam's activities to the attention of the IRS. When they got on the case to investigate tax fraud the DA was brought into it by their directive. So, Foster could officially blame the Feds for the investigation, subsequent prosecution and conviction of the well connected madam.

At the nurses station Ginger and Martha were told that they were just about to move Mr. Foster from the ICU to his own room down the hall. His condition was now classified as good and his prognosis was excellent. He should be out of the hospital in two or three days.

Martha wanted to go to the waiting lounge while Ginger visited with her husband but the DA's wife insisted that they visit with Aaron together. "The more the merrier," she said.

So, arm in arm the two women walked down the hallway to room 201 and waited for the patient's arrival. A nurse was already in the room preparing things. She pulled the bed covers down and folded them at the foot of the bed, checked the heart monitor to see that it was functional, hung a couple of clear plastic bags of fluid from a silver pole and abruptly left.

Aaron Foster was wheeled into the room on a stretcher that was as high as the bed. With assistance from a couple of nurses he was moved onto the bed where he caught sight of his two visitors for the first time. They were standing out of the way in a rear corner by a large curtained window. Aaron's cognitive functions were somewhat groggy from the medications he'd received to keep him relaxed. "Ginger? Is that you?" he asked as the nurses busied themselves hooking him up to the various gadgets and putting the covers over him.

"Yes. And you look fine. Are they sure you had a heart attack?"

"I'm feeling fine," Aaron said while alternating his gaze from his wife to his lover and trying to figure out what was going on. Had Martha told Ginger about their affair? Did his wife know how and where the heart attack happened? "It was nothing really," Aaron went on, "just my body telling me to slow down a little. And Martha's here, too." He then jokingly asked the nurses if it was a good idea for him to be in a room with so many beautiful women so soon after having a heart attack.

The heart monitor he had just been hooked up to begin its graphical display and one of the nurses said, "Your heart doesn't seem to notice. It's showing a nice steady rate on the screen."

"I want you to know, Ms. Kent, they're holding me here against my will and injecting me with mind altering drugs, poking me everywhere with God knows what. I want these people arrested."

"Now, Aaron, this is no time for you to be working," Ginger quipped.

"Mmm," Aaron moaned with a grimace of resignation, "I guess I won't be doing that for a while."

"I guess not," his wife agreed wholeheartedly.

The nurses were finished but before they left one of them told the two visitors that the patient would soon be nodding off from the medication.

Ginger moved to the side of the bed and Martha stood at its foot. The DA's wife tidied her husband's hair a little with her hand and said, "So, they think you'll be able to come home in a couple of days."

"I feel fine now. I'll be ready to go home tomorrow," Aaron said trying to bolster everyone's spirits.

"It's good that you feel that way, but just do what the doctor's tell you. Okay? You know you've been working too hard. What with your campaign and this damn trial," Ginger gently scolded. She then turned to her friend and in an effort to keep things cheery joked, "Martha, you should have taken charge over Aaron at the office and just whipped him into submission if you saw he was working too hard."

"Why would she do a thing like that? Why did you say such a thing?" Aaron said getting all worked up. His monitor registered an increase in his heart rate.

"Aaron, take it easy, I was only joking," Ginger said while stroking his head. "What's the matter? You're all in a sweat. Shall we call for a nurse?"

"No!" Aaron said sharply as he brushed his wife's hand away from his head. Then, trying to compose himself said, "No, I'm fine, really. It's just...it's just that people say that Martha is really in charge of things at the office. That she's the actual DA. And that riles me sometimes...that's all."

"Well, isn't she?" Ginger asked with an exaggerated innocence.

"Of course, I am," Martha played along, "Aaron's my little dog boy. He can't make a move unless I crack my whip."

"Oh, you two are killin' me. Take your routine to the Improv and let me get some rest."

"Sorry dear, it was a bad attempt at humor, I guess. What you need is quiet."

"Anyway," Aaron said trying to be the good sport, "I guess you are in charge now, Martha."

"Maybe she somehow arranged to have this happen so she could take over," Ginger joked.

"What are you talking about now?" Asked Aaron visibly annoyed.

"I'm sorry, I'm trying to keep things light, that's all."

A nurse peeked in and asked if everything was all right. Everyone assured her that it was. She came in anyway and attended to the patient. She turned a device on one of the IV bags, told the visitors to say their good nights and left the room.

"The mayor was in here to gloat at my weakened condition. I guess, that got me going," Aaron said as he began to relax.

"Yes, we saw him on our way to see you. We thought he looked disappointed that you were doing so well."

"I'm out of the running, now," the DA said with calm resignation. Then he said to his wife, "Maybe you could run in my place."

"Oh, well, I dunno about that."

"You'd be great. You're a terrific public speaker. You're familiar with City Hall. You know, who's who and what's what. You have a grasp of the issues," Aaron said and then turned to Martha and asked her if his wife wouldn't make a great mayor. She agreed that Ginger would make a fine mayor. "And," Aaron said, "it's the only way we can defeat..." He had to stop himself. He was getting all worked up and felt too weak to sustain his energized plea. "Just think about it, Ginger, okay?" Aaron whispered hoarsely as he relaxed back on the bed.

"Okay," Ginger said taking her husband's hand in hers, "now you get some rest. We'll see how you are in the next few days. Who knows, after you recover you might find yourself perfectly able to pick up where you left off. We'll..."

The nurse came in again looking cross at the two women. Ginger told her they were just about to leave. She bent down and kissed Aaron on the forehead and said she'd be in to see him again first thing in the morning.

On the way out of the hospital the two women were surrounded by a frenetic press corps pointing cameras and shoving mikes in their faces. The questions came in rapid firings, "How's Mr. Foster doing?" "Will he be back on the job soon?" "What about his campaign for mayor?" The reporters were quite aggressive and the two policemen escorting the women had all they could do to keep the press corps at bay.

................................................................................

It was the morning of the day that Ginny was to testify. She woke up suddenly with a fearful gasp as she had been doing all night, sleeping only in erratic episodes. Sedatives, booze, nothing helped to settle her nerves. She felt her life was over. Over before it ever really began. She had lived for Blade and only for him her whole adult life. Realizing that, for the first time in all its enormity, the tormenting image of her now wasted existence clawed at every fiber of her being.

From the time she had first met Blade till the present was one single moment of love for him. It was as though she had been existing in a hypnotic trance all those years. She never really had a life apart from her feelings for the rock star. Her dream of someday becoming his wife was all that sustained her. That dream was all that was real to her. Nothing else mattered. She had merely been going through the motions in the everyday affairs of her life while living for the day when she and her love would be together. Now that was all trashed. It was as though she had been skinned alive and laid in her bed with raw exposed nerves feeling excruciating pain from the very air around her. Breathing was an effort. The thought of testifying, of saying the things she was supposed to, to say in court that Blade was a murderer, to sentence him to death, to end his life, it was too much. Too much to ask to kill one's love.

Ginny swallowed a handful of sedatives with about half a bottle of vodka and fell into a deep sleep.

Cody arrived at Ginny's place a few minutes later to pick her up and take her to court. He had called her before he left but there was no answer. He assumed she was in the shower, or something. That's what he hoped, anyway. He knew that her state of mind had not been good. They had talked on the phone the night before and Cody thought she sounded distraught. He offered to come over and keep her company but Ginny declined the offer and said she just needed to get some sleep.

When there was no response after ringing Ginny's doorbell, Cody assumed the worst. He kicked at the door until it gave way, rushed inside yelling Ginny's name and found her asleep on the bed barely breathing. He saw the empty bottle of vodka on the floor and the empty container of barbies on the bed. He immediately called 911.

Cody hung up the phone, looked down at his friend and was seized by a desperate urge to revive her. "Ginny! Ginny, it's Cody!" he called out to her loudly as if she were in another room. "Hang in there, Ginny! Please!" Cody said as he took her hands in his and raised her up from the waist. Ginny's head hung back as if empty of life. That scared Cody and he let her lay back on the bed. He began stroking her hair. "Please!" he said with tears welling up in his eyes, "Please don't die, Ginny." Her corpse-like appearance was making Cody feel increasingly helpless. He knelt down beside the bed and lowered his head on to Ginny's chest. Her heartbeat was terrifyingly faint. Cody's desperation grew. Somehow, someway, he needed to get through to his fast fading friend. Twisting Ginny's hair around his hand Cody started pulling at it as he began biting her breasts through her flannel nighty all the while pleading through his tears for her to wake up.

When Cody became aware of the approach of the EMT personnel they were already in the house and heading into the bedroom. He also became aware of the intimate actions he was performing on his friend and reflexively recoiled away from her as the rescue squad entered the bedroom.

"What the hell're you doin'?" a husky uniformed female asked.

"I was just tryin' to help. You know CPR like," Cody said.

The two EMTs quickly turned their attention to Ginny, giving her oxygen and preparing to pump her stomach. A policeman took Cody by the arm and led him out of the room saying, "Let's you and I have a talk."

They went into the kitchen. The officer opened a couple of cabinets, took out a glass, filled it with water and gave it to Cody.

"Thanks," Cody said and took a couple of gulps.

"So, what happened here?" the officer asked.

"I dunno...I came to take her to court..."

"Court?"

"Yeah, Ginny, uh, that's her name, Ginny Walters," Cody said as if that name should ring a bell in the officer's head, "Blade's, Andrew Wussmann's friend who was supposed to testify at his trial today."

"Oh really." The officer radioed headquarters asking for another uniform and a couple of detectives.

Cody saw the EMTs through the kitchen doorway as they were wheeling Ginny out on a stretcher. The female came into the kitchen and said to the policeman, "I dunno, looks funny." She gave Cody the once over as though scanning him for some kind of evidence to support her suspicions.

"What looks funny?" asked the policeman.

"The victim's hair was pulled out of her head. Some of it was, anyway. Like, maybe someone," she again looked over at Cody, "held her head back to maybe force something down her throat."

"What!" Cody blurted out in disbelief.

"That's okay, Debbie, I'll take care of this. How's the patient?"

"Still breathing. She might make it," Debbie said as she left the room after one more disparaging look at Cody.

"Let's go," the policeman said to Cody.

"Where?"

"To the police station. We'll need to get a statement. Okay with you?"

"Yeah, sure," Cody said as his eyes roamed around the kitchen as though in search of a meaning to life.

"Okay then, let's go."

"You mean, together?"

"Yeah, ride with me. You're in no condition to drive."

"Okay," Cody said immobile.

"After you," said the officer gesturing toward the door.

When they got out to the police car the ambulance was just pulling away. The officer opened the rear door of his black and white. "You have to sit in the back. It's the law," the officer explained. Cody got in. The policeman shut the door, walked around to the driver's side and got in. "We need to wait for the other officers to get here." Then speaking into his radio said, "Car 81 to base..."

"Base, go ahead 81," a squawking female voice responded.

"Have you been notified of my location?"

"Affirmative 81."

"I'll be returning to headquarters with witness when relief arrives."

"10-4."

"Victim has left for the hospital. An officer should be there to get a statement when she comes to."

"10-4, 81."

"10-4 and out."

The officer replaced the mic in its holder on the dashboard and let out a tremendous fart that ripped the air with a powerful stench.

Cody went to open a window but found that the power switch wasn't operable.

"Sorry 'bout that," said the officer. "I stink therefore I am," he added comically.

Cody laughed and asked for a gas mask as another black and white pulled up along side the curb. The officers waved to each other and car 81 pulled away and headed for the station. Fresh air rushed in through the driver's open window and Cody breathed a little easier.

................................................................................

In court that morning the judge made a brief statement about the terrible fate of the DA, Aaron Foster, "...a man of fierce dedication who has been an inspiration to us all over the years he has so effectively served as District Attorney of Los Angeles County. I'm sure you all, as I do, wish him a speedy recovery." The Judge paused briefly and then turning to the business at hand said, "Let the record show that the prosecution is now represented by Assistant District Attorneys Martha Kent and Elroy Haines. The court officer will now seat the jury and we will press on with this trial."

If her first two witnesses had turned out to be disastrous Martha Kent was hoping for a complete turnaround with her next one, her star witness, Ginny Walters.

Martha was confident that Ms. Walters' testimony would get the prosecution back on track and deliver the defendant straight to death row. That is where he belonged. She was certain of that. As certain of that as she was that Blade and his ilk represented the scourge of society. The evidence unquestionably pointed to Wussman's guilt. Eventually the jury would see that as clear as a billboard on a sunny California day in spite of some inconsequential videotape the court had been forced to suffer through.

Ms. Kent hoped the jury saw the tape as depicting the reprobate rocker as performing a grotesque caricature of a regular-guy-family-man that he most certainly was not. She planned to keep referring to the video as a ruse during the trial and in her closing statement to implant that interpretation firmly in the minds of the jurors. There was still the possibility that Captain Jenkins would find some connection between Brad Johnson and the degenerate rock star that would show the tape to be a scam. In the chaos of that morning due to the DA's sudden departure from the case, however, Martha had overlooked the Captain's report on his interview with the subject. It was lying on her desk and indicated the investigation into the matter was a dead end.

The jury had filed in and taken their seats. Martha looked around the gallery for Ms. Walters but couldn't find her. She did see one of her assistants, who she had sent out to find the witness, hurrying down the aisle. He informed Martha that Ms. Walters was nowhere to be seen, "I searched everywhere," he said, "I even looked in the ladies room."

"Is the prosecution ready to call its next witness?" the judge asked while looking down at his desk as he shuffled some papers around.

"Yes, your Honor, but she hasn't yet arrived at the courthouse. We ask for ten minutes to ascertain what the problem is, if any," Martha Kent said wringing her hands anxious for things to start going her way, "I'm sure she'll be here any second now."

"You have five minutes to produce the witness," the judge pronounced casually as he continued to organize his desk.

"Thank you, your honor," Martha said trying to sound grateful. She was used to getting exactly what she asked for from a judge. What is it with this guy, she thought, I have one bad day and he forgets my perfect record? She sat down and conferred with her new partner, "Whatd'ya think?"

"I don't like it. It feels like the axe is about to fall," Mr. Haines said gravely. He was a tall Afro-American who towered over his diminutive associate even when they were sitting together as they were at the prosecution table.
"Oh God, I feel the same way," said Martha. She put her head in her hands momentarily and then said, "Let's just get on with the next witness and bring Walters up next."

"Is the housekeeper here?" Haines asked thoughtfully stroking his chin. He was very guarded in his speech and movement. There was a heaviness about him, a droopy look that made him appear to be constantly feeling sorry for himself.

Martha looked around the gallery, "No, I don't see her. I told her to be here by ten."

"That's a half hour from now," Elroy said slowly with a worried expression on his face that bordered on the comic. "We'll have to ask for a recess."

"Oh great, the judge hates us already."

"Well, what can we do?"

"We need to find out where Walters is."

Elroy moaned in a mild panic. "This is her fault. Not ours. Maybe she got in an accident or something unforeseen such as that. That would get us off the hook."

"I'm not so sure. This judge would probably see an accident as our fault. He'd find a way to blame us for it."

"Oh God, this case is a jinx, I can just feel it."

"Oh, come on, Roy, this is just a temporary..."

"Your five minutes are up, Ms. Kent," the judge announced.

"I move to remove the witness, Virginia Walters, from the prosecution's case!" Judy Adams found herself demanding as she jumped out of her chair.

The judge regarded her a moment looking over his reading glasses and smiled slightly as he said, "While I admire your enthusiasm, Ms. Adams, wouldn't you agree that your motion is a bit premature?"

Judy was aware of the murderous stare she was receiving from her nemesis on the other side of the aisle and that emboldened her even more. She said, "It seems the prosecution is not only incapable of producing vital evidence for our review but is also..."

"I get the point, counselor," the judge said wearily, "but you're jumping the gun on this one. Now please resume your seat and..." The judge was handed a note and interrupted himself as he read it. He put the note down, took off his glasses and addressed the court, "Virginia Walters has been taken to Mercy Hospital as a result of an overdose of barbiturates."

Blade hung his head in his hands. Judy put her arm around his shoulders to comfort him and Jimmy Harmon asked for a short recess so everyone could have a chance to absorb this tragic bit of news. The judge agreed and ordered a twenty-minute recess and told the prosecution to have a witness ready to take the stand when court resumed.

..............................................................................

Blade and his defense team retired into their designated anteroom that, unlike the courtroom, had windows. The brightness of the sun seemed an affront to the darkness of the news they had just received. Upon entering the bright cheerful atmosphere Blade remarked "That's rude," His attorneys looked at him at a loss. "The sun light," Blade explained as he began pacing back and forth in a narrow space between the table and the wall.

Jimmy Harmon instructed Peter Forrister to go to the hospital immediately, talk to Ginny's doctors, get the details of her condition and report back to them right away. Blade asked to use Judy's cell phone and she handed it to him. The lawyers sat down and began discussing how the trial might now progress if Ms. Walters was prevented from testifying.

On the phone with his business manager Blade told him the awful news of Ginny's condition. He then explained that she had been working as a waitress since being fired from her job and she probably did not have any health insurance. "I wanna take care of her. I wanna see to it that she has the best care possible," Blade said. "You might have to set something up on the sly because of the court order. Ginny and I are not supposed to have anything to do with one another." The business manager said he could create an anonymous foundation through a third party for the purpose of paying Ms. Walters' medical bills. Blade wasn't sure that would work and told his accountant to hold on while he talked with his lawyer. Harmon thought that the DA could trace the money back to Blade if they were suspicious of the anonymous foundation, which they were sure to be. Back on the phone Blade relayed what the lawyer had said and gave instructions to transfer a couple of million into Cody's bank account so he can take charge of Ginny's healthcare.

"Isn't that a little extreme?" asked the accountant.

"Well, I wanna see that Cody's taken care of too."

"Are you sure you can trust him to take care of Ginny? I could open up an account in his name, which I could control and just have him come in and sign checks that I approve," the accountant suggested.

Blade assured him that Cody was one-hundred-percent trustworthy and was to be given the money to use at his own discretion.

While discussing trial strategy with her boss Judy lent what attention she could to her client's phone conversation and when Blade handed back the phone she said, "That was a wonderful thing to do, Andy." Blade shrugged and continued with his restless pacing.

................................................................................

At the police station Cody was brought into an interrogation room. He sat down at a table across from who he now knew to be Officer O'reilly.

"Now," O'reilly said, "you're not under arrest. But the prosecutor for the Wussmann case wants to ask you a few questions just to clear up some suspicious looking details."

"What details?" Cody asked and then said, "I'm Ginny's friend. I..."

Martha Kent came storming through the door of the interrogation room like she had been shot from a cannon. Upon hearing of Cody's suspected involvement the prosecutor called Judge Martinez in his chamber, asked for and was granted an extended recess so this new turn of events could be investigated. "Is this the suspect!" Martha asked no one in particular like a distracted madwoman.

Without waiting for an answer from Officer O'reilly the riled prosecutor told the officer to sit down as she paced up and down along the side of the table. An assistant entered the room briskly and handed her a file. She grabbed it out of his hands. He abruptly turned and left the room. Martha Kent continued pacing as she scanned over the file. Then she held it behind her back with both hands and asked, "You're Cody Tolkein?"

"Yes."

"You say you discovered Virginia Walters this morning unconscious in her bed?" the attorney asked the suspect.

"That's right, yes."

"She had the hair pulled out of her head. How'd that happen?"

"I was trying to shake her out of it."

"You were trying to silence her, you mean?"

"What?"

"You're a friend of Andrew Wussmann, a very close friend. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, I..."

"And you wanted to help your friend out? It's understandable."

"No."

"Yes, it's perfectly understandable. Even admirable. You'll be considered a hero to all the fans of On The Edge. Oh yes, you'll be quite the celebrity when this gets out."

"I don't wanna be a celebrity. It sucks bein' a celebrity."

"Well, you won't have a chance to be one anyway! You're on your way to jail, mister!" the prosecutor screamed in the suspect's face, "Obstruction of justice, tampering with a witness! Not too mention attempted murder!"

"You're crazy. I didn't do anything."

"Oh yes you did!" Ms. Kent yelled as loud as she could and then backing off said calmly, "We have the proof. We'll find bits of hair from the victim under your nails. And the bite marks on her breasts? I'm sure they'll match your teeth. So, we may as well add rape to the charges against you."

"Ra...you...I..."

"There's a way out, Cody. There is a way out," Ms. Kent said confidentially. "March up to the courtroom and confess to the judge and jury that Andrew Wussmann put you up to it. He got you to try and silence Ms. Walters. He paid you to do it. You were out of that great job you had with Wussmann. You needed the money. You said you'd do it. Well, it's okay. I'll give you total immunity as long as you testify that you tried to silence Ms. Walters at the behest of your former boss Andrew Wussmann."

Captain Jenkins entered the room holding a folder as Cody was protesting his innocence. "Arrest this creep, O'reilly!" Ms. Kent ordered.

"Hold it!" the Captain said with authority and, indicating the folder he held before him, said, "The only finger prints on the bottle of vodka and the barbiturate container were those of Ms. Walters. Also, Mr. Tolkein had to force his way into Ms. Walters' home. As a friend of hers he wouldn't have had to do that unless she was already unconscious when he arrived."

"Of course he had to force his way in! The victim was afraid for her life!" Ms. Kent vehemently charged.

"Then there would have been signs of a struggle once Mr. Tolkein gained entry," the Captain noted. "There were none. Also, a neighbor of Ms. Walters saw Mr. Tolkein drive up to Ms. Walters' home as the neighbor was picking up his newspaper from his driveway. He knew the time to be 8:15 because he had just turned off his alarm clock. Mr. Tolkein phoned 911 at 8:18. Hardly enough time to subdue the victim and force pills and booze down her throat."

Martha Kent snatched the folder out of the Captain's hands and left the room irate.

Captain Jenkins and the Sergeant exchanged smiles and Cody asked if he could leave.

"You're free to go," the Captain said.

"The system works!" Cody announced victoriously, got up from behind the table and walked out as fast as he could.

...............................................................................

Martha Kent arrived back in court to an impatient judge. He had called the jury back from their break five minutes ago. They were all gathered in a small anteroom waiting for the harried prosecutor's return so they could again be seated. "Ah," the Judge said as Ms. Kent entered the courtroom, "good of you to grace us with your presence counselor. May we continue with the trial now?"

"Your Honor," Martha Kent addressed the court and then fell silent. She bowed her head a moment to collect her thoughts and then began again. "Your Honor, I do not welcome the unfortunate delays this trial has suffered any more than the court does. And I want to assure the court that the prosecution is doing its very best to proceed with its case in the most expedient manner possible. The circumstances of this latest delay are not only tragic ones for Ms. Walters and her family, but they also render a devastating blow to the prosecution's case. We really cannot continue without the testimony of Virginia Walters. Therefore, I ask the Court's permission to have Ms. Walters' deposition read into the record."

"The defense objects," Jimmy Harmon announced.

"Of course it does," said the judge wearily exasperated.

"Your honor," Martha Kent beseeched, "the witness's deposition goes against interest. Ms. Walters was obviously distraught about the deposition she gave and the subsequent testimony she was about to give here today. It is our opinion that her attempted suicide, if that's what it was, and I say that because the people have a strong suspicion that the defendant arranged for a friend to try to silence the witness, we're looking into that matter as we speak. Either way, attempted suicide or murder, it is more than a reasonable assumption that such action, with respect to said witness, points to the absolute veracity of the statements contained in Ms. Walters' deposition."

"On the contrary, your honor," Harmon interjected, "this would not be the first time Ms. Kent has badgered a witness into saying what she wants them to say. We saw that in her first two witnesses whose testimony under the guiding hand of Ms. Kent was totally contradicted by a videotape. Ms. Walters was obviously intimidated into saying things at her deposition that she did not really believe to be the truth and the prospect of having to reiterate her previously coerced statement here in court was too much for her and she took desperate measures to prevent that from happening."

"Your honor," Ms. Kent began to rebut.

"That's enough counselor," Judge Martinez interrupted, "I've heard enough. The court will not hear Ms. Walters' deposition read at this time pending more information on the witness' condition and her future availability to testify. In the meantime I will review the deposition and I'll hear your arguments in full if that becomes necessary. Now, the court officer will have the jury come in and we will get on with this trial."

The jury filed in quickly and took their seats. Martha Kent scanned the gallery to see if her next witness had arrived. She couldn't find her. The prosecutor intensely focused on the doors at the back of the gallery as if trying to make the witness appear through shear desire.

"Ms. Kent," the judge prompted.

"Prosecution calls Maria Gonzales!" Martha blurted out with excessive energy. No one in the gallery made a move. No one came in through the doors.

Martha sat down next to her new partner, Elroy, and vented her frustration with an intense, yet restrained, "God dammit! Now whadda we do?"

"We have to get someone on the stand. We'll have to use one of our people. Detective Conner, Charlie Wong, somebody."

"I'm gonna try for a recess. At least until this afternoon."

"Lotsa luck," Elroy said sullenly.

"Your honor," Martha said as she rose from her seat, "due to this morning's unfortunate incident, which has gravely disrupted these proceedings, I would ask your indulgence to declare a recess until after lunch this afternoon just so we can all take a deep breath and regain our composure. After all, would it be in the interest of justice to, through no fault of our own, present a broken, disjointed case."

"You mean you have no witness available?" the Judge asked.

"Well, that too..."

"I'm disinclined to call for a recess, counselor. We cannot, of course, foresee the vicissitude of life, we can't know down the road whether the bridge will be out or whether a tree has fallen to block the way. That's precisely why we need to have alternative routes available to us. You should have other witnesses available."

"Yes your honor, but..." Martha tried to interject.

"Let me finish. Ms. Kent," the judge interrupted with some annoyance. "It's in the interest of justice to carry on a trial without undue delay. It is your responsibility to be prepared for whatever contingencies may arise with regard to your scheduling of witnesses. Now, as I said I am disinclined to call for a recess at this time. However, if the defense has no objection to the prosecution's motion for a recess I will grant the people's request. Mr. Harmon?"

"One-second your honor," Harmon said as Judy was whispering in his ear. She had been out in the corridor to see who on the prosecution's team was talking to who in an attempt to get a bead on just how distressed they were about the misadventures their case was suffering. She saw a couple of edgy discussions taking place which gave her the idea that "the people" were on the verge of panic. As Judy was taking this all in she noticed Maria Gonzales walk into the courthouse and immediately went into the courtroom to inform her boss.

With this bit of information, which Harmon assumed the prosecution would also be informed of, he told the judge that the defense would be more than happy to concede to the prosecution's request for a recess. "After all," Jimmy said with mischievous grin, "we want to give them every opportunity to present a cogent case. If, indeed, that is possible."

"Is that necessary, your honor?" Elroy Haines stood up indignantly and asked.

"No," the judge said with a sigh, "but it's not so out of order either."

"Your honor!" Martha Kent bolted out of her seat after one of her underlings came in the courtroom and handed her a note.

"Yes?" said the judge as he eyed her warily.

"Our witness is here!"

"Glory hallelujah!" Judge Martinez exclaimed, greatly relieved.

Ms. Kent again called for Maria Gonzales to take the stand.

Amid the murmuring of the spectators, the petite, frightened looking housekeeper, dressed in a plain white blouse and colorful skirt with a flower design, was escorted down the aisle by a uniformed court officer. He opened the gate dividing the gallery from the trial area. The timid witness hesitated a moment before being gently guided through by her escort. Inside the gate, Martha Kent, trying to hide her impatience with the slow moving woman, gestured flamboyantly toward the witness box. Ms. Gonzales smiled at Ms. Kent courteously and ventured toward the indicated goal. The witness was sworn in and took her place on the witness chair.

The judge asked if she was comfortable and the woman asked impishly in a slight accent, "For the hot seat?"

Everyone in the court got a laugh out of that remark and became instantly endeared to the diminutive witness with her charming smile and sparkling eyes.

"Yes," the judge chortled, "the hot seat, indeed."

Martha Kent smiled as well. She was overjoyed to finally have a witness that people liked. At that moment the prosecutor wanted to keep her on the stand as long as possible. However, she was only prepared for a few questions. At the time of Ms. Gonzales' deposition Martha Kent felt pressed for time and thought that her contribution was for the most part self-evident. She only asked a few cursory questions about the relationship between Rachel and Andrew Wussmann. "Did they fight?" "Often?" "Was it violent?" That kind of thing. Ms. Kent also wanted to know the date that Maria had last cleaned Mr. Wussmann's house? She said it had been the Friday of Mr. Wussmann's tour ending engagement in LA, two days before the murders.

The first few questions that Ms. Kent asked the witness in court established that Ms. Gonzales had worked for Mr. Wussmann for eleven years. Her duties included cleaning, "I do windows too," Maria announced proudly to the delight of the court, she also cooked whenever that was requested of her and took care of Josh and Belinda whenever necessary. She had a room on the first floor of the Wussmann residence and would sometimes sleep there overnight. However, she usually went back to her own home after her day's work.

This was news to the prosecutor. She could have sworn that at the time of her deposition Maria had told her that she was a live-in maid. Ms. Kent was about to challenge her witness on that point but immediately thought better of it. Instead, she took a moment to read over the deposition at the prosecution's table. There was no reference to Ms. Gonzales' living arrangement. During the deposition she only mentioned that she had her own room at the Wussmann home.

Ms. Kent was suddenly faced with the uncomfortable realization that she had conducted a sloppy deposition of the housekeeper and merely assumed that she was a live-in maid from the fact that she had her own room in Wussmann's home. This did not square with the prosecutor's image of herself as a thoroughly professional attorney. It was merely a bothersome glitch that was quickly dismissed from her mind as she concentrated on the practicalities of this new bit of information. The theory that the maid had been given the night off on the night of the murders so that she would not be a witness to Wussman's comings and goings was now rendered invalid. A mere trifle, Martha told herself, the main issue was still in tact.

"Ms. Gonzales," the prosecutor continued with her direct examination, "during your eleven years on the job at the Wussmann residence were you ever a witness to any arguments between the defendant and his slain wife, Rachel?"

"I heard some things, yes."

Martha hesitated slightly. This was not what she wanted to hear. Then, as if things were going exactly as planned, she asked, "What did you hear?"

"Shouting, yelling, other noises."

"Other noises? Like what?"

"Things crashing, like against the wall."

"And the shouting, yelling and crashing noises, were they the sounds of fighting between Mr. Wussmann and his wife?"

"Objection! Leading," Jimmy Harmon called out from his chair.

"Sustained," Judge Martinez ruled.

"I'll rephrase the question," Ms. Kent responded. "Ms. Gonzales, what was the cause of these noises you have just described to the court?"

"The Mr. and Mrs. fighting."

"Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Wussmann?"

"Yes."

"How often did these fights happen?"

"Oh, a few times."

"In your eleven years of employment at the Wussmann home how many fights did you yourself witness?"

"Oh, not that many. Just a few."

"Ten?" Martha asked spreading her fingers out on both hands as she held them out in front of the witness's face.

"No, not that many."

"Five?" asked the assistant DA after lowering one of her hands.

"Four or five, maybe."

"And when was the last time you witnessed them fighting?"

"Last year. I heard them upstairs as I was leaving for the night?"

"Thank you, Ms. Gonzales," Ms, Kent said suddenly. "No more questions at this time, your honor."

Ms. Kent had brought her questioning to an abrupt end. She found herself in unfamiliar territory. Not only was she thrown for a loop from finding out about Maria's part time live-in status but also her testimony about the spousal fights was not what Martha had expected. So, she had to stop the questioning. Perhaps she would call Maria back to the stand after further study of her situation. That depended on what the defense would do with the witness.

Jimmy Harmon approached the witness with a beaming smile on his face as he said, "We'll get you off the hot seat before you know it, Ms. Gonzales. I just have a few questions. When you did see...when you saw Rachel and Andrew Wussmann together how did they behave toward one another?"

Maria thought a moment trying for the right words, "Very nice," she finally tossed out with a convincing nonchalance.

"Did you ever actually see them fight?"

"No, I never see anything."

"Have you worked for other families?"

"Yes, two others."

"How long?"

"One for three years and one for two."

"Were you a witness to family arguments in those homes?"

"Yes."

"Did any of the spouses murder the other?"

"Objection, your honor," Martha Kent proclaimed.

"Sustained."

"Now," Harmon continued seamlessly, "you say you cleaned the house on the Friday of Mr. Wussmann's last LA concert appearance? Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Did you clean the whole house?"

"No."

"Did you clean the downstairs floor in the foyer at the front door?"

"No."

"When was the last time you cleaned that floor?"

"It was one month before Mr. Wussmann left on his tour."

"That would make it to be about seven months before the night of the murders. So, the floor in the front foyer had not been cleaned for seven months prior to July 6, 2000. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"How do you know this for sure."

"I keep a record of those things. The house is so big I have to keep track."

"Is there any other reason that you specifically remember when it was you last cleaned the floor in the front foyer?"

"Yes, it was for Christmas holidays I cleaned the floor last time."

"Did you sweep the floor during that seventh month period?"

"Oh yes, for sure."

"Did you ever mop or wax it from mid-December 1999 to mid-July 2000?"

"No."

"And was Mr. Wussmann ever present at his home during the month before he left on the tour?"

"Yes, he live there," Maria said by way of explanation.

"Was he present at his home at all during the six months of his tour?"

"Yes."

"How many times?"

"I think three."

"Thank you, Ms. Gonzales. I have no more questions of this witness, your honor," Harmon said as he moved toward the defense table to resume his seat.

"Any redirect, Ms. Kent?"

"Not at this time your honor. But we may need to call this witness back at another time."

"You may step down, Ms. Gonzales, but we may need you to testify again. So, stay close by won't you?"

"Yes, your honor."

The prosecution's next witness was the chauffeur, Charlie Moss, who drove Blade to the airport on the night of the murders. He testified that he had arrived at the Wussmann residence at 9:55 PM, got out of the limo and pressed the buzzer at the front gate. After several tries with no response the limo driver said he got back in the car and called his boss who told him to wait. They both knew that Blade was usually late. The limo driver then told the court he got out of his limo, lit a cigarette and leaned against the front of the car watching the house for any signs of life. At about ten minutes after ten he said he noticed a figure emerging from the darkness toward the house from the other side of the driveway. It was a tall lanky individual matching the stature of the defendant. Soon after the mysterious figure entered the house the chauffeur said he buzzed again and this time Mr. Wussmann answered and opened the gate.

"After you drove through the gate how long before Mr. Wussmann reappeared from the front door?" asked Martha Kent.

"Objection, your honor," Jimmy Harmon was quickly on his feet. "Reappeared? No prior appearance has been established."

"Sustained."

"After you drove through the gate how long was it before Mr. Wussmann made his appearance?"

"About fifteen minutes or so."

"Did the defendant have luggage?"

"Yes, he did"

"How many pieces?"

"Three."

"Do you remember what they were?"

"There was a suitcase, a guitar case and a small duffel bag."

"Did you load the luggage into the limo?"

"Yeah, I took the suitcase and the guitar case from him and put them in the trunk."

"And the third piece?"

"Mr. Wussmann had that on his shoulder."

"Was anyone else present at that time?"

"Well, a guy named Cody was there saying he had heard some suspicious noises in the back and...uh...Blade, uh, Mr. Wussmann said he had to go to his car for something."

"Uh huh, and he went to his car?"

"Yes."

"Was it in the driveway?"

"No, it was out on the street."

"That would be the street opposite from the one the front gate is on?"

"Yes."

"What is considered the front or main gate is on Mulholland Drive and the back gate is on Don Quixote Way? Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Now, Mr. Moss, did you drive up Don Quixote Way to get to the Wussmann residence?"

"Yes, I did."

"Did you notice a vehicle parked by the Wussmann driveway?"

"No, I didn't."

"The vehicle that Mr. Wussmann went out to before you drove him to the airport was not there when you drove by just a half hour before?"

"Objection! The witness testified to not noticing the vehicle. That doesn't mean it wasn't there."

"Sustained. Rephrase the question."

"You did not see the vehicle in question when you drove by earlier that night? Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"After Mr. Wussmann came back what did he do?"

"He told Cody not to worry about the noises he heard, picked up the little duffel bag and got in the limo."

"And then, did you drive him to the airport?"

"Yes."

"What time did you leave for the airport?"

"Just about ten thirty."

"That's cutting it close isn't it?"

"Yeah, usually you want about 40 to 45 minutes to get there. But you can do it in half an hour if the traffic is light."

"When you got to the airport and you opened the door for Mr. Wussmann..."

"Well, I didn't open the door for him. He was already out when I got to it."

"Did you notice if Mr. Wussmann was carrying the duffel bag at the airport."

"I didn't see it, no."

"So, according to your observations, Mr. Wussmann had three pieces of luggage at his house but only two pieces at the airport?"

"That's correct, yes."

"Thank you," Ms. Kent said as she went back to her seat.

"How much time for your cross, counselor?" the Judge asked Harmon.

"Ten, fifteen minutes should do it."

"Alright then, go to it."

"Suddenly we're doing Moliere," Jimmy Harmon said in regard to the rhymed couplet he and the judge had just collaborated on.

"Now let's go on from there," rhymed the judge again with a big grin on his face. Those in the jury and the gallery who caught on laughed appreciatively.

Harmon approached the witness and asked, "You didn't notice the Chevy Blazer parked on the street by Mr. Wussmann's driveway as you drove by on your way to the main gate?"

"That's right," the chauffeur answered somewhat defensively.

"When you left for the airport did you leave by the main gate the way you came in or through the other gate?"

"The other gate."

"Did you notice the Chevy Blazer as you exited through that gate?"

"I don't remember ever seeing it there, no."

"It was there. That's where the police found it a little later on. But you never noticed it?"

"I don't recall ever seeing it."

"So, the vehicle in question could have been there when you drove by its established location on your way to the main gate of Mr. Wussmann's home on the night in question?"

"I don't know."

"Now, if you failed to notice a Chevy Blazer that was a few feet away from you as you drove out of the gate that night, isn't it possible that you failed to notice a little duffel bag that Mr. Wussmann had with him at the airport?"

"I dunno. I s'pose."

"Now, you have taken Mr. Wussmann to the airport in your limo a few times before the night of July 6, 2000. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"So, you had an idea of his demeanor from all those times you drove him places before. Is that correct?"

"Yeah, I guess, sure."

"Mr. Wussmann is accused of brutally murdering two people just minutes before he came out of his house to go to the airport. Was his behavior any different on that night than any other night?"

"I wouldn't say so, no."

"He wasn't foaming at the mouth or howling at the moon or anything like that, was he?"

"Objection!" Ms. Kent was quickly on her feet.

"Sustained."

"Was Mr. Wussmann's behavior on that night any different from what you came to expect from him in the past?"

"Not really, no."

"Now, you say you saw someone walking into the house at one point while you were waiting at the main gate to be buzzed in. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And Mr. Wussmann said what to you over the intercom?"

"He said he'd just gotten out of the shower."

"To explain why he hadn't heard your buzzing?"

"Yes."

"So, when you first arrived at the Wussmann residence you buzzed and then you got into your limo to call your boss?"

"Yes."

"While you were getting into your limo and talking on the phone to your boss you weren't watching the house were you?"

"No."

"So, Mr. Wussmann could have come out his front door to go and get something from his car that was parked on the street while you were on the car phone talking to your boss? Correct?"

"I guess so."

"Then when he came back you saw him enter his house and you buzzed him again. Correct?"

"Yes."

"And he answered?"

"Yes."

"He said he'd been in the shower?"

"Yes."

"Did he say when he'd been in the shower? Exactly?"

"Well, no, not exactly."

"So, Mr. Wussmann, thinking, perhaps, that you must have buzzed him while he was in the shower might have meant that he had been in the shower before going out to his car?"

"Objection, calls for speculation," Ms. Kent asserted.

"It goes to the veracity of the statement, your honor and Mr. Moss's interpretation of it," Harmon explained.

Judge Martinez ruled in favor of the defense.

"Thank you, your honor," Harmon said to the judge. Then, turning back to the witness he continued with his cross. "Let me repeat the question. Mr. Moss, isn't it possible that what Mr. Wussmann was saying was not that he had just that second got out of the shower but was referring to the reason he had not heard your buzzing before?"

"Sure, for all I know, sure."

"Thank you. No more questions," Harmon said and returned to his seat where Blade gave him a subtle look of appreciation for a job well done.

"Redirect?" the Judge asked the prosecution.

"One question, your honor," Ms. Kent said as she stood behind her table and addressed the witness from there. "You're certain, are you not, that Mr. Wussmann was not carrying the small duffel bag when he got out of the limo at the airport?"

"Objection! Calls for a conclusion," Jimmy Harmon said. "The witness can only testify to what he saw or failed to see."

"Well, counsellors, the witness can only testify to what he saw," said the judge. "He cannot testify to what he did not see. It has been established that he saw two bags at the airport. The witness cannot attest to what he did not see that was or was not in the defendants possession."

"I defer to your honor's judgment," the defense lawyer said humbly.

The judge then instructed Ms. Kent to rephrase her question.

She nodded toward the judge and asked the chauffeur, "How many bags did you see at the airport?"

"Two."

"Thank you," Ms. Kent said and resumed her seat.

"Re-cross?" the judge asked the defense.

"Yes, your honor, briefly," Jimmy Harmon said. Addressing the witness, "Let's suppose that the bag in question was not in Mr. Wussman's possession at the airport. What do you think might have happened to it?"

"Objection! Calls for speculation," Martha Kent said.

Judge Martinez sustained the objection.

After a cursory nod toward the judge Harmon asked the witness if he had made any stops on the way to the airport.

"No," the limo driver answered.

"So, we can assume that Mr. Wussmann never get out of the car at all during the entire ride to LAX. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"You're not in the habit of driving in your sleep, are you?"

"No," the witness chortled at such an idea.

"If the duffel bag was something Mr. Wussmann wanted to get rid of for some reason did the opportunity present itself en route to LAX?"

"Calls for a conclusion!" Ms. Kent objected.

"Your honor," Harmon countered, "surely the witness can voice an opinion about such a thing having been a party to the events in question."

"I'll allow the question," the judge decided.

"Could you repeat it, please?" asked the chauffeur.

"Certainly," Harmon readily agreed. "During your drive to LAX on the night of July 6, 2000, was there opportunity in your opinion for a passenger riding in the back of your vehicle to somehow discard a piece of their luggage?"

"I don't see how it would be possible, no."

"Thank you. No more questions."

"One question, your honor?" Ms. Kent respectfully pleaded.

"Go ahead," the judge waved her on.

"As a chauffeur with a perfect driving record," Ms. Kent addressed the witness, "would you please tell the court where your complete and total attention is directed at while driving a limo?"

"On the road, I'm totally focused on the road in front of me."

"You're not watching the passenger every second of the time?"

"No."

"If a passenger threw something out his window while you are focused on your driving would you necessarily notice?"

"No, not necessarily."

"Thank you."

"Mr. Harmon?" the judge asked cautiously.

"No more questions for this witness."

"You may step down," the judge told the witness.

Next, the prosecution called the skycap who had handled Blade's luggage. He testified that Mr. Wussmann had only two pieces of luggage for him to check and that he was not carrying any sort of baggage at all on his person.

Jimmy Harmon began his cross-examination by asking the skycap a couple of preliminary questions. The defense lawyer stood on the witness's left side so that his attention would be directed away from the center aisle of the gallery. He asked the sky cap if he was sure that Mr. Wussmann was not carrying a small duffel bag on his person on the night in question. The witness said that he was sure. Then Harmon had the skycap look at his assistant Peter Forrister who was standing at the rear of the courtroom with the right side of his body slightly turned at an angle toward the witness. Harmon asked the skycap whether Mr. Forrister had any baggage on his person. The skycap said that he did not. Harmon then asked his assistant to turn around. He did so and revealed a small duffel bag hanging down the left side of his back and strapped over his left shoulder. The prosecution objected. The Judge upheld it, instructed the jury to disregard the stunt and warned the defense that any more such trickery would meet with severe censure.

Jimmy Harmon was sufficiently humbled in the presence of the court's displeasure. "I beg the court's pardon," he said contritely, "I didn't realize your honor would find it so egregious. My only interest was in the pursuit of justice. I can assure you of that."

"Let's move on," the judge simply said without further ado. He knew that Jimmy Harmon was aware that the demonstration with the duffel bag was inappropriate. The judge also knew that attorneys engaged in that sort of thing all the time. He did so himself when he was a trial lawyer. You know that something is out of line but you go ahead with it anyway because it will make an indelible impression on the minds of the jurors despite objections from the other side and the admonition to disregard by a judge. You know you can get away with it up to a certain point. Some rules are there to serve as flexible guidelines rather than inflexible bars. One must know the range of flexibility that can be applied to the rules. To know how to bend them without breaking them. As an officer of the court Harmon's judgement about such matters was tempered with his judgement about his client. He would not, for instance, have resorted to the artfulness of the duffel bag maneuver if he had been certain that his client was guilty.

For the rest of the day a few minor witnesses appeared who were Rachel's neighbors. One thought he had heard some raised voices in the direction of Mrs. Wussmann's property on the night of the murders that sounded unusually urgent. Someone shouting "Hey hey hey!" and then another voice was heard that was less distinct and not at all intelligible. Another witness was certain that he had seen what was definitely a black SUV driving down the street where Rachel lived at about the time the murders were said to be committed. It could have been a Chevy Blazer or a Ford Explorer or Bronco but it was most certainly a black SUV. Those witnesses were easily challenged by the defense to make their testimony a wash. When the defense got through its cross-examination of the last witness the judge recessed court for the day.

.................................................................................

The next morning the Judge, the District Attorney and the Defense received a report from Doctor Slatterly that the condition of his patient, Virginia Walters, was not favorable to a court appearance any time in the foreseeable future. To say that Martha Kent was not pleased with this bit of news would be to miss the mark by many orders of magnitude. She was beside herself with anger. She was livid. She picked up her pen and pencil desk-set and sent it flying against the wall. "This case is cursed!" she cried, "It's him! It's Wussmann! He's in league with Satan! If not, he's Satan himself!" She then collapsed in a heap onto her chair, lay her head on her desk and moaned in desperation.

Then she suddenly perked up and said to Elroy Haines who had been a startled observer of her outrage and subsequent depression, "We're gonna get the Walters' deposition read in court! Yes siree, no doubt about it! The judge will just have to allow it. How can he not?"

"He can't. No way," Mr. Haines chimed in as he watched Martha frantically searching through a pile of papers and folders on her desk.

"Ah ha! Here it is. Here's the deposition that's gonna get that S.O.B. freak-killin'-machine strapped to a gurney and put to death," she looked at Elroy for support of her sentiment.

He was about say something when Martha said, "I know you feel the same way. Anyone with half a conscience would. We all wanna see that aberration annihilated!' Martha took a deep breath and said, "God, I'm afraid I'm a little too wound up today," she confided to her partner.

And then said, "You wanna argue our position on Ms. Walters' testimony to the judge."

"Sure, I'll handle it. Should be a no-brainer," Elroy Haines said as if he knew it wouldn't be.

"Should be," Martha echoed, "but this judge...I dunno...I think he's got it in for me. I think he wants me to lose this case because he can't stand the fact that a woman, a female DA has managed to amass a perfect record for all twelve cases she's prosecuted."

Elroy looked at her with raised eyebrows. He wondered if Martha's feelings of being put upon because of her gender were as valid as his were because of his race.

Martha took his look to be one of suspicion, as if Mr. Haines thought she was being paranoid. "Well, okay, he might not actually want me to lose," Martha recanted, "but he's making it awful difficult for me to win. And he's doing it on purpose. Maybe not consciously on purpose, but on purpose nonetheless."

"You think maybe Judge Martinez has it in for blacks, too?" Elroy asked subtly jocular.

"Well, it would be better if you were a Meh-ee-cano," said Martha exaggerating the last word as she jerked her head from side to side as she comically emphasized each syllable.

"I don't think we oughtta blame the judge for our problems," Elroy said in an attempt to take the high road. "Let's just focus on getting it right from now on."

"What, according to you, have I been doing wrong?" Martha asked indignantly.

"Look, all I'm saying..."

"Never mind," Martha said as she collapsed back in her chair. "Let's just drop it. You're right, of course, we need to forget about the blame game, regroup and get in there and give 'em hell."

"Awright!" Elroy signaled for a high five and Martha put her hand up and they slapped their hands in the air with a forced enthusiasm.

Martha gave Elroy a seductively appreciative look and said, "I think I'm gonna like working with you, Elroy."

"Likewise. Now let's go get the Walters' deposition admissible."

.................................................................................

The judge, as if he didn't know, asked the attorney's if there was anything they wanted to take up with the court before he called in the jury. Elroy Haines stood up and told the judge for the record about Virginia Walters' condition and asked for a hearing to decide about having her deposition read to the court.

"Mr. Harmon."

"Yes, your honor?"

"Have you any objection to having Ms. Walters' sworn testimony read into the record?"

"Yes, your honor, I do object."

"Alright, let's hear what the prosecution has to say in the matter and then the defense can respond."

Mr. Harmon sat down and Elroy Haines began his argument.

"Your honor, by what appears to be a suicide attempt on the part of Peoples' witness, Virginia Walters, a suicide attempt under suspicious circumstances, I might add, that implicate the defendant in this case..."

"I object, your honor..." Harmon stated forcefully, springing out of his chair like a man on fire.

Judge Martinez waved him down and said, "No need to object counselor. You can deal with any objections in your rebuttal."

"Fine," Harmon said as he sat back down.

"You may continue, counselor," the judge instructed Mr. Haines.

"Thank you, your honor," Elroy said. Then added, caustically, almost imperceptibly, "Continue without interruption, I hope." He glanced toward the defense as he said it to make sure they got the message.

Harmon reacted with a look of disbelief and then turned toward the judge as if to say something. The judge gestured slightly for him to let it go. Harmon backed off and appreciated the opportunity to momentarily bond with the judge. He knew those little courtesies added up in a trial.

The defense lawyer relaxed back in his chair, as the aggressive new prosecutor went on with his oration. Harmon wondered what that taunting remark of Haines' was all about. If this guy's going to react like that to nothing, what's he gonna do when I really give him something to smart about? Hmm, a thin-skinned lawyer...this'll be fun...I'm sure I can rattle him into making a few mistakes.

"Furthermore, your honor," Mr. Haines went on, "the prosecution's case depends on the testimony of this crucial witness. The deposition of Virginia Walters, as a long time confidant of the defendant, serves to solidify and coalesce the testimony of all our other witnesses. Without the testimony of this pivotal witness this trial would become a mockery of justice. There would be no possible way for your honor to preside over a fair and just trial without the Walters' deposition being read into the record for all to hear. It would be a travesty of the most egregious..."

"Alright counselor, you've made your point, thank you for that most eloquent discourse," the judge said with such sincerity it seemed a caricature of that emotion. It was hard to tell whether he really meant what he said or if he was poking a little fun at the earnest, flamboyant prosecutor. "Mr. Harmon?" the judge said inviting the defense counsel to take the floor.

"Thank you, your honor. I'll try not to waste the courts time with redundant rhetoric and get right to the point."

"I object your Honor!" Elroy Haines was on his feet, "Counsel is out of line! I ask your honor to instruct Mr. Harmon to retract his statement referring to my argument and to conduct himself..."

"Alright Mr. Haines," Judge Martinez protested, "I get your point. Continue Mr. Harmon and stick with the issues of the court."

"Yes, your Honor," Harmon said and continued with his argument. "The testimony of Miss Walters is, we feel, too controversial to be of value in our pursuit of justice. Ms. Walters was obviously deeply disturbed at the prospect of coming into court and having to recant her whole testimony. And the suggestion that my client had anything to do with Ms. Walters' attempted suicide is absolutely preposterous. Anyone who seriously entertains such a ridiculous notion should, perhaps, check into a hospital for a brain scan. My main contention to having Ms. Walters' deposition read in court is that the defense will have no opportunity to cross-examine the witness. There will be no possibility for our side to challenge the version of the truth that Ms. Kent so craftily elicited from the witness. There is no question of her craftiness in that regard, your Honor. After all, we have heard testimony in this court, from witnesses prepared by the ADA, that was contradicted by a videotape. Thank you, your honor, that's all I have to say on the matter."

"Thank you, Mr. Harmon for that concise and to the point rebuttal," the judge said magnanimously. "The court had been notified of Virginia Walters' condition earlier this morning when I was in chambers. The doctors gave me no expectations that Ms. Walters would be awaking from her coma any time soon. The doctors also told me that even if she did regain consciousness today she'd be in no shape to participate in court as a witness for quite some time to come.

"Now, as to the question of whether Ms. Walters' testimony should be read in court I find in the affirmative. It is a crucial part of the prosecution's case and the trial could not be complete without it. My other alternative would be to declare a mistrial and retry this case at a time when Ms. Walters is able to testify in person. Her doctors, however, could not assure me that their patient would ever again regain her consciousness. Therefore rescheduling this trial would be foolhardy. So, the testimony of Virginia Walters will be read into the record and the defense will have the opportunity to cite their objections and, in a sense, to cross-examine Ms. Walters' statement. Mr. Harmon will, with the Walters' statement in hand, voice his concerns and reservations to the jury and question the testimony however he pleases, within the bounds of propriety applicable to questioning a sitting witness. The prosecution will have a chance to rebut the defense's critique and the defense will have one more occasion to speak its mind on the matter and that will be that. Any questions?"

Harmon stood up, "I certainly trust the court's judgment in this matter but, perhaps, instead of having the transcript read by a stand-in for Ms. Walters why not just play the tape for the court?

"Ms. Kent," the judged prompted.

"The prosecution feels that a reading, or reenactment of the interview with Ms. Walters would more authentically portray what would have transpired here in the court had the witness not been tragically indisposed."

"Very well," the judge declared, "I see no reason not to have the reading go ahead as planned.

Harmon, with the transcript of Ginny's deposition in his hand remained standing while scanning it thoughtfully.

"Is there anything else, counselor?" Judge Martinez inquired pointedly.

"Yes, your honor," Harmon answered vaguely while remaining focused on the transcript.

"Mr. Harmon?" the judge firmly coaxed the preoccupied defense lawyer.

Harmon remained silent a moment as he looked over the last page, flipped back to the first and then said, "I request a few moments to confer with the prosecutor, your honor."

"Is that absolutely necessary?" Judge Martinez asked.

"Yes, your honor, I'm afraid it is," Harmon responded contritely.

"Very well, you have five minutes."

Jimmy Harmon and Martha Kent huddled together in the space between the defense and prosecution tables. "I'm very troubled by this transcript Martha," Harmon whispered.

"Oh, why is that?" Martha asked with wide-eyed innocence.

"It doesn't correspond with my understanding of what actually took place."

"What is your understanding based on?"

"Ms. Walters' own account of her interview with you."

"She would not be the best source for what exactly transpired there," Ms. Kent said confidently. "Ms. Walters," the prosecutor continued, "said some things she regretted having to say. Her version of what went on would be influenced by her desire to salvage her relationship with the accused."

"Perhaps. But what if I subpoena your office phone records? Whatd'you think I'd find?" Jimmy asked and then answered his own question, "The date and time of your phone call to Mr. Crouse of Lindsay, Crouse & David. Wouldn't the judge and jury find that an interesting little tidbit. A phone call from your office to that law firm at the very time you were interviewing Ms. Walters who had just been fired from that very law firm because of her involvement with the defendant that you wanted her to testify against. That would be a very suspicious phone call. Especially since it does not appear in the transcript you have provided to the court."

"Whatd'you want?" Martha asked abruptly.

"Nothing. I don't want anything at all. I might use it or I might not. I dunno."

"Come off it, Jimmy. If what you say is true a mistrial would be declared. You don't want that. You don't want me off this case and you certainly wouldn't want a new trial."

"Oh I dunno. I think the judge might, in the interest of justice, allow you to continue as prosecutor on this case and deal with your misconduct afterward."

"I doubt it."

"If you came forth yourself with the full transcript it would go a long way in your favor. You may get off with only a fine."

"The official transcript is the full transcript," Ms. Kent insisted.

"Okay then, I'll just have to decide what I'm going to do about this matter myself. I don't want to ruin your career, Martha, I really don't. But I put my client's interest before everything."

"Of course. Shall we get on with the trial now, Jimmy," Martha said as if to dare the defense attorney to follow up on his threat. It was a bit of transparent bravado on her part that did not cover up her obvious disquiet.

Jimmy bowed his head as if to ask Ms. Kent's forgiveness for what he might have to do and said solemnly, "Okay, if that's the way you want it."

The two lawyers parted and went back to their respective tables.

Jimmy was sure that Martha knew he wouldn't use the Crouse matter against her frivolously. She certainly knew that he would not use it as long as he thought his side was winning the case. But she had to wonder whether he would use it if her side of the aisle began to get the upper hand. That kind of thinking might cause Ms. Kent to be a little less aggressive in prosecuting the case than she ordinarily would be.

The judge asked Harmon again if he had any questions regarding his ruling about the reading of Ms. Walters' transcript.

Jimmy Harmon was standing behind the defense table. He held the transcript in his hand and waved it toward the judge as he said thoughtfully, "As I look over this document I would object very strongly to the reading of this text."

"On what grounds?"

"I don't believe it's complete. It seems to me to be heavily redacted."

"Ms. Kent?"

"I assure the court that this is all the testimony of record. Whatever transpired between the witness and myself that was off the record was not at all germane to the business of this court and has not been recorded nor transcribed for use therein."

"In that case," the judge said to Jimmy Harmon, "your objection is overruled."

Trying another angle Jimmy Harmon said, "I ask the court's permission to be allowed to call witnesses, who may have talked to Ms. Walters about her interview with Ms. Kent, as part of the defense's rebuttal of the Walters' testimony."

"I object, your honor," Ms. Kent was quick to react. "Ms. Walters," she explained, "will not be able to verify or deny remarks attributed to her by anyone else."

"I could make a similar objection about having the Walters' testimony read in court," Harmon noted.

"That's true," said the judge and granted Harmon's request with the stipulation that the defense provide the court with a list of witnesses to be called in this regard."

"Fine," Harmon complied and then he asked the court for the rest of the morning to prepare for the new turn of events.

"Alright," the judge readily agreed, "court is adjourned until two o'clock this afternoon."

................................................................................

Jimmy Harmon knew just who he wanted on the stand to deal with Ginny's testimony, "Call Cody," he told Judy after he, she and Blade were ensconced in their conference room. During one of his interviews with the defense lawyers Cody informed them that Ginny had told him all about her interview with Ms. Kent. Judy took out her cell phone from her briefcase, dialed Cody's number and handed the phone to Harmon. He took it and put it to his ear. It kept ringing. "He's not answering. Try Mercy Hospital," Harmon told Judy as he gave her back the phone. While Judy was getting the number Harmon handed Blade a copy of Ginny's testimony and asked him to look it over, "See if you find anything remiss, out of order or just plain silly in Ginny's deposition."

Blade took the pages somberly, put them on the table and stared at them longingly as he thought of Ginny. The transcript of her deposition contained words she spoke when she was alert and fully alive. They were the words that caused her so much pain and anguish that she sought to put herself out of her misery forever. Would Ginny be the third victim in the horrible nightmare they were trapped in? Blade hung his head in his hands as his eyes welled up with tears.

"Andy!" Harmon said sharply as he observed his client's stupor. "Snap out of it. If you want to help Ginny," the lawyer indicated the transcript, "help yourself and get outta this mess so you can be with her and be a friend to her."

Blade looked at Jimmy for a couple of moments and then he began to nod his head slowly.

"I need to get in touch with a visitor there," Judy was saying into the phone, "Cody Tolkein, he will be with a patient by the name of Virginia Walters."

"Right," Blade said to Jimmy, "you're right. Okay, let's see what we got here." He picked up Ginny's deposition and began reading it.

"Cody! Hi, this is Judy Adams. Jimmy Harmon would like to talk to you."

Jimmy took the phone from Judy and said, "Hi, Cody. Any change in Ginny's condition?"

"No, she's still in the dead zone," Cody replied.

"Listen, Cody, we need you in court this afternoon at two o'clock. It's very important. Remember what you told me about what Ginny told you about her interview with Martha Kent?"

"Yeah, I remember," Cody said.

"Well, Ginny's deposition from that interview is going to be read in court this afternoon and I want to question you about it on the witness stand."

"Alright, sure, I'll be there."

"Okay good. Now, do you recall Ginny telling you anything about Ms.Kent calling Ginny's law firm?

"Um, yeah, yeah, I do."

"Great. Thank you."

Harmon handed the phone to Judy and then wrote something on a piece of paper. "Type this up and get it to Judge Martinez. That's our witness list for this afternoon. We'll also need to send a copy to the prosecution."

Judy looked at the list Harmon had handed her. There were only two names. Cody Tolkein and Matthew Crouse. She asked Harmon if she should get in touch with Mr. Crouse. Harmon told her that would not be necessary at this time.

He only wanted Crouse's name to appear on the list to rattle Ms. Kent's cage. Cody's testimony would only be used to cast doubt on Ginny's deposition. Any mention of the phone call would not be actionable without corroboration by Crouse.

Judy busied herself at her laptop. She plugged her computer's modem into a phone jack so she could type the witness list and send it to the printer in Harmon's office where one of his staff could fax it to the judge and to the DA's office.

"Ginny came to see me that day...in the morning before her interview and..." Blade said more to himself than anyone else as he looked over the transcript.

"And?" Harmon coaxed.

"Well, Ginny was adamant about my innocence," Blade said, "how she believed in my innocence and how we would fight this thing together."

"Okay, good, we might be able to use that."

..............................................................................

Armando and Raul spent a lot of time watching Blade's trial on television. Every afternoon before setting out on their daily rounds they would watch whatever coverage there was. When the story first broke they watched CNN for all the latest updates. They watched Blade's arraignment and the trial itself on Court TV. Raul would go over to his bosses apartment loaded with take out food around two o'clock when the court usually resumed after its lunch break. The trial was a great source of entertainment for the two perpetrators of the crime. Especially so for Armando who while viewing the proceedings one day expounded on his role in the whole affair.

"This is my show. I write it, I produce it, I direct it. I am the one behind it all. Joo know what I'm like? I am like God. I made all of this happen. But I am not seen. I make things happen in this world. But I am not a look-see part of the things I make happen. Peoples ask, how do this happen? These things that I make happen. How do that happen? They ask. An' they try to explain it all and find someone to blame. It so funny man. They make up all kind of stories to explain. Stories they think is true. They can't say, they don't know what happen. But, they don't know. Only I know. They wanna show their faces at the camera. An' when they have there faces at the camera they think they are the star of the show. They think they are the show. But, no. I watch the show that I made an' I know that I am the show. I am the whole show. I no need to have my face at the camera. I no need nobody to know I make it all happen."

"I know, and Blade knows."

"But joo no tell nobody an' he no tell. So the world don't know. The world don' know who makes the show. I get the whole thing going an' then I have fun to watch. An' I give the world evidence. Evidence to what I make happen. An' I watch them having to put it together. An' they put it together all wrong. But they think it's right. It fun. It yust too much fun."

"Oh jes, I love all this fun."

"I tell joo something else, Raul. It time now to make my move."

"What joo mean?"

"Gorando."

"What about him?"

"He's got to go."

"Go? Where?"

"To the garbage pit in shantytown!" Armando declared, fiercely

"What are joo saying?"

"What? Are joo stupid? I tell joo I am drug lord. Not Gorando. No more. I take over."

"How joo gonna do that?"

"What joo think? I kill 'im."

"Jes, but...how?"

"I shoot 'im in the head. Then, when I am drug lord joo will be my number one body guard. How joo like that?"

"Oh, si. I like that yust fine."

"Jes, joo stick with me joo will be a rich man."

"Oh jes I stick with joo boss. All the way. Joo bet."

"Good."

"So, when joo gonna do dis?" Raul asked

"Soon. But I don't wanna miss Blade's trial. After the trial then I make my move."

................................................................................

Court was gaveled to order promptly at two o'clock by Judge Martinez. The jury filed in to take their seats immediately afterward and the judge said resolutely, "Let's get on with the reading of Ms. Walters testimony."

Martha Kent arose and announced to the court that Ms. Janet Crowley would be reading Ms. Walters' responses while she, Martha Kent, would be reading her own questions.

"The jury has been informed about the procedure. You may begin," said the Judge trying to be patient.

"Ms. Crowely, will you please take the witness stand?" Martha asked with a cordial formality.

Janet Crowely was a secretary for the junior prosecutors in the DA's office. Martha chose her because she thought "the little waif had a sympathetic look the jury might get off on". She was an extremely thin, young woman. Pretty, with large brown eyes set in a pixie like face and long straight auburn hair down to the middle of her back. Martha had done a quick read-through with Ms. Crowley during the lunch break. She thought Janet's voice pleasant to listen to, endearing even. There was an honest quality about her that Martha thought would give Ms. Walters words the credibility they warranted. Ms. Kent decided that Ms. Crowley was the perfect choice to do the reading and congratulated herself on her excellent judgement.

Janet walked through the gate in the railing that divided the trial area from the gallery and stood in front of the witness stand facing the judge with her right hand up. She was assuming the pose she had seen other witnesses take before giving testimony.

The judge looked at her and then glanced angrily at the prosecution before turning his attention back to Ms. Crowley. He said quietly and kindly as if to a third grader, "No need for that, dear girl. This is not your testimony."

A few snickers rippled through the court. Some of the jurors were obviously trying not to laugh but one of them got a case of giggles and, try as she might, could not control them. Noticing this the judge asked if the jury needed to take a short break to compose themselves. The giggling woman sat up straight straining to keep a straight face but burst out laughing uncontrollably. "The jury will take a five minute break," the judge ordered angrily pounding his gavel and then said to Ms. Kent as he pointed his finger at her, "I'll have a word with you, Ms. Prosecutor!"

At the sidebar Ms. Kent got a dressing down from the Judge. How dare she disrupt the proceedings of the court by using someone so obviously unschooled in court proceedings! Martha assured the Judge that the girl was fine during her practice reading. It was only a little case of nerves. Ms. Crowley would do just fine when the reading got under way. "You'd better be right about that counselor," the judge sternly warned and then asked a court officer to bring the jury back when they were ready.

The gallery was all a murmur about the unexpected comic relief and the judge quietly admonished them to come to order as he lightly tapped his gavel. The jury was on their way back to their seats and the judge reminded them of the particulars concerning the reading they were about to hear. The judge then turned toward Ms. Kent and said simply, "You may begin."

Martha Kent rose with her transcript in hand and approached the witness stand where Ms. Crowley was now seated. Ms. Kent read the first question, "On the night of the murders, after Mr. Wussmann was interviewed by the police he spent the night with you. Is that right?"

Janet stared down at her copy of the transcript as if she were trying to hide. The papers in her hand were visibly trembling. Martha got right up next to Janet and said very softly for only her to hear, "Relax, honey, remember how we did this before in my office?" Janet looked up furtively and nodded. "Well," Martha said, "that's all there is to it." Then Martha repeated the first question in a whisper and pointed to the answer which Janet whispered back. Martha tried it again with the next question and again with the next and Janet responded each time. "There you go, girl," Martha said encouragingly, "let's try it out loud now, okay?"

"Okay," Janet smiled, "I'm okay now."

"Good. Let's take it from the top," Martha said as she moved toward the open area between the attorney's tables and the judge's bench. She nodded gratefully at the Judge for his forbearance.

"Are we ready to resume?" he asked.

"Yes, your Honor," the prosecutor said and again began the reading, "On the night of the murders, after Mr. Wussmann was interviewed by the police he spent the night with you. Is that right?"

"Yes... Well, with his kids at my place," Janet managed to read, but it was a struggle. Each word was read individually with no context to the others and her voice was shrill and shaky with nervousness.

Ms. Kent looked appealingly to the judge for help but he merely made a circular motion with his hand indicating that the prosecutor should get on with it. So, she did. After a few questions Janet was more in control and she managed to read the rest of the Walters' testimony in an unobtrusive manner.

Martha Kent - "He had phoned you earlier that evening, is that correct? Before the murders."

Janet Crowely - "Um, let me think... I don't recall talking on the phone. Oh, now I remember, I went to a movie that night."

MK - "Sunday night?"

JC - "Yes."

MK - "What'd you see?"

JC - "The Kid."

The reading went on uneventfully and the court became thoroughly engrossed in the testimony. Toward its climax the electricity throughout the room was palpable. Martha Kent was asking Ms. Walters about Blade's guilt.

MK - "Are you sure he didn't do it? Ms. Walters, are you sure he didn't do it? Truth."

JC - "No."

MK - "I know for a fact that he did. He killed his wife and her friend. The evidence is overwhelming."

JC - "Yes, I know."

MK - "Has he explained to you how there can be so much evidence against him without him being guilty?"

JC - "No."

MK - "Of course he hasn't. Because there is no possible explanation other than he did it. I've been a prosecutor for a long time Ms. Walters and believe me when I tell you, evidence doesn't lie. And I've never been on a case before where the evidence was so mountainous and so convincing. Mr. Wussmann did the killings. He is a murderer, Ms. Walters, and you need to come to terms with that fact and accept it."

JC - "Yes, I know."

MK - "And you need to, for your own peace of mind, you need to come forth with whatever you know. You need to unburden yourself of his guilt..."

"Let the record indicate that Ms. Walters broke down and cried at this point in my questioning of her," Martha Kent informed the court. Then she continued reading, "I know, I know, I know how hard it is to admit that someone you love is a criminal. I know, but you'll feel better when you tell us everything. I promise..."

JC - "He told me he was guilty."

MK - "What was that? What was that you said! What was that you said Ginny?"

JC - "Uh..."

MK - "About Blade? What he told you!"

JC - "He said he was guilty."

Martha Kent looked at the jury as if to sear that last statement of the testimony into their brains. She then turned to go back to her seat and said, "That's all, your Honor. Thank you."

The judge told Ms. Crowley that she could step down and asked Mr. Harmon if he was ready to rebut. He said he was and began to address the jury with transcript in hand.

"A nice piece of work, this," he said holding the Walters' deposition up in the air to the side of his head as if wielding a club. He then violently slammed it down on the railing in front of the jury box startling the court, most of all, the jurors. A couple of them gasped. "Yes, well, may you jump in fright. For this is a deadly weapon. A crudely fashioned club designed to take my client down. I say crudely fashioned because it is obvious that substantial sections of Ms. Walters' testimony have been deleted. Right off the bat. The first question? I assure you ladies and gentlemen that was not the first question. Ms. Walters did not enter the DA's office, sit down and right away get hit with that question. Ms. Kent, to be sure, worked her over before hitting her with the first question that appears here in the transcript."

The Judge, expecting an objection here from Ms. Kent looked her way. She turned to Elroy Haines and started talking to him.

"Also, if you'd all refer to your copy of the transcript," Jimmy Harmon continued, "where it says, where Martha Kent says on page two, 'No one would believe it.' and then she goes on to ask, 'On Saturday night did Mr. Wussmann say anything to you that might have indicated his intention to harm his wife in any way?' I'd say there was something missing there. A response by Ms. Walters, at least. There may be other cuts that are better disguised. I admit I'm just guessing at where the editing was done exactly, but I do know that editing was done. We will now hear from a witness who Virginia Walters confided in about her interview with the prosecution..."

"Hold on a minute, counselor," the judge said and then turned his attention to the prosecution, Ms. Kent, I ask you again, is this transcript a redacted version of your interview with Virginia Walters?"

"There were a few minor edits at the beginning, your honor," the prosecutor said, "the hello's, how-are-you's, nice weather we're having... That kind of thing."

"Have you the recording?"

"I doubt it, your honor. Once a tape is transcribed it's put in the recycle bin and is used again. Asset management I believe it's called. One of the comptroller's ideas to trim the budget."

"Alright, you may continue Mr. Harmon."

"Thank you, your honor. The defense calls Cody Tolkein to the stand."

Cody, dressed in jeans, cowboy boots and a suede jacket with fringe, eagerly walked from the gallery to the witness box. As he sat down, after being sworn in, he brushed his long, wavy, dirty blond hair back from his face with his hands.

Harmon first asked questions of the witness to establish who he was and his relationship to Blade and Virginia Walters. He then asked if Ms. Walters ever talked to him about her interview with Martha Kent.

"Yeah, she did, for sure," Cody answered.

"Did she tell you anything of interest that you didn't hear in the reading of Ms. Walters' testimony?"

"Uh, are you kiddin'?"

"Just answer the question, Mr. Tolkein," Harmon said with an appreciative smile. Cody had an irrepressible youthful charm that made people want to like him.

"Ginny told..."

"Ginny?" Jimmy Harmon questioned pointedly.

"Oh yeah, I mean, Virginia Walters told me that she had lost her job that day, the day of her interview, and Martha Kent phoned her boss in the middle of the interview and got Ginny, uh, Ms. Walters' her job back."

"Objection!"

"Overruled."

"Here say, your honor!" Ms. Kent insisted.

"Overruled," the judge said calmly.

"This witness is a friend of the defendant. He is also in Mr. Wussmann's employ..."

"Save it for your cross examination counselor," Judge Martinez said sternly and added as the feisty Ms. Kent was about to protest further, "now sit down!"

She sat.

"Okay, now that we've gotten that remedial law lesson out of the way," Jimmy Harmon said with a devilish glint in his eyes, "we can get on with the court's business..."

"Your honor..." Ms. Kent started to rise to object to her adversary's remark but immediately decided against it as she read the obvious displeasure she was met with in the face of Judge Martinez.

"Now, Mr. Tolkein," Jimmy Harmon addressed his witness, "you say that Virginia Walters told you that during her interview with the prosecuting attorney in this case a phone call was made to Ms. Walters' employer by Martha Kent herself wherein the DA's office used its clout on behalf of Ms. Walters to get her job back?"

"Yes, that's what she told me. I heard it with the same ears I just heard you with."

"When had she lost her job?"

"The day of her interview with the prosecutor. That morning."

"Uh huh. Did she say why she was fired?"

"Because, um, she was a friend of Blade's, uh, Mr. Wussmann's," said Cody a little self-conscious about referring to Blade with such formality.

"Just because she was his friend?"

"Well, no, she, uh, Ms. Walters said it was because of what the media was reporting about her involvement with, you know, uh, Mr. Wussmann."

"That Ms. Walters may have been a cohort of the defendant's?" Harmon asked.

"Yeah, like that," Cody nodded.

"That Ms. Walters was somehow implicated in the murders?"

"Yeah, what a crock," Cody casually commented.

"Objection!" Martha Kent was quick to inject into the proceedings.

"Sustained. Jury will disregard the witness' last statement."

"That's okay, I don't mind," Cody said to the jury.

Judge Martinez regarded him quizzically a moment and then gave Harmon the nod to continue.

"So, after Ms. Kent so generously, out of the goodness of her heart helped Ms. Walters..."

"Your honor," Martha said with a tone of fatigued exasperation as she remained seated.

"Counselor," the judge addressed the defense, "easy on the characterizations, the editorials."

"If Ms. Kent objects to being given the benefit of the doubt, so be it," Harmon said and then returned to the witness. "After Ms. Kent talked to Ms. Walters' employer, what happened then?"

"Um, uh, let's see, oh yeah, Ginny...Ms. Walters said that Ms. Kent told her that she might get her job back."

"Okay, let's back track a bit here. Did Ms. Walters tell you what Ms. Kent said to her employer on the phone?"

"Yeah, she said Ms. Kent told him that she, that Ms. Walters was cooperating."

"Cooperating with who?"

"With her, with the prosecution," Cody said and pointed at Ms. Kent as if he were accusing her of something.

Martha looked to the judge as if to ask, "Can't we do something about him?" The judge indicated his own bemusement with a little shrug of his hands.

As Cody pointed out the ADA Jimmy Harmon was quick to play out the little drama. "Let the record show that the witness is referring to the prosecuting attorney, Ms. Martha Kent," he solemnly announced and then asked Cody what Ms. Kent said to Ms. Walters after the phone call.

"Ms. Walters told me that she said, that Ms. Kent said that Ms. Walters' employer was going to give her her job back since she was cooperating."

"How convenient. What a coincidence..."

"Objection!"

"Sustained."

"So," Harmon continued, "what happened after that? What did Ms. Walters tell you happened after that?"

"Gin...Ms. Walters said she felt like she was under Ms. Kent's spell. Ginny started saying things she really didn't mean."

"Like what things?"

"Like about Blade being guilty."

"Mr. Wussmann?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, Mr. Wussmann."

"So, Ms. Walters told you that she was unduly influenced into saying things that were not true?"

"Yes."

"She really did not think that Mr. Wussmann was guilty, did she?"

"No."

"Is that what Ms. Walters told you?"

"Yes."

"Your witness," Jimmy Harmon said as he turned to go back to his seat.

Martha Kent did not have a difficult time establishing Cody as a devoted friend and employee of the defendant's as well as a good friend of Ms. Walters. The prosecutor asked him if there was nothing he wouldn't do or say to help the defendant. Cody responded by saying there was very little he wouldn't do. He was then asked if Ms. Walters had gotten her job back. The answer was, of course, that she had not. Ms. Kent also brought up the fact that he was at Ms. Walters home at the time of her alleged suicide attempt and that Mr. Tolkein was, at one time, under suspicion about his role in that matter.

After the prosecution's cross the judge asked the defense if there would be any redirect.

"Just a few questions, your honor," Harmon finally said.

He merely asked Cody if he had anything to do with Ms. Walters' overdose. Cody answered that he did not. "She's your friend, is that right?" the counselor asked. "Yes," Cody replied. "Would you ever even consider doing her harm?" "No."

Cody was excused and the judge asked the defense if they were going to call any other witnesses in regard to the Walters' deposition.

Jimmy Harmon took a moment before answering to look over at Ms. Kent with a deeply pensive expression. The prosecutor squirmed slightly in her seat and then busied herself with some paper work. Harmon took note of Ms. Kent's reaction and knew he had unnerved her to what he thought to be a useful extent. "No, your honor," Harmon finally said, "no more witnesses at this time."

And that was that. The issue of the Walters' transcript being conveniently edited by the prosecution remained one of Mr. Tolkein's word against Ms. Kent's.

..................................................................................

The rest of the prosecution's case consisted mostly of DNA and crime scene experts, investigators and criminalists. Martha Kent decided not to call Detective D'Angello to the stand. Things were going badly enough. She didn't want to take the risk of yet another disaster confounding her case. Aaron Foster was originally slated to handle the direct examination of the hot tempered detective but now he was no longer available to do that. Martha felt that there was really no one to replace Foster regarding that particular assignment. No one else was really prepared for it. She knew that she was certainly not the next best choice to conduct D'Angello's testimony. The animosity between her and the detective would certainly make for a tense direct examination, at best. At worst, D'Angello could completely blow his top. So, he was crossed off the prosecution's witness list. If the defense wanted to call him as part of their case, so be it. She would deal with it then.

Martha did have D'Angello's partner, Lieutenant Conner, take the stand to explain the police's role in the case. He was a good witness, nice looking, affable and he gave a good clear account of the police work involved in solving the crime. On cross examination Jimmy Harmon had just a few questions. One was about Lieutenant Conner's and his partner's relationship with the defendant. The defense lawyer referenced all the perks the detectives got for minimal employment as security officers at Blade's LA concerts. Conner shrugged it off saying that perks were part of the work-a-day world and there was nothing wrong with it. Did Blade provide women for the detectives, Harmon wanted to know. The lieutenant said there were always women around at the defendant's home, at his concerts and, yes, he and his partner had met some women through the defendant.

Harmon also questioned Conner about his partner having been taken off the case. The lieutenant admitted that D'Angello got a little carried away during the interrogation of the defendant but that was because he knew Rachel. It was perfectly understandable. "But," Harmon wondered aloud, "given your partner's interest in the victim and his belief that Mr. Wussmann was responsible for the killing, how far would D'Angello have gone to make sure his investigation confirmed his suspicions about the defendant's guilt?" The prosecution objected and it was sustained. Harmon's next question came right on the heels of the judge's ruling. He asked Conner who discovered the bloody glove at the back of Mr. Wussmann's property. The lieutenant hesitated for a few seconds and then eagerly provided the information as if trying to make up for the lost time. Was D'Angello alone when he claimed to have found the glove there, Harmon wanted to know. 'Yes, he was," Conner admitted with a shrug.

Finally, Harmon asked Conner about the vial of blood taken from Blade at the police station after his interrogation on the night of the murders. Harmon wanted to know if the vial was brought over to the police lab and logged in immediately after it was taken from Mr. Wussmann. Conner said that everything was done by the book. Harmon asked specifically if the vial was handled strictly by the book. Conner assured him that it was and he was excused.

The next witness for the prosecution was the medical examiner. He made a rather lengthy appearance on the witness stand. Martha Kent led him through all the excruciating detail of the autopsy while the jury was exposed to every grisly photograph of the bloody corpses of Rachel and Robby from every conceivable angle.

During its cross examination of the Medical Examiner the defense brought out the fact that the ME could not say for sure whether there was one or two knives used in the killings or whether there was one or two killers. Jimmy Harmon also brought up the presence of unidentified hair follicles that were found inside the knit hat discovered at the crime scene. Blade's hair was found in the hat but the fact that someone else's was also found introduced the possibility that the mystery follicles could have belonged to the killer. Other unexplainable aspects to the ME's report were (1) Robby's neck was sliced twice and (2) the contusion from a blunt instrument on Rachel's head.

After the ME was excused the prosecution called Criminalist Charlie Wong to the stand. He was asked about the collection of evidence at the crime scene and the subsequent processing of that evidence. His testimony all went according to plan. He gave precise and immediate answers to all the questions. Ms. Kent was pleased with his testimony about the blood evidence at the crime scene, in Mr. Wussmann's vehicle and at his home. It all pointed unmistakably to the defendant's guilt.

Then the defense started in on Mr. Wong and the witness began to falter in his responses. Hardly noticeable at first his faltering became increasingly evident until, at some points, he hesitated for so long one wondered if Mr. Wong had somehow been suddenly struck dumb. Some of the questions which the criminalist hesitated about answering had to do with methods of collecting blood samples. The defense showed video footage of Mr. Wong and his assistant Ms. Banaducci going about the business of collecting blood swatches at the defendant's home.

Reading from a criminalist's manual Jimmy Harmon stated that the correct procedure for collecting blood samples required that one wear latex gloves and that one should change to a new pair of gloves for every blood sample taken. "In the video tape we just saw, Mr. Wong, did you at any time see yourself or your assistant change gloves while going from one blood drop to the next?"

Charlie Wong seemed to be lost in thought as he searched for some more appropriate way of answering the question than the flat out admission of improper execution of his duties that the defense was after.

"Mr. Wong," Jimmy finally said, "have you read this manual? This manual that I have just read from. Have you read the criminalist manual?"

"Yes."

"Did you read the section on changing gloves for each blood sample gathered?"

"Yes."

"Did you and your assistant follow that procedure while collecting blood samples at the home of the defendant?"

Again Charlie became sphinx like as he seemed to be trying mightily to formulate an answer in his head. Finally after almost a full minute he said, "Most of the time I'm sure we did."

"Most of the time? Did you see any changing of gloves on the tape we just played here in court?"

"No."

"And that tape was taken at the defendant's home? Was it not?"

"Yes, it was."

"Okay. So, I'll ask you again. Did you and your assistant follow procedure while collecting blood samples at the defendant's home?"

Again Mr. Wong could not bring himself to answer that question. Harmon appealed to the Judge and Mr. Wong was told to answer the question.

Jimmy repeated the question and Mr. Wong answered, "The changing of our gloves was not shown on that tape."

"Right. But my question was, did you change gloves?"

"There were times that I did, yes sir."

"At the Wussmann home? Did you change gloves there?"

"I'm sure I did many times."

"Why wasn't that shown on the tape?"

"I don't know."

"Okay. I think it's obvious that no changes of gloves were made in the collection of different blood samples found on the defendant's property."

The prosecution objected to the defense's conclusion and the judge sustained it.

Harmon then got into the reason for changing gloves between the collection of each and every sample. Mr. Wong explained to the jury that the blood evidence could be contaminated if the gloves used to collect it were not perfectly clean.

"I'm wondering why," Harmon faced the jury, "why were you so lax, Mr. Wong, in following the correct procedure for collecting blood samples at the defendant's home?"

Mr. Wong remained silent.

Harmon turned his attention from the jury to the witness and asked, "You seem like a conscientious young professional who is interested in the proper fulfillment of his duties. Why this lapse in procedure? Why? Can you explain to the court what allowed you to be so sloppy in doing your job at that particular time?"

More silence from the witness.

"Could it be that you had been informed by police officers that the blood drops on the walkway, on the driveway and those inside the Wussmann home were in fact Mr. Wussmann's? Was it a foregone conclusion? Did you know before hand that all the drops of blood were Mr. Wussmann's? There was no need for you to change gloves was there? Because the drops of blood had been planted there by members of the LAPD! And you were just going through the motions of collecting evidence..."

"Objection!" Ms. Kent shouted.

"The defense can show cause for it's accusations, your honor," Jimmy was quick to reply.

"Very well, go on," said the judge.

"Play E-96," Jimmy instructed the VCR operator.

A videotape obtained by the defense from a local news station was played for the court which showed Lieutenant Conners at Blade's home handing Charlie Wong something that he had taken out of an envelope while Captain Jenkins looked on. Harmon had the tape stopped as Conners held the object in his hand.

"This video tape as you can see was taken during the search of the defendant's property on the day after the murders. Is that correct?" Harmon asked the witness for verification.

"Yes," Mr. Wong answered quietly.

"Try to keep your voice up so the court can hear you, Mr. Wong," Harmon instructed.

"Yes," Wong said again a little louder and closer to the mic.

"Do you recall this little get together during your search of Mr. Wussmann's property?"

Wong remained silent.

"Are you trying to remember, Mr. Wong?"

"I think so, yes."

"You think you're trying to remember, or you think you do remember?"

"Objection! Counsel is trying to confuse the witness. Compound question."

"Sustained."

"Mr. Wong, do you recall the scene depicted in the video tape now on the screen?"

"Yes."

"What does Lieutenant Conner have in his hand?"

"I'm not sure. It's difficult to tell from that video."

"You can't remember what he gave you on the day you were investigating the hottest crime of the decade?"

"Oh," Charlie stalled, "you want to know if I can remember?"

"Yesss," Harmon hissed in the witnesses face with a maniacal grin on his chubby face.

"Counsel's badgering the witness, your honor," Ms. Kent charged.

"Take it easy, Mr. Harmon," the judge gently admonished.

"Yes, your honor," Jimmy said, contrite. Then he turned back to the witness and asked articulating every word distinctly, "Do you remember what Lieutenant Conner gave you?"

Silence.

"Your honor," Jimmy finally appealed to the judge for help.

The judge started to say something just as Mr. Wong did also and they both fell silent each waiting for the other. Then they both started to speak again at once. The gallery and the jury laughed and Jimmy Harmon said, "Shall we flip a coin?" and after the laughter subsided Harmon continued in a grandiose style, "If your honor would defer to the witness whose long awaited vocalizations we fear are soon to hit the endangered species list."

Even the judged cracked up at that one. Charlie Wong chuckled a little himself. The judge then gaveled the court to order saying that was quite enough comic relief. The gallery quieted down and the defense attorney again returned to the question of what the criminalist remembered about the scene on the video display.

"I just can't be sure," Wong said with a shrug.

"Can we get a close up?" Harmon asked. The video operator zoomed in on the object in question. "Now, Mr. Wong, can you tell us what it is that Lieutenant Conners is holding in his hands?"

"It looks like a pen or something like that," said

Mr. Wong squinting at the screen.

"Could it be a glass tube? A vial?"

"It could be, yes, but it's hard to tell from that picture."

"Does that picture jog your memory about that occasion?"

"Not really, no, I uh, no not really."

Harmon asked Mr. Wong to refer to his log book and tell the court on what date his lab received the vial of the defendant's blood? Mr. Wong sat as if paralyzed a moment. Then he took hold of the voluminous folder resting on the stand in front of him. He held it for a second, then hesitated and recoiled from the folder as if it were a hot stove. He grinned sheepishly and seemed about to say something, thought better of it and sat silent and still.

"Mr. Wong?" Jimmy prompted the witness.

The stymied criminalist took a deep breath, sighed with resignation, opened the folder and started sorting through the pages. After a couple of minutes Jimmy wondered aloud if the jury should break for lunch while Mr. Wong searched through his papers.

"Okay," Wong finally said, "it was logged in at 5:25 p.m. on Monday, July 7, 2000."

"Your saying that the defendants blood sample that was taken at 3:12 a.m. the morning of July 7, 2000, was not delivered to the police laboratory until 5:25 that evening? More than fourteen hours later?"

"According to the log. But it may have been dropped off right away and just not logged until later on."

"There is always someone on duty at the lab is there not?"

"Yes, but..."

"And all the evidence that is brought to your lab is immediately logged in. Isn't that the procedure?"

"Yes, but..."

"And the person who brought the evidence in cannot leave the lab until the evidence has been officially logged in. Isn't that correct?"

"Yes."

"Referring to your notes who does it say brought the defendant's blood sample to the lab?"

The witness leafed through some pages in his folder and mumbled something about not having that piece of information available. Harmon asked for a particular slide to be shown on the court's video screen. It was the log sheet of the police lab on the day in question. The witness was asked to read the entry AH-100798.

Mr. Wong stared at the screen, gulped slightly and reluctantly read to the court the fact that Andrew Wussmann's blood sample was brought to the lab by assistant criminalist Barbara Banaducci.

"How could that be?" Jimmy Harmon asked, "How did the defendant's blood sample get into the hands of your assistant?"

"I think I remember now," Charlie Wong said, somberly resigned to the fact that he had run out of dodges, "I think I was given the defendant's blood sample on July 7, 2000."

"Where were you at that time?"

"At the defendant's home."

"At Mr. Wussmann's home?"

"Yes."

"What were you doing there?"

"Collecting evidence."

"Blood drops?"

"Yes."

"Blood drops that were later identified as the defendant's?"

"Yes."

"And there was Mr. Wussmann's blood sample in a vial at the scene where you collected blood drops you've identified as his?"

"Yes."

"Referring to your notes, how much blood was in the vial when it was logged in at your laboratory?"

After searching through his folder Mr. Wong found the answer to be seven CCs.

"How much blood is routinely taken by the police for a sample?"

The witness fidgeted in his seat and couldn't seem to bring himself to answer the question. He appeared to be about to say something a few times but didn't quite manage to speak.

"Shall I repeat the question?"

"No, I'm trying to remember."

"Well," Harmon said as he was handed a piece of paper by his assistant, Judy, "here's a copy of the police log where the amount of blood taken from Mr. Wussmann on the morning of July 7, 2000 has been duly recorded. Would you read for the court the amount of blood that was taken from the defendant?"

Charlie Wong took the paper he was handed and stared at it.

"Do you see what it says?"

"Eight CCs."

"Eight CCs! Yet, when it was logged in at your lab later, much later in the afternoon there were only seven CCs. Can you explain the discrepancy?"

"It may have been a mistake. It may have been logged incorrectly."

"You don't change your gloves as you should during your collection of evidence. Your logs are incorrect. How can anyone have confidence in your work at all?"

"Objection."

"Sustained."

"If the logs are correct there is a matter of one CC of blood to be accounted for? Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And Mr. Wussmann's blood sample was at his home the day that you were there collecting blood drops? Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And it so happens that you found Mr. Wussmann's blood drops that day on his property. Correct?"

"Yes."

"There was no reason for the defendant's blood sample to be there that day, was there?"

"No."

"No official reason anyway. But Lt. Conner, who was not truthful on this stand about the delivery of the vial, must have had some reason to have the blood sample on his person that day at that particular place. Isn't that right?"

"Objection."

"Withdrawn. No more questions for this witness but defense may want to call him again later on," Harmon informed the court.

...............................................................................

During Charlie Wong's testimony Martha Kent had the impulse to leap up on him and tear his tongue out. He could not have done a better job of sabotaging the prosecution's case if he had done it on purpose. Martha reflected on all the mishaps in the trial to date, all the things that had turned against her. She was becoming convinced that there was a conspiracy afoot to do her in. There must be something going on. This debacle of a trial could not be just bad luck. It must be jealousy. The male establishment wanted her to lose this one. Her perfect record to date was too much for them to take. They had to bring her down. What better way to do that than by engineering a humiliating defeat in a high profile trial that for all intents and purposes was a sure thing, a no-brainer to win for any prosecutor.

Who was it who called the defense about that video tape of Wussmann at the soccer game, Martha wondered. The guy who took it didn't call. He told Captain Jenkins that he thought his roommate called but it wasn't like he knew that for sure. He just knew it wasn't himself and assumed it must've been his roommate. The Captain didn't question the roommate. For all she knew he didn't even question the guy who took the video. Captain Jenkins could be part of the conspiracy. Or someone in her own office could have called the defense about that video. And what about the undoing of her star witness? If Cody Tolkein didn't try to silence Virginia Walters one of Martha's co-workers certainly may have. That's gotta be it! Things do not go wrong the way they have in this case for no reason. It's just not possible. Somebody's behind it. And Martha Kent was determined to find out who! She'd start with Mr. Charlie Wong!

Martha asked to approach the bench, she was granted permission and approached along with Elroy Haines. The defense also gathered in front of Judge Martinez at the sidebar. Ms. Kent told the judge that Criminalist Charlie Wong had just dropped a bomb on the prosecution and they would need time to investigate the matter fully, properly ascertain the facts and decide how best to proceed from there. The judge agreed to adjourn court for the rest of the day if the defense had no objection. It did not.

.................................................................................

Charlie Wong entered Martha Kent's office like a dead man walking. The infuriated prosecutor paced along the side of the room in front of the well worn brown vinyl couch.

"You wanted to see me," Charlie said barely audible.

Martha continued pacing in silence.

Charlie momentarily gave in to a reflexive impulse to bolt the unfriendly premises. He twitched toward the door, immediately checked that impulse and wavered a bit as he tried to steady himself.

"Have a seat," Martha said without looking at him.

Charlie sat in the chair in front of the desk. An appalling silence shook him to his bones.

"That was some story you told the court, Mr. Wong," Ms. Kent finally said still pacing.

"I couldn't help it. I was trapped by the defense. That Jimmy Harmon is too much."

"Jimmy Harmon? Jimmy Harmon is the least of my worries. My own people are doing me in. And I wanna know what you know about it."

"About what?"

"Don't play dumb with me you little nip bastard. That little retarded act of yours didn't work in court and it's not gonna work with me. In preparing you for trial you deliberately told me a completely different set of facts from what you just now revealed in court. Right!"

"Yes, but..."

"No 'but' about it. Who put you up to it? Was it D'Angello? Conner? Both? Captain Jenkins? All of them?"

"No, I mean, I never thought it would be an issue like it was. The delivery of the blood..."

"Well, maybe you're stupid. If so you better start looking for another line of work. We can't have stupid people in responsible positions. On the other hand, if you cooperate, and therefore demonstrate how really intelligent you are, I'd feel that you were bright enough to keep your job."

"Cooperate?"

"Yes, with me."

"How?"

"Tell me how you arrived at the decision to deceive me. Tell me about the plan to have the proverbial pie slammed in my face. Tell me about the conspiracy of all the male chauvinist pigs who wanna see me go down." That was more than Martha wanted to say but it somehow made her feel good to say it. She wasn't even sure whether she believed it. But what else was she to think? It was the only explanation that made any sense to her. "Just tell me why you told me the blood sample was delivered to your lab right after it was taken from the defendant at the police station."

"I thought that was the right answer. The one you wanted me to give in court."

"Uh huh. Well, I guess you really are stupid. You can go now."

Charlie didn't budge.

"I said you can go now."

"It was Conner," Charlie said softly.

"What was that?"

Charlie was thinking back to the meeting with Ms. Kent and the rest of the investigation team in preparing for the trial. When he was asked about Wussmann's blood sample he looked to Lt. Conner for help as to what he should say. The Lieutenant seemed to signal to cover for him, Charlie recalled. Captain Jenkins was no help either. They both must have known that the how, when and where of the sample's delivery could come out in court and yet they chose to let the prosecutor believe that it had all been done by the book. Why? Maybe Kent was right. Maybe Conner and Jenkins did want to see her fail. Maybe there were others too who wanted to see her brought down. Things certainly kept turning against her in the Wussmann trial. Everything seemed to be going wrong and that couldn't be mere happenstance.

Charlie remembered his own experiences with bigots. In high school he was a better than average basketball player and was able to make the varsity squad as a sophomore. He was the only Asian on the team and was not made to feel welcome. On the third day of pre-season practice he went to his locker to put on his uniform and it wasn't there. He went to the coach and told him he couldn't find his uniform. The coach couldn't understand how that could be. He told Charlie he better find it or go join the chess team where he wouldn't have to worry about keeping track of a uniform. He never found it and never bothered about the basketball team again. He later found out that his suspicions at the time were correct. His teammates had taken his uniform.

"Lt. Conner wanted me to cover for him," Charlie told Martha.

"What about Captain Jenkins?" she asked.

"Well, I guess he was in on it. He was at our prep session and didn't contradict what I told you."

"Right," Martha said and, after thinking to herself a moment, asked Charlie if it didn't seem to him that someone was out to sabotage the trial.

"I thought all along that things don't go wrong like that without a reason."

"You're right. Have you heard anything? Any kind of trash mouth talk about showing me up? Anything like that?"

"D'Angello was pretty angry with the way you treated him at the prep session."

"Yes, and he is Conner's partner. They have it in for me I'm sure of it. But Captain Jenkins? Why would he be in on it?"

"Who knows how far up the food chain this thing goes?"

"No, we don't know for sure. What d'you think?"

"I kinda think there must be something going on."

"Yes, but why?"

"You said it yourself. Your success is resented because you're a woman."

"Jenkins insisted on investigating that phone call the defense got about the Wussmann video tape himself. I wonder how much investigating he did. Or how much he really needed to do. Maybe he knew who made that call all along."

"Maybe. And what about Walters, your star witness?"

"Would they go that far?"

"Seems extreme but..."

"But what?"

"It all depends on how much they resent you. Have they come to despise you, to hate you?"

"D'Angello might. I'm sure he does. He'd be capable of offing someone to get at me for sure."

"Walters?"

"Yes. Find out what you can about what's goin' on."

"You want me to spy on my colleagues?"

"You owe me Wong."

"Yes, but..."

"It's either that or you're outta here."

"I see."

"Well, what's it gonna be?"

"I guess I don't have much of a choice."

"Good. And I want results. If you don't come up with something, like who informed the defense about the video, and who silenced Walters, then I won't be happy with you and and you won't be happy either. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Now get to work."

................................................................................

Later that day Martha Kent took part in an impromptu press conference as she left her office building. She was asked about the Wong testimony and how damaging she thought it would be to the prosecution's case.

"Mr. Wong," Martha said, "was only a minor setback really. Nothing we can't handle. The idea that a police officer was out at the Wussmann estate sprinkling blood around the property is absolutely absurd. I watched the jury they weren't buying it. Our case is still very strong on evidence. We've got enough evidence against Wussmann to convict him ten times over. A whole mountain of evidence."

................................................................................

Charlie never followed up on Ms. Kent's directive. As he left her office he felt a sense of relief like when his heartburn was soothed with an antacid. Soon afterward he got the idea that the whole conversation was a total fantasy. A glitch, an aberration that was necessary at the time to indulge in but was of no real consequence. Charlie did get caught up in the suspicion of conspiracy theories while discussing the matter with Ms. Kent but when he left her office he felt it had no real substance. He, of course, felt obligated to entertain Ms. Kent's blather to smooth the ruffled feathers he had caused by his testimony. He felt he had done that. There was really nothing more he could do. He hoped the prosecutor would immerse herself again in the real issues of the case and forget the highly questionable suspicions about a conspiracy. Heck, Charlie thought, even if it was true it would be impossible to prove. The reluctance on the part of Jenkins and Conner to correct Charlie's statement at the pre-trial meeting about the delivery of the blood sample may have been simply due to Ms. Kent's contemptible treatment of Mike D'Angello. That's as close to an organized plot against Ms. Kent as Charlie could get. Maybe they all just thought it was the best story to go with and that the true story would most likely not surface during the trial. So, Charlie just went about his work as usual and never heard anything more from Ms. Kent about the matter.

................................................................................

The remainder of the prosecution's case wound down without any further mishaps or pitfalls. The last witness called by Martha Kent was a crime scene expert who testified that the Laurel Canyon murders were, in her opinion, committed by someone in an uncontrollable rage. Ms. Kent asked her if she could tell if it was a premeditated crime. The expert said she could, and yes, it was premeditated because the killer would have had to have had his weapon with him when he arrived at Ms. Wussmann's condo. Her scenario was that Blade was on the property, hiding in the bushes perhaps, waiting for an opportunity to attack his wife, when Robby Thanos came on the scene. Blade confronted him and an argument ensued. Rachel came out to deal with the situation and the defendant's rage escalated to the point where it became murderous frenzy.

"If Mr. Wussmann wanted to kill his wife," Jimmy Harmon asked on cross, "why wouldn't he just slip her an overdose of drugs to make it seem like a self-inflicted accident or suicide?"

"Stabbing with a knife has a certain sexual connotation to it," the expert explained. "The physical contact, the penetration, the vocal reactions of the victim all have a special meaning to a spurned lover bent on the violent reclamation of a lost love."

"How often in such cases is the weapon recovered?"

"Often."

"How often."

"The majority of cases."

"Have you ever worked on such a case where the weapon wasn't recovered."

"No."

"It never happens. Does it? Because the killer wants the weapon. He wants to keep the weapon because it's something precious to him. The last thing with which he was intimate with his love. He'd want to hold on to something like that, wouldn't he?"

"Yes."

"We don't have such a weapon in this case do we?"

"No."

"Because it was never found. Correct?"

"Yes."

"And without the weapon your scenario, your version of the murders is merely a wild guess, isn't it?"

"Well, it's a little more than that."

"But not much more?"

"A little more."

"Thank you. No more questions."

They broke for lunch.

................................................................................

Jimmy Harmon, Judy Adams and Blade were in the conference room deciding what to order for lunch when Jimmy got a call on his cell phone and said he had to go meet someone.

After he left Judy took off her suit jacket saying how stuffy the room was. She undid her pony tail and shook out her shiny auburn hair that fell to her shoulders. "Ah, that's better," she said smiling at Blade, "I'd never do this while Jimmy was here."

Blade watched her silently. He began to feel aroused with what he perceived to be an overture to a seduction.

"He likes to keep things real formal like," Judy went on, "I've been waiting for a chance to get a little informal with you, Blade. I've, well, I've gotten sort of fond of you..."

"I like you too, Judy."

"Do you?"

"Oh yeah, you're a real tiger."

"Not until this case, though. I believe...no, I know for sure that you're innocent. Somehow I always knew that. Jimmy knows that, too. And the idea of putting someone to death for something they didn't do...well, it just got my passion fired up, I guess. That someone being you got me goin' even more. I think you're...Well you're nothing like I thought you'd be. Well, not nothing like, but, I mean, the kind of image I had of you, the wild, crazy, out-of-control, violent maniac, you know, and to get to know you as a human being, well, it's like 'Duh, Judy, all you knew was the performer, the act, so you thought you could judge the whole person from that?' Duh-uh again. Double duh's on my head. I should get "DUH" tattooed on my forehead."

"Well, that image you had of me was me more than I'd like to admit," Blade said. "I was an image. I was trapped in an image. For the longest time I didn't think I was. I thought I was bein' just who I was. When I first started out I thought I could break through all that image stuff, break through the bullshit, destroy the image makers. But in doin' that I just became another image. I was all image. Image image image. I became a prisoner of an image. It took me over like a drug. Now my image is on trial. People wanna kill my image."

"Oh, I think Jimmy's doing a fine job of putting the evidence on trial."

"Yes, he is and I'm sure the jury has forgotten all about my image and is only concerned about judging the evidence. But the rest of the world, they're judging me on my image alone. I can't say as I blame them."

"I don't see you as an image alone. I see you as a man alone. A man alone in a prison cell. I really like you, Blade, and I know how tough it must be for someone like yourself to be in prison...and I'd like to..." Judy took Blade's hand in hers, "...well we don't have much time left, but, well..." she stood up and spread her arms out as if displaying herself, "I don't know if you find me attractive at all, but if you do..." Judy moved close to Blade and knelt down. She looked up into his eyes and said, "I would love to make love with you."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"That's a very tempting offer, Judy," Blade said tenderly as he caressed her hair, "I do find you very attractive and as much as I'd like to get it on with you I'm gonna have to decline. There's only one woman in my life right now. I'm sure you can understand that."

"Well, that's hard to believe, knowing you."

"Doesn't fit the image?"

"No, it doesn't."

"I know. I don't understand it myself, really. I mean, what's the point? Why not have sex with you? What's it matter? But I think of Ginny lying in a coma and...I, uh, I dunno, she's had no life because of me. Now she really has no life because of me. I love her, Judy. I wanna be true to her, I guess. Sounds crazy, I know..."

"I don't think so. But if it is crazy, then crazy is good."

"My image is dead."

"Long live your image!" Judy stood up like she was giving a toast.

"I'll drink to that!" Blade rejoined enthusiastically and then said with comic banality, "Now, let's order lunch."

................................................................................

The first witness called by the defense was Steve Conner. After he took the stand Jimmy Harmon asked if he hadn't lied under oath about the delivery of the defendant's blood sample.

Conner said he didn't think so and asked to see the transcript. After reading it he said that no he didn't lie because as he testified it was done according to the book.

"Was it?" Harmon asked pointedly.

"Yes. I delivered it into the hands of the chief criminalist Charlie Wong."

"According to the book you're supposed to deliver it to the police lab right after it has been taken. You waited over twelve hours to deliver it. Isn't that correct?"

"Yes, I never said I did everything exactly by the book."

"Why did you find it necessary to have the defendant's blood sample on your person at his home on the day Mr. Wong was conducting his search for blood drops?"

"I didn't find it necessary."

"So, why did you have the defendant's vial of blood with you on that occasion?"

"To give to Mr. Wong."

"Why didn't you take it to the lab when the sample was drawn?"

"It was very late. The lab was way out of my way home. I knew I'd see Mr. Wong at the Wussmann place later on so..."

"So..."

"So I'd give it to him then."

"Did you give it to him right away?"

"As soon as I saw him."

"How long were you there before that?"

"I'm not sure."

"When you left the police station with the vial of blood that early morning of July 7, 2000, where did you go?"

"I went home."

"Directly?"

"No."

"Where did you go before going home?"

"I stopped at the crime scene and at the Wussmann place."

"What for?"

"Checking to see that all was secure."

"Did you have the defendant's blood with you then? At the crime scene and Wussmann's home?"

"Yes."

"And drops of his blood were found at both those places, at the defendants home and at the crime scene, a few hours later. Correct?"

"That's correct. Yes."

"Just a coincidence?"

"Objection!"

"Sustained."

"How do you explain the fact that there was less blood in the vial than what was taken from the defendant at the police station?"

"Might've been a clerical error."

"Yes, and it might've been the wicked witch of the north."

"Objection!"

"Withdrawn. No further questions."

Martha Kent asked a few pointed questions about whether Conner planted evidence to frame the defendant. The Lieutenant answered, no, to all of them. Then she asked him why he was not forthcoming about the delivery of the blood in the first place. Conner said he didn't really think it was that important. He never thought it would be such an issue. Ms. Kent asked if he thought that was a mistake and the lieutenant said that it was a huge mistake.

Next up for the defense was Mike D'Angello. The prosecution was very concerned about the possible damage the detective could do to their case. Ms. Kent worked very hard with him to bring him back on the team. She had met with him the day before. Putting aside her male conspiracy suspicions and her disdain for the burly, hot tempered detective Martha was able to turn on the charm. The first thing she did was to try to form a bond between her and D'Angello. "I know I was a little rough on you at the pre-trial meeting, detective," she said humbly, "and I am truly sorry for that. I apologize. As tough as I was on you I'm even tougher with myself and I sometimes forget that I really can't be that tough with other people. I am sorry."

The detective sat and listened politely.

Martha continued, "I hope you'll be able to forgive and forget. We're on the same team and our team is not doing as well as we'd like and we all need to pull together so we can improve our performance. Jimmy Harmon's gonna be brutal with you. What'll you say when he questions you about you and Rachel Wussmann?"

"We were friends."

"Okay, just stick to that."

Martha brought up all the other issues the defense counsel would confront D'Angello with and was satisfied that she and the detective were on solid ground together and his testimony might not improve things but neither would it hurt their cause. Before D'Angello left Ms. Kent advised him to keep his cool on the stand no matter what and answer all the questions articulately without hesitation. Also, he should wear his best suit and look as well groomed as possible.

He did. He made his appearance in court dressed in a gray pin striped suit, his black wavy hair glistened in the TV lights and he exuded the studied composure of a consummate professional.

Jimmy Harmon got up from his chair and approached the witness slowly. He paced calmly in front of D'Angello for a couple of moments and then rattled off a few routine questions to establish the detectives identity and his role in the case. Once that was done Harmon again fell silent and paced thoughtfully in front of the witness stand. He glanced at the jury a couple of times as he tried to get a sense of their mood. It was difficult, however, to get a bead on their collective state. They weren't registering as one body according to the veteran attorney's radar. Harmon decided he needed to get the jury's undivided attention right off the bat. "Detective D'Angello," the defense counsel began, "were you in love with the defendant's wife, Rachel Wussmann?"

"Objection! Relevancy."

"It's relevant to possibly having an impact on the detective's manner of investigating the crime, your honor," Harmon quickly explained.

"Objection's overruled. The witness will answer the question."

"We were friends."

"Close friends?"

"Casual."

"You spent a lot of time at the defendant's home, didn't you?"

"I wouldn't say a lot, no."

"How much would you say?"

"Once a month maybe to play some tennis or use the pool."

"You met many women there, did you not?"

"There was always people around."

"Women people?"

"Yes."

"And they were friendly, weren't they?"

"Well, it was the nineties."

"Did you ever make a pass at Rachel Wussmann?"

"I wouldn't say that, no."

"Ever flirt with her?"

"Well, uh, you know, I mean, she was an attractive lady and I didn't keep it a secret that I thought so."

"So, you did flirt with her?"

"Innocently, in fun, yeah."

"What did you think when you saw Rachel Wussmann's mutilated body?"

"What'd I think? I thought she was the victim of a homicide."

"Was there a suspect that immediately popped into your mind?"

"No, not really."

"Come now, detective, weren't you aware of the defendant's stormy relationship with his wife?"

"Well, yeah..."

"When a husband or a wife is killed at home isn't the spouse a prime suspect as a rule of thumb?"

"Yeah, sure, but, for one thing, this was a double homicide and, for another, most domestic murders occur inside the home."

"Yes, it doesn't really have any of the earmarks of a spousal assault, does it?"

"It's an unusual one but Wussmann is an unusual guy."

"Move to strike."

"Jury will disregard the witness's last statement."

"As a patrolman you were once called to the Wussmann home to investigate a domestic dispute were you not?"

"Yes, I was."

"And you knew that Mr. Wussmann was arraigned for assaulting his wife last year, did you not?"

"I did."

"As you looked down at Rachel Wussmann's bloody body for the first time it never entered your mind that her husband might be responsible?"

"Well, sure it may have crossed my mind..."

"May have?"

"Well, I, uh, suppose it did but it wasn't something I seriously considered at the time."

"At what point did you seriously consider it?"

"I got real suspicious when I found the bloody glove on the defendant's property."

"Uh huh. You know, detective, there were news crews all around the crime scene during your investigation with their cameras rolling?"

"Yeah..."

"Suppose I told you that one of the news cameras recorded you and your remarks to your partner about your conviction, not your suspicion, but your conviction that the defendant was without a doubt the guilty party? Would you like us to show that tape to the court, detective?"

D'Angello's eyes were darting back and forth all over the place as he tried to come up with something to say. He tried to remember where he was exactly when he first started accusing Blade to his partner. Could a camera have picked it up? He tried to visualize his movements at the crime scene but it wasn't easy under the pressure of Harmon's towering presence glaring down on him.

"Detective?" the defense lawyer prompted the stymied witness.

"Well, look...uh, maybe I was suspicious, okay! So what?" D'Angello said struggling to maintain his composure.

Harmon saw the crack in the detective's facade and sought to pump up the pressure building inside the vulnerable witness. His strategy was to keep him off his guard by asking questions that were incongruous to the ones before. "How many gloves did you see at the scene of the crime during your initial investigation?"

D'Angello was still grappling with the previous question and barely heard the latest one. "What? Gloves?," he asked absently, "Uh...There were...I mean, no gloves..."

"No gloves?"

"One," D'Angello insisted and then added emphatically, "there was only one glove."

"You were in love with Rachel Wussmann were you not?"

"Objection!" Ms. Kent said in an attempt to give the witness a break, "Asked and answered."

"I'll allow it," the judge declared.

D'Angello took a sip of water.

"Were you in love with Rachel Wussmann?"

"As a friend."

"How outraged were you? How personally outraged were you about her murder?"

"What? I wasn't...I was...I dunno..."

"Where did you find the first bloody glove?"

"It was by the body of the male victim under some bushes or something."

"The male victim was Rachel's lover was he not?"

D'Angello's mouth tightened and he trembled slightly.

"Detective?"

"What?"

"The male victim? He was a young, handsome man who Rachel was in love with. Was he not?"

"I dunno," D'Angello said crossly.

"If you had been Rachel's lover and had been there with her that night none of this would have happened. Isn't that right?"

"Objection! Calls for speculation."

"Sustained."

"It stands to reason doesn't it, detective. Someone else may have been able to thwart the killer. That is a possibility isn't it?"

D'Angello looked to Martha Kent for an objection. She didn't budge. The witness turned to the judge for help. Martinez took no notice.

"Detective?"

"Uh...what was the question?"

"It is possible to conceive that had someone else been at Rachel Wussmann's condo on the night of the murders he might have been able to prevent them from happening. That is possible is it not?"

"Sure."

"That someone could've been you. Isn't that right?"

"Could've been...yeah...could've been. Oh I could've been there alright. I could've...I should've been there! Me! Not some scrawny little kid, pizza boy. She needed a man. She always needed a man. She needed me! Me! Not that maniac murdering husband of hers! She wanted me, too. Rachel wanted me and that son of a bitch killed her!"

"You want to see him put to death, don't you?"

"Yes!"

"You wanted that from the moment you saw Rachel Wussmann lying dead in a pool of her blood. Isn't that right?"

"Yes! Yes! He deserves it! He killed her!"

"You made up your mind to get Mr. Wussmann by any means necessary. Didn't you?"

"Hell yes! That was my job!"

"And you were the one who just happened to find a bloody glove on the defendant's property? Is that right?"

"I found it. That's right."

"Were you alone when you found it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why were you alone?"

"Because I was."

"Might've been dangerous. Who knows what you might come up against in the dark night with a suspected murderer on the loose."

"I wasn't scared."

"You were on a mission, weren't you?"

"I was doin' my job, that's all."

"Seeing to it that you nailed the man you despised? Because he had everything you wanted? Everything you couldn't have?"

"I was getting evidence! Just getting evidence."

"You viciously attacked the defendant that night while you were interrogating him. Isn't that right?"

"I roughed him up a little."

"Why?"

"He had it coming."

"Why?"

"Because he's a murdering creep."

"That was your opinion from the start wasn't it, detective?"

"Yes, it was! And it was the right opinion. He's..."

"That will be all." Harmon said firmly to the detective and then walking back to his seat said to Ms. Kent, "Your witness," with a look that said 'Lotsa luck'.

Martha Kent was somewhat chagrined to say the least at the detective's lack of control on the witness stand. She wasn't quite sure how to handle it and wanted to put a little buffer zone between the direct and her cross so she asked for a short recess, "to evaluate some new information". The judge acquiesced and called for a ten minute break.

The gallery waited for the jury to file out and the judge to vacate his seat before exploding into animated discussions with one another. At the defense table Blade leaned over toward Jimmy Harmon and inquired about the news video that he said had recorded D'Angello talking to his partner at the crime scene. Harmon with a sly grin and a twinkle in his eyes admitted that there never was any such video. "Oh, you're good. You are really good," Blade said with great admiration for the wily lawyer.

"Yeah," Jimmy agreed and then with a wink said, "as long as that kind of thing works."

The Judge wasted no time in calling his court to order when the ten minutes were up. He asked if the prosecution was going to cross examine the witness and Ms. Kent said that she was.

The prosecutor, with her head down, approached the witness box with measured, thoughtful steps. Detective D'Angello sat grim faced and rigid.

Everyone in the courtroom was intensely focused on Ms. Kent and the controversial cop. All was still and calm as before an electrical storm. The air bristled with energy. When the prosecutor was a couple of steps away from the witness she raised her head and smiled at him graciously before speaking.

"Let's say you were in love with Rachel Wussmann," Ms. Kent began, "did you ever have an affair with her or act improperly in any way?"

"No!" answered the detective more emphatically than was needed.

"So, it was a platonic love," Ms. Kent pressed onward, "you had strong feelings of kinship with Rachel. Would you agree with that?"

"Yes," D'Angello said somewhat more relaxed.

"So, the truth is that you were very fond of Rachel Wussmann. There was an innocent friendship between you. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"You were naturally upset, very upset about what happened to her. Is that right?"

"Yes, of course."

"When you find someone murdered one of the things you ask is who would have a motive to do such a thing. Correct?"

"Correct."

"Having some knowledge of the Wussmann's relationship and the fact that domestic murders usually indicate spousal involvement your suspicions about the defendant were reasonable were they not?"

"Yes, they were."

"The fact that Rachel was your friend may have kicked your desire for justice up a notch, but did it interfere with your professional judgement in anyway at all?"

"No, it did not."

"You investigated this case as you would any other case?"

"Yes, I did."

"Had you ever lost your temper while questioning a suspect before you lost it with the defendant?"

"Yes, I have."

"What kind of suspects did you lose your temper with?"

"One was a child killer and the other guy raped and butchered his own mother."

"Did you find the Wussmann murder to be just as heinous as those?"

"I guess I did."

"It was a particularly vicious and nasty murder, was it not?"

"It was, yes."

"So, when you lost your temper with the defendant while questioning him it was nothing special to this case, was it?"

"No, not at all."

"Would you ever, in any case you investigate, would you ever tamper with evidence or plant evidence in order to frame a suspect?"

"Never."

"Did you put a bloody glove on the defendant's property and then claim that you had found it there?"

"I did not."

"Was the defendant's blood scattered on his property to incriminate him?"

"No, I was not."

"With all the other evidence we have in this case, discarding the glove and the blood drops, would there have been any reason for you to even think of manufacturing more evidence on the defendant, Andrew Wussmann?"

"No reason at all."

"You had plenty of evidence for an arrest, isn't that correct?"

"We had plenty of evidence for an arrest. We didn't need any more. That's correct."

"No more questions, your Honor."

That was it for D'Angello. Martha Kent thought she had done a decent job in rehabilitating the witness but felt it was probably not good enough. The defense had won that round. It could turn out be a damaging round. But, even with all the mishaps that had gone against the prosecution during the trial the prosecutor was still convinced that the weightiness of the evidence would hold sway once the jurors began their deliberations. They would find Wussmann guilty in the end. One could argue about the fine points of trial techniques and strategies and point to mistakes that were made but when it came time to adjudge the evidence against the defendant one must come to the conclusion of guilt.

Jimmy Harmon had similar feelings. He thought that he won the case in court but he would probably lose it in the jury room. That had happened before and the Wussmann case seemed to fit such an outcome perfectly. The evidence against his client was, on the face of it, very persuasive and the jury could very easily become mesmerized by the superficial facts and discount the underlying weakness in the linkage of those facts. But all was not lost. There were possible gains still to be had. On the strength of his court performance Harmon planned to ask the judge to include the lesser charge of murder in the second degree. That carried life imprisonment rather than a death sentence. The judge, Harmon thought, might be amenable to such a suggestion. Martinez might think that the strong case mounted by the defense might result in a hung jury if the death sentence remained the only option. The prosecution might want to go along with a lesser charge also for the same reason. Harmon was right. After a brief hearing the judge granted the defense's motion to include the lesser charge.

................................................................................

The rest of the case for the defense was part rational discourse part circus. Harmon brought in a couple of crime experts to refute the experts for the prosecution. Then he had about a hundred On The Edge fans filing onto the witness stand each with a pair of Blade's now infamous boots. With so many other people in possession of the exact same boots as the defendant it cast doubt on the bloody-boot-print evidence pointing exclusively at Blade.

To each of the boot owners Martha Kent had only one question, "Did you have a motive for killing Rachel Wussmann?" Most of the witnesses said no. There were a few, however, who suggested that they did indeed have such a motive. One male witness with intense eyes answered yes to the question. Ms. Kent asked what his motive might be. The witness answered as if wondering if his motive would be considered an acceptable one, "She was a bitch?" A female witness gave jealousy as her reason to want to do away with Blade's wife. A few others had more or less the same attitude about the question voiced by one of the witnesses, "Motive shmotive, killing people is an extreme rush." Two others seemed to have gotten their inspiration from TV commercials, "Ya just do it," said one. The other explained that he could kill, "Just for the taste of it."

Judge Martinez, after about twenty of these tattooed, body pierced, chain wearing witnesses, felt that the court was being turned into a spin off of the Jerry Springer show. He found the heavy metal characters that were claiming a nonchalant blood lust for themselves to be more of a distraction than a contribution to the business at hand. So, at a sidebar conference, the judge consulted with the attorneys on both sides about his suggestion to assign a court clerk to handle all the defense witnesses with the defendant's boots in their possession. They could all file into a separate room where the clerk could take down their names and addresses, make an ink print of the sole of the boots on a piece of paper and staple them together. All the individual names and addresses along with their ink prints would become part of the trial record and the jury could peruse that evidence in the jury room. Both sides approved of the procedure and commended the judge for his discretion.

Jimmy Harmon's closing statement to the jury concentrated on the notion that the prosecution failed to present a cogent, believable scenario that implicated his client beyond a reasonable doubt in the commission of the crimes he'd been accused of. All the circumstantial evidence had reasonable alternative explanations and some of the prosecution's assertions were downright unfounded "Like the claim that Mr. Wussmann dropped the bloody glove in back of his property after leaping over a chain link fence that was overgrown with shrubbery and where there were no signs at all of it being disturbed," Harmon said. "The prosecution says that he violently crashed into the rear wall of Cody Tolkein's cottage three times. The defendant, they say, was out of control and was desperately trying to find a way into his house, other than through the front door. But there was no evidence of that happening at all," Harmon pointed out. "Again, the shrubbery had not been disturbed. There were no broken twigs on the bushes to indicate that anyone had recently scurried over the fence. The cottage wall was stucco and one would certainly expect threads of clothing, pieces of flesh or hairs to be in evidence there if someone had indeed crashed into it only once, let alone three times. But there was none. Nothing. No evidence at all.

"That's a big piece of the puzzle that doesn't fit the prosecution's picture," Harmon went on. "If there is no way to explain how that bloody glove got onto the defendant's property then that in itself is cause for reasonable doubt. Here was a glove used in the commission of a crime that somehow found its way from the crime scene onto Mr. Wussman's property. Nobody really knows how it could have gotten there. Nobody knows for sure. Then we have one lone cop, with an admitted vendetta against Mr. Wussmann, claiming to find the bloody glove on the prime suspect's property. How convenient.

"But one thing's for sure, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Somebody dropped that glove in back of Cody Tolkein's cottage, but it was not my client," Harmon insisted. "The evidence shows, or rather, the lack of evidence shows that that glove was dropped there intentionally. By someone. Again, the rear alleyway behind the cottage was undisturbed. But there was a glove found there. So, one can only concur that the glove was deliberately dropped at that spot by someone who was cool, calm and collected. And then the glove was found by a cop who had a questionable involvement with the defendant. This goes way beyond reasonable doubt, ladies and gentlemen. This casts a huge dark shadow of doubt on the prosecution's whole case.

"We also have Lieutenant Conner, who had on his person a vial of the defendant's blood while at the defendant's home at a time when criminalists would be looking for blood evidence there. When logged in at the police lab, the amount of blood in the vial was a few drops less than the amount of blood that was originally taken from Mr. Wussmann at the police station." Harmon also brought up his client's demeanor in the video of him at the soccer game, the fact that there was no weapon in evidence, and the assertion by the medical examiner that there might have been two killers. "All of these things create room for reasonable doubt," said Harmon. "There is so much room for reasonable doubt in this case a conviction is not possible. The prosecution has failed to put forth a convincing argument. You could drive a fleet of Mack trucks through the holes in the prosecution's case. Truckloads of doubt, that go beyond the criteria of reasonable, thunder all through the road map the prosecution would have you follow. Therefore, the only possible verdict in this case is that of not guilty."

Martha Kent stuck to her game plan in her closing statement. She kept driving home the evidence, hammering it point by point into the jury's heads. "There was," she told the jurors, "an embarrassing fight between the defendant and his now murdered wife the day before she was killed. The next day the defendant was given the cold shoulder by his wife and her family. That was also in public. More humiliation of a spoiled and pampered rock star who was used to always getting his way. The video of the defendant at the soccer game that the defense showed the jury, Ms. Kent pointed out, only showed the defendant when he was saying good-bye and putting up a good front. It did not show his reaction to being shut out of his family's get together. A reaction that witnesses have testified under oath was a murderous expression as he stared threateningly at his wife.

"Andrew Wussmann, the notorious Blade of the heavy metal rock group On The Edge, was not about to let himself be trashed in public. He had an image to uphold. An image that was worth multi-millions of dollars. To let his wife go through with a divorce after such public degradation would just be too much insult to his already severely injured ego. He had to kill her. It was the only way to prevent the humiliation of his wife divorcing him against his wishes and choosing to be with a mere pizza delivery boy. That tormented the macho man of rock to no end. It outraged and infuriated him so he became intent upon killing his wife and her new lover. And he did kill them. Brutally and viciously stabbed them to death in an uncontrollable rage that reached the heights of fury and the depths of depravity. It wasn't enough for him to kill. He had to mutilate the bodies. Andrew Wussmann is a deranged killer. He has killed before and he could kill again. Andrew Wussmann represents a mortal menace to society and needs to be put away for good one way or another. He deserves the death penalty for the wanton violence he has demonstrated himself capable of and The People ask that you convict the defendant, Andrew Wussmann, for the capital offense of murder in the first degree."

The prosecuting attorney went on to list all the incriminating evidence that pointed directly at Mr. Wussmann as the killer. Evidence that was overwhelming in its indictment of the defendant. His gloves, his boot prints, his not being able to account for his whereabouts at the time of the murders, the blood stains in his vehicle, Virginia Walters' testimony of Wussmann's confession of guilt to her, etc. It was all there for anyone to see plain as day. "Andrew Wussmann," the ADA concluded, "committed the brutal savage murders and deserves to be put to death."

Jimmy Harmon's rebuttal consisted of reminding the jury that the evidence was tainted with reasonable doubt and no conviction was possible under the law.

In Ms. Kent's final statement she accused the defense attorney of creating doubt where there was none and reminded the jury of the mountains of evidence demanding that a guilty verdict be returned on the capital murder charge.

The judge gave his instructions to the jury and then handed the case over to them, "It's now yours to decide," he told them. "It is your judgement, the judgement of the people that we are all subject to. God be with you."

As the jury filed out the court was absolutely still. The whir of the computers was all that could be heard. After they had all exited, the judge adjourned the court until further notice. Jimmy Harmon and Martha Kent exchanged a few words.

"You didn't follow up on your threats," the prosecutor teased.

"No need to," Harmon responded.

"You really think you won this one?" Martha asked incredulously.

"No. But I don't think you won either," Harmon said, "The jury might not be able to agree on a verdict."

................................................................................

In a newly renovated building on Sunset Strip Jerry Lake sat in his posh new office dreaming big. He had just summoned his assistant, Gladys Jefferson, to come and listen to his latest brainstorm. He relaxed back in his large leather chair, puffed on a cigar and surveyed his luxurious surroundings as he waited for Gladys to arrive. A plush beige carpet covered the whole floor except for the desk area, which was tiled in marble. Jerry's desk was off to one side of the room. In the back wall opposite the doorway was a large window with a view of the studios and office buildings of Hollywood. There was a black leather couch by the window with potted plants on either side of it. In the corner to the left of the desk was a well stocked bar. The wall opposite Jerry's desk was filled with TV monitors. They were all turned on and displaying different channels. With the use of a remote Jerry could bring up the sound on the monitor of his choice or keep them all muted.

Gladys was announced on Jerry's intercom just before the door opened and she walked in. "You wanted to talk with me, Mr. Lake?" she asked and sat down on the chair in front of Jerry's desk.

"Yes, Gladys, yes I did," Jerry said dreamily.

"What about?"

"I've been thinking..." he took a drag on his cigar and held it out in front of him. "Cuban," he said admiringly with a glance at his associate.

"Oh, how nice. Now, what did you want to see me about?"

"I have something in mind that I believe will be historic. It's something that could transform our whole industry. Hell, it could transform the whole world!" Jerry said expansively gesturing with his arms.

"You want me to guess what it is?"

"How would you like to be a part of something bigger than anything you ever imagined?"

"I think I'd need to know what that something was first before I could tell you that."

"Wussmann..." Jerry whispered and puffed his cigar.

"What about him?"

"He's on his way to death row. Right?"

"So it would seem."

"Oh, you can count on it. He's goin' down," Jerry said confidently. He then sat up square to his desk and became quite animated saying, "And! And! We're gonna be there!"

"We're gonna be there?"

"We are going to televise the execution of Andrew Wussmann for all the world to see."

"We are?"

"Oh yes we are! I haven't cleared it yet with anyone but we'll put the wheels in motion starting today. I think it would be a public service of great magnitude to have the whole world watching Andrew Wussmann's execution. To see this once arrogant icon brought to such a shameful end would be a lesson, an invaluable lesson for everyone. Especially young people. How many youngsters out there are contemplating a life of crime for themselves as we speak? Too many to be sure. And how many of those youngsters would at least, at the very least, think twice about getting involved with crime after seeing Wussmann's execution? After seeing the famous Blade, who seemed to be able to do anything he wanted, die like a dog. What an impact that would have! What a positive impact!"

"He won't be executed for at least another five years. Most likely even more."

"Probably take us that long to get the okay and get it all set up."

"Won't that mitigate the impact? Blade, the legend will have been forgotten by then."

"Oh, we can get him famous again. There will be protests against the execution like there always are. With Wussmann the protests will be stupendous. They'll bring the Blade back into the limelight and we'll play his videos on a daily basis, do a retrospective of his life and career, show what an arrogant big shot he used to be and then show him shackled in his death chamber. What a show! What a show that'll be!"

"I don't mean to be a party pooper here but what about the law?" Gladys asked.

"What about it?"

"Are there any laws against airing an execution on TV?"

"I doubt it. If there are we can get them changed. Everyone's just gotta see the value in broadcasting this execution live. It'd be a public service program. It'd be the grandaddy of all public service programs!"

"So, this would be aired as commercial free TV?"

"Commercial free! HAHAHAHAHAHA! Jerry laughed maniacally. "Commercial free? Are you kidding! This will out draw the super bowl for rating share! It'd be worth millions of dollars a minute. A second! Free? No way. We'll have sponsors! All the work this will entail? You better believe we'll have sponsors. We gotta eat. Oh, yeah we'll have sponsors."

"Like who, for instance?" Gladys challenged.

"You're beginning to piss me off, Gladys. If you have a problem with this project say so now and I'll find somebody else."

"I'm only playing devil's advocate here. My problem is with the problems we're bound to encounter with such a revolutionary idea," Gladys said knowing that last bit would please her boss.

"It is revolutionary isn't it?" Jerry said beaming. "Oh, I have dreamed all my life for some catastrophic apocalyptic totally absolutely awesome event to cover. To cover it exclusively."

"Exclusively?"

"Yeah!"

"How so? What makes you think you'd get an exclusive?"

"Well, Gladys, such an event would have to be handled with dignity. The execution must be afforded the gravity it rightly deserves. We wouldn't want to have it become a crass commercialized circus of competing networks trying to outdo each other by hyping it like professional wrestling," Jerry said. Then imitating an announcer's voice, "Heavy metal star meets the grim reaper! See death live! He continued in a normal voice, "We'll have a body mike on the dead-man-walking as he takes his last steps down the prison corridors to meet his maker. We'll have his friends and relatives miked and get their immediate reaction while they watch in horror as their loved one takes his last breath. See it all! Hear it all! Here!"

"That certainly gives me the creeps. I dunno. Maybe you should find someone else to help you on this one, Jerry. I don't think I have the stomach for it."

"It's a news story, Gladys. That's how we'll handle it and that's how you should think of it. It's just another news story."

"About death."

"You've covered fatal car accidents haven't you and murders?"

"Yeah, but the people were already dead, not about to be dead."

"I've covered wars," Jerry responded and then lied about interviewing dying soldiers on the battlefield when they were actually in a MASH unit. "It's an ugly part of life," he continued philosophically, "but it is a part of life and it is news worthy because it packs a wallop and gets people thinking and motivated. I just wanna make a difference, Gladys. That's all I ever wanted, really," Jerry said with practiced sincerity.

"Well, watching an execution would certainly get people's attention. I'll give you that. And, you're right, it could have a positive influence on some kids out there. I suppose."

"Oh, it will," Jerry insisted. "Now, what about sponsors? Who do you think might come on board for such an event?"

"At millions of dollars a minute? I don't know. Maybe professional wrestling, but that's not the kind of sponsor you'd want, is it?"

"All depends on what kind of spots they'd run. I'm sure Hulk Hogan could give a solemn dignified pitch for his sport. The camera pans around an empty arena. The Hulk, dressed in black, stands alone in the ring. He speaks softly, respectfully into the camera, 'Andrew Wussmann is facing his ultimate opponent tonight. An opponent we all must eventually fall to. When I meet an opponent in a wrestling match I face possible defeat, humiliation, which is a kind of death in life. Every day in life we face challenges. You can be victorious in life by staying out of trouble and doing the right thing.' Something like that would work."

"I suppose so..."

Jerry puffed on his cigar and said, "How about Microsoft?"

"Microsoft? As a sponsor?"

"Sure. Why not? They could afford it."

"Sure, but would they want to associate themselves with an execution?"

"Well, why not? Anyway, find out who we're gonna have to deal with as far as red tape goes. Call the Attorney General and see what he has to say about the idea. I'm goin' to lunch."

Gladys took that as her cue to leave. She got up from her chair saying, "I'll get right on this," and walked out of the office.

Jerry watched her go, gently placed his cigar in the ashtray and thought that maybe it was time to replace Gladys with someone more in tune with his thinking.

................................................................................

The jury had been deliberating for one week. Blade was confined within his jail cell during that time and Ginny was still confined in a coma. Lying on his cot Blade wondered if either one of them would get out of their respective prisons alive. He wondered if either of them deserved their sorry fate. Ginny was certainly an innocent victim. She didn't deserve to be the living corpse she had become. Yet, there she was. Blade questioned whether anyone really deserved anything that ever happened to them. Did he deserve to be as successful and wealthy as he had been? He couldn't say that he did. It was certainly not due to his talent alone that his career had taken off. In the early days when he was just starting out there were other up and coming singer/songwriters that were much more talented than he was that didn't make it. Didn't they deserve success more than he did? Success had nothing to do with greater or lesser talent, Blade concluded, it all depended on the lottery of cultural selection.

Now he was in prison. Did he deserve that? Did he deserve to be a candidate for the death penalty? No. He didn't think he did. Not at all. He no longer felt guilty about Rachel's murder. All the initial responsibility, all the suffocating guilt he had felt stemmed from his notion that he had somehow engineered Rachel's murder. Blade had to admit that that was an exaggerated view of his importance. Ultimately Blade had come to the conclusion that Armando had not acted as his surrogate in committing the murders. There was not one thing, and one thing alone, to blame for the murders of Rachel and Robby. There was not even one person to blame. The crime was a product of a situation put in place by various disparate circumstances coming together in just such a way to trigger a particular event. It happened because the people involved had to do what they did at the time because of who and what they were. And how much control does anyone have over who and what they are? Let alone all the various circumstances that, by chance, come into play in anyone's life? Circumstances that can elicit an immediate response from nerve centers driving powerful impulses unfettered by any conscious rationale.

Even so, Blade thought that people had to be held accountable for what they did. He had played a part in the murders he was accused of and he had to live with that. Perhaps he would have to die for it. He would have liked to have been able to tell his story to the world. He couldn't. But even if he could who would believe him?

During this reverie Blade heard the door of his cell being unlocked. He started up from his cot and turned to see two guards standing at the open doorway. One of the guards mumbled something incoherent and Blade asked him what he had said. As if it was an enormous effort the guard repeated his weighty message. He informed Blade that the jury was in.

Blade's stomach was suddenly taken over by a blitzkrieg of butterflies that amassed into a paralyzing fear. He was a trapped animal with supercharged fight-or-flight adrenaline raging all through him. There was, however, nowhere to run and no one to fight. Blade knew that, but the predicament of being in a life threatening situation overrode his rational thought processes and triggered an eons old instinctual survival mechanism common to every animal that ever existed. The intractable instructions his instinct sent to his brain were: Remove the threat or get the hell away from it.

Blade's consciousness was such that he was able to diffuse the explosive action he was being adamantly instructed to take by his instinct. Another man might not have been able to do so and might have tried desperately to escape. Blade knew it was futile but his mind could not dispel his impulses to physically deal with his situation. His inner struggle took him over completely. He sat on his cot incapacitated. The guards ordered him to get on his feet but the prisoner remained motionless. Finally, the impatient guards entered Blade's cell and forcibly stood him up. He was handcuffed and led on his way down the prison corridors between the two guards who continually berated him to get his act together.

................................................................................

The courtroom was jam packed. All the TV networks were represented along with CNN, MSNBC, major newspapers from around the globe and the various tabloids. Everyone wanted to be a part of this momentous occasion. Even the odds' makers in Vegas were in on the action. They had a guilty verdict at three-to-two and not guilty at twenty-to-one.

Thanos, his wife and daughter were there to see Robby's murderer get what was coming to him. The Wilson's, too. Hedda, George, Meg and Mark sat a couple of rows behind Thanos, Marsha and Jackie. The two family's no longer socialized with one another. George found Thanos to be utterly obnoxious and avoided him like a debt collector. He let it be known to his family that, as far as he was concerned, Thanos was persona non grata.

Meg and Mark had no problem with that declaration but Hedda had some difficulty accepting it. She was intrigued with Thanos. She found him to be quite stimulating even though she thought him a boor. What stimulated her was Thanos' apparently carnal interest in her. Hedda wondered if it was genuine or merely his way with women in general. She would have liked to have flirted with him to see how far it would have gone. Not that she was ready to hop in bed with him but she wanted to know for sure that Thanos lusted for her. She wanted to feel attractive in his eyes. But Hedda easily lost interest in Thanos when George told her what he had said about their grandchildren being evil and how they should be sterilized and locked up for life. It was after that she realized Thanos' interest in her was nothing special. The lusty gleam in his eyes, she decided, wasn't anything personal. It was just his way of looking at any attractive woman.

Still, when Thanos turned around to look at her and her family to give them a thumbs-up she couldn't help searching his face for any sign of interest. She thought she caught a glimmer of desire as he looked directly at her a moment but she couldn't be sure. Oh well, there were, after all, more important matters to be concerned with that day.

The excitement in the courtroom was palpable though restrained. The overall tone of the conversation among the spectators was of a quiet intensity. People talked to one another sporadically while keeping an eye on the door to the left side of the trial area that was used by the defendant and his lawyers to enter the court. They were expected at any second. Court clerks were bustling around the trial area, going in and out of the judge's chambers and the jury room.

The gallery fell silent as Jimmy Harmon and Judy Adams made an appearance. They took a few steps into the courtroom and stood a moment surveying the scene while Harmon gestured and spoke to his assistant. Then the two of them abruptly turned around and went back through the door.

Suddenly a loud burst of voices exploded at the back of the courtroom. The prosecution team had just entered and the gallery marked the event with their excited comments. Martha Kent, Elroy Haines and Aaron Foster came through the doors smiling and animated as they chatted their way down the aisle as if it was their night at the Oscars. Martha Kent was so committed to the exuberant interplay between her and her colleagues she began veering off course and tripping over herself. At one point Aaron had to grab hold of her arm to keep her from careening into the gallery. "Oh, Aaron I didn't know you cared," Martha said and they all laughed like it was the funniest thing they ever heard.

The prosecutors had entered the courtroom under the impression that the defense and the defendant were already in place seated at their table. Martha had asked the security guard at the courtroom's main door to let them know as soon as the defense made their entrance. She didn't want her side to be waiting along with the spectators for the other side to come in and steal the show. Ms. Kent wanted the defense team to be waiting in the courtroom at their table for her team to make a grand entrance. It was her plan to stage a high energy entrance just to remind everyone that she and her colleagues were the real stars of the show. However, her plan was loused up by the defense attorneys' brief appearance in the court. At first sight of Jimmy Harmon coming through the door the security guard went out to the lobby to tell the prosecutors that the defense had made their entrance.

When Ms. Kent saw that the defense was not yet in the courtroom she hesitated for a split second and then went on her way as if everything was just as it was supposed to be. Her impulse to charge back out of the courtroom and severely berate the security guard for being a stupid oaf was put on hold. To yield to it just then would dispel the confident, in-control image she thought she was presenting to the world in spite of the trouble she had walking down the aisle.

Jimmy Harmon had no idea that he was upsetting his adversary's strategy by his momentary appearance in the court. All he wanted was to get a sense of the energy and mood of the space so he could better prepare his client for the most arduous ordeal of his life.

................................................................................

Blade nervously paced around the anteroom as his lawyers tried to calm him down. They were explaining that a guilty verdict would not be irrevocable. Harmon told his distraught client that he was prepared to register a plea with the appellate court to declare a mistrial if that was necessary.

"You think there's any chance at all the verdict will be anything else but guilty?" Blade asked impatiently.

"I'm one hundred percent sure that the verdict will be guilty or not guilty," Harmon responded with a poker face.

"What about, kind of guilty?" Blade asked playing off of his lawyer's humor.

"Not for this jury. The prosecutors have a charge that covers 'kind of guilty'. They call it involuntary manslaughter."

Judy Adams joined in saying that 'kind of guilty' to a jury should translate as not guilty. "If they think you're kind of guilty, or somewhat guilty or even probably guilty the jury is duty bound to render a not guilty verdict."

"They're gonna focus on the evidence," Blade said. "They're gonna focus on the evidence because they want me to be guilty. They want the evil heavy metal rock star to be brought down. They'll jump on the opportunity to do me in."

"Juries are impossible to predict," said Jimmy Harmon. "This could very well turn out to be a hung jury."

Judy assured Blade that a verdict of not guilty was not out of the question. Blade said that a verdict of not guilty would result in a death sentence also because he'd probably die of shock at hearing it. They all got a chuckle out of that and Blade began to relax a little. Judy asked if he wanted a valium. Not that she had any on her but she was sure she could "scrounge some up somewhere". Blade declined the offer saying he didn't want to buffer the experience with a drug. He wanted to feel the intensity.

There was a knock on the door and Jimmy Harmon nodded to Judy to take care of it. She went to the door and opened it slightly. It was a court clerk. He informed her that the court was waiting on the defense to make their appearance.

Jimmy Harmon asked Blade if he was ready. He nodded that he was. Judy went up to Blade, put her hand on his arm and said, "Just keep in mind there can only be one verdict today that we consider as final. Only a not guilty verdict is final, absolute. If they say you're guilty we would not consider that as the final verdict."

Blade took her hand in his and thanked her. Then he extended his hand toward Jimmy. They shook hands and Blade said, "And thank you. Thanks for everything."

Jimmy nodded slightly and immediately began stuffing his briefcase with papers that were lying on the table. He handed the briefcase to Judy and told her to go out and tell the court official that they'd be right there. Jimmy opened the door. The buzz of the gallery could be heard faintly. Judy marched through the door and down the hall. Her second appearance in the court caused another burst of premature excitement through the gallery. Jimmy shut the door to the anteroom and the noise was muted. He turned to Blade and regarded him thoughtfully a moment before saying, "You know, Andrew, we've come together here in a very meaningful way. That's the case with all my clients. We form a lasting bond that's rendered temporary by the professional structure that contains it. Not to mention the unhappy circumstances that bring us together to begin with. There's always that dark shadow hovering over whatever light we can create between us. You and I have been through a kind of war. A war with your life at stake. Our objective was to win that war. It would be great if we did win. But it wouldn't be cause for too much celebration. It's a victory we'll always wish we didn't have to win. And, if we lose, it only compounds the crime."

"True," Blade said and gestured toward the door as if to say, shall we go?

.................................................................................

"Welcome back," a TV announcer said as the screen showed a wide shot of the courtroom centering on the closed door where the rest of the defense team was expected to enter, "we're still waiting for Jimmy Harmon and his client, Andrew Wussmann, to come into the court and take their place at the defense table. While we're waiting let me ask you, Barbara Hoffman, with all your trial experience as a defense attorney and before that as a prosecutor, what do you make of the relatively short deliberation period here for the jury to already reach a verdict in such a complex case?"

"Well..." Ms. Hoffman was about to say when she was abruptly cut off by the announcer as the camera zoomed in on the now open door that Jimmy Harmon came through.

"Here's Jimmy Harmon now looking somewhat subdued compared to the prosecution team's jubilant confidence upon their entry earlier..."

Harmon stood beside the door like a secret service agent assuring safe passage for his client.

"Now here comes the defendant, Andrew Wussmann, with his head slightly bowed walking directly to his chair at the defense table as if oblivious to the vociferous reaction to his entrance from the gallery..."

"There's my man Blade," Armando commented from his living room sofa where he was watching the proceedings along with Raul. "What you think, Raul, will they say, 'Blade, joo must die'?"

"There will be a death sentence today, Armando. Of that I am certain."

"Jes, I give the death first to Blade and then I give death to Pedro Gorando. Then I will be drug lord."

Raul suddenly pulled out his Glock from his shoulder holster. He aimed it at the TV that showed a close up of Judge Martinez asking for the jury to be sent in. "What if I shoot the judge now? Eh? Then what? I make myself the judge?"

"Okay, jes, joo be the judge," Armando declared emphatically and laughed a little at the strange behavior of his henchman.

"Jes, I be the judge. I shoot the jury too and become the jury and say the verdict. I will say who dies today. Then I kill the executioner an' become the executioner too."

"Oh joo are very ambitious today, Raul."

"Like joo, Armando. I am becoming like joo," Raul said using his gun to point at his boss.

"Careful with that thing, man."

"Oh this, Don' worry. I never shoot people I no wanna."

"The jury is now filing in and taking there seats. For those of you who don't know the procedure, the jury is never shown on camera so their identity is not revealed..."

Armando and Raul watched closely as the camera focused in on Judge Martinez. He asked if the jury had reached a verdict. A female voice was heard saying that they had. A court official handed the judge a piece of folded paper. "The judge is now reading the verdict for himself. A formality really..." the announcer went on quietly.

"What it say judge?" Raul asked the TV impatiently. "Look at that guy, Armando, he look at the paper like a grocery list or something."

"He's the judge," said Armando, by way of explanation.

"How would you feel if you were Blade right now?"

"Joo talk too much, man," Armando said testily.

"Oh, joo think I talk too much?"

"That's what I say, man. What's wrong witchoo?"

"Will the defendant please rise?" Judge Martinez said.

The TV camera closed in on Blade. He started to stand up but didn't quite make it. He sat back down in his chair just as he started to rise. Jimmy Harmon whispered something to him and Blade shook his head. He then took a deep breath and attempted to stand again. This time he put a little too much effort into the move and tilted forward into the table. He steadied himself and smiled at Jimmy Harmon who was standing beside him. Judy Adams also stood up to hear the verdict.

"Here it come, Armando. Are joo ready for this? Are joo ready for the verdict?" Raul said and stared at his boss with unusual intensity.

"I dunno. What the fuck's the matter witchoo, man. Joo are getting on my nerves. Shut the fuck up. And put that fucking gun away."

"On the count of murder in the first degree, how does the jury find?" The disinterested voice of the judge was heard asking. The camera remained focused on Blade's face. He was absolutely still.

The forewoman's voice was heard in the background, "We find the defendant not guilty."

The courtroom could be heard exploding with excitement as the judge hammered his gavel and called for order. Blade remained a statue holding himself in suspense to hear the next verdict.

"On the count of murder in the second degree, how does the jury find?"

"We find the defendant not guilty."

The murmuring in the gallery struggled to contain itself from provoking the judge's wrath. The TV camera panned the gallery and focused in on Jackie Thanos who burst out in tears. A close-up of Blade showed him looking stunned, incredulous.

"So," Armando said, "joo were wrong, Raul. There will be no death sentence today."

Raul stood up wielding his gun. He looked down at Armando and said, "But joo have not heard the final verdict, Armando."

"What joo talkin' about? Joo are fuckin' crazy today. Get the fuck outta here."

Raul pointed the gun at Armando's head and said, "Joo are no my boss. An' the verdict for joo is guilty. Pedro Gorando is my boss an' he give to joo the death sentence. He is drug lord. Not joo."

Raul fired one shot into Armando's head splattering his brain all over the sofa and the wall behind.

The judge thanked the jury, told the defendant he was free to go and gaveled the trial to a close.

................................................................................

Outside the courthouse the media was rabidly seeking interviews with the major players. They especially wanted to hear from the jurors but they had not yet been spotted. On her way out of the courtroom Martha Kent voiced her complete and total dismay at the verdict when microphones were thrust in her face by a mob of reporters. She said that she had to suspect some foul play from the Wussmann camp. The jury must have been somehow bought off. For them to discount the mountain of evidence against the defendant was just not otherwise feasible.

Thanos and his daughter were outraged. Jackie kept sobbing in her father's arms as Thanos vociferously castigated the jurors as "irresponsible imbeciles" and "empty-headed morons". "They let that murdering low-life bastard Wussmann go free after what he did to my son? This can't be happening. I mean, wake me up! This is a nightmare! This isn't reality. This is absurdity. This is a grievous insult to every law abiding citizen. Justice was not done today. Our whole system of justice was trashed today by the garbage-heads sitting on that jury."

The Wilson's expressed their horror at the verdict less boisterously than their counterpart. "We lost our daughter and now the rug of justice has been pulled out from under us. It's not a good feeling," George said somberly into the microphones.

The prosecution team made an official appearance before the cameras to register, as Aaron Foster put it, their "complete and utter dismay at the verdict". Martha Kent talked caustically about her "absolute disappointment with the jury". "They must have been sleeping during the trial to ignore the huge amount of evidence pointing at the defendant's obvious guilt. I don't know what happened. I suspect foul play. Somehow the jury was tampered with. Somehow that slime-ball of a defendant got to them. Either the jury fell victim to his celebrity or they were bought off with his money."

The press corps got excited at Ms. Kent's accusation. "Are you actually accusing the jury of taking bribes to return a not guilty verdict?" asked one journalist. Another added, "Are you saying that every member of the jury took a bribe? How would that be possible?"

Ms. Kent seemed a bit stymied at what she took to be hostile questioning by the journalists who she had always thought were on her side throughout the Wussmann case. She suddenly scowled at the mob of inquisition before her and said angrily, "What! Are you saying you think the verdict was warranted. You think it's okay that that murdering bastard got away with his vicious crimes?"

"Will you be investigating the jury for possible wrongdoing?" "How do you think the bribes took place?" "Are you going after Wussmann for jury tampering?"

Ms. Kent started to say something in response a few times but her speech failed her. "Well...uh...I...If...you...It's all...uh..." she uttered haplessly. The normally sharp and together attorney was unable to decide what to say. Desperately searching her mind for the magic-word-elixir that would explain everything, Ms. Kent appeared to be going mad. Her eyes rolled erratically around in her head. Her face was pained and her mouth began to quiver.

The school of reporters sensed weakness and the feeding frenzy began. They bombarded the flustered attorney with overlapping rapid fire questions. Ms. Kent started flinching as if darts were being thrown at her.

Aaron Foster stepped up to the mic and said, "How can we explain the verdict? That is the question that torments us so. In trying to explain it, in trying to reason it out, in trying to formulate an understanding of such a shocking turn of events our minds boggle. We consider outlandish propositions like the bribing of all twelve jurors in lieu of other more valid explanations which are not available to us. To say that the jurors must have been bribed is merely to point out how incomprehensible the verdict was to us."

The DA abruptly called an end to the press conference and escorted his beleaguered prosecutor away from the microphones. They trudged slowly up the courthouse steps. They returned to their offices to ponder why they were unable to bury Wussmann under the mountain of evidence they had against him.

"I know we made some mistakes," Martha Kent said. "Our presentation wasn't perfect. It never is. But, whatever mistakes were made they could not have brought into question the overwhelming evidence of Wussmann's obvious guilt."

"That bastard Jimmy Harmon had the jury conned," Elroy Haines chimed in. "He turned Wussmann's notorious celebrity into an asset instead of the liability we expected it would be. Harmon made it seem that his client was the victim because of his celebrity and the jury was gullible enough to believe it."

"Idiots!" Ms. Kent said bitterly.

"Human nature" Aaron Foster offered, "You never know what the deciding factor's going to be in any normal trial much less a trial so exceptional as this one was. It was exceptional in every way. The defendant, the evidence, the police involvement, the publicity, all of it was just way out of the ordinary and, so, that much more unpredictable."

"The exceptional evidence in this case should have outweighed everything else," Martha insisted. "The jury blew it. They let themselves be distracted by Harmon's crafty unscrupulous showmanship."

................................................................................

Most of the jurors avoided the press. Those that talked to the media said that the jury at first was segmented into three camps. Five of the jurors were for a guilty verdict, four were undecided and three thought Wussmann was probably guilty but didn't think the case against him was proven and they came down on the side of a not guilty verdict. The five jurors who favored a guilty verdict were all shocked to find that seven of their fellow jurors thought otherwise. They were, however, impressed that the others found reason to doubt the defendant's guilt in the face of so much evidence to support it. The seven who had doubts about the prosecution's case finally convinced the five others that there were other things to consider besides the stark evidence. After lengthy in depth discussions all twelve jurors agreed that the criteria of proof beyond a reasonable doubt had not been met by the prosecution and, therefore, a guilty verdict, however, desirable, was not possible.

The most persuasive point for casting doubt on the prosecution's case was the mystery of the bloody glove found in the back of Wussmann's property. How could it have gotten there if there was no evidence that anyone had recently been in the area where the glove was found? That question had not been satisfactorily explained by the prosecution. If Ms. Kent and company were just guessing at what happened there, one of the jurors mused, what else were they guessing at? The jurors couldn't be sure exactly whose boot prints were found at the crime scene. It was possible that the glove and the boot prints were evidence of a frame-up. They couldn't be sure if only one person was responsible for the murders or if there was only one weapon involved. Also, there was some doubt cast by the defense on the blood evidence. On top of all that there was the shoddy police work and evidence collection. There was Detective D'Angello's personal relationship with the defendant and his wife. All of it added up to an unconvincing case that did not warrant a conviction on either of the charges. The jury had no choice under the system of justice they were subject to. They had to render a verdict of not guilty.

The news surveys showed that a large majority of the populace believed Wussmann to be guilty and thought that the jury erred in it's decision. The great majority of those surveyed, however, had not closely followed the trial. Their judgement was based on cursory data obtained, on the run, from various media sources whose coverage was steeply slanted toward the guilty side. And there was no alternative explanation viable enough to usurp the scenario so indelibly created in the popular mind. All the evidence pointed to Wussmann. There was just no getting around it. He was guilty and he got away with murder.

................................................................................

After the verdict Blade sat in the anteroom silently staring out the window. His lawyers, along with the prosecution were meeting in the judge's chambers. Blade looked out at the world he had been deprived of for the better part of a year and was surprised to discover that he did not feel like rushing out of the courthouse to start dancing in the street. His mood was subdued, reflective. He had expected a guilty verdict. During his long incarceration he had been preparing himself for an even longer stay behind bars. And steeling himself to face a death sentence. But the jury had sentenced him to go on living as a free man. He did not feel prepared for that. It was difficult for him to believe he was free to go. It seemed impossible to figure out how to get there from where he was. The idea of walking out the door unshackled and unguarded seemed utterly fantastical.

The world beyond imprisonment was the unknown. What would it be like out there? Everyone thought Blade to be a murderer. In prison that was not a problem. On the outside it would be. And what about Belinda and Josh? Blade hadn't had any contact with them since his arrest. Did they hate him now because they believed he killed their mother? Had the Wilson family worked on them to Blade's disfavor? Would his children want to see him at all anymore? Would they be better off staying with the Wilson's rather than being subjected to the stigma of living with a suspected murderer?

The realization that he could be with his kids again tormented Blade with sweet longing. The pain of separation from Josh and Belinda began to bring him back from the dead zone of prison. He vowed to get his kids back and be a better father. That is, if they wanted to be with him. Maybe they wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe he'd never see them again.

Thoughts of Ginny began to occupy Blade's mind. He imagined her lying comatose at his home where Cody had set her up in what used to be the billiard room. There she was, deep in a coma with the dream of her life nearing fulfillment. Now that I'm free, Blade thought, Ginny will be living with the man she loves. Living dead to the world with the man she loves. But perhaps she's living her dream even now. Perhaps she's dreaming her happiness as she sleeps and experiencing a bliss that would be prohibited in the world awake...

Jimmy Harmon and Judy Adams came in the room. Blade hardly acknowledged them. He was aware they had come in but that awareness didn't register any immediate significance. He merely tilted his head a little to one side as he continued looking out the window.

Sensing his mood the two lawyers entered the room cautiously. Judy quietly shut the door and put her bulging brief case down on the floor. Harmon put his on the table and stood looking down at his client with a faint smile on his large fleshy face. "You really are free to go," Jimmy said in almost a whisper.

"I was not happy with my representation," Blade said sardonically. "I want a new lawyer. I'm appealing the verdict. I want to go back home to my cell at County Jail."

"Well, if the appeal works and you get a new trial," Jimmy Harmon said playing along with his client, "an insanity defense would be unavoidable. Because there'd be no doubt in anyone's mind that you were crazy."

"The insanity defense would most likely be successful and get you off again," Judy added.

"Maybe I should make a confession. Maybe it's better for everyone if I stay in jail."

"What about your children? I'm sure they want to be with their father."

"Yeah...I hope so. I'd like that."

"What about Ginny? And your art? I was hoping there was another album in you. That this experience might spawn some creative triumph."

"Who knows? If I had gotten the death sentence I would've been facing the unknown. But I've been sentenced back to life. And I'm still facing the unknown."

"Similar, but different."

"Yeah, I might be able to crank out a few tunes."

"That would be good. Bring this whole thing together. It's all come together for the three of us. Justice was done here today and that is something we can celebrate. It's something we all should celebrate. It's a shame that the popular perception of your guilt will prevent that from happening. But you do have your supporters, your fans."

"My fans," Blade said derisively, "most of them think I did it but it's nobody else's business. Freakin' morons! But I'm glad they kept my boots," Blade was quick to add. "Maybe it's time to move on from the heavy metal gig. Seemed right when I was young and just startin' out. Then the success took over and dictated the program. I couldn't have grown out of it if I wanted to. Now, though, the ideas in my head don't sound like heavy metal, more like good ol' rock an' roll."

"Well, to my mind, your stuff transcended the genre. You may have been stuck in a narrow art form but essentially you rose above it."

"I'm a big fan of yours, too," Blade said with a smile. He stood up, shook hands with Jimmy and embraced him. He did the same with Judy. "I'm gonna walk outta here now. It doesn't seem possible. Just like that. All of a sudden I'm free to go. Amazing. This is such a huge moment and all it comes down to is me just walkin' through a door."

"Yes, but I must warn you," Harmon said gravely, "this ordeal might not be over for you. There is the matter of a civil suit that might be brought against you by Thanos or even Rachel's family. Or both. So, you might consider taking measures to protect your assets. That's not my area of expertise but I can certainly recommend someone to handle that for you."

"Sounds like a plan." Blade said, "That is if I have anything left after I get your bill."

"I think you'll find it to be reasonable. I'm only asking for ninety-nine percent of your fortune."

"Oh what a relief. I thought it might be more like ninety-nine point nine percent."

The two men shared a smile laced with the joy of victory.

"You need a ride anywhere?" Judy asked.

"Cody's picking me up in a rented van in the underground garage."

................................................................................

When he got home the first thing Blade wanted to do was to see Ginny. Cody couldn't wait for him to see how well he had taken care of her. He had designed Ginny's room to be an enticement to wakefulness. The room was filled with everything he thought would make consciousness a desired condition. He had the side wall of what was the downstairs billiard room taken out and replaced with a glass structure that allowed the room to be saturated with sunshine. Strategically placed mirrors reflected the sunlight into the room with an eye piercing intensity at all times of the day. The room was also a virtual forest of green leafy plants. A state-of-the-art sound system constantly played music or echoed the sounds of nature. Ocean waves caressing a sandy beach, a gurgling creek or a chorus of songbirds would be mixed with musical selections ranging from classical to punk rock. Sometimes Ginny's favorite movies, like Wuthering Heights, would be shown on a large screen TV.

Ginny was attended to round the clock. The nurses, in white uniforms and sunglasses, would give their patient a sponge bath and a vigorous massage everyday. Cody hired a chef to prepare their meals. The food would be brought into Ginny's room hot and steaming so the aroma might affect her sense of smell and serve as another stimulus to coax her from her coma.

Upon entering the room for the first time Blade told Cody that he'd like to be alone with Ginny. Cody said, sure. He invited the nurse to take a coffee break with him. They left the room and Cody closed the door behind them. Blade approached the bed and stood motionless at its side. Ginny was wearing a frilly silk nightgown with puffy shoulder sleeves patterned with little blue flowers. The bedclothes covered her up to her breasts. Her hands were folded above the covers on her waist.

Rather than the corpse like figure Blade expected to see Ginny appeared to be very much alive. Poignantly alive. Overwhelmed with feeling Blade knelt down beside the bed and wept profusely. With his head buried in the bedclothes he reached out and took Ginny's hand in his. He continued weeping for sometime until he seemed to feel her hand move of it's own volition. He abruptly picked up his head and peered into Ginny's face searching for signs of consciousness. He reached out and stroked her hair. "Ginny," he said, "Ginny I know you're in there. Hiding. It's okay to come out now. I need you to come out now. I love you Ginny. I really do." Blade got to his feet while kissing Ginny's hand. He held her hand to his chest while he gently stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. He bent over and put his face close to hers. "You're alive Ginny but you're not living. What's the sense of that?" Blade said softly into her ear. "I feel your life. I can feel it wanting to live again." Blade kissed her ear and he felt as though Ginny reacted to it. He couldn't say how exactly. Maybe he imagined it but he could've sworn she sighed slightly, almost imperceptibly. Blade kissed her mouth and felt himself getting aroused. He pulled the covers down, got on the bed and laid down beside her. He kissed her mouth again caressing her teeth with his tongue. Everything seemed electrified with a passionate sensuality. The plants themselves seemed to be vibrant with erotic desire. The bed, the sheets, the pillows were alive with it. Ginny's breathing quickened. Blade felt certain that at some level they were in communion with one another. "I want you Ginny. I wanna make love to you." Blade parted her lips, opened her mouth and gently probed inside her mouth with his finger. He kissed her with his tongue touching hers. He put his head on her chest and listened to the rhythmic pulsation of her heart's desire. Ginny's nightgown fit snugly around her breasts and Blade noticed her nipples pressing out against the fabric. He felt them with his fingers. They were hard and erect. Blade pulled her thigh length nightgown up above her breasts. He began sucking on her nipples. He put his hand inside the sterile looking pair of incontinent underwear and fondled her vagina. It was to his surprise quite moist. His finger easily slid inside. Blade continued sucking her breasts and stroking her vagina while Ginny responded with little jerks of her body and faint guttural sounds that reminded Blade of a pigeon cooing. He took off her underwear, unzipped his pants, spread her legs apart and got on top of her. He entered her slowly, gently. Inside her Blade subtly manipulated his cock by alternately tightening and relaxing his buttocks. He performed this motion for several minutes as he kissed Ginny's mouth and talked to her, encouraging her to wake. Ginny was definitely stirring, coming to. She moaned. Her arms moved. Her body arched as if to stretch. Her eyes opened slightly. "Ginny! Ginny! Wake up, Ginny. Come to me, Ginny. Come..."

Suddenly she gasped into a full awakening while in the midst of orgasm. She threw her arms around Blade and held him tight until her climax subsided. As it did so the realization of her awakened state came to the fore. She looked at Blade. He was now arched up leaning on his stiffened arms and smiling down at her. "Welcome back," he said.

Ginny had a strange look on her face. One of frightened consternation. She turned her head frantically from side to side with wildly searching eyes trying to determine her whereabouts. "I don't understand! What's happening?"

"We're together. I'm out. Free and clear."

"Where am I? How did I get here? What are you doing to me?" Ginny demanded to know.

"Okay, le'me explain..."

"You're screwing me? Where do you get off screwing me!" Ginny became outraged and started writhing, kicking and flailing out at Blade. Lowering himself onto Ginny Blade restrained her from moving. With his lips next to her ear he explained to her that she had been in a coma, that he had her moved to his home where Cody had been taking care of her. He told her his trial was over and he was found not guilty. "And just now," Blade said raising himself up to face Ginny, "I could sense you responding to my touch. To my kisses. I got caught up in it because you were getting caught up in it and now...here we are."

Ginny remained quiet and still for a few moments and then she began to cry. It was all coming back to her. She embraced Blade and he tried to comfort her with caresses and kisses. He told her he loved her and hoped she still loved him. Blade held her gently in his arms while she cried. "I'm so sorry for what I did to you," Ginny said through her tears. "I was so confused and tired my doubts and fears got the better of me. I'm so sorry."

"It's all over now, Ginny. It's all over."

................................................................................

Jerry Lake was outraged by the jury's verdict. He blasted them on his television program for "a most egregious dereliction of their duty" and accused them of "a willful obstruction of justice". Lake went on excoriating the jury saying, "Except for all the zipper-head fans of this rock and roll retrograde everyone knows that Andrew Wussmann is guilty of murdering his wife, Rachel, and her friend, Robby Thanos. The evidence absolutely, one hundred percent, undeniably warranted a conviction in this case. How could anyone with half a brain come to any other conclusion? It is utterly fantastic for me to fathom how it was possible to seat a jury of twelve people who happened to be the only people in America not totally convinced of Wussmann's guilt. It's just incredible. Absolutely incredible. The not guilty verdict was an insult to my intelligence. It was a gross insult to the families of the victims. I challenge members of the jury to come on this program and see if they hold to their ridiculous verdict after I get through with them."

Other talking heads on the Jerry Lake Live program joined in a free for all of controversy in a heated debate that had everyone talking over everyone else. Some of the comments that could be heard were, "It was the prosecution's botching of the case...the jury was right...no one really knows what happened...If Wussmann didn't do it who did? All the evidence points to him and nobody else..."

After everyone calmed down Jerry brought Thanos on the program via satellite hook up from his home. Thanos voiced his own outrage at the verdict and let it be known that he was not through with Mr. Wussmann. There would be a wrongful death suit for "that murdering bastard" to answer to in civil court. "We'll strip him of everything he has and reduce him to the worthless piece of crap he really is," Thanos declared.

Jerry wished him luck and then brought on the Wilson family from their home. George and Hedda lent their support to the civil trial and said that they would be filing for custody of their daughter's children, Josh and Belinda. Hedda announced that they would do everything in their power "...to see to it that these two innocent children are spared from any contact whatsoever with the man who murdered their mother."

Jerry thanked the Wilson's for coming on his show and broke for a commercial. When Jerry Lake Live came back on the air the Wussmann case was ancient history. There was a new case for Jerry to champion.

The eight year old daughter of a well known wealthy pornographer was found dead in the woods of his sprawling estate in North Carolina. The child had been tied naked to a tree and apparently left to die after being repeatedly raped and tortured. She was found by a search party that was formed by the authorities when it was learned that the girl was missing. It took five days to find her.

The North Carolina mansion had been in the process of being closed for the winter and father and daughter were there for the ritual. They were the only ones staying at the mansion on the night that the girl disappeared. The staff had left that day. The father was divorced and had retained custody of his daughter because his ex-wife didn't want her. The father was an obvious suspect but had been released by the police after questioning. He was, however, still a suspect pending a full investigation. The investigators said that the girl's body would not yield much, if any, evidence. Her corpse had been partially eaten by animals and was infested with maggots and other insects.

There was no evidence that the girl had been forcibly taken from the mansion. However, a window in her ground floor bedroom had been found wide open. Whether there was any evidence that the girl might have been taken by someone entering and exiting through the window was not disclosed. The girl's father mentioned that his daughter had been known to sleepwalk but neither his wife nor his servants could corroborate that assertion. "Even if that was true," Jerry said squinty-eyed into the camera, "it's difficult to imagine that, if she had wandered off on her own in the middle of the night, she would just happen to cross paths with some depraved individual taking a midnight stroll through the woods."

"The father's guilty," Jerry declared, "there's no question about it. He's a degenerate smut-meister who was having sado-masochistic sex with his own daughter for God's sake! It was her own father's depravity that was the cause of her death. He oughtta be tied to a tree and tortured to death himself..."

Jimmy Harmon was watching the show with great interest and wondered about the staff members who worked at the mansion. The night the girl went missing the staff had been dismissed earlier on that very day. Dismissed, yes. But did they all leave the premises?

###

About the Author:

Born in NYC and now lives in Massachusetts.. A new writer with more books on the way. Happy to be involved in paperless publishing

Smashword Author Page:

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/inthezone
