The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller (17 page)

McClatchey Park

Atlanta

February 20

12:42
P.M.

M
C
C
LATCHEY PARK, ONE OF THE PARKS
within Ansley Park, was about a quarter of a mile from Paige's home and well out of sight of the remaining news vultures perched on the sidewalk in front of her house. It seemed an ideal place for Wynn-Three to play after she had picked him up from St. Philip's. She did notice that one van had followed her, but its crew remained inside the vehicle while Wynn-Three played rather than shouting questions and shoving microphones in her face. Perhaps, she thought, some small fraction of the media respected their privacy.

     Paige had joined the collection of mothers and nannies on the benches next to the area where small children noisily alternated between slides and swings. Her enjoyment of the relative peace, if not quiet, was mitigated by the fact that Wynn-Three was not interacting with the other kids. Instead, he trudged between the end of the slide back to the steps to the top with an air of obligation, rather than pleasure, as though it were his assigned duty to extract his share of usage of the facilities provided.

     Dr. Weiner had said that, until the child was finally free of the effects of whatever abuse he had suffered, he would be unlikely to socialize with other children. She also said his ability to write numbers, albeit only a certain set of them, demonstrated a higher than average IQ which in turn translated into an increased maturity. As she watched her son's seriousness while supposedly
at play, she would have exchanged every point of that IQ for a smile, a bit of engagement with other children, pleasure.

     She had to look away in order to break the intense surge of sadness coming over her.

     It was then she noted her next-door neighbor, Gurt Fuchs, on a nearby bench. She was hard to miss. Nearly a head taller than any other woman there, her blond hair reflected the sun like a beacon. Even in baggy sweatpants and an old jersey, she would have drawn attention had any men been present. Paige, like most of the women of Lafayette Drive, was acutely aware of the attention Gurt drew from their husbands. Unlike many of the other wives, though, Paige was secure enough to feel no jealousy, at least not toward Gurt. She could not, however, suppress the envy she felt as she watched Manfred leading a troop of slightly older boys in some sort of game.

     If only . . .

     Gurt stood, her attention clearly not on her child.

     Paige's eyes followed Gurt's. A man had gotten out of the van and was motioning to Wynn-Three. There was something about him that told Paige he was not one of the media who had plagued her for what, a week? Seemed more like an eternity.

     Wynn-Three, curious, was responding, trotting toward the stranger. Paige was standing, calling to her son to stop. Newsman or not, the man was going to do her son no good. In fact, she intuitively realized the man's purpose was darker than an attempt to revive the already fading story.

     She was off the bench and running.

     As if to confirm her worst fear, the stranger grabbed Wynn-Three's arm, dragging him to the van. For the first time, Paige saw the rear doors were open. A bolt of terror went through her like an electric shock.

     She was not going to get there in time.

     Behind her, Paige could hear the shouts of the other women as they called to their own charges. In front of her, Wynn-Three had his legs in front, feet dug into the brown winter grass. It did no good. The stranger scooped him up under an arm and turned to the van's open maw.

United States District Court
for the Northern District of Georgia

Richard Russell Federal Building

Atlanta

The Same Time

T
HE LAWYERS SAT AT THEIR RESPECTIVE
counsel tables, awaiting the return of the judge and the jury from lunch. Eight-Ball Edgar was notoriously punctual, and the prolonged delay struck many as unusual.

     Finally the door opened, but, instead of the judge, a bailiff entered from the judicial sanctum. "Judge wants to see the lawyers."

     The plaintiff and defense counsels exchanged puzzled glances as they quickly rearranged papers and left the courtroom.

     Judge Craig, with his robe on over a white shirt and the trademark bow tie impeccably straight, sat behind his desk, motioning at the chairs along the table in front of him. "We have a problem, gentlemen."

     The attorneys sat expectantly.

     "Seems one of the jurors, Number Three, has a bit of difficulty with Mr. Charles."

     All heads turned toward Wynton.

     "She was watching TV last night, saw some story about reincarnation. Seems according to the television, Mr. Charles's son believes he lived a previous life. Then, she goes back and pulls up an article from last Sunday's paper on her computer that says the same thing."

     Wynton felt as though he had suddenly swallowed a block of cold steel.

     "Anyway," the judge continued, "she says she's a devout Christian, teaches Sunday school at her church. She can't give a lot of credibility to
someone who believes souls come back to life, 'stead of going to heaven like the Bible says. She says she thought it was only fair she tell the court of her prejudice."

     Glen Richardson's glare was intense enough for Wynton to feel.

     "I, I don't know what she saw, Judge," Wynton finally managed, "but you can reassure her my son believes no such thing and neither do I. A babysitter, against our wishes, took him to some sort of hypnotist who came up with the idea. Somehow the newspapers heard about it and . . ."

     Richardson was scanning his notes of the
voir dire
of the jury. "Doesn't matter what the truth is, the woman's obviously biased. We'll agree for her to be removed from the panel and go with the remaining five."

     Wynton recalled the woman, a widow on a small pension, just the sort of person who, given the chance, would be likely to really stick it to a bank. Had the defendant an additional strike, she wouldn't have been in the jury box. After all, the purpose of "striking" a jury was not to ensure impartiality as the court always so instructed but to seat as many people whose natural predispositions were favorable to the party doing the striking.

     Buddy Karp obviously had his notes, too. He leaned forward. "We can't agree to that, Your Honor. Our clients are entitled to a complete jury."

     Judge Craig nodded. "'Course you are. The way I see it, we been trying this case over a week now. I sure don't want to have to declare a mistrial. I'm certainly willing to instruct the jury their decision is to be based on the evidence and the law as I give it to them, not on extraneous facts or preconceptions. That cure the problem, Mr. Richardson?"

     Richardson sighed deeply and theatrically. "I don't want a mistrial any more that the court does, Your Honor. In view of the costs already incurred, my client surely doesn't either. But I can't agree to take a risk Your Honor's curative instructions might not suffice."

     The judge looked from one lawyer to the other, fully aware both were acting in their clients' interests rather than concerning themselves with his trial calendar. Just as he would have done in their places. "Tell you what: Mr. Richardson, you explain the situation to Mr. Frisk, your client's president. You, Mr. Karp, you got, what, almost a hundred clients because this is a class action?"

     Karp nodded.

     "I'm going to adjourn court for the day. You talk to as many as you can between now and tomorrow morning. You two lead counsel agree to something, that's fine. If not, I got the power to use my discretion. I'll decide whether to give the instructions I outlined or remove her and proceed. If I feel we
can
proceed."

     Richardson cleared his throat. "In that case, assuming we, Buddy and I, can't agree, I'd like the court to poll the remaining jurors, make sure the one hasn't poisoned the rest."

     Eight-Ball Edgar stood, signaling the conference was over. "I'll take that under advisement, Mr. Richardson, but both you fellas be sure of one thing: you're going to be a lot happier with whatever you agree to, including settlement, than leaving me to resolve the issue."

     Minutes later, Wynton, Richardson, and Frisk were seated around a table in one of the many small, windowless conference rooms provided by the federal courts.

     "Jesus!" Frisk exclaimed. "A mistrial? What have we already paid you to get us this far?"

     "I don't have the numbers," Richardson said disingenuously. Copies of the semimonthly bills were in the file. "But what choice do we have? The woman gets left on the jury, she's all but promised to nail us. We'll have to move for one."

     "According to what you told me the judge said," Frisk replied, "there's a chance he'll take her off."

     Richardson gave his client his most steady, sincere gaze, the one Wynton knew he reserved for jurors when he was arguing the weakest point of a case. "You want to take the risk he doesn't?"

     "He could decide to declare a mistrial." Frisk slumped back into his chair. "Suppose we wind up trying this over. What prevents the same thing from happening again? I mean, a lot of people watch the TV news, read the papers."

     "Two things," Richardson said, holding up an appropriate number of fingers. "First, we go to the bottom of the judge's calendar. No way we'll be back in this courtroom in less than six months." He shot a glance at Wynton. "This hypnosis-reincarnation voodoo will have been long forgotten before then."

     "And second?"

     This time Richardson averted his face from Wynton. "We'll go with another second chair."

     The long-standing joke around the firm had been that anybody below a senior partner had the job security of a paper cup. It was no longer amusing.

McClatchey Park

L
OOKING BACK ON THE INCIDENT
, Paige was never quite sure of the sequence of events. As Wynn-Three was about to be thrown into the back of the van, her terror compressed her vision into a dark tunnel with which her mind framed the event. From somewhere out of the left periphery, there was a blur. A tall figure with unmistakable blond hair.

     Gurt.

     But what could she do?

     Tall as she was, the man holding Wynn-Three was taller and least fifty pounds beefier.

     Something made him turn in time to see her rushing toward him. The hand not holding the child went to a pocket and came out with something that reflected the sunlight with a cold shimmer: a knife.

     Paige later remembered the sour taste at the back of her tongue as she realized she was being forced to witness not only the abduction of her son but a murder as well.

     The man set his feet, drew back his knife arm, and sliced toward Gurt, the metal a silver blur in the bright day. Paige imagined she could hear the deadly song of steel splitting air. Gurt made some sort of side step, almost like a ballerina, with hands clenched above her head. Missing his first try, the stranger made a shorter, jabbing effort. This time Gurt merely turned
aside, a matador evading a bull's clumsy charge, and brought her clasped hands down on the man's wrist.

     There was no mistaking the sound of snapping bones and a howl of pain as the blade spun away. Before the man could even attempt any counter-maneuver, Gurt slid smoothly inside his reach, delivering a kick to his stomach. Paige had a vision of a rapidly deflating balloon. He doubled over just in time to meet the heel of Gurt's open hand smashing into the end of his nose. Blood exploded like juice from a smashed fruit.

     He let go of Wynn-Three, staggering as Paige dashed for her child with open arms, oblivious to any danger.

     Unsatisfied that her antagonist was still standing, though just barely, Gurt grabbed an arm, spun him around, and snatched the shattered wrist nearly up to the neck as she placed a foot in the small of his back. He went down face first coughing and choking in the blood from his smashed nose.

     As Paige embraced her son, Gurt, still holding the perpetrator's arm in an impossible position, eyed her as coolly as if they had just met in the aisles of the local grocery store. "You will please call the police?"

     There was the sound of grinding gears and the van shot into the street, turned a corner, and disappeared. The man on the ground had not been alone.

     Apparently one of the other women had already summoned the cops. Two cars, one marked, wailed to a screeching stop only feet from where Gurt stood, her victim face down and moaning. It was the first time Paige had ever heard of such a timely arrival. Normally, if one were in an accident, if a security alarm went off, one might as well call the San Francisco Police. Or the cops from Hong Kong.

     The uniformed officer in the marked cruiser walked over to Gurt, exchanged a few words, and bent down to handcuff the man. A tall, lean black man in a suit got out of the unmarked car and walked over to Gurt.

     Wynn-Three was shivering, weeping, and mumbling. "Bad man hurt my arm, Mommy."

     Paige was busy trying to comfort her terrified child, far too involved to pay attention to what the detective and Gurt were saying until she realized the two seemed to know each other.

     The detective beckoned her over to where they were standing while the uniform loaded the would-be kidnapper into the cruiser. He held out
a wallet with a badge. "Detective Franklin Morse, Atlanta Homicide." He handed her a business card. "You'd be Miz Charles?"

     Paige nodded, still busy trying to comfort Wynn-Three.

     "Miz Fuchs here say the perp, the man in the police car there, tried to put yo' little boy inta a van. That right?"

     Paige nodded. "If it hadn't been for her, he would have succeeded."

     Morse gave what could have been a snort or a laugh. "Thass right. You lucky she be here."