Eight In The Box Part 12

CHAPTER 40.

It was almost seven o'clock when Connie turned off the television. There was nothing on the news about the murders. The police had kept such a tight lid on their investigation, or what little there was to it, that there was nothing new for the media to report. There was nothing on the news about the murders. The police had kept such a tight lid on their investigation, or what little there was to it, that there was nothing new for the media to report.

Earlier that day Connie had spoken with Angel Alves. Over the past few weeks, the detectives had tried the ploy of setting up Mooney as a "super-cop," plastering his face on every evening newscast, hoping to draw the killer out by challenging him. If the killer sent a taunting letter to Mooney, there might be DNA evidence on the envelope flap. The killer might reveal a detail of the crime not released in the media. The BTK killer had been caught when he left a computer disk for detectives to find.

Alves had mentioned that Mooney suspected the killer might be in custody on an unrelated charge. That would explain why it had been so long since he had killed. If that were the case, the detectives knew the hiatus wouldn't last.

Connie went into his bedroom and changed into shorts and a T-s.h.i.+rt. He sat doing his stretches before putting on his running shoes. There were times when he would sit and meditate. This was not one of those times. He finished his stretches and stood up, ready to go for a run through the streets of Hyde Park, a neighborhood that looked more like a suburb than an actual section of the city. Connie ran through its quiet streets a couple of nights a week to clear his head.

The early spring air felt good on his face as he stepped out of the house. He looked around and saw that the street was empty, but the individual houses were full of life. Most people were home from work-eating their dinners, helping their children with homework, watching the evening news or maybe reading a book. They felt safe, safe from the outside world, safe from any harm.

This was Connie's favorite time to run. Watching people in the evening presented a clear picture of what their lives were really like. The sky was dark and the homes were well lit. It gave him the opportunity to look into this little window to people's lives, a snapshot of the absolute normalcy of their everyday existence. Through his work, Connie had seen how abruptly everything could be turned upside down by the actions of a single person.

He s.h.i.+vered as he thought how easy it would be for a killer to enter any of these houses and change the families forever.

Connie got a rush thinking about his responsibility as a prosecutor to keep them safe. As he continued on his five-mile run, looking in the windows of every house he pa.s.sed, he felt as though he was the protector of all these people.

CHAPTER 41.

Angel Alves watched the tape, frame by frame, studying each of the faces in the crowd. He compared them to the still photos scattered across the conference-room table. faces in the crowd. He compared them to the still photos scattered across the conference-room table.

"Angel!" Mooney's voice startled him. "Marcy's on the phone. Main line."

Alves hadn't heard the phone ringing. How late was it? He looked at his watch. Ten o'clock. "Tell her I'm in a meeting, Sarge. I'll call her back."

"I'm not selling her that bulls.h.i.+t. You tell her. She's hysterical. Says you never stay out this late without calling. You haven't called her all day."

"I can't talk to her. She's just going to tell me to come home, that I need to get some rest. I don't need that pressure right now. I've got too much to do."

"What exactly are you doing? I didn't even know you were still here."

"Comparing the TV footage from the McCarthy scene to the stills the guys from ID took of the crowd outside Robyn Stokes's house. See if anyone showed up at both scenes. We talked about this, how these guys like to come by and see their handiwork."

"Any luck?"

"Not yet."

"Keep at it." Good sign. At least the boss didn't think it was a bad idea. Mooney pointed to the blinking red light on the phone in the center of the table. "Talk to your wife, first. I don't mind working you hard and putting a little strain on your marriage. That's fun. But I'm not going to be responsible for your divorce."

Alves picked up the phone. Marcy was crying.

CHAPTER 42.

Wayne Mooney opened the door to his apartment and flipped the light switch. Something brushed against his ankle. Biggie. Good thing his Maine c.o.o.n cat didn't hold grudges. If not for the automatic cat food dispenser and a toilet full of water, Biggie wouldn't have survived the past month of neglect. The cat led Mooney into the kitchen, looking for something better than the dry kibble he'd been surviving on. Mooney opened a can of tuna, a special treat, and dumped it on a dish before grabbing a couple of beers for himself. light switch. Something brushed against his ankle. Biggie. Good thing his Maine c.o.o.n cat didn't hold grudges. If not for the automatic cat food dispenser and a toilet full of water, Biggie wouldn't have survived the past month of neglect. The cat led Mooney into the kitchen, looking for something better than the dry kibble he'd been surviving on. Mooney opened a can of tuna, a special treat, and dumped it on a dish before grabbing a couple of beers for himself.

Sitting on the couch in the living room, Mooney popped open a sixteen-ounce can of Schlitz and guzzled half. It was tough to find Schlitz anymore, but Mooney knew a source that helped him keep his fridge stocked. Biggie jumped onto his lap, needing to be petted more than he wanted his tuna.

The apartment was a true bachelor pad. Mooney's father, G.o.d rest his soul, would have told him it needed a woman's touch. There were no window treatments beyond the pull-down shades that were in the apartment when he moved in. There was a couch, a coffee table and a television with a built-in VCR, but nothing else. No pictures on the wall, no other accessories.

It had been weeks since he'd had a chance to sit on the couch and watch television. He actually missed the activity, if that's what you'd call it, which had been part of his usual routine every night for a year after the divorce. That was the only good thing that came out of the recent killings. They helped him get off his a.s.s and back to doing his job, the job that was the main reason for the divorce. Today would have been their tenth anniversary. They had eloped to Las Vegas and were married at Caesars Palace on the 15th, the Ides of March. They had known they were testing the fates, but they'd both thought it was funny at the time.

The divorce was much less eventful. It was her Christmas gift to him a little more than a year ago. She ended up with the house and the car; he got Biggie and this apartment in Adams Village. The Dorchester boy had finally come home. Pretty sad, but that's all there was after nine years of marriage. Beware the Ides of March.

He took a second gulp from his beer and it was gone. He found the remote between the couch cus.h.i.+ons and turned on the TV before opening the other beer. It was going to take more than a couple of drinks to relieve the pressure of this case. Almost three months had pa.s.sed since Mich.e.l.le Hayes's murder in December, and he and Alves were no closer to finding the killer. They'd had the McCarthy and Stokes murders, and nothing since. He saw no pattern to what the killer was doing, no significance to the dates he chose. No common thread between the victims.

And where were the bodies?

What was the sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d doing with the bodies? How could three women disappear without a trace? Did he bury them somewhere? Shallow graves that were formed not by digging but eventually by the pa.s.sage of time-dead leaves in fall, new growth in spring? New England still offered acre after acre of thick woodland. Would their bones turn up months later, the soft flesh they needed to determine cause of death already gone?

It was only a matter of time before there would be another homicide. And there was nothing he could do about it.

He started flipping through the channels when he remembered seeing a commercial for a pro wrestling on-demand channel, where you could order some of the old matches, the cla.s.sics. It took him a few tries, but he found the match he was looking for.

For Mooney, nothing tapped into the human struggle between good and evil better than professional wrestling. And it did it in very basic terms. You simply had a good guy, or "baby face," versus a "heel," the bad guy. In pro wrestling, like all other forms of entertainment in the television age, the good guys might lose a battle here and there, but they always won in the end.

What fascinated Mooney was how effortlessly a wrestling promoter could turn a popular baby face into a despised heel, further proof that the ma.s.ses were like sheep that could be easily manipulated. The most beloved wrestler could become public enemy number one by simply pulling some underhanded stunt on his opponent, like a thumb to the eye or a cheap-shot knee to the groin. But the worst thing a baby face could do was betray a friend.

That was exactly what wrestling fans thought Andre the Giant did to Hulk Hogan. The main event from Wrestlemania III in 1987 pitted a 7' 4", 540-pound Andre, one of the most popular wrestlers of all time, against a young Hogan, the world champion. In the months leading up to the match, Andre had been turned into a heel. Andre's transformation was founded on his jealousy of Hogan and his desire to win the champions.h.i.+p belt that had been denied him throughout his career. The script called for Andre the Giant, "The Eighth Wonder of the World," to get body slammed and pinned for the first and only time in his career.

It was a difficult match for Mooney to watch. Andre had put in all those years as a fan favorite who had never lost a match, and now, at the end of his career, he was going out as a despised villain, disgraced by a new hero who would go on to carry pro wrestling on his shoulders. As big as Andre was, he and the rest of the world had learned that night that he wasn't bigger than the wrestling industry.

Mooney began thinking about the killer. He knew that the real world wasn't like pro wrestling, that the good guys were the good guys and the bad guys were real real bad guys. There was no middle ground. The roles could not be reversed, and the good guys didn't always win. bad guys. There was no middle ground. The roles could not be reversed, and the good guys didn't always win.

Mooney watched as the big man was lifted and then slammed helplessly to the mat. He was sickened by the sight of Andre the Giant, the wrestling legend, pinned to end the match, stripped of his pride and dignity at the end of his career. Mooney turned the television off and sat quietly drinking his beer, petting Biggie, the silence broken only by the sound of the cat's loud purring.

CHAPTER 43.

Richter military-pressed the giryas giryas over his head for the twentieth over his head for the twentieth rep. The burn he felt in his lats, traps and triceps was incredible. He slammed the giryas back down on the rubber-matted floor. Leave it to the Russians to come up with a simple piece of equipment-a cast-iron cannonball with an attached handle-that gave you the ultimate workout. Americans called them kettlebells, but Richter preferred the Russian name, rep. The burn he felt in his lats, traps and triceps was incredible. He slammed the giryas back down on the rubber-matted floor. Leave it to the Russians to come up with a simple piece of equipment-a cast-iron cannonball with an attached handle-that gave you the ultimate workout. Americans called them kettlebells, but Richter preferred the Russian name, girya. girya. It was their invention; they had the right to name it. Working out with the giryas maintained the kind of strength he'd developed working on his grandfather's farm during his summers as a kid. It was their invention; they had the right to name it. Working out with the giryas maintained the kind of strength he'd developed working on his grandfather's farm during his summers as a kid.

He didn't mind going to the gym a couple of nights a week, but when he wanted a real workout he would go home and use his own equipment, especially the giryas.

Richter first started using them in college, and they'd played a big role in his success as an All American wrestler. The first pair he bought only weighed about thirty-five pounds each. They were meant for beginners, but they gave him an incredible workout. In almost no time his overall weight increased while his body fat virtually disappeared. Now he only used the eighty-eight pounders, which most people couldn't lift off the ground with two hands. The key to mastering the giryas was developing the correct swing to ensure that your body was properly balanced during the workout.

He liked doing the double military presses, lifting them straight up from his shoulders toward the ceiling. But the toughest workout was the one-armed s.n.a.t.c.hes, the ideal exercise. Lifting the weight from the floor toward the ceiling worked every muscle in his body. Nothing made him feel more powerful. Doing the s.n.a.t.c.hes gave him an escape from everyday life. They took him from being a schlep who went to his job every morning, and turned him into an animal, a beast, a man with extraordinary strength.

His other weight-lifting equipment was organized neatly in the corner. Each piece of equipment served its purpose, but if left alone on a deserted island all he would really need to maintain his physical prowess and his spiritual well-being would be the giryas. As he reached down to lift them up for another set, he felt as if he was was alone on an island-and perfectly happy to be there. Richter preferred to be alone when lifting weights. That way he didn't have to deal with those who weren't serious about getting a workout. It bothered him that people didn't take conditioning as seriously as he did. He thought back to an incident that had occurred when he was in high school. alone on an island-and perfectly happy to be there. Richter preferred to be alone when lifting weights. That way he didn't have to deal with those who weren't serious about getting a workout. It bothered him that people didn't take conditioning as seriously as he did. He thought back to an incident that had occurred when he was in high school.

Richter's friend bent down into the squat position, his face turning purple as he struggled to stand back up with the 405-pound barbell balanced across his shoulders. Richter was close behind with his hands under his friend's arms, spotting him to make sure he didn't lose control of the weight. As they stepped forward to lower the barbell onto the squat rack, some loser b.u.mped into the bar. It was the slightest contact, but it was enough to throw Richter's friend off. He staggered backward. Richter stepped forward and reached under his friend's arms, hugging his chest and using all his strength to steady him. Together, they regained control of the weight and stepped forward, lowering the weight back onto the steel rack. As his friend was nodding that he was okay, Richter heard a girl stretching out nearby tell the same guy to watch where he was going. The guy laughed and told her to f.u.c.k off. Richter had never seen him before. He must have been new to the gym, but he was big, taller and heavier than Richter. He had the puffy muscles and pinhead of a steroid user. When Richter caught up with him, the guy was busy hitting on a girl in a thong leotard. As his friend was nodding that he was okay, Richter heard a girl stretching out nearby tell the same guy to watch where he was going. The guy laughed and told her to f.u.c.k off. Richter had never seen him before. He must have been new to the gym, but he was big, taller and heavier than Richter. He had the puffy muscles and pinhead of a steroid user. When Richter caught up with him, the guy was busy hitting on a girl in a thong leotard. Jerks who treated the weight room like a singles club didn't belong in a gym. Weight lifting was a religion and, even as a teenager, this was Richter's house of wors.h.i.+p. He didn't appreciate some 'roid-head being disrespectful in his sacred place. He walked up behind the guy and tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me," Richter said in a pleasant voice. "Don't I know you?" Jerks who treated the weight room like a singles club didn't belong in a gym. Weight lifting was a religion and, even as a teenager, this was Richter's house of wors.h.i.+p. He didn't appreciate some 'roid-head being disrespectful in his sacred place. He walked up behind the guy and tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me," Richter said in a pleasant voice. "Don't I know you?" "I don't think so," the guy said. He seemed annoyed by Richter's interruption. He turned back to the woman. "I don't think so," the guy said. He seemed annoyed by Richter's interruption. He turned back to the woman. Richter tapped his shoulder again and politely asked if he was sure. Richter tapped his shoulder again and politely asked if he was sure. "Yeah, I'm sure!" the guy shouted. "And don't touch me again." "Yeah, I'm sure!" the guy shouted. "And don't touch me again." "But I swear I've seen you someplace before." "But I swear I've seen you someplace before." "You haven't, so why don't you f.u.c.k off?" "You haven't, so why don't you f.u.c.k off?" "What's your name?" Richter asked. "What's your name?" Richter asked. "None of your f.u.c.king business." "None of your f.u.c.king business." Before the guy could say another word, Richter grabbed his left hand, bending it back into an unnatural position. Once he had him in a solid wristlock, he pushed him facedown into a weight bench. Now he could twist the guy's wrist with one hand and push his head into the bench with the other. "Well, Mr. None-of-Your-f.u.c.king-Business, do you realize what you just did?" The guy struggled to get away from Richter, but he was locked up tight. Richter could see that the guy was doing everything not to scream in pain. "You b.u.mped into that barbell while my friend was finis.h.i.+ng his reps." Before the guy could say another word, Richter grabbed his left hand, bending it back into an unnatural position. Once he had him in a solid wristlock, he pushed him facedown into a weight bench. Now he could twist the guy's wrist with one hand and push his head into the bench with the other. "Well, Mr. None-of-Your-f.u.c.king-Business, do you realize what you just did?" The guy struggled to get away from Richter, but he was locked up tight. Richter could see that the guy was doing everything not to scream in pain. "You b.u.mped into that barbell while my friend was finis.h.i.+ng his reps." The guy tried to twist away, but Richter was too strong. He turned his head to the left, looking at Richter from the corner of his eye. The guy tried to twist away, but Richter was too strong. He turned his head to the left, looking at Richter from the corner of his eye. "You could have hurt someone because you weren't paying attention." Richter applied more pressure to the wrist as the guy struggled. "This is a weight room, not a pickup joint. You want to meet women, go somewhere else. Be thankful I'm not really angry and that my buddy over there seems okay." "You could have hurt someone because you weren't paying attention." Richter applied more pressure to the wrist as the guy struggled. "This is a weight room, not a pickup joint. You want to meet women, go somewhere else. Be thankful I'm not really angry and that my buddy over there seems okay." The guy struggled to breathe with the pressure Richter was putting on the back of his head, pus.h.i.+ng him into the bench with all his weight. He gave a feeble nod of his head. The guy struggled to breathe with the pressure Richter was putting on the back of his head, pus.h.i.+ng him into the bench with all his weight. He gave a feeble nod of his head. "I want you to go over and tell my friend you're sorry for being such a f.u.c.king idiot." "I want you to go over and tell my friend you're sorry for being such a f.u.c.king idiot." Richter released his grip. The young woman had watched the little wrestling match with interest. Most of the women in the gym were constantly being hit on by guys like this loser, so they didn't seem to mind watching one of them get dressed down. Richter released his grip. The young woman had watched the little wrestling match with interest. Most of the women in the gym were constantly being hit on by guys like this loser, so they didn't seem to mind watching one of them get dressed down. The guy got to his feet, shaking his wrist and rubbing his neck, trying to get the blood flowing again. He glanced around at the small crowd that had gathered. He must have figured it was best to do what Richter had told him to. He walked over to Richter's friend and said, "I'm sorry for being such a f.u.c.king idiot." With as much dignity as a busted man could muster, he picked up his towel and headed for the showers. The guy got to his feet, shaking his wrist and rubbing his neck, trying to get the blood flowing again. He glanced around at the small crowd that had gathered. He must have figured it was best to do what Richter had told him to. He walked over to Richter's friend and said, "I'm sorry for being such a f.u.c.king idiot." With as much dignity as a busted man could muster, he picked up his towel and headed for the showers. The woman flashed Richter a smile. The group of guys, hoping for a fight, started to move apart. "So," Richter asked his friend, "you ready for your next set?" The woman flashed Richter a smile. The group of guys, hoping for a fight, started to move apart. "So," Richter asked his friend, "you ready for your next set?"

CHAPTER 44.

Professor Roger Olsen reached into his briefcase, took out a pair of aviator goggles and put them on. Flipping his necktie over his shoulder, he announced, "Fasten your seat belts, boys and girls. Today we're going to fly." aviator goggles and put them on. Flipping his necktie over his shoulder, he announced, "Fasten your seat belts, boys and girls. Today we're going to fly."

Outside the second-floor window of the New England School of Law lecture hall, a drizzling rain fell on the city. Looking out, Andi Norton knew that April showers would bring something good in May, but she couldn't remember what. It was almost the end of her final semester, and she was pressured, tired and overworked. She hadn't been keeping up with her studies because of the long hours she'd been putting in at the courthouse. She'd originally planned to work eight hours a week. One day. The eight hours had turned into sixteen and sometimes twenty-four. She was in court at least two days a week, but last week she had gone in every day because she'd had her second jury trial, another guilty verdict. It was a great experience, well worth the backlog she was trying to clean up at school.

Professor Olsen had flipped the goggles back onto his gray hair, his eyes blazing with intensity. "Okay, people, you should all remember this case from Criminal Procedure. A young girl has been abducted from a YMCA in Des Moines, Iowa. She's believed to have been kidnapped, possibly murdered. The suspect was apprehended two days later in Davenport, Iowa, roughly one hundred sixty miles east of Des Moines. His attorney in Des Moines had him turn himself in to the police," Olsen continued, "on the condition that his client not be interrogated. On the long ride back to Des Moines, the detective did not interrogate him."

"That's open to debate. You're talking about the Christian Burial case, right?" Andi said. She had read it recently while getting ready for a motion to suppress, but she couldn't remember the actual case name.

"Someone remembers the case," Professor Olsen smiled. "Why is it open to debate, Ms. Norton?"

"The detective did not interrogate him per se, but the statements made by the detective could easily be seen as rising to the level of interrogation. Although not actual questions, the statements were designed to elicit a response from the suspect."

"Can anyone follow up on Ms. Norton's observation?"

A voice, Andi couldn't see whose, from the other side of the cla.s.s said, "The detective talked to the suspect about the approaching snowstorm and that, if they were going past the location of the girl's body, they should stop and find her now so she could get a proper Christian burial. If they waited until morning, after the suspect talked with his lawyer, they might not be able to find the girl's body. As a result of the conversation, the suspect felt guilty and led the detective to the body."

"Good," Professor Olsen said. "Now, what are the issues here? Which, if any, of the const.i.tutional rights of the prisoner were violated?"

While the cla.s.s launched into a discussion of const.i.tutional law, Andi thought about the motion to suppress she had to argue the next day on a real case, not some law school hypothetical. And she had to argue it in front of a real judge, in a real courtroom, with a real defense attorney trying to rattle her by objecting to every question she asked her witnesses. She wasn't worried, but she knew she had to do some more work on the case to be properly prepared. Sitting in this cla.s.sroom listening as other aspiring lawyers tried to make brownie points with Professor Olsen wasn't helping her.

Hers was a drug case where the cops had done a nice job of building a strong drug distribution case against the defendant. It was what they did after the arrest in order to get the defendant to make a statement and lead them to the rest of his stash that concerned her. She kept replaying the facts, trying to figure out a way to argue that the police had acted within the law, and that the defendant's statements and the stash of drugs should not be suppressed from evidence.

"All right, people, please stow your snack trays and return your seat backs to their upright position," Professor Olsen said as he took off his goggles and tossed them into his briefcase. Everyone in the cla.s.s started to close their laptops and pack their books as Olsen drew his tie back over his shoulder and smoothed it down over his blue oxford s.h.i.+rt. "This flight is over but we'll continue with Miranda issues next time."

Andi looked down at her watch. It was 2:30 and cla.s.s was over. She had missed the entire cla.s.s discussion. She glanced at Professor Olsen, accidentally making eye contact. He knew she'd s.p.a.ced out during the whole cla.s.s. She could tell from the look on his face. He gave a fake smile and motioned with his head toward the door. He wanted to see her in his office. s.h.i.+t. She could point out that she'd started the discussion. That obviously didn't matter to him, though. She should have skipped cla.s.s altogether. She could have done some work on her motion and she wouldn't be in trouble with her favorite professor. But she couldn't skip his cla.s.s today because she'd missed it all last week. She wasn't looking forward to this meeting.

CHAPTER 45.

Connie sat still as Judge Catherine Ring read her findings on Jesse Wilc.o.x's motion to suppress. Her decision was staggering and Connie felt his jaw tightening. Behind him in the gallery, Jesse Wilc.o.x stifled a laugh. Judge Ring had allowed the defense attorney's motion and suppressed all of the drugs in his apartment. Luckily she couldn't suppress the drugs and gun that Wilc.o.x threw out the window into the neighbor's yard or Connie would have had to dismiss the case. Wilc.o.x's motion to suppress. Her decision was staggering and Connie felt his jaw tightening. Behind him in the gallery, Jesse Wilc.o.x stifled a laugh. Judge Ring had allowed the defense attorney's motion and suppressed all of the drugs in his apartment. Luckily she couldn't suppress the drugs and gun that Wilc.o.x threw out the window into the neighbor's yard or Connie would have had to dismiss the case.

Connie waited until Judge Ring was off the bench before he made a move for the exit. He shoved the courtroom door open with both hands.

Alves caught up with him. "Calm down, Connie," he said, following a few steps behind.

"What the h.e.l.l was that all about?" Connie said, his voice edging toward a shout.

"I'm as mad as you are," Alves said. "She's a liberal judge. We both knew that going in."

"This has nothing to do with being liberal on the law. This has to do with your credibility. She's saying that you lied, that you just busted into that apartment with no lawful purpose. She knows you went to that apartment for a domestic call. s.h.i.+t, I even played the nine-one-one for her. You get there. You hear a woman screaming. A baby crying. You break the door in. What were you supposed to do?"

"I did everything the right way."

"I tried to tell her that, but she didn't listen," Connie said. "Then she suppresses all the drugs he had in the house, including the crack he tried to hide in the baby's diaper. The kid not more than a year old with a diaper full of jums. What's wrong with that b.i.t.c.h?"

"She's a Dukakis appointment. Remember the Ma.s.sachusetts Miracle?" Alves was trying to calm him down. "The only miracle is that none of the guys she's let out of jail have killed anyone yet. Maybe we can try to impeach her."

Connie shook his head. "She's rich and her husband's too powerful. She never set foot in Roxbury before becoming a judge. I heard she got lost trying to find the courthouse on her first day. She thinks she's doing the inner city a favor by setting criminals free. She doesn't care if they're g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers or drug dealers. What's it to her? She's going home to her big house in Weston at the end of the day."

"What about taking her up on appeal?" Alves asked.

"I don't think so. She was smart enough to make her decision based on credibility, not on an issue of law.. She basically said that she didn't believe that you heard any noise coming from the apartment. And since Wilc.o.x's girlfriend took the stand and said there was nothing going on, Judge Ring had conflicting testimony to justify her ruling. Appellate courts never question a motion judge's credibility determinations. Besides, Wilc.o.x's got a private attorney. If we take it up and lose, my office has to pay for his attorney's fees. That ain't happening. Basically she believed a c.o.ke wh.o.r.e over a BPD Homicide detective."

"What's next?"

"Our only option is to go to trial with the stuff he threw out the window and hope we win. We don't have a date yet. We're looking at late May or early June."

"Well, let's hope we don't draw her as a judge." Alves shook Connie's hand and headed for the stairs.

It bothered Connie to see Alves's credibility hurt in court. Alves was a man of integrity. This wasn't just a game to him. He took his job seriously.