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  “Daddy!” she screamed.

  “He’ll be all right!” Dick said, trying to control her and order an ambulance at the same time. “He hit his head on the desk when he fell and he’s bleeding like a stuck pig!”

  66

  THREE LAWYERS STOOD UP FROM the conference table. The one closest to Emily reached out, taking her clammy hand in his own, squeezing it. “I know how hard this has been for you, Miss McDaniels, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the trouble you went to this morning in order to find out that we’re representing Zack Benedict and to come to us without delay.

  “It was no trouble,” she said, her voice taut with stress and anguish. “I remembered what law firm used to represent him, and when I called them this morning, they referred me to you.”

  “When Mr. Benedict was charged with murdering Tony Austin, a close friend of Mr. Benedict’s decided he would be better represented this time around by us.”

  Pulling her hand free of his grasp, Emily squeezed her palms together. “Can you get him out of prison today?”

  “I’m afraid not. However, if you’re willing to accompany me to the police department this morning and give them the same statement you just gave us, that will go a long way toward hastening his release.”

  Emily nodded, but her tormented mind was on the old films she’d seen of Zack being taken away from his trial in handcuffs and the new one she’d seen repeatedly during the last few weeks of him being beaten in Mexico . . . all for a crime he’d never committed . . . a crime she was indirectly responsible for. “I don’t see why they can’t let him out of jail today,” she said, fighting to keep herself from crying out with guilt and shame. “We’ll wait in the reception room.”

  When she left with her husband, John Setting looked around at his grinning law partners and reached for the telephone. “Susan,” he said to his secretary, “Get Captain Jorgen on the phone, then put a call in to Matthew Farrell in Chicago and tell his secretary it’s an emergency. After that, get ahold of William Wesley in the prosecuting attorney’s office in Amarillo, Texas. Next, get all three of us reservations on a flight to Amarillo in the morning.”

  Five minutes later, his secretary buzzed the conference room. “Captain Jorgen is on line one.”

  “Thank you,” he said, then he pressed the button for line one. “Captain Jorgen,” he said jovially, “how would you like to clinch your chances to become our next police commissioner and at the same time become a hero in the media?” He listened, his smile widening. “All I need is someone there who can take a statement regarding the death of Tony Austin and Rachel Evans and keep their mouth shut about what they hear until I give you the word in a day or two.” He listened again and said, “I thought you’d be able to handle that. We’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

  Two more lights were already lit on the telephone when he hung up, and his secretary’s voice came over the intercom. “Mr. Farrell is on line two, and William Wesley, the prosecutor in Amarillo, is on line three.”

  Seiling took the call on line two, and when he spoke, his voice lost its impersonal note. “Mr. Farrell,” he said in a respectful voice, “you asked us to keep you informed of any progress, and I’m calling you to report we’ve had an unexpected breakthrough in Zack Benedict’s case this morning.”

  In his Chicago office, Matt turned his back on the meeting of Intercorp’s executive committee taking place around his desk and said, “What sort of breakthrough?”

  “Emily McDaniels. Last night, her father admitted killing Rachel Evans and Tony Austin. He’s in a local hospital right now, undergoing a mental evaluation, but he’s confessing to everything. Emily herself has given us a statement as well as the murder weapon used on Austin.”

  “You can give me the details later. How soon can you get Zack released?”

  “We’ll go to the prosecutor in Texas tomorrow, show him Emily McDaniels’s statement, and hand him a writ of habeas corpus, which we will then convince him to take before a trial judge without delay. With luck, the judge will agree to sign it, then it will go to the state capital in Austin to be signed by an Appeals Court judge, and Mr. Benedict should then be released on bail.”

  “Bail,” Matt repeated in a low, scathing voice, “for what?”

  Seiling flinched at the tone of voice that had reportedly reduced Farrell’s business adversaries to a state of sweating incoherence. “Whether he was innocent or not, when he escaped from prison, he broke Texas escape laws. Technically, he committed an offense against society. Unless we’re very lucky and very persuasive, the county prosecutor in Amarillo can, and probably will, want to take some time to decide what to do about that problem. We’ll point out that the well-publicized physical beating he took in Mexico City was more than punishment for that. Depending upon the prosecutor’s mood, he can either agree and recommend the trial judge forego bail and dismiss the whole thing, or else he can dig in his heels.”

  “Then put him in a good mood or bring a shovel,” Matt warned implacably.

  “Right,” Seiling said.

  “If we don’t get instant cooperation from the authorities, I want the media notified of everything. They’ll get action.”

  “I agree. My partners and I are leaving for Amarillo tomorrow morning.”

  “Tonight, not tomorrow,” Matt said. “I’ll meet you there.” He hung up before Seiling could list his objections and pressed the button on his intercom. “Eleanor,” he said to his secretary, “cancel all my appointments for tomorrow and the next day.”

  In Los Angeles, the lawyer dropped the phone in the cradle. Raising his brows, he told the other two men, “If you’ve ever wondered what Benedict and Farrell have in common, I just found it out—they are two cold customers.”

  “But they pay big retainers,” one of the attorneys joked.

  Seiling nodded, turning brisk. “Let’s start earning ours, gentlemen,” he said and pressed the button for line three. “Mr. Wesley,” he said, modulating his voice so that it was both firm and pleasant. “I realize your predecessor, Alton Peterson, prosecuted the Zachary Benedict case five years ago, and I understand none of this is your fault, however, there seems to have been a vast miscarriage of justice. I need your help to rectify it as quickly as possible. In return, I will be certain the media understands you yourself acted swiftly to right a wrong. Regardless of what you do, Zack Benedict is going to come out of this as a martyr and hero. The media’s going to want someone’s blood for the injustice done to him, and I’d hate to see it be your blood.” He paused, listening. “What the hell am I talking about? Why don’t we discuss that over dinner at seven o’clock tonight?”

  67

  KATHERINE SLAMMED ON HER BRAKES and brought her car to a screeching stop in front of Julie’s house, cursing when she saw a bicycle in the front yard, which meant Julie was tutoring. Leaving her purse in the car, she ran up the sidewalk, opened the front door without knocking, and walked into the dining room where Julie was seated at the table with three little boys. “Julie, I have to talk to you,” she said breathlessly, “in the living room.”

  Laying her reading primer aside, Julie smiled at her students and said, “Willie, keep reading aloud. I’ll be right back.” Sensing that something exciting was going on, Willie Jenkins read until she was out of hearing, then he grinned at his two companions. “Something’s up,” he told them lowering his gravelly voice to a whisper, leaning sideways in his chair for a better view of the living room.

  Johnny Everett looked over his shoulder as he turned his wheelchair sideways, peering in the same direction. Tim Wimple, whose right leg had been amputated at the knee, swiveled his own wheelchair into place and nodded. “Somethin’ big, I’ll bet.”

  Appointing himself as moderator and spy, Willie tiptoed to the doorway. “Miss Cahill’s turning on the television set . . .” he told them over his shoulder, then he turned back to the living room.

  “Katherine?” Julie said shakily, sensing that her friend’s tense face