The Empty Chair

He shrugged. "The laws're clear, Deputy Kerr. If you don't like them write your congressman."

She grabbed him by the lapel. She raged, "You don't understand. You are going to prison."

He pulled away from her, whispered viciously, "No, you don't understand, Officer. You're way out of your depth here. I'm very, very good at what I do. I do not make mistakes." He glanced at his watch. "I have to go now."

Davett walked back to the SUV, patting his thi

He climbed in and slammed the door.

Lucy walked up to the driver's side as he started the engine. "Wait," she said.

Davett glanced at her. But the deputy ignored him. She was looking at his passengers. "I'd like you to see what Henry did." Her strong hands ripped her own shirt open. The women in the car gaped at the pink scars where her breasts had been.

"Oh, for pity's sake," Davett muttered, looking away.

"Dad…" the girl whispered in shock. Her mother stared, speechless.

Lucy said, "You said that you don't make mistakes, Davett?… Wrong. You made this one."

The man put the car in gear, clicked on his turn signal, checked his blind spot and eased slowly onto the highway.

Lucy stood for a long moment, watching the Lexus disappear. She fished in her pocket and pi

44

A plaque on the courthouse wall explained that the name of the state came from the Latin Carolus, for Charles. It was King Charles I who granted a land patent to settle the colony.

Carolina …

Amelia Sachs had assumed the state was named for Caroline, some queen or princess. Brooklyn-born and -raised, she had little interest in, or knowledge of, royalty.

She now sat, handcuffed still, between two guards on a bench in the courthouse. The red-brick building was an old place, filled with dark mahogany and marble floors. Stern men in black suits, judges or governors, she assumed, looked down on her from oil paintings as if they knew she was guilty. There didn't seem to be air-conditioning but breezes and the darkness cooled the place thanks to efficient eighteenth-century engineering.

Fred Dellray ambled up to her. "Hey there – you want some coffee or something?"

The left-field guard got as far as "No speaking to the -" before the Justice Department ID card crimped off the recitation.

"No, Fred. Where's Lincoln?"

It was nearly nine-thirty.

"Du

Lucy and Garrett weren't here either.

Sol Geberth, in a rich-looking gray suit, walked up to her. The guard on her right scooted over and let the lawyer sit down. "Hello, Fred," the lawyer said to the agent.

Dellray nodded, but coolly, and Sachs deduced that, as with Rhyme, the defense lawyer must've gotten acquittals for suspects that the agent had collared.

"It's a deal," Geberth said to Sachs. "The prosecutor's agreed to involuntary manslaughter – no other counts. Five years. No parole."

Five years…

The lawyer continued. "There's one aspect to this I didn't think about yesterday."

"What is it?" she asked, trying to gauge from the look on his face how deep this new trouble ran.

"The problem is you're a cop."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Before he could say anything Dellray said, "You being a law enforcement officer. Inside."

When she still didn't get it the agent explained, "Inside prison. You'll have to be segregated. Or you wouldn't last a week. That'll be tough, Amelia. That'll be nasty tough."

"But nobody knows I'm a cop."

Dellray laughed faintly. "They'll know ever-single-thing there is to know 'bout you by the time you get yourself issued your jumpsuit and linen."

"I haven't collared anybody down here. Why would they care that I'm a cop?"

"Don't make a splinter of difference where you're from," Dellray said, eyeing Geberth, who nodded in confirmation. "They ab-so-lutely won't keepya in general population."

"So it's basically five years in solitary."

"I'm afraid so," Geberth said.

She closed her eyes and felt nausea course through her.

Five years of not moving, of claustrophobia, of nightmares…

And, as an ex-convict, how could she possibly think about becoming a mother? She choked on the despair.

"So?" the lawyer asked. "What's it going to be?"

Sachs opened her eyes. "I'll take the plea."

The room was crowded. Sachs saw Mason Germain, a few of the other deputies. A grim couple, eyes red, probably Jesse Corn's parents, sat in the front row. She wanted badly to say something to them but their contemptuous gaze kept her silent. She saw only two faces that looked at her kindly: Mary Beth McCo

The bailiff led her to the defense table. He left the shackles on. Sol Geberth sat beside her.

They rose when the judge entered and the wiry man in a bulky black robe sat down at the tall bench. He spent some minutes looking over documents and talking with his clerk. Finally he nodded and the clerk said, "The people of the state of North Carolina versus Amelia Sachs."

The judge nodded to the prosecutor from Raleigh, a tall, silver-haired man, who rose. "Your Honor, the defendant and the state have entered into a plea arrangement, whereby the defendant has agreed to plead guilty to second-degree manslaughter in the death of Deputy Jesse Randolph Corn. The state waives all other charges and is recommending a sentence of five years, to be served without possibility of parole or reduction."

"Miss Sachs, you've discussed this arrangement with your attorney?"

"I have, Your Honor."

"And he's told you that you have the right to reject it and proceed to trial?"

"Yes."

"And you understand that by accepting this you will be pleading guilty to a felony homicide charge."

"Yes."

"You're making this decision willingly?"

She thought of her father, of Nick. And of Lincoln Rhyme. "I am, yes."

"Very well. How do you plead to the charge of second-degree manslaughter brought against you?"

"Guilty, Your Honor."

"In light of the state's recommendation the plea will be entered and I am hereby sentencing you -"

The red-leather doors leading to the corridor swung inward and with a high-pitched whine Lincoln Rhyme's wheelchair maneuvered inside. A bailiff had tried to open the doors for the Storm Arrow but Rhyme seemed to be in a hurry and just plowed through them. One slammed into the wall. Lucy Kerr was behind him.

The judge looked up, ready to reprimand the intruder. When he saw the chair he – like most people – deferred to the political correctness that Rhyme despised and said nothing. He turned back to Sachs. "I'm hereby sentencing you to five years -"