Without taking his eyes from Victoria, Jim pulled up the edge of his shirt with his free hand, and pressed his nose and mouth against the fine Egyptian cotton cloth. He meant to take a shallow breath, but when he started, the hunger for air was too great. He sucked it in greedily, the cloth touching his tongue as he inhaled.
He sensed the shoots of poison wind themselves deeper within him, reaching out to wrap around all his organs. His head felt like it was going to explode.
No longer thinking clearly, Jim let his shirttail fall away. It didn’t matter, did it? It was too late. Too late.
He staggered backward. Tried to grab his chair and missed. Fell over.
Horrified, Victoria started screaming. She watched Jim convulse, his arms and legs twitching and jerking, foam bubbling from his lips.
And then Jim Fate was still. His eyes, still open, stared up at the soft fuzzy blue ceiling.
Two minutes later, the first hazmat responders, suited up in white, burst through the studio door.
Chapter 2
MARK O. HATFIELD UNITED STATES COURTHOUSE
February 7
Federal prosecuting attorney Allison Pierce eyed the 150 prospective jurors crowded into 16th floor courtroom in the Mark O. Hatfield Federal Courthouse. No one had yet been called into the jury box or two of cherry-wood benches marked “Reserved” via scrawled notes on taped up pieces of paper. There were so many jurors that a few dozen were forced to stand, so many jurors that Allison could smell unwashed bodies and unbrushed teeth. She swallowed hard, forcing down the nausea that now plagued her at unexpected moments.
The would-be jurors carried backpacks, purses, coats, umbrellas, bottled water, books, magazines, and—this being Portland, Oregon—the occasional bike helmet. They ranged from a hunched over old man with hearing aids on the stems of his glasses to a young man who immediately opened a sketch book and startled doodling an eight-armed monster. Some wore suits while others looked like they were ready to hit the gym, but in general they appeared alert and reasonably happy.
There would have been more room for the potential jurors to sit, but the benches were already packed with reporters who had arrived before the jury was ushered in. Among them was a fortyish woman who sat in pride of place directly behind her daughter at the defense table. She wore far too much makeup and a sweater with a plunging neckline.
Everyone rose and the courtroom deputy swore the prospective jurors in en masse. After those lucky enough to have seats were settled in again, Judge Fitzpatrick introduced himself and told the jury that the defendant had to be considered innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, and that she did not need to do or say anything to prove her innocence. It was solely up to the prosecution, he intoned solemnly, to prove their case. Even though she had heard the same words many times, and the judge must have said them hundreds of times over his nearly twenty years on the bench, Allison found herself listening. Judge Fitzpatrick never lost sight of the meaning behind the words.
When he was finished, he asked Allison to introduce herself. She stood and faced the crowded room, trying to make eye contact with everyone. It was her job to build a relationship from this moment forward, so that when the time came for the jury to deliberate, they would trust what she had told them. “I am federal prosecuting attorney Allison Hedges.” She gestured toward Nic. “I’m assisted by FBI Special Agent Nicole Hedges as the case agent.”
On some of the potential jurors’ faces, Allison saw surprise when they realized that the young woman with the pinned back dark hair was actually the federal prosecutor. She was thirty-three, but people always seemed to expect a federal prosecutor to be a silver-haired man.
Nicole was only four months older than Allison, but with her unlined dark skin and expression that gave away nothing, she could have been any age from twenty-five to forty. Today, Nic wore her customary dark pant-suit and flats.
Allison was dressed in what she thought of as her court uniform: a blue suit from JCPenneys, low pumps, and little makeup. Underneath her ivory silk blouse was a silver cross on a fine chain. Her father had given it to Allison for her sixteenth birthday, six weeks before he died.
The judge then pointed out the defendant, Bethany Maddox, dressed today in a demure pink and white dress that Allison was sure someone else had picked out for her—and that Bethany was wearing only under protest. The courtroom stirred as people craned their necks or stood up to get a glimpse of her. Bethany smiled, looking as if she had forgotten that she was on trial. Her defense attorney, Nate Condorelli, stood and introduced himself, but it was clear that the would-be jurors weren’t nearly as interested in Nate as they were in his client.