Maria stands, gripping the edge of the table. Beneath the table, I notice she’s got the broken shoe partway off, and is poised on tiptoe, like a ballerina. “Your Honor,” she begins, “my client is not guilty of this or any other crime. Her son was kidnapped, and she was subsequently drugged and threatened by one of the abductors, who forced her to transfer funds to an offshore account that is thus far untraceable. The bank will verify this. The fact that the money hasn’t been traced is evidence of a professional criminal enterprise, which supports my client’s version of the events. We believe lab results will eventually confirm that she was, indeed, drugged. My client has stated that she asked the police to check the basement because of a phone call she received from the kidnapper. Records confirm a call moments before the police entered Mrs. Bickford’s domicile, and that the call was from an untraceable cell phone, a throwaway. Which also confirms Mrs. Bickford’s statement.”

“Mr. Nichols?”

“The defendant has an active imagination. It’s ‘the dog ate my homework’ defense.”

That results in a glare from Judge Mendez. “The victim is not a dog, Mr. Nichols, and murder is not homework.”

“I apologize, Your Honor. Poor choice of words. But the fact remains that the state has sufficient evidence to proceed to trial.”

Judge Mendez smiles faintly. “So you’d be ready for trial today, would you?”

“Excuse me, Your Honor?”

“It was a simple question, Mr. Nichols. If I scheduled this case for trial this very afternoon, would you be ready to proceed?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“So you want to arrest Mrs. Bickford now and then develop further evidence before proceeding to trial?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way, Your Honor. But the investigation is ongoing. We anticipate more evidence shortly.”

“That’s all you’ve got?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nichols. Ms. Savalo?”

“Your Honor, the defense has reached an understanding with the state. We will not appeal the arrest of my client on these charges at this time, if the state does not oppose my client being released on bond.”

“I see. And why would you do that, Ms. Savalo, considering the entirely circumstantial evidence thus far presented by Mr. Nichols?”

There’s a snapping noise as my attorney’s pricey shoe heel completely lets go, and in that instant she has to grab me to keep herself from falling.

“Shit!”

“Ms. Savalo, are you okay?”

Maria kicks off both shoes, grimaces. “I’m very sorry, Your Honor. I broke a heel on the way into court.”

“Are those Jimmy Choos, Ms. Savalo?”

“No, Your Honor. Blahniks.”

“Ouch,” says the judge. “My commiserations. And don’t bother trying to hide your bare feet. We’ll suspend proper dress rules just this once. Now, where were we?”

The court reporter reads back a few lines before the judge stops him. “Got it. Thanks. So I repeat, Ms. Savalo, why would you agree not to contest this charge, considering the entirely circumstantial evidence thus far presented by Mr. Nichols?”

Maria takes a deep breath before answering. “Because, Your Honor, it is absolutely critical that my client be able to continue searching for her missing son. Aside from anything else, he’s the key to the whole conspiracy. To this end, we have engaged a private investigator skilled in abduction cases. Mrs. Bickford is working closely with him, and we have developed evidence crucial to the defense. Evidence that could have been developed by the state or local police, but was not, because they failed to pursue other leads.”

“Mr. Nichols?”

“The investigation remains open, Your Honor. If evidence arises that justifies another line of investigations, then I’m confident it will be vigorously pursued.”

The judge taps a pen on her desk, seems to be mulling something over. “If I may ask you another question, Mr. Nichols.”

“Certainly, Your Honor. Ask away.”

“Do I detect a certain lack of enthusiasm from the prosecution?”

For the first time, Jared Nichols looks slightly taken aback. “I’m not sure what you mean, Your Honor.”

“From where I’m sitting, Mr. Nichols, it very much looks as if you’ve arraigned the defendant in response to pressure from the local police, or possibly from the news organizations, rather than from a sincere belief that you can win a conviction. Does that explain why you will not oppose bond?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I mean no, Your Honor. I mean we do not oppose because we don’t believe Mrs. Bickford to be a flight risk, or a further danger to the community.”

“Hmm. So that’s your story and you’re sticking to it?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Well, I’m not inclined to release the defendant on personal recognizance. Not for felony murder, however thin the evidence. Bond is therefore set at one hundred thousand dollars.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

Before standing up, the judge leans down from the bench with a word of advice. “Get busy,” she urges me. “Find your son.”

34 following mom

His fingers are bleeding but Tomas pays no heed. Wipes his hands on his shirt and concentrates on gripping his improvised screwdriver. He’s learned the trick of carefully backing out the screws that hold the plywood and he’s halfway done with the first sheet. The wood has warped away from the metal studs and he can see the pink of insulation stuffed behind it. He knows the pink stuff is itchy because once he made the mistake of lying down in a pile of it up in the attic. Thinking it looked soft, like cotton candy, and discovering that it itched like a thousand ant bites.

Mom put him in the shower, squirted shampoo all over him. What a goon. Himself, not Mom. She’d been concerned about his eyes, telling him the pink stuff was made of little bits of glass, and his eyes had stung, but that was from the shampoo.

No harm done, as it turned out. And right now he could care less about the itchy pink stuff. If it means he can get out, he’ll gladly burrow through the insulation and worry about washing it off later.

Only trouble, he can’t get all the way up the plywood, to release the last few screws at the top. If he had a board or something, maybe he could pry it loose. But he doesn’t have a board, or anything to produce leverage. All he has is his own body. His bleeding hands, his skinny arms. His feet.

Feet.

Tomas lies down, back against the floor, and works his Nike into the gap where the plywood warps. It pinches his toes—hurts—but he ignores the pain and pushes harder, worming his foot farther into the gap. He can feel another board on the other side of the metal studs—a discouraging discovery—but decides not to think about how he’ll get through that. Enough to concentrate on his immediate task, using his legs to push the plywood away from the studs. Legs are way stronger than arms, that’s what Coach Corso says. It’s legs that make the swing, legs that enable a pitcher to throw a fastball. Legs that are going to help him escape.

When he’s halfway up to his hips, his foot encounters another metal stud. No surprise, he’s already backed out the screw, knows it had to be there. Turning sideways so he’s facing the wall, Tomas pushes with all his might. Using his hands to push against the wall and straightening his leg at the same time. Like doing a push-up, only sideways.

He can feel the plywood moving, bending away from the wall.

Harder. Push harder. Stinky Man is coming back. Stinky Man is going to get you.

Tomas groans, sweat popping out on his forehead, tears coming to his eyes. Stupid plywood! And then, suddenly, no pressure, and the plywood is moving, the upper screws pulling through, and he’s able to push with both knees. Aware of a great bend in the plywood, his arms shaking with the effort, until finally the whole sheet of plywood pops free of the studs, teeters on end and crashes to the floor behind him.