Читать книгу The Payback Man - Carolyn McSparren - Страница 7

“GUILTY.”

Stephen Chadwick stood at attention behind the defense table. He was too stunned to react. Behind him, the spectators erupted into noise. He heard doors open and close as reporters ran to report to their editors. He thought he heard his sister wail.

This couldn’t be happening. His lawyer, Leslie Vickers, leaned over to whisper to him, “Don’t worry, boy, we’ll get you out on appeal.”

Appeal? How long would that take? Months? Years? Meanwhile, what would happen to him?

The hollow thud of the judge’s gavel struck through his consciousness. He gripped the edge of the table and willed himself to keep standing straight. Until this moment, he’d believed Vickers. An innocent man is never convicted. There was no real evidence against him. “Piece of cake,” Vickers had told him.

Most of all he’d believed in the system.

“Stephen Chadwick.” How could the judge’s baritone sound so casual? This was Stephen’s life he was talking about! “You have been found guilty of manslaughter by a jury of your peers. The penalty phase of this trial will commence after lunch.”

Now Stephen knew why all those prisoners he’d watched being sentenced on television never showed emotion. None of this felt real, but it was nothing like a nightmare. He knew he was awake. He knew this was the end of his life as he’d known it. He simply couldn’t take it in. He wanted to scream, but that would do no good. At this point, why should his precious dignity mean anything?

It was all he had.

How could the jury believe he’d killed his beautiful, clever, funny wife? His Chelsea, his friend, companion and support in all his crazy schemes?

As he was led away to the holding area and the bologna sandwich, already curling at the corners, that awaited him as it had every day from the start of the trial a week earlier, he kept his eyes straight ahead.

ALL AFTERNOON character witness after character witness testified to his value to the community, his kindness, his honorable business dealings. Even his sister spoke for him through her tears. Their father the Colonel would make her pay for that.

Stephen glanced around the courtroom, not really expecting to see his father. Yet he hoped that somehow the Colonel would support him in this way if in no other.

It was as though the witnesses were speaking of some other man. How do you prove you’re a good man when you’ve just been convicted of killing your wife?

Most who spoke up for him were business acquaintances or men he played polo with, women he knew casually from the committees his wife had sat on.

How trivial his life sounded. He hadn’t been a great philanthropist, hadn’t adopted orphans or even coached Little League. He’d worked eighty hours a week building his company, and when he played, which was seldom, he played polo.

Vickers had told him after lunch that it was the polo that had convicted him. In the eyes of the jury, a man who plays polo is perfectly capable of killing his wife. But even they weren’t certain enough of his guilt to convict him of murder. How could they be? Dammit, he was innocent!

He sat up when Neil Waters took the stand on his behalf. Neil was his only true friend, and as his brother-in-law, he must have endured hell from his wife, Chelsea’s sister, to come forward like this. He said he still believed in Stephen’s innocence, just as he had as a hostile witness for the prosecution during the trial.

Then it was over. He stood to hear his sentence.

“Stephen Chadwick, I have heard a great deal about what a fine man you are, but a fine man does not kill his wife. Granted, the jury only found you guilty of manslaughter, but I can hardly sentence you to community service. I therefore sentence you to not less than six years nor more than twelve years in prison.” Again the gavel sounded.

Stephen couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. From behind his shoulder, Neil said, “Don’t worry, old buddy, you can handle it.”

The judge gaveled the room to silence, and Leslie Vickers went up to the bench. “Your Honor, we request continuance of bail until such time as an appeal can be heard.”

The prosecution broke in hurriedly. “Your Honor, the defendant is a wealthy man with many ties worldwide. He is a substantial flight risk. We request that bail be denied.”

The judge looked at Stephen with something like compassion. Then he said, “Bail is denied. The defendant will begin serving his sentence immediately pending appeal.”

Again the sound of wood on wood. He’d never forget that sound. It would doom him again and again in his dreams.

He felt the heavy hand of his jailer on his shoulder and barely heard Leslie Vickers’s words of encouragement. As he was led away, the voice of the prosecutor cut through his consciousness. “Leslie, old son, you give me a hostile witness like that Waters guy and I’ll whip your ass every time.”

Stephen stopped and turned to look at the prosecutor. Despite his appearance—big, heavy, florid, in a suit too tight across the shoulders—he was a formidable lawyer. His laugh was as big as he was, and it boomed out as he clapped Vickers on the shoulder. “Talk about your damning with faint praise.”

Stunned, Stephen turned to look into the courtroom. Neil Waters was just walking out. No, not walking. Swaggering. The way he swaggered in the plant when he’d just pulled off a really great marketing ploy.

Neil Waters was happy.