The cops had arrived at Bo's house by the time Frank, Chico, and Chuck returned from the Starbucks. Frank dialed Billie Jean's number. She answered. It was 8:24.
"Are you at the court?"
"No. I'm still stuck in traffic."
"Where?"
"Forty-sixth Street. Airport Boulevard is the next exit."
"Exit."
"The feeder road's backed up with traffic, too, everyone trying to get around the accident. Ten-car pileup."
"Billie Jean, get off the highway."
Billie Jean put her blinker on and motioned to the Mercedes Benz on her right that she needed to get over. The driver looked up from his texting and gave her the finger.
"Asshole!"
"Me?" Frank said.
"That driver."
The car in front of Billie Jean abruptly cut in front of the car on the left, and the asshole on her right was texting again, so she turned the wheel hard and cut in front of him. He looked up and hit his horn, but his car cost ten times what hers cost, so he could do nothing except stick his middle finger in the air. She returned the favor and drove onto the shoulder of the highway.
"Frank, I'm off the highway."
"You've got to get that video to the court."
"The traffic is blocked in all directions. It's thirty-five blocks south and twelve blocks west on Eleventh. That's over three miles."
"I'll call the court, try to stall the hearing."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Run."
They went inside and found Dwayne handcuffed.
"Hey, he's a cop," Chuck said. "Well, an ex-cop."
"Who are you?"
"An ex-coach."
The cop turned to Frank.
"And you?"
"Ex-lawyer."
Now to Chico.
"Ex-con."
"Any of you guys know my ex-wife?" The cop laughed. "You guys look like the sequel to Red."
"I love that show," Chuck said. "Can you believe Mary-Louise Parker is forty-eight?"
"You're shittin' me?"
"Nope."
"I gotta watch that movie again."
"Watch this movie," Chico said.
He played the video for the cop.
"Son of a bitch! Bo Cantrell."
At 8:32, Frank called the judge. His court coordinator answered.
"He's innocent. We have a videotaped confession. The killer shot himself."
"Tell his lawyer."
"I am his lawyer."
"Scotty Raines is his lawyer. Call him."
"What's his number?"
Scotty Raines was standing outside the courtroom with Warren the agent.
"You represent a lot of athletes in trouble with the law?"
"That's redundant."
"What is?"
"To represent athletes means to represent athletes in trouble with the law."
Warren's cell phone pinged. He checked his text message.
"Shit, one of my clients, Hernandez, the Patriots tight end, he got indicted for murder up in Boston. Well, hell, there goes the contract extension."
"He need a lawyer?"
Scotty's cell phone rang. He checked the number and shook his head.
"Frank Tucker."
He rejected the call.
Her running watch read: 8:38. Billie Jean reached up under her skirt and pulled her pantyhose down; fortunately, she also wore panties. The big rig driver next to her apparently had gotten an eyeful; he hit his air horn to show his appreciation. She gave him the finger without looking his way. She unzipped her gym bag and removed her running socks and shoes and put them on. Three-plus miles to the court. She averaged eight-minute miles. Seven-point-five miles per hour. It was now 8:43. She had seventeen minutes to run over three miles. In a skirt. She put the phone in her purse and slung the purse over her shoulder. She grabbed the iPad, got out of the car, and shut the door. No sense in locking it; it was a convertible. She looked south and took a deep breath. She ran.