Even though he was wearing an overcoat, Conner Banks felt chilled as he hurried from the parking lot to the Bergen County Courthouse in Hackensack, New Jersey. The lot was crowded, and the space he finally had found was about as far away from the courthouse as it was possible to get.
He began to walk faster, and Walter Markinson, his face already wet from the sleet, snapped, “Take it easy. I don’t run two miles every morning the way you do.”
“Sorry.”
“It wouldn’t have hurt you to have brought an umbrella.”
“Sorry.”
On the drive from Manhattan, they had debated the exact wording of the statement they would make to the media. “Mr. Carrington is innocent of this charge, and his innocence will be demonstrated in court.” Or, “Our client has steadily maintained his innocence. The case against him is based on supposition, innuendo, and a woman who, after twenty-two years, is recanting her sworn statement.”
The way this case is developing, we might as well be defending Jack the Ripper, Conner thought grimly. He had never before been involved in a media circus quite like this one.
There have been some pretty sensational cases tried in this courthouse, he thought, as they finally reached the shelter of the building. There was the so-called Shoemaker, that guy from Philadelphia who marched through Bergen County, attacking women, with his twelve-year-old son in tow. His last victim, the one he killed, was a twenty-one-year-old nurse who had stopped by the house he was robbing to help out with an invalid who lived there. Then there were the Robert Reldan killings. That guy, handsome and from a good family, was reminiscent of Peter Carrington. He abducted and killed two young women. During his trial, he slugged the officer on guard who was taking off his cuffs out of sight of the jury, jumped out the window, stole a car, and had about thirty minutes of freedom. Now, twenty or thirty years later, the Shoemaker is dead, and Reldon is still rotting in prison.
And it is very likely Peter Carrington will spend the rest of his life with him, he thought.
The arraignment was to be held in the courtroom of the Honorable Harvey Smith, the judge who had signed the arrest warrant for Peter Carrington. As Banks had expected, when he and Markinson got there, the courtroom was already crowded with both spectators and the media. The cameramen were focused on a woman seated in the middle section of the room. To his dismay, he realized that she was Gladys Althorp, the mother of the victim.
He and Markinson darted to the front of the room.
It was only twenty of three, but Kay Carrington was already there, sitting in the front spectator row with Vincent Slater at her side. Somewhat to Banks’s surprise, he noted that she was wearing a jogging suit. Then he realized, or thought he realized, the reason for it: Slater had told him that Carrington was about to go jogging when the arrest warrant was served. That’s what he’ll be wearing when he posts bail and leaves for home, Banks thought. She’s presenting a united front.
Markinson’s grumpy expression had changed to a benevolent father-figure look. His brow furrowed, his eyes filled with understanding, he patted Kay’s shoulder as he said in a reassuring voice, “Don’t worry. We are going to take that Valdez woman apart when we get her on the stand.”
Kay knows how bad this is, Banks thought. Walter should give her more credit. He caught a flash of anger in Kay’s eyes as she looked up at Markinson.
In a voice that was low and strained, she said, “Walter, I don’t need reassurances. I know what we’re facing. What I also know is that there is someone out there who took that girl’s life and who should be in this courtroom right now instead of my husband. Peter is innocent. He is incapable of hurting anyone. I want to feel that that is exactly what you believe, too.”
“Blessed are they who have not seen and have believed.” The words of scripture ran through Conner Banks’s mind as he greeted Kay and Vincent. “He’ll be home tonight, Kay,” Conner told her. “That I can promise you.” He and Markinson took their seats. Behind them, Banks could hear the courtroom filling up. It was to be expected-this was the kind of high-profile case that many courthouse personnel stopped in to observe.
“All rise for the court,” the clerk announced.
They stood as the judge walked briskly into the courtroom from his chambers and took his seat on the bench. Banks had done his homework as soon as he learned who would be handling the arraignment. He’d learned that the Honorable Harvey Smith was known as very fair, but tough when it came to handing out sentences. The best we may be able to do for Carrington is to drag out the proceedings as long as possible, because once he’s convicted, he goes straight to jail, Banks thought. After he is released on bail, at least he can sleep in his own bed until the trial is over.
Peter Carrington’s case was not the only one on the docket: there were other detainees awaiting arraignment. The clerk read thecharges as, one by one, the others came before the bench. Comparatively petty stuff, Banks thought. The first one was accused of passing bad checks. The second was a shoplifter.
Peter Carrington was the third to be arraigned. When he was led into court, wearing an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs, Banks and Markinson stood and placed themselves on either side of him.
Prosecutor Krause read the charge against him. Cameras clicked and whirred noisily as, looking straight at the judge, his expression grave, his voice firm, Peter entered his plea: “Not guilty.”
It was obvious to Conner Banks that Barbara Krause was salivating at the prospect of personally trying this case. When bail was about to be set, she addressed the judge: “Your Honor, this is a defendant with unlimited means at his disposal. He is a very high risk for forfeiting bail and leaving the country. We ask that bail be set in proportion to his resources; that his passport be taken from him; that he be ordered to wear an electronic wrist bracelet at all times, that he be confined to his home and the gated grounds around it; and that his leaving the grounds be confined to attending religious services, visiting his doctor, or conferring with his lawyers, and that these visits take place only after notification to and permission from the monitor of his electronic bracelet.”
She’s going to be one tough cookie at trial, Banks thought as he looked at Krause.
The judge addressed Peter. “I realize, Mr. Carrington, that with your great wealth, it doesn’t matter whether I set bail at one dollar or twenty-five million dollars. Bail is hereby set at ten million dollars.” He reviewed the list of conditions the prosecutor had requested and approved all of them.
“Your Honor,” Peter said, his voice loud and clear, “I will absolutely abide by all conditions of bail. I can assure you that I look forward to clearing my name at trial and ending this horror for myself and my wife.”
“Your wife! What about the wife you drowned? What about her?” The words were shouted, passion in every syllable.
Like everyone else in the courtroom, Banks turned around quickly. A well-dressed man was on his feet in the middle of the courtroom. His face twisted with anger, he slammed his fist on the seat in front of him. “Grace was my sister! She was seven-and-a-half-months pregnant. You killed the child our family will never know. Grace wasn’t a drinker when she married you. You drove her into depression. Then you got rid of her because you didn’t want to take the chance of having a damaged baby. Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!”
“Remove that man!” Judge Smith ordered. “Remove him at once!” He rapped his gavel sharply. “Silence in this court.”
“You killed my sister!” Grace Carrington’s brother shouted defiantly as he was rushed from the courtroom.
A hushed silence followed his exit. Then it was broken by the agonized sobs of Gladys Althorp, who sat with her face buried in her hands.