seemed to him to be barely larger than his car. The lack of circulation gave the room the hot, oppressive quality of an oven recently used to cook a batch of Arrid Extra Dry. A white wood table and lightbulb-lined mirror claimed half the room, and two folding chairs were propped against the opposite wall.
He opened a chair and sat down, crossed his legs, and waited.
It will work out, Ronny.
Shaw laughed to himself. Yeah, sure.
He heard footsteps outside, and before he could brace himself, Fitz pushed open the door.
"I see you found my dressing room, Sergeant." Fitz grinned, dropping heavily into the folding chair opposite Shaw. Gone were the judge's robes. Fitz was in the sweat-dampened shirt and jeans he had worn under his robes, which he had rolled up into a ball and placed on his dressing table.
"What did you think of the show?" Fitz asked, slapping Shaw's knee.
"It was very entertaining," Shaw replied.
Fitz laughed. "Bullshit."
Shaw smiled awkwardly, not knowing whether to join in Fitz's laughter.
"You probably hated it more than I did," Fitz said. "Look, a guy has to make money. Maybe I'm educating someone out there, who knows?"
"Well, it educated me, if that means anything," Shaw replied. "It's the first time I've even been behind the scenes, so to speak, of a TV show. I'm impressed."
"Thank you. You're very kind, Sergeant." Fitz's smile waned. "So why exactly do you want to talk with me?"
Shaw shifted uneasily in his seat. "Well, that isn't easy." He dropped his gaze and pondered his feet. Unable to think of an easy way to approach it, Shaw opted for the bottom line. "What do you know about Mr. Jury?"
"I know he's a vigilante who has killed half a dozen people."
"That's all?" Shaw asked, chancing to look at Fitz. The judge frowned.
"What more do you want, Sergeant? The guy is running around doing what most of us would like to do."
"Would you call it a sort of justifiable homicide?" The remark didn't come from Shaw but from the script Shaw chose to perform. It was as if he was part of an undercover operation, playing a role. Nothing, to him, could ever be said to justify Macklin's actions.
"Just what are you getting at, Sergeant? I just got done playing the only game I want to for today." Fitz folded his arms across his chest and pinned Shaw under a stern gaze.
"What if I were to tell you Mr. Jury is interested in introducing some due process into his vigilante justice?"
"I'd say it's still vigilante justice," Fitz replied. He stared into Shaw's eyes, trying to see something there. Shaw wanted to get up and run.
"And I'd say it seems Mr. Jury is a better man than I thought," Fitz said slowly. His eyes narrowed. "Am I talking to Mr. Jury?"
"No," Shaw responded quickly. Too quickly, he thought.
"All right, Sergeant," Harlan Fitz groaned testily. "Let's quit the sparring. Make your point."
"What would you say if Mr. Jury wanted you to be that due process, to evaluate evidence and determine who, within the scope of the law, is guilty and innocent?" Shaw's throat felt raw, stone dry.
Fitz's stare didn't waver. The silence in the room was a crushing weight on Shaw's shoulders that grew heavier with each hourlong moment.
"I'd say my phone number is in the book."
CHAPTER SIX
That next afternoon Mother Nature got angry. She blew the rain clouds away with fierce, gale-force winds that blasted through the city, ripping trees out of the ground, tearing off roofs, severing power lines, and smashing in plate-glass windows.
People on the street, who were still recovering from five days of pounding rain, were caught by surprise and were tossed around like leaves by their wind-opened umbrellas. Tourists must have thought they were watching a sadistic Mary Poppins sequel in the making.
The merciless weather, along with a merciless editor, kept Jessica Mordente away from her desk at the Los Angeles Times and out on the street for most of the day. Her Thomas Brothers street map was her bible as she raced around
He opened a chair and sat down, crossed his legs, and waited.
It will work out, Ronny.
Shaw laughed to himself. Yeah, sure.
He heard footsteps outside, and before he could brace himself, Fitz pushed open the door.
"I see you found my dressing room, Sergeant." Fitz grinned, dropping heavily into the folding chair opposite Shaw. Gone were the judge's robes. Fitz was in the sweat-dampened shirt and jeans he had worn under his robes, which he had rolled up into a ball and placed on his dressing table.
"What did you think of the show?" Fitz asked, slapping Shaw's knee.
"It was very entertaining," Shaw replied.
Fitz laughed. "Bullshit."
Shaw smiled awkwardly, not knowing whether to join in Fitz's laughter.
"You probably hated it more than I did," Fitz said. "Look, a guy has to make money. Maybe I'm educating someone out there, who knows?"
"Well, it educated me, if that means anything," Shaw replied. "It's the first time I've even been behind the scenes, so to speak, of a TV show. I'm impressed."
"Thank you. You're very kind, Sergeant." Fitz's smile waned. "So why exactly do you want to talk with me?"
Shaw shifted uneasily in his seat. "Well, that isn't easy." He dropped his gaze and pondered his feet. Unable to think of an easy way to approach it, Shaw opted for the bottom line. "What do you know about Mr. Jury?"
"I know he's a vigilante who has killed half a dozen people."
"That's all?" Shaw asked, chancing to look at Fitz. The judge frowned.
"What more do you want, Sergeant? The guy is running around doing what most of us would like to do."
"Would you call it a sort of justifiable homicide?" The remark didn't come from Shaw but from the script Shaw chose to perform. It was as if he was part of an undercover operation, playing a role. Nothing, to him, could ever be said to justify Macklin's actions.
"Just what are you getting at, Sergeant? I just got done playing the only game I want to for today." Fitz folded his arms across his chest and pinned Shaw under a stern gaze.
"What if I were to tell you Mr. Jury is interested in introducing some due process into his vigilante justice?"
"I'd say it's still vigilante justice," Fitz replied. He stared into Shaw's eyes, trying to see something there. Shaw wanted to get up and run.
"And I'd say it seems Mr. Jury is a better man than I thought," Fitz said slowly. His eyes narrowed. "Am I talking to Mr. Jury?"
"No," Shaw responded quickly. Too quickly, he thought.
"All right, Sergeant," Harlan Fitz groaned testily. "Let's quit the sparring. Make your point."
"What would you say if Mr. Jury wanted you to be that due process, to evaluate evidence and determine who, within the scope of the law, is guilty and innocent?" Shaw's throat felt raw, stone dry.
Fitz's stare didn't waver. The silence in the room was a crushing weight on Shaw's shoulders that grew heavier with each hourlong moment.
"I'd say my phone number is in the book."
CHAPTER SIX
That next afternoon Mother Nature got angry. She blew the rain clouds away with fierce, gale-force winds that blasted through the city, ripping trees out of the ground, tearing off roofs, severing power lines, and smashing in plate-glass windows.
People on the street, who were still recovering from five days of pounding rain, were caught by surprise and were tossed around like leaves by their wind-opened umbrellas. Tourists must have thought they were watching a sadistic Mary Poppins sequel in the making.
The merciless weather, along with a merciless editor, kept Jessica Mordente away from her desk at the Los Angeles Times and out on the street for most of the day. Her Thomas Brothers street map was her bible as she raced around
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