Along Came a Spider

anymore. No one ever sang to Maggie Rose. No one remembered her anymore. Or so she believed in her broken heart.

CHAPTER 57

    I MET WITH SONEJI/MURPHY half-a-dozen times over the next two weeks. He wouldn’t let me get close to him again, though he claimed this wasn’t so. Something had changed. I’d lost him.
Both of him
.
    On the fifteenth of October, a federal judge ordered a stay, temporarily halting the commencement of the kidnapping trial. This was to be the final of several delaying tactics by Soneji/Murphy’s defense lawyer, Anthony Nathan.
    Within one week, lightning speed for this kind of complex legal maneuvering, Judge Linda Kaplan had denied the defense requests. Requests for injunctions and restraining orders to the Supreme Court were also denied. Nathan called the Supreme Court “a very organized lynch mob” on all three TV networks. The fireworks were just beginning, he said to the press. He’d established a tone for the trial.
    On the twenty-seventh of October, the trial of the
State v. Murphy
began. At five minutes to nine that morning, Sampson and I headed for a back entrance into the Federal Building on Indiana Avenue. As best we could, we were traveling incognito.
    “You want to lose some money?” Sampson said as we turned the corner onto Indiana.
    “I hope you’re not talking about wagering money on the outcome of this kidnapping and murder trial?”
    “Sure am, sweet pie. Make the time pass faster.”
    “What’s the bet?”
    Sampson lit a Corona and took a victory puff. “I’ll take… I say he goes to St. Elizabeths, some hospital for the criminally insane. That’s the bet.”
    “You’re saying that our judicial system doesn’t work.”
    “I believe it in every bone of my body. Specially this time around.”
    “All right — I’ll take guilty, two counts kidnapping. Guilty, murder one.”
    Sampson took another victory puff. “You want to pay me now? Fifty be an acceptable amount for you to lose?”
    “Fifty’s fine with me. You got a bet.”
    “Get it on. I love to take what little money you have.”
    Out front on 3rd Street, a crowd of a couple of thousand surrounded the main courthouse entrance. Another two hundred people, including seven rows of reporters, were already inside. The prosecutor had tried to bar the press, but it had been denied.
    Somebody had printed up signs and they were everywhere:
Maggie Rose Is Alive
!
    People were handing out roses at the trial site. Up and down Indiana Avenue, volunteers circulated with the free roses. Others sold commemorative pennants. Most popular of all were the small candles that people burned in the windows of their homes as remembrances of Maggie Rose.
    A handful of reporters were waiting at the back entrance, which is reserved for deliveries, as well as for a few shy judges and lawyers. Most veteran cops who come to the courthouse, and don’t appreciate the crowds, also choose the back gate.
    Microphones were immediately pushed at me and Sampson. TV camera lenses gawked. Neither instrument fazed us anymore.
    “Detective Cross, is it true that you were cut out of the case by the FBI?”
    “No. I have an okay relationship with the FBI.”
    “Are you still seeing Gary Murphy at Lorton, Detective?”
    “That makes it sound as if we’re dating. It’s not that serious yet. I’m part of a team of doctors who see him.”
    “Are there racial overtones to this case, as it relates to you?”
    “There are racial overtones to a lot of things, I guess. There’s nothing special here.”
    “The other detective? Detective Sampson. You agree, sir?” a young dude in a bow tie asked.
    “Well, sir yourself, we’re going in the back door, aren’t we? We’re the back-door men.” Sampson grinned for the camera. He didn’t take off his shades.
    We finally made it to a service elevator, and tried to keep the reporters out of the same car, which wasn’t easy.
    “We have a confirmed rumor that Anthony Nathan is going for a temporary-insanity plea. Any comment on that?”
    “None at all. Ask Anthony Nathan.”
    “Detective Cross, will you take the stand to say Gary Murphy
isn’t
insane?”
    The ancient doors finally shut. The elevator started to rumble up toward the seventh floor, “Seventh Heaven,” as it’s known in the trade.
    The seventh had never been quieter, or more under control. The usual train-station scene of policemen, young thugs and their families, hardened crooks, lawyers and judges, had been stemmed by