Pop Goes the Weasel

passed since the murder of Detective Pasty Hampton. Alex Cross had been shuttling back and forth to Bermuda, but he still had no idea where Christine had disappeared to. Shafer was out of jail but on a very short leash. He hadn’t played the game once since Hampton’s murder. The game of games had been on hold, and it was driving him mad.
    Now Shafer sat in his black Jag in the parking lot directly under the courthouse, feeling hopeful. He was eager to stand trial on the count of Aggravated, Premeditated Murder in the First Degree. The rules of play had been established, and he appreciated that.
    The suppression hearing weeks before was still a vivid memory for him. He’d relished every minute of it. The preliminary hearing was held before the jury selection, to determine what evidence would be allowed at the trial; it took place in the spacious chambers of Judge Michael Fescoe. The judge set the rules, so in a way he was the gamemaster. How fabulously droll, how delicious.
    Shafer’s lawyer, Jules Halpern, argued that Shafer had been in a therapy session at Dr. Cassady’s home-office, and therefore had every right to privacy. “That privacy was violated. First, Dr. Cassady refused to let Detective Cross and the other officers come inside. Second, Colonel Shafer showed his identification to the detective. It proved that he was with the British Embassy and had diplomatic immunity. Cross barged into the therapist’s office anyway. Consequently, any evidence obtained — if indeed any evidence was obtained — is the result of unlawful search.”
    Judge Fescoe took the rest of the day to consider, then announced his decision the next morning. “As I listened to both sides, it seemed to me that the issues were straightforward and not all that unusual in a murder case. Mr. Shafer does indeed have diplomatic immunity. However, it is my opinion that Detective Cross acted in a reasonable and lawful manner when he went to Dr. Cassady’s apartment. He suspected that a grave crime had been committed. Dr. Cassady opened the door, allowing Detective Cross plain view of Mr. Shafer’s attire. Colonel Shafer has insisted all along that his diplomatic immunity denied Detective Cross permission to enter the premises.
    “I am therefore going to allow the prosecution to use the clothing Colonel Shafer was wearing on the night of the murder, as well as the blood on the carpet outside the apartment door, as evidence.
    “The prosecution may also use any evidence found in the parking garage, both in Detective Hampton’s car and in Colonel Shafer’s,” Judge Fescoe continued, and this was the key part of his ruling: “I will not allow evidence found once Detective Cross entered the apartment against the stated wishes of both Colonel Shafer and Dr. Cassady. Any and all evidence discovered during the initial or subsequent searches is suppressed and will not be allowed at the trial.”
    The prosecution was also told not to make any reference, during the trial, to any other uncharged murders that Shafer was suspected of having committed in Washington. The jury was to understand that Shafer was under investigation only for the murder of Senior Detective Patricia Hampton. Both the prosecution and the defense claimed victory at the end of the suppression hearing.
    The stone steps outside the courthouse were swarming with a buzzing, unruly crowd on the morning of the first day. Shafer’s “supporters” were wearing UK/OK buttons and waving crisp, new Union Jacks. These wondrous fools made him smile as he clasped both hands high over his head in victory. He enjoyed being a hero immensely.
    What a glorious time. Even if he was a little high and spacey on a few choice pharmaceuticals.
    Both sides were still predicting “slam dunk” victories. Lawyers were such fabulous bullshitters.
    The press was touting the outrageous charade as the “criminal trial of the decade.” The media hype, expected and ritualistic, thrilled him anyway. He internalized it as tribute and adulation. His due.
    He purposely cut quite a dashing figure; he wanted to make an impression — on the world. He wore a soft-shouldered, tailored gray suit, a striped bespoke shirt from Budd, and black oxfords from Lobb’s, St. James’s. He was photographed a hundred times in the first few moments alone.
    He walked into the courthouse as if in a dream. The most delicious thing of all was that he might lose everything.
    Courtroom 4 was on the third floor. It was the