The Empty Chair

eyeing Geberth, who nodded in confirmation. “They ab-so-lutely won’t keepya in general population.”
    “So it’s basically five years in solitary.”
    “I’m afraid so,” Geberth said.
    She closed her eyes and felt nausea course through her.
    Five years of not moving, of claustrophobia, of nightmares . . .
    And, as an ex-convict, how could she possibly think about becoming a mother? She choked on the despair.
    “So?” the lawyer asked. “What’s it going to be?”
    Sachs opened her eyes. “I’ll take the plea.”

    The room was crowded. Sachs saw Mason Germain, a few of the other deputies. A grim couple, eyes red, probably Jesse Corn’s parents, sat in the front row. She wanted badly to say something to them but their contemptuous gaze kept her silent. She saw only two faces that looked at her kindly: Mary Beth McConnell and a heavy woman who was presumably her mother. There was no sign of Lucy Kerr. Or of Lincoln Rhyme. She supposed that he didn’t have the heart to watch her being led off in chains. Well, that was all right; she didn’t want to see him under these circumstances either.
    The bailiff led her to the defense table. He left the shackles on. Sol Geberth sat beside her.
    They rose when the judge entered and the wiry man in a bulky black robe sat down at the tall bench. He spent some minutes looking over documents and talking with his clerk. Finally he nodded and the clerk said, “The people of the state of North Carolina versus Amelia Sachs.”
    The judge nodded to the prosecutor from Raleigh, a tall, silver-haired man, who rose. “Your Honor, the defendant and the state have entered into a plea arrangement, whereby the defendant has agreed to plead guilty to second-degree manslaughter in the death of Deputy Jesse Randolph Corn. The state waives all other chargesand is recommending a sentence of five years, to be served without possibility of parole or reduction.”
    “Miss Sachs, you’ve discussed this arrangement with your attorney?”
    “I have, Your Honor.”
    “And he’s told you that you have the right to reject it and proceed to trial?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you understand that by accepting this you will be pleading guilty to a felony homicide charge.”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re making this decision willingly?”
    She thought of her father, of Nick. And of Lincoln Rhyme. “I am, yes.”
    “Very well. How do you plead to the charge of second-degree manslaughter brought against you?”
    “Guilty, Your Honor.”
    “In light of the state’s recommendation the plea will be entered and I am hereby sentencing you—”
    The red-leather doors leading to the corridor swung inward and with a high-pitched whine Lincoln Rhyme’s wheelchair maneuvered inside. A bailiff had tried to open the doors for the Storm Arrow but Rhyme seemed to be in a hurry and just plowed through them. One slammed into the wall. Lucy Kerr was behind him.
    The judge looked up, ready to reprimand the intruder. When he saw the chair he—like most people—deferred to the political correctness that Rhyme despised and said nothing. He turned back to Sachs. “I’m hereby sentencing you to five years—”
    Rhyme said, “Forgive me, Your Honor. I need to speak with the defendant and her counsel for a minute.”
    “Well,” the judge grumbled, “we’re in the middle of a proceeding. You can speak to her at some future time.”
    “With all respect, Your Honor,” Rhyme responded, “I need to speak to her now. ” His voice was a grumble too but it was much louder than the jurist’s.

    Just like the old days, being in a courtroom.
    Most people think that a criminalist’s only job is finding and analyzing evidence. But when Lincoln Rhyme was head of the NYPD’s forensics operation—the Investigation and Resources Division—he had spent nearly as much time testifying in court as he did in the lab. He was a good expert witness. (Blaine, his ex-wife, often observed that he preferred to perform in front of people—herself included—rather than interact with them.)
    Rhyme carefully steered up to the railing that separated the counsel tables from the gallery in the Paquenoke County Courthouse. He glanced at Amelia Sachs and the sight nearly broke his heart. In the three days she’d been in jail she’d lost a lot of weight and her face was sallow. Her red hair was dirty and pulled up in a taut bun—the way she wore it at crime scenes to keep the strands from brushing against evidence; this made her