Twisted

had great respect for the jury system and for jurors on the whole and, as they sat in the small deliberation room behind the courthouse, they might easily be concluding at this moment that Hartman had lied and coerced the witnesses into lying as well.
    And that he was guilty of murder one.
    But when he opened his eyes and glanced over at Adele Viamonte and Chuck Wu, their discouraged faces told him that there was also a pretty good chance that justice might not get done at this trial.
    “Okay,” Viamonte said, “so we don’t win on premeditated murder. We’ve still got the two lesser-includeds. And they’ll have to convict on manslaughter.”
    Have to? thought Tribow. He didn’t think that was a word that ever applied to a jury’s decision. The defense had pitched a great case for a purely accidental death.
    “Miracles happen,” said Wu with youthful enthusiasm.
    And that was when Tribow’s cell phone rang. Itwas the clerk with the news that the jury was returning.
    “Them coming back this fast—is that good or bad?” Wu asked.
    Tribow finished his coffee. “Let’s go find out.”

    “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”
    “We have, Your Honor.”
    The foreman, a middle-aged man in a plaid shirt and dark slacks, handed a piece of paper to the bailiff, who carried it to the judge.
    Tribow kept his eyes on Hartman’s but the killer was sitting back in the swivel chair with a placid expression. He cleaned a fingernail with a paper clip. If he was worried about the outcome of the trial he didn’t show it.
    The judge read the slip of paper silently and glanced over at the jury.
    Tribow tried to read the jurist’s expression but couldn’t.
    “The defendant will rise.”
    Hartman and his lawyer stood.
    The judge handed the paper to the clerk, who read, “In the case of the People versus Raymond C. Hartman, on the first count, murder in the first degree, the jury finds the defendant not guilty. On the second count, murder in the second degree, the jury finds the defendant not guilty. On the third count, manslaughter, the jury finds the defendant not guilty.”
    Complete silence in the courtroom for a moment,broken by Hartman’s whispered, “Yes!” as he raised a fist of victory in the air.
    The judge, clearly disgusted at the verdict, banged his gavel down and said, “No more of that, Mr. Hartman.” He added gruffly, “See the clerk for the return of your passport and bail deposit. I only hope that if you’re brought up on charges again, you appear in my courtroom.” Another angry slap of the gavel. “This court stands adjourned.”
    The courtroom broke into a hundred simultaneous conversations, all laced with disapproval and anger.
    Hartman ignored all the comments and glares. He shook his lawyers’ hands. Several of his confederates came up to him and gave him hugs. Tribow saw a smile pass between Hartman and his choirboy buddy, Abrego.
    Tribow formally shook Viamonte’s and Wu’s hands—as was his tradition when a verdict, good or bad, came down. Then he went over to Carmen Valdez. She was crying softly. The DA hugged her. “I’m sorry,” he said.
    “You did your best,” the woman said and nodded at Hartman. “I guess people like that, really bad people, they don’t play by the rules. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Sometimes they’re just going to win.”
    “Next time,” Tribow said.
    “Next time,” she whispered cynically.
    Tribow turned away and whispered a few words to Detective Moyer. The prosecutor noticed Hartman walking toward the front door of the courtroom. He stepped forward quickly, intercepting him. “Just a second, Hartman,” Tribow said.
    “Nice try, Counselor,” the larger-than-life man said, pausing, “but you should’ve listened to me. I told you you were going to lose.”
    One of his lawyers handed Hartman an envelope. He opened it and took out his passport.
    “Must’ve cost you a lot to bribe those witnesses,” Tribow said amiably.
    “Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Hartman frowned. “That’d be a crime. As you, of all people, ought to know.”
    Viamonte leveled a finger at him and said, “You’re going to stumble and we’re going to be there when it happens.”
    Hartman replied calmly, “Not unless you’re moving to the south of France. Which is what I’m doing next week. Come visit.”
    “To help the minority community in Saint-Tropez?” Chuck Wu asked.
    Hartman offered a smile then turned toward