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The image appeared on Judge’s screen. The malware was performing exactly as programmed, but technology was only half the equation. The key to the entire operation was to elicit a certain human response from his target. Judge raised the binoculars and peered into the studio apartment. Confirmed: Clueless was no longer in control. Her expression showed confusion, then concern. Panic soon followed. The target laptop had become the slave. Judge was the master, and the on-screen image was having the intended effect.
Clueless was freaking out.
Even though Judge was watching through binoculars from across the alley, it was as if he were sitting on the Murphy bed beside his target, close enough to hear the gasp for breath, check the racing pulse, and dab the sweating brow. The next minute was crucial. Some targets just froze, wondering if what they’d just seen was real. Some slapped the laptop shut and quickly pushed it away, as if to pretend they’d seen nothing. Others grabbed their cellphone and texted or called someone who, perhaps, could convince them that it had all been their imagination.
Judge waited and watched. His bet was that Clueless would call someone, and it made him smile with satisfaction to see that he was right. The call on her cellphone lasted just a few minutes. The friend, brother, sister, coworker—whoever had been on the line—seemed to put Clueless at ease, for a moment, at least. She disappeared into the bathroom to get ready for bed, but whatever comfort or courage the caller had imparted was short-lived. Barely enough time to wet a toothbrush passed before the door flew open and Clueless dived beneath the covers, as if the bogeyman himself had appeared in the bathroom mirror.She hadn’t even bothered to turn off the lamp on the nightstand. Judge guessed it would stay on all night. Fine by him. A little light would keep him from stubbing his toe.
Judge lowered his binoculars. He would wait until well after midnight. Maybe as late as 2:00 or 3:00 a.m.
And then he would make his move.
Chapter 31
Security at Miami’s criminal courthouse was tighter than usual on Monday morning. Squad cars lined the street at the front entrance. Police barricades prevented onlookers from gathering on the steps. It was all for the trial of Imani and Shaky Nichols, day one. Jack had handled high-profile cases before, typically as counsel to the infamous. Imani was his first client to have found fame for the right reasons—and then for the wrong.
“This isn’t the red carpet,” Jack said as their SUV pulled up to the curb. “Don’t wave, don’t smile, and, above all, don’t say anything.”
Imani was looking out the passenger-side window at her supporters, who cheered her arrival. It was a sunny morning and Jack reached for his sunglasses, a cheap plastic pair from next to the checkout line, but Imani handed him a new pair. “Your drugstore specials won’t cut it, Jack. Look the part.”
Jack tried them on. He suddenly had an appreciation of how his father must have felt after cataract surgery. “Nice,” he said.
“Persol 714,” said Imani. “Limited edition in honor of Steve McQueen.”
“You’re on trial for murder, and you’re worried about what sunglasses your lawyer is wearing?”
“You do your job. I’ll do mine.”
Police were able to contain the crowd long enough for Jack and his client to climb out of the SUV, but not much longer. Imani’s fans were only half the problem. More than six hundred media passes had been issued. Every major network and entertainment magazine had at least one reporter at the trial. The top cable news networks had constructed a two-story air-conditioned structure across from the courthouse forreporters and crews. In addition to real-time court coverage, Jack knew of at least two prime-time segments in the works, “Inside the Imani Trial”from Dateline, and “Only Imani Knows”from CNN. In the week running up to the trial, Imani’s picture had appeared on the cover of everything fromPeoplein the United States toBuntein Germany. Judge Cookson’s courtroom would surely become another Miami tourist destination, like South Beach and the Seaquarium, with spectators coming from all over the world to vie for the fifty seats available to the public. The first altercation among spectators broke out as Jack and Imani entered the building.
“This is my spot!”
“I’ve been here since five a.m.!”
The police broke it up, Jack and his client shuffled through security, and by 9:00 a.m. they were seated safely in Judge Cookson’s courtroom. Jack had expected jury selection to carry over to Tuesday, but by three o’clock they had a jury. Four women and two men, each of whom had assured the judge that they had formed no preconceptions about the case, despite the plethora of pretrial publicity. Judge Cookson kept the freight train rolling.
“Let’s proceed with opening statements,” he said from the bench. “Mr. Owens, if you please.”
The prosecutor stepped to the lectern and faced the jury. He had a notebook with him, but he didn’t open it. He spoke without notes.
“A wife cheats on her husband. The husband finds out about it, and he’s enraged. The wife is under her husband’s thumb. Her career is in her powerful husband’s hands. He wants her to get rid of the lover. At her husband’s insistence, she coaxes her lover into something kinky in bed. A second male participant is involved. Ropes are definitely involved. Perhaps her lover is blindfolded. Or perhaps the second man is wearing a mask. Either way, her lover is unable to recognize him as the husband. At some point in this frenetic orgy of sex, the rope finds it way around the lover’s neck. The lover ends up dead.”
The courtroom was utterly silent. For a moment, it seemed as if the prosecutor might return to his seat, having said enough.
“How did Tyler McCormick end up dead? Who strangled him? Wasit Shaky Nichols, a disgusted husband who was finally done with other men having their way with his wife?”
Then his gaze drifted across the courtroom, landing squarely on Imani. “Or was it Imani Nichols, the wife who had pushed her husband too far, and who would do anything—anything—to redeem herself in his eyes.”
The prosecutor’s focus returned to the jurors. “We don’t know where the murder occurred. Tyler McCormick’s body was found sometime after his death on display in Biscayne Bay in an elaborate attempt to make the killing look like something it wasn’t. In the coming days, you will hear evidence on all of this. For now, let me share a little irony.
“There’s a song by Imani. It was one of her first hits. The name of the song is ‘Safe Word.’ For those of you who don’t know, a safe word is used by couples who engage in rough or even dangerous sex. The safe word is a code from the submissive partner to let the dominant partner know that things have gone far enough. A safe word like ‘red light’ might mean ‘Time to stop. You’re really hurting me.’ Interestingly, Imani’s song has this lyric: ‘Ain’t no safe word; you ain’t safe with me.’”
Jack rose. It was unusual to object during opening statement, but with a celebrity client, it was important to force the prosecution to stick to the evidence. “Your Honor, I object. Is my client on trial here, or her music?”
“Sustained,” the judge said. “Mr. Owens, let’s confine our opening remarks to what the evidence will show.”
“Absolutely,” said the prosecutor, tightening his focus on the jurors. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the evidence in this case will show you one thing. For Tyler McCormick, there was no ‘safe word.’”
Jack was about to rise, but the judge stopped him.
