Page 113 of One of Us Is Guilty

‘Hands in the air,’ she said.

In thirty seconds, the small man and his bald friend would emerge from the left side of the house, pistols drawn, looking for targets, pissed and high on adrenaline. When that happened, she needed to be somewhere else, under cover and silent so she could pick them off without being seen.

The giant was unarmed. She had to take him down quickly and quietly. And make sure he could talk.

But he wasn’t following her instruction.

His arms hung by his sides like legs of beef on a meat hook.

‘Hands up. On your knees. Now,’ said Bloch.

The giant didn’t move.

He just stared at her, almost as if he was wondering if he could break the shotgun in half before he got to her.

Five feet between them.

Twenty seconds until Bloch had company.

Her eyes flitted, half a second, no more, to the house and then back to the giant.

He was big, but not stupid. He knew he had back-up on the way.

All he had to do was delay.

Should she risk stepping closer to him, to take him out quietly? And maybe having to wrestle him for control of the shotgun.

Or pull the trigger and give away her position to two armed men hunting her and Raymond?

There was no safe option here. Two choices. Both high risk.

What was the right choice?

She now had eighteen seconds to decide.

46

Eddie

Most lawyers say the key to winning a trial is in preparation.

I’d done mine.

A text on my phone confirmed that my prep was about to pay off.

I stood outside the courtroom in the dingy hallway, lined with reporters, witnesses, cops and the prosecution team, and I stared at the beige walls and dark, stained tiles on the floor. I thought about the kind of preparation ordinary lawyers do: assembling briefs, reading reports and statements, workshopping their cross-examinations, writing and rewriting their speeches. Hundreds, sometimes thousands of hours of prep and planning.

Me? I’d ordered donuts.

The delivery guy exited the elevators wearing an all-weather motorcycle suit and carrying a large plain white box containing a dozen glazed. I’d already slipped a twenty to the courthouse security guard manning the scanner that morning, told them to send my donut guy straight up and to text me when they let him through.

I wouldn’t want to miss this.

He looked around the hallway. There were maybe thirty people standing around and a few occupying the benches outside the double doors that led to the courtroom. He pulled a delivery docket from a chest pouch. Checked it.

I’d given a detailed description of the intended recipient.

The delivery guy checked the crowd again. Spotted his target.