David Nash could see the storm clouds closing in on Portland from his office on the thirty-second floor of the First National Bank Tower. The rain would be a welcome relief from the June heat. The first large drops started falling on the river. David watched for a while, then turned his back to the window. Across the room Thomas Gault shifted his position on the couch.
The newspapers called David “The Ice Man” because of his unruffled appearance in court, but Gault deserved the title. It was almost eight o’clock. The jury had been deliberating for two days. But Gault dozed, oblivious to the fact that twelve people were deciding whether he should be convicted of murder.
The telephone rang and startled David. Gault opened his eyes. The phone rang again and David answered it. His heart was beating rapidly as he raised the receiver. His hand felt sweaty against the plastic.
“Mr. Nash,” Judge McIntyre’s bailiff said, “we have a verdict.”
David took a breath to calm himself. His mouth was dry. It was always the same, no matter how many times he heard those words. They were so final, and despite his record of victories, they always left him with a feeling of despair.
“I’ll be right over,” David said, replacing the receiver. Gault was sitting up and stretching.
“Moment of truth, old buddy?” he asked as he yawned. He seemed to be experiencing none of the tension that David felt.
“Moment of truth,” David repeated.
“Let’s go get ’em, then. And don’t forget how you’re feeling. I want to interview you as soon as we hear the verdict. I talked to my editor this afternoon, and he’s hot to get the book into print as fast as he can. Capitalize on the publicity.”
David shook his head in amazement.
“How can you even think about that book now, Tom?”
Gault laughed.
“With what you’re charging me, I have to think about it. Besides, I want to make you famous.”
“Doesn’t anything ever get to you?” David asked.
Gault studied David for a second, his grin momentarily gone, his eyes cold.
“Not a thing, old buddy. Not a thing.
“Besides,” he said, the grin back in place, “I’ve been through a hell of a lot worse than this in Africa. Remember, those twelve peers of mine can’t kill me. Worse comes to worst, I get a few years off to write at state expense. And the worst ain’t gonna come, old buddy, because I have faith in you.”
Gault’s smile was infectious, and despite his misgivings, David found he was smiling.
“Okay, Tom, then let’s go get ’em.”
Outside, the rain and wind were twisting the large American flag that hung from the building across the street, winding it around itself and whipping it to and fro. One of America’s symbols taking a beating, David mused. If he was the lawyer everyone said he was, the blind woman with the scales would also go down for the count when they arrived at the courthouse.
IFDAVID HADnot been famous already, the Gault case would have made him so. Reporters from Paris and Moscow had flown into Portland to cover the trial of the handsome defendant who looked like a movie star and wrote like Joseph Conrad.
At nineteen, Gault, a member of a violent L.A. gang, had been given a choice between jail or the Army. Gault loved the military and was a natural for Special Forces training.
At twenty-six, Gault turned mercenary, putting his skills to work in East and West Africa.
All during his years abroad, Gault had been indulging another passion, writing. Plotted and fleshed out during his African sojourn, and completed during six months of furious activity in a cheap apartment in Manhattan, Plains of Anguish made Gault rich and established him as a writer of note. The novels that followed increased his literary reputation. But they were not the only reason Gault’s name was newsworthy.
Shortly after the movie version of his second novel was released, Gault married his leading lady. The gossip columns were suddenly full of stories about Gault’s latest affair or drunken brawl. When Gault drove his Rolls-Royce through the bedroom wall of his wife’s lover’s beach house, the missus called it quits. Gault, fed up with Hollywood, headed for the quiet of the Pacific Northwest.
A year later Gault emerged from seclusion, carrying the manuscript for ARansom for the Dying, which won the Pulitzer Prize. While working on the book, he had met Julie Webster, whom he was presently accused of beating to death.
Julie Webster Gault, the daughter of a former secretary of commerce, was beautiful, spoiled, and rich. To her parents’ horror, she married Thomas Gault after a brief courtship that consisted of several violent couplings in various odd places and positions. The marriage was doomed from the beginning.
