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Synopsis
We know you did it–and you won't get away with it.
Accused of murdering five small children, Thomas Scott is released on bail. He faces devastated parents plotting revenge and a fiery detective taking the law into his own hands. But did he do it? The truth will blow you away.
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LIGHTNING-FAST STORIES BY JAMES PATTERSON
Novels you can devour in a few hours
Impossible to stop reading
All original content from James Patterson
LIGHTNING-FAST STORIES BY JAMES PATTERSON
Novels you can devour in a few hours
Impossible to stop reading
All original content from James Patterson
Release date: October 3, 2017
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Print pages: 144
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Scott Free
James Patterson
Chapter 2
Thomas Scott
THOMAS SCOTT STEPPED out of the glass doors of the Richmond County Courthouse, squinting in the harsh sunlight. He was greeted by a cavalcade of clicking cameras. The shiny bulbs made the press look like a horde of insects, advancing and ready to devour him. That’s pretty much how it felt, too.
He should have asked if there was another exit out of the building. His lawyer had warned him there would be reporters, but he didn’t think it would be this bad. He’d never seen so many people who wanted his attention at one time.
His heart slammed in his chest and he felt light-headed. He looked behind him, hoping he could retreat to the safety of the courthouse, but saw only a line of stone-faced cops blocking the glass doors.
The reporters kept hurling questions at him, yelling over each other to be heard. Each question cut like a knife.
“How do you feel?”
“What did the judge say?”
“What do you plan to do next?”
“Did you kill those children?”
Thomas felt a hand on his arm and turned to find his lawyer, Mark Amato. The handsome young man didn’t betray any concern or nervousness, just smiled that hundred-watt smile of his and whispered, “Don’t say anything.”
Amato ran his hand through his brown hair—like it was a ploy to draw attention to his artfully sculpted haircut—and put up a finger up in the air. The questions stopped and the cameras turned toward him.
“We’re very pleased the judge agreed that the police violated my client’s Fourth Amendment right to privacy with their illegal search,” Amato said. “Mr. Scott is innocent of these heinous crimes. He looks forward to returning to his routine, as well as seeing the real killer brought to justice. We have no further statement at this time.”
Thomas couldn’t help but smile, even though he had been concentrating on looking neutral. Amato warned him that every newspaper tomorrow would run a picture of his face on the front page, and his expression would be endlessly analyzed. Plus, he knew how he looked. His nickname in high school was “Caveman,” thanks to his heavy brow and big hands.
Losing most of his hair in the last few years hadn’t helped anything.
He wasn’t handsome like Amato. The guy was young, probably no more than 30, but he was confident and smooth. He looked like the kind of lawyer you saw on television. When Thomas was first arrested, he got a dozen offers from attorneys looking to represent him. Amato was the only one who made him feel comfortable. It helped that Amato offered to take the case pro bono, too.
But while he was good, he wasn’t that good. The press didn’t want to hear that there’d be no further statement. They continued to shout questions, pushing closer. Beyond them were people screaming “monster” and “murderer” and “psychopath.” Thomas felt like if the press wasn’t in between him and them, the crowd would tear him apart.
Amato gripped Thomas’s arm and pulled him through the crowd. One of the reporters grabbed his other arm, trying to get his attention, and Thomas yanked it away. Anger and fear and confusion were buzzing in his head like a swarm of flies. He tried to distract himself as they pushed through the crowd. Focus on something good.
He thought about home. He wondered if it had gotten dusty in the five days that he was gone. Probably did. He’d have to sweep, but then he’d have to mop, too. Just to be sure. That’s the thing about dirt—it’s a constant battle just to keep it at bay.
He thought about his bathroom, too. His clean bathroom. It would be a welcome sight, after the cold metal toilet bolted to the wall in his cell. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since it was installed. Thomas couldn’t bring himself to sit on it. He had to hover over it, his legs aching and cramped because of the awkward angle.
Early on, Amato had been hopeful the judge would set bail, but given the high profile nature of the case and the clear and present danger to the community, Thomas was remanded to Rikers Island. Amato warned him it wasn’t going to be a pleasant visit, that anyone who was believed to have perpetrated violence against children wasn’t safe in a prison setting. There was a hierarchy, and an alleged child-murderer would be at the bottom.
That became clear on the first day. Thomas was waiting to use the phone to call Amato when a young man called him a kiddie-killer and cracked him in the jaw. He went tumbling to the floor and a group of inmates surrounded him. Through their kicking feet he could see one guard rushing to help him—and another guard step in his way, to make him wait. To give the inmates a few minutes to beat on him.
After a doctor who wouldn’t look Thomas in the eye confirmed he didn’t have any cracked ribs or internal bleeding, the guards decided to put him in solitary confinement. “The Bing,” people called it.
It was a small room with a cot, a thin foam mattress, and a toilet/sink combo. He was alone for twenty-three hours a day. That lone hour of freedom was for the shower, or walking around in a circle in a small activity room.
In the beginning it wasn’t so bad, outside of the pain. He would roll over in his sleep and a jolt would travel through his torso and he’d wake up. But Thomas didn’t mind the rest. The solitary part. He was used to being alone.
It was the filth that got to him. Being locked in a place where dirt had won the war, it was pretty much his worst nightmare come true.
The grimy window and the crud on the toilet. The dirt in the corners that he couldn’t quite wipe away with a wad of wet toilet paper. The occasional roach that would scurry across the floor. He could never figure out where they came from. They just appeared. He asked a corrections officer for a bucket of cleaning supplies, figuring that cleaning would help pass the time. The officer just laughed at him. Thomas didn’t understand why. He wanted to help.
All he ever wanted to do was help.
It turned out, though, he wasn’t safe just because he was alone. The guards would push him, yell at him. One guard in particular would shove his food tray hard enough through the slot that it would clatter to the floor, the contents spilling across the concrete. Thomas would do his best to clean it up but couldn’t bring himself to eat any of the spoiled food.
By the fourth night, he was crying himself to sleep, his sobs drowned out by the sounds of the men screaming and yelling in the cells next to him. If there is a Hell, that was what it is like.
But that didn’t matter anymore, because he was out.
As Thomas and Amato approached the curb, where a shiny black car Amato had arranged was waiting, they were peppered with more questions.
“What do you think about the judge’s decision?”
“Do you still trust the police?”
“Do you have anything to say to the parents?”
And then, a yell cut through the crowd.
“You son of a bitch!”
The press parted, turning their clicking cameras and outstretched recorders toward the man barreling Thomas’s way.
He was a big guy, heavy around the midsection, sandy hair thinning, meaty fists balled up. The kind of guy who’d played football in college and could still do some damage. And damage seemed to be his goal.
Thomas recognized him. John Junior’s father.
John Junior was—had been—smart and funny and energetic. Always said hello to Thomas, asked him how his day was. Always said please and thank you. He was a good kid.
His father didn’t look nearly as amiable.
John launched himself into Thomas, hitting him in the midsection, and the two of them tumbled to the ground. Thomas felt his head smack off the pavement, pain radiating through his skull and his still-bruised torso. He tried to roll over. Some reporters were caught in the scuffle and knocked down with them. Others were throwing elbows and swinging cameras, jockeying for position, trying to get the best view of the melee. And as a result, more of them ended up falling into the tangle of limbs.
Thomas tried to extricate himself from the scrum and felt a fist bounce off his chin. He looked up and saw John Junior’s dad, rearing back to hit him again. So completely consumed by anger, he looked like a wild animal. Two cops appeared and pulled him away, his feet kicking into the air.
Thomas climbed to his feet and stood there, numb, as Amato dusted him off and said, “Let’s get to the car. Now.”
Thomas turned to his right and found a cop staring at him. An older, lanky guy with a bushy mustache. The cop leaned in, getting so close to Thomas’s ear that Thomas could feel his hot breath. He grabbed Thomas’s elbow, digging his thumb into the funny bone nerve. Thomas tried to twist away and found he couldn’t, pain throbbing from his hand to his shoulder.
“I had my way, I’d lock you in a room with that guy and let him rip you apart,” the cop said, nearly whispering. “You’re lucky there are so many cameras here.”
The cop let go, leaned back, smiled, and winked.
Thomas was struck by a wave of terror and looked around, hoping one of the reporters might have heard it, but of course, no one had. He turned and leapt for the car, yanking the door open and climbing across th. . .
Thomas Scott
THOMAS SCOTT STEPPED out of the glass doors of the Richmond County Courthouse, squinting in the harsh sunlight. He was greeted by a cavalcade of clicking cameras. The shiny bulbs made the press look like a horde of insects, advancing and ready to devour him. That’s pretty much how it felt, too.
He should have asked if there was another exit out of the building. His lawyer had warned him there would be reporters, but he didn’t think it would be this bad. He’d never seen so many people who wanted his attention at one time.
His heart slammed in his chest and he felt light-headed. He looked behind him, hoping he could retreat to the safety of the courthouse, but saw only a line of stone-faced cops blocking the glass doors.
The reporters kept hurling questions at him, yelling over each other to be heard. Each question cut like a knife.
“How do you feel?”
“What did the judge say?”
“What do you plan to do next?”
“Did you kill those children?”
Thomas felt a hand on his arm and turned to find his lawyer, Mark Amato. The handsome young man didn’t betray any concern or nervousness, just smiled that hundred-watt smile of his and whispered, “Don’t say anything.”
Amato ran his hand through his brown hair—like it was a ploy to draw attention to his artfully sculpted haircut—and put up a finger up in the air. The questions stopped and the cameras turned toward him.
“We’re very pleased the judge agreed that the police violated my client’s Fourth Amendment right to privacy with their illegal search,” Amato said. “Mr. Scott is innocent of these heinous crimes. He looks forward to returning to his routine, as well as seeing the real killer brought to justice. We have no further statement at this time.”
Thomas couldn’t help but smile, even though he had been concentrating on looking neutral. Amato warned him that every newspaper tomorrow would run a picture of his face on the front page, and his expression would be endlessly analyzed. Plus, he knew how he looked. His nickname in high school was “Caveman,” thanks to his heavy brow and big hands.
Losing most of his hair in the last few years hadn’t helped anything.
He wasn’t handsome like Amato. The guy was young, probably no more than 30, but he was confident and smooth. He looked like the kind of lawyer you saw on television. When Thomas was first arrested, he got a dozen offers from attorneys looking to represent him. Amato was the only one who made him feel comfortable. It helped that Amato offered to take the case pro bono, too.
But while he was good, he wasn’t that good. The press didn’t want to hear that there’d be no further statement. They continued to shout questions, pushing closer. Beyond them were people screaming “monster” and “murderer” and “psychopath.” Thomas felt like if the press wasn’t in between him and them, the crowd would tear him apart.
Amato gripped Thomas’s arm and pulled him through the crowd. One of the reporters grabbed his other arm, trying to get his attention, and Thomas yanked it away. Anger and fear and confusion were buzzing in his head like a swarm of flies. He tried to distract himself as they pushed through the crowd. Focus on something good.
He thought about home. He wondered if it had gotten dusty in the five days that he was gone. Probably did. He’d have to sweep, but then he’d have to mop, too. Just to be sure. That’s the thing about dirt—it’s a constant battle just to keep it at bay.
He thought about his bathroom, too. His clean bathroom. It would be a welcome sight, after the cold metal toilet bolted to the wall in his cell. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since it was installed. Thomas couldn’t bring himself to sit on it. He had to hover over it, his legs aching and cramped because of the awkward angle.
Early on, Amato had been hopeful the judge would set bail, but given the high profile nature of the case and the clear and present danger to the community, Thomas was remanded to Rikers Island. Amato warned him it wasn’t going to be a pleasant visit, that anyone who was believed to have perpetrated violence against children wasn’t safe in a prison setting. There was a hierarchy, and an alleged child-murderer would be at the bottom.
That became clear on the first day. Thomas was waiting to use the phone to call Amato when a young man called him a kiddie-killer and cracked him in the jaw. He went tumbling to the floor and a group of inmates surrounded him. Through their kicking feet he could see one guard rushing to help him—and another guard step in his way, to make him wait. To give the inmates a few minutes to beat on him.
After a doctor who wouldn’t look Thomas in the eye confirmed he didn’t have any cracked ribs or internal bleeding, the guards decided to put him in solitary confinement. “The Bing,” people called it.
It was a small room with a cot, a thin foam mattress, and a toilet/sink combo. He was alone for twenty-three hours a day. That lone hour of freedom was for the shower, or walking around in a circle in a small activity room.
In the beginning it wasn’t so bad, outside of the pain. He would roll over in his sleep and a jolt would travel through his torso and he’d wake up. But Thomas didn’t mind the rest. The solitary part. He was used to being alone.
It was the filth that got to him. Being locked in a place where dirt had won the war, it was pretty much his worst nightmare come true.
The grimy window and the crud on the toilet. The dirt in the corners that he couldn’t quite wipe away with a wad of wet toilet paper. The occasional roach that would scurry across the floor. He could never figure out where they came from. They just appeared. He asked a corrections officer for a bucket of cleaning supplies, figuring that cleaning would help pass the time. The officer just laughed at him. Thomas didn’t understand why. He wanted to help.
All he ever wanted to do was help.
It turned out, though, he wasn’t safe just because he was alone. The guards would push him, yell at him. One guard in particular would shove his food tray hard enough through the slot that it would clatter to the floor, the contents spilling across the concrete. Thomas would do his best to clean it up but couldn’t bring himself to eat any of the spoiled food.
By the fourth night, he was crying himself to sleep, his sobs drowned out by the sounds of the men screaming and yelling in the cells next to him. If there is a Hell, that was what it is like.
But that didn’t matter anymore, because he was out.
As Thomas and Amato approached the curb, where a shiny black car Amato had arranged was waiting, they were peppered with more questions.
“What do you think about the judge’s decision?”
“Do you still trust the police?”
“Do you have anything to say to the parents?”
And then, a yell cut through the crowd.
“You son of a bitch!”
The press parted, turning their clicking cameras and outstretched recorders toward the man barreling Thomas’s way.
He was a big guy, heavy around the midsection, sandy hair thinning, meaty fists balled up. The kind of guy who’d played football in college and could still do some damage. And damage seemed to be his goal.
Thomas recognized him. John Junior’s father.
John Junior was—had been—smart and funny and energetic. Always said hello to Thomas, asked him how his day was. Always said please and thank you. He was a good kid.
His father didn’t look nearly as amiable.
John launched himself into Thomas, hitting him in the midsection, and the two of them tumbled to the ground. Thomas felt his head smack off the pavement, pain radiating through his skull and his still-bruised torso. He tried to roll over. Some reporters were caught in the scuffle and knocked down with them. Others were throwing elbows and swinging cameras, jockeying for position, trying to get the best view of the melee. And as a result, more of them ended up falling into the tangle of limbs.
Thomas tried to extricate himself from the scrum and felt a fist bounce off his chin. He looked up and saw John Junior’s dad, rearing back to hit him again. So completely consumed by anger, he looked like a wild animal. Two cops appeared and pulled him away, his feet kicking into the air.
Thomas climbed to his feet and stood there, numb, as Amato dusted him off and said, “Let’s get to the car. Now.”
Thomas turned to his right and found a cop staring at him. An older, lanky guy with a bushy mustache. The cop leaned in, getting so close to Thomas’s ear that Thomas could feel his hot breath. He grabbed Thomas’s elbow, digging his thumb into the funny bone nerve. Thomas tried to twist away and found he couldn’t, pain throbbing from his hand to his shoulder.
“I had my way, I’d lock you in a room with that guy and let him rip you apart,” the cop said, nearly whispering. “You’re lucky there are so many cameras here.”
The cop let go, leaned back, smiled, and winked.
Thomas was struck by a wave of terror and looked around, hoping one of the reporters might have heard it, but of course, no one had. He turned and leapt for the car, yanking the door open and climbing across th. . .
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