Murder in the Courthouse (12 page)

Stepping onto the elevator, the doors closed with a whoosh. Everything was OK . . . back to normal. They were heading back to the courtroom. She was OK . . . at least for now, anyway.

CHAPTER TEN

I
t was a contentious morning session of last-minute motions. Again. Hailey took the stand outside the jury's presence midmorning and it was brutal. DelVecchio tried at every turn to stop her, but Hailey managed to score point after point. She had to totally tune out DelVecchio and Tish Adams as well, who insisted on shooting one murderous look after the other at Hailey.

The lawyers were battling, family was tense, and Hailey was bitterly crossed then recrossed. Todd Adams sat through it all as if he were watching a chess tournament.

Hailey testified straight through until lunchtime, occasionally looking Todd Adams directly in the eyes. At the beginning, he always looked away, but an hour or so into her testimony, he looked at Hailey with pure loathing. She kept at it though until, finally, it ended with DelVecchio dramatically throwing his hands in the air and announcing he had no further questions. The judge ruled immediately; Hailey Dean would be allowed to testify as an expert for the state in front of the jury.

It was well into lunchtime and the cafeteria was crowded. A long line queued up on a gently sloping ramp leading back toward a winding hall that ended at the elevators. The ramp took hungry employees, lawyers, defendants, witnesses, and judges down toward dozens of tables crowded in between two parallel lines of food. There was quite an assortment. In one corner stood a coffee bar, tricked out like a Starbucks, with leaded, unleaded (decaf), and flavored coffee, as well as skim, whole, 2 percent, and even almond milk choices. It was mobbed, of course.

At the other end, a serve-yourself salad bar stood, looking lonely, in the corner of the huge dining hall. Just feet away from lettuce, pale truck-farmed tomatoes, shredded cheese, and gooey dressings stood
a long line of hungry courthouse employees as workers in light blue uniforms and hairnets dished home-cooked veggies and meats into small melamine bowls. The employees, in turn, would take the bowl, now full to brimming, place it on their tray, and amble down the line. Starting with red and blue Jell-O with fruit congealed in it, salads and desserts, then to meat and noodle entrees, and finally to veggies, breads, and beverages.

While the sound and smell of it all could be a little off-putting to some, Hailey loved it, and thoughts of DelVecchio's angry face faded away. The comfort of courthouse voices mingling in unison, the smell of steamy home-cooked veggies and fresh-baked bread, the occasional raucous peal of laughter all struck a chord in Hailey, reminding her of the years she devoted her life to putting the bad guys in jail. These were the people who worked together for justice: court reporters, sheriffs, investigators, secretaries, and clerks. And lowly transport officers like Alton Turner.

They'd always have a smile for Hailey as she'd go through the list of inmates just brought over from the jail. Comparing her many pages of arraignment calendar to their list of transports started nearly every Monday morning for Hailey for ten years. She could see them now in their tan and brown sheriff uniforms, clipboard and pen, sharing a morning hello, maybe a cup of coffee, maybe handing her a notepad when she lost her own. A comrade.

Opting for ladling chicken noodle soup into a tall paper cup, she took a few packs of saltine crackers from a basket beside the steaming hot soup, took a cold bottled water from a tall, glass-door fridge, and balanced a cup of hot water for tea on a worn cafeteria tray. Hailey wound through at least a few dozen tables, most of them full of seated occupants chatting, eating, or glued to mobile devices and oblivious to the world around them, making her way to a single seat at a two-top near a far window.

Placing her iPhone, BlackBerry, and iPad in front of her to read the news, she caught a glimpse of a gorgeous old oak tree just outside the cafeteria window. Its arms spread out toward the building and its leaves shimmered in a breeze outside.

In a flash, she was mentally reliving a picnic she shared with Will under a huge tree just like this one. They were so, so happy. Hailey recalled distinctly wanting the moment to last forever. Lying on her back on a blanket, looking up at the leaves above them, she spontaneously asked the question, “Will we always be together, even after we die?” Will answered immediately: “Of course we will. I promise.”

Even now, she couldn't imagine where the question came from. Will was murdered the following week and her question under the old oak branches always stuck with Hailey. The sure look in his crystal blue eyes when he'd answered so automatically . . . “
Of course we will
. . .”

Still gazing at the shimmering leaves outside the cafeteria, in Hailey's imagination they morphed into the grand old oak outside the apartment she shared with Will, outside their bedroom window. She'd see it first thing every morning, dancing in the sunshine through her bedroom drapes.

Beside the double windows was their bedroom closet and it was there that her wedding dress hung. It hung there silently, pristine, long, long after Will's murder; no one mentioned it should be returned or, at the very least, that the dress and veil should be carefully folded between layers of tissue paper and put away.

No one dared suggest the dress would never be worn. Of course Hailey would never wear it, and who else would buy it? The wedding dress of a bride who wore black to her fiancé's funeral instead of wearing the ivory dress in the closet to her wedding?

It was actually champagne silk, not ivory. It was off the shoulder, simple . . . not an overdone or ostentatious train, but a train nevertheless. The veil was made of light brocade. The two, gown and veil, were meant to gently sway down a carpeted aisle with flower petals gently scattered in her path, all lit by the golden glow of candlelight. In her wedding gown, Hailey should have been admired by a loving crowd gathered at the ceremony and been the subject of photos handed down to children and grandchildren.

Hailey was yanked to alert by an abrupt clatter of a lunch tray practically thrown onto the other side of the tiny two-top in front of
her. On it sat a plate piled high with a greasy cheeseburger and a double serving of courthouse curly fries. Fincher pulled the metal chair back with much scraping and plopped down in front of her, smiling.

“This seat taken?”

“Not anymore!” Hailey pulled her tray closer and gathered up all her mobile devices, tucking them into her bag to make room for Finch.

“Some trial, huh? What an arrogant SOB. Am I right? This jury's gotta see straight through him.” He tucked into the cheeseburger, holding it with both hands. The pressure forced a mixture of ketchup and mustard to ooze out the backside.

“That looks good. Nothing's better for you than another pound of red meat sitting in your stomach!” She gave him a gentle jab, handing him one of the paper napkins she brought with her from the lunch line.

A surge of new voices made Hailey look over her shoulder to see another wave of hungry lunch-goers coming down the ramp into the cafeteria. Hailey knew at once they were a pool of about sixty potential jurors. Based on their smiling faces, open laughter, and general good spirits, they were clearly just corralled for a trial, because after hours on end of voir dire, John Q. Publics tended to become irritated and grumpy, ready to go home, and ill at being separated from their iPhones.

Leading the pack were two courtroom bailiffs and a cheery-looking young woman. She was curvy but statuesque in a clingy, wraparound dress, a navy, purple, and shocking pink Diane von Furstenberg knockoff. Her honey-blonde locks fell in gentle curls around her shoulders. The huge stack of papers she was carrying could mean only one thing: She was the calendar clerk for that particular courtroom. Hailey knew the stack contained computer-generated sheets of data about the jury pool trouping along behind her as well as the morning's trial calendar.

That calendar would include anywhere from 100 to 200 names with corresponding indictment numbers and named offenses to be tried that week. About half of the defendants would plead guilty that
morning when faced with the prospect of sixty fresh jurors waiting in the courthouse hall just outside the doors to the courtroom. Bravado of weeks and months sitting in the jail bragging about their upcoming jury trials flattened like a punctured balloon when they locked eyes with a jury.

How the calendar clerk could be in such a good mood with sixty jurors trailing behind her and 200 inmates left to process on top of an obviously imminent jury trial to manage was beyond Hailey. The clerk and the bailiffs, though, were the only people the jurors could legally talk to during a trial.

Good thing this bunch was in a great mood! They all shuffled down the ramp, merging into food lines, clutching their free lunch vouchers, all under the watchful eyes of their three guardians. They each wore white stick-on badges announcing they were jurors. Translation: Don't talk to me or risk a jury tampering charge!

It was high drama for a juror to be questioned and possibly thrown off an already impaneled jury because of contact with the outside world. Discussing the facts, or really any aspect of the trial prior to actual jury deliberations, would legally poison the juror, disallowing them from hearing facts and evidence with an open mind.

Hailey watched as the still-happy group ambled through the cafeteria lines. The sheriffs and the clerk split up to follow them like mother ducks. The woman's laughing brown eyes matched the curve of her smile as she plopped her stack of papers down on one of the longer tables that could accommodate a dozen lunch-goers. She then hopped back into her place in the lunch line, which an elderly juror was holding open for her in front of the Jell-O.

More peals of laughter came from the food lines and Hailey turned back to Fincher. “What was it you said about Adams?”

He was right in the middle of a huge bite of hamburger. He chewed a few seconds, swallowed, and took a gulp of soda. “What did I just say? I dunno, maybe that Adams is coming off like an arrogant jerk in front of the jury?”

“I hear you, but I disagree. I think a lot of the jurors are going to find him attractive.”

“What? Hailey, I can't believe my ears. You think Adams is attractive? That's a first, that you'd have anything good to say about a man charged with killing his wife and baby.” Fincher was incensed at this unforeseen turn of events.

“Fincher, get a hold of yourself. I didn't say I found him attractive. As a matter of fact, I don't. He's too slick for me, too suave, too smooth.”

“Then why'd you say . . .”

“To win a case, you have to put your own feelings aside and deal with the facts. The hard, cold facts. And, whether you and I like it or not, we have to face the fact that some members of the jury will think he's attractive. Men and women both.”

“What? What was that you just said? Women and men jurors think Todd Adams is attractive? What are you talking about?”

For a split second, Hailey thought Fincher was going to jump out of his seat with outrage, but he settled for dramatically throwing his paper cafeteria napkin onto the table beside his food tray.

“Yes, Finch, that's what I just said. That men and women will find him attractive. Women will love him regardless of their age. He reminds them of the man they think they'd like to be with or the ‘one that got away.' Adams is also the kind of guy men jurors connect with as well, depending on their age. Younger male jurors might like to go have a beer with him. For the older men, he reminds them of their so-called ‘glory days,' a young guy with a full head of hair, an athlete, in the prime of his life . . . just like they were, or how they think they were. Men jurors may see a little of themselves in Todd Adams.”

Hailey was dead serious. Leaning toward Finch over the table, she went on. “That's dangerous, Fincher. That's how killers walk free . . . because prosecutors underestimate unspoken emotions at trial.”

Fincher looked shocked, his mouth slightly open, staring at her like she was the enemy. Hailey went on, unfazed by the hairy eyeball Finch was giving her.

“I mean look at him, the thick dark hair swept back off his forehead, chiseled features, warm brown eyes. He's built like an athlete and he looks great in that Armani suit. His outfit alone costs about $800, $1,000 at the least if you include the shoes, belt, and shirt. Maybe more.”

Finch looked as if he had been struck deaf, dumb, and blind. “Face it, Finch, women want to be with him, men want to be him.”

Hailey said all of this as if she were simply doing a crossword puzzle, unattached yet intrigued. “I don't care about his looks one way or another, Finch. It's all about the psychology behind it. The behavioral evidence. That's what wins a case.”

“It's pretty amazing, Hailey. Just the way you read things, the way you analyze every detail and break it down to, basically, evidence. Even the cut of the guy's suit and the color of his eyes.”

Before she could answer, they both looked down when Hailey's iPhone started buzzing with an incoming text. Hailey picked it up and read it.

“Work?” Finch asked, still watching the jurors in line pushing trays along in front of them.

“Yep. It's Billings. He wants to go over the Alton Turner case after we leave court today.”

“That'll be late. Hope he throws in dinner. And it better be somewhere good. No drive-through.”

“He didn't mention anything about dinner, nothing like Alton Turner's severed torso to ruin your appetite. So let's you and me go somewhere, you pick. Hey, you getting coffee or dessert or anything?”

“I might. Yeah, probably. I did see some peach pie over there . . .” Fincher's voice trailed away as he glanced toward the food line.

“What you saw were canned peaches. They're not fresh. I wouldn't bother,” Hailey cut in.