Murder in the Courthouse (22 page)

The Croc-N-Gator Night Time Adventure started at dusk, when the brave group was to meet at the far south end of Gator World's parking lot.

The place was awesome. They even provided bug spray for the humans and raw hot dogs or dry chow for the gators. Being such an exotic animal aficionado, he couldn't believe his good luck! As a
matter of fact, thinking back on it, Cecil Snodgrass had never won anything in his whole life.

Of course, though he secretly hoped for it, he never really expected to win, for instance, the Powerball and instantly strike it rich. Although he didn't expect to win, he still bought tickets religiously, every Saturday morning. Out of pure superstition, he always bought them at the same mini-mart where he had once found an unclaimed twenty dollar bill in the parking lot. Now that was good luck.

To double the good luck, he always went to the same register and at the same time on Saturday mornings. He also always played the same numbers, his mom's birthday and his own date of birth.

But forget about the multimillion-dollar Powerball, he had never even won a lesser lotto, like Crazy 8s or Scratch and Win. He'd never even won a quilt or toaster oven at a church raffle . . . not even a cake at the cake walk game.

And now this. Talk about the jackpot.

CHAPTER TWENTY

B
y 10
AM
the next morning, testimony was already heating up in the courtroom. The state's witnesses could hardly get a word out over the constant barrage of rapid-fire objections by Mikey DelVecchio.

“Why can't DelVecchio shut up and let the people answer? It's getting on my last nerve. I want to slug him every time he stands up,” Finch muttered under his breath.

“His tactic,” Hailey whispered to Finch, who was seated directly beside her in their usual spot on a crowded bench behind the prosecutors, “is to throw off the prosecution's flow of questioning. He's trying to get under the witnesses' skin, to bother them, maybe make them angry enough to have an outburst in front of the jury or contradict themselves. He'd love to trip them up and make them look like liars. And, of course, he wants to keep the jury from hearing their story uninterrupted.”

“Badgering!” The prosecutor finally stood up and yelled out his objection. “He's badgering the state's witnesses and he's been doing it all morning!”

“Well, counsel for the state didn't object until now,” DelVecchio responded in his most smarmy tone. He gave a look like he had no idea he'd done anything wrong. And actually, he was right. The lead prosecutor hadn't objected until now.

“He's right, counsel. This is your first objection. I can't rule if you don't object. But I will rule now and sustain the objection. You're badgering. Repeat, objection
sustained
,” Judge Alverson repeated his ruling from the bench, looking sternly at DelVecchio, who didn't appear the least bit bothered.

At the judge's stern remonstration, the courtroom quieted back down, the next direct exam ended, and DelVecchio launched what promised to be a scathing cross-exam of Rosario Delgado, the lady Julie Love Adams hired to help her do heavy chores in the last month of her pregnancy. She was slight and pale, her brunette hair barely streaked at the temples with gray, her dark eyes underscored by faint purple shadows.

Delgado began again, describing the moment Todd Adams got the call from Julie's mom that she hadn't seen or heard from Julie since they'd gone shopping the day before. Julie's mom had called Todd Adams while the cleaning lady was there in the kitchen.

The poor lady looked absolutely petrified on the stand. DelVecchio looked at her like a hawk examining a mouse cowering under a bush far below him.

“So, ma'am,” DelVecchio paused for dramatic effect, “were you lying the first time when you said Todd Adams did not shed a tear or seem upset when he learned Julie Love was missing or the second time when you said you didn't know for sure?
Which was the lie?
”

“Badgering! Objection! He's doing it again!”
His face red, the prosecutor leaped from his seat. Finally, after two weeks of timidity, he'd woken up and started objecting.

Once again, murmurs spread across the courtroom. All the local news networks had been having a field day and the story had gone national, exploding ratings through the roof over Adams's demeanor.

It was no secret. It had been on every TV screen in America. Todd Adams tried, but he never cried. He was spotted shopping at a strip mall with his high school girlfriend almost immediately after Julie went missing, he didn't speak at Julie's memorial, and he was caught talking about Julie Love in the past tense within seventy-two hours after she disappeared. That was long before her body washed up on Tybee Island, a fact that threw TV pundits into overdrive.

“It's
behavioral evidence
. It's not hard evidence, direct evidence like an eyewitness or DNA, it's more circumstantial. The law says it carries the same weight as direct, but I always thought it was really stronger. It gives the jury clues, so to speak,” said Hailey.

“Hmm.” Finch loathed the flamboyant defense lawyer and all his drama. “I don't care what you call it, I still don't like the way DelVecchio treats the witnesses. I hope the jury feels the same way.”

Finch had his arms crossed, staring at the back of Todd Adams's head. But in the jury box, none of them looked the least bit concerned for the maid. They all appeared to be watching a TV series with no connection at all.

“Me either. And it looks like the state's too weak to fight back. They're really rolling over.”

“They're just sitting there.”

“But just watch, Finch. DelVecchio seems to have a free rein and nobody's stopping him. And Alverson won't jump in to save a state's witness if they're not even objecting. But like I said, just watch. Give him enough rope, DelVecchio will hang himself. Or at least trip on it.”

DelVecchio tore the state's witness into ribbons. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. The Adams's maid, hired by Julie Love but paid for by Todd Adams's mom and dad, was in tears. Already a tiny woman, she seemed to be shrinking smaller and smaller on the stand under DelVecchio's brutal cross-exam.

DelVecchio paused for effect after his last series of questions, delving into the maid and her husband's financial woes. They lived with their four children in a two-bedroom apartment on the far end of Savannah. They'd already lost the family car, and now both she and her husband took the bus to work. Two months before they'd declared bankruptcy.

“Irrelevant,” the prosecutor broke in feebly, not even standing when he spoke.

“Not true, Your Honor. I have every right under the law to cross-examine on the witness's possible pecuniary interest in the outcome of this case.” DelVecchio was ready.

“That's true, Mr. DelVecchio. You do have a right to cross-examine on a pecuniary interest, but
are you trying to say she's taking a bribe from the state
?” The judge spoke, obviously very concerned about an allegation of bribery rearing its head in the middle of a death penalty case—a highly publicized one at that.

“No, I was not, Your Honor. But now that you mention it . . . maybe she did!” DelVecchio couldn't hide his glee.

The state did nothing. They just sat there and took it. On the other side of the courtroom, DelVecchio actually seemed to be licking his lips in excitement. He reminded Hailey of a vampire about to suck his victim's blood.

Just then, a short man in the back of the courtroom stood up, his hat in his hands. He looked distraught. Hailey turned at the movement behind her. He had to be Rosario's husband.

The man wearing worn jeans and a plaid shirt tucked in, his baseball cap under his arm, was wringing his hands. He stood alone in the sea of seated onlookers, clearly wanting to speak. No one paid him any attention whatsoever, because all eyes were glued on DelVecchio.

“Mr. DelVecchio! That's an extremely serious allegation. Do you have any evidence to support such a claim?”

For one brief moment DelVecchio paused and the judge interjected. “Mrs. Delgado, you were describing Mr. Adams's reaction there in the kitchen of their home when he received the call telling him his wife, Julie Love Adams, was missing. Did you say he cried?”

“No. He didn't! I saw it with my own eyes. He never cried. And when I fell to my knees there on the kitchen floor, sir . . . I prayed. I looked up. His eyes were open and he had half a smile on his lips . . . just on . . . on the corners, judge. I saw him. I remember it 'til I go to my grave, God help me.”

“Stop! You're lying! That's not the question I asked you. Nonresponsive! I object! Your Honor! I insist she be reprimanded!” DelVecchio started to blow and right in front of the jury.

The little woman on the stand sat up in her seat before the judge could rule. She looked at DelVecchio. “He never cried . . . he never prayed for Miss Julie and the baby to come home . . . I don't care what his lawyer tries to make me say! I saw him with my own eyes, as God is my witness.”

Reporters rushed again from the courtroom to report the latest climax in court. Rosario Delgado's husband sat back down as
Judge Luther Alverson banged his gavel repeatedly, calling for order, finally sending the jury out and calling for a recess.

“OK. I didn't see that coming. What do you think now?” Finch turned to Hailey.

“I think the state has to come up with more than the fact he never cried. Cause of death would help. Forensics linking Adams to the body would help. But Rosario Delgado's a pretty good start. Hey, let's get out of here. Want to go outside?”

“Yeah, let's go.” Finch stood up.

“And no talking about the case 'til we're clear of the courthouse. You never know who might be on the elevator with you. Could be a juror, or worse, a defense team minion.” Hailey lowered her voice and spoke sideways to Finch as they pushed through the swinging doors in the back of the courtroom.

In fact, the elevator was packed. Hailey could only see the backs of heads. She and Finch remained silent through the lobby and past the metal detectors.

“Hey, I'm ducking into the men's room in the lobby. I held it the whole morning session and I gotta go! Meet you outside at the corner.” Finch threaded his way toward the public bathrooms and water fountains in the far corner.

“OK!” Hailey called after him and headed out into the sunlight and the fresh air blowing off the Savannah River.

Before she could make it down more than a few steps from the courthouse, she was jostled sideways by three men. They seemed to come out of nowhere.

One was short, very round in the middle, his gut straining against a thin T-shirt. His dark, greasy hair hung almost shoulder length, matching the stubble across his cheeks and chin. An LA Lakers baseball cap was jammed low over his face. Hailey noticed that in sharp contrast to his unkempt top half, he was sporting perfectly pristine Nike Air Yeezy Customs. Being a runner, Hailey had seen them before. They had to ring in at over two grand.

The greasy one seemed to be ordering around a taller, skinny one with pale dirty blonde hair parted straight down the middle. He was
attempting to grow a goatee of sorts, but the hair had sprouted in thin patches, like sprigs of grass that hadn't quite grown together to form a lawn just yet. A camera slung around his neck, he was holding a Sony camcorder in the palm of his right hand, thumb on the ready.

The third one, a taller white male in his forties, stepped through the other two, who slid to either side without being told. He was obviously the boss and when his face came into view, Hailey recognized him immediately.

It was none other than Mike Walker with
Snoop
magazine. Hailey had dealings with him in the past over the murder of a B-list actress found shot dead in some rich guy's pool house. Walker had the cool good looks other women seemed to love—a chiseled jaw, steely blue eyes—and was by no means an idiot. In fact, he was brilliant at his game. He was the ringmaster, the reporter every tabloid reporter wanted to be. There was no story he couldn't crack and he apparently felt no compunction whether his target was a politician, a king, an actor, or a garbage collector. Whatever sold copy was both his prize and his prey.

Walker's good looks aside, Hailey had always fed him with a long-handled spoon. He covered several of her trials but became a little too involved in her investigation of a string of murders, starting with the actress in the pool house.

Hailey did her homework on Walker and found out that he first did a stint in the air force in Japan, shooting to fame as the youngest-ever foreign correspondent for International News Service, the precursor for United Press International. He hit the headlines as an NBC foreign correspondent. After a few years, he chased down a huge paycheck as a star writer with
Snoop
. With Walker as a lead reporter and columnist,
Snoop
quickly rose to the top as the single largest circulation magazine in the country, over 17 million readers weekly.

Hailey had landed on
Snoop
's front page when she cracked the murders of a string of fading female stars a while back. True, time had passed, but Hailey remembered the moment, standing in the grocery store checkout line, when she spotted her own face
emblazoned across the front of the mag. She was pictured with blood smeared down her left cheek, her arm in a sling, and a bandage on her shoulder.

In the cover photo, Hailey was being helped by a plainclothes cop down the steps of the mammoth GNE building in New York City. Much larger color photos of dead actresses Prentiss Love, Fallon Malone, Leather Stockton, and Cassie Lee were superimposed beside the bloody shot of Hailey.

Hailey cracked the case and nearly died in the process.

And here he was again. Wherever this guy showed up, people dropped dead like flies. Mike Walker emerged between his compatriots with the same movie star smile, the same calm demeanor, as usual, dressed nattily and beaming, fresh as a daisy even on a blistering hot day. His hair was perfectly combed, having been clearly set in place with a light spray, and if his teeth had been any whiter, they'd sparkle.