States of Grace by Mandy Miller (great novels of all time .TXT) 📗

Honor,” I say, feeling as if my shoes are on the wrong feet as I step up to the lectern on the left side facing the bench. The State’s lectern is always on the right.

Garrison leans back in his throne of a chair, chewing on the leg of his glasses, peering at me like a lab specimen. “Ah, Ms. Locke. We’ve missed you.” His obsequious tone might sound sincere to the ill-informed, but it makes me wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole, a reaction only magnified by a chorus of titters from the attorneys waiting in line behind me.

“Excuse me, Judge,” the young ASA says, riffling through a stack of arrest reports to locate Zoe’s.

I hold my breath. Unlike my colleague, I know what’s coming. Garrison’s going to crush the poor sod.

“May I have a moment?” the ASA asks.

And I’m not wrong.

“No, you may not, sir. Ms. Locke, please proceed. Mr. State’s Attorney, you must be fully prepared when you come into my courtroom.”

The ASA bends to pick up a pen from the floor, revealing one black and one brown sock. Whether the move is to stall, or simply to retrieve the pen, who knows, but it serves to draw even more ire from Garrison.

“Mr. McNeil, you will not delay my docket. Ms. Locke, proceed. Let’s hear why Ms. Slim merits bail, why don’t we?”

“May it please the court. My name is Grace Locke and I represent Zoe Slim.”

Chapter 9

Only eighteen. No criminal history, has ties to community, etc. The basic dog-and-pony show a first-year law student could put on. It’s all so predictable I’ve almost lulled myself into a stupor by the end of my presentation.

Garrison listens, tapping his pen every time I pause to indicate I should hurry up.

As much as it galls me, I’m forced to call Gretchen to corroborate everything I’ve argued, which sends the troupe of photographers, as rare to bond court as innocent defendants, into paroxysms, snapping shots of her gazing up at Garrison through librarian glasses I’d wager are clear glass. She’s chosen another demure beige suit, and repeatedly raises her left hand to wipe a tear from her smooth cheek, the huge rock on her wedding finger catching not only the light, but also Garrison’s attention. A little bling and a little blah, a nice touch, enough to show respect, but not enough to seem common.

When she’s finished answering my questions, Garrison removes his glasses and gazes down at her, smitten. Exactly the effect I was hoping for. For my purposes. For now. Although I am somewhat appalled that I have seemingly been able to pull this off.

Just as she’s about to step down from the stand, she gives Garrison the most angelic of looks, eyes ingenue wide, and says with a sweet Southern twang, “I assure you, Your Honor, that I will do whatever else you ask of me if you would, please, please, let my baby come home.”

Garrison gives her the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen from a judge. “Thank you, Mrs. Slim, that will be all. You can step down, unless Mr. McNeil has any questions for you.”

The words, “Go on, I dare you,” are on the tip of my tongue, but I bite my lip and pray that McNeil decides to have a whack at the dutiful, not to mention stunningly gorgeous, mother of the accused, which will do nothing more than irritate the gobsmacked Garrison.

But no such luck.

“No, sir,” McNeil says, with his own adoring smile angled in Gretchen’s direction.

“You may step down, Mrs. Slim. And, again, thank you for being here today.”

Every eyeball in the gallery is on her as she sashays back to her seat. I have to give it to her. Gretchen knows how to work a room.

“Mr. McNeil, does the State have any witnesses or any evidence it wishes to present?”

“Um, yeah. I mean— Yes we, I— I do,” McNeil says, adding, “Your Honor,” in an attempt to rectify his bungled response. “First, let me say that the defendant is charged with the most serious of offenses, that of first-degree murder.”

I can’t resist rolling my eyes. Still, I was once in his shoes. A zealous new convert to the cause of justice. And it does feel good to believe you’re on the side of the angels. Even if it is an illusion.

“And—” McNeil continues, but Garrison waves him off.

“Yes, yes. Thank you for the statement of the obvious, Counsel. I am aware of how serious a crime first-degree murder is, and it was a very serious crime, even way back in the dark ages when I went to law school.”

A collective chuckle from the gallery.

McNeil straightens his tie. “The State calls Detective Frank Reilly of the Fort Lauderdale Police Department.”

It’s no surprise as Reilly’s the lead detective on the case, but the mention of his name still sends a jolt of fear through me.

On his way to the witness stand, Reilly passes so close I can smell the odor of cigarette smoke wafting off his shirt, the buttons of which gape, an unfortunate situation which would have been camouflaged if he’d worn a tie. His arms hang ape-like away from his sides, as if he’s still wearing the gun belt he had to check at the entrance to the courthouse. His square, stocky build suggests he may have had a muscular physique once upon a time, but he’s flabby now, wide-assed from years of sitting in a cruiser eating junk food.

Reilly settles his girth into the witness chair and pulls the microphone close to his brushy orange mustache. He swears to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, all the while glaring at me. I refuse to look away, however. He got the better of me before, but I won’t let that happen again.

Preliminaries complete—name, title, length of service with the FLPD, and his assignment to the Sinclair case—McNeil turns to the day of the murder.

“Detective Reilly, did you go to St. Paul’s on