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

Enough to convince the judge she is a risk to public safety or a flight risk, and that the State has at least some evidence of her guilt, hardly a stretch here.

I find myself repeating the anachronistic legal standard from the Florida Code of Criminal Procedure in my head, like a mantra. Proof is evident and presumption of guilt is great. Proof evident and presumption great. The same standard I brandished like a sword to keep many a bad guy locked up. But what the heck does that even mean?

Reilly lowers his eyes to where his notes would be. If he had notes. What he needs to say requires no preparation. It’s simple. It’s all about the gun.

And what other incriminating tidbits might they have unearthed during the investigation I don’t know about? The deadline for the State to turn over all of the evidence against Zoe is more than a week away, so I’m flying blind. I need an Academy-Award-winning performance of bat-shit crazy from Zoe. A bed in a psych ward isn’t ideal, but it beats three hots and a cot in the jail when you’re a little rich girl with an attitude problem.

After swearing him in, Hightower gets straight to the business.

“Detective, did you find the weapon used to murder Mr. Sinclair?” Hightower’s hands are clasped like a choirboy. No notes on the lectern. He thinks he’s got this in the bag.

“Yes, we did. After we found Mr. Sinclair’s body in his office, we obtained a search warrant, and initiated a search of the premises. We located the murder weapon, a Glock 19, stuffed in a gym bag inside the defendant’s locker.”

“And were there any fingerprints on the gun?”

I hold my breath in anticipation of the evidentiary depth charge, the one upon which this case rests. The one which could put the murder weapon in Zoe’s hand and a needle in her arm.

“Yes, the defendant’s fingerprints were on the gun, and the ballistics revealed the bullets extracted from the victim’s body matched that same weapon.”

“Liar! Liar!” Zoe screams, stabbing her finger at Reilly.

“You will contain yourself, Ms. Slim, or I will have you removed.” Twietmeyer’s eyes flick to Zoe and back to Hightower, who is pacing back and forth in front of Reilly like a TV lawyer.

“And did the weapon have a serial number?”

“Yes. It was registered to Anton Slim, the defendant’s father.”

In the front row of the gallery, Anton buries his face in his hands.

I shoot a wide-eyed glance over my shoulder at Zoe and nod.

On cue, Zoe follows her initial salvo with, “Screw you, you screwball!” A pause, followed by, “You’re a lying bastard! You’re all lying bastards! Kangaroo court. Kangaroo, kanga-roo-roo. Kangaroo. Bastard kangaroos,” all of which she accompanies with the repeated slamming of her cuffed hands on the back of the seat in front of her.

Twietmeyer, who had slipped low in his seat during Reilly’s testimony, to the point his glasses are barely visible above the bench, bounces up and bellows into the microphone. “If you cannot control yourself Ms. Slim, I will have you removed!”

“You don’t care, Judge. Nobody cares. Care bear. Don’t care. Screw the bears.”

Zoe flings herself back in her chair, curls into a ball, and launches into an off-key rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

“Ms. Slim, that’s enough. Ms. Locke, please control your client.”

Before I have the chance to do or say anything, Zoe throws herself on the ground and bangs her head on the floor several times.

Apparently, the judge pressed the panic button under the bench, because four deputies, weapons drawn, wearing bulletproof vests, burst through the courtroom door.

“Detective, you may step down. And deputies, please escort Ms. Slim from the courtroom,” Twietmeyer says, smoothing back what little hair he has with a shaky hand.

“I was with—” she says, as two deputies, one on each arm, drag her past me at the defense table, her shackled feet dragging behind.

Unable to hear what she said and anxious no one else does, I jump up and follow, but a third deputy orders me back to my seat.

A stunned silence freezes the scene. The Slims are clutching each other. Twietmeyer’s chest is heaving. Hightower’s cowering behind the clerk, who is making a show of filing her nails.

I seize the moment. “Judge, may I be heard?”

“Yes, yes, you may proceed, Ms. Locke.”

“As the Court can see, my client is mentally unstable. I would ask the indulgence of the Court that this hearing be suspended for now, given her extreme condition, and that she be taken to the state psychiatric hospital. It’s a locked facility. There will be no risk of her going anywhere, or of her further hurting herself.”

All that’s visible of Hightower is the crown of his head. Seated back at his post, he’s searching for the legal equivalent of a lifeboat in a dog-eared volume of the Florida Criminal Statutes.

“I am ordering Ms. Slim be transferred to Everglades State Hospital. And, not to waste this Court’s time coming back here for a third hearing for Ms. Slim, I am ordering the initial bond of one million dollars be reinstated when, and if, the good doctors decide Ms. Slim is no longer a danger to herself or others.”

“But, Judge—” Hightower’s whiny words echo off the walls in the almost empty chamber.

The judge flees the bench before Hightower can finish his comment. Soon enough, he’ll realize he should have asked the Court to appoint a psychologist to examine Zoe for competency, a motion typically made by the defense to stall for time, but also an option for the State. That way he would be able to get all the damning details of her mental state back on the record.

The clerk shoots me a toothy grin and points a pen at Hightower, who is flopped back in his chair, hands over his face. It’s easy to believe you’re always on the side of the angels as a prosecutor. I don’t envy him one bit. He’s going back to his moldy closet of an office