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

had signed in on a clipboard guarded by the burly bailiff. Get too near, bother him one too many times about how long it will take until your case gets heard, and he will bark, if not bite, you back into line. Three ASAs stand sentry in front of the prosecution table, gatekeepers of the stacks of boxes containing today’s docketed cases. Some files have paperwork sticking out the top, possible plea deals to be offered if the spirit moves them. And, for all their bravado, defense counsel will accept those pleas with appreciation, terrified by the prospect of trying a dud case and getting hammered with a heavy sentence by the judge for having wasted his precious time.

The line of lawyers parts to allow a chain gang of orange jumpsuits to pass, one armed deputy in front and another in the rear. One inmate tries to wave to someone in the gallery and trips over the waist-to-ankle chains, crumpling to his knees. Zoe’s at the end of the conga line, head buried in her chest.

The bailiff booms, “All rise. Court is in session. The Honorable Josiah Twietmeyer presiding.”

“Please be seated.” Judge Twietmeyer says, his gaze resting on a pod of TV cameras, a flock of awkward, long-legged birds, like great blue herons. “I am going to assume the ladies and gentlemen of the Fourth Estate are here for the Slim case. Let’s get them out of here first, shall we? State of Florida versus Zoya AKA “Zoe” Slim.”

Every lawyer ahead of me glares when I step to the front of the line. Infamy it seems, mine and Zoe’s, has at least one advantage.

Hightower steps up to the lectern, his face full of the earnestness of a high-school debater.

“Grace Locke for Ms. Slim, Your Honor.”

“I understand your client is back in custody, Ms. Locke,” Twietmeyer says.

“Yes, Judge.”

Every head in the place turns to Zoe.

“Mr. Hightower, is the State ready for trial in the case of Florida versus Zoe Slim?”

The words are no sooner out of the judge’s mouth when Hightower jumps in—little does he know his buoyancy will be short-lived. “Yes, Your Honor. The State is ready.”

“And how about the defense, Ms. Locke?”

With a flourish worthy of a player in a cheesy medieval skit, I pull a single sheet of paper from my file. “Judge, the defense hereby files this notice of alibi. May I approach the bench with a copy for Your Honor?”

Hightower throws his hands in the air as if I’ve just said the most preposterous thing known to the legal profession.

Twietmeyer flops back into this throne-like chair. “Now, Ms. Locke? On the eve of trial? Really? This isn’t TV.”

“Your Honor, if counsel, indeed, is filing a motion, I submit that such a filing is not timely and I—”

“Enough Mr. Hightower,” Twietmeyer says, hand raised. “Yes, counsel, you may approach. And make sure to give a copy to the Assistant State’s Attorney before he has a coronary.”

On the way back from the bench, I drop a copy in front of Hightower and watch as it drifts down like a falling leaf onto his lectern.

Spectacles on the end of his nose, the judge scans the notice. “Ms. Locke, Mr. Hightower is correct in that this filing is late per the Florida Rules of Criminal Procedure. Why is it that you’re so late in sharing your alibi witness with us?”

“Because I had no idea I had one until yesterday.”

Twietmeyer’s shoulders sag. “While Ms. Locke’s filing is late, Mr. Hightower, the rule cannot be interpreted in the hard-and-fast way you are suggesting, especially when doing so could deprive the defendant of a viable piece of evidence. I have been at the judging game long enough to have learned that the appellate courts do not look kindly upon judges who would entertain such a violation of the constitutional right to defend oneself with every tool in the shed.”

“Your Honor, please—”

“Enough, Mr. Hightower. Ms. Locke, I accept your notice. And, as I have a sneaking suspicion one of you will ask, please be aware I will not be granting any continuances in this matter.”

“But, Judge—” Hightower starts.

Twietmeyer glances over his spectacles at Hightower. “Mr. Hightower, I seem to recall your filing a middle-of-the-night motion yourself in this matter. To revoke bond, wasn’t it?”

Hightower shuffles his feet.

“From where I sit, this makes you two all even on the gamesmanship score. Trial on the matter of the State of Florida versus Zoya AKA “Zoe” Slim is set for Monday at 9 a.m. That should give you plenty of time to get Ms. Locke’s alibi witness’s statement on the record.”

I bite my lip to stop from smiling.

“And Ms. Locke, don’t bother asking for bail on your client’s new case. She’s had two chances to be out on bail on the first case. Now there’s a second case, I’m certainly not giving her a third. I’ll enter a plea of not guilty on her behalf, if that’s all right with you?”

“Yes, Your Honor. That’s perfect.”

“Good, I shall see you all on Monday. Have a restful weekend,” he says standing, then slams both hands down on the bench. “What am I thinking, rushing along here like a steam train? I’m forgetting my manners. Ms. Locke, I assume you waive a formal reading of the charges in the new case?”

“I do,” I say. I have no need to highlight the similarity of the murders for the media, eager for every last sordid detail of what they’ve decided is a love triangle gone fatally wrong.

“Very well. Next case is State versus…”

I find Hightower waiting for me outside the courtroom. “Nice move, Locke. You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

“You’re not the first to say that.”

“I just called, and Reilly’s on his way to get Joe Harper’s statement.”

“That must be about as fast as Reilly’s ever done anything.”

Hightower flashes a knowing grin. “Actually, he’s sending Sorenson. As soon, as I get it, I’ll shoot you a copy.”

“Much obliged. But you know this is the end of your case, don’t