The gallery was filling with spectators. Turning in his seat, Will flashed a thumbs-up sign to Erin in the back row. Dressed in soft blue, the color of truth, with a demure white cardigan that matched the bow in her tawny hair, she sat next to Lauren, who’d promised to take her outside if the proceedings became too intense.
Beau had taken a seat in the row behind the railing, close enough to whisper to Will or Tori if the need arose. The local press was there, as well as a flock of curious townspeople who had nothing better to do than watch what they probably viewed as a live soap opera. They’re like vultures gathering for a feast, Will thought. To hell with them all.
Heads swiveled, almost in unison, as Stella entered the courtroom. She was all in black, her vermilion hair drawn back into a bun, her makeup subdued. She was dressed to play the part of the grieving sister, and Will had no doubt she would give an Oscar-worthy performance.
Every eye was on her, and she was making the most of it. Her dress and makeup might be subdued, but her walk was the familiar Stella strut—hips swaying, butt thrusting, putting on a show from the rear. A murmur went through the spectators as she walked down the center aisle to her seat at the rail behind the prosecutor.
“All rise!” The bailiff—a husky former trooper with a commanding voice—announced the arrival of the judge. Sid Henderson was nearing retirement after more than twenty-five years on the bench. A blocky, humorless man, with a jowly face and a thatch of white hair, he could be counted on to run an efficient court with little tolerance for drama. When it came to handing down sentences, no judge in the county was harder on convicted wrongdoers. Will could only hope that issue wouldn’t have to be faced today.
After everyone was seated and the judge had spoken a few words, Clay Drummond stepped before the jury box and waded into his opening statement like a heavyweight boxer lumbering into the ring. The man was good. Damn good. His claim that Will’s reckless shot had killed a harmless man who’d already surrendered his gun was so compelling that Will might have bought it himself, if he hadn’t been the one on trial.
But Will, who’d known the prosecutor for years, noticed something else about Clay. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot. His voice was hoarse, his stance slightly wide-legged, as if he had to brace himself to stay erect. There was an air of desperation about the man. The more Will watched him, the more convinced he became that something wasn’t right.
When her turn came, Tori was in top form. Will’s actions, she argued, had been those of any responsible parent with a child to protect. He’d fired believing the victim to be a dangerous fugitive who wouldn’t hesitate to overpower him and take his daughter hostage, or worse. The question before the jury was whether the defendant had acted in a reasonable manner. If so, they would be duty-bound to find him innocent.
When she took her seat again, Will had to stop himself from giving her a touch of encouragement. Right now, he mustn’t think of himself as her ex-husband, her friend, or her lover. He was her client; and the best thing he could do was leave her alone to do her job.
“The people call Sheriff Abner Sweeney.”
Clay began his case as expected. Abner appeared nervous as he took the oath and described what he had found when he’d arrived at the alleged crime scene. At that point Clay introduced the bagged knife, a small switchblade, as evidence and asked Abner to confirm it was the one that had been found in the victim’s hand.
“Sheriff, were any fingerprints found on the knife?”
Abner looked down at his lap. “No. The knife appeared to have been wiped clean.”
Will’s pulse slammed. Nick Tomescu had been wearing gloves. But, surely, he would have left prints on the knife earlier. What was going on here?
“Sheriff,” Clay continued, “why do you suppose the knife had no prints on it? Could Mr. Tyler have taken the knife, wiped it clean, and put it in the victim’s hand after shooting him?”
“Objection!” Tori said. “Calls for conjecture.”
“Sustained,” the judge rumbled. “
Please confine your questions to the facts, Mr. Drummond.”
“Very well, Your Honor.” Clay took a sip from the water bottle on the table. “Sheriff, did you find any evidence that the alleged crime scene might have been tampered with?”
“Yes.” Abner was sweating. “A contaminated blanket had been laid over the body, and a key eyewitness, Mr. Tyler’s daughter, had been removed from the scene before she could be questioned.”
Will swore silently. So that was their game. If they could convince the jury he had something to hide, the implication of guilt was bound to follow.
“Sheriff, what did the defendant tell you when you asked to speak to his daughter?”
“He said she hadn’t seen anything, and her mother had taken her home.”
“Was it true that the girl hadn’t seen anything?”
“No, that was a lie. I found out later that she’d witnessed the whole thing.” Abner wiped his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief. “Mr. Tyler said I could speak to her in the morning, with her mother present.”
“I take it that meant after the girl had gotten her story straight.”
“Objection!” Tori was on her feet.
“Sustained.” The judge scowled at Tori. “Sit down, Ms. Tyler. You’ll get your turn.”
There were more questions about the alleged crime scene and the evidence. Then it was Tori’s turn to cross-examine.
“Sheriff, who made the nine-one-one call that summoned you to the scene?”