“Drummond.”
I smiled. “How are you, Sergeant?”
“Peachy,” he said. “Mize is copping to it all and pleading insanity.”
“He might be right.”
“Not my call,” Drummond said. “Your case? You get that guy Bell?”
“Close,” I said. “But he’s vanished.”
“Runner.”
“Looks like it.”
“Your nephew’s trial?”
“My cousin’s trial. And, to be honest, unless we can come up with some counterevidence fast, he’s looking at death row.”
Drummond didn’t reply for several beats, and then said, “You never know when something’s going to turn things around.”
“True,” I said. I heard a clicking, looked at the caller ID, saw it was Bree.
I told the sergeant I had to take another call but would keep him posted, and then I switched lines.
“Hey,” I said. “Where are you?”
“At National Airport, about to board a flight back to Winston-Salem,” Bree said. “I just got some preliminary results e-mailed to me from the FBI lab.”
“And?”
Chapter
89
Judge Varney gaveled the court to order at nine o’clock that Tuesday morning.
Before either of the attorneys could speak, the judge pointed his gavel toward the spectators, said, “Cece Turnbull? You in my court?”
Cece’s eyes were beet red and rheumy when she stood up and nodded.
“You gonna cause any more trouble?” he demanded.
“No, sir, Judge Varney,” she said in a tremulous voice. “I…I apologize. It’s just that—”
“Just nothing,” the judge said. “Long as you’re quiet, you can remain. But the first peep out of you and you’re gone for the duration. You understand?”
Cece nodded, sat down. Ann Lawrence leaned forward and patted her on the shoulder comfortingly. Sharon Lawrence sat next to her mother, pale, weak, and looking at her cell phone. Cece’s mother and father were behind the Lawrences. Mrs. Caine was staring into her lap while her husband sat ramrod straight in his business suit, arms crossed, focused completely on Judge Varney.
In those same moments, Police Chief Randy Sherman was sending hard glances at me and Nana Mama, who sat beside me, and at Pinkie, Aunt Connie, and Aunt Hattie, who were in the row behind us.
The bailiff led my cousin into the court. Stefan Tate’s facial swelling had gone down, but his skin was bruised a livid purple.
Patty Converse came in and took a seat next to Pinkie. I smiled. She nodded but wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“Where were we at adjournment?” Judge Varney asked his clerk.
“Detective Frost,” the clerk said. “Ms. Strong is still on direct.”