Nancy Grace - Murder in the Courthouse

“We didn’t just hear about it, we were there,” Finch responded as they went, one by one, through the machine.

“Seriously, man? You were there?”

“Yep. We were there.” Finch spoke over his shoulder as he scooped his guns out of the plastic bowl and commenced strapping them back on, shoulder holster first. Hailey remained silent, reaching across the belt for her things, having no desire to rehash what she had just witnessed… the calendar clerk’s untimely death and the futile struggle to keep her alive.

“Yeah, we’re all pretty torn up about it. Elle was a nice lady. Always had a smile every morning, same thing every afternoon when she left work. Never had a bad word to say about a soul.” The night sheriff looked somber.

“Yeah. We heard she was pretty popular around the courthouse…” Finch egged him on and as a result, got a sharp jab to his right side as he bent over to strap his.38 back into his ankle holster.

“Not a word… not a word …” Hailey hissed it low into his ear. She didn’t want to pass along pure conjecture about Eleanor Odom’s “popularity.” Luckily, the night sheriff didn’t catch her exchange with Fincher.

“Elle always organized Christmas parties, the annual walk-a-thon for needy kids, Toys for Tots… the works.” He reminisced out loud but in a lowered voice, still looking downcast.

“We, as a matter of fact,” Finch replied, “were in the cafeteria when she had her stroke, heart attack, whatever it was, poor lady, and we walked out without going back to where Hailey left her sweater and notes on a bench to save our seats during lunch. Mind if we go up and get them?”

“What courtroom was it?” the sheriff asked, still sitting in his chair, magazine now folded shut in his lap.

“Hmm. Let me see… what courtroom was it, Hailey?”

“Judge Alverson’s. Luther Alverson, seventh floor.”

“Right. The Todd Adams trial? You guys on that one?” The sheriff’s eyes sparked with interest.

“Yep. I made the collar on Adams in Atlanta and Hailey’s here as an expert witness.”

“For the defense? You’re a witness for the defense? You’re the lady prosecutor from Atlanta, right?”

“ Was a lady prosecutor in Atlanta. Was .”

“Never lost a case, right? Read about you. You’re a witness for the defense now? I hear DelVecchio pays his witnesses pretty good.”

Hailey bristled. “I’m a witness for the state. There are some things money can’t buy, officer .”

He looked embarrassed. “Right. I shoulda known you wouldn’t turn coat. I just thought, you know, once somebody’s out of the system, they can turn all that time in the trenches around for a lot of money, right?”

Hailey relented. “Right.” She threw him a bone, a little smile.

“So, we’ll head up to the courtroom if that’s OK with you.” Fincher switched gears, tactfully, for once in his life.

“Well, yeah, about that. The courtroom’s been cleared and locked. If you left anything in there, it’s in lost and found now. It’s right over there across the lobby in the clerk’s office. I’m right out here, so it’s still unlocked. I can’t leave my post; just walk through those double doors and go straight back through the cubicles. You’ll see a sign on the wall. Everything left in courtrooms or elsewhere will be in that big bin under a sign. You can’t miss it.”

“OK.” Finch nodded his head.

“They usually won’t let you back there without a courthouse employee, but seeing as you’re law enforcement, I guess I don’t need to escort you. Just don’t steal anything or it’ll be my hide.”

“OK, thanks, man. We promise not to steal a thing.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.” Hailey echoed Finch over her shoulder as they headed past austere-looking portraits of decades of past sitting Chatham County judges and across the lobby toward the central elevator bank. Veering left, they came to a set of double doors with a placard reading “Clerk’s Office” overhead.

Fincher pushed through and Hailey followed him into a large open office area full of at least sixty cubicles in neat rows divided by carpeted footpaths. More placard signs hung down from a particleboard ceiling, dividing the open area into clerks, sheriff intake, transport, marriage licenses, and certified documents. Each section housed multiple cubicles.

At the far end of the room, just as the night sheriff said, was a big sign reading “Lost and Found” over a huge bin. Arrows pointed down toward the bin. They headed toward it through the maze of cubes, passing row after row of work stations; each, in its own way, a thumbprint, a snapshot of the occupant’s life.

Photos, certificates, trophies, and mini-posters adorned every cube. Most of the cubes had nameplates on them on the top corners of the partitions. It brought back memories of Hailey’s courthouse days in a rush… all these people, so different yet so alike, working for the justice system. Each one a cog in a big, big wheel.

“Oh my stars, look at this, Finch. It’s Alton Turner’s cube. Look, it’s neat as a pin, just like I thought it would be.” Finch walked back to where Hailey stood, staring at Turner’s workspace, her hands lightly resting on the wheeled office chair pushed under the desktop.

While the space was inordinately neat, several photos were thumbtacked to the dividing partitions making walls of a sort around Turner’s space. There were several shots of Turner with other sheriffs, at the shooting range, a softball team, a bowling team, too. Men and women law enforcement officers standing together, smiling at the camera. Looking closely at the smiling faces, Hailey saw the woman in the center holding a team softball trophy next to Alton Turner was none other than Eleanor Odom.

Next to his keyboard was a tickler file of prisoners to be transported to various courtrooms, filed day by day. Beside that was a larger framed photo of Turner and his mom standing in front of the Grand Canyon. Even if Hailey hadn’t seen the oil painting in Alton’s home, anyone could see their connection. Her eyes, chin, and nose matched Alton’s exactly. In this shot, Alton had his arm around his mom’s shoulders protectively. They were smiling at the camera, squinting into the sunshine. Another was a shot of her, bust up, taken by a professional photographer that could have easily come from the church directory, like the one over Alton’s mantle.

“Look at this. He’s across the path from Eleanor Odom.” Finch pointed right behind them. Hailey turned around to see two cubicles apparently merged into one large cube. Multiple photos of Eleanor were plastered to its walls. Her in what looked to be a glamour shot, at a Christmas party dressed in a black velvet mini with black heels and a tiny matching clutch, her hair done in a Farrah Fawcett-style’do. Roller skating with a tall, mustached guy Hailey immediately recognized as the suntanned sheriff crying in the cafeteria hallway.

Another showed her jogging, clearly in a race of some sort, crossing the finish line with other courthouse personnel, including Deputy Marks from the cafeteria. A huge bouquet of long-stemmed pink roses stood in a clear crystal vase to the left of her keyboard, the tiny rectangular card still stuck in a tall plastic fork emerging from between delicate pink blooms. It read, “Lots of love, B.R.”

Looking at it carefully, Hailey and Finch exchanged glances. “Guess we know who sent that. B.R. isn’t much of a secret. It’s her married judge, Bill Regard, right, Hailey?” Finch gazed back at the flowers.

“Yep.” Hailey acknowledged his find. “I bet dating a married man is a lonely life. A life you fill up with bowling and softball.”

“And toy drives,” Finch added.