James Patterson - Cross Justice

“Let’s figure it out,” the sergeant said.

They searched for almost an hour.

In a manila envelope on a small desk, Johnson found receipts from the prior month for a new couch, television, and Cuisinart food processor. In the top drawer, he found the receipt for the Apple MacBook Pro that was still in the box on the floor, next to the filing cabinet. Everything had been bought with cash.

The lower filing cabinet drawer was partially open. One file had been shoved in hastily and it jutted above the rest. Johnson pulled it and saw that the day before Letourneau died, she’d bought a brand-new phone and upgraded her plan through Verizon.

Johnson called the number, heard it go straight to voice mail. He made a note to pull her phone records.

Drummond returned after searching the bedroom.

“Anything?” he asked.

“She spent a lot the past month,” Johnson said. “All cash. I figure close to four thousand. I looked at her bank accounts. There’s no eight grand, and no record of a safe-deposit box.”

“Well, she wasn’t keeping it under her mattress,” Drummond said. “I’ve been over every inch of this place, both bedrooms, kitchen, all of it, and—”

Johnson looked at the sergeant. He had stopped talking and was fixated on the altar and the doll.

“Maybe Ms. Francie was craftier than we thought,” Drummond said, walking over. “Maybe she left that chicken blood there knowing it would reek and the voodoo stuff knowing it would freak out anyone who might break into her house looking for cash.”

He lifted the maroon cloth, revealing the legs of a folding card table, the carpet, and nothing more.

“Good thought, though,” Johnson said.

Drummond got down on his knees, reached under the card table, and said, “You give up too easy, Miami.”

The sergeant worked his fingers into the carpet and ripped up a one-by-two-foot section that had been held in place with Velcro strips. He got out a jackknife and pried up an edge of the floor.

Drummond reached in, came up with a black leather purse, and eased out from under the voodoo altar. He stood up, brought the purse over to the desk, and opened it.

The sergeant whistled, shook his head, said, “Francie, Francie, what did you get yourself into?”

Johnson peered into the purse. “If those are real, Sarge, there’s a lot more than eight grand in there.”

Starksville, North Carolina

Sharon Lawrence held up well under Naomi’s initial cross-examination. She stuck to her story about Stefan drugging and raping her and being so afraid of him she didn’t report it until after he was under arrest for Rashawn Turnbull’s murder.

“You have a lot of girlfriends, Sharon?” Naomi asked.

The girl nodded. “Enough.”

“Best friends forever?”

“A couple. Sure.”

“You tell any of them you were going to Coach Tate’s house that afternoon you say he raped you?”

“No. It was supposed to be a secret.”

“Anyone see you around his house?”

“I don’t think so,” Lawrence said. “He had me sneak in through the basement from the alley bulkhead door.”

Sitting behind Naomi with Bree holding my hand, I tried to stay focused on the testimony and listen for discrepancies, but my ribs hurt and my mind kept drifting to the evening before. Jannie and my grandmother had already gone to bed by the time Pinkie dropped me off.

Bree and I are tight. She knew in an instant that something was wrong with me beyond a couple of cracked ribs. I’d repeated Pinkie’s story, and she was as shocked as I was.

“Are you going to tell Nana Mama?” Bree asked.

That question had kept me up most of the night. It was still bothering me in court that next morning. So was the fact that Patty Converse had not shown up, and I think several of the jury members had noticed.

Then Naomi said, “Ms. Lawrence, did you see Rashawn Turnbull at Coach Tate’s house that afternoon?”

I forgot about the night before and Stefan’s fiancée, and focused. It was the first I’d heard about the victim being at the alleged rape scene. I glanced over at Cece, who was sitting beside a pretty blond woman in her late thirties. Two rows behind Cece sat her parents and a young woman I didn’t recognize. But they all seemed as interested as I was.

Lawrence said, “No, I did not see Rashawn there. Why?”

“Because Coach Tate says the only person at his home after school that day was Rashawn Turnbull.”

The high school senior looked doubtful. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“What time did you leave?”

Lawrence shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. Four? Maybe five? I was still kind of groggy.”

“Went out through the basement to the alley?”

“That’s right.”

“Strange,” Naomi said, looking at a couple of pieces of paper. “I have a sworn statement here from Sydney Fox that says she remembers Rashawn Turnbull knocking on Coach Tate’s door around four that afternoon. She remembers Rashawn going inside.”

Delilah Strong jumped up. “Objection, Your Honor. Sydney Fox is dead and cannot be questioned. I’d like to move that her statement be inadmissible.”

“This goes to the witness’s credibility, Judge,” Naomi said.

Varney thought about that for a moment and then said, “Overruled.”

“Your Honor!” Strong cried.

“I said overruled. Ms. Cross, can you rephrase as a question?”

Naomi nodded, said, “Are you sure you didn’t see Rashawn?”

Lawrence frowned, looked around, seemed to seek someone out in the courtroom, and said, “I don’t remember. I was groggy. Maybe he was there.”

“Or maybe you weren’t there at all,” Naomi said.

“That’s not true! Why would I lie about something like this?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” Naomi said. “Your parents here today, Sharon?”

Lawrence looked into the courtroom again, said, “My mom. My father’s not around anymore.”

The pretty blond woman sitting with Cece Turnbull craned her head to see better.

“And who is your mom?”

“Ann Lawrence.”

“What was her maiden name?”

“Objection,” Strong said. “Where’s the relevance?”

Naomi said, “I’m about to show relevance, Your Honor.”

Varney nodded, but I noticed that he had gone pale since he entered the courtroom.

“Your mother’s maiden name?”

“King,” she said. “Ann King.”

“She have a sister?”

Lawrence looked uncomfortable, said, “I don’t see...”

“Yes or no.”

“Yes, Louise was her sister. She’s dead.”

“And who was Louise married to at the time of her death?”

The girl’s jaw seemed to tense a bit before she said, “Marvin Bell.”

That got my attention, and I sat up straighter. So did Bree.

“So Marvin Bell is your uncle?” Naomi asked.

“Yes.”

“Has your uncle provided you and your mother with financial support since your father left?” Naomi asked.

“Objection!” the prosecutor cried. “What is the relevance here? Mr. Bell has no connection whatsoever to this case.”

“With the court’s indulgence, I’m trying to establish that connection,” Naomi said.

“You’re on a short leash, Counselor,” Varney said, sweating now despite the fact that it was quite cool in the courtroom.

Naomi said, “Marvin Bell has been giving your family money, correct?”

She lifted her chin, said, “Yes.”

“Be tough without that money, wouldn’t it?”

I noticed Sharon’s mother had gone very tense; she was sitting forward, holding on to the back of the bench in front of her.