James Patterson - Cross Justice

“Yes,” Lawrence said quietly.

“Tough enough that you’d lie about a rape if he asked you?”

“No,” she said, and then she reached across herself with her left hand to scratch her shoulder, in effect shielding her heart.

“You realize you’re under oath,” Naomi said. “And you understand the penalty for perjury in a capital crimes case?”

“No... I mean, yes.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Strong said. “The defense is badgering the witness.”

“Sustained,” Varney said, patting his brow with a handkerchief.

Naomi paused, and then said, “Did Coach Tate ever come to you asking about your uncle? Marvin Bell?”

Lawrence looked confused. “If he did, I don’t remember.”

“Funny,” Naomi said, returning to the defense table. “We talked to Lacey Dahl, a good friend of yours, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Ms. Dahl will testify that she heard Coach Tate ask you about Marvin Bell a few days before you claim the rape occurred,” Naomi said. “She heard it outside the women’s locker room at the high school. Do you remember now?”

Lawrence fidgeted. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What did he ask about?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did he ask whether your uncle was involved in the drug trade in Starksville?”

“What?” Lawrence said, offended. “No, that never—”

Before she could finish, Judge Varney let out a howl like he’d been stabbed. His contorted face turned beet red, and his entire body went rigid. Then he moaned like a wounded animal and pitched forward onto the bench.

“Three days?” I said later that afternoon, standing outside the track stadium at Starksville High School with Bree. We were talking to Naomi with my cell phone on speaker.

“Maybe five,” my niece replied. “Judge Varney’s riddled with kidney stones and passing two. Strong says resuming trial Friday is the best we can hope for, but more likely Monday.”

“It’s probably a blessing,” Bree said.

“Why’s that?” Naomi asked.

I said, “Unless you and Stefan aren’t telling us something, Bree and I have both looked at the evidence, and other than Stefan’s suspicions about Marvin Bell, we don’t see anything that links him to drug trafficking.”

“There’s circumstantial evidence,” Naomi said.

“That’s not good enough,” Bree said. “We need to prove it.”

I said, “If we can peg Bell as a drug lord threatened with exposure, suddenly his niece Sharon’s story feels dubious, and we have a strong motive for his framing Stefan.”

“Still leaves the DNA evidence,” Bree said.

“I think I’ve got that covered,” Naomi said. “Stefan and Patty used condoms. I’ve got an expert witness willing to testify that it is entirely possible that the semen found on Rashawn and on those panties was stolen from the trash and then planted.”

“Put both those things together and there’s your reasonable doubt,” I said.

“But we don’t have Bell,” Bree said. “And Patty Converse a no-show in court today didn’t help.”

“I’m on my way to her apartment,” Naomi said. “She’s not answering her phone.”

“Let us know,” I said, and I hung up.

We went into the stadium and climbed into the stands. Many of the same athletes from the other day were there, including Sharon Lawrence, who shot Bree and me a glare as she jogged past with several of her friends.

Bree said, “The other night Cece Turnbull said Rashawn was very upset about something in the days before he died.”

“I remember that,” I said.

“Would seeing a rape be upsetting enough?” she asked quietly.

I looked over and saw she was serious.

“It would be upsetting enough,” I said.

Was Stefan’s version of events all lies? Had Rashawn seen him with Lawrence? Had my cousin assaulted the boy to shut him up?

Jannie was again running with the older girls. Coach Greene had them skipping in two-hundred-meter intervals. I couldn’t remember Jannie ever doing that in a training session, and I noticed she was having difficulty staying with the college athletes.

When it was over, Jannie went to her bag, threw on a hoodie, and then came over to the fence with an unhappy expression.

“I suck at skipping,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m doing it.”

“Did you ask?” I said.

Jannie shrugged, said, “It’s supposed to help with your explosiveness.”

“There you go,” Bree said.

“I’m plenty explosive when it counts,” Jannie said.

“Couldn’t hurt to get more,” I said, noticing that Coach Greene was crossing the track toward us, carrying Jannie’s gym bag and looking serious.

“Dr. Cross,” she said, not looking at Jannie. “We have a problem.”

“How’s that?” I said, standing.

She held out Jannie’s bag by the handles. It was open.

Jannie frowned, tried to see what the coach was talking about as I climbed down. But Greene held it away from her, said, “I want your father to see first.”

I stepped up and looked in the bag. There, nestled in a wrinkle of Jannie’s sweatpants, was a small glass vial filled with white powder.

“That’s not mine!” Jannie protested the second she saw it. “Dad, there is no chance that’s mine. You know that, right?”

I nodded. “Someone put that in her bag.”

“Who would do that?” Coach Greene asked. “And why?”

I looked over at Sharon Lawrence, who was stretching and talking with her friends, seemingly oblivious to what was happening across the track.

“I can think of someone, but I’ll let the police deal with that,” I said.

“You want me to call the police?”

“You touch it?”

Greene shook her head.

“Then yes, call the police. It’s easily proved whether it’s my daughter’s or not,” I said. “Either her fingerprints are on it or they’re not.”

The coach looked at Jannie. “Are they?”

“No way,” Jannie said.

“Was the bag open?” I asked.

“The bag was open,” Jannie said. “I got my hoodie out and came over.”

“Was that how you saw it, Coach?” I asked.

“Eliza Foster, one of my athletes at Duke, noticed it and called me over.”

“So it was put in there either before practice or right after Jannie put on her hoodie and came over to talk to me,” I said.

“Eliza would have no reason to do anything like that,” Greene said.

“I want there to be concrete evidence that this was absolutely not my daughter’s. Jannie will even provide a blood sample that you can drug-test. Right?”

Jannie nodded. “Anything, Dad.”

I got out my wallet, dug out a business card, and handed it to the coach. “Call this guy. Sheriff’s Detective Guy Pedelini. He’ll handle the situation correctly.”

Greene hesitated, but then nodded. She walked away with Jannie’s bag, punching in the phone number on her cell phone.

Jannie looked about to cry when she sat down beside me and Bree.

“You’ll be fine,” I said, hugging her.

“Why would someone put that there?” she asked, looking torn up.

“To get at me and Bree through you,” I said. “But it won’t work.”

Detective Pedelini showed up ten minutes later. I let him speak with Greene first, waiting patiently with Jannie and Bree. He put on gloves and bagged the vial. He nodded to me and then went to talk with Eliza Foster.

When he was done, he came over and shook my hand in the twilight.

“Coach says you want it tested.”

“I do.”

He looked at Jannie. “You’re willing?”

“Yes,” Jannie said. “Definitely.”

“Any idea who might do this?” Pedelini asked.