James Patterson - Cross Justice

Bree slid into the seat in the courtroom I’d been saving for her. Her eyes were shining when she whispered, “I’ve got something. Something big.”

“Hold on,” I whispered back. “Naomi’s about to destroy the state’s case.”

My niece said, “Detective Frost? You agree that’s what the test indicates?”

“Apparently so,” the detective said, looking like he’d gone too many rounds with a heavyweight contender.

“That’s strange,” Naomi said, strolling over to the jury. “Because the blood sample you took from my client the morning after he allegedly killed Rashawn Turnbull showed he had a blood alcohol level of point zero six five, indicating he’d probably been very drunk the night before. Correct?”

Frost took a big breath, said, “Yes.”

“But we now know that’s contrary to the FBI’s results,” Naomi said, hands on the jury box. “Which means that the semen on Rashawn’s body and in Sharon Lawrence’s panties came from my client, but not on the nights in question. Which means someone, probably Finn Davis, somehow got to one of my client’s condoms after he had had intercourse with his fiancée.”

I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Patty Converse’s face had gone red, but she was nodding in agreement.

“Objection, Judge!” Strong cried. “The defense attorney is drawing conclusions out of thin air.”

“These conclusions are not drawn out of thin air!” Naomi insisted. “These are scientific facts, Ms. Strong. Flip to page nine of the FBI’s report, third paragraph, reference to a third distinct DNA source in Ms. Lawrence’s panties. Initial test indicates the DNA is female and unrelated to Ms. Lawrence. Vaginal secretions of another woman, suggesting, again, a used condom was stolen after use to plant evidence in order to frame my client for a crime he clearly did not commit.”

Both the judge and the district attorney were digging through the document, looking for the reference.

Naomi gave them twenty seconds and then said, “These are facts that cannot be spun. All the evidence found at the murder scene has to be considered tainted. The vodka bottle, Mr. Tate’s school ID, the meth sample, and the semen must be thrown out.”

Strong said, “Judge, the vodka, the meth, and the ID are solid.”

“No, they are not,” Naomi said. “The placement of those three pieces of evidence is illogical at best, especially since they were left by a so-called berserk killer. My client’s semen was clearly planted. So were the vodka, the meth, and the ID.”

My niece turned to face the bench. “In short, Judge Varney, the state no longer has a viable case against my client. I move for mistrial and release of Stefan Tate from custody immediately.”

The courtroom exploded.

Stefan rocked back in his chair, looking toward the heavens and hugging himself. Aunt Hattie started cheering and clapping. Pinkie, Nana Mama, and I joined her.

Judge Varney looked panicked when he whacked his gavel and called for order in his courtroom.

Bree tapped my elbow and held her iPhone in front of me, showing me riderless boxcars going through one of the railroad crossings south of Starksville. Then she showed me a picture of the same containers going through the crossing on the main Starksville road. Two riders were aboard.

“What—” I began.

Delilah Strong cried, “Judge, there remains other compelling evidence that links Mr. Tate to this murder.”

Naomi said, “Judge, it’s clear now that someone else killed Rashawn Turnbull and framed my client for the crime.”

“The defense offers no evidence of that at all,” Strong said. “Who does she think killed that boy?”

“That’s really not our concern,” Naomi said. “But we have a theory.”

“Alex, you have to see this,” Bree said, shoving the iPhone in front of me again. I glanced at the screen, saw a satellite view of train tracks by an industrial complex. I held up my index finger and then looked back to Naomi.

My niece glanced at me, and I nodded.

She said, “Judge, we have evidence that the meth planted in Mr. Tate’s basement is tied to a drug ring using the trains that pass through Starksville to distribute methamphetamine and other drugs up and down the East Coast. My client had growing suspicions about the freight trains, and we believe the drug traffickers killed Rashawn and framed my client for the murder to keep him from digging further.”

“This is ridiculous,” Strong said. “The defense has introduced no evidence of any such drug ring. Judge, you can’t—”

The rear doors to the courtroom were flung open with a bang.

Strong, Naomi, Judge Varney, the bailiff, the clerk, and many of the jurors gaped in disbelief and fear.

I twisted around in my seat to see what they were gawking at and got the shock of my life.

Palm Beach County’s Detective Sergeant Peter Drummond looked like he was out for blood as he pressed the muzzle of a sawed-off pump-action Remington twelve-gauge to the side of Marvin Bell’s head.

“Nobody moves or this man dies!” Detective Sergeant Drummond roared, and he jerked at the rope he had tied around Bell’s neck and hands, which were horribly swollen and bruised. Several of Bell’s fingers pointed in directions they shouldn’t.

Spectators began to cry, panic, and push back toward the walls. Nana Mama squealed in fear beside me, and I held up an arm to shield her. Bree started for her backup pistol, but I said, “Don’t. I know this guy.”

Drummond shouted, “Unload your gun there, Bailiff, and put it on the floor. You. In the witness box. Same.”

Frost and the bailiff did as they were told.

Drummond scanned the room for threats, said, “You too, Chief Sherman, and you, Detective Carmichael. Primary weapons and backups on the floor.”

Sherman and Carmichael seemed shocked that the madman knew their names, but they did as they were told. Then Drummond marched Bell deeper into the courtroom. Marvin Bell looked more lost than frightened, shuffling forward, staring at his hands and quivering in pain.

As they got close, I stood up, said, “Sergeant, what are you doing?”

Drummond turned his scarred, expressionless face past Bree and toward me, said, “Something I should have done a long time ago.”

“C’mon, Drummond. You don’t want to do this.”

“You don’t understand, Dr. Cross. I have to do this.”

The sergeant pushed and dragged Bell into the well of the court. He glanced at Strong and Naomi, said, “Take a seat, Counselors.”

Then he motioned for Frost to get down, said, “This man wants to testify.”

The detective hesitated, but then climbed from the witness stand. Drummond said, “Sit there on the floor by the jury box.”

Frost did as he was told. The sergeant maneuvered Marvin Bell into the chair and got behind him, keeping the gun at his head and dropping the rope so it dangled off the back of the chair.

“Sergeant, whoever you are,” Judge Varney began, “and whatever problem you might have with Mr. Bell, this is not the way to address the—”

“With all due respect, Judge,” Drummond said, “we are no longer in a court of law. This is truth-seeking where the ends justify the means.”

Beside me, Bree typed on her phone and then held it up. I realized she was filming him. I looked over my shoulder and saw that Patty Converse and Pinkie Parks had gone wide-eyed.

What do we do? Pinkie mouthed.

“Not a thing,” I whispered, and looked at my aunts, who were sitting forward in their chairs and raptly watching Drummond.

The sergeant peered around the courtroom as if he owned it, then focused on the jury box, said, “Wouldn’t you just like to know what happened for once? No BS. The whole thing out in the open for you to judge?”