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Poetic Justice

Andrea J. Johnson

The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2020 by Andrea J. Johnson

Cover and jacket design by Mimi Bark

ISBN 978-1-951709-08-2

eISBN: 978-1-951709-33-4

Library of Congress Control Number: tk

First edition September 2020 by Agora Books

An imprint of Polis Books, LLC

221 River St., 9th Fl., #9070

Hoboken, NJ

PolisBooks.com

“Vox audita perit, litera scripta manet.”

The spoken word perishes, the written word remains.

CHAPTER 1

I hadn’t seen Langley Dean in ten years.

When we’d last spoken, she’d pushed me into the pool while I was wearing Bickerton High’s Scrappy the Seabird mascot uniform. The useless velvet wings and doughy web-footed moon boots wilted under the weight of the water and dragged me below the surface faster than a battleship anchor.

Sometimes I dreamt about the valiant escape that might have happened if I hadn’t been strapped into the helmeted shoulder harness that held the Seabird’s head on. That clownish costume with its gratuitous layers of felt and silk was my temporary tomb. If EMTs hadn’t been onsite for the homecoming football game, I would have died.

And yet, I didn’t recognize Langley until after the trial fell apart.

Maybe the self-protective portion of my brain didn’t want to dredge up the past. Maybe time had turned the svelte beauty into a paunchy broad who lived in a troubled world lightyears from my own. Maybe I was simply too far away.

What I knew for sure was when her trial began, I sat a full courtroom’s length apart from her and her defense counsel. My stenography station was a tiny Formica table located at the base of a raised platform reserved for witnesses. All my focus was on the grizzled jury clerk who stood in the gap between us. He droned through felony drug charges and asked a series of questions meant to determine if anyone had previous knowledge of the case or any prejudice that could lead to bias against the defendant.

Those standard little voir dire inquiries should have been a red flag.

The truth of the matter was my job as the trial’s stenographer was to listen, not analyze. As far as I was concerned, at that point, she was just another face in the long line of hardened criminals I’d seen in my five years as a court reporter in the Trident County Superior Courthouse, where the residents of Bickerton, Delaware, tried their most heinous crimes.

“Victoria?” The judge called from her elevated position at the front of the courtroom. “Excuse me, Ms. Justice, do you need a break before we continue with opening statements?”

“No, ma’am.” My words emerged as a whisper.

The other aspect of my job was to be seen, not heard, but I appreciated Ms.—I mean Judge—Freddie’s concern for my well-being. Writing a word-for-word account of the proceedings was no small task.

“Call out the time when you do.” She switched her focus to the recently selected jury. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is Mulligan versus the State of Delaware. My name is Frederica Scott Wannamaker. I’ll be presiding over the case. We ask that you give the attorneys your undivided attention.”

The jurors’ eyes grew wide as she spoke. I’d have found it amusing if I hadn’t seen it a million times. Civilians expected a Law & Order episode come to life, but they’d soon experience the mundane reality of small-town justice. No cutthroat attorneys tricking witnesses into confessing. No camera flashes from the rabid media. No distraught family members begging for the judge’s mercy.

Like ninety-five percent of our drug cases, the gallery sat empty—except for the state chemist, who quietly occupied the front row, and a state trooper, who I assumed was the arresting officer. He sat in the back with his arm draped over the pew, while he drummed an impatient rhythm against the oak. The light thumpity-thump echoed into the recently restored rafters designed to mimic the courthouse’s original antebellum-era architecture.

I smoothed the collar of my gray pantsuit as the jury rose for their oath. Showtime. A crackle of static underscored their call and response as the bailiff used her shoulder mic to radio the criminal unit for Ms. Freddie’s trial clerk. The prosecutor, Deputy Attorney General Spencer James Stevenson—a recent Vanderbilt grad who apparently bathed in a bottle of Drakkar Noir cologne—strutted over to the podium, where he’d address the jury for opening statements.

He straightened his Armani tie and gave me a wink. Stevenson couldn’t have been more than a decade older than my twenty-five years, but he was too cocky to take seriously. He was being playful and overconfident for the jury’s benefit, not mine.

I stared at the attorney’s big, baldhead and prayed my dark eyes remained impassive. The job required neutrality at all times—Stevenson knew that—and I refused to cosign on his good-ol’-boy-doing-the-will-of-the-people act. Granted, Delaware wasn’t southern, but our seaside hamlet clung to all of The South’s worst tendencies—and he loved to wield those values in his favor.

I placed my hands on the steno machine’s keys and stiffened my petite frame to emphasize a commitment to impartiality. All I was willing to give Stevenson was a curt nod as a signal to begin his opening remarks. The movement also caused a bushy crop of brown ringlets to fall across my eyes and obscure his smarmy face from view. Perfect. All distractions cleared away to make room for the words that flowed through my fingers.

After the attorneys finished their opening statements, Ms. Freddie said, “You may call your first witness, Mr. Stevenson.”

“Your Honor, the State calls Corporal Ashton North of the Delaware State Police.”

A split second after the corporal, a hulking figure in dress blues, marched forward to recite the oath, the attorney fired off a round of questions about the cop’s qualifications. Dang. Stevenson was fast, but I was faster.

My steno machine, a pentagon-shaped apparatus no larger than a child’s lunchbox and just as light, held twenty-two unmarked keys that allowed me to write well over 240 words per minute. The excessive speed lulled me into a trance for the first half-hour, but as the testimony found its groove, my awareness blossomed.

“What happened once you established probable cause to search the defendant’s vehicle?” asked Stevenson.

“I seized a brick of suspicious powder from the front passenger seat,” Corporal North replied in a hoarse bass. “This led to a full-vehicle search, whereupon I opened the trunk to find scales, baggies, three cell phones, and five thousand dollars in cash. I identified the powdered substance as cocaine.”

“Once you had all those items in your possession, what did you do?”

“I placed the items in separate evidence envelopes provided by the Delaware State Police and labeled each with the defendant’s name, a description, and the complaint number. I used blue evidence tape to seal the envelopes and signed my name on those seals.”

The corporal responded with authority but tossed anxious glances my way prior to each answer—like he was unsure whether to talk to me as the record taker or to the attorney. A giggle formed in my throat as his lashes fluttered and his bright blue eyes ping-ponged between the prosecutor and me. I stared at the stenograph machine to keep the laughter at bay.

Blocks of shorthand welcomed me from the miniature screen above the steno keyboard. Denoted by a collection of letters read from left to right, all of the words were in a language of briefs, AKA abbreviations, or shortened word forms that helped me capture every sentence with a ninety-eight percent degree of accuracy. I couldn’t afford to let anything affect my proficiency, and that awareness sobered me into submission.

I looked up to discover Stevenson had left his podium and struck a meditative pose in front of the jury box. He leaned one hand on the delicate oak rail, the other rested in the pocket of his slacks while he addressed his next set of questions into the ether.

“What happened then, Corporal?”

“I returned to the station to file a report and submit the materials to the evidence sergeant. He entered them into Troop Eleven’s log. The drug envelope would have stayed in our evidence locker to await pick up by the Controlled Substance Lab, but I got clearance to hand-deliver that item for testing.”

“You personally dropped off the drug evidence at the lab that same day?”

“Yes, sir. I was lucky enough to get there within four hours of arrest.”

“Was the envelope still sealed when you dropped it off?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did that evidence envelope ever leave your sight prior to arriving at the lab?”

“No, sir. The drug envelope stayed in my possession.”

For a moment, I struggled with the word “possession.” I couldn’t remember the brief. Was it POGS or POEGS? Not wanting to waste another nanosecond on debate, I wrote it out phonetically. I depressed the keys in three quick strokes, one chord of letters for each syllable. The movement gave me three lines of text, POE/SES/SOGS. I perked up my ears. The extra strokes had caused me to fall behind.

“Your Honor, I believe we’ve established chain of custody. I’d like to enter the drug envelope for identification.” Stevenson’s mouth spread into an obsequious smile meant to reassure the jury, but they looked as bored as I felt.

“Any objection, Mr. Harriston?” Ms. Freddie asked defense counsel.

My gaze followed her voice over to Beau Harriston, Trident County’s finest criminal defense attorney in private practice. He was sitting at counsel’s table with his shoes off and his eyes closed, hands pressed to his mouth as if in silent prayer. He responded with a loud grunt that caused his jowls to shake and waved a hand in the airspace above his receding hairline as if to say—get on with it.

I gritted my teeth. Harriston’s inconsiderate gesture and its implied meaning weren’t things I could officially capture with my steno machine. I fell even further behind while I debated the accuracy of writing “no objection,” as his reply, versus “shaking head in the negative” as a parenthetical for the unspoken implication. My dislike of the old defense attorney rose with every keystroke.

Mr. Stevenson handed the trial clerk a tan catalog envelope covered with writing on the front, lined along the left side with white masking tape, and sealed at the flap with neon blue tape. The clerk placed a thumbprint-sized sticker on the lower right-hand corner of the envelope and passed it back to the prosecutor.

Everyone leaned forward as the attorney placed the evidence in front of Corporal North, who thoroughly examined the package.

“Is this the envelope transported on the day of arrest?”

“Yes, sir. This bears my signature on the blue evidence tape, which is still intact. The case information is clearly visible and matches my notes. The only difference is this white tape, which I know from experience and can see from the words printed here…” the corporal pointed to the left edge of each envelope. “That’s the tape used by the Controlled Substance Lab to reseal the evidence after the chemist runs a test. Otherwise, the envelope is identical to the one I dropped at the lab.”

“To be clear, what did you put in that envelope on the day of the arrest?”

“A brick of cocaine weighing two point two five pounds.” Corporal North held up the envelope.

“Did you receive a copy of the chemist’s report confirming cocaine in the quantity noted?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And is this that report?” Stevenson handed the corporal three pages.

While the witness perused the document, I glanced at the computer-aided transcription program open on my laptop—otherwise known as CAT—to see if my usage of the steno machine’s numbering system had translated. I always used the number bar across the top of the steno keyboard during drug trials due to the constant references to milligrams, ounces, pounds, and dollars. My earlier use of 5/THOU/-DZ translated beautifully as $5,000. All the other numbers were garbage. Good thing I’d turned on my AudioSync microphone to catch inconsistencies.

As my attention drifted back to the trial, I caught Corporal North setting down the lab report with a nod of his head. Nothing more annoying than a witness who failed to speak up.

“Please respond verbally for the record.” My words slipped out as a murmur. A quiet moment of confidence between the two of us, carefully constructed to convey no emotion, but I couldn’t help but return the embarrassed grin he gave in response.

He was quickly becoming my favorite person in the courtroom.

“Yes, sir.” He peeked at me for approval. “This is a copy of the report from the Controlled Substance Lab confirming my observations.”

“And with the exception of the state chemist’s white tape,” said Stevenson, “has this item been tampered with in any way?”

“No, sir.”

“Your Honor, I ask the envelope be admitted as a numbered exhibit.” The prosecutor handed the package to the trial clerk.

“Any objection?” Ms. Freddie’s plump face peered over the bench at Harriston.

The arrogant defense attorney gave a noncommittal shrug, and she let out a slight growl. I could tell she wanted to admonish him for failing to respect the court.

“Admitted as State’s Exhibit One,” she bellowed. “Madam Clerk, mark the evidence and give it to Corporal North. You may expose the item for the jury.”

Once Corporal North received the envelope, he tugged at the blue tape and ripped it open. As his hands worked to remove the contents, I scanned his fingers for a wedding ring.

Desperate much? Stay focused.

I pried my attention away from the witness stand and fixated on the letters filling the steno machine’s view screen.

STKPWHR/SKPS/THAT/KOE/KAEUPB/-U/SAOEZ/-D/OPBT/DAEUT/-F/ARS

STPHO-FRPBLGTS/T-S/TPHOT

The word gage on the left showed 43,378 and counting. A green meter on the right, representing the machine’s battery life, flickered and faded to yellow—a clear sign we’d been in trial for about three hours.

Time for a break.

I tapped the touch screen so the view changed from shorthand to English with the hour illuminated underneath. My gaze sought Ms. Freddie’s. She’d told me to call out the time the moment I needed a break. I opened my mouth to do so but stopped short at the wide-eyed astonishment etched on her ebony skin.

Had I done something wrong? My breath grew shallow, and I dropped my attention back to the trusty steno screen, a source of strength when I needed to gather my wits, and reread the last Q&A my hands had transcribed without really hearing.

MR. STEVENSON: And is that the cocaine you seized on the date of arrest?

CORPORAL NORTH: No, sir, it is not.

Monday, November 2 – 11:08 a.m.

The whole courtroom had gone dead silent.

CHAPTER 2

The jurors’ jaws hung open. Maggie the clerk stood up from her desk at the front of the bench and craned her neck toward the witness. Stevenson, who’d been pacing, froze midstride so he looked like the silhouette on a crosswalk sign. Even Grace the bailiff dropped her guard, head tilted to the side in disbelief.

Only defense counsel and his client remained unfazed.

Corporal Ashton North sat motionless, his eyes and nose scrunched in confusion. He clutched the empty evidence envelope to his chest and did not appear to breathe. On the table in front of him sat a two-pound bag of C&H Pure Cane Powdered Confectioner’s Sugar that was still in the original packaging, complete with the $2.08 price tag courtesy of our local Redner’s Supermarket.

Something had definitely gone awry.

Soon nervous laughter trickled from the jury, but the cackle from the defendant made my lungs clench.

I remembered that sound from school. That was the last sound I’d heard before my head sank below the surface of Bickerton High’s pool. Anxiety, like shards of chilled glass, ripped through my chest. I lifted my head and locked stares with the face that had been the ominous backdrop to an otherwise routine trial.

Harriston slipped on his loafers and hopped up. “Your Honor, a bag of powdered sugar is not sufficient evidence. I move the charges against Langley Dean Mulligan be dismissed on all counts.”

In that moment, everything blurred. Langley Dean. She was The Lovely Lady D when we clashed our senior year of high school. What once was a pale, auburn-haired ingénue with thin pink lips, upturned nose, and fiendish eyes so cold they registered as silver, was now a pudgy, sunburned woman with crow’s-feet and a bad orange dye-job. The Lovely Lady D was barely recognizable, but her affect lingered.

I took a deep breath and parted my lips to ask for a break, but five sharp raps of the gavel against the solid oak of Ms. Freddie’s massive desk created a thick smacking sound that called the room to order. She rose. Her stocky frame radiated the authority of a colossus. Coarse black strands tumbled out of her bun, and the double strand of pearls around her neck rattled out a warning.

“I’d like to see the attorneys at sidebar.” She pointed the gavel at me. “You, too, Victoria.”

Langley’s head turned and an uncomfortable flash of recognition bounced between us. Her eyes tracked my movements as if she couldn’t believe I was real.

Oh, no. Not here. Not at work.

I closed my laptop and grabbed the steno machine by its tripod so I could walk across the well of the courtroom to the judge’s position on the bench. I could feel Langley’s icy gaze follow me as I climbed the steps of the rostrum to the sanctity of Ms. Freddie’s gigantic platform. I couldn’t afford to succumb to Langley’s intimidation tactics. I had a job to do.

Besides, she’d be out of sight the moment I took my place on the bench. Thank goodness. My heart settled. For the first time in my career, I was happy to be at sidebar—until Stevenson’s frat boy cologne invaded my nostrils.

Scratch that. Sidebars sucked.

The environment wasn’t conducive to creating a verbatim record. Ms. Freddie occupied a chair the size of a recliner, while I sat on a footstool to her right. The attorneys stood on the steps to the bench and leaned over my head to speak with her. We were all huddled so close, I could smell of stale coffee on Harriston’s breath.

Everyone radiated tension, especially once the white noise surrounded us. The bailiff switched on the annoying static to protect our confidential conversation from the jurors’ ears—a little detail that reduced my cognition by fifty percent. To make up the difference, I stared at each person’s lips as they spoke.

The process was like watching mimes act out a scene between an umpire and an unruly baseball manager. Stevenson was, of course, the manager as he flailed his arms and insisted Corporal North possessed sufficient authority to vouch for the narcotics. He even demanded we put the state chemist on the stand to verify the report, since the docket had her testifying anyway. Harriston disagreed and took the role of umpire. He remained cool and dignified as he campaigned to dismiss the felony drug charges.

I tried to keep up, but my thoughts clouded over with the memory of Langley’s eyes. The way the silver glinted as she’d lured me from the locker room toward the school pool. She had told me to put on the mascot costume early so we could get a yearbook photo. I could barely see out of the mini eyehole ridiculously positioned under Scrappy the Seabird’s beak. I didn’t realize she’d led me to the edge. A swift kick in the gut and down I went.

“Enough!”

The judge held up her palm to cut both attorneys off mid-rant. She leaned away from our huddle and signaled the bailiff to take the jurors to the jury room. As soon as they were gone, Ms. Freddie switched off the white noise and motioned for Harriston to proceed.

“Your Honor, loss or destruction of evidence by the prosecution deprives the defendant due process and runs contrary to the Fourteenth Amendment.” Harriston swept his arm toward the witness stand, where Corporal North still sat. “Chain of custody law requires the State authenticate the evidence and eliminate the possibility of misidentification.”

“That statute doesn’t require I authenticate evidence to a degree of absolute certainty,” Stevenson’s voice grew frantic, “just a reasonable probability. The lab report gives us that.”

“Wrong. How can the State prove the authenticity of a substance if the evidence in the envelope doesn’t match the description on the report?” Harriston flashed his veneers at the judge and swooped in for the kill. “Mr. Stevenson has failed to prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that my client was in possession of narcotics on the day in question. Even if the chemist’s report reveals a controlled substance, the door is open for the jury to infer tampering or false arrest. At the very least, we have a gap in the chain of custody.”

The universe clearly loved screwing with me. Did he just imply Langley might have legal grounds for getting away with another crime? Tears formed at the thought, and my hands shook with rage. No one had believed what she’d done to me. Why should anything have changed?

“I call B.S.” Corporal North burst to life on the witness stand, and everyone jumped at the sound of his fierce rebuttal. “Are you implying I don’t know how to do my job?”

“Corporal, calm down,” said Ms. Freddie. “No one has drawn a conclusion. What we need to do first is clarify the chain of custody.” She turned her attention to the deputy attorney general. Her broad facial features twisted into a dark mask of disgust. “Mr. Stevenson, you have to overcome the presumption of innocence. Where do the drugs go after they are tested and the lab report completed?”

“I can answer that.” Corporal North raised a hand and reached for her arm, even though he was out of range. He looked desperate and frustrated, and I wanted to let him know he wasn’t the only collateral damage in this case. “Typically, our evidence sergeant retrieves the tested substances from the CSL and stores them at the troop until trial. In this case, the envelope never returned. Our people received word the lab did an internal audit, and the evidence transfer was put on hold. So, everything stayed at the CSL until this morning.”

“I appreciate your candor, Corporal.” Ms. Freddie then raised her voice to prompt the bailiff. “Could we get the chemist, Phyllis Dodd, up here at sidebar?” When Phyllis was absorbed into our circle, the judge started her examination. “Tell us why your office held this evidence.”

Phyllis, a freckled-face brunette, who was slim, trim, and oh-so prim, spoke as if the answer was obvious. “As the person fiscally and administratively responsible for the lab, I do random inspections to ensure everyone follows procedure and our documentation matches the inventory. This deters theft and dry-labbing. We held the prosecution’s evidence for such an audit. Everything cleared.”

“Dry-labbing?” I asked. My mind was so preoccupied, I was afraid I’d misunderstood. I hadn’t heard the term before, and I certainly didn’t know how to spell it on my steno machine.

“Yes. Recording results for substances that were never tested.” Phyllis bowed her head and smoothed the lines of her French twist in a nervous way that alerted me to my mistake in highlighting her lab’s possible weakness.

“Your Honor,” Harriston pounced, “I think she’s essentially admitting knowledge of suspicious activity at the lab, which is sufficient grounds for a mistrial—”

“Excuse me, Counselor.” Phyllis’s voice was acidic. “Audits, spot checks, and dual testing are all part of the standard safeguards required to maintain our certification. The fact that we ran additional tests—”

“Your Honor,” said Corporal North, “may I add that the envelope transferred over from the lab this morning got put in your criminal unit’s evidence closet for safekeeping until trial. I watched your clerk store the item.”

“Madam Clerk, is that accurate?” Ms. Freddie squinted over the bench at Maggie, her trial clerk and one of the employees in the criminal unit. “Was the evidence intact when you received it?”

“Yes, Judge.” Maggie’s face collapsed as if she couldn’t believe they’d dragged her into the conversation.

I imagined she was grappling with the same option that cycled through my brain—cut off a limb and run screaming from this bear trap of a trial.

Maggie elaborated, “I received that delivery at seven thirty this morning and locked it in our evidence room, along with the other confiscated items in this case. That bundle came out of storage a little after nine—right after jury selection. The log didn’t indicate anyone else had been in the evidence.”

Ms. Freddie held up three fingers. “Corporal. Lab. Courthouse. What say you, Mr. Stevenson? This is your indictment. You bear the responsibility to maintain the integrity of the evidence.”

“But, the officer assured me—”

“Stop there, Mr. Stevenson. We’ve already heard from the corporal. What did you do to follow up on this timeline?”

Ms. Freddie shuffled through her paperwork while every eye in the courtroom bore into the prosecutor’s skull.

Every eye except mine.

I stretched my torso from side to side and dared to catch a glimpse of Langley’s face. Did she understand where this could lead? Stevenson was sinking fast, and she’d once again get to enjoy seeing someone out of his depth. Her face appeared beyond the huddle, and she waggled her fingers at me—one brow raised above a chilling silver eye. The movement was subtle, so as not to arouse suspicion from the bailiff, who stood nearby, but it was enough. I snapped back into place under the cloak of bodies.

“What else could I have done?” Stevenson was almost whining now. He tugged at the knot in his tie as if it was the cause of his discomfort. “Everything followed standard procedure. I move to exclude Exhibit One and—”

“The jury has already seen the evidence.” Ms. Freddie rattled her pearls. “You can’t unring a bell, Mr. Stevenson.”

“And you can’t conceal exculpatory material that may exonerate my client.” Harriston bared his teeth. “That goes right back to the defendant’s right to due process. So say it with me, Your Honor, case dismissed.”

Ms. Freddie cut her gaze at Harriston’s cheeky play to force her hand. “Well, Mr. Stevenson? Last chance to say something intelligent.”

His silence stretched for several seconds and beads of sweat formed at his temples.

“All right, Mr. Stevenson. I don’t doubt the lab report corroborates cocaine, but it’s obvious that’s not what we have.” She snapped her fingers. “Wake up. A dangerous substance is missing. This situation points to a breach. A major breach. One that might have statewide implications. I advise all of you to launch an investigation within your offices. But more importantly, I recommend the Delaware Department of Justice examine the retention practices of the Controlled Substance Lab and the State Police.”

She picked up the indictment that listed the charges for the case. “I am inclined to grant Mr. Harriston’s motion to dismiss the felony counts of possession and distribution due to a lack of evidence.”

I ventured another glance at Langley. Her head was down. She’d taken a pen and started carving into the wood of defense counsel’s table, like she didn’t have a care in the world.

“The misdemeanor paraphernalia charge,” Ms. Freddie’s voice rumbled on, “regarding the scales, baggies, cash, and cell phones still stands. I’ll give counsel thirty minutes to work on a plea, or we can go to trial on the solo charge.”

“But—but—Your Honor.” Mr. Stevenson stamped his foot.

I could tell he wanted to argue, throw some foul words at the judge—or, heck, to throw a punch at Mr. Harriston, but he couldn’t get the words out. After several uncomfortable seconds of wrenching at his neckwear and sputtering an incoherent torrent of curses, the prosecutor yanked the striped indigo tie from his neck and slammed it onto the desk in front of Ms. Freddie so his palm thwacked against the wood.

“A plea?” screeched Stevenson. “Why don’t you give her a key to the city while you’re at it?”

The sound of his mocking hung in the air. Ms. Freddie was the toughest judge in Trident County and the only female Superior Court judge of color in the state—two facts that often led to pushback from pompous men of privilege, like Stevenson. Rather than play into his game, she locked her jaw, folded her arms, and lowered her brow until her dark eyes formed the slits that marked her famous iron stare. Game over.

Stevenson’s ignorant display soured into embarrassment when it became clear his protest was futile. With a faint whimper, he hunched his shoulders and backed away from the bench. The musk of defeat wafted off him in waves. Phyllis, almost as sullen, followed and took a seat in the gallery.

Beau Harriston, who could barely contain his amusement, inclined his head at Ms. Freddie. “Sounds like we’ll be working on a plea.” He then plucked Mr. Stevenson’s tie from the judge’s desk and drifted after the deputy attorney general to begin plea negotiations.

My face must have shown signs of worry because, once they departed, Ms. Freddie turned to me and whispered, “Are you all right? You look tired.”

I pressed my lips together in a halfhearted attempt at a smile. Ms. Freddie was my mother’s oldest friend and Kappa Mu sorority sister. She’d watched me grow up. When I graduated from Delaware State University six years ago, she’d suggested her office as a place to intern while I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. She and my mother prayed I’d get attorney fever and apply to law school, but I astonished everyone that summer and fell in love with court reporting. Learning a secret language to capture, transform, and transcribe the spoken word into verbatim transcripts was tantamount to magic.

“What about Langley?” I asked.

“They’ll probably recommend a plea of probation or time served. With the heavy counts dropped and the defendant already out on bail, the misdemeanor won’t be enough to hold her. She’ll walk today.”

“Is that safe?”

I could hear snippets of Langley bossing around her lawyer as they filled out paperwork at counsel’s table. Each cackle made me wince. I shifted on the footstool where I sat at the judge’s knee.

“Her file says these are her first drug charges, so all we can do is hope. The rest of her record is clean, except for a DUI last year and an underage drinking charge from more than a decade ago.”

I lowered my head and blew out a loud breath. As far as Langley was concerned, that underage drinking charge was my fault. Nothing could be further from the truth.

“Is something wrong, Victoria?”

What could I say? Telling Ms. Freddie about my relationship with Langley wouldn’t make a bit of difference in the trial’s outcome, but I needed to say something in order to clear my conscience. As a sworn officer of the court, I had a responsibility to disclose any relationship that compromised my ability to remain impartial.

“Did Ma ever explain why I didn’t go to Princeton?”

Ms. Freddie furrowed her brow. “Not exactly. She asked me for some legal advice because of that accident your senior year.” She bit her lip. “She was reluctant to share the full story, so I never asked outright—but I assumed passing on Princeton had to do with your illness.” Her hand touched mine in a moment of solidarity. “Weren’t you in the hospital for pneumonia that year? My goodness, you were so young. Getting into college at fifteen is hard for anyone. old. No one blamed you for staying home.” Her dark eyes searched mine. “What does any of that have to do with this?”

“Everything.”

This wasn’t the place to share the details of such an intimate story, but I needed her to understand why I couldn’t continue with the trial.

“The pneumonia was the result of a drowning attempt perpetrated by Langley Dean—Langley Mulligan—the defendant. Her version of payback. She assumed I had gotten her busted for having alcohol on school grounds, but it wasn’t me.” I leaned forward on the stool to lend more privacy to my words. “I would have told you before trial, but I didn’t recognize her. For what it’s worth, Langley is guilty. If not for this, then something far more sinister.”

And I still have the scars to prove it.

“Victoria, I’m so sorry.” She squeezed my hand. Based on the tears in her eyes, I sensed she meant the gesture as a hug. “I can’t imagine how you feel. You were brave to have shared this, but you know I can’t do anything.”

“I know. I didn’t mean to suggest that you should.” I swallowed my anger. “I had to share the truth so you’d understand why I plan to call in another court reporter to take the plea. I can’t handle this.”

“I understand. Do whatever it takes.” She gave my hand another squeeze and blinked away her tears. “Go talk to your colleagues. I need to do the same. The law prohibits me from spearheading an investigation, but I’ll need to report a few things about this case to President Judge Yaris. Get me a copy of the transcript as soon as you can, okay?”

She lifted her head and announced to the near-empty courtroom. “We’re in a thirty-minute recess while the attorneys conduct their plea negotiations.”

The bailiff cried out, “All rise.”

I rose from my footstool and moved out of Ms. Freddie’s path.

As she stepped down from the bench, she turned to me and whispered, “Give me ten minutes. I’ll meet you in the kitchen for tea. We can have a real conversation. You can tell me the whole story…uncensored.” She pressed a finger to her lips to let me know that our teatime would be as friends, not coworkers.

Just knowing she’d taken an interest in my story made me feel better. I was lucky to have someone at work watching my back. I didn’t know how I’d survive without her guidance, so I pressed a finger to my lips in return and watched her go.

CHAPTER 3

“That’s the first time I’ve seen anything like that,” said Grace Tisdale, Trident County Superior Court’s chief bailiff and head of security.

Grace had a matronly face and a Peter Pan haircut gone prematurely white, but her body was as lithe and nimble as a professional athlete’s. She climbed onto the bench, where I was still standing after Ms. Freddie’s recent departure, and squatted beside my footstool for a private conversation. “You hear whispers about this stuff happening all the time upstate, but I never thought it would happen down here.”

“Me neither.” I plopped back onto the footstool so we could gossip face to face. “I can’t believe she dismissed the felony charges.”

Grace made a clucking sound. “This has Old Beau Harriston’s name written all over it.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. You haven’t been around long enough to see how cutthroat he can be. I’m never surprised at some of the crazy things he says or, better yet, does—especially when a juror or someone from the media is within earshot. He loves swaying the public with alternative facts.” She mimed sarcastic air quotes.

I raised an eyebrow.

“Of course, if he’s feeling gracious,” she rolled her eyes, “he’ll simply show up late to court or flood the clerk with evidence or demand dozens of sidebars to wear out the jury.”

“That stuff never works.”

“Sure it does. Check it out.” Grace handed me a navy-blue business card with bold gold letters. “Oh, and Old Beau says he wants a copy of the trial transcript. Give him a ring when you’re ready for payment.”

I skimmed the contact information and flipped the card over to find Harriston’s picture and a tagline.

BEAUREGARD MONROE HARRISTON, Attorney at Law–Don’t dare plea, we’ll set you free! OVER 200 CONSECUTIVE WINS AND COUNTING–licensed in Delaware for 40+ years.

“Okay. Point taken. He knows how to win.” I plucked the business card with my middle finger. “Still, you can’t blame the man for taking pride in his work—but what you’re suggesting is evidence tampering. That’s illegal and a whole lot different than blabbing to the press.”

“True. But take a second to consider why he’s won so much. Either he’s only accepting cases he thinks he can win, or he’s dancing with the devil to make those wins happen.”

We eyeballed each other.

Grace was the oldest and sharpest bailiff on staff. She’d worked in the courthouse for over twenty years. If anyone’s opinion was worth considering, it was definitely hers. But was it realistic to think a prominent attorney would be willing to risk his career for a witch like Langley?

I slipped Harriston’s card into the pocket of my suit and looked over at the balding attorney. He was resting his backside against the edge of Stevenson’s table with his legs crossed at the ankle and his arms folded. Based on the twitch of Harriston’s bulbous nose and heavy jowls, he appeared completely dissatisfied with the words of the frenzied prosecutor. I wanted to see if I could eavesdrop on their conversation from my perch, but Grace interrupted my thoughts.

“Think about it. This is the kind of publicity his business needs. Getting clients acquitted after winning a trial is one thing. But getting the charges dismissed during trial makes him a demi-god, especially when all the big law firms from upstate have shaved his business down to nothing.”

“So, you think…” my lips puckered on a seed of doubt, “Mr. Harriston needs to win this case because he’s losing clients?”

“Exactly. Don’t you ever walk The Quad? Old Beau has a ‘for lease’ sign in his window. I mean, come on—his office has been there since I was a kid.”

Even though I lived less than two miles from Bickerton Square, where the courthouse was located, I never walked to work and didn’t spend time hanging around the building. Bail bond agencies, the drug lab, and the county’s government offices crowded most of the area. To my mind, nothing in the center of town was worth exploring except Cake & Kettle, a local teashop that had become my lunchtime hideout.

“For all you know, he could be leasing his office space and moving to a better one.”

Grace shook her head. “He’s on the verge of eviction for late payments. Maggie says he’s constantly in and out of the Prothonotary’s Office asking for favors because his secretary and law clerk quit eight months ago. Their paychecks kept bouncing.”

“Paralegal. The true definition of a law clerk is one who works for a judge.”

I didn’t mean to correct Grace. The words came out as absentminded filler because I didn’t know how to respond. Her theory was pure hearsay, but the idea made sense. Harriston had been awfully smug at sidebar.

“Sorry, Grace. Can we talk about this later?” I lifted my steno machine and stood. “I’m going to send in another reporter right after I check my laptop. I’ve already cleared the switch with the judge.”

“Everything okay?” Her voice grew serious.

“For now.” I fixed my lips into what I hoped was a carefree grin. “Just be mindful of the switch, will you?”

“Whatever you say, boss.” Grace unfolded from her crouch and adjusted the long sleeves of her starchy polyester uniform. “If I didn’t have to get back to those jurors, I’d make you talk.”

“Excuse me, ladies.” Phyllis Dodd’s high-pitched voice pierced our conversational bubble.

The chemist’s willowy frame and flawless posture placed her freckled face at eye level, despite our elevated position on the bench.

“My time is valuable. I’m due to give testimony upstate in less than two hours. Is my presence still required here? If the judge dismissed the drug charges, shouldn’t the trial be—”

“Yes, ma’am,” Grace said, “but we still have a plea on the table. She likes to hold the jury and witnesses until the final disposition. But if you come with me, I’ll walk you through to chambers. We can ask the judge’s secretary if it’s okay for you to leave.”

And with that, Grace climbed down from the bench and escorted Phyllis out of the courtroom through the side door that led to the judges’ collection of private offices.

As I strolled back to my workstation, I focused my sights on Harriston and Stevenson. Their discussion was loud enough to hear from my desk, but I missed my opportunity to eavesdrop when I bumped into the back of Maggie Swinson, the judge’s trial clerk. She’d perched on my desk shamelessly flirting with Corporal North, who still sat on the witness stand.

“You know, most of us clerks hang out at Cooper’s on Wednesday nights for karaoke. You should stop by for a drink,” Maggie said in her southern Delaware drawl where U’s were elongated and G’s barely exist. “We could do a duet together. ‘Endless Love’ is one of my particular favorites.” She emphasized the statement by leaning her medically enhanced bosom close to the corporal’s face.

“Seriously, Maggs? Can you park your rear somewhere else?”

Rude? Yes, but I feared her enormous rump was going to knock my water cup onto the laptop I’d left running. Besides, Corporal North had a white-knuckle grip on the edge of the witness stand—a sure sign he needed saving. Maggie was a full-figured country queen with a honey-blonde bouffant, a brilliant smile, and a notorious reputation as a man-eater.

“Excuse me, darlin’.” She snapped at me. “I wasn’t in the middle of a conversation or nothing.”

Maggie slid off the desk, and her genteel façade slipping for a second as she narrowed her eyes at me. She then twirled back to the corporal, reached into her bra, pulled out a slip of paper, and handed it to him.

“Here’s my number, in case you want to come.” She rocked her hips like a pendulum, pivoted, and sashayed over to the attorneys, who were still deep in debate.

I sat down and plugged the charger cable into my steno machine. Then I scrolled through the transcription software to make sure the Bluetooth connection had successfully transferred all the notes from sidebar to the laptop. I even checked the mini-microphones I kept running during trials in case of emergencies. When I paused to reach for my Styrofoam water cup, Corporal North stared at me.

“You spent a long time talking to the judge and bailiff.” His voice was higher and tighter than the coarse bass he’d used during testimony—the strained voice of a man trying to hold back his anger. “What’s going on? Is the judge planning something?”

Did he really expect me to answer that? Sure, he was the investigating officer on the case, but he was also a witness. My goal was to maintain neutrality or silence when confronted by witnesses.

“The judge?” I sipped my water and conjured up a generic reply. “She clarified a few issues for the record. Criminal trials can be rough on stenographers.”

No exaggeration there.

“Rough on witnesses, too.” He gave a derisive snort. “At least you didn’t embarrass yourself in front of the jury.” He cleared his throat and muttered to himself, “Damn that Mulligan chick. Should’ve gone with alcohol. I bet those charges would have stuck.”

Not likely.

The words danced on the edge of my tongue. Sarcasm wasn’t going to help his situation, but nothing else seemed appropriate in the face of watching Langley’s unfathomable luck claim another victim.

North banged the top of the witness stand with his fist and glared into the distance. Unsure whether he was waiting for a response, my gaze went to the jurors who filed out of the jury room, into the gallery, and through the double doors at the back of the courtroom.

“You know, Corporal, we’re in recess. You don’t have to sit here if you need to report to your superiors.” I widened my eyes and hoped he’d take the hint. All I wanted to do was archive my notes and escape to the kitchen to meet Ms. Freddie. People didn’t usually notice me in my little nook—a fact I enjoyed—and I hated how his lingering presence highlighted my position, not an ideal scenario with Langley just a few yards away.

“Yeah, you’re right.” North gave a resigned huff. He gripped his campaign hat and stood. Then he stuck the powdered sugar inside the corresponding evidence envelope and handed the bundle to me with his hand still inside. “Your clerk forgot to collect these.”

I shrugged. This wasn’t the first time Maggie had left items unattended during a recess. I accepted the moot evidence by wrapping my hands around the length of the envelope, where the white evidence tape concealed the left side. Heat tickled my palm as I clasped the package. When North removed his hand, the warmth disappeared.

“That’s funny,” I mumbled as I set the materials on Maggie’s desk, which was catty-corner to mine.

“What’s funny?” Corporal North paused while stepping down from the witness stand.

“I thought I felt your hand through the envelope, but that’s impossible…isn’t it?”

“Not unless…” He rotated toward me at a slow burn, as if realizing something for the first time, “…there’s a hole. Try it again.”

He set down his hat and reclaimed his seat so we could reenact our exchange. His hand inside, my hand outside. We lingered mid-clench.

“Do you feel something, or are we playing the world’s weirdest game of handsies?” He relaxed his jaw into a dopey grin that almost made me forget he was a witness.

Almost.

I lowered my gaze and let a bushel of curls conceal my embarrassment over happily groping a state trooper’s hand. I moved to slide away. But, as I did so, my palm rubbed against something scratchy. A flash of heat and…nothing.

“There it is again,” I whispered. “Hold still.”

I grabbed a pen from the desk with my unoccupied hand and placed a dot on the envelope under the area of my palm, where I felt the flash.

When I disengaged from the package, I poked at the marked target with my fingernail. It was a small flap of white tape concealing a jagged hole the length and width of a large paper clip, through which protruded North’s flesh.

“What the…” I rubbed my thumb across his skin through the slit. “Did you do this when you opened the evidence, or has this been there the whole time?”

“What? No.” North took his hand out of the envelope. “No way. I only made one rip—right along the blue edge near my signature.”

“Who do you think—”

“I don’t know.” He grabbed the envelope and held the hidden flap up to the light. “But there are several layers of tape here…and it’s not all from the lab.”

He angled the envelope for my inspection. Sure enough. Strips of clear packing tape were visible over the lab’s white masking tape, as if someone had opened and resealed the envelope a second time.

“Should I call the judge?” I turned to make sure our antics hadn’t caught the attention of the attorneys…and Langley.

“I’d rather talk to the chemist first,” he said. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions. This could be from the audit. Do you know if Phyllis Dodd is still around? I thought I saw her a few moments ago.”

“She left with Grace, the bailiff. They were headed to chambers.”

“You’ve made my day.” He handed the envelope back to me with a twinkle in his eyes. “Thanks for playing handsies with me. I owe you one.”

Despite my reluctance to succumb to his flirtation, I watched him leave the courtroom. Tall as a Redwood and just as sturdy, his body gave the navy-blue and gold Delaware State Police uniform superhero dimensions. But, as he sauntered across the well toward the gallery, I noticed he stopped by the defendant’s table and glared. The corporal attempted to mask the eye contact from the rest of the room as he donned his hat, but the unspoken interaction was unmistakable.

“He’s quite the barnyard stud, ain’t he?” Maggie stepped into place behind her desk, having finished gathering paperwork from the attorneys, and joined me in admiring Corporal North’s rear view.

I faced her and dropped the suspicious evidence envelope on her desk. “He thinks he may have found tampering on the evidence packaging.”

“Well, he should have said something to Mr. Stevenson.” Maggie cocked her hip and placed a hand on her waist. “He better not try to blame this on the clerks in the Prothonotary’s Office. We didn’t have anything to do with it. You court reporters and bailiffs are the ones who keep asking to rifle through the evidence closet every five minutes.”

“Whoa, Maggs. Cool it. He’s not interested in throwing around blame. He wants to hear what the chemist has to say before….” I don’t know why I bothered trying to talk to Maggie. If it didn’t involve a man fawning over her, she wasn’t interested.

“Well, whatever. As long as he leaves my name out of it.” She snatched the case file and evidence from her desk and stormed out of the courtroom, with Mr. Stevenson in tow.

I shook off her remarks and hunched over my equipment to do a final save when a sinister voice, an edgy vocal fry reminiscent of the Kardashians, drew my attention.

“What up, Sooty? Been swimming lately?” Langley’s clownish orange hair and ruddy skin gave the already contemptible statement an eerie bite. She was wearing black combat boots with a long-sleeved jean jacket over a black Lycra dress, whose hem clung above her knees. When she’d gotten my attention, she leaned back in the chair beside her attorney.

“Watch it, Langley. You’d have my head if I walked into your workplace and called you a Mick or a Paddy.” I should have ignored her, but I was determined to stand my ground. Trash was the only language Langley spoke.

“You know each other?” Harriston was pouring himself a drink from the water pitcher residing on counsel’s table.

“Oh, yes.” Langley raked her ruby red talons across the wood surface.

The low-pitched scraping sound sent prickles along the scars on my shoulders. The ones I’d received when I struggled under the weight of the mascot’s head harness.

“We were on the Pep Squad together our senior year,” Langley crooned. “She was our sacrificial lamb—I mean, mascot, Sooty the Seabird.”

“That’s Scrappy the Seabird. And boy, you sure made me feel welcome. Almost seemed like you were trying to kill me with kindness.” I clenched my jaw and gradually rose. “It’s amazing one person could get away with being so sweet.”

Langley ignored my comments. We were in a public forum, and I was cutting too close to the truth.

Instead, she spoke to her attorney as if I wasn’t there. “Sooty was a wonder kid. Jumped right over seventh and eighth grades to become our high school’s math champion, literary geek, and resident nark—all that fuss about her brain made her a little too big for her britches, if you ask me.”

“Look, Langley.” I stood arms akimbo to show her she held no power over me. “I’m not going to engage in some clichéd Mean Girls-style showdown with you. We were never friends and seeing you today is nothing but a bad roll of the dice.” I abandoned my equipment and took two steps toward the exit located at the rear of the courtroom. “Congratulations on your case. You seem to have an infinite number of ways of getting out of trouble. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”

Langley jumped out of her chair and slammed her hands on the table. I stumbled backward.

She spat out a maniacal cackle apparently satisfied by my reaction. “Still a mouthy little brat, aren’t you? Always quick to condemn someone with your goody-two-shoes act.”

“I never condemned you, lied about you, or narked on you. That’s what you choose to believe. Find someone else to blame for your problems.”

My temper flared. I’d finally found peace, and Langley’s presence threatened that harmony.

“Mr. Harriston, I believe your client is out of line. Do I need to call a guard?” I raised my voice and, as if on cue, one of the enormous corrections officers who monitor the holding cell next door stepped into the courtroom from a side entrance.

“She has a point, Ms. Mulligan.” Harriston’s jowls wobbled. “You’re out on bail. The court expects you to conduct yourself as a responsible citizen. We shouldn’t hurl insults and accusations at a state official.” He tapped two fingers on her wrist. “Let’s not press our luck.”

“Take it easy, everybody. We’re just talking.” She cautiously inched around to the front of counsel’s table with her hands raised in surrender and her sights on the corrections officer. “I’m innocent. I never had any drugs. The whole thing was a setup. Although, why would I expect a nark like you to believe anything I say? I saw the way you were cozying up to the judge and that cop. Did you tell them about us?”

“Wow. In ten years, nothing’s changed. Listen, not everything is about you. It’s called doing my job.”

“Is that so? Well, I’m glad to hear that because now I know exactly where to find you whenever I want to…play.”

As the last word slipped from her lips, she twisted her body, grabbed the water pitcher from the table, and flung the contents at me.

Everything slowed to the tempo of a dirge as the fat wave of frosty liquid crashed against my face. Darkness enveloped me. I was fifteen again and back in that pool.

Water thrust its way past my nostrils. Droplets seared the back of my throat. Panic-stricken heartbeats hammered so loud it muted all other sound. Pressure threatened to collapse my lungs until I recognized I was holding my breath in anticipation of a more treacherous onslaught.

Gasping for air, I groped at my bowtie blouse—the soggy clumps of fabric an unnerving reminder of my watery tomb. Voices clamored from all directions.

“Not so high and mighty now, eh, Sooty?”

I opened my eyes to find Langley speaking to me from the ground. She thrashed against the burly prison guard who kneed her in the back and shouted submission instructions as he pressed on a set of handcuffs. Mr. Harriston stood by my side, with his handkerchief, dabbed at my face, and issued rapid-fire apologies. I gripped his arm to steady myself.

“Forgive me,” Harriston said. “That shouldn’t have happened. I blame myself. If I’d had any inkling she was capable of this, I would have—I should have taken her outside as soon as she made it clear you knew each other.”

“Ma’am, would you like to press assault charges?” The guard’s voice echoed in my head. “We could ask for the surveillance video to support your claim, ma’am. Ma’am?”

My heart raced and my thoughts swirled. The emotions of the moment—fear, sorrow, hate, panic—combined with the adrenaline to create an elixir that left me dizzy.

“Please, please. Let’s all be rational.” Harriston’s words came out in a jumble. “This is just a misunderstanding. I assure you Ms. Mulligan meant no harm. This has been a stressful day for everyone.”

“Assault?” I struggled to find my voice. The word seemed foreign but right.

“This is your call, ma’am. I can put her in a holding cell and contact Bickerton P.D.” The guard rolled a handcuffed Langley over into a sitting position while I remained mute. “They’d have an officer here to take your statement within the hour. I could give your office a call when they arrive.”

“Yes…assault. I’d love to press charges.” My vision zeroed in on Langley’s fiendish silver eyes as the fight drained out of them. “Well, Langley, you know what they say about karma.”

CHAPTER 4

I pushed through the double-doored antechamber at the back of the courthouse and squinted as the stark noonday sun and crisp autumn breeze cut across my eyes.

Free at last.

Fresh air and sunlight were exactly what I needed in the wake of Langley’s attack. Gulls mewed overhead as they flew south. Traffic moved steadily along the narrow streets, and a few townsfolk roamed the pavement for a lunchtime stroll. To my right, beyond the County Administration Building, a cacophony of voices floated over from the town center as municipal workers argued over the fastest way to construct the bandstand and lighting scaffold for Wednesday’s Post-Election Festival.

My drenched clothing, trembling hands, swollen eyes, and spastic breathing didn’t belong in this idyllic setting. I needed a fresh shirt from my gym bag and a private place to regroup before Bickerton P.D. arrived to take my statement, so I hurried across the courthouse parking lot toward my Mustang. A few jabs at the keyless entry pad and the car became my fortress of solitude, where I proceeded to talk myself down from the panic attack and impending hyperventilation.

I reminded myself that water was an essential part of how Bickerton thrived. With the town lying four miles inland from where the Delaware Bay met the Atlantic Ocean, the expectation was that the average resident had a healthy relationship with the sea. Some folks were seafarers reveling in their bounty of blue crabs and shrimp, while others were cutthroat sales clerks determined to cash in on the clams and oysters caught by the local watermen. During the summer, fancy restaurants boasted fresh sea fare with an ocean view, eager teenagers hauled surfboards along the beach route, ferries shuttled people across the bay, and thousands of tourists sunned themselves on the sands of the Atlantic.

I’d lived in Bickerton my entire life, so I loved all of those things about our town. Yet, my relationship with water remained distant and crippling.

Several moments passed before I could breathe normally. I pawed at the damp folds of my white bowtie blouse only to find a stress rash forming on my chest. I needed to remove the shirt or risk inducing another panic attack. As I struggled to pull the drenched fabric over my massive crown of hair, I caught the shape of a fast-moving, tweed-clad figure out of the corner of my eye. Phyllis Dodd, the state chemist, hurried past my vehicle as I ripped off the wet shirt.

Slouching low in my seat to avoid exposing my camisole, I peeked over the dash to get a better look. Phyllis appeared to be fleeing from Spencer Stevenson and Corporal North, who were following her through the parking lot. The trio stopped one row over from mine and started arguing. Dodd, whose height nearly matched the corporal’s, prodded at North’s chest while he straightened his back against the force of her onslaught. Spencer Stevenson settled between the two titans with his arms crossed and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, amused by the unfolding mayhem.

I found that if I didn’t wriggle against the leather of my driver’s-side hideaway, I could hear Phyllis Dodd’s shrill voice fending off the commanding tones of Corporal North.

“I don’t like what you’re suggesting, Corporal. If you indeed found a suspicious entry point on that evidence envelope, any number of factors could have caused something like that. You can’t expect me to respond to something I haven’t seen.”

“Ma’am, calm down,” said North. “I’m trying to explore all of our—”

“Playing dumb isn’t going to fly, Phyllis.” Spencer Stevenson’s frigid tenor cut into the conversation.

“You’re out of line, Stevenson,” said North. “I can handle this.”

“Can you?” Stevenson gave the corporal a dismissive look and stepped in front of the officer so he could stand nose to freckled nose with the chemist. “I got read the riot act in court, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone embarrass me like that again. Someone has to take the blame for what happened. If you don’t give us a straight answer about the envelope, it will be you.”

“Don’t you dare strong-arm me, Spencer, especially when all you’re doing is following orders from that old windbag.” Phyllis Dodd’s voice grew louder. “What neither of you seem to understand is an investigation will shut down the lab. Drug testing for every case will require outsourcing—that alone could cost the state millions of dollars, along with dozens of jobs neutralized and a backlog in the system. On top of it all, we could lose our accreditation. You’re being irresponsible if you follow through on this without proof—”

“Well, if that’s your only battle cry, consider the damage done.” Stevenson’s smirk shone across the parking lot. “I already put a call into the Delaware Department of Justice and the State Police. Missing drugs are all the proof I need. If you have a problem with it, take your concerns to Judge—”

Wannamaker. An alarm sounded in my head. I was supposed to meet her during the break, and I was nearly thirty minutes late.

Remorseful and breathless, I raced into the courthouse kitchen with my gym bag and apologies at the ready. Ms. Freddie, however, was nowhere in sight.

Her robe was neatly folded over a chair by the refrigerator. The settled kettle was still steaming, and she’d pulled the metal tea caddy out of the cupboard, along with two ceramic mugs.

Ashamed as I was to admit it, her absence was a relief. I needed a few moments to change since my camisole was the only garment underneath the suit jacket I’d hastily buttoned over my bare chest when I ditched the wet blouse and raced out of the car.

Taking advantage of the moment, I walked through the kitchen into the stunted passageway that contained the unisex bathroom. The plan was to pull a T-shirt and towel out of my gym bag and undo as much damage from my argument with Langley as possible.

But when I pushed down the oblong handle, the wooden door smacked against something hard and ricocheted shut. I retreated, mumbling words of regret for invading someone’s privacy, but something seemed off. No frantic scrambles or angry rumblings of objection came in response to my flustered apology.

I dropped my duffel and carefully reopened the door. The room was dark and had a tinny odor like copper pennies left out in the rain. I reached inside and groped for the light. This time the wood thunked against what I recognized as a pair of legs splayed across the linoleum.

“Is everything okay in there?” My voice bounced off the tile walls in a shallow echo.

Slowly, I poked my head beyond the threshold to find the top half of Ms. Freddie’s body draped across the toilet seat. She was face down in the water, a purple tie around her neck. The vicious knot replaced the double string of pearls she always wore in court—the strands now sat broken, beads scattered across her back. Blood pooled around a wound nestled in the tangled mass of jet-black hair that snaked its way along the surface of the water.

Her body didn’t move.

I sank to my knees in the doorway, the air knocked out of me. The pit of my stomach tightened and churned as my mind reeled, unable to make sense of the scene.

Grace told me later that I had screamed and passed out.

What I remember is opening my mouth to breathe and finding my throat had clamped shut as the bile, hot as lava, clogged my airway.

I clawed at my neck, desperate to release myself from the creeping darkness that swallowed me.

CHAPTER 5

“They said you two were close,” said Detective Connor Daniels of the Delaware State Police Homicide Division. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

He directed the statement to the top of my bowed head and pushed a box of off-brand tissues toward me from across Jury Room Four’s conference table.

“I should have ignored Langley and gone straight to the kitchen.” Each syllable came out as a moan, mangled by heavy sobs. Yet, I uttered the sentence, repeatedly, like a Buddhist chant. I believed if I said those words enough times, I could change things. I could turn back the clock.

“Ms. Justice, I know you’ve been through a lot today, but I still have a few more questions.”

Detective Daniels was a paragon of patience. I’d already broken down twice during our hour-long session and each time he’d pulled me back with a gentle pat of the table. His way of consoling me without making contact—as if the sorrow was contagious. When I looked up, his hound-dog eyes surveyed me. He offered a coffee-stained, snaggletoothed smile.

“Right now, the best way for you to help Judge Wannamaker is to tell me everything you can remember about today.” Detective Daniels scratched the hairs of his graying mustache and flattened his nonexistent lips into a grim line. “We can’t change what happened, but we can find a way to put things right. I need your help to do that, okay?”

“Okay.” I took a handful of tissues from the box and swallowed a few times to slow my breathing.

“Rest assured. Bickerton P.D. has already booked Ms. Mulligan on your assault claims, so what we need to do is focus on the judge.” He placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward me. “Finish telling me about your meeting with Frederica Wannamaker. If you’d already revealed your history with the defendant and recused yourself from trial, why go meet her for tea?”

“We wanted to talk as friends. I’ve known Ms. Freddie since I was a kid. She knew there was more to the Langley story than what I told her on the bench.”

“You knew the deceased before you started working here?”

Deceased. I flinched and forced myself not to tear up again. “Yes. Ms. Freddie has been like a second mother to me. She and my mom went to college together.”

“You’ve known the judge your whole life?”

I nodded but didn’t respond. I’d observed enough testimony to know he wasn’t asking a real question. Detective Daniels didn’t want to lose momentum while he checked his mini-recorder and reached for the legal pad he’d shoved under his corduroy blazer during my recent crying jag.

“You said you are—how old?”

“Twenty-five.”

He clicked the top of his pen and scribbled down the number. “How long have you worked here?”

“Five years. Six if you count the year I interned for Judge Wannamaker while I was training online for stenography. Once I got my court reporter’s certification, I applied for a full-time state job.”

“In all that time, did the judge ever confide in you about feeling threatened at work?”

“No.”

The day had, however, revealed a number of people who didn’t like her, and that thought worried me.

“Do you know of anyone, personally or professionally, who wished to do her harm?”

“No. But if you guys are thinking this has something to do with—”

“If you’ve seen or heard something unusual, that’s the information I need to know. Don’t focus on the investigation, and don’t volunteer theories.”

“What do you want me to say?” I flapped my arms, exasperated, and shredded the tissue I had clutched in my hand. “She’s a judge. I imagine everyone she sentences wants to do her harm.”

“Ms. Justice, relax and take your time.” The detective put down his pen. The weathered lines of his olive skin grew deep as his voice took on a solemn tone.

“No one who actually knows Judge Wannamaker would do this.” The words came out more like a plea and less like a declaration because…I wasn’t quite sure.

Stevenson, Harriston, and Phyllis Dodd had disrespected her throughout the trial. I leaned back and started to link my hands at the top of my head so I could stare at the ceiling and think, but I stopped when the gesture exposed the skimpy camisole under my suit jacket.

Thanks for drenching my blouse, Langley.

Another sob erupted as I wondered how different things could have been if I’d gone straight to the bathroom to change—

Bathroom.

An image of Ms. Freddie’s mutilated form flashed across my mind. What kind of monster strangled a sixty-five-year-old woman with a tie?

An indigo tie.

I straightened my back and stared at the faded red tie around the detective’s leathery neck until the truth came to me.

“I think the purple tie I saw in the bathroom is the same one Mr. Stevenson wore during the trial. He slammed it down in front of the judge during an argument at sidebar, but Mr. Harriston picked it up.”

“I need you to think carefully before answering this next question.” Detective Daniels narrowed his droopy eyelids and ran a hand across his mouth. “We’re not a hundred percent sure about the cause of death at this point, but signs point to asphyxiation, either from drowning or from the restraint around her neck.” He inspected my face, probably to gauge whether or not I’d fall apart again. “Do you remember seeing Mr. Harriston or Mr. Stevenson or anyone else leave the courtroom with that tie?”

A sharp pain ran through my head as the day’s images sped through my brain.

Nothing.

“I didn’t see the tie again until I found Ms. Freddie.”

“Can you tell me who was in the courtroom the last time you saw that purple tie?”

“Harriston, Stevenson, Langley, Corporal North, Maggie the trial clerk, me, the judge, and Grace—actually, the bailiff had been asked to remove the jury, so Grace might not have been there. Phyllis Dodd, the state chemist, was in the gallery waiting to testify.”

“Did any of them know you planned to meet Judge Wannamaker in the kitchen?”

“Maybe.” I folded my hands in my lap unsure of how to answer. “We made the arrangements while she was leaving the bench. I suppose anyone in the courtroom could have overheard.”

He jotted down some notes and read them over before he spoke again. “Okay. Let’s establish a timeline.” He flipped to a blank page and drew a horizontal line across the center. “About what time did the judge leave the bench?”

“Eleven twenty-seven. I always write the judge’s departure and arrival times as part of the record. The trial clerk should be able to verify that. She usually writes down the time too.”

“How long did you hang around the courtroom after the judge left?”

“Fifteen or twenty minutes. I could give you a better answer if I had my laptop. I remember saving my trial notes right before Langley started harassing me.”

“That’s good enough for now. I’ll have you follow up on that when we finish.” He absentmindedly tapped his pen on the notepad in time with the tick of the wall clock. “Did you go straight outside after you left the courtroom, or did you make a stop first?”

“Straight outside. I didn’t want people seeing me cry. I went through the judges’ hallway and out the employee doors because that was the quickest way to my car. I sat there for five or ten minutes before I realized I was supposed to be in the kitchen.”

“That would put us at eleven fifty-seven. It’s lunchtime. I would think the courthouse would be busy. Did you see anyone on your way to the kitchen or after you arrived?”

“No.” My voice cracked at his reminder that I’d arrived too late, so I clenched my fists until the nails dug into my palm. The pain distracted me enough to continue.

“I wasn’t in the kind of physical state where I wanted to be seen. Besides, I came through the employee entrance, which dumped me out into a hallway a few feet from the kitchen. The hall and the kitchen were empty when I got there—although, Ms. Freddie must have waited around for at least ten minutes because the kettle had boiled and the stove was off.”

“Back up a second.” Detective Daniels squinted at the notepad and thumbed through his notes. “You mentioned a ‘judges’ hallway,’ what is that?”

“It’s the hallway judges use to move from courtroom to chambers without being seen.”

“How’d you gain access to the hallway?”

“Keycard.” I pulled out the laminated pass I kept clipped to the waistband of my pants and showed it to him. “Every employee has one, but we don’t all have the same level of access. The card only provides entry to the spaces where you’re authorized to work.”

I returned the keycard to my waistband. “Court reporters have access to the judges’ hallway so we can follow the judges from courtroom to courtroom throughout the day—but, we don’t have access to chambers, and we don’t have access to the private entrance the judges use to get in and out of the courthouse. Our cards aren’t programmed for those doors.”

“Who programs the cards?”

“The chief bailiff, Grace Tisdale. She’s head of security.”

“Who else has access to the judges’ hallway?”

“All the bailiffs and the judges’ secretaries. They all have the same level of access as the judges. They can go everywhere. But folks try not to use the hallway…out of respect.”

“Do the attorneys or clerks have access to that back hallway?”

“Clerks don’t have access, and attorneys don’t get issued keycards, not even the state-appointed ones.”

“Can you access the kitchen from the judges’ hallway?”

“I can’t, but it is possible.” I held up my hands and pointed in opposite directions. “One end of the judges’ hallway leads to their private entrance. The opposite end has two doors, one is an exit-only door that connects to the antechamber of the employee entrance, and the other leads into the kitchen. Only a person with an all-access keycard can open the door between the judges’ hallway and the kitchen.”

“Does Judge Wannamaker have an all-access keycard?”

“Of course.”

“We didn’t find one on her. Would she be able to move through the courthouse without it?”

“No.” A bit of worry seeped into my bones. “We’re supposed to keep them on us at all times.”

Detective Daniels grunted and circled something on his legal pad. What was he thinking?

“All right. Let’s talk kitchen access.” He reached for his twenty-four ounces of Royal Farms coffee and the hazelnut smell filled the confines of the narrow deliberation room. “Who has it? Who doesn’t?”

“Well, everyone who has a keycard has access to the kitchen because it’s located in the middle of a hallway that leads to a bunch of personnel offices: the civil unit, the court administrator’s office, the court reporters’ office, the non-public portions of the jury services office, and the Prothonotary’s Office.”

“Prothonotary’s Office?” He asked before draining his to-go cup.

“The formal name for the criminal clerks’ office.”

“Have civilians ever slipped into any of those offices you mentioned?”

“We’ve had occasions when a member of the public hanging around the lobby follows an employee through the personnel doors thinking it’s the restroom. But everyone knows everyone here, so folks don’t get very far.”

“Do you need a keycard to get around once you’re in the personnel area?”

“Just for the court reporters’ office. Otherwise, once you’ve swiped into the personnel area, you’re good to go to the kitchen or any office.”

“What about the evidence closet?”

His non-sequitur sobered me, and I stared blankly at him from across the conference table. “What about it?”

“Do you need a keycard to access the evidence closet?”

“Not really,” I wiped my eyes. They itched as my tears dried. “The evidence closet is in the criminal clerks’ office, and it has its own electronic lock activated by a keypad. Only the clerks have the code, but anyone requiring access to the closet can ask to have it opened. They keep a log sheet inside to record what goes in and out.”

“Have you ever asked for entry?”

“Sure. The transcripts court reporters provide are the official record. Part of our job is to review the evidence and make sure we’ve properly identified all the marked exhibits.”

“Okay. But if you’re the official record, why does the court reporters’ office have its own keycard access? Aren’t trial transcripts part of the public record?”

“Yes, but we’re not a lending library.” I gripped the sides of my chair and searched for the best way to explain without getting defensive. People never grasped a court reporter’s dual role and often challenged the idea. “Even though we’re state employees tasked to capture court proceedings and guard the record, transcripts aren’t created unless requested. Producing one is a separate billing process.”

“Let me get this straight.” He massaged his temples. “If someone wants a copy of the trial transcript, they have to pay for it?”

“Right. We’re independent contractors in that respect. The materials used to create each transcript—steno machines, laptops, printing supplies—come out of our pockets. Transcript fees defray those costs. Basically, our door is locked to protect our investments.”

“Fine.” He sighed and reached for his blazer, pulled out a business card, and slapped it on the table. “Put me down for a copy of the Mulligan trial.”

By the time I finished with the detective and gathered my equipment from the courtroom, it was five, a solid hour past closing time. Dimmed lights and empty halls triumphed over the day’s chaos. Finally, I was alone and grateful for the silence. As I walked toward the court reporters’ office, misery pressed against my heart and zapped all of my energy. What little pep I had left went to juggling the tiny steno machine and laptop, which I almost dropped as I stumbled through the office door.

The shared space had only one window that bathed the room in the sepia haze of the setting sun. The waning light made our three workstations look like an abandoned maze. The sharp right angles of each L-shaped desk cast long shadows across the floor. I switched on the overhead fluorescents to spoil the illusion and carried my equipment to the far-left corner where I stored them away.

The papers on my desk beckoned to me, but I ignored the call of responsibility and headed for the door with my leather jacket, my messenger bag slung across my back. As I locked the door, I checked the mailbox mounted outside our office and noticed a letter with my name on it.

I grabbed the envelope, pressed my back against the door, and ripped the letter open on the spot. After all, it could have been a check. What I found, though, was much more valuable than money—a recommendation letter from Ms. Freddie for law school.

Ma had spent most of my adulthood trying to persuade me to apply to law school. Over the summer, due to a do-it-or-move-out-of-my-house ultimatum from my mom, Ms. Freddie helped me start the arduous process of studying for the LSAT. I was reluctant because I didn’t think my reserved nature was suitable for work as an attorney, but both women insisted my aptitude for analysis and logical thinking was too impressive to ignore. Ms. Freddie promised if I didn’t score well on the test, she’d convince Ma to let her dream go.

To no one’s surprise but mine, my score was nearly perfect, 179. Ms. Freddie had recommended a ton of law schools and insisted I use her as a reference. I had no idea she’d already written a letter.

I slid to the floor with the folded piece of fine linen paper clutched in my hand. Tears streamed down my face and fell onto the page, leaving translucent splotches on the final words to me from my fallen friend.

CHAPTER 6

“Ma, I’m home!”

I stood in the doorway of our two-story colonial and waited for an answer. We lived a mile and a half west of the courthouse off Route 9 in the part of Bickerton farthest from the beach. Ma despised the raised prices and clogged streets that plagued the seaside, so she was happy to oblige my desire to stay as far away from the ocean as possible. Trident County’s coastline boasted the cleanest water and best boardwalks on the eastern seaboard, so it wasn’t uncommon for tourists to descend upon our tiny town and balloon the population from 3,000 to 33,000 during the summer. This meant our secluded four-bedroom wasn’t as fancy as the homes closer to the water, but we had room to spread out.

I raised my voice to a holler in case my mother was in her office upstairs. “Ma, I need to talk to you.”

Nothing but the hum of the refrigerator in response, so I kicked off my pumps and sank my toes into the carpet. The plush fabric cradled my feet and provided a small sense of comfort.

My mother, Corinne Justice, was rarely home before dark. During her forty-four years as an employee of the Trident County School System—twenty-three years as an English teacher, sixteen years as a guidance counselor, and five years as an elementary school principal—she’d earned a master’s degree, adopted me, and obtained a doctorate in education, all while directing the church choir and presiding over her Kappa Mu chapter.

She’d recently retired, but decided to pursue politics by running for mayor of our humble hamlet. With Election Day less than twelve hours away, I figured she could still be on the campaign trail.

“Back here, Angel.” Ma shouted to my surprise. The volume of her voice made it clear she was sitting on the sun porch. “I came home as soon as I heard about Freddie.”

“How’d you hear?” I hurried across the family room and through the kitchen to the open sliding glass door.

Ma sat cross-legged on a cushioned chaise with the cordless in one hand and a bottle of Moscato in the other. A heavy knit blanket draped across her shoulders. She wore a navy-blue dress suit with an American flag pin clipped to her lapel. Smears of plum lipstick and heavy black mascara stained her sienna skin from where she’d rubbed at tears and a leaky nose. Her tawny pageboy, which was usually flawless, was in disarray from where she’d tugged at the ends.

“WSYS already picked up the story. I saw it on the four o’clock news.” She took a sip of sweet liquid courage straight from the bottle. “They said a courthouse employee found Freddie murdered sometime around noon and the small window of opportunity points to a suspect who works in the building.” She yanked a strand of her hair and twisted it around her index finger. “Grace called about twenty minutes ago and asked if you were okay because you didn’t answer your cell. She told me you found Freddie. Is it true?” Her bloodshot eyes watered as she waited for my answer.

I knitted my brows in quiet confirmation and sat on the floorboards beside her lounge chair. “Grace shouldn’t have told you.”

“Oh, no.” Thick droplets fell from her eyes. “Was it bad?”

I didn’t answer.

“Call in sick tomorrow. I don’t want you going back there with a killer on the loose.”

“Ma—”

“Do not argue with me, Victoria. You can’t possibly be safe in a place where a judge is murdered under the nose of the law. I will not put my only child at risk.”

I picked at the hardwood floor to hide my disappointment. Ma had always been overprotective—even before Langley’s attempt on my life…although that issue intensified things.

In answer to my silence, Ma reached out and lifted my chin. “I am yours, you are mine, and together we’ll be fine.”

Her favorite saying. One she uttered whenever I questioned her love for me, which had happened daily after I learned of my adoption. She broke the news just as I skipped over middle school and entered high school hell. Ma always used the phrase to remind me how she chose me, despite the odds. After losing her parents to old age, she decided at the age of forty to build a new family and took the risk of adopting from a pregnant teen hooked on drugs.

She could have been signing up for a host of problems, but I came out healthy—a victory, a Victoria—so she was determined to raise me in the most pristine environment possible. Some of her methods were sensible, like no dating until sixteen. But most of them, like insisting I get off the bus at a daycare center even though I was fifteen and a senior in high school, were…extreme.

This request fell into the latter category.

“Ma, I’m going to work tomorrow.” I shoved my hand into my bag and handed her the letter. “I don’t think Ms. Freddie would have wanted me to sit around and mope.”

“‘In life we are given two choices,’” Ma read aloud from the opening paragraph, “‘rise up or fall by the wayside. Victoria has chosen the third option—the one rarely spoken of due to its inherent difficulty—rise above and forge your own path.’”

Ma held the letter against her heart, exhaled, and took another generous swig from her wine bottle. “I get it. You’re old enough to know what’s best for you.” She handed the paper back to me and slouched against the cushions of the chaise. “But I think you should give a copy of that letter to Russell. I’ve been trying to get him on the phone to see if there’s anything we can do for him, but I can’t get through. If he picks up this time, offer your condolences. Read him the letter. He may find solace in those words.”

Ma dialed and handed me the cordless. Her puffy eyes mirrored the same dull sorrow that gnawed at my soul. I clicked off the phone, placed it on the floor, and climbed onto the chaise beside her. She needed my comfort just as much as Mr. Russell did. Besides, I couldn’t talk to Ms. Freddie’s husband. The truth of the matter was his wife’s death was gruesome, foul, and undeserved. I wouldn’t be the one to remind him of that.

I spread out Ma’s knit blanket, and we huddled beneath its scratchy folds. She nursed her Moscato while the day’s events rolled over in my mind.

“Did the newscast mention this all started with Langley Dean’s drug trial?”

Ma froze mid-swallow with the bottle still tucked between her lips.

Even though I wore the physical scars of Langley’s wrath, Ma bore the mental ones. When they rushed me to the emergency room after the incident, the thought of losing her only child enraged her. She had gone after Langley with everything she had.

Despite numerous protests to Bickerton High’s principal, the Trident County School Board, and the Bickerton Police, she was never able to press charges because no one had witnessed Langley push me into the pool. My word was worthless against the head cheerleader and the teammates who’d given her a solid alibi. “Langley was nowhere near the pool. She was serving drinks at the concession stand.”

The county did offer a settlement for medical bills and damages, but Ma had always thought she’d failed to protect me.

“Langley wiggled her way out of felony drug possession today,” I said when Ma didn’t respond. “She threw a pitcher of water at me just as I was trying to leave the courtroom to go meet Ms. Freddie. I’m filing assault and menacing charges, but if I’d gotten away from Langley sooner—if I hadn’t let her get under my skin—maybe I would have been there in time, and the murderer wouldn’t have attacked…”

Ma’s body reanimated at the word “murderer.” She put down the bottle, swung her chubby legs over the edge of the chaise, and turned to face me.

“Don’t you blame yourself, Angel. I love Freddie. I want her back just as much as you do, but don’t put yourself through the agony of thinking you could have stopped it. You’re not responsible. Blaming yourself is not going to change things.” Tears fell from her eyes again. She pulled me into her arms. “Everyone in this community loved Freddie. Believe me, justice will be swift.”

For both our sakes, I hoped she was right.

CHAPTER 7

Getting up the next morning was rough. Pain lit across my body like wildfire—a torturous dread so intense my bones ached. The thought of going to work without Ms. Freddie left me hollow.

I curled up in the middle of my queen-size bed, the downy fabric of the comforter pulled up over my nose, while sunlight streaked across the headboard and obliterated all chances of sleep. I rolled from the mattress onto the carpet to shield myself from the rays and listened to Ma in the next room. She was up at her usual time, 7:00 a.m., but absent were the cheerful songs she usually sang to start the day.

Her silence left me to stare at the walls covered with award-winning essays and plaques from regional Math Maven competitions. Each one prompted a memory of Ms. Freddie coming backstage to offer advice. She became better than Ma at dispensing encouragement because she never treated me like a fragile doll, and she always told me the truth.

Don’t let them underestimate you because of your skin color.

Rise above and forge your own path.

Simple words, but they sparked me to action. I got dressed and made sure her recommendation letter had a prominent place on the wall alongside the other memories.

“Angel?” Ma pushed open the door and leaned into the room. She wore a white version of the fitted Ashley Stewart suit she’d sported the day before. Her lips formed a tight pout.

“If you insist on going to work, hit the polls first. I don’t want you using that as an excuse to miss my results party.” Her mouth softened, and she blew me a kiss. “Just…be careful today. Remember, you’re all I’ve got.”

Sitting in the courthouse parking lot, I pressed an I voted sticker onto my cowl-neck sweater and mentally prepared for my first day of work without Ms. Freddie.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

My head snapped toward the sound.

Grace Tisdale stood at the passenger window, her fist poised to pound on the glass again. “Let me in.”

I hit the power locks, and she climbed inside.

The seat creaked as she shifted to make room for her gun belt. “You can’t go in that way.”

“What?”

“I was hoping you’d get here a little earlier when there were only a few of them, but now there’s no way you’re getting inside the courthouse without a hassle.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The press. They’ve been badgering everyone who goes in the building. They’ve latched onto this theory that a courthouse employee committed the judge’s murder.” She peered out the windshield like she thought people were watching us. “I asked Capitol Police—you know, Jim and those guys who do perimeter security for all the state facilities—to hang around out back a bit and keep the reporters off the workers, but all the nosey buzzards do is wander around the parking lot and come right back.”

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting? We have media around here all the time.”

“Don’t you think you’re underreacting based on what happened here yesterday?”

I frowned. She had a point, but the concept of the courthouse as a dangerous place wasn’t something I wanted to consider.

“I appreciate the warning, but I’m pretty sure I can ignore a few desperate reporters.” I put my hand on the door latch.

Grace reached over to stop me. “Do me a favor. Come around to the side of the building. We can use the judges’ entrance. The media hasn’t discovered that doorway yet.”

I studied her for a moment. Despite the twenty-year age difference, Grace and I had formed a strong friendship inside and outside the courthouse because we didn’t play the catty mind games so frequently displayed by our female coworkers.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I asked. “You’re not seriously buying into their killer employee theory, are you?”

“Magistrate Murderer is what they’re calling them.” She scratched at the bulletproof vest that bulged under her long-sleeved polyester uniform. “Maybe. Even the worst rumors start with a grain of truth. But even if it isn’t true, do you want to spend your morning answering questions about it?”

“You’re right.” I grabbed my shoulder bag. “Lead the way.”

We stepped out of the Mustang and headed straight for the sidewalk that ran parallel to the rear of the parking lot. Thanks to my stop at the polls, I’d had to park about as far from the employee entrance as one could park without using one of the meters on Merchant Street. From our vantage point, we could see the entire intricate puzzle that was the back of the courthouse.

Eight columns of cars stretched out from the rear of the structure. On one side, York Road flanked the building. This area marked the street entrance people used when called to jury duty. There weren’t any people standing on the sidewalk by that entrance. No trials. The other side marked our destination and bordered the rear of the County Administration Building on Bickerton Boulevard.

At the head of the parking lot lay a gated loading bay and the half-glass double doors of the employee entrance. An army of reporters and four mobile camera crews milled about, blocking our safe passage.

Grace held up her hand for me to wait while she took a moment to speak into the walkie-talkie mic attached to the shoulder of her uniform.

“Tango Charlie Delta one two zero six, do you copy?”

Static popped on the mic and a raspy male voice sounded. “Copy.”

“Pull out the van. I’m trying to deliver a package. Over.”

“Roger that.”

No sooner than Grace’s mic went silent, a large blue and white striped van, with metal mesh lining the windows and the official Delaware State seal decorating the sides, backed out of the heavily gated loading bay that Trident County’s Corrections Department used to transport inmates between the prison and the courthouse. The sea of reporters I’d spotted earlier reluctantly parted to make room for the vehicle.

“Let’s go,” Grace said once the diversionary tactic had been set into motion.

We raced our way to the far side of the courthouse—the portion closest to The Quad, where the sides of the County Administration Building and the Superior Court facilities met at a right angle to create a small area recessed from the parking lot. Prominent town officials parked their cars in this area, which marked the super-secret location of the side door our judges used to enter the courthouse from the street.

Ms. Freddie’s empty parking space caught my eye as we dashed toward a nondescript navy-blue door at the side of the building. I broke pace as my thoughts drifted toward the judge’s fate, but I soon snapped back to reality at the sound of my name.

“Victoria, is it true you found Judge Wannamaker’s body?”

“Ms. Justice, is there a message you’d like to send the Magistrate Murderer?”

“Is there anything you can share with us about the crime scene?”

One moment of hesitation was all it took for the media to spot us and attack. The shock of the sudden onslaught turned my legs to lead. Grace gripped my wrist, dragged me the last few feet toward the door, and hauled me over its threshold. A violent slam and the click of the lock blocked out the voices that assaulted us.

Once I caught my breath, I turned to Grace, “How did they get my name?”

“Not from me. I’m a vault. You know this,” Grace said over her shoulder as she swiped through a second door that led us out of the claustrophobic antechamber into a stark white hallway with dingy blue industrial carpet. I’d never been through the judges’ entrance, but it was no more glamorous than the regular one.

“I suppose they could have gotten your name from anyone who came to work today. Half of those reporters have been here since I drove up at seven to meet Detective Daniels. He came by early to collect all the keycard records and surveillance footage I pulled from Courtroom Four last night. When he left, the parking lot was full of those vultures.”

“Did you get a chance to look at any of the footage?”

“Nope. Just pulled and packaged it. I was too wiped to go pouring through video feed. That’s his job. He knew exactly what he was looking for. His request was pretty specific.”

We were both silent as we walked the private hallway that ran behind chambers and the four courtrooms. Once we arrived at the two doors that marked the end of the hall, Grace used her keycard to buzz open the exit-only door that led to the antechamber of the employee entrance. She held it open for me. “They’ve cordoned off the kitchen for the next couple of days, so I have to send you this way.”

“Right. I couldn’t handle walking through there anyhow.” I hung my head. “Thanks for this. You didn’t have to—”

“I did, and I’m sorry you had to experience that out there. Judge Wannamaker deserves more respect than they’re giving her. She was a decent person. We started here at about the same time, and she never questioned my ability to do a man’s job.” Grace clapped me on the back so hard I had to shift the weight of my shoulder bag to accommodate the force. “I miss her too. Keep your head up. Maybe we’ll all learn something from this tragedy.”

CHAPTER 8

No trials meant my day started at 9:00. Despite a trip to the polls and a run-in with the press, I swiped into the office with six minutes to spare.

“I didn’t expect to see you today.” Candace Fontaine, my supervisor and the courthouse’s chief court reporter, rummaged through the filing cabinets near the window.

Candace was fiftyish and plump with strawberry blonde hair, flat features, and wire-rimmed glasses. She was the annoyingly perky kind of person who signed her name with a smiley face and loved the color pink, but Candace’s enthusiasm was sincere.

“You must have had a difficult night.” She gave me a dour look with drawn brows, which I assumed was her version of sympathy. “I waited for you after work, but those detectives kept you forever. How are you making out?”

“Not great, but being here is better than stewing at home. Work will help. Thanks for asking, though.” I lifted my chin and moved farther into the cramped space. “Morning, James.”

My coworker replied with a preoccupied nod. James Brandenkamp was busy scoping—changing untranslated steno into English when the computer failed to do so—the constant pastime of the busy court reporter. Candi once considered hiring a dedicated scopist so we could outsource the work, but nobody wanted to give up part of his or her earnings.

I flopped into the swivel chair behind my desk, slid off my coat, dropped my messenger bag on the floor, and pulled out my laptop from the bottom drawer as was my normal routine. I wasn’t crazy about preparing the transcript from Langley Mulligan’s trial, but it was the only project on my to-do pile, and the requests were mounting. Aside from the moot one from Ms. Freddie, I already had interest from Harriston and Detective Daniels. Plus, Candi had placed a transcript request from Stevenson on my desk, along with an order from The Bickerton Bugle. Dang it. A press copy would surely add more fuel to the fire already brewing outside.

“Eyes up, everyone.” We both turned an ear toward Candi, although James never stopped typing. “Before you get too busy, let’s divvy up the work on today’s calendar. We only have two proceedings today. Victoria, you were in that—that, uh—trial yesterday, so you take your pick.”

This was why I loved Candi. Because of everything that happened, she wanted me to choose first, which allowed me to decline without ticking off James. Well played, Candi.

“Do you mind if I pass on this one? One of the things Detective Daniels asked for last night was a copy of the transcript from the Mulligan trial. I’d like to work on it so I can get copies out today, if possible. That is, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s fine,” Candi chirped before James could open his mouth to protest. “That leaves case review with Judge Radnor or the 11:00 a.m. office conference with Maddox. Pick your poison, James.”

I grabbed the papers Candi had piled on my desk the night before and shuffled through them while James worked out the math. On the heels of Candi’s gung-ho attitude, James would look lazy selecting the office conference, which wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. But if he chose case review, he’d be in court all afternoon and wouldn’t be able to whittle away the hours on Instagram.

Candi drummed her magenta fingernails on the desk when James failed to reply. He was about to miss his window of opportunity.

“I’ll take case review?” James said with a note of uncertainty in his voice.

Staying in Candi’s good graces had won out. A fine choice.

I sat around for the next two hours and scoped my transcript while the others waited for their call to court.

At 10:55 a.m., Grace swung open the door and stuck her head inside. “We need a court reporter for the office conference in chambers.”

“That’s me.” Candi collapsed the tripod of her fuchsia steno machine and hurried out.

Ten seconds after the door closed, Maggie buzzed her way into the room. She promptly positioned herself behind Candi’s desk so she sat across the aisle from James. I don’t know how Maggie managed to arrive the exact moment Candi departed, but it happened every day with the same precision. Best I could figure, James was texting Maggie for scheduled visits with the hope of hiding his slackerly indulgence from Candi.

However, I wasn’t given the same courtesy. The right side of my L-shaped desk abutted James’s. No matter where I chose to work, I’d always have a front row seat to their flirtation flybys. I busied myself with the task of printing and collating pages for the Mulligan transcript. I needed an original and four copies for distribution.

“Can you believe those reporters outside? It’s insane,” Maggie said to James in her thick drawl that hung in the air long after she stopped speaking.

She leaned over the desk, letting the mounds of her bosom bulge out of the tight V-neck T-shirt she wore underneath her bolero jacket. Maggie should have been ashamed. James was spitting distance from the legal drinking age. She had at least a decade on him.

“I know, right?” James said. “Grace was telling me Capitol Police are in the process of rethinking the entire security system to make sure nothing like this happens again. I told her they should close down the courthouse while they do it.”

“I was thinking the same thing. I mean, first, I have to stand by and watch the State Police rummage through our evidence closet and seize half its contents. Then I spend all night answering a bunch of questions from some pushy detective. I could definitely use a few days off to recover. I’m traumatized.”

Maggie was always prone to theatrics, but this last bit of overstatement piqued my interest. Time to join the conversation.

“They questioned you, too?” I asked. “Who’d you talk to?”

“A real crotchety fella named Dan—Danny—Daniels?” Maggie struggled.

I couldn’t tell if her attempts were real or manufactured.

“Detective Daniels?” James asked. “Hey, isn’t that the same guy you had, Victoria?”

“Sure was. He seemed pretty reasonable to me.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t have to answer a slew of silly questions about the trial evidence or where you went during the recess. Everybody knows you were sitting in a corner somewhere fiddling on that funny little machine of yours.” Maggie giggled and winked at James.

I ignored their love fest and shoved pages into the three-pronged report covers that would bind my transcripts. “Couldn’t have been too traumatizing, Maggs, or you wouldn’t be falling all over yourself trying to tell us everything.”

“I’m getting there, darlin’, but I’m having trouble concentrating.” She gave James a coquettish smile and toyed with a strand of hair that had fallen from her bouffant. “You know, the odd thing is he kept asking me over and over whether or not I’d seen anyone walking around in the kitchen—which is a dumb question because everybody goes to the kitchen during recess to get coffee and snacks and whatnot. I even saw that hot cop and Phyllis Dodd heading back there at one point.”

James was slowly nodding his curly red head, but I wasn’t sure if he was agreeing with Maggie or admiring the rise and fall of her breasts as she spoke.

Maggie droned on, “That was obviously a trick question designed to catch me in a lie.”

“Obviously,” Yup, James was enjoying the free show.

“Then he asked what I did during the break. I told him I was helping Mr. Stevenson, who’d insisted on following me into the clerk’s office to make sure we had a proper safety system in place for storing evidence. I agreed because I couldn’t have my office blamed for missing evidence after that stunt you and the corporal tried to pull.” Maggie spun her chair to face me.

“Oh, no.” James’s voice came out dazed. Maggie had removed her chest from his view.

“What stunt?” I paused my work to bore straight into her eyes. “Are you saying the tampering he found on the evidence envelope was a stunt? Corporal North was trying to help—”

“Well,” she drawled, “Mr. Stevenson didn’t seem to think it was helpful or polite that Corporal North told you and not him. He was on his phone in a heartbeat calling the State Police about North. I would have hung around and gathered an earful, but I had to run back to the courtroom to talk with Mr. Harriston about his—”

“Maggs, none of this sounds stressful, and I can’t imagine you didn’t have fun telling Detective Daniels every detail.” I inclined my head toward my coworker. “You definitely managed to make things entertaining for James.”

James jumped to attention and averted his gaze from Maggie’s chest, but his incoherent response and the scarlet hue of his normally paper white skin made it clear he hadn’t been listening.

“Now, I hate to play the ace in a game of misery poker, but I had to spend my evening rehashing a friend’s death,” I said.

Maggie avoided my gaze, so I stared at James until he pulled himself together.

“Someone we loved died within the walls of our workplace. I think that’s worth us enduring any inconveniences that might come our way. You don’t see me complaining.”

“Oh, hush up. I know you’re used to walking on water around here, but you’d be well advised to keep that self-righteous attitude to yourself now.” Maggie’s comely features formed the same flirtatious smile she’d given James earlier, but the pleasantness didn’t reach her eyes—those clouded over with something wrathful.

“Ain’t nobody saying they don’t feel bad about what happened,” she cooed. “I was just trying to make a point about how my integrity is being called into question, but here you come, as usual, trying to steal the spotlight by flashing around your relationship with the judge.”

“Really, Maggs? You’re quibbling over friendships?” My voice grew taut to cover my frustration. If anything, I’d always downplayed my relationship with Ms. Freddie to avoid reactions like hers. “Judge Wannamaker loved all of us and treated everyone here as her equal. We should be willing to do whatever it takes, regardless of the consequences, to help the police figure out what happened and why.”

I swiveled my chair away from her in an attempt to end the conversation and resume binding pages, but her words stopped me.

“Easy for you to say, Little Miss First on the Scene.” She didn’t raise her voice, but the timbre carried enough bravado that James gasped.

“What’s that supposed to mean? How did you know I found—” I gaped at Maggie and James, who was sitting in a desk chair between us.

Surely, he could see the storm brewing and would jump in to back me up. But no. He poked out his lips like a nervous duck and rolled himself out of the line of fire.

“Darling, I’m just saying maybe you should take a good hard look at yourself because you’re not the innocent lamb you claim to be. I wouldn’t try to play that pity card if I were you.”

My jaw tightened as my anger swelled. “Where do you come off telling me how to behave?”

At that moment, the door to the office flew open, and Candi backed her way into the room. Her hands were full with two thick files and her steno machine.

Maggie must have seen this as an opportunity to make me look bad in front of my supervisor because she jumped to her feet, ramped up the sweetness, and poured on the drama. “I’m just saying. You were the only one in there with the judge’s body. Folks might take that the wrong way…or at least that’s how those news reporters wanted to spin things when I was out there with them this morning.”

I was speechless.

But, to my surprise, James was the one who spoke for me. “You’ve crossed the line, Maggie.” The bass in his voice meant business. “I think you need to leave.”

Maggie shimmied her shoulders at James and shot me a priggish pout. I fired a look of contempt back at her and remained frozen in my seat until she was out the door.

An antsy quietness descended as if we were all waiting for the room to decompress.

Candi stood in the middle of the office juggling her things. She looked from me to the door to James. “You know what? I totally didn’t mean to pick up these files.” She put down her steno machine and hit herself in the forehead like a ditz. “Could you return them, please? Thanks.”

James shuffled toward her and reached for the folders.

“The top one goes to the civil unit and the other goes back to the criminal file room.”

She was being diplomatic again, and this time James had to have known it. I turned to stare at the file cabinet and fax machine by the window. I wanted to hide my face for fear it would betray my relief for the rescue and my embarrassment for needing it.

“Do people really think I had something to do with all this?”