“Can you tell us what Mr. Bauer is giving you here?”
Browne squinted at the next picture. He shook his head. “It appears to be a paper bag and an envelope.”
“Is it the same brown paper bag that you took into the apartment when you conducted the search?”
“No.” He scoffed. He knew that Hunter didn’t have more evidence than the picture, or he would have introduced it already. “Of course not.”
“So then, please tell the court what was in this paper bag, the one that Lucas Bauer gave you?”
“Objection.” Law slammed her fist down onto the table. “Immaterial! There simply isn’t enough of an established connection to this case!”
“I would argue that there clearly is a connection.” Hunter put forward his case to the judge. “We have a prosecution witness exchanging an envelope with the lead detective. That, in the very least, is worth exploring.”
“I’m inclined to agree with the defense on this one. The objection is overruled,” Judge Lockett said.
“It was simply a letter thanking me for my service, and in the paper bag was a bunch of home-made cookies that Mr. Bauer’s wife had made for me,” Browne lied. “Nothing to do with this case.”
“And where is that letter now? I don’t think I saw it in the evidence.”
“It was nothing to do with this case, so I threw it out.” He looked to the jury and laughed. They didn’t join him. “No offense to Mr. Bauer, of course.”
Hunter tapped his pen on the edge of his notepad.
“Detective Browne, did Mr. Anderson say anything when you presented the necklace to him?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he say?”
Browne groaned. “That he was innocent.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“And what was that?”
Browne paused and sighed, adjusting his tie. “He said that it was a setup. He said that he had never seen the necklace before.”
“Did he make a statement about who the necklace belonged to?”
Browne frowned and drew a long breath. “He claimed that I must’ve planted the necklace.”
“Did he? Why would he say that?”
His voice rose with anger. “A lot of criminals say that. We hear it all the time!”
“When you presented the evidence to Mr. Anderson, he stated directly that he had never seen the necklace before, and it was a setup. Is that correct?”
“That’s what he said.” He looked away.
“That’s very interesting, Detective Browne.” Hunter wrote more notes on his pad. He paused until juror eleven, and then juror five, nodded. “No further questions.”
CHAPTER 36
After a long afternoon of expert scientific witness after expert scientific witness, the jury looked like they wanted to run out of the courtroom and never return. Law may have had impressive moments, moments to convince the jury, but they were almost lost amongst the sea of boredom.
The last witness of the day, the expert crime scene analyst, painstakingly took the court through the details of his report seemingly word by word, and even Anderson looked like he was struggling to stay awake.
“How’d we do?” Anderson was desperate for good news. He had waited until the prosecution team exited the court, with his supporters not far behind them. “Tell me we did well. I felt like we did well. I thought you did well out there.”
“We’re doing fine.” Hunter’s answer was cold as he packed up his briefcase. Esther waited by the door, as did Hunter’s investigator, Ray Jones.
“Fine? What does that mean? Are we in front? Do you think that the jury knows I’m innocent yet?” Anderson tugged on Hunter’s sleeve. “I need more information than ‘fine’. I need to know that in five days’ time, I’m going to be found innocent.”
Hunter turned slowly and looked at Anderson, staring at the other man’s hand. Anderson let go of the suit sleeve, and then patted it down, ensuring it wasn’t crinkled.
“All this courtroom drama is over my head. It’s all about the law, whether this or that matches what’s written in a book; it’s not about whether I’m actually innocent.” Amos was frantic. “You seem more concerned with the way something is written on a piece of paper than whether or not I committed the murder.”
“Amos—”
“You don’t understand, Tex. I help people out here. It’s my life’s purpose. I can make a difference in many people’s lives. Out here, I’m somebody’s angel. They look to me to save them. In prison, I’ll be another criminal, just another felon, and I don’t know if I can make it through. I wouldn’t even know what to do. I can’t fight. I can’t save myself.”
“Then let’s hope the jury loves you.”
“How strange this feeling is.” Anderson rubbed his hair repeatedly. “I have all this emotion, all this fear, all these worries inside me, but to you, it just comes out as words. All you hear are sentences because I can’t tell you how much this hurts.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. “What are we going to do?”
“You should focus on getting some rest,” Hunter said. “I’ve got work to do to prepare for tomorrow.”
Hunter looked down at his notes and studied them for a while before closing his briefcase. Amos hadn’t left. He couldn’t. He needed more information.
“Tex.” Esther tapped him on the shoulder. “I was given this on the way out. There’s a new witness that has just agreed to testify, and the prosecution is going to apply to add him to the list tomorrow morning. Here’s their witness statement, and you’re going to need to look at this.”
She handed him a piece of paper, and he read the first line.
His head went back, and he stared at the ceiling.
“What’s wrong?” Anderson pleaded.
“Lucas Bauer is on the stand first thing tomorrow morning, and Reverend Darcy is the third on the list.”
“But we knew that.”
“We did,” Hunter agreed. “But it’s the new witness, the second witness of the day, that’s going to cause us trouble.”
“We could call for an extension, more time to prepare for this witness?” Esther suggested, the files held tightly against her chest. “You could argue that it’s too late to add them to the list.”
“I don’t think that’ll help. This witness will change his story at any time to suit himself.”
Anderson squinted, and then looked at the piece of paper that Hunter put on the table. “But what could they know about the case?”
“I don’t think that’s the right question.”
“What is then?”
“The right question is: What have they been caught doing?” Jones walked up to them. “I’ve had a word with an informant on the phone. Word is that they’ve agreed to testify against Anderson in exchange for a deal with the prosecution. They were found yesterday and arrested.”
Hunter turned around. “What for?”
“Weapons charges. They were caught with unsecured weapons in their vans in a routine traffic stop.” Jones stepped through the bar, the gate separating the public gallery from the courtroom well, and leaned against the prosecution’s table, ignoring the stare of the bailiff.
“But what could they possibly say?” Amos questioned. “What are they going to testify about?”
“He wants a soapbox.” Hunter closed his briefcase. “Chuck Johnson will say anything that will help his cause.”
CHAPTER 37
Hunter had barely stepped out of his office, into the winter wind, when he saw the man charging towards him. There was anger in the man’s movements; his tight shoulders, the scowl on his face, his clenched fists.
Hunter wasn’t worried. He was big enough and skilled enough to take out most people. And he knew that his investigator, Ray Jones, was only a few steps behind him.
Ray could sort most things out—no matter the size of the opponent.
“Chuck Johnson,” Hunter stated as the man stepped up to him. “What a pleasant
surprise. I’ve only just finished reading your witness statement.”
“I’ll give you a surprise.” Chuck waved his fist. “This one. I’ll punch you.”
“Talking about it ruined the surprise.” Hunter stepped forward, staring down at the man. “And I’d be surprised if you tried to use that fist on me.”
Chuck Johnson looked up at Hunter, then stepped back. Chuck was wearing a sweater that had seen more winters than his daughter, and his jeans were loose and covered in oil. On the busy street, ten minutes to 8 p.m., he looked homeless as well-dressed office workers started to make their way home for the day.
People pushed past Chuck, unaware that a racist was in their midst. Some turned their nose up at the smell of the unwashed clothes, others were too immune to that part of city life.
“I won’t have to use my fists. My brother will. He’ll take you. He’s a former state champion boxer.”
“I’m sure he is,” Hunter responded.
“I’ve come to warn you, lawyer boy.” Chuck pointed his finger at Hunter’s chest. “I’m on the stand tomorrow, and you don’t get to play your games with me. I don’t want any funny business.”
“You don’t like jokes?”
“Don’t patronize me. You don’t want to mess with me.” Chuck grunted. “I’m a dangerous man. I’ve got supporters. I can make things happen.”
“You’re all talk, Chuck.” Hunter began to walk away.
“I mightn’t talk your talk.” The street lights highlighted Chuck’s smile as he walked next to Hunter. “But that lawyer will. She can talk the talk.”
The statement caught Hunter off guard. He stopped.
Chuck was too confident. Too poised.
Something wasn’t right.
“The prosecutor?”
“You’ve got no idea, do you?” Chuck laughed, hand on his stomach. He shook his head as if the joke was clear to everyone. “I’m really going to enjoy tomorrow. You’ll get what’s coming to you.”
“What are you talking about?” Hunter stepped forward again. Chuck barely came up to his shoulders, and his eyes were staring at Hunter’s broad chest. “What are you planning to say?”
“Whatever I want.”
Hunter leaned down, gritting his teeth. “You’ll be under oath. If you say something false, you’ll be charged with perjury.”
The pressure was building, and Hunter wanted to be there when it detonated.
“I don’t care about your oath. Those words mean nothing to me. Nothing! I’ll be on that stand, and I’ll lie through my teeth. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again. Your lawyer talk doesn’t mean anything to me. I’ll say whatever is in my best interest.”
“I will pounce on you if your story changes at any point during the testimony. If I even get a sniff that something is wrong or misplaced, then I’ll attack you. And Caylee… well, maybe I’ll subpoena Caylee to the stand.”
“You leave my daughter alone.” His voice went soft. It was the first time Hunter saw real fear in Chuck’s eyes. “She’s an innocent angel.”
A cold silence drifted over them.
As soon as he heard that Chuck was going to be on the stand the next day, Hunter had been thinking about the leverage he needed to break him, the information he needed to twist Chuck into telling the truth.
And now he had it.
As he stood over Chuck, he felt a large hand on his shoulder.
“Everything fine here?” Ray Jones stood tall next to his friend.
Chuck Johnson took another step back. It wasn’t the size of the man that shocked him; it was the man’s skin color. “He works for you?”
Neither man offered a response.
“Like a slave, I guess.”
Jones jumped forward, but Hunter held out his arm.
“Not yet, Ray. We’ll get our chance, but it’s not now.”
Jones stared at Chuck Johnson, whose smile was as infuriating as it was smug. Jones chewed on his gum, not taking his eyes off Chuck, his heart pounding against the walls of his massive chest.
He lived for these moments.
Moments when he could defend his people; moments when he could reject the notion of racism.
“I promise, Ray.” Hunter moved between him and Chuck. “I promise that you’ll get your chance but beating up a prosecution’s witness is not going to look good for anyone.”
“My brother could take you, boy.” Chuck spat on the sidewalk. “He’s a boxer.”
Every muscle in Jones’ body clenched.
“Not now, Ray. Not today.” Hunter had to physically restrain him.
“Ha!” Chuck Johnson, full of hateful pride, turned and began to walk away, laughing as he went. “Burt would beat you up. He’s a boxer!” he called over his shoulder.
The blood pumped through Jones’ veins, but he knew this wasn’t the time. It wasn’t the place to beat up Chuck Johnson.
And he also knew his time would come.
CHAPTER 38
The walk from the bar to the train station was short.
And that was the way Ray Jones liked it.
He felt the strong pull to stop for three pints of lager after his “chat” with Chuck Johnson. Even more so than his racism, Chuck had an air of psychotic danger surrounding him. He was as ruthless as he was racist. That made Jones feel uneasy.
Jones had experienced racism a lot in his life.
He grew up in South L.A., where most of his friends became drugs dealers, prostitutes, or addicts; sometimes all three. His father was imprisoned for murder when he was twelve, and his mother died from a drug overdose when he was fifteen. As a teenager, when he should have been focusing on school, he was left to fend for himself. He turned to what most people in his neighborhood did for money—stealing from the rich. He broke into numerous homes during his days on the streets, but he was caught one day before his sixteenth birthday, a bag full of stolen jewelry under his arm.
It was then that his uncle called him and said he had work for him in Chicago, and Jones broke free of that life. Uncle Carl told him that if he wanted a good life, he had to work for it. He sent him back to school to complete his high school certificate, and then took him on as a trainee investigator in his private investigator business.
With the skills he had learned on the streets, and with his considerable height and strength, Ray Jones became the perfect investigator. After ten years, his uncle stepped away from the business, moving to the sunny beaches of Florida, and Jones took the reins.
One moment of luck and one moment of family love saved him from a life on the streets.
Jones was waiting at the lights, slightly drunk, thinking about how far he had come in life, when the pedestrian light changed from red to green.
A timeworn truck rumbled up to the intersection.
“Hey,” a voice came from the truck. “You. Boy.”
A wave of anger came over Jones. “What did you say?”
“I called you boy. What are you going to do about it?” Burt Johnson leaped out of the driver’s seat of the truck, the engine still running. Chuck Johnson sat in the passenger seat, a smile stretched across his face.
Burt stood as tall as Jones, but Jones still had a good thirty pounds on him.
And years and years of training.
“You. Boy. I’m talking to you.”
“Don’t call me that.” Jones’ hands came out of his pockets.
Burt leaped forward but was confronted by two quick left jabs from Jones.
Followed by a powerful straight right.
That was the one that hurt.
Despite all his training, despite the years in a boxing gym, nothing could have prepared Burt for the anger of Ray Jones.
Burt stumbled back, but then he moved forward again. He crouched right, exactly where Jones thought he would move. Jones’ left hook, powered by the swing of his hips, connected with Burt’s jaw, and he was sent sprawling back onto the hood of the truck.
But Burt had a solid jaw, one that had
been trained over many years too—starting from the days he used to take beatings at the hands of his drunk father. Dazed but not beaten, Burt got back onto his feet, ready to keep fighting. A classic boxer’s pose.
He jabbed left; Jones deflected it with his forearms.
He jabbed again, and this time Jones moved left.
The powerful straight right came from Burt, but it was sloppy, leaving his ribs exposed.
Jones moved his head out of the direction of the punch and landed two quick hooks to Burt’s ribs, followed by another straight right onto Burt’s jaw.
Burt never stood a chance.
He fell to the road, dazed and confused.
Jones waited, ready to keep beating the bigoted man.
“Whoa!” Chuck Johnson jumped between them. “Stop that! Get away!”
Burt climbed to his feet, one hand on his truck, coughing and spitting blood onto the road, and began to make his way back towards Jones.
“No, Burt. Not here!” Chuck pushed him in the ribs. “Get back in the truck!”
“But, Chuck! He hit me!”
“Get back in the truck!” Chuck shouted. “They’ll be done tomorrow!”
“You’re lucky he’s making me go.” Burt pointed his finger at Jones, only slightly restrained by his brother. “Or I would’ve flattened you!”
Chuck ushered his younger brother back into the truck’s driver’s seat, and then raced around to the passenger side.
Cars honked their horns behind them, but Jones didn’t budge.
The engine of the truck revved before Burt rolled down the window and pointed his finger at Jones. “You should watch yourself, boy.”
CHAPTER 39
Caylee Johnson looked around the room.
In the living room was one old sofa, at least twenty years old, and a secondhand armchair they had recently acquired. There were coffee stains on the floor, marks on the walls, and a water stain on the ceiling. The smell was musty, but she liked that smell. It was home. The adjoining kitchen was small, but it did the job. They liked to have the curtains closed during the day; it made it easier to watch television.
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