At Close Range

And, as always, she was instantly responsive, as though she knew what he needed before he did. When it came to sex, this woman was a natural. Or maybe it was the loving that she was getting right.

“I…” Cynthia broke the kiss, her lips parted as she again met his gaze. “Please, no matter what choices I make in Joseph’s best interests, don’t ever, ever forget that I honestly and truly love you.”

That article again. She was struggling to trust him. Considering her past, her marriage to a man who swore to protect her and their son forever and then was unfaithful, he could certainly understand.

“I want you to remember something, too,” he said, his forehead resting against hers.

“What?”

“No matter what choices you have to make, I’ll be there for you. I won’t desert you. Whether you live here or elsewhere, whether you stay with me or not, you have a friend for life. You got that?”

For the first time in the many months he’d known her, Cynthia’s eyes filled with tears.

“The insinuations in that article are lies, babe.” Some words wouldn’t come. These would. “The reporter took a few facts and put a heinous spin on them. I did fight for stronger border laws after Cara’s death. The kid who hit us was an illegal immigrant, had come across the border with his parents when he was a toddler. But I have never received a dime from any of the volunteer work I do, not from SIDS seminars and certainly not from the free clinic. Nor would I ever knowingly harm a child—whether that child was in my care or not.”

“Do you hate Mexicans?” Her voice was uneven, and there were still tears in her eyes as she clutched at his hand.

“Of course not. I didn’t hate illegals, as people, even then. I hated the system that allowed them to live among us without following our laws.” He talked about statistics, real ones, about health-care rights. About school-system dollars spent teaching kids who couldn’t speak English. About below minimum-wage work being offered that took jobs away from those who weren’t allowed to work for less. And about the Emergency Medial Treatment and Active Labor Act that requires all U.S. emergency treatment facilities to treat anyone needing care, including illegals. Which meant that in highly illegally populated areas, centers closed down because they had to treat too many who didn’t pay for services, leaving Americans without care. Or those where American citizens waited in long lines for care—behind illegals. And about safeguards—such as the driver’s test—that were denied to illegal’s because, as far as the government was concerned, these people didn’t exist. And he talked about the money spent every year by the state to prosecute and defend illegal immigrants.

And then, as she lay there silently—his lover who usually had lots to say about politics—Brian changed the subject, telling her about the SIDS program he and Hannah had developed.

If Cynthia needed time to digest the rest, she would have it. An accusation of murder wasn’t a simple thing.

“They say that you shouldn’t lay a baby on its stomach,” Cynthia said. “They say that increases the risk of SIDS. At least, that’s what they told me when I had Joseph.”

“That’s right.”

Cynthia asked a couple more questions. He answered them. And then, when she appeared to be done for the night, repeated, “All of that aside, I want you to know I would never do anything to harm a child. Any child. For any reason.” It was crucial that she understand that, if nothing else.

Her scrutiny wasn’t light. Or easy. But he endured those moments without difficulty. And when she finally nodded, he believed she was satisfied.

4

Susan Campbell stuck her head in Hannah’s door after lunch on Friday. “You ready, Judge?”

Sitting at her desk, wearing the black silk robe of her calling, Hannah nodded and accepted the compassionate smile on the face of her twenty-six-year-old judicial assistant.

She wasn’t ready. How could you ever be ready to do something that was going to anger a large powerful group of thugs—a group known for getting away with unconscionable acts of violence?

Moving with purpose, she left her chambers and looked both ways as she walked into the secure hallway outside her door and stepped toward the back entrance of the courtroom.

Her job was to administer justice. Kenny Hill might be convicted by a jury of vetted American citizens. If that happened, she’d sentence him to prison—and society would be safer.

But he had brothers. Ivory Nation brothers.

“All rise.”

Hannah heard Jaime’s spiel about the Honorable Hannah Montgomery, but barely waited for the bailiff to finish before she took her seat. Her deputy was there—standing at attention with his eyes firmly on the defendant who was seated at the table directly in front of her bench.

Other deputies were there, too, called by the sheriff’s office to oversee this trial.

Only members of the press and the jury were absent—the jury sequestered in another room. They couldn’t be privy to this particular motion lest their judgment be impaired. The press would line the back of the room again as soon as she gave the okay to let them in from the hall.

“Be seated,” Hannah said clearly. Loudly.

She could do her job. She had no doubt about that. She would do it well.

And she would deal with the ensuing exhaustion, the emotional panic that sometimes resulted from days like today.

“We are back on the record with case number CR2008-000351. The State v. Kenneth Hill. Before we bring in the jury, we have a matter before the court concerning new evidence received by the state.”

The benches in the back of her courtroom were filled to capacity. Whether the victim had as many supporters as the defendant did, Hannah couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t think so. She suspected the Ivory Nation ranks had been notified overnight. Was she supposed to consider herself warned? Intimidated?

The defendant’s parents, sitting stiffly in the front row, didn’t seem to know any of the mostly young men around them.

Bobby Donahue, the group’s leader, was not present.

Hannah noted every detail of her surroundings as she held the page she’d written the night before.

“The Court has reviewed the motion to suppress testimony filed by Robert Keith on behalf of the defendant, Kenny Hill, the argument presented by the prosecution, as well as case law pertinent to the matter before us…”

She continued to read, citing case law brought before her during the motion, reminding the defense that it wasn’t within the jurisdiction of trial court to find existing laws unconstitutional. She discussed the Arizona statute about allowing prejudicial evidence, specifically pertaining to cases where evidence pertaining to a previous case is also pertinent to the current one.

In other words, the victim of Kenny Hill’s earlier assault would not be appearing as a victim, but as a witness to the possibility that a certain weapon used in that crime, had caused injuries in this one.

And then, sticking to the plan she’d devised the night before—not to look up from her notes, even once, not to give them anything, any hint that she was human or afraid—she delivered her findings.

“The court has prepared the following rulings,” she said, gaining confidence in herself as her voice remained steady. “It is ordered that the motion to suppress be denied.”

Funny how a room could be filled with negative energy, with savage anger, that emitted not a sound.

The only thing Hannah could hear was the rapid tapping of her court recorder, fifty-year-old Tammy Rhodes. Jaime, the other human being within Hannah’s peripheral vision, was staring down at her desk.

“The state is warned that any mention of a previous conviction for this defendant will result in a mistrial.”

That was it. She’d reached the end of her ruling. Of her notes. There was nothing else to do but look up.

The trial that had already run two days over its time allotment was continued until Monday—the earliest the state’s newly approved witness could be brought in. Which meant that the weight hanging over Hannah would be there all weekend.

She and William had tickets to a concert at Symphony Hall the next night. His son, a student at a private school for the arts, was a guest violinist in one piece and, as William rarely saw the boy, he’d been thrilled to get the invitation. Hannah hoped, as she drove home on Friday, that she’d be able to stay awake. Put her in a comfortable seat, in a dark room with soft music and—

What was that? She saw a pile in the road by her driveway. Driving slowly, Hannah tried to identify the curious shape. Her heart was pounding, but she told herself there was no reason for that.

Some trash had fallen from a dispenser during that morning’s pickup, that was all.

But there was something too familiar about the tan and beige with that streak of black. What had she put in her trash that week? Some kind of packaging maybe.

What had she purchased? Opened? Had she even bought anything new?