There was a furious exchange of whispers going on at the prosecution table. The DA was fighting with his co-counsel about something, undoubtedly unhappy over the direction of the cross-ex of their witness. Well, my mama used to say: Tell the truth and shame the devil. I was proud of Doc Thompson for refusing to lie for the DA.
I was letting the doctor’s answer sink in, register with the jury, when I heard the crash.
I could hardly believe my own eyes, but I saw it happen. On theleft side of the gallery, people shrieked and shouted. They jumped from their seats, brushing glass particles from their clothes, shaking them from their hair.
The source of the broken glass came as such a shock. Someone outside the courthouse had thrown a brick through the courtroom window.
CHAPTER
62
I sat at the bench, doing my damnedest to stifle my impatience. The janitorial team was giving the task their best effort. They’d swept the broken glass away, wiped it off the wooden benches. Two men were securing a sheet of plywood where the big pane of glass used to be.
The janitors’ efforts were more commendable than the law enforcement response. Oh, I’d called Sheriff Owens immediately—right after the window was shattered. He’d sent a deputy to follow up. The deputy reported that he talked to the people outside, and many of them speculated about the identity of the troublemaker. People generally agreed that it was a young man. White, wearing a cap or hat of some type, and a KN95 face mask. Pro-lifers thought it was a pro-abortion activist. The Planned Parenthood contingent insisted that the opposite was true. But the deputy couldn’t find any hard evidence. And no one could identify the culprit who threw the brick.
Unbelievable. Everyone on those sidewalks had a cell phone on their person. Those devices contained cameras capable of takingstill photos and video. But we couldn’t run down a picture of the offender.
The door to the courtroom opened and a white teenage boy stepped inside. “When’s court starting up?”
I swung around in my judicial chair, inclined to snap at the intrusion. When I saw the boy in my courtroom, wearing aBCHSfleece shirt, I was confused. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“My journalism teacher sent me over here.”
That sent a jolt of alarm through me. “What on earth for? You’re surely not putting this trial in the school paper.”
That would be horrific for Nova Jones. The middle school also received copies of the school paper.
“No, ma’am.” He glanced around the courtroom, like he was checking it out. “I’m covering the trial for my class project. Can I come in and sit down?”
“No. Not right now.”
My bailiff was sitting in a chair right outside the jury room, guarding the door. I said, “Ross, has the jury finished eating their lunch?”
“Yes, ma’am, Judge. They’re visiting inside the jury room. I can hear it.”
I didn’t intend to let them dawdle; I was impatient to resume the trial proceedings. The stone-thrower who’d interfered with my courtroom by breaking the window was likely feeling triumphant about his misdeeds. “Ross, you and Luna take the jurors to the restrooms. I’m going to let the lawyers know we’ll reconvene in fifteen minutes.”
To the high school kid, I said, “Fifteen minutes. Wait in the hallway with the other spectators.”
I made the calls myself, since Luna was tied up with the jurors. In a quarter of an hour, we were all back in place. I’d hoped thatthe head count in the spectators’ section would be reduced, that the citizens might be inconvenienced by the delay and move along with their lives.
Sad to say, that wasn’t the case. The courtroom was at full capacity, every seat taken. That white boy in the school sweatshirt had found a spot; he managed to squeeze in at the far end of a bench.
Once we were back in trial, the DA called Deputy Wallace Greismer to the stand. After the deputy was sworn in, the DA plucked an exhibit off his counsel table. Something on paper, with multiple letter-sized sheets stapled together.
The DA cleared his throat. The sound served as an alert; it was a nervous tic of his. I edged forward on my seat, wondering what trick he’d try to pull.
The DA said, “Deputy, I’m handing you State’s Exhibit number 9. Can you identify it, please?”
The deputy took the exhibit and briefly leafed through the pages. “It’s a witness statement. Taken from Cocheta Bass.”
Benjamin Meyers was on his feet. “Whoa! This is clearly improper. Your Honor, may we approach?”
“You may.” As Benjamin Meyers and Robert Reeves came to the bench, the court reporter positioned herself so that she could hear the conference.
Benjamin Meyers dropped his voice. “Judge, I suspect the DA is trying to slide a written witness statement from Cocheta Bass into evidence. The late Ms. Bass was a school nurse at the middle school in Union Springs. What Mr. Reeves wants to do is a blatant violation of the hearsay rule. The prosecution has prejudiced my client by even making reference to the document.”
“Mr. Reeves?”
