He’d worn his dark blue uniform that day and was shackled with both wrists cuffed to the reinforced nylon transport belt around his waist. Yet he carried himself with pride, his shoulders squared and his chin up. He smiled and said something to his guards when he was seated and his cuffs were chained to the table. One guard clapped a hand on Hotrod’s right shoulder, which, to Persia, looked like a show of sympathetic support.
All snapped to attention when the presiding judge, clean-cut Captain Spenser Cole, strode briskly in from a side door and took his place behind the raised bench. Polished wood panels everywhere. Witness box to the left of the judge’s seat. Court reporter at the right of the bench. Jury box to Hotrod’s far right. Two Masters-at-arms, one at each side of the bench. Five witnesses, two Marines, three sailors. Four males, one female Marine. Interestingly, no SEALs were present in the jury box.
That alone raised Persia’s hackles. “According to UCMJ rules, he should’ve been tried by a jury of his peers. I don’t see a single SEAL in that box, do you?”
Hans nodded. “That is true. Keep watching.”
A young man in dress blues hurried up the center aisle to sit with Hotrod. Had to be Lieutenant Cameron Kroft, the JAG’s defense attorney. Kroft and Hotrod conferred for a minute or two, then Judge Cole nodded for the prosecutor, USN Commander John Cudahy, to begin.
“Was this Judge’s first day in court?” Izza whispered.
“It was,” he replied quietly.
Persia watched Cudahy call his first witness, an older civilian named Steven Horowitz, who claimed to be Hotrod’s neighbor. After he was sworn in, Horowitz testified Hotrod owned property on Ocean Beach, not far from Goff’s home. He swore he’d seen Hotrod break into Wallace Goff’s residence the night of the murder. When asked to point out the murderer, Horowitz boldly stabbed a finger at Hotrod and yelled, “You should be ashamed!”
That caused a stir among the spectators, but NCIS Kroft didn’t object. Didn’t even squirm. Other than leaning into Hotrod for a word, Kroft seemed content to watch, rather than engage.
Clearly aggravated, Hotrod rolled his shoulder when the first witness left the stand without being challenged. He tipped his head into his attorney, but Kroft waved him off without looking at him. Hotrod leaned back in his chair.
When Izza peered closer to look at the small screen, Persia shook her head, annoyed at herself. “Wait. I’ll get my laptop. That way, we can all see better.”
“That’d sure help,” Izza grunted.
Persia brushed Izza’s sarcasm off, retrieved her bag, and quickly returned to the kitchen. “Gather around, folks,” she said as she set her laptop on the table, then took a seat. “If we’re going to work together, we might as well get comfortable.”
“Good idea,” Hans replied, loosening his tie before he took a position at Persia’s left. Izza sat at her right.
In minutes, Persia located the website for the San Diego paper responsible for the news clip footage. She started fast-forwarding to get back to where they’d been, until Izza’s hand settled over her wrist. “No, let’s watch from the beginning. Seeing the trial’s a lot different than just reading the transcript.”
Again, Persia watched Hotrod being escorted into the courtroom. But this time, she wasn’t focused on him as much as the long-legged woman wearing cream-colored designer silk slacks, a slinky mint-green sequined halter top, and Jacki O sunglasses, in the last row of the spectators’ section.
“I didn’t know court-martials were open to the public,” she murmured out of the side of her mouth.
“Only to those with vested interests,” Hans murmured back.
“Like a wife?” Izza asked.
“Or girlfriends and family members, yes,” he answered.
“Which is she?” Persia asked, pointing to the woman in question.
A curious half-smile curled his lips. “She is worth watching. Please continue.”
Well, that was no answer. But Persia watched the woman closer while the proceedings dragged on.
“Crap, where the hell’s Judge’s defense?” Izza asked, her index finger stabbing at NCIS Kroft, “because that jerk isn’t doing a damned thing.” Almost sounded like she was beginning to care.
Hans smiled. So did Persia. If anything, NCIS Kroft looked relaxed. Unruffled by his client’s growing angst. Where Hotrod’s demeanor had changed from professional calm to frustration, Kroft appeared dead from the neck up.
“Who’s that guy?” Izza asked, her fingertip on another officer in dress blues, also sitting at the back of the courtroom.
“I do not know,” Hans answered.
Persia didn’t know either, but whoever that officer was, he was now on her radar.
CO Cudahy called Miss Sunday Night Breeze to the stand.
Persia nearly gagged when Miss Breeze—which sure sounded like a stripper’s name—flounced to the witness box on platform heels with three-inch soles. She was the long-legged woman at the back of the courtroom in those Jacki O sunglasses. Once seated, she removed her shades, raised her right hand to the square, blinked her overly kohl-smudged eyes at Cudahy, then solemnly gushed to “tell the truth, so help me, God.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Izza growled. “That’s his ex? Sounds like Jessica Rabbit.”
Looked like Jessica Rabbit, too, with all that red hair, mascara, and silicone. Her halter top barely held what had to be 44Ds, matched with a too-tiny waist that only made those puppies look bigger. A sick kind of feeling rolled over in Persia’s gut. Hotrod dated a stripper? That was his ex? Had they lived together? What kind of man was he, an idiot? Besides being male, which all by itself explained everything Miss Breeze represented. Sex. Sex. And more sex.
Izza made a funny sound.
“Shut up,” Persia ordered, even as the rock in her gut dropped into a bottomless pit.
“Can’t help it,” Izza mumbled, her fingers on her lips as if she needed to suppress the snotty chuckle emanating from her big mouth. “Sorry, but Navy SEALs have a chick in every port. Everyone knows that.”
Persia wanted to deny the accusation, but SEALs were known for being some of the toughest, rowdiest men on the planet. They fought hard, played harder, and fucked like there was no tomorrow. Which for some of them, there probably wasn’t. They loved to fight, probably started most of the trouble they got into. Probably liked to get down and dirty in other ways, too. Miss Breeze being Walker’s ex, made sense. In the most disgusting, carnal ways. Generally speaking.
“Ladies, please,” Hans whispered. “Listen.”
“Yes, you could say I know Lieutenant Judge,” Jessica Rabbit articulated in her affected cartoon voice. “Least I knew him in the biblical sense of the word, ya know?” She giggled. Even the damned prosecutor grinned at her cutesy response.
Man, how stupid was Hotrod? Miss Breeze dressed suggestively, and had no problem drawing the prosecutor’s attention to her overly abundant cleavage. She talked with her hands and her bright pink fingernails. And fake eyelashes that Persia wanted to rip off her perfectly smudged eyelids, one by one. With pliers.
“You want to kill her, huh?” Izza whispered. “I can tell. I know you do.”
Yes! “No,” Persia replied calmly. “Shush.” Let’s hear what else this lap dancing moron has to say.
“Were you with Lieutenant Judge during the night in question?” Cudahy asked as he approached the witness stand.
“No, sir, but I was with him all day long. It was my day off, and, well, I missed him because he’d just come back from a really long deployment, and well…” She. Giggled. Again! “You know how it is when a woman goes without her man’s attention for too long, don’tcha?”
Cudahy hesitated. Was he seriously considering answering? That hesitation wasn’t included in the transcript. Neither was the stupid gleam in his eye.
Persia looked closer, her chin on her palm now. According to Ember’s record, Walker hadn’t been in the country the day or
the entire week before the night in question. Neither had he been deployed. He had, in fact, returned to San Diego late the night Goff was murdered. Interesting…
So why wouldn’t he reveal where he’d been, even to save himself? It made no sense.
After a long pause, Cudahy cleared his throat, placed his hand on the witness stand, and asked, “Precisely when did Judge leave your home the day in question?”
“Oh, we weren’t at my place, no, sir. We ate at his place. Over in Ocean Beach. See, most folks don’t know Walker Judge owns a second home two doors away from the descendant.”
Cudahy straightened his tie. “I’m sure you mean decedent, as in the deceased, don’t you?”
Jessica Rabbit scrunched those tanned, bare shoulders. Ducked her empty blonde head, wiggled her boobs, and squealed, “You know what I meant!”
Something in the prosecutor’s eyes glittered. Looked a lot like—lust.
“You can’t cure stupid,” Izza muttered.
“No, Izza. She’s not stupid. Look at him. Look at Cudahy. Watch how she can’t take her eyes off him. And the second he placed his hand on that stand—” Persia reversed the video clip. Sure enough. “See? Right there. Watch his hand.”
“Crap, she’s playing with his fingers!”
“And he knows it,” Persia hissed. “That’s why he rested it there. He’s reaching out to comfort or encourage her. Wanna bet Cudahy’s sleeping with Miss Sunday Night Breeze? She might be an airhead, but that woman’s in love with that officer. Want to bet Hotrod picked her up at one of the local bars? And she’s lying. So did Steven Horowitz, Goff’s alleged neighbor. Walker Judge only owned one house, and it wasn’t anywhere near Goff’s in Ocean Beach. He couldn’t afford that neighborhood. Ember already checked his financials. She would’ve caught that.”
“There’s more,” Hans said solemnly.
What more could there be? First, a defense attorney who provided no defense whatsoever. Then an ex-girlfriend—Persia refused to refer to Sunday Night Breeze as Hotrod’s lover—who obviously had a crush on the officer intent on putting him in Leavenworth.
Persia crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes wide open now. When Judge Cole asked Hotrod’s attorney for the second time if he was sure he didn’t want to cross-examine Miss Breeze, Hotrod stewed. He’d distanced himself from LT Kroft by then, had pushed back in his chair, the cords in his neck taut. Yet he still faced the man holding the gavel with respect. Not once had he resorted to calling his ex a liar, or other theatrical dramatics. But he should have. Persia was mad enough to do it for him.
Hans pointed to the guy seated in the far rear corner of the courtroom. Dressed in dark jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt, he sat with one elbow on his knee, his left hand shielding his face from the camera. Standard weight and height, at first glance, he appeared ordinary. Until the ring on his finger caught Persia’s eye.
“Wait. Stop. Can we freeze this frame and zoom in?”
That same wise smile cracked Hans’ lips. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Deftly, he worked the keyboard and brought that hand up close and personal.
“Crap. That is a big ring,” Izza declared.
It was that and more. Downright ostentatious. The face of the ring extended from the man’s knuckle to the first joint of the ring finger on his right hand. A bright gold Navy SEAL Trident, complete with eagle, flintlock style pistol, US Navy anchor, and Neptune’s trident, accented the hammered silver ring.
“Hmmm,” Izza murmured. “Looks like somebody’s got a bad case of penis envy if you ask me.”
“Or stolen valor,” Persia replied. Oftentimes, guys who flaunted jewelry like this were wannabes who’d never served a day. “I wonder if we can trace who bought that ring.”
Hans slapped the laptop cover down. “Ladies. Thank you for allowing me to represent your friend. I leave him in your capable hands. I must get back to my office.”
“You’ll be better off staying here where you’ll be safe,” Persia insisted.
He shook his head. “I will be okay.”
“Are you sure?” Izza asked, her head tilted.
He reached out and took her hand in both of his. “Yes, Agent Maher. Thank you for worrying, but it is what it is. I know the law. They can’t hurt me.”
When it came to her turn, Persia didn’t release Hans’ handshake. Instead, she pulled him in shoulder to shoulder. “You need anything, Mr. Koning, you reach out to me immediately, you understand? I will come for you.”
“Goodbye, Agent Coltrane,” he murmured as he eased his fingers from her grip, then shook his hand as if she’d squeezed too tight. Which she had. She’d meant him to know he could count on her and Izza.
Hans Koning turned on his heel and walked out the door without looking back.
It was time to track down the man who owned that ring.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Walker faded in and out of darkness, not sure of the day or where he was. Sometimes, the ever-present floating sensation beneath told him he was back on his yacht. Other times, he just felt like warmed-over crap. But then, out of the murky darkness he seemed stuck in, Persia’s pretty face would smile down on him like a tender ray of sunshine. She’d coax him to drink more than he wanted. Sometimes cool, cool water. Other times, a nasty tasting tea, or whatever that stuff was. Probably one of those Soylent Green concoctions health nuts raved about, that was made in a blender with spinach, okra, and that tasted like pee.
Persia was also the one who’d manhandled him into boxers and a t-shirt. She’d helped him the few times he’d struggled to his feet and staggered to the head like a drunk, desperately needing something to hold onto while he did his business. Which caused Walker buckets of regret for not having been there when she’d needed him. Not once.
Yet she’d been here every time he’d needed her, her shoulder snuggled up under his arm, making sure he didn’t fall. She’d stand him in front of the head and make sure he wasn’t weaving back and forth before she’d let him go. Then she’d step away and give him privacy. He’d palm the wall over the head and try like hell not to fall into it, while he waited for his body to allow relief. Which it did. Eventually. Then more easily, but still pink. Then… finally… clear and free-flowing and… Ahh… He was going to live.
It should’ve embarrassed him, her in the same room, waiting while he dropped his boxers and did what he had to do. Her possibly watching, maybe to make sure he didn’t fall over. Or maybe just to sneak a peek. Some ladies would do that. But if Persia did, it didn’t embarrass Walker. He had more to worry about than someone seeing his bare ass or his package. A sick man instinctively developed a uniquely primal focus on survival. Tunnel vision came with it. He was willing to do anything if it got him better.
Mostly, Walker wasn’t worried because he knew Persia cared, and because she did, he’d put his trust in her. His body, too. Maybe even his soul. During this time, he’d transitioned from one raging body-ache that seemed lodged primarily in his head, to a general overall weakness that left him shivering one minute, sweating the next.
But tonight was different. He’d heard something. In the middle of a dead sleep, he’d jolted upright and palmed his chest and thighs for weapons that weren’t there. In the space of a heartbeat, adrenaline had him up and on his feet. His head pounded while he waited for—something—to happen. Anything.
He cocked his head, sure he’d heard a noise. Inside or outside? He couldn’t tell. Didn’t know if he’d dreamed it or not.
Dizzy, he swayed, then sat back on the edge of his bed, not sure he hadn’t woken himself. The safe house felt quiet. Safe. Yet he sat there breathing hard, needing to make sure before he dropped back onto his pillow. Safe houses had been breached before. He couldn’t take the chance that whoever was behind his being railroaded and condemned at every turn, hadn’t also sent assassins to hunt him down. Mostly, he needed to make sure Persia and her prickly friend Izza were protected.
/> Now he felt stupid. No noise. No anything. He’d had enough nightmarish dreams these past few days, or nights or hours, it could’ve been him. But all was quiet now. So quiet, he could hear his adrenaline-fueled heart pounding like a drum. Damned thing felt like it meant to climb up his throat. Must’ve been a dream. Good deal.
Swallowing hard, he ran his hands over his head and through his hair, then sat there, wondering where he could get his hands on a pistol. At least a knife. Did Stewart maintain weapon vaults in his safe houses? And who the hell was the guy that he owned a safe house in a foreign country, the Netherlands for hell’s sake? Persia had said he was former USMC and operated a business out of Virginia. Was he so rich that he’d gone international? Nah. Jarheads weren’t that kind of smart.
Damn. There it was again. Not a scream, but a whimper. A sob. Someone in this house was not happy. Walker was back on his feet, lightheaded and unarmed, but on his way to somewhere…
Once out of his room, he palmed the wall to keep steady. The dim glow emanating from the kitchen area lighted the way, but he wasn’t sure which way to go. Left or right? He couldn’t imagine Persia or her belligerent friend crying out, which was what he’d thought he’d heard. But someone had.
With each step, the walls seemed to breathe, moving forward, then backward, closing in on him, then doing it again. He shook the eerie sensation away and held still, waiting for another sound. Once again, he doubted himself. Nightmares and fevers were tricky. They could make you believe things that weren’t real or events that never happened. Like the shit-filled caves in the mountains of Afghanistan where terrorists hid and lived and plotted... Like Goff’s ghost…
Another anguished cry sounded from the room next to his. Persia. Oh, yeah. She’d said her bedroom was next to his. Palming her door open, Walker peered inside. The nightlight across from him was a nice touch. And there she lay, tangled in a mess of twisted blankets and sheets, with one long leg and bare foot hanging off the bed. Her hair was spread over her face, a pillow on the floor.
Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21) Page 24