by Nancy Grace
“He didn’t mention anything about dinner, nothing like Alton Turner’s severed torso to ruin your appetite. So let’s you and me go somewhere, you pick. Hey, you getting coffee or dessert or anything?”
“I might. Yeah, probably. I did see some peach pie over there . . .” Fincher’s voice trailed away as he glanced toward the food line.
“What you saw were canned peaches. They’re not fresh. I wouldn’t bother,” Hailey cut in.
“Now how would you know they’re canned?” Finch’s question came out mid-bite.
“Because the crust on that peach pie they have up there was already sliced open and I happened to notice all the peaches were cut so uniformly, they had to be from a factory kitchen. I mean, I’m just saying.”
“I was all set for some homemade peach pie and a cup of coffee and then you, what with all your analysis, ruined it!”
After giving him one long look, Hailey burst into laughter. “You lose your appetite? You know you’re going to eat it anyway!”
“Yeah, I am.” He grinned and took a bite of burger. The two sat in friendly, comfortable silence as they both finished their lunches. It was the kind of silence that’s unstrained or lacking.
Fincher started in about the trial again. “But how can the jury be so blind? Can’t they see he did it?”
“Have you lost your mind, Fincher? What do you mean? ‘Can’t they see he did it?’ See what? The state’s still putting up witnesses! We haven’t even heard the defense! Or closing arguments for that matter! Talk about putting the cart before the horse . . . I mean, really.”
Fincher looked back at her with a sulk. “Well, all I know is this. If you and I were putting the Todd Adams case to a jury, they’d already be rolling their eyes every time DelVecchio stood up to open his mouth. They’d be staring daggers at Adams and groaning every time that mother of his cries into a hanky. That’s what I know, little girl.”
“Fincher . . .” Hailey’s retort was drowned out by a sharp, shrill, high-pitched scream. They both turned just in time to see a woman juror leaping up from her seat to the simultaneous sound of lunch trays clattering to the floor.
The loud scraping of cafeteria chairs against the tiled floor mingled with the scream sent a tingling chill down Hailey’s back as she and Fincher jerked their heads toward the center of the room. A female sheriff leaped from her seat and like the juror, let out an ear-piercing scream.
For one discrete moment, the cafeteria went totally quiet as everyone froze in their places, some with forks poised in their hands, midair.
But Hailey and Finch jumped up from their table and began darting between chairs, closing the distance between their seats by the windows to the source of the screams in just seconds.
Breaking through knots of onlookers gathered tightly around the source of the scream, they spotted what the female sheriff and lady juror saw.
There on the cafeteria floor. It was her . . . her arms and legs sprawled out at odd angles. The honey-blonde.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Stacks of papers she just carried down the ramp to the cafeteria were strewn on the floor around her. Her fork and spoon still rested neatly on top of a folded, white paper napkin, but the contents of her lunch, once on her plastic tray, were splattered across her chair and onto the floor. A fruit salad, sweet potato chips, and remains of a veggie plate were hurled onto the tile floor. Lying nearby was a to-go cup of coffee. Checks in black marker were made beside the words “Morning Blend,” “Black,” and “Half-Decaf.”
From where she stood, Hailey saw bright pink lipstick on the white Styrofoam rim of the cup. It barely remained on her lips, but it matched the lipstick the calendar clerk was wearing.
The woman lying on the floor looked very little like the smiling, statuesque blonde that Hailey had just spotted leading jurors toward their prepaid county lunches. Now she was splayed on the floor, her wrap dress askew, mascara and black eyeliner smeared across her face.
Her eyes were wide open, protruding grotesquely from their sockets. Tears, still wet on her face, mixed with eyeliner and made dark rivulets down her cheeks. But that was the least of it.
Her peaches and cream complexion was now almost entirely purple. With a sudden convulsion, her body went rigid, her lips unmistakably turning blue before their eyes.
“Elle! Elle! What’s wrong?” The male sheriff who had been leading the jurors along with her to their lunch knelt down beside her. “Eleanor! Say something!”
Jerking off his deputy’s hat, he quickly bent over the clerk and tried to administer CPR. Hailey and Finch immediately knelt beside him, Hailey grasping the woman’s wrist for a pulse, Finch calling for help on his investigators’ radio. Several people standing around whipped out cell phones to dial 911.
The sheriff’s CPR effort was clumsy but even had it not been, Hailey could see around his shoulder that when he tried to clear her airway for mouth to mouth, the woman’s tongue had swelled to the point where he could do nothing. Elle was either dead or dying.
In moments, courthouse EMTs swarmed the cafeteria. Banging doors and loud voices broke through the cluster of people standing around. But by the time the EMTs arrived, Elle was in full respiratory arrest.
Their first maneuver was to run a tube down her throat so they could push air to Elle’s lungs. It wasn’t easy. The first several efforts failed because her throat had closed up. There was absolutely nowhere to slide the tube. The EMTs injected her with several syringes full of clear liquid that seemed to have no effect whatsoever.
But they didn’t stop. They never stopped trying. Not for a second. Even after Elle was clearly dead there on the floor, they kept frantically trying to revive her.
The sound of ambulance sirens and police cars screamed from outside, down on the street, reaching up the sides of the old building and through the windows. But by the time paramedics ran from their emergency vehicles to the elevators and took the elevators to the cafeteria, courthouse EMTs and the sheriff who tried to save her were sitting on the floor distraught or standing disconsolately, some crying.
She was dead. They couldn’t save her. Two of the paramedics quickly knelt beside her to give it another try, complete with chest compressions and then a defib paddle.
Ripping open her wrap dress, they tore off a gold costume necklace that dangled just beneath the base of her throat to apply adhesive electrodes to her chest. One of the paramedics connected electrodes to the defibrillator and Hailey was vaguely aware of the other one screaming for everyone to clear the room.
The adhesive solid-gel electrodes, while easier to use in a non-hospital setting, tend to burn the skin. Once the electrodes were applied in an anterior-apex scheme with the first electrode placed on the right, below her collarbone, and the other over the apex of the heart, on the left side, the electrical surge went through her body.
The crowd remaining barely breathed. They all stood tensed, staring at Elle on the floor, praying and hoping against hope the jolt of electricity would bring her back.
Nothing. The smell of singeing flesh rose in the air as the paramedic called for another round. Still kneeling beside the woman, Hailey looked away.
The EMTs and deputies stood silent until the lead paramedic broke the silence. “What happened? Heart attack?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. One minute we were all sitting here having lunch, talking. The next, she grabbed her throat, she tried to stand up. She seemed to sway a little and she fell onto the table, everything went flying and . . . and . . . I tried CPR . . . but she . . . she turned purple and I . . . I . . .” The sheriff, Deputy Marks, had to stop speaking in an effort to compose himself.
From the corner of her eye, Hailey noticed a pale woman in a knee-length plaid skirt slip through the double doors to the cafeteria. Her starched white blouse was tucked in tightly and buttoned up all the way to the collar.
Her thin, fine hair was mousy brown and parted straight down the middle. Wispy bangs coming just halfway down her forehead indicated t
he strong possibility of a home haircut over the bathroom sink of the old bowl cut variety. While she evidently wore no makeup whatsoever, Hailey could make out pale hazel eyes. Hanging around her neck was a blue lanyard with a Chatham County ID card bearing her name and picture.
The woman’s eyes darted around the cafeteria from left to right, then left again until they rested on Deputy Marks, now sitting at a two-top. He was being consoled by one of the pink-faced little old ladies who worked over steaming food in the lunch line. Keeping to the edge of the room, she walked crablike, in a sort of side step, back against the outer tables over to Marks.
“What happened, Deputy Marks? Is it true? Is she . . . dead?”
He didn’t move, but looked up at her from his seat at the table. “Yes, Eunah. It’s true. I can’t believe it. I can’t take it in. Elle’s passed away . . . she’s . . . she’s dead.” The tears began again as he held a bandanna to his eyes to mop his face.
“Oh, Deputy Marks, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry to hear . . .”
“Get away from me, Eunah!” Marks abruptly pushed away from the table and stood up, his voice raised. “Don’t act like you’re sorry, Eunah Mabry. You hated her. Nothing could have made you happier than to find out she’s dead. And over what? A married man. Who cares if he’s a judge? Go ahead and admit it. The whole courthouse knows about it. Now that she’s dead, you won’t be happy until his wife leaves him and Bill Regard’s thrown off the bench!”
“How . . . how d-d-dare you!” She sputtered the words out, stammering, searching for the right denial. “That is absolutely not true! The judge is happily married . . . no matter what that . . . woman’s . . . scheming designs were on him! And I . . . I never so much as had a dinner with the judge!”
“Not because you didn’t want to! Because he never asked you! You’ve been jealous of Elle since the day she came here. And you can tell your Yale-educated, rich-boy judge that I don’t like the way he treated Elle. He’s a piece of crap as far as I’m concerned! And I don’t care if he knows it! In fact, you tell him Deputy Marks said so—”
The deputy was abruptly cut off by another sheriff who seemed ready for battle, materializing out of scattered tables, chairs, and food lines. “Hey, shut your mouth! She never slept with that pompous ass. That’s not true. Don’t talk about her like that!” The younger, painfully thin sheriff sporting a sparse, ginger mustache stepped into the mix, his Adam’s apple bobbing in anger.
“What do you have to do with this, Marshall?” Deputy Marks gave the younger sheriff a confused and disapproving look.
Marshall stammered. “N-n-nothing! I just, I just thought she . . . she was a nice lady!” He finally spit the remainder of his sentence out and with that, turned on his heel and stalked up the ramp toward the elevator bank.
Marks looked after him, seemingly surprised at the younger man’s outburst, but with a look of dawning settling over his features, he realized just how popular Eleanor Odom had been.
Eleanor’s body was about to be hoisted onto a gurney. The deputy turned back to the judge’s secretary, contempt smeared across his face. “Don’t act like you care about her now that she’s dead. Get out of my sight, Eunah! You sanctimonious prat! Judging her, the whole time wishing it was you! With him! You and your judge both make me sick. Get lost . . . you don’t deserve to even see her body taken out.”
And with that, Deputy Marks stormed out the opposite end of the cafeteria. He blasted through the other set of swinging double doors toward the employee parking deck.
Eunah Mabry stood rooted to her spot, an absolutely mortified look on her now sheet-white face. Her ramrod-straight posture swayed a tiny bit as she glanced around the cafeteria, especially at the group of people closest to her, clearly overwhelmed at the thought they may have heard the accusations against her.
For a moment, Hailey thought the mousy woman might just keel over with embarrassment, but slowly, bright red crept up her neck and across her cheeks. Knowing they’d certainly heard it all, Eunah Mabry quickly turned away from the cluster of people. Maintaining a rigid backbone, she all but ran up the sloping ramp, disappearing through the set of double doors to the elevator banks.
“Who was that?” Hailey turned to a sergeant.
“I’m not really sure, but I’m guessing it’s Judge Regard’s secretary. And I think I know a little too much now. About Judge Bill Regard. Probably more than his wife does.”
Hailey glanced around at the sound of unfolding plastic. The paramedics were zipping Elle’s body into a black plastic body bag.
“Wait!” shouted a male court reporter Hailey recognized from the metal detector line that morning. Perfectly dressed in a crisp shirt, tie, and slacks, he stood up from his chair near a window. He had been sitting there, holding his jaw in both palms and elbows on the tabletop, watching the shock unfold through his fingers.
He crossed the room to the gurney. Reaching the body, he placed a silent kiss on the first three fingers of his right hand, then gently touched them to Elle’s lips as she lay there.
Hailey looked up at Fincher. “So Eleanor Odom’s got two sheriffs, one judge, and a court reporter in love with her and she drops dead at age what . . . 36?”
Finch looked quizzically. “Two deputies, one judge, and one court reporter . . . that we know of.”
“It’s not a crime, Fincher.” Hailey responded quickly to the tone in Fincher’s voice. They stood, watching as two paramedics rolled out the gurney.
“What’s not a crime?” He feigned ignorance.
“Sleeping around. If a man did it, you wouldn’t even comment. And if there was, he’d be a hero. So put a sock in it.”
“I didn’t say a thing!”
“But you were going to! Don’t deny it!”
“OK! I was! You’re right! I was going to make a joke, but you’re right. The lady’s dead. Sorry, Hailey.”
Walking through the double doors to the outside toward the parking lot, they passed a sheriff, heavily muscled, blonde hair buzzed close to his skull. Neck, face, and arms heavily tanned from riding in his cruiser with the windows down. He was turned facing the wall, his forehead lightly touching it. From his profile, Finch and Hailey could both see tears rolling unabashedly down his cheeks, his nose running profusely. As they passed, Fincher patted him on the back and they kept walking.
“Make that one judge, one court reporter, and three sheriffs, Hailey.”
There was a long silence between them as they entered the elevator alone. “She obviously lived a very, um,” Hailey searched for the right word, “. . . full life.”
“Hailey?”
“Yes, Finch?”
“You should have been a diplomat. The UN could use you.”
“Shut up, Finch.”
The doors to the elevator swished open and outside, it looked warm and dazzlingly bright. Heading through the huge oak courthouse doors, they stepped into the sunshine.
“Hey, Finch? Is she the same Eleanor that Alton Turner kept emailing?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Oh, darn! I left my bag in there!” Finch and Hailey both stopped in their tracks. They had just made it up several flights of stairs and all the way to their rental car in the courthouse parking deck.
“What’s in it, Hailey? I thought you brought it all with you to the cafeteria. I saw your iPad, I know, there on the table.” Finch looked over at her as if he couldn’t believe that she, Hailey Dean, would ever make a fundamental mistake like leaving anything of value in an open courtroom. A courtroom usually full of criminals.
“Nothing really valuable. And you’re right. I did bring my iPad, iPhone, and BlackBerry with me to lunch. But I left my shrug and carry bag of notes in the courtroom to save our seats. The bag is just the old canvas one I’ve had forever, nobody would want it. Or my notes on the trial . . . nobody would want those . . . but me!”
Side by side, the two headed back down the same flight of concrete stairs they’d just climbed up. It led to a side door to the
front entrance. “OK. I’ll walk back with you. But one thing . . . what’s a shrug?”
“You have a wife and two daughters, right? It’s a sweater, for Pete’s sake!”
“Whatever. I’ll go back with you even though you are cutting into our pizza time.”
“I never agreed to more pizza. Let’s just get that on the record right now.” At the top of the granite steps, Finch tried the front center door.
“It’s past closing time, Hailey. Door’s locked.”
“Let me try the one on the side.” Hailey twisted the knob of the huge door on the right, one of three across the massive front façade.
The knob turned under her hand, and she pushed the big door forward. The doors opened into an anteroom leading to a massive lobby. Front and center was a huge walk-through metal detector positioned directly in front of the center door. The rest of the lobby was cordoned off, so Hailey and Finch had to go back through the machine again. Sitting beside it reading a magazine was a lone sheriff working the overnight shift.
“Hey, man. What’s up?” Fincher greeted him.
“Hey Fincher, Miss Dean. What brings you back to the courthouse so soon? Didn’t all the courtrooms adjourn right after Elle . . . I mean . . . did you guys hear about the excitement in the cafeteria?”
Fincher peeled three guns off his body (waist, shoulder, and ankle) to drop them one by one in battered white plastic bowls and put them on a conveyor belt for screening. Hailey put her iPad and phones in a plastic basket that followed along after Finch’s guns.
“We didn’t just hear about it, we were there,” Finch responded as they went, one by one, through the machine.
“Seriously, man? You were there?”
“Yep. We were there.” Finch spoke over his shoulder as he scooped his guns out of the plastic bowl and commenced strapping them back on, shoulder holster first. Hailey remained silent, reaching across the belt for her things, having no desire to rehash what she had just witnessed . . . the calendar clerk’s untimely death and the futile struggle to keep her alive.