Murder in the Courthouse

by Nancy Grace

  A little taken aback, she didn’t know quite what to say, so she said what she thought. “I think he means two actual people, I guess, like us.” She kept her eyes on the water.

  “I think it’s a love song, not just to each other, but to wanderlust. Neither here nor there, but wandering.”

  “I love that part. And I love the part ‘my huckleberry friend’ . . .” Hailey smiled. Did he have any idea she and Will had toyed with walking down the aisle to “Moon River”?

  He couldn’t. No one knew that but Hailey herself. No one living, anyway.

  “A Mark Twain reference, I guess.” After he said it, Billings threw a stone across the river. It skipped a few times and then was lost beneath the silver water.

  “You know the real Moon River’s not far from here at all. Want to go see it sometime?”

  “Where is it exactly?” The stars were shining so brightly overhead and looking up, they seemed just beyond her reach.

  “Not far at all. It’s where Johnny Mercer grew up. His home overlooked it. He fell asleep every night with it just outside his window. And even though he moved far away, up to New York City, his heart was still right there, looking out his window at Moon River. Is that how you felt when you moved to New York? Like your heart was still here, in the South?”

  Hailey took a long pause. She normally refused to speak of why she left Atlanta. But tonight felt different. Maybe it was the velvet dark sky or the stars or the whisper of the river at their feet.

  “I don’t know, Billings. It’s all such a blur now. Will’s death, law school, one case after the next after the next. I guess when he died, I left my heart right there and I haven’t thought much about it since then.”

  She turned to look at him and he turned as well. Hailey could see the stars shining all around his face and hair, his blue eyes looking intently into hers.

  “Maybe you haven’t let yourself think much about it.” He held her gaze.

  “Maybe,” she answered, barely audible above the sound of the water.

  Chase Billings took her into his arms, kissing her gently on her lips. He pulled her to him and held her in a firm embrace.

  She didn’t stop him but after a moment, pulled back.

  “Billings, I can’t. It’s not you. Believe me. It’s not you . . .” Her voice cracked. He looked deeply disappointed.

  “Hailey, I’m not hurt. I know what you’ve been through. It’s legend now. It’s why you are who you are. But don’t blame me if I don’t give up.”

  His eyes were smiling again and a grin lingered at the edges of his lips. Hailey returned the smile. The two walked silently the few blocks to her hotel. His arm rested gently across her shoulders.

  “Night, Hailey. I hope you take me up on going to see Moon River. I think you’d see what he saw in it when he wrote the song.”

  “Maybe I will.” She smiled and turned away, heading up to her room near the top of the tall building overlooking the river, dark below.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A fine day for fishing. Cool and solitary out on the water, dark and chilled with gray-white mist rising up off the surface. Cecil Snodgrass very rarely took a day off. Typically, he’d never even think of it.

  He even had a root canal done over a series of early Saturday mornings rather than miss work. But when he won the all-inclusive free pass to Gator World and it arrived right there on his desk in the courthouse mail, he had to! Who in their right mind could turn that down?

  Between work and the courthouse bowling and softball teams, he hardly had a minute free. But wild animals and anything to do with fishing or safari were his true passion. The closest he normally got to wildlife was watching it on TV or surfing for it on the web. But today would be different.

  His idea was to work in a few hours out on the water fishing on the Laura Lee before making his way over for the first Gator World Adventure, as the pamphlet called it. He’d spent quite a bit of time poring over the pamphlet that came in an oversized, white envelope along with the Gator World certified free pass, running his fingers over the little gold seal of authenticity in the bottom right corner. And then, he Googled the place to carefully plan out his trip. He didn’t want to miss a thing.

  Cecil rigged up his Skeeter the night before and by 3 AM that morning, he was backing down the driveway and wheeling into the darkness of his quiet neighborhood. Taking the southbound ramp for I-95, he eased onto the six lanes that headed to Jacksonville and a little saltwater fishing just off the Florida coast.

  It was just over two hours away from the Savannah suburbs and tooling along the interstate around 3:30 AM, he didn’t spot a single soul in any other lane. Cecil kept a close eye on the Laura Lee in the rearview mirror. He remembered the day his dad sat under the hot sun out in the driveway painting his mom’s name on the side of the boat.

  She was a sweet one, all right. His dad bought her used before he’d passed away, and now she was all Cecil’s. Good memories with Dad. Practically every Saturday morning they’d head for the Savannah River or, better yet, the Intracoastal Waterway; and more often than not, they’d bring home a nice catch of reds to his mom for dinner.

  Sweet really wasn’t the right word for the Laura Lee. She was so much more than that. Watching in the rearview, she swayed ever so slightly from one side of the hitch to the other in the darkness of the early morning as intermittent yellow lane lines whizzed by beside her.

  She was the last of the old ZT07 Bays, the value model in the Skeeter Saltwater line, but still a premium-quality fishing boat. Measuring 19 feet 7 inches over a beam of 8 feet 2 inches, she could take on some stiff chop. She featured open rod racks on the gunwales, a 42-gallon forward dry storage box, Yamaha analog, flip-flop helm seat, and 8 console rod holders topped off with a stainless steel prop. She was powered by a Yamaha F150 outboard and topped out at over 50 mph. What more could a man want?

  He’d get the Laura Lee in the water by 6 AM and after a good catch, he’d clean the fish, put them in his cooler, and head to the main event . . . Gator World. It opened about a year ago, but he’d been so busy, he hadn’t taken a single break.

  It was really amazing he hadn’t been yet. It was everything he could imagine . . . and more. Affordable family fun, true. But the real attraction for Cecil Snodgrass was thousands of alligators and crocodiles, including the shy and slippery leucistic white alligator.

  Forget about the free-flight aviary, kids’ petting zoo, or animal shows . . . it was the natural alligator breeding flats he was looking forward to, specifically the “Wild Gator Adventure Experience.” Usually closed to the public, this was reserved for the few who dared venture into the swamp. He’d be just a few yards away from giant, hungry alligators and create a thrilling feeding frenzy. Then there would be photo ops with his “dinner guests.”

  His free pass included the Croc-N-Gator Night Time Adventure. He had to sign up twenty-four hours in advance for that. It promised to take him deep into the secretive realm of the world’s most celebrated reptile, the gator! With a flashlight and a pack of frozen fish-sticks, he would wind his way across the blackened boardwalks of Gator World’s Alligator Breeding Flats.

  The pamphlet that came with his free pass guarantees the nighttime awakens as the rippling waters and fluttering wings are a heads-up you have company!

  The thought of it sent a little shiver up Cecil’s spine. Photos of him, Cecil Snodgrass, out on the Croc-N-Gator Night Time Adventure would be awesome on Facebook! He even thought ahead to check out the nighttime photo feature on his camera. And there was always his iPhone. The peeps at work would flip. Now, he wouldn’t have just photos of wild and exotic creatures on display on the walls of his cube, he’d be in the photos along with man’s greatest saltwater/freshwater threat . . . the mighty gator.

  This would prove once and for all he was not a poser in any sense. Cecil Snodgrass was the real deal.

  But first, the fishing. One good thing about this time of year, the redfish tended to school up and s
tay tight in the few patches of cooler water. If he happened alongside an oyster bar, even better! He could easily reel in twenty reds. Of course, they are smaller, but what reds lack in size they make up for in thrills! And who knew? If he could run and gun to different areas and weed through the dinks, he just might score a sheepshead or flounder.

  After a few hours on the water, on the way to the gators, he’d scarf down the sandwiches and chips he’d packed in the car. No need to waste money at Wendy’s or Burger King, much less Starbucks. The three turkey bologna sandwiches he made last night with baked chips would be perfect. And of course, he packed homemade iced tea with sweet Dixie Crystals sugar in his cooler.

  His mind wandered to his courthouse cubicle walls adorned with photos of wild animals, birds, and snakes. Mostly they were carefully cut out of magazines and included a few postcards people had sent him. But with the Feeding Frenzy Thrill and Night Time Adventure, he’d get photos of the real thing . . . with him in the photo for a change.

  He even bought a selfie stick on Amazon specifically for this trip so he could enhance his arrangement of exotic creature photos. They’d be admired by everyone that passed by, court personnel and civilians alike.

  With that in mind, Cecil was wearing his incredible khaki-colored fishing vest today, perfect for action photos to put on display. It had eleven strategically placed pockets with zips or Velcro closures. It had tippet pockets, fly box pockets, back pockets, and two interior zip pockets to keep his essentials totally organized. It had three D rings to keep tools in easy reach.

  But best of all, it looked exactly like the one Steve Irwin used to wear before a giant stingray killed him.

  Why did the Crocodile Hunter have to go to the great jungle in the sky? And so young, too. With so many wild and wonderful adventures lying before him. Adventures Cecil avidly shared from his living room sofa. That was just wrong.

  Cecil had been in a slump for days after Irwin’s untimely death was announced. He even called in to work sick so he could watch clips of the funeral on TV.

  And then . . . the vest. Cecil spent hours online trying to find the one that looked the most like Irwin’s. He even tuned in faithfully to watch Steve’s beloved Bindi compete on Dancing With the Stars, voting on his cell phone and home phone the maximum number of times allowed (twelve per phone before the DWTS computerized phone lines cut him off) and convincing friends and family to do the same.

  And Bindi won. Cecil was pretty convinced his little tradition of wearing the Irwin look-alike vest during every DWTS episode had something to do with that.

  It was the least he could do, right? Right.

  Gazing out the driver’s side window, he could hardly wait for dusk. The Feeding Frenzy Thrill was advertised on late night local TV the night before. Cecil saw it during a commercial during the eleven o’clock news, and now it was coming true. What a stroke of luck, winning the free tickets to the Feeding Frenzy Thrill and Night Time Adventure. His name had been put in a “lawman’s lottery.”

  He couldn’t believe it. He had never won anything in his life, and now here he was off work, headed to a free day at Gator World. The winning certificate specified today and it was all-inclusive. He could see whatever show he wanted. But of course, the crown jewels of Gator World were the Feeding Frenzy Thrill and the Night Time Adventure. The letter said so.

  After the Feeding Frenzy Thrill, he’d chill and check the place out until it was time for the Croc-N-Gator Night Time Adventure. But now? It would be sight-fishing at its best in northeast Florida. This was truly as good as it gets.

  His heart swelled. Why didn’t he take off more often? If he hadn’t gotten the free pass, he’d be sitting back in his cubicle on the first floor of the courthouse fielding questions and dealing with all the headaches of transporting a few hundred felons from the Chatham County Jail to the courthouse.

  Cecil let down his window and amped up the Billy Joel. The salt water tinged the air and he breathed it in.

  Wait! Did he remember to pack his baits? He absolutely always used nice, soft plastic jerkbaits. Yes, he recalled tucking them in his tackle box. The Rhino twitch shad was his favorite. In skinny water, a lightweight lure wouldn’t cause a splash when it hit water. Cecil always cast a few feet in front of the fish in the direction they were swimming. He’d fish the surface if there was plenty of cloud cover and go deep if the sky was bright.

  Daydreams of what he might catch ended as Cecil Snodgrass pulled up to the County Road Dock and Fishing Pier. Judging by the empty parking area and lonely dirt road, he was the only one out this early. He happened upon this particular dock a year or so ago. It was perfect for him . . . 525 feet over the water with a boat ramp positioned back from the pier along a grassy bank.

  It took just moments for him to back the Laura Lee to the edge of the ramp, unhitch her, and gently ease the boat into the dark green water at the bank’s edge.

  Let the fun begin! Goosing the motor once he got past the no wake zone, Cecil sped out onto open water, the sun slyly edging its way up in a cloudless blue sky, salty spray stinging his cheeks.

  For the next three hours it was man vs. fish. Quite often, the fish won but in what seemed like no time at all, he reeled in nearly twenty, mostly reds. They were practically jumping into his boat!

  Cecil Snodgrass was on a roll! He was riding a streak of good luck and it just wouldn’t stop! If he were in Vegas, he’d be cleaning out the craps table . . . he’d be a millionaire right now!

  But, glancing at the black plastic sports watch on his wrist, he had to finish up, clean these guys, and head out to Gator World. He didn’t want to be late and fish spoil fast once they’re caught, but he had a plan.

  He pulled the Laura Lee back, hitched her up, and headed to a covered pavilion beside the pier to lay yesterday’s newspaper on a low bench. He’d kept the reds wet until he could scale them to make the scales easier to remove. Taking his old fish knife out of a leather holster he kept on his belt, he scaled them quickly and cleanly, the knife blade glinting in the sun along with the shine on the silvery scales of the fish. Their dead eyes seemed to be looking right at him as he ran the sharp edge of the knife against their skin, but neither the blank stares directed at him from the fish’s dark round eyes nor the blood running in tiny rivulets down his wrists and hands bothered him at all. He had cleaned fish a million times with his dad. At the end of the fish cleaning was a nice fried fish platter with his name on it, his dad always said.

  Spotting an old water faucet on the outer wall of the pavilion, he tested it first to make sure it was working. It was. Drenching the fish well, he quickly stowed them on ice in his trusty Polar Bear cooler.

  Following a sign, he located a public men’s room on the side of the pavilion, washing thoroughly with lots of gooey pink liquid soap from a rusty metal wall dispenser mixed with warm water all the way up past his elbows. He scrubbed his arms dry with rough, brown paper towels from the white tin container above the old ceramic sink. He did not want to smell like a red fish appetizer for the gators that night.

  What a morning. Cranking up his Toyota, he headed out the same way he pulled in nearly four hours before. Keeping both eyes on the road, he reached into the car cooler, feeling around for sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and eased onto I-95 heading south.

  Cecil’s homemade lunch was just the right mix of bologna, mustard, and Kraft cheese slices. He took a long pull on the cold sweet tea. The guitar wailed as he cranked up the volume on The Essential Allman Brothers Band: The Epic Years. It was Duane Allman, possibly the greatest guitarist that ever lived as far as Cecil was concerned, just as he hit a crescendo.

  But what about Dickey Betts? Tough decision. Betts or Duane. And then there was always Clapton. Something for Cecil to ponder. “Lord I was born a ramblin’ man . . .” Cecil let down his window and hummed it out into the warm air over the water. Humming under his breath was just fine. He wasn’t really the type to sing out loud. Even alone in his own car in the middle of no
where.

  Gator World. Feeding Frenzy Thrill then Croc-N-Gator Night Time Adventure. He played it all out in his mind . . . turning his flashlight out onto the dark water, Cecil would be the first to spot gators’ glowing eyes swimming closer and closer to Cecil’s camera complete with nighttime photo capability!

  The Croc-N-Gator Night Time Adventure started at dusk, when the brave group was to meet at the far south end of Gator World’s parking lot.

  The place was awesome. They even provided bug spray for the humans and raw hot dogs or dry chow for the gators. Being such an exotic animal aficionado, he couldn’t believe his good luck! As a matter of fact, thinking back on it, Cecil Snodgrass had never won anything in his whole life.

  Of course, though he secretly hoped for it, he never really expected to win, for instance, the Powerball and instantly strike it rich. Although he didn’t expect to win, he still bought tickets religiously, every Saturday morning. Out of pure superstition, he always bought them at the same mini-mart where he had once found an unclaimed twenty dollar bill in the parking lot. Now that was good luck.

  To double the good luck, he always went to the same register and at the same time on Saturday mornings. He also always played the same numbers, his mom’s birthday and his own date of birth.

  But forget about the multimillion-dollar Powerball, he had never even won a lesser lotto, like Crazy 8s or Scratch and Win. He’d never even won a quilt or toaster oven at a church raffle . . . not even a cake at the cake walk game.

  And now this. Talk about the jackpot.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  By 10 AM the next morning, testimony was already heating up in the courtroom. The state’s witnesses could hardly get a word out over the constant barrage of rapid-fire objections by Mikey DelVecchio.

  “Why can’t DelVecchio shut up and let the people answer? It’s getting on my last nerve. I want to slug him every time he stands up,” Finch muttered under his breath.

  “His tactic,” Hailey whispered to Finch, who was seated directly beside her in their usual spot on a crowded bench behind the prosecutors, “is to throw off the prosecution’s flow of questioning. He’s trying to get under the witnesses’ skin, to bother them, maybe make them angry enough to have an outburst in front of the jury or contradict themselves. He’d love to trip them up and make them look like liars. And, of course, he wants to keep the jury from hearing their story uninterrupted.”