Stone Cold

by James Glass

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Stone Cold

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  My head throbbed. I tried to find the source, but my hands weren’t cooperating. My eyes adjusted to the bright light of the bathroom. I sat in a chair, stripped of my clothes and my dignity. Then someone walked into my line of sight. Dexter Allen? The man stood a good two inches taller than Francisco and at least fifty pounds heavier.

  My heart pounded. Recalling the phone call from Marti, I wondered if he’d killed them.

  “Rebecca Watson. I thought it time we met.”

  Those eight words sliced through me.

  He must have been the man in the Lumina. I couldn’t believe my stupidity in leading this man to my aunts. Being a detective, you learned to change your routes, leave your home at different times. Somehow, I’d become not complacent, but…distracted. I scanned the tiled floor, trying to maintain some resolve. Nothing came. Heat radiated from my face from the anger at being so careless. “Why don’t you say it for what it is? You’re here to kill me.”

  Stone Cold

  by

  James Glass

  Rebecca Watson Series, Book 1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Stone Cold

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by James Glass

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Mainstream Thriller Rose Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2332-9

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2333-6

  Rebecca Watson Series, Book 1

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  Dedicated to all the Men and Women in Blue.

  Thank you for your service.

  Chapter 1

  Friday, 9:45 a.m.

  But the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison.

  ~James 3:8

  The worst part about waiting to testify is I spend the entire time terrified the lawyers will uncover some huge mistake that screams how lazy and incompetent I am. I tell myself a hundred different ways that I always do the best I can…but I don't really listen.

  After so many appearances in court you’d think I’d have no problem when it comes time to testify. But it never fails. Every time the bailiff comes to get me from this small waiting room, the cycle begins.

  The door swung open and a big woman with a horsey face and short gray hair enters. Her uniform hugs her well-nourished figure. The web belt is off-center and sags to her right, the holster almost resting on her thigh. She looks directly at me and I’m waiting to see if her voice sounds like John Wayne.

  “Detective Rebecca Watson?” she asks in a soft voice.

  “That’s me.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my black slacks.

  Like clockwork, my stomach twists into a knot, pushing its contents toward my throat as I stand and follow her into the courtroom.

  ****

  The courtroom is overflowing with spectators and media. Knees trembling, my high heels echo off the marble floor as I approach the witness stand, carrying a red binder, also known as a murder book. Today is going to be a very tough day. This is no ordinary case. The Florida Supreme Court awarded Leonard Lee Lucius a new trial or whatever verbiage they used. Some crap about tainted evidence. Anyway, his new defense team argued a crucial piece of evidence, the knife used to kill his girlfriend, Teri Goodson, was exposed to foreign fibers after being collected from the crime scene and before being signed into the evidence locker.

  Apparently, neither the jurors nor his lawyers saw fit to argue this point during the previous trial. The jury found him guilty. The District Attorney sought the death penalty, but Lucius ended up with life.

  All eyes in the courtroom focus on me. I keep my head straight to avoid their stares. As I step closer to the witness stand, it feels like I’m the one on trial. This isn’t true, but I can’t wrap my head around the fact they’re judging me, even before being sworn in.

  Chapter 2

  10:00 a.m.

  The bailiff swore me in. My right knee trembled. I have a ruby birthstone where my wedding band used to be. Sometimes, like now, when I’m nervous I twist it around my finger.

  I took a deep breath to try and calm my nerves. Two people are sitting at the defense table. One is old enough to be my grandfather, or Santa Claus, by his obese appearance, but his real name is Nicholas Crane. Instead of wearing red and white, he sported a charcoal suit that looked like it would cost more than my annual salary, but the suit couldn’t hide his jelly-rolled neck. The man next to him is the defendant. I haven’t laid eyes on Leonard Lee Lucius in five years. Prison hadn’t been kind to the man. Good.

  He shaved his head, since the last time I’d seen him. He was bawling his eyes out as the bailiff and two other officers of the court dragged his sorry ass off to prison. I wondered if the decision to go bald was his idea—give the illusion of being tougher while incarcerated.

  The lines on his forehead seemed more prominent than I remembered and his arms were much bigger, as they bulged through the sleeves of his navy-blue suit, a loaner no doubt from his hotshot attorney. His thumb and forefinger rubbed the salt and pepper hairs of a well-trimmed goatee as he and his lawyer seemed to be joking around. I wondered if their banter was staged, to make him appear less threatening to the jury.

  Looking at Lucius and his shitty grin only intensified the knot in my gut. All the deepest, darkest fears of that night five years ago remind me of the animal he is and always will be. No matter how much a person tries to change, you can’t disguise a turd. My interpretation of course, but hopef
ully the jury would come to the same conclusion.

  The prosecutor, Veronica Theriot, nicknamed the Raginʼ Cajun stood at the other table. She’s a no-nonsense kind of gal. I’m not sure if you follow boxing, but the Raginʼ Cajun held the title for several years, until a number of injuries over time knocked her off her game. Although she doesn’t box anymore, Theriot fights crime in the courtroom.

  She flipped through several pages of a yellow notepad then looked at me. Although we previously went over the testimony, butterflies fluttered in my stomach. Not because I have anything to hide, I never do. I don’t have a clue what Saint Nicholas has up his sleeve.

  I’ve been an expert witness for a number of years, and the one thing I’ve learned is no matter how much you think you know, words can always be twisted. In the end, it all depended on who played whom.

  Trials have always reminded me of playing chess. Each side begins with opening statements. Then the prosecutor plays its strategy through evidence, each piece vital to capturing the defendant’s king.

  The defense, however, tries to maneuver each piece, knocking down the prosecutor’s strategy by striking back with its own countermoves, penetrating weaknesses in the witnesses, and going in for the win—checkmate.

  Right now I feel like a pawn, used to set up the next move. I hope I’m not sacrificed before the day is over.

  Theriot smiled at me. She doesn’t show signs of aging, despite her prominent chin and a nose that snakes up her face from years of boxing. Her gaze shifted to the jury. I feel at ease as their eyes move from me to the prosecutor.

  A soft hum echoes above me and to the left as a white screen rolls down from the ceiling. The lights dim in the courtroom. Gasps emit softly from the spectators as a gruesome photo appears on the screen.

  “Detective Watson,” the prosecutor says in a soft voice, “can you please tell us what this picture represents?”

  I focus on a mangled body of a woman. She wore a white-T-shirt, several sizes too big, faded jeans and pale strawberry socks. The clothes are stained with blood. She lay on her back, her bronze hair fanned out with dried bloodstains on her ears, nose, and mouth. Her right leg is bent at a right angle. The left side of her face was crushed, a partial boot print embedded in her skin. The left eye had been knocked from the socket, the tendons keeping it from falling to the floor. Her right hand gripped a piece of green cloth.

  My gaze shifted to the jury. I could tell by their twisted faces this is the first time most of them had seen a dead body. I turned my head and stared at Lucius. Although the courtroom is dim, the screen emitted enough light for me to recognize the same crappy grin on his face moments earlier. I’m not sure anyone else can see it, but I know this man relishes his handiwork on display.

  I look down and notice my knee stopped shaking. For the first time since being sworn in, I feel like everything will be okay.

  I turn my focus to the screen. “This is a photo taken at the crime scene.”

  “So we’re clear, Detective Watson, who is the woman in the picture?”

  “Ms. Teri Goodson. She was Leonard Lee Lucius’ girlfriend.”

  Crane stood. “Objection, Your Judgeship. Calls for speculation on behalf of the witness.”

  Your Judgeship? Really? I had to stifle a laugh.

  The judge, John Meeks, is a large black man and even in the subdued light, I can make out his pock-marked face. He took a deep breath and exhaled. I’ve been in Meeks’s courtroom many times and know he only does this when he’s losing his patience. His only rule is to speed things along. Don’t muck up his trial. Apparently, Crane didn’t get the memo or didn’t care.

  The judge said, “Sustained,” then looked at the jury. “You will disregard the witness’s statement.”

  The defense lawyer sat and scribbled something on a yellow legal pad. I was certain the notes had nothing to do with his objection, but some of the jurors might think he scored a point. Then again, I could be wrong.

  Veronica nodded at the magistrate and then turned to me. “How do you know Ms. Goodson was the defendant’s girlfriend?”

  I cleared my throat. “We were told by several neighbors as well as some of her coworkers.”

  “Thank you, Detective. Please continue.”

  “We discovered a green T-shirt, with a piece torn off at the bottom, in a trashcan several houses down the street. Strawberry dots spattered the front of the shirt. DNA analysis identified these dots as blood belonging to two people. The victim and the defendant, Leonard Lee Lucius.”

  “Were you able to find the missing part of the T-shirt?”

  I pulled out a small pen light from a pocket and pressed a button. A red dot illuminated on the screen.

  “Yes. The cloth clutched in Ms. Goodson’s right hand is a match to the shirt we recovered in the garbage.”

  “How do you think it got there?”

  Crane raised a hand. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

  Veronica pointed to me. “Detective Watson is an expert witness in murder investigations. I believe her testimony to be based on facts, not speculation as the defense stated.”

  It seemed odd to me Veronica even asked the question. The techs in the crime lab were the real experts on the shirt, but I’m sure she had her reasons, even if she failed to clue me in before court began. Don’t make me your pawn.

  Meeks pressed his lips together, thinking. “Overruled.” He stared down at me from his seat. “You may answer the question.”

  I took a moment to formulate my thoughts. “She struggled with her assailant as she fought for her life. Somehow she managed to grab the shirt and tore a piece.”

  “Was the crime lab able to verify the torn piece of cloth and the shirt were a match?”

  “Yes.”

  She picked up two plastic bags. “I’d like to enter A1 and A2 into evidence.”

  The judge looked at the defense who didn’t object.

  I spent the next two hours going over numerous crime scene photos, evidence, and the interrogation of Lucius. The prosecution and defense argued points through objections, the judge ruling about 50-50 across the board. If either the prosecutor or defense were upset by some of the rulings, they didn’t show any signs.

  “What type of weapon did the killer use to kill the deceased?”

  Crane lumbered to his feet. “Objection!”

  Meeks instructed the bailiff to escort the jury out of the courtroom. Once they were gone, he wagged a finger at the prosecutor. “Are you trying for a mistrial, Ms. Theriot? The weapon has been ruled inadmissible by the Florida Supreme Court.”

  “No, sir. I’m simply asking if the medical examiner identified the murder weapon.”

  “You do realize this opens the defense to ask questions that could no doubt hurt your case.”

  “We understand, Your Honor, but we believe even without the murder weapon we have a strong enough case to convict.”

  Meeks raised a brow. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The bailiff returned, and the judge instructed him to bring the jury back.

  ****

  Once everyone was seated, Meeks said, “Overruled.”

  I wished Veronica hadn’t asked me the question because I knew the prosecution would have a field day with me. It certainly seemed like I was a pawn all right, but for how much longer?

  “Yes,” I said, rubbing my palms on my black slacks. It was an involuntary reaction. Maybe the jurors didn’t notice my nervousness. “The medical examiner indicated in the autopsy report a knife slashed Teri Goodson’s throat.”

  “Did the ME provide any evidence that could be useful in verifying the knife used to murder Teri Goodson?”

  Crane raised his hands, palms out. “Objection, Your Judgeship!”

  Meeks closed his eyes. I’m not a lawyer, but I’ve been in enough trials to know it’s not a good sign when the judge does this. Apparently, Veronica threw a curveball and the defense might hit it out of the park. But one thing I know about her is she never asks a
question she didn’t already know the answer to.

  Meeks opened his eyes; a vein bulged in his forehead as he glared at the prosecutor. He instructed the bailiff to again escort the jury out of the courtroom.

  Crane wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “The Florida Supreme Court ruled the knife inadmissible. Now the prosecution is trying to backdoor the jury by feeding them evidence that’s fruit of the poisonous tree.”

  The judge raised a brow. “I don’t need you telling me something I already know, Counselor.” Meeks turned his attention to the prosecutor. “I hope you’re not aiming for a mistrial on the first day of court, Ms. Theriot. Because we discussed this not even a minute ago.”

  Actually it felt more like three, but I didn’t think this was the time to discuss semantics with the judge. I’m certain correcting Meeks right now might earn me contempt.

  “No, Your Honor.”

  He pointed the gavel at her. “Then enlighten us.”

  “The Florida Supreme Court did rule the knife inadmissible. I’m not arguing the fact nor am I aiming for a mistrial. However, during the autopsy the medical examiner removed a sliver of metal from the victim. The lab identified this as the tip of the murder weapon. Although we can’t use the knife, the court does not prohibit us from using this evidence.”

  A smile almost curled up the judge’s lips. “Very good, Counselor. Overruled.”

  Crane shot from his seat, huffing. I couldn’t tell if he was upset or out of breath from so much exercise behind his table. Stand, sit. Stand, sit. Resembled an aerobics class. “You can’t be serious, Your Judgeship. If the knife is inadmissible then this evidence the medical examiner collected must be also.”

  Meeks pressed his lips together and pointed the gavel at the defense table. “Counselor! You will check your attitude at the door. My courtroom is a temple of decorum and I do not tolerate insolence.”

  Crane’s eyes darted to the floor. Too bad the jury wasn’t here to see this. I started to feel like I’d been promoted from pawn to queen. My anxiety which had been lingering like a knot in my throat seemed to fade with each passing second. Could it be I was finally overcoming the stress of feeling like a failure, a fraud in the courtroom? I hoped so, but only time would tell.