Bone Rattle by Marc Cameron (best ereader for pdf .TXT) 📕

The judge did not utter the exact words, but the content of her order made it clear. The jurors would be virtual prisoners of the US Marshals Service for the duration of the trial, which was expected to last two more weeks.

It was not yet 2:00 p.m., but Forsberg dismissed court for the day, directing the marshals to get the jury settled so they could all resume work bright and early the next morning.

She nodded at the court security officer, who said, “All rise for the jury!”

A man in a too-large polo shirt at the end of the jury box swayed on his feet as his plight sank in. The woman beside him dropped her notebook. Two more fell back in their seats. One juror, a swaggering guy the judge had already warned about wearing too much cologne, overtly eyed two middle-aged women in the row ahead of him. The look on his face said he was imagining possible conquests. Cutter resolved to have a little chat with the would-be Casanova. Juror love affairs happened all the time. The loneliness of being sequestered just helped speed up the process. Only the juror on the front row, nearest the bench, was smiling. She was a small thing, with mouse-brown hair and a startled look in her wide eyes as if someone had just set off a string of fireworks under her chair.

Cutter leaned over to Keen. “What’s the deal with the one on the end?”

The inspector glanced up from his notebook. “Maddie Davis,” he said. “She’s got three kids under five years old at home. If I had to guess, she’s imagining a hot bath and two weeks of hotel-room solitude about now.”

The jurors filed out and the judge adjourned court until 9:00 a.m., before leaving the bench, disappearing through the door to her chambers, contemplating, no doubt, the whirling shit storm she’d just put into motion.

“At least somebody wins,” Lola said, walking up in time to get the gist of the conversation. “So, we’re hookin’ and hauling?”

Cutter gave her a nod, then looked at Keen. “Unless you want us somewhere else?”

“No, that’s great. I’ve got a command post and rooms for all the jurors plus eight deputies at the Sheraton. With the two out-of-district deputies from Oregon plus the two each coming up tomorrow from western and eastern Washington, we should be good to go.”

Marshals Service personnel customarily referred to the judicial district a deputy was from rather than the city, especially in states with larger populations that had more than one district. Western Washington meant Seattle. Eastern Washington was Spokane.

Keen peeled a credit card–size motel room key off a stack from the pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to Lola. “It’s not far from the courthouse and they have a restaurant. I have two vans set up to take everyone home to grab their clothes. We’ll eat dinner in the hotel and I have the command post covered tonight. Once you get the prisoners back you can get yourselves settled – so you guys can help me tomorrow with the day shift.”

Prisoners were rarely restrained in front of the jury, so the two deputies and one contract guard from Juneau Police Department waited to hook up the Hernandez brothers until the door shut behind the last juror and the judge.

“We’ll get them back to Lemon Creek,” Lola said, taking a set of chains, cuffs, and leg irons from the JPD officer, a guy with a stark gray flattop that he’d probably had since the Marine Corps, judging from the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor tattooed on his forearm. One of the two deputies, a new guy named Lardon, up from the District of Oregon, held on to his chains. The outline of his issued ballistic vest was visible under his white cotton shirt and tie. Cutter figured it was the kid’s first assignment after the Academy. Not that it wasn’t smart to wear a vest; it just wasn’t common for court duty. Lola held out her free hand, ready to take the chains, but the kid shook his head, clenching his teeth like a chargy horse, full of excitement and twitching nerves.

“I got him,” he said. “I don’t mind hookin’ up these broke-dick assholes—”

Lola shot Cutter an amused side-eye. He raised a hand, motioning the kid to the end of the table.

“Sir?”

“Listen,” Cutter said, keeping his voice low. “You’re new. I get that. But we don’t talk to prisoners that way here. It shows—”

“Disrespect.” The kid cut him off and gave an emphatic nod. “I get it, sir.”

“No,” Cutter said. “Interrupting me shows disrespect. Talking to a prisoner like that shows weakness. These guys have been around the block many, many times. They respond to calm surety much better than strident bluster. The day will, no doubt, come when you need to kick somebody’s ass. Let it be the prisoner’s fault, not yours for spooling him up.”

Deputy Lardon stood and blinked, clenching his teeth again. Instead of asking him if he understood, Cutter stood silently, letting him process the information.

“Copy that,” the kid said at length.

“Outstanding,” Cutter said. “Now, look at the door and pretend like I’m giving you instructions to take care of another matter so these assholes don’t think I just chewed you out.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to call them that.”

Cutter shrugged. “We’re not,” he said. “But that doesn’t make them any less so.”

Lardon stood and listened for thirty seconds, then went to the back of the courtroom to check in with Inspector Keen for his next assignment.

“How come he gets a vest?” Raul, the eldest Hernandez brother, asked, pointing at the young deputy with his chin while Lola passed the belly chain around his waist.

She slipped the big link at the end of the chain through the smaller link, before inserting the jaws of the handcuffs through the same larger link and then around each wrist. This locked the chain in place and kept