States of Grace by Mandy Miller (top 100 books of all time checklist .TXT) 📕

would she do it in such as a way as would point the finger right at herself?”

“You’re saying she was set up? Don’t you have to say that?”

“What did you talk about with Zoe that day?”

He grabs for the door handle “Get out of my way. I have to go.”

I step back. “Joe, you’re Zoe’s alibi. Count on hearing from a Mr. Hightower very soon. He’s the prosecutor, and he’s going to be very interested in hearing what you have to say.”

Chapter 30

If bond court is a three-ring circus, Friday calendar call is the criminal courts’ ninth circle of hell, the day cases get trial dates and defendants get twitchy.

Today is the day for Judge Twietmeyer to set the State of Florida v. Zoe Slim for trial, which he will do along with arraigning Zoe on the charge of the first-degree murder of Serena Price.

Today is the day Hightower will find out his marquee case, the stuff careers are made of, is going south, way south.

I join the back of the Attorneys line outside, sunglasses on, head down, to avoid any and all questions from anyone, least of all the media who are always skulking around out here like rats in search of trash. My head feels as if it’s being microwaved from the inside out by the sun. Almost Halloween and the sun’s still blazing as if it were July.

To distract myself from my desire to scream at the heavens, I survey my defense colleagues in line, all of us wilting in sweaty suits and once-starched collars. They’re a motley bunch. Some in two-thousand-dollar suits and Rolexes, others in off-the-rack and Timexes, but they all exude the same kind of jimmied-up confidence I used to have.

Heads high, they’re regaling each other with war stories of alleged recent victories, and how they stuck it to this or that prosecutor. I overhear one guy with a man bun and a shabby, thrift-store jacket brag how he’d told that “f’ing State Attorney to put that sorry-ass plea offer where the sun don’t shine and smoke it,” a mixed metaphor which makes me snicker.

Maybe I could benefit from shoving my shoulders back like he’s doing? Hold my head that high to announce, “I am a force to be reckoned with.” Instead, I rub my temples, chew on a Tums, and contemplate how many among this pathetic crew would have the balls to put the defenses they’ve conjured up to the test in front of a jury. And they’ll use them right up until they have to announce “Ready for trial, Your Honor,” at which point they’ll fold faster than an origami artist. Most will convince their clients to take plea bargains, and feel justified, not to mention comforted, given the odds most are guilty.

But there’s been no need for Hightower to make any kind of plea offer in Zoe’s cases. He thought he was holding all the cards. And now there’s no way I’d take one.

“I like the dark glasses. They make you look…” Deputy Brian pauses and pulls the word he’s looking for out of the air with a snap of his fingers. “Mysterious, Ms. Locke. Very mysterious. And you brought your entourage,” he says, his eyes swinging in the direction of a bevy of reporters shoving TV cameras and microphones through the adjacent scanner.

I push my sunglasses back up my sweaty nose and scowl. “Me and my shadows.”

He hands me the brown accordion file from the scanner belt, but not before scanning the label, Zoya AKA “Zoe” Slim.

He lips stretch tight into a grimace. “I guess it’s go time?”

“We’ll see.”

“Great to see you back in the saddle, Ms. Locke. I’m rooting for you. Not sure about your client, though.”

The clock above the elevator reads 8:15 a.m. Fifteen minutes to figure out how to handle telling Hightower and His Honor that I have an eleventh-hour alibi witness. Despite what happens in TV courtrooms, rabbit-out-of-the-hat theatrics are frowned upon in real life.

I find Anton pacing back and forth outside the courtroom, hands clasped behind his back.

“Where’s Gretchen?”

“Sitting down inside. She’s beside herself with all this—”

“Killing?” I interject, and I wonder how far off base the comment is. Gretchen may look like she couldn’t kill more than a dry martini, but she’s apparently just fine with selling pharmaceutical tools of self-destruction.

“Dr. Slim, did Mrs. Slim know Brandon Sinclair?”

He stops mid-stride. “Who?”

“Zoe’s counselor. The man she’s accused of murdering, remember?”

“Yes. Of course. Mr. Sinclair. He apparently meant a lot to Zoe. But no, my wife did not know him. Why would you ask such a thing?”

I let a few seconds pass to gauge his reaction. His purposefully blank stare tells me he’s hiding something. “Well, he was Zoe’s counselor. Do you know if she ever talked to him about Zoe?”

He intrudes far enough into my personal space that I can smell coffee on his breath. “I said no, Ms. Locke.”

I don’t flinch. “And how about Serena Price. Did your wife know her? Or maybe you did?”

His left eye twitches. “Of course, she was Zoe’s best friend. She often visited our home. What happened to her is a tragedy. So young, so beautiful.” He whips around to head into the courtroom. “We should be getting on inside, don’t you think?”

I tap him on the shoulder. “One last question—did you ever meet Brandon Sinclair?”

His limbs stiffen inside his bespoke suit. When he turns, his face has transformed from faux friendly into bona fide rage. “No.”

I plaster on a patently fake grin. “Of course not.”

***

The courtroom is unmitigated pandemonium, but despite being packed to the gills, the room is frigid. Keeping the temperature down is supposed to keep emotions at bay in such close quarters, where everyone has a lot at stake and tempers can flare at any moment.

The bench stands vacant, but every other square inch of real estate is occupied. A phalanx of defense lawyers, blathering on to each other about God-only-knows what, snakes around the well in the order in which they