“And the two new coolers,” the detective said doggedly.
We’re all educated these days on what it takes to cook up a batch of methamphetamine, and this woman might well have planned to start her own kitchen lab, a serious problem out here in these hills; but if she’d been at it before, the house would have smelled like the worst litterbox in the world and fumes would have so permeated curtains, carpets, and furniture that air fresheners and window fans would barely dent it. The point was moot though since Mrs. Triplett had not been charged with making meth. She was charged with concealing a weapon.
“Is it not a fact, Detective Fletcher, that when you first stopped Mrs. Triplett and looked through the open window, you actually saw her gun on the seat beside her in plain sight?”
“No, sir.”
“Didn’t the so-called concealment occur when she tried to extract her driver’s license from her pocketbook and inadvertently covered the gun with her pocketbook at that point?”
“No, sir. It was over the gun and the gun was pushed down in the crack of the seat so that only the edge of the handle was visible when I lifted the purse.”
“Sheriff Horton, two other officers of your department and an SBI agent were standing in Mrs. Triplett’s yard. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were any of them with you at the car when you found the gun?”
“Sheriff Horton came over when he saw her step out of the car, but I had already found the gun by the time he got there.”
“So none of your colleagues can corroborate your story?”
“No, sir, not really.”
“When did you officially place my client under arrest? As soon as you found the gun or after you didn’t find a meth lab?”
“Objection,” said the DA. “Irrelevant.”
“Overruled,” I said. “The witness will answer.”
“My colleagues were still searching the premises,” he said, which was probably technically truthful.
“And just for the record, was Mrs. Triplett’s gun properly registered and licensed?”
“Yessir.”
“No further questions.”
When Mrs. Triplett took the stand, she naturally testified to the same scenario her attorney had laid out: the gun was in plain view on the seat of the car until she unwittingly covered it with her pocketbook. “I never tried to hide it and I told him soon as he asked that I had it.” She looked up at me. “It’s a real rough neighborhood up there, ma’am. That’s why I keep my gun close at hand, right there beside me where anybody can see it and know I’m not afraid to use it if I have to.”
In the end, despite the physical signs on her body that she was a likely user, I was left with her word against that of a detective who was probably frustrated that they hadn’t found enough evidence to arrest her for the more serious charge.
Unfortunately for Detective Fletcher, wishing doesn’t make it so and there wasn’t enough evidence nor even simple corroboration. Had I heard this case two weeks ago, I might have given him the benefit of the doubt, but now that I’m engaged to a sheriff’s deputy, I know I’m going to have to lean over backward to keep my judgments fair and unbiased.
I nodded to the defense attorney and he and Mrs. Triplett stood to hear my decision.
“I find the defendant not guilty.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” she said, finally smiling.
“But in the future, Mrs. Triplett, I’d suggest that you keep your purse on the floor and your gun on the dashboard.”
“I surely will, ma’am.”
“At this time,” I said, “the court will recess for fifteen minutes.”
“All rise,” said the bailiff.
CHAPTER 6
I finished drying my hands and had just stepped out of Judge Rawlings’s lavatory when Mary Kay stuck her head in the doorway and said, “Could you speak to Mr. Burke and Ms. Delorey?”
“Sure,” I said, clueless as to who they might be.
“Judge Knott? I’m Gail Delorey,” said the woman, who entered first. She was small and olive-skinned with dark brown hair that she had pulled back and tied with a maroon scarf that matched the thin maroon lines running through her black trouser suit. Her crisp white shirt was man-tailored and her hand was firm when she shook mine. I guessed her age to be mid-forties.
“Lucius Burke,” said the man, who followed. “District Attorney here.”
A slender man in a charcoal suit and a blue-and-green tie, Burke’s hair was now more salt than pepper, prematurely so, no doubt, since his face was almost wrinkle-free except for nice laugh lines at the corners of the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. His handshake was utterly professional, yet I saw those eyes flicker up and down in quick, discreet assessment and I was glad I’d worn my favorite dark red knit dress.
“Welcome to Lafayette County.”
“Thank you,” I said, automatically noticing that his ring finger was bare.
(“Yours isn’t,” the preacher reminded me sternly.)
I sat down behind the desk and laid my hands on its shining top, as if Dwight’s ring were a shield against speculations and possibilities that were now off-limits to me.
“What can I do for you?” I asked Ms. Delorey.
(“No ring on her finger either,” the pragmatist said innocently.) (“Oh please,” said the preacher, who has a built-in shit detector.) Ms. Delorey exchanged a glance with the DA, then said, “When you go back into court, Mr. Burke will be asking you to find probable cause against my client, who’s accused of voluntary manslaughter.”
“And?”
“Ms. Delorey thought we ought to warn you that this is a rather high-profile case for this area,” said Mr. Burke. (Really, his eyes were the most astonishing green.) “Lots of local interest. There will definitely be reporters and the station down in Howards Ford has sent a cameraman up to cover today’s hearing.”
I frowned at that.
“You don’t allow cameras in your courtrooms?”
“Under no circumstances,” I said firmly. I’d allowed it once and watched everyone immediately start playing to the cameras despite my instructions to ignore them. After that, I swore never again.
“What about tape recorders?” asked Ms. Delorey, showing me a tiny voice-activated model.
“Tape recorders are fine,” I said, “as long as you don’t delay us if the tape runs out or the batteries die.”
After instructing the bailiff to announce that I would hold in contempt anyone who tried to use a camera of any description, I returned to the courtroom. As had been predicted, almost every bench was filled.
I took my seat and Mr. Burke rose to state that Daniel Wayne Freeman had been charged with voluntary manslaughter in the death of Dr. Carlyle Grayson Ledwig and that he was asking me to find probable cause to bind Mr. Freeman over for trial in superior court.
Maybe I’m just slow, but until that moment I hadn’t connected “high profile” to Dr. Ledwig, yet here was the same young man whose picture I’d seen in the High Country Courier.
I opened the folder on the case and read through the rulings made last week at Daniel Freeman’s first appearance. An accused’s first appearance is the first court day after his arrest on charges that will carry serious prison time or worse if he’s convicted. It’s when the judge, in this case Judge Rawlings, reviews the warrant for arrest; determines what bond, if any, is appropriate; assures the defendant of his right to counsel if he can’t afford to hire one; and sets a date for a probable cause hearing five to fifteen days later so that both the State and the defense will have enough time to prepare.
A probable cause hearing is more formal and more adversarial than the first appearance hearing because it’s the proceeding that transfers a case to superior court unless district court—me—finds that there is insufficient cause to continue with the prosecution.