LITMIR.BIZ

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      This wasn’t the place to share the details of such an intimate story, but I needed her to understand why I couldn’t continue with the trial.

      “The pneumonia was the result of a drowning attempt perpetrated by Langley Dean—Langley Mulligan—the defendant. Her version of payback. She assumed I had gotten her busted for having alcohol on school grounds, but it wasn’t me.” I leaned forward on the stool to lend more privacy to my words. “I would have told you before trial, but I didn’t recognize her. For what it’s worth, Langley is guilty. If not for this, then something far more sinister.”

      And I still have the scars to prove it.

      “Victoria, I’m so sorry.” She squeezed my hand. Based on the tears in her eyes, I sensed she meant the gesture as a hug. “I can’t imagine how you feel. You were brave to have shared this, but you know I can’t do anything.”

      “I know. I didn’t mean to suggest that you should.” I swallowed my anger. “I had to share the truth so you’d understand why I plan to call in another court reporter to take the plea. I can’t handle this.”

      “I understand. Do whatever it takes.” She gave my hand another squeeze and blinked away her tears. “Go talk to your colleagues. I need to do the same. The law prohibits me from spearheading an investigation, but I’ll need to report a few things about this case to President Judge Yaris. Get me a copy of the transcript as soon as you can, okay?”

      She lifted her head and announced to the near-empty courtroom. “We’re in a thirty-minute recess while the attorneys conduct their plea negotiations.”

      The bailiff cried out, “All rise.”

      I rose from my footstool and moved out of Ms. Freddie’s path.

      As she stepped down from the bench, she turned to me and whispered, “Give me ten minutes. I’ll meet you in the kitchen for tea. We can have a real conversation. You can tell me the whole story…uncensored.” She pressed a finger to her lips to let me know that our teatime would be as friends, not coworkers.

      Just knowing she’d taken an interest in my story made me feel better. I was lucky to have someone at work watching my back. I didn’t know how I’d survive without her guidance, so I pressed a finger to my lips in return and watched her go.

      CHAPTER 3

      “That’s the first time I’ve seen anything like that,” said Grace Tisdale, Trident County Superior Court’s chief bailiff and head of security.

      Grace had a matronly face and a Peter Pan haircut gone prematurely white, but her body was as lithe and nimble as a professional athlete’s. She climbed onto the bench, where I was still standing after Ms. Freddie’s recent departure, and squatted beside my footstool for a private conversation. “You hear whispers about this stuff happening all the time upstate, but I never thought it would happen down here.”

      “Me neither.” I plopped back onto the footstool so we could gossip face to face. “I can’t believe she dismissed the felony charges.”

      Grace made a clucking sound. “This has Old Beau Harriston’s name written all over it.”

      “You think so?”

      “I know so. You haven’t been around long enough to see how cutthroat he can be. I’m never surprised at some of the crazy things he says or, better yet, does—especially when a juror or someone from the media is within earshot. He loves swaying the public with alternative facts.” She mimed sarcastic air quotes.

      I raised an eyebrow.

      “Of course, if he’s feeling gracious,” she rolled her eyes, “he’ll simply show up late to court or flood the clerk with evidence or demand dozens of sidebars to wear out the jury.”

      “That stuff never works.”

      “Sure it does. Check it out.” Grace handed me a navy-blue business card with bold gold letters. “Oh, and Old Beau says he wants a copy of the trial transcript. Give him a ring when you’re ready for payment.”

      I skimmed the contact information and flipped the card over to find Harriston’s picture and a tagline.

      BEAUREGARD MONROE HARRISTON, Attorney at Law–Don’t dare plea, we’ll set you free! OVER 200 CONSECUTIVE WINS AND COUNTING–licensed in Delaware for 40+ years.

      “Okay. Point taken. He knows how to win.” I plucked the business card with my middle finger. “Still, you can’t blame the man for taking pride in his work—but what you’re suggesting is evidence tampering. That’s illegal and a whole lot different than blabbing to the press.”

      “True. But take a second to consider why he’s won so much. Either he’s only accepting cases he thinks he can win, or he’s dancing with the devil to make those wins happen.”

      We eyeballed each other.

      Grace was the oldest and sharpest bailiff on staff. She’d worked in the courthouse for over twenty years. If anyone’s opinion was worth considering, it was definitely hers. But was it realistic to think a prominent attorney would be willing to risk his career for a witch like Langley?

      I slipped Harriston’s card into the pocket of my suit and looked over at the balding attorney. He was resting his backside against the edge of Stevenson’s table with his legs crossed at the ankle and his arms folded. Based on the twitch of Harriston’s bulbous nose and heavy jowls, he appeared completely dissatisfied with the words of the frenzied prosecutor. I wanted to see if I could eavesdrop on their conversation from my perch, but Grace interrupted my thoughts.

      “Think about it. This is the kind of publicity his business needs. Getting clients acquitted after winning a trial is one thing. But getting the charges dismissed during trial makes him a demi-god, especially when all the big law firms from upstate have shaved his business down to nothing.”

      “So, you think…” my lips puckered on a seed of doubt, “Mr. Harriston needs to win this case because he’s losing clients?”

      “Exactly. Don’t you ever walk The Quad? Old Beau has a ‘for lease’ sign in his window. I mean, come on—his office has been there since I was a kid.”

      Even though I lived less than two miles from Bickerton Square, where the courthouse was located, I never walked to work and didn’t spend time hanging around the building. Bail bond agencies, the drug lab, and the county’s government offices crowded most of the area. To my mind, nothing in the center of town was worth exploring except Cake & Kettle, a local teashop that had become my lunchtime hideout.

      “For all you know, he could be leasing his office space and moving to a better one.”

      Grace shook her head. “He’s on the verge of eviction for late payments. Maggie says he’s constantly in and out of the Prothonotary’s Office asking for favors because his secretary and law clerk quit eight months ago. Their paychecks kept bouncing.”

      “Paralegal. The true definition of a law clerk is one who works for a judge.”

      I didn’t mean to correct Grace. The words came out as absentminded filler because I didn’t know how to respond. Her theory was pure hearsay, but the idea made sense. Harriston had been awfully smug at sidebar.

      “Sorry, Grace. Can we talk about this later?” I lifted my steno machine and stood. “I’m going to send in another reporter right after I check my laptop. I’ve already cleared the switch with the judge.”

      “Everything okay?” Her voice grew serious.

      “For now.” I fixed my lips into what I hoped was a carefree grin. “Just be mindful of the switch, will you?”

      “Whatever you say, boss.” Grace unfolded from her crouch and adjusted the long sleeves of her starchy polyester uniform. “If I didn’t have to get back to those jurors, I’d make you talk.”

      “Excuse

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