Cross Justice (35 page)

“Ms. Lawrence,” the judge said. “You understand you have admitted to committing perjury under oath?”

She nodded, sobbed. “Am I going to jail?”

Varney said nothing. A second went by, and then another.

Naomi said, “Not if you tell the court the truth.”

The judge looked annoyed at Naomi, then glanced out into the audience before saying, “Yes, the truth will help.”

Naomi got a Kleenex and handed it to Sharon Lawrence, waited for her to regain her composure.

“Why did you lie?” Naomi asked.

Shoulders hunched forward, she replied, “It was like you said. We, my mom and me, we don’t have much. Finn said
he’d make sure we had enough if I accused Coach Tate of raping me.”

“The late Finn Davis?” Naomi asked.

“Yes.”

“Adopted son of your uncle Marvin Bell?”

“Yes.”

“Knew it,” Pinkie whispered behind me.

“How much did Finn Davis offer you and your mother to cry rape?”

Sharon Lawrence glanced at her mother. Ann Lawrence stared at her hands on her lap as if they were deep, dark holes.

“Six thousand dollars a month for the rest of my mom’s life,” Sharon Lawrence choked. “Don’t you see? It saved her. That’s why I did it.”

Ann Lawrence burst into tears and hid her face in her hands.

“Why did Finn Davis want you to accuse Coach Tate of rape?”

Sharon Lawrence said, “I don’t know. He said he wanted to make sure Coach Tate was punished for what he’d done.”

“Did Finn Davis provide the semen that went in your panties?”

“Yes,” she said, looking disgusted. “I don’t know how he got it.”

“One last question,” Naomi said. “Did Finn Davis ask you to plant drugs in the athletic bag of Jannie Cross?”

“Objection; relevance,” Strong said.

Varney again looked caught between a rock and a hard place and finally said, “Sustained.”

“He did ask,” Sharon said anyway. “Finn. He promised me two thousand a month if I put the drugs in her bag. Are we going to jail? Me and Mom?”

This last question was aimed at Judge Varney, who said, “That’s a matter for another time and place, young lady. You’re dismissed for the time being.”

If it was possible, Sharon Lawrence looked even smaller and weaker when she got up and left the witness stand. She didn’t look at Stefan or any of us, just slid in next to her mother, who held her tight, whispered, “It’s all right. We’re going to be all right.”

“Judge,” Naomi said. “Based on Ms. Lawrence’s recanting of her testimony and the overwhelming physical evidence, the defense moves that the rape charges against my client be dropped.”

Varney licked his lips, said, “Ms. Strong?”

The district attorney hesitated, and then said, “The state does not object.”

“So ordered,” Varney said.

Naomi went over and put her hand on Stefan’s shoulder, said, “The defense asks that Detective Frost retake the stand.”

Varney looked at his watch and then nodded.

Frost looked rattled when he took his seat.

Naomi took up more documents, said, “The defense wishes to enter the next exhibit, a second series of FBI tests based on evidence found at the murder scene.”

Again Strong voiced no objection, just took her copy of the test, as if fearing its contents.

Frost took his copy as Naomi said, “This is a drug test done on semen samples taken off Rashawn Turnbull’s body, correct, Detective?”

Frost scanned the document, said, “It is.”

“This would be the same semen sample that the state’s DNA testing identified as belonging to my client?”

“Uh, correct.”

“Please read pages four and five,” Naomi said.

Frost flipped the pages and read, and it was like watching a balloon with a slow leak wilt and collapse.

Naomi said, “Detective Frost, can you read aloud the results of the test on my client’s semen gathered off Rashawn Turnbull’s body?”

Frost chewed the inside of his lip. He said in a defeated voice, “‘Negative for drugs and alcohol.’”

“‘Negative for drugs and alcohol,’” she repeated to the jury. “The prosecution says my client drank to excess, did copious quantities of drugs, and went into a berserk rage on the night of Rashawn’s rape and murder. But the FBI says Stefan Tate was stone-cold sober when that semen was produced.”

BREE SLID INTO
the seat in the courtroom I’d been saving for her. Her eyes were shining when she whispered, “I’ve got something. Something big.”

“Hold on,” I whispered back. “Naomi’s about to destroy the state’s case.”

My niece said, “Detective Frost? You agree that’s what the test indicates?”

“Apparently so,” the detective said, looking like he’d gone too many rounds with a heavyweight contender.

“That’s strange,” Naomi said, strolling over to the jury. “Because the blood sample you took from my client the morning after he allegedly killed Rashawn Turnbull showed he had a blood alcohol level of point zero six five, indicating he’d probably been very drunk the night before. Correct?”

Frost took a big breath, said, “Yes.”

“But we now know that’s contrary to the FBI’s results,” Naomi said, hands on the jury box. “Which means that the
semen on Rashawn’s body and in Sharon Lawrence’s panties came from my client, but not on the nights in question. Which means someone, probably Finn Davis, somehow got to one of my client’s condoms after he had had intercourse with his fiancée.”

I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Patty Converse’s face had gone red, but she was nodding in agreement.

“Objection, Judge!” Strong cried. “The defense attorney is drawing conclusions out of thin air.”

“These conclusions are not drawn out of thin air!” Naomi insisted. “These are scientific facts, Ms. Strong. Flip to page nine of the FBI’s report, third paragraph, reference to a third distinct DNA source in Ms. Lawrence’s panties. Initial test indicates the DNA is female and unrelated to Ms. Lawrence. Vaginal secretions of another woman, suggesting, again, a used condom was stolen after use to plant evidence in order to frame my client for a crime he clearly did not commit.”

Both the judge and the district attorney were digging through the document, looking for the reference.

Naomi gave them twenty seconds and then said, “These are facts that cannot be spun. All the evidence found at the murder scene has to be considered tainted. The vodka bottle, Mr. Tate’s school ID, the meth sample, and the semen must be thrown out.”

Strong said, “Judge, the vodka, the meth, and the ID are solid.”

“No, they are not,” Naomi said. “The placement of those three pieces of evidence is illogical at best, especially since they were left by a so-called berserk killer. My client’s semen was clearly planted. So were the vodka, the meth, and the ID.”

My niece turned to face the bench. “In short, Judge Varney,
the state no longer has a viable case against my client. I move for mistrial and release of Stefan Tate from custody immediately.”

The courtroom exploded.

Stefan rocked back in his chair, looking toward the heavens and hugging himself. Aunt Hattie started cheering and clapping. Pinkie, Nana Mama, and I joined her.

Judge Varney looked panicked when he whacked his gavel and called for order in his courtroom.

Bree tapped my elbow and held her iPhone in front of me, showing me riderless boxcars going through one of the railroad crossings south of Starksville. Then she showed me a picture of the same containers going through the crossing on the main Starksville road. Two riders were aboard.

“What—” I began.

Delilah Strong cried, “Judge, there remains other compelling evidence that links Mr. Tate to this murder.”

Naomi said, “Judge, it’s clear now that someone else killed Rashawn Turnbull and framed my client for the crime.”

“The defense offers no evidence of that at all,” Strong said. “Who does she think killed that boy?”

“That’s really not our concern,” Naomi said. “But we have a theory.”

“Alex, you have to see this,” Bree said, shoving the iPhone in front of me again. I glanced at the screen, saw a satellite view of train tracks by an industrial complex. I held up my index finger and then looked back to Naomi.

My niece glanced at me, and I nodded.

She said, “Judge, we have evidence that the meth planted in Mr. Tate’s basement is tied to a drug ring using the trains that pass through Starksville to distribute methamphetamine and
other drugs up and down the East Coast. My client had growing suspicions about the freight trains, and we believe the drug traffickers killed Rashawn and framed my client for the murder to keep him from digging further.”

“This is ridiculous,” Strong said. “The defense has introduced no evidence of any such drug ring. Judge, you can’t—”

The rear doors to the courtroom were flung open with a bang.

Strong, Naomi, Judge Varney, the bailiff, the clerk, and many of the jurors gaped in disbelief and fear.

I twisted around in my seat to see what they were gawking at and got the shock of my life.

Palm Beach County’s Detective Sergeant Peter Drummond looked like he was out for blood as he pressed the muzzle of a sawed-off pump-action Remington twelve-gauge to the side of Marvin Bell’s head.

“
NOBODY MOVES OR
this man dies!” Detective Sergeant Drummond roared, and he jerked at the rope he had tied around Bell’s neck and hands, which were horribly swollen and bruised. Several of Bell’s fingers pointed in directions they shouldn’t.

Spectators began to cry, panic, and push back toward the walls. Nana Mama squealed in fear beside me, and I held up an arm to shield her. Bree started for her backup pistol, but I said, “Don’t. I know this guy.”

Drummond shouted, “Unload your gun there, Bailiff, and put it on the floor. You. In the witness box. Same.”

Frost and the bailiff did as they were told.

Drummond scanned the room for threats, said, “You too, Chief Sherman, and you, Detective Carmichael. Primary weapons and backups on the floor.”

Sherman and Carmichael seemed shocked that the madman knew their names, but they did as they were told. Then Drummond marched Bell deeper into the courtroom. Marvin Bell
looked more lost than frightened, shuffling forward, staring at his hands and quivering in pain.

As they got close, I stood up, said, “Sergeant, what are you doing?”

Drummond turned his scarred, expressionless face past Bree and toward me, said, “Something I should have done a long time ago.”

“C’mon, Drummond. You don’t want to do this.”

“You don’t understand, Dr. Cross. I have to do this.”

The sergeant pushed and dragged Bell into the well of the court. He glanced at Strong and Naomi, said, “Take a seat, Counselors.”

Then he motioned for Frost to get down, said, “This man wants to testify.”

The detective hesitated, but then climbed from the witness stand. Drummond said, “Sit there on the floor by the jury box.”

Frost did as he was told. The sergeant maneuvered Marvin Bell into the chair and got behind him, keeping the gun at his head and dropping the rope so it dangled off the back of the chair.

“Sergeant, whoever you are,” Judge Varney began, “and whatever problem you might have with Mr. Bell, this is not the way to address the—”

“With all due respect, Judge,” Drummond said, “we are no longer in a court of law. This is truth-seeking where the ends justify the means.”

Beside me, Bree typed on her phone and then held it up. I realized she was filming him. I looked over my shoulder and saw that Patty Converse and Pinkie Parks had gone wide-eyed.

What do we do?
Pinkie mouthed.

“Not a thing,” I whispered, and looked at my aunts, who
were sitting forward in their chairs and raptly watching Drummond.

The sergeant peered around the courtroom as if he owned it, then focused on the jury box, said, “Wouldn’t you just like to know what happened for once? No BS. The whole thing out in the open for you to judge?”

Despite their collective fear, several jury members nodded.

“I would too,” Nana Mama whispered. “You
know
him, Alex?”

“Met him in Florida,” I whispered. “He’s a cop.”

“What happened to his face?”

“First Gulf War.”

I knew the source of the scarring, but what had happened to Drummond in the few days since I’d seen him? Why in God’s name would he do something this rash? Destroy his career and reputation? His life?

I’d talked to Drummond about Marvin Bell and how frustrated I was at not being able to link him to the web of secrets we’d been uncovering in Starksville. And the sergeant had asked me about Bell several times. He’d done it on the phone that very morning. Drummond had obviously been close by when he called me. And Bell had never left the area. The sergeant had been holding him hostage somewhere, torturing him into a confession.

But why?

“We’ll start at the beginning, Marvin, way, way back, more than thirty-five years,” Drummond said. “You sold drugs in Starksville then, built a nice little business out of it, didn’t you?”

“No,” Marvin Bell said, sounding bewildered. “I—”

From out of nowhere, Drummond pulled out a small ball-peen hammer. He snapped it forward with power, speed, and accuracy. The round head of the hammer smashed into Bell’s swollen left hand, and he howled in agony.

“Try again, Marvin,” Drummond said, waving the hammer in Bell’s peripheral vision. “You sold drugs. You built a gang.”

“Yes,” Marvin Bell whimpered. “I sold drugs. I built a gang.”

“Here in Starksville?”

“Yes.”

“Name of that gang?”

“The Company.”

There it is,
I thought.
Bell started the Company. He’s Grandfather.

Drummond said, “You had a ruthless business model, Marvin. Got people addicted on freebies until they were like your slaves. You had people killed. You killed people yourself.”

“I never killed anyone,” Marvin Bell said, crying. “I keep telling you that and you don’t believe me.”