At Close Range. Tara Quinn Taylor

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Keith, attorney for the defense, had reintroduced the young man at his side, Kenny Hill. Mr. Hill, wearing a navy suit today, made eye contact with the jury.

      Just as he did every time he was introduced.

      The eighteen-year-old had more bravado than years and sense combined. As had his Ivory Nation compatriot who’d sat in that very seat twelve months earlier, in a trial almost as long as this one. That kid, another young “brother” in Arizona’s most influential white supremacist organization, had cried in the end, though, when Hannah had sentenced him to twenty years for breaking and entering, kidnapping and weapons theft.

      Her judgment had been overturned on appeal while Hannah was taking family leave, mourning for the adopted son she’d lost to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. A mistrial had been declared and that young man was free.

      Sweating beneath the black folds of her robe, Hannah glanced at Keith. “You may call your next witness.”

      “The defense calls Bobby Donahue, Your Honor.”

      “Mr. Donahue.” She forced herself to look at him again. And to look away. “Please step forward and be sworn in.” She indicated Jaime, who’d risen from her seat to Hannah’s left.

      “Please raise your right hand and state your name.” Jaime’s voice didn’t falter, and Hannah made a mental note to congratulate her youngest employee. Jaime had been nervous at the prospect of facing this dangerous leader.

      “Bobby Donahue.”

      Bobby. Not Robert. Not Robert G. Just Bobby.

      Bobby, who couldn’t appear that morning, in spite of the subpoena, due to a Wednesday church service he’d officiated without absence for more than five years. Bobby, who’d offered to appear in her court at 1:30 that afternoon instead.

      In the interests of justice and saving the state the money it would cost to enforce the original subpoena, Hannah had approved the request.

      “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth…”

      Jaime’s voice faded as Hannah watched the witness, getting too clear a glimpse of the man’s eyes. Ghost. God. Infallible. Unstoppable. All words she’d heard applied to Bobby Donahue over the years.

      “I do.” Donahue regarded Jaime with apparent respect.

      He’s vindictive. That was the warning Hannah and her staff had been given by other court employees, the press, even the honorable William Horne, Hannah’s social companion and fellow judge who’d officiated far more Ivory Nation trials than Hannah.

      While he had yet to get caught at any offense, Bobby Donahue never allowed a wrong to go unpunished, a disloyalty to go unavenged.

      Or so they said.

      And Hannah, having fought her way off the streets and into college, didn’t compromise the law for anyone.

      

      Dr. Brian Hampton was not in the mood to cooperate. Especially with a reporter. And dammit, why wasn’t Hannah answering her phone? She’d said she was staying in her chambers for lunch, preparing for the afternoon session of a trial that was taking far too much out of her.

      That last was his assessment. Not hers.

      Not that he’d told her so. As a friend he’d earned the right to speak frankly with the beautiful, blond, too-smart-for-her-own-good woman. But he’d also learned when it was best for him to keep his mouth shut.

      Hannah Montgomery had mastered the art of independence.

      Right now, he needed her to answer the private line that rang at her massive cherrywood desk.

      When his call went to voice mail a second time, Brian shoved up the sleeve of his blue dress shirt with barely controlled impatience, glancing at his watch. And stopped. Hell.

      Where had that hour and a half gone? Last he’d looked, it had been barely noon. And now it was quarter to two?

      He’d only seen…

      Brian paused. Counted.

      Okay, he’d seen seven patients in the past hour. Seven patients under four. Which explained the missing hour.

      The explanation didn’t help him at all.

      He’d had a message that morning from a polite Sun News reporter who wanted to talk to him “at his earliest convenience.” As long as Brian’s convenience happened sometime that day—otherwise he was going to print his story with a “no comment” from Dr. Hampton.

      His story. That was all. No hint about the content. Or even the topic.

      For Brian, a man who spent his days with people under the age of twelve and his nights largely alone, a meeting with the local rag was not a comfortable proposition.

      And what could they have on him anyway? His biggest offense was an inability to keep track of time, arriving either very early or very late—no prejudice either way—to just about every appointment he’d ever had.

      As much as he tried to come up with even a parking infraction—or an unpaid speeding ticket—there were none.

      He hadn’t had his stereo on in weeks, didn’t have anyone around to yell at, hadn’t thrown a party since graduating from med school. And the only woman he’d slept with in the past year was his steady girlfriend, Cynthia, a twenty-seven-year-old single mother, so an exposé of his wild lifestyle was out.

      Of course it was possible, probable even, that they wanted him to corroborate a juicy story about someone or something else.

      The only juice he could think of was the glass of cranberry he’d gulped that morning.

      Still, the thought of the four o’clock appointment he’d scheduled unsettled him. Brian did enough public speaking on behalf of his newest passion—the fight against SIDS—and he’d been misquoted enough to be wary of talking to the publication known for making mountains out of molehills that didn’t exist.

      This was a time when a man called on the help of his friends.

      Friend.

      The woman who was well connected enough to know, firsthand, practically every Sun News reporter in the city.

      Where was his judge when he needed her?

      “Do you know this man?”

      “I do.” Bobby Donahue identified the defendant.

      Robert Keith’s next questions were rote, but necessary to establish a fair trial. And a fair judgment from a jury who’d been sending Hannah pleading glances since the first day of testimony. That was when prosecutors described the sodomy and three-hour beating death the nineteen-year-old victim had suffered, allegedly at the hands of kind-looking Kenny Hill, whose affluent parents were sitting on the bench directly behind him. Right where they’d been every time their son’s case had been on the docket over the past many months.

      The victim, Camargo Cortes, was an illegal immigrant and, had he lived, СКАЧАТЬ