At Close Range. Tara Quinn Taylor

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СКАЧАТЬ of Cortes’s body had been shown, Hannah had had to excuse two jurors to the restroom to be sick. At the request of the defense, she’d later dismissed both of them.

      She wasn’t taking any unnecessary chances that might result in a motion for mistrial. With luck, no one would have to repeat the past six days, to see the things that those present in the courtroom had seen.

      With luck, Kenny Hill would be put to death.

      

      Brian worked through the half hour he’d allowed himself for lunch. Three-year-old Felicia Summers had had a sore throat on and off for more than a month. He wouldn’t be overly concerned except that the child was underweight. And had already had her tonsils removed.

      He didn’t even want to think about leukemia. Or any other serious condition. Certainly didn’t intend to alarm her parents at this stage. But he’d ordered blood work, just to be sure, and went down before his two-thirty appointment to get the results.

      A day that had been diving rapidly now sank completely.

      

      “Mr. Donahue, where did you and Mr. Hill meet?”

      “At church.”

      “How long have you known each other?”

      “Most of his life. His parents and I have attended the same church for more than ten years.”

      With a short nod, Donahue acknowledged the older couple sitting, hands clasped, on the front bench. The corners of Mrs. Hill’s trembling lips turned slightly up, before she lowered her gaze. Her husband, a bit more successful at hiding intense emotions, nodded back.

      Both of them spent most of their courtroom time staring at the back of their only son’s head.

      Character reference questions continued for the next forty-five minutes. Hannah attempted to show no reaction to the jurors who continued to look to her for guidance. If she believed this witness, they would, too.

      And if she didn’t…

      This was a jury trial for a reason. It was not her job to decide this particular verdict. She was here to officiate the process. To allow or disallow testimony. To apply the law when attorneys, in the name of winning, veered away from it. Or challenged it.

      She was here to ensure that the defendant’s rights were upheld.

      They were talking about possibly taking a man’s life here. A young man. Who deserved to die if, indeed, he’d committed the horrendous acts that had ultimately left another young man dying an atrocious death.

      “Where were you on the night of March 9th of this year?”

      “That was a Sunday,” Bobby Donahue said.

      Robert Keith nodded, his shoulders squared in front of the witness box. “That’s right.”

      The chief prosecutor, Julie Gilbert, narrowed her eyes.

      “I was in church.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “I am.”

      “Can you tell the court why you remember this so specifically?”

      “Once a year we have a joint Sunday-evening meeting, combining the usual men’s Sunday-night gathering with the women’s Wednesday-morning assembly. It’s always the second Sunday in March.”

      “What hours were you in church?”

      “The service started at five and ran until almost midnight.”

      “With a meeting that long I’m assuming people come and go?”

      “No. The doors are locked the entire time. Not to keep people in, but to prevent interruption. Our services, particularly that once-a-year meeting, are sacred to us. That’s why I remember the date. These special gatherings are very emotional and interruption breaks the spirit.”

      “But the doors could be unlocked. Someone could become ill. People would need to access the facilities. Surely, if a person was careful, he could leave without disturbing you.”

      Donahue shook his head. “The sanctuary is self-contained. There are bathrooms at one end. And a small kitchen, too, with an attached nursery. I’m the only one with a key.”

      Horrified, Hannah kept her eyes on the file in front of her. She’d heard stories about the infamous white supremacist “church,” but never in this much detail.

      “So if someone comes late, say, maybe they have a flat tire, they miss this once-a-year, spiritually enriching meeting?”

      “Of course not,” Donahue said. “One of the brethren always volunteers to keep his phone on vibrate for just such emergencies. Members are notified of the number the week before.”

      “Then you’d interrupt the meeting to unlock the door?”

      The witness remained straight-faced and serious. “Hymns are strategically placed throughout the meeting to allow for any interruptions.”

      “Do you remember whose cell phone was on vibrate that night?”

      “Matthew Whitaker.”

      Hannah recognized the name from the defense’s witness list. The man was slated to be called to the stand next.

      “And did Mr. Whitaker notify you of any such calls?”

      “Yes.”

      “Who called?”

      “Kenny Hill.” Of course.

      “At what time?”

      “Five forty-five.”

      The time of the attack, which had been announced during opening arguments, and ad nauseam since, had been established at between seven and ten on the evening of March 9th.

      “Did he say why he was late?”

      “There’d been an accident on the freeway.”

      Glancing at Julie Gilbert, assuming the prosecutor would be writing a note to verify that there was record of a crash on I-17 on the date and at the time indicated, Hannah was disheartened once again. The woman’s pen was still.

      There was no guarantee that the accident had been reported to the police, but even a mention of no record could significantly weaken Donahue’s testimony.

      Face impassive, Hannah continued to preside objectively.

      “What time did you let Mr. Hill inside the sanctuary?”

      “At five-fifty-four.”

      “At what time did you next unlock the door that night?”

      “Just before midnight.”

      “And you’re СКАЧАТЬ