Cross Justice (6 page)

Then I thought of Stefan Tate, my cousin, and the charges against him. And the way forward suddenly looked dark again.

AN HOUR LATER,
I left Bree and Nana Mama putting together our lives in the bungalow and went with Naomi to the jail where Stefan Tate was being held. As we drove, I reviewed the highlights of the eighteen-page grand jury indictment against my cousin.

About a year and a half prior to his arrest, Stefan Tate joined the Starksville School District as a gym teacher at both the middle and high schools. He had a history of drug and alcohol abuse that he did not reveal on his applications. He met a middle-schooler named Rashawn Turnbull and eventually became the boy’s mentor. My cousin led a secret life selling drugs, including the heroin that was believed to be responsible for two overdoses before Christmas last year.

Stefan’s personal drug use spiraled out of control. He raped one of his older female students and threatened to kill her if she told anyone. Then he made advances toward Rashawn Turnbull and was rejected. In response, my cousin raped, tortured, and killed the boy.

At least, according to the indictment. It took everything in my power to remember that an indictment was not a conviction. It was just the state’s version of events, only one side of the story.

Still, when I finished reading it, I looked up at Naomi and said, “They have hard evidence here.”

“I know,” my niece said.

“Did Stefan do it?”

“He swears he didn’t. And I believe him. He’s being framed.”

“By who?”

“I’m open to suggestions at this point,” she said, turning into a public parking lot near the city hall, the county courthouse, and the jail, all of which were brick-faced and in desperate need of repointing.

Across the street, the police and fire stations looked much newer, and I remarked on it as I climbed out.

“They built them with state and federal grants a few years ago,” Naomi said. “The Caine family donated the land.”

“Caine, as in the fertilizer company?”

“And the maiden name of the boy’s mother, Cece Caine Turnbull.”

We started toward the jail. “She credible? The mom?”

“She’s a piece of work, that one,” my niece replied. “Got a sheet going back ten years. Real wild child and definitely the black sheep of the Caines. But on this, she comes across as more than credible. The murder has ravaged her. There’s no denying that.”

“The dad?”

“In and out of the picture, recently mostly out,” Naomi said. “And he’s got about as strong an alibi as you can have.”

“He was in prison?”

“Jail down in Biloxi. Doing eight weeks for assault.”

“So he wasn’t a good role model in the boy’s life.”

“Nope. That was supposed to be Stefan’s job.”

We arrived at the jail, went inside. A sheriff’s deputy looked up from behind a bulletproof window.

“Attorney Naomi Cross and Alex Cross to see Stefan Tate, please,” my niece said, rummaging in her pocketbook for her ID. Mine was already out.

“Not today, I’m afraid,” the deputy said.

“What does that mean, not today?” Naomi demanded.

“It means that, from what I was told, your client has been a less than cooperative inmate—downright belligerent, as a matter of fact. So his visitation privileges have been revoked for forty-eight hours.”

“Forty-eight hours?” my niece cried. “We go to trial in three days! I
have
to have access to my client.”

“Sorry, Counselor,” she said. “But I don’t make the rules. I just follow them.”

“Who made the call?” I asked. “Police chief or district attorney?”

“Neither. Judge Varney made that decision.”

WE WAITED TWO
hours on the second floor of the Starksville courthouse, stewing on a bench outside the chambers of Judge Erasmus P. Varney, before his clerk said he was ready to see us.

Judge Varney looked up at us from behind several stacks of legal files and a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses. His steel-colored hair was brushed back in a low pompadour, and his steel-colored beard was close cropped. He wore a rep tie and thin leather suspenders over a starched white shirt, and he studied each of us in turn with sharp intelligent eyes.

“Judge Varney, this is Dr. Alex Cross, my uncle and Stefan Tate’s cousin,” Naomi said, trying to control her fury. “He’s helping me with the case.”

“A real family affair,” Varney remarked before setting down his reading glasses and standing to shake my hand firmly. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Cross. Your reputation precedes you. I read a
Washington Post
story about the terrible ordeal you and
your family went through with that maniac Marcus Sunday. Terrible thing. Miracle you all survived.”

“It was, sir,” I said. “And I thank God for that miracle every day.”

“I bet you do,” Judge Varney said, holding my gaze. Then he turned to Naomi. “So, what can I do for
you,
Counselor?”

“Allow me to see my client, sir.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Naomi said, “we are less than seventy-two hours from trial. You can’t limit my time like this without jeopardizing his right to a vigorous defense.”

The door opened behind us. I looked over to find four people coming in: a burly, sixtyish, fair-skinned man in a blue Starksville Police Department uniform; a lanky guy, also in his sixties, in the khaki uniform of the Stark County Sheriff’s Office; a tall, whippet-thin woman in a gray business suit; and Matt Brady, the assistant prosecutor I’d met with Naomi the day before.

“My men have rights too, Judge Varney,” said the man in khaki. “Sheriff Nathan Bean,” Naomi whispered.

“And Mr. Tate has infringed upon those rights,” said the woman, who turned out to be district attorney Delilah Strong. “Assaulting two jailers is not something we want to be rewarding.”

“Since when is due process a reward?” Naomi demanded. “It’s a right guaranteed every citizen under the Fourth, Fifth, and Fourteenth Amendments.”

The blue-uniformed man—“Police chief Randy Sherman,” Naomi informed me—said, “Your client put two deputies in the ER.”

“So put him in chains,” I said. “Put him in solitary, but you’re obligated to let him be seen by counsel.”

“We know who you are, Dr. Cross,” said Strong. “But you have no jurisdiction here.”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “I came down here as a private citizen to lend a family member a hand. But from the day I started as a police officer and through all my years with the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, I’ve known that you can’t deny someone the right to a fair trial. If you push this, you might as well send this case straight to an appeals court. So put him in chains or in a straitjacket and let us see him, or, as a concerned citizen, I will contact friends of mine at the Bureau who investigate civil rights violations.”

Sheriff Bean looked ready to blow a fuse and started to sputter, but Varney cut him off.

“Do it,” he said.

“Your Honor,” the sheriff said. “This sends a—”

“It sends the right message,” the judge said. “Though I didn’t see it that way at first, Dr. and Ms. Cross are correct. Mr. Tate’s right to a fair trial supersedes your right to maintain a safe jail. Restrain him as you see fit, but I want him made available to counsel within the hour.”

“What that sonofabitch did to that boy?” Chief Sherman snarled at me as he left. “You ask me, your cousin lost all his damn rights that night.”

THE PRETTY LITTLE
four-year-old girl with the golden curls wore a pink princess outfit and knelt on one side of a low table. She picked up a pot.

“Do you want some tea with your cookie?” she sweetly asked the older man sitting cross-legged on the floor across from her.

“How could I say no to such a kind offer from such a darling young lady?” he replied, smiling.

He knew he looked ridiculous in the crown she’d made him wear. But he was so entranced by the girl that he didn’t care. Her skin was the color of fresh cream, and her eyes shone like polished sapphires. He watched her pour the tea into his cup so delicately it made him want to cry.

“Sugar?” she asked, setting the pot down.

“Two lumps,” he said.

She dropped two cubes in his cup and one in her own.

“Milk?”

“Not today, Lizzie,” he said, reaching for his cup.

Lizzie snatched up a pink wand, reached out, and tapped his hand with it. “Wait. I have to make sure there are no evil spirits around.”

His brow knit and he drew back his hand. The little girl closed her eyes, smiled, and waved her wand. His heart melted to see her caught up in fantasy the way only a four-year-old can be.

Lizzie opened her mouth—to deliver a spell, no doubt.

But before she could, there was a knock behind him.

Irritated at the interruption, the man turned, and the crown fell off his head, irritating him further. A muscular bald white guy in his thirties stood in the doorway, fighting not to show his amusement.

“Can this wait, Meeks?” the man asked. “Lizzie and I are having tea.”

“I can see that, boss, but you’ve got a call,” Meeks said. “It’s urgent.”

“Grandfather, you haven’t had your tea and cookie,” the little girl protested.

“Grandfather will be back as soon as he’s done,” he said, groaning as he got to his feet.

“When will that be?” she demanded, crossing her arms and pouting.

“Quick as I can,” he promised.

Grandfather walked to Meeks, who was still smirking, and said, “Fill in for me.”

The smirk disappeared. “What?”

“Sit down, have some tea, and eat a crumpet with my granddaughter. But you can’t wear the crown.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Acting like he’d rather put a fishhook through his thumb, Meeks nodded and went to the table, where Lizzie was grinning brightly.

“Sit down, Mr. Meeks,” she said graciously. “Have some tea while you’re waiting for Grandfather to come back.”

Lizzie’s grandfather grinned for all sorts of reasons as he walked down a long hallway and into a richly furnished library office. He ignored the books that filled the shelves. They were all his wife’s idea. He hadn’t read a tenth of them, but they looked good when guests came by.

He picked up a cheap cell phone sitting on the desk, said, “Talk.”

“We have problems,” said a man with a deep, hoarse voice.

“Tell me.”

“She’s not listening to reason,” he said. “She’s talking.”

Lizzie’s grandfather squinted, calculated. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“How do you want it handled?”

“We’ll take care of it.”

This surprised him. “Are you sure? There are others we can turn to.”

“Our mess. We’ll handle it.”

Grandfather accepted the decision, set it aside, said, “Other problems?”

“Naomi Cross threw in a wild card. Brought in her uncle. Alex Cross. Google him. Ex–FBI profiler, now a homicide detective in Washington, DC.”

“Reputation?”

“Formidable.”

Grandfather factored that into his thinking. “We’re clean otherwise?”

“As it stands, yes.”

“Then we don’t have a choice. Take care of that situation as you see fit.”

A moment passed before the man on the other end said, “Agreed.”

“Talk to me when it’s done.”

Grandfather hung up and destroyed the phone. Then he left the office and walked back down the hallway, eager for tea with little Lizzie.

“‘
I FEEL PRETTY,
oh so pretty,’” Coco sang softly as he looked in the mirror, aware of the dead woman in a black nightgown hanging by her neck from the chandelier behind him but much more focused on assessing the new outfit.

The tangerine linen skirt hugged his hips sublimely. The matching jockey coat was snug through the shoulders, but workable. The Dries van Noten high-heeled sling-backs were a bit toe-crunching. The Carolina Herrera silk taffeta blouse was simply remarkable. And the pearl earrings and choker? Just the right air of sophistication.

All he needed now was the right do.

Coco reached into the box and came up with a lush, shoulder-length, radiant amber wig. It was old, early 1970s, if he remembered correctly. His mother would have known the exact date, of course, but no matter. Once settled on the two-sided tape with the last strands of hair combed into place, the wig made Coco look like another person altogether.

Mysterious. Sexy. Alluring. Unreachable.

“I name you Tangerine Dream, Queen of the Garden Party,” Coco cooed to the woman staring back at him. “A vision of …”

He turned and looked at the petite dead woman dangling by a drapery cord from the chandelier. “Ruth? What would you say? I’m thinking a cross between Julianne Moore in
Boogie Nights
and Ginger on
Gilligan’s Island
—the haircut, anyway. Am I right, or am I just a foolish little girl?”

Coco giggled ever so softly before picking up the Prada shopping bag and other goodies pilfered from Ruth’s collection. He started to leave the master suite, then paused to listen. Though he knew that the staff had been given the day off and that Ruth’s husband, Dr. Stanley Abrams, aka “the Boob King of West Palm,” was in Zurich attending a medical symposium, it still paid to be careful.

Sure of himself now, Coco pushed on down a gallery rich with artwork, although the only piece he stopped to look at was an oil painting of the deceased.
There you are,
he thought, studying Ruth’s beauty.
Caught at the moment of your ripeness, my dear, a gift to the universe.

Ruth and Stanley’s home was enormous and entirely too modern for Coco’s taste. But then again, what would you expect from the house that fake tits built? There was a great deal to be said for classic understatement, he believed.