Lassiter

66 A Courtroom Visitor

Thirty minutes later, I was hustling into the courtroom when my cell phone buzzed. Pepito Dominguez.

“Quickly, kid. I’m in court.”

“Melody Sanders is a dead end, Jake.”

“Thanks, Pepito, but I’m not gonna need any Melody info.”

“But get this, jefe. She’s really dead. Melody Sanders from Sarasota. Died fifteen years ago in a head-on crash on Alligator Alley.”

“Got it, Pepito.”

“You’re not surprised?”

“You did good work, kid. I’m gonna tell your dad that. Gotta go.”

Moments later, all the players were in their places. Judge Duckworth reminded Ziegler that he was still under oath and told the jury she hoped they hadn’t tried the eggplant parmigiana in the cafeteria, because she’d lost a couple jurors to it last week. Half a dozen spectators were scattered throughout the gallery, on hand for the free entertainment. A lone reporter from the Miami Herald was slumped in the front row.

As soon as he was on his feet, Castiel launched his counterattack. Again, he held the wooden pointer as if it were a riding crop.

“Have you been under a lot of stress, Mr. Ziegler?”

“My business, it’s always stressful.”

“Drinking a lot?” A little wave of the pointer, Esa-Pekka Salonen conducting his orchestra.

“Enough.”

“The defendant showing up in town. Did that bring memories back of her sister, Krista Larkin?”

“Sure did.”

“The young woman you had employed who’d disappeared.”

“That’s right.”

“Even though you had nothing to do with her disappearance, did you feel badly for her family?”

“Of course.”

“Is it possible that your testimony has changed because you don’t want to see Krista Larkin’s sister also meet an unhappy fate?”

“That’s not it. Amy wasn’t the one outside the window.” Hanging tough.

The courtroom door opened with its customary squeak. I turned. A tall, attractive woman in a gray business suit walked in. Limped in, actually. She had a noticeable hitch in her gait. She wore sunglasses, and her reddish-brown hair was tied back in a bun. Her overall appearance was that of a mid-level executive at a local bank.

I turned back and saw Ziegler lift out of his seat. He was caught in an awkward half crouch, his mouth open, trying to form the word “no.”

Melody Sanders. Or so she called herself. He had no idea she was coming. He didn’t want her here.

She walked up to the front row, wincing just a bit as she sat down. A pinkish scar ran from her left ear diagonally across her cheekbone, stopping just short of her mouth. She removed her sunglasses. Smiled at me. She mouthed a greeting, “Hello, Jake.”

I thought I was ready for this moment, but I wasn’t. The last time I had seen her, she was flipping me the bird and hopping into Ziegler’s Porsche, headed for some porn shoot. My throat was parched, and my voice wobbled. “Hello, Krista,” I said.