Page 112 of Secrets Along the Shore
“So,” Tasha starts, “we’re taking a break for a couple of hours, then meeting back here to start prepping for sentencing. Want to join after your meeting?”
I shake my head. “My job’s done here. New case is calling.”
“Movin’ on already?” Keel asks.
“Isn’t that what your dates say when you don’t call them back?” Tasha taunts.
“Mmm. Just because you haven’t had a date in two years?—”
“I’m married. There’s a big difference between that and?—”
“While you two battle it out over who’s got the better love life, I’ve got actual work to do,” I say, setting my flute down. I pick up the leather backpack I use for a purse off a nearby desk and throw it over my shoulder.
“Headed to Grace’s?” Keel asks, then tosses back the last of the soda in his flute.
I point at him and wink. “Right in one.” I walk backwards so I’m still facing them, closing the distance between me and the elevator. “Don’t work too late. You’ve got Saturday and Sunday to get ready.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tasha replies, her expression sliding into neutral, “but I want to be sure and get this right.”
Nodding and still moving toward the door, I say, “If you do need me…call.”
Even though I make the offer, I know they won’t need my help. At this point, they’ve got everything they need to make their case for removing Fogerty from this life.
Whatever Tasha and Keel’s personal choices might be between the death penalty or life without parole, D.A. March has made it clear that their job is to convince the jury that the only appropriate outcome for Fogerty is the same one he gave his victims.
Death.
When I reachthe first floor, though it’s an hour after the verdict, the place is still a madhouse. It’s not a big building as county courthouses go, so it doesn’t take much to turn it into a zoo. I push through the clumps of people milling around and journalists preparing for live or recorded reporting. A few of Teresa’s family members are sitting on a bench in the hall and I give them a sympathetic nod. They soberly return the gesture.
I’m forcibly reminded of the time when I was in their position—working to process a guilty verdict, to absorb that outcome, wishing it filled more of the hole inside than it does.
I steel my core and give my head a shake.
Enough reminiscing. You’ve got a client to meet.
Outside on the courthouse steps, a breeze catches the strands of my long brown hair that have fallen out of its loose twist. Holding back the dancing ends in one hand, I head for my Jeep Cherokee, which I parked in the employee lot on the side. I’m glad I don’t have to walk several blocks like most of the folks here. A primo parking spot is one of the few perks of working on and off for the District Attorney and/or the Sheriff’s Department.
Mother Nature has finally woken from her winter sleep, and as I cross the asphalt, the potent scent of blooming Bradford pear trees hits me like smelling salts. The long day has drained my energy a bit, but this revives me. I’ve never particularly enjoyed the aroma, but it definitely is an eye opener.
And I’ve found being alert is helpful when meeting a client.
I’m nearly to the SUV when I notice a yellow sheet of lined paper, folded in half, then half again, stuck beneath the driver’s side windshield wiper. I stop walking and scan the lot. Though loads of people are in the vicinity, no one seems to be looking at me or carrying themselves in a way that suggests they’re watching me. I snatch the note and hold it up to the light. Nothing appears to be hidden inside the folds. After another glance around me reveals no one waiting to pounce, I unfold it. Capital letters scrawled in black ink fill the center of the page.
CONGRATULATIONS ON A JOB WELL DONE. PROUD OF YOU.
I look up,sweeping the area again before checking the street. Then the building steps. The courthouse entrances.
Nothing.
I can’t imagine who would have left this. Tasha and Keel wouldn’t need to—they could have just told me upstairs—and D.A. March certainly wouldn’t be leaving notes of approval on my Jeep.
I skip right over my fiancé. This isn’t his kind of thing. Flowers delivered to my home, sure, but not this.
I’ve got no family in Riverview.
Not that my family knows what my car looks like—or is proud of me.
My landlords, Grady and Ellen, might have left it, though I didn’t see them here today and, frankly, it’s not their style either. The only other person who might say something like they’re proud of me is Grace, but the wording doesn’t sound remotely like her. Plus, I’m about to head to her place, so why would she come all the way down here to leave me a note?
