Keller County Cops Book Seven: Code of Vengeance (6 page)

Judge Oscar Rouse, the stern, old-school adjudicator presiding over the trial, had banned cameras from the courtroom because of the case's inflammatory nature and arranged for Keegan to sketch the proceedings instead. Mississippi law allowed judges that autonomy.

Courtroom drama wasn't what interested Keegan, however.

"All I care about is justice," she whispered, suddenly determined to wait and pick her prey after the trial ended. She gritted her teeth. "If that sick bastard walks free on a technicality, he's
mine
-- unless I'm in jail myself by then."

She did her best not to think about that prospect as she pulled into her designated parking space only minutes before she had to be inside the courtroom. Just enough time to put her lunch in the refrigerator, grab her art supplies, and stop by the restroom. Unless something went wrong, the judge more than likely wouldn't recess for a break until noon.

By the time Keegan slipped into her seat at the end of the front row, her hands were so sweaty she could hardly hold the satchel containing her sketchpad and colored pencils. The man next to her reeked of cologne. The agony in his eyes told her he had a personal stake in the proceedings, yet she didn't dare ask which side he was on. If she had to guess, she'd say he was a relative of Wicker's wife, Rosemary. He wore the haunted look of a man who'd recently lost a close family member.

She pulled out her folding lapboard and settled it across her knees. Then she took out her sketchpad and pencil case. The courtroom was so full, she barely had room to settle back against the corner of the bench. Her nose itched thanks to her neighbor's heavy cologne, and she had to lean into the aisle to take a deep breath. How she'd last in here all morning under these conditions, she didn't know.

To divert her attention, she glanced at the defendant, who sat in his chair as if on a throne behind the defense table and spoke to his attorney in animated whispers. He was a handsome man, even at fifty, with striking symmetrical features and cold blue eyes. His neat dark hair had streaks of gray at the temples, and he appeared to be tall.

"All rise." The bailiff's gruff call jarred Keegan into action. Shoving her lapboard and sketchpad under her arm, she closed the pencil case and lurched to her feet just as Judge Rouse strode through the door, his big black robe slapping the frame. The strong cologne odor from the man beside her made her dizzy, and she swayed on her feet.

Ignore it and focus.
She grabbed the railing in front of her, leaned away from her aromatic neighbor, and held her breath as the judge made his way to the bench.

He was a burly bear of a man, with bushy white eyebrows and a perpetual scowl. Keegan had sketched trials in his courtroom for the past five years, and she didn't remember ever seeing him smile. Hopefully, his stern disposition would bode well for justice in this case. She wished he'd presided over Dirk's trial. If he had, the son of a bitch probably wouldn't have weaseled out of jail time for killing Jenny.

"Be seated," Rouse ordered in a gruff tone.

The crowd, apparently eager for blood sport, sat as one, accompanied by a cacophony of mutterings, thuds, and odd thumps. Seconds later, an odd hush fell over the courtroom.

"Mr. Abington?" The judge first zeroed in on the lead prosecutor, Keller County Assistant District Attorney Carl Abington, and then turned to lance Mr. Wicker's attorney, Fred Quincy, with a lethal glare. "Mr. Quincy? Are we ready?"

"Yes, sir," they answered in unison.

Their quick agreement surprised Keegan, who'd seen more than one jury trial postponed because of various motions from either side. That particular drama evidently wouldn't play out in this case, however. Unless something came up later.

"Very well." The judge nodded at the bailiff. "Bring in the jury."

While she waited for the jurors to enter the courtroom and be seated, Keegan sketched Judge Rouse's severe countenance with swift, sure strokes. She always started with a number two pencil and then filled in with color. As always with distinctive people, she was tempted to make his image more of a caricature than a true documentation of his appearance, but she refrained and soon had the judge's likeness on paper to her satisfaction.

Next up was the prosecutor with his opening argument. Abington was a tall, buff man with a classic Roman nose and a deep, mesmerizing voice. Today, like always, he wore an expensive, well-cut suit that clung to his muscular frame and a pair of dark-rimmed glasses that gave him a stylish, intellectual air. Keegan had spoken to him a time or two, and found him to be arrogant, yet clever. If anybody could finagle a guilty verdict for Wicker, she had no doubt he could. She was glad he was prosecuting this case. Drawing him was a pleasure, because he was all long lines and broad shoulders. The ring on his finger told her he was off limits, and she wished she could congratulate the woman who'd captured his heart. He might be an egotistical ass, but he definitely provided Keegan with some nice eye candy.

Fred Quincy, on the other hand, reminded her of a predatory hawk. He was tall and thin, with a long beak nose, and he generally wore his suits at least a size too big. She half expected him to flap his arms and take flight every time he got flustered, a common occurrence whenever he battled prosecutors in front of Judge Rouse. She expected that to happen more than once during this trial. Rouse looked down on Wicker and the others at the defense table as if he'd just scraped them off his shoe. Talk about drama...

When Quincy got up to give his opening statement, Keegan had to suppress a snicker. The difference between his raw, high-pitched whine and Abington's bedroom drawl couldn't be more pronounced. Score one for the prosecution.

Quincy dragged out his argument, over-dramatizing the fights between husband and wife and doing his best to paint Rosemary Wicker as the abuser. Yeah, right. The woman had barely weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet at the time of her death, while her husband was a brute who'd played football for a big-name college until he'd torn up his knee during his junior year.

Wicker's obnoxious sneer made Keegan want to vomit. The jurors, however, ignored him and kept their gazes riveted on Quincy, who came off as sympathetic in spite of his irritating whine. If he kept that up, he just might sway their votes Wicker's way.

The attorney finally completed his statement and sat back down. Rouse, who'd looked bored during the man's harangue, turned to the prosecutor.

"Mr. Abington, are you ready to call your first witness?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Abington said in that deep, sexy voice. "I'd like to call Deputy Vernon Jones to the stand. He was the first officer to reach the Wicker resident after Rosemary Wicker's frantic nine-one-one call the day of her murder."

Keegan sketched Jones while Abington grilled him about that night, wincing as the deputy described the blood spatter and Rosemary's broken body. For good measure, she also added another image with Quincy in the foreground during the defense attorney's cross-examination. Jones was young, probably a brand new deputy, but he stood firm on his testimony despite Quincy's attempts to trip him up. She had to smile at that.

Once Quincy was done and Abington declined to cross-examine him, the judge ordered the deputy to step down. He then pinned Abington with a knowing gaze.

"Call your next witness, Counselor."

"Yes, Your Honor." Abington turned to face the spectators and called another first responder, an EMT who had attempted to revive Rosemary Wicker, to the witness stand. Other first responders followed, including another EMT and two more deputies.

Finally, once the last deputy stepped down, the prosecutor changed course. "I'd like to call Detective Mitch Ransom to the stand."

Everyone turned to look at the strapping detective who rose from the back row and marched forward down the aisle. Before he reached the witness stand, however, the rear courtroom door swung open, and Sheriff Rick Blaylock stepped inside.

He glanced around the courtroom and locked eyes with Keegan. The sheer intensity of his gaze startled her. He was handsome, in a rugged, outdoorsy sort of way. He had short dark brown hair and a tiny crook in his nose told her it had been broken at least once. A scar on his chin told her he was a fighter. He had to be at least forty if he was a day -- making him about eight years older than she -- but he was in damned good shape, with mile wide shoulders, sturdy thighs, and trim hips. A hard, masculine body to go along with his wary cop mind. She swallowed back a gasp when the sheriff turned and fixed his attention on Ransom as the detective settled himself in the witness box.

The detective sent his boss a deliberate look, and the sheriff bobbed his head in acknowledgement before claiming the seat Ransom had vacated.

Keegan tightened her hold on her pencil and hastily sketched the detective's strong features. At least, she meant to draw Mitch Ransom. Instead, however, she drafted an image of Sheriff Rick Blaylock. An eye-catching sketch that sent a shudder of arousal rippling through her and chipped away at the impenetrable brick wall around her heart.

She stilled her hand.

What in hell are you doing, Keegan? Stop it. He's not testifying. You have no need to--

An abrupt order from the judge for Abington to proceed jerked Keegan from her disturbing thoughts. A warm flush spread over her skin as she hurriedly erased the image and started over, this time outlining Detective Ransom's stoic features.

The detective's testimony continued, with Abington questioning him about the day Rosemary died and Quincy cross-examining him. Abington then pounded away at him again, until finally the judge told Ransom he could step down. Before he could even reach his seat, occupied now by the sheriff, Rouse banged his gavel and declared the trial was in recess for lunch and would reconvene at one-thirty.

Keegan blew out a weary breath, gathered her supplies, and sat back against the hard wooden bench. The morning had been long, filled with disturbing testimony and vivid, nauseating photos of poor Rosemary Wicker lying dead on her bedroom floor. Keegan's stomach bubbled because of the resemblance to Jenny's crime scene, and she did all she could to put the terrifying pictures out of her head. Her attempt to distance herself didn't work, however, and her mind whirred on at warp speed. Everything she'd seen so far told her Wicker had murdered his wife. So if the jury acquitted the scumbag, she'd have no choice but to act.

Somehow she had to find that damned earring and stay out of the way of the police.

Determined to focus for the rest of the day, she got up, grabbed her satchel, and headed for the door. She hadn't brought anything exciting with her for lunch, but her sandwich and apple called out to her. Maybe if she ate, her swirling stomach would calm down.

Just as she put her palm on the heavy door, a big male hand landed above hers on the dark wooden panel and shoved it wide.

Startled, she turned and stared into Sheriff Rick Blaylock's stormy gray eyes.

"After you," Sheriff Blaylock rumbled, the gritty roughness of his voice sending a delicious tingle down Keegan's spine. A tingle that told her she wanted him to keep talking. He lifted a brow. "Ma'am?"

"Sheriff?" Detective Ransom charged up beside him. Ignoring Keegan, he held up his cell phone. "Just got a call from Tiffany. She tried you first, but you didn't answer."

"Damn it." The sheriff dug out his phone and read the display. "I didn't feel it vibrate."

"You must've been riveted by my excellent testimony." The detective grinned. "Anyway, she has good news. She got the surveillance video from the Kitty Kat Klub, and the camera caught everything. Woodward leaving the building, his attacker following him, the murder -- plus a little something extra."

Keegan froze.

"What do you mean?" Sheriff Blaylock asked with a puzzled look. Before the detective could answer, however, the sheriff turned and speared Keegan with a curious gaze. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Are we in your way?"

"Oh. No." She swallowed back the urge to bolt. "I-I'm just... um, leaving. Thank you."

"All right, then," he drawled, pushing the door open a little more.

The perturbed look in his eyes spurred her to edge past him, even though she longed to stay and hear the detective's explanation of "a little something extra". Doing her best not to huff at both men, she ducked her head and scurried from the courtroom. Her pulse hammered in her ears when they exited the room behind her and headed down the hall in the opposite direction from the break room.

Her stomach growled, but instead of going after the meager sustenance awaiting her inside the refrigerator, she trucked after them down the hall, doing her best to remain unobtrusive as she strained to hear the rest of their conversation.

"Okay, so what'd you mean, Mitch? She found some evidence that'll help us?" Sheriff Blaylock asked once they got about ten feet down the hall.

The detective crooked his mouth. "If we're lucky, yeah. The surveillance camera caught a witness to the murder. Somebody else was at that crime scene."

"Son of a--" The sheriff halted so abruptly, Keegan almost hurtled into his broad back.

Somehow, she managed to put on the brakes and jerk out her cell phone before he noticed she'd ended up so close. Desperate for him to ignore her, she thumbed up her messages and acted as if she'd just gotten one she couldn't wait to read.

"Where in hell did she see this
witness?
Did he make the call?" the sheriff asked Ransom.

The detective narrowed his gaze at Keegan before meeting Blaylock's curious gaze and lowering his voice. "Tiffany didn't mention the nine-one-one call, but said the figure was lurking in the shadows next to the building, beside the parking lot." He paused. "She couldn't see his face, but claims it was either a small guy -- or maybe even a woman. Definitely not as big as Woodward or his assailant."

"Shit. Anything else?"

"Yeah. Apparently the witness hung around until you pulled up, and then jetted out of there like his tail was on fire. He kept to the shadows. She never got a good look."