CHAPTER FOUR
Almost a hundred years ago the county courthouse had been constructed of marble and granite, grand arches and high ceilings, all in the hope of overawing the citizenry with the majesty of The Law. Over the years the building had grown tired and it was now sadly shopworn. Danes slumped onto a scratched-up bench outside Department 14 at five to nine and stared blankly at the Just Say No To Drugs placard on the opposite wall. An anonymous stream of lawyers, witnesses, potential jurors and defendants wandered past, and one person not so anonymous.
Art Wayman glanced idly at Danes, half-turned and gave him a surprised stare, then hurried into the courtroom. Shit! Ned thought and clicked the button on the ballpoint pen that was really a digital recorder. Ten seconds later Terry Worthington stormed into the hallway.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” he demanded, looming over Danes. Worthington’s charcoal suit fit him perfectly, hand-tailored no doubt. A white Egyptian-cotton shirt, a burgundy silk tie, and a set of square off-gold cufflinks completed the image of a savvy, young attorney battling to protect the citizens from demented monsters like Howard Fraschetti. Ned stood, forcing Worthington to take a step back.
“Mortensen subpoenaed me.” Ned half pulled the form from his inside pocket then shoved it back down.
“This is all about that damn surveillance video isn’t it? I told you that thing’s bogus.” Ned just shrugged. “Listen to me, Danes,” Worthington whispered, then paused, looked over his shoulder, and pulled Ned into the corner. “You’re a cop and that means we’re on the same side. If you blow up my case you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.”
“I’m here under subpoena.”
“This was never your case. Why the hell would Mortensen subpoena you?” Again, Ned shrugged. “You told him, didn’t you? You told him about the tape.”
“You said he already knew about the tape.”
“Don’t play games with me, Danes. You called Art Wayman, then you called me, then you called Mortensen and shot off your mouth. That’s the only way he would have gotten the idea to subpoena you.” Ned just stared at Worthington, his face as flat as a plate. “You listen to me, Danes. Your job is hanging by a thread here. If you go into that courtroom and tell the jury that Fraschetti is innocent I swear that I will see to it that by the end of the week your job and your pension are both gone.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to say that you don’t know anything about the damn tape or that you lost it or that you accidently stepped on it or that your computer ate it or that you don’t have any chain of evidence on it, that it’s unverified, that the clock was off, that it’s not from the night of the murder, whatever it takes to make sure it doesn’t hurt my case. You’re a cop for Christ’s sake, you know how to testify to make it sound right.”
“You’re telling me to lie?”
“I’m telling you to remember what side you’re on. I’m telling you that it’s your job to see to it that Howard Fraschetti goes away for this and that you had better do your job.”
“Are you serious?”
“Listen, Danes,” Worthington said in a voice that was almost a hiss, “you go in there and say whatever you have to say to make sure that the jury finds that moron guilty or I will ruin your life.”
Worthington paused, looked around to make sure no one had heard his outburst, straightened his perfectly cut coat, and walked back into the courtroom as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Five minutes later the bailiff opened the door and called, “Detective Nedrick Danes.”
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