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.”