34

I woke up Wednesday morning feeling rested for the first time in weeks. Late Tuesday night, against my better judgment, I had taken an Ambien that Dr. Gillespie had prescribed. He was concerned that I had never properly grieved my father’s death before jumping so quickly into the Tate prosecution. “You’ve got to take care of yourself,” he’d said. “It starts with rest, exercise, and nutrition.”

“You’re lecturing me about exercise?” I responded.

He chuckled. “Fair enough. But I do know a thing or two about rest. And your sleep habits are atrocious.”

Maybe he was right, because on Wednesday morning, I felt like a new Jamie. I took my time showering and ironed a pair of black dress slacks that had not been to the dry cleaner’s since the last time I wore them. I put on one of my favorite blouses along with a gray blazer and my favorite silver necklace. I even broke out heels for the occasion. I’m not usually much of a clotheshorse, but today the media would be out in force. Caleb Tate would be arraigned, bail would be set, and I would be squaring off against the two men who had defended my mother’s killer for the last eleven years. How nice of them to team up so I could take them down together.

I could taste the revenge.

I told Justice good-bye and said a quick prayer before leaving the house. I stopped at a QT for coffee and sat in my car in the parking lot of Milton County Superior Court, rehearsing my argument one last time. I would have an ally in Judge Sharon Logan, a former prosecutor. Tate personified the two groups of people she hated most—defendants and defense lawyers. I would ask for bond to be set at five million and hope for two. If I got lucky, Mace James would claim that his client had recently experienced some financial setbacks—thus helping us establish motive later on.

I checked my makeup in the visor mirror and put on more lip gloss. I ran my fingers through my short hair and pushed a few loose strands behind my ear. I declared myself ready, grabbed my father’s briefcase, and headed for the chaos of Superior Courtroom 2.

Mace James hated wearing a suit. On a law professor’s salary, he couldn’t afford the custom-tailored ones, and the ones he bought off the rack never fit right. The shoulders and arms would be too tight and bind him up when he tried to move. If he got the shoulders broad enough, the sleeves would be too long, and the tailor would have to take in the pants several inches. There were athletic fits on the rack. But there were none for guys like Mace, fanatics who lifted weights for ninety minutes five times a week and did everything short of steroids to sculpt the perfect body.

For the arraignment, he’d donned an ill-fitting suit and arrived at court early. He took a seat in the middle of the first wooden bench and watched as the spectator section began to fill.

Jamie Brock showed up at five to nine, looking like she had just arrived from a Hollywood casting call. She had the strong facial features of a big-screen prosecutor—prominent cheekbones, dark-brown eyes, straight white teeth, and a determined jaw. She kept her chin up and her back straight as she walked briskly to the front of the courtroom and greeted the judge’s clerks. Because this was a murder charge, it was only bondable here in Superior Court. And Mace had the bad luck to draw a judge who had worked in the Milton County prosecutor’s office ten years ago. There was no question that this was Jamie’s home turf.

Mace James squeezed out of his row and met me at the front of the courtroom. We shook hands; his seemed to swallow mine whole.

“I’m sorry to hear about your dad,” he said.

“Somehow I doubt that,” I replied.

His expression darkened. “I guess you know I’m representing Caleb Tate.”

“You manage to get all the good ones.”

“Good luck to you, too.”

Mace James returned to his seat, clearly offended. I might have made a mistake by picking the first fight, but I didn’t like lawyers who would battle me in court and then try to buy me a drink afterward. Defense lawyers liked to claim they were just doing their job. I didn’t buy it. Nobody was holding a gun to their heads. It might just be a job, but it was a job they had chosen. There were plenty of other ways a lawyer could make money.

There were five arraignments ahead of Tate’s case, and all went according to script. When the clerk called Caleb Tate’s name, everyone in the courtroom seemed to sit up a little straighter. Mace James took his place at the defense counsel table. A pair of sheriff’s deputies led Tate into the courtroom, his wrists and ankles shackled as if he might make a run for it at any moment. He was wearing a suit but had a butterfly bandage over his left eyebrow. He smiled at Mace, and the two shook hands, causing the handcuffs to jangle. Tate never glanced in my direction.

After Tate took his seat, Judge Logan read the charges, and Mace pleaded “absolutely not guilty” for his client. He had also requested a bond hearing, and Logan said she would hear from the state first.

I rose and began describing in detail the crime Caleb Tate had been accused of committing. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He sat pompously at the defense table, studying me as if I were some kind of lab specimen, never taking a note.

“Poisoning is a crime of planning and preparation,” I emphasized. “And this is a defendant with means to flee the state and the country. He has a valid passport, and he once owned property in the British Virgin Islands. His law firm generated almost six million dollars in revenues last year, and his house is appraised at three million. Oh . . . I almost forgot to mention he once leased part of a private jet and probably knows pilots who can fly him anywhere in the world.

“We think the horrendous nature of this crime and the fact that the defendant could lose everything makes Mr. Tate a substantial flight risk. The last thing the state wants is for him to take his resources and flee to another country, where he could live the rest of his life fighting extradition. Accordingly, we are requesting bond of no less than five million dollars.”

I sat down, and the judge nodded to Professor James. “Your response, Mr.—” she looked down and checked the paper in front of her—“Mr. James. And please keep it short; don’t try to argue the merits of the case.”

“My client is a flight risk,” Mace repeated sarcastically as he rose. “Let’s see—he volunteers to take a polygraph, he volunteers to come to the police station whenever they want to question him, he makes it clear that he will turn himself in if they want to arrest him, and he has substantial ties in the community. Not only is he the managing partner of a prestigious law firm, but he’s also invested heavily in this community. He’s given twenty thousand dollars to the children’s hospital, he contributes ten thousand dollars a year to United Way, he is on the board of patrons for the aquarium—”

“I don’t need a list of his charitable activities,” Judge Logan said. “I know we’ve got lots of reporters in the courtroom today, but this is not the place to grandstand. I’m setting bond at three million and requiring that Mr. Tate surrender his passport and not leave the state of Georgia without prior court permission. Are those conditions clear?”

“They’re clear,” Mace said, looking stunned. “But I wouldn’t call them fair. Caleb Tate is more anxious to get this case to trial than anyone. He’s not going anywhere. In fact, he’s ready to grab the first trial date—”

Logan banged her gavel and gave Mace a look of fire. “That’s enough,” she said. “I’ve ruled. Ms. Brock is absolutely right about the nature of this crime. If he did it—and I’m not saying that he did—but if he did, it means he’s been planning this crime for at least six months. A man like that, who could kill his own wife in cold blood, wouldn’t hesitate to take off for another country. So, Mr. James, you’re lucky your client’s getting bonded out at all.”

From the look on Mace James’s face, he wasn’t feeling lucky. And neither was Caleb Tate.