Dying to Teach (38 page)

 He flipped the cell phone cover open, and snapped, “Jarvis here.” He listened for two seconds, his face morphing through at least a half-dozen emotions in that short time, clicked the cover shut and crammed the phone back in place. Wordless, he started walking.

Though she had long legs, Angie had to run to keep up as he practically sprinted toward Main Street. Thankfully the snow hadn’t made things slippery yet because no way would it have slowed him down.

A gaggle of reporters crowded the sidewalk out front of the Belknap Superior Courthouse. Jarvis gripped Angie’s hand and muscled his way through, giving a curt nod when asked if the jury had returned.

Halfway up the granite steps, out of earshot of the clamoring paparazzi, Angie asked, “What if they let him off?”

“They won’t.”

“A while ago, you were worried your testimony hadn’t been strong enough, to—”

His brusque, “He will not go free,” was followed by an almost prayer-like, “I hope,” that she knew she wasn’t supposed to hear.

The hallway outside the courtroom on the second floor was a madhouse. Jarvis wrestled along the corridor and into the courtroom. Things here weren’t any calmer here. Jarvis squeezed them onto the hard bench behind the bar—the barrier dividing the public from the court participants. None of the court staff had returned yet. The only people in the well were the defendant, his two-man defense team, and a pair of uniformed guards. The guards leaned against the wall looking serious. The defense team stood to one side, heads bent together and backs to the crowd. The defendant sat at the center of the defense table. Single, thirty-year-old, Abraham Gleason Jefferson presented an image of middle class respectability with his short Afro and neatly trimmed mustache. Until two months ago, he had been a hard-working member of the road crew for the town of Laconia. He had lived in town for almost ten years. He had no record, not even a speeding ticket.

So, what suddenly made this man want to kill young women? In particular Crystal Folsom.

As if feeling Angie’s attention, Jefferson rotated his head and their eyes met. He raised his right hand, folded it into a fist, extended his index finger, took aim and fired at her. Angie jumped as if a real bullet had exploded from the tip of that flesh and blood gun.

Angie groped for Jarvis’ hand on the seat beside her. And found nothing. Which made Jefferson laugh out loud. No mistaking the sound of it over the hum of the crowd.

She spotted Jarvis in deep conversation at the end of the row, with the prosecuting attorney Lillian Imada, a dwarf beside Jarvis’s brawny frame. Jarvis had once described Lillian as a pit bull in a Chihuahua’s body. This was Angie’s first real trial. The only others she’d seen were on television, but throughout the whole ordeal, Lillian had handled herself as well as Perry Mason. Her closing argument consisted of a rapid-fire narrative of what sounded like an open and shut case, though, all afternoon, Jarvis voiced his doubts. That worry showed now in deep lines in his handsome face. It was there in Lillian too, not so much on her face, but in her stance. The petite lawyer, in a red pay-attention-to-me business suit leaned a hip on the railing that separated her from Jarvis.

To the left of the judge’s bench, a door opened. The sober-faced bailiff walked in and stopped in front of the judge’s bench. When he raised both hands to the crowd, Angie’s heart took on a rat-a-tat snare drum beat.

“Everyone. Take your seats, please.”

As if at a championship ball game, each spectator pushed for the best seat. Lillian eased into her chair behind the prosecutor’s table. Crystal Folsom’s parents and elder brother entered from the aisle and took their places in the front row behind Lillian. How Ann and Samuel Folsom sat stoic while the defense badgered the woman attempting to bring their daughter’s killer to justice, Angie couldn’t imagine. Samuel, wearing a black suit with tiny gray pinstripes, leaned over the mahogany bar and said something to Lillian, who merely shook her head. He slid back on the seat and linked arms with his wife. Angie imagined he asked Lillian if she’d heard any rumor as to the jury’s verdict. And received a negative reply.

Son Justin, at nineteen, was three years older than Crystal. He’d attended the hearings every day with his parents, though Angie had the impression he’d rather be elsewhere. He sat hunched over what looked like a handheld video game.

The bailiff’s next words brought the already high tension to a peak. “All rise.”

With a rustle and shuffle, the assemblage rose as one.

The door opened again and the judge entered. Angie liked the redheaded man; he’d presided over a fair trial, allowing neither side to squeeze in unwarranted information. He fluffed his robes and sat. Angie tried to read his expression and couldn’t help thinking what a great poker player he’d make.

Another door discharged the jury: seven men, five women. Ten had children. Four were single. Two were retired. All bore unreadable faces.

The words, “You may be seated,” brought another rearrangement of bodies.

“Jury, have you made your decision?”

The jury foreman, a tall, painfully thin man with white hair and wire-rimmed glasses, stood. “We have, your honor.”

“Would you read it please?”

With much to-do, the man drew a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. He unfolded it and read, “We find the defendant, Abraham Gleason Jefferson…” a three-second hesitation had the audience leaning forward on the benches… “Not guilty.”

ABOUT AUTHOR CINDY DAVIS

Cindy has many passions in life. As with most authors, books are foremost. Except for the constantly churning bread machine, her house could pass for a library. Cindy also enjoys needlework, hiking, canoeing and jigzaw puzzles. She and her husband spend most weekends in their motorhome seeking out new settings for stories and of course, promoting books.

OTHER BOOKS IN THE ANGIE DEACON MYSTERY SERIES

A Little Murder

When a fishing trip hooks more than a few trout, ER nurse Angie Deacon and her husband find themselves unexpected suspects in a murder investigation. Who amongst the other five aboard Little One could have had a vendetta against the boat’s owner--especially one strong enough to see Nolan Little dead?

Will Angie live to regret her decision to aid Nolan’s aggrieved wife once she learns the woman harbors secrets of her own?

Untruths aren’t the only cause for alarm as the lethal pieces of the puzzle start to fall into place, leaving Angie wondering just exactly how her husband fit into the deadly equation…and if she is next on the killer’s list.

Play with Fire

Angie Deacon has a new career, co-owner of Alton Bay New Hampshire’s community theater. Her divorce is almost final and life is good once again. Until opening night when the co-star, played by new love interest Detective Colby Jarvis, shoots the star. Who substituted Jarvis’ real gun for the prop gun? And why would anyone want the star dead? By day he’s merely the owner of the local nursery.

Hair of the Dog

Angie Deacon thought her vacation in Weirs Beach, New Hampshire would be relaxing. But the dog next door would not stop barking. Finally she confronted the owner, Simon York at the local diner. Their ‘discussion’ ended in a near knock-down drag-out. The next morning he was found dead. And she’s the main suspect.

Angie must seek out the real killer before they stuff her behind bars till her skin wrinkles and her arthritis knobs her joints. Her search for the real killer leads her to a cosmetics factory that’s putting out some very questionable products. Now the owner of the factory—Simon’s wife—is dead.