Jan soaked up the closeness. The security found in the touch of her mother’s hands.
“The fear is what makes them nightmares,” Grace continued. “But that’s all they are, honey. Bad dreams. They simply mean that you have an active imagination.”
She’d heard the words so many times before. And still she listened intently.
“They’re nothing to worry about. You know that. If I thought differently, I would’ve scoured the country years ago, paid whatever it cost, to rid you of them.”
“I know.”
“And being upset by them is natural, too,” Grace added. “Just like watching a horror movie that sticks with you for days afterward.”
Yeah, only her horror movies were private—and homemade.
She glanced up at Grace, finding strength and comfort in her mother’s gaze. “Thank you,” she said, letting go of the fear. Once again.
“I love you, my dear,” Grace said, giving her hand a squeeze.
“I love you, too, Ma.”
“I’ll have the barbecue chicken sandwich with coleslaw.” Bobby Donahue, founder of the Ivory Nation, said, smiling at the young Mama’s Café waitress on Sunday evening. “And a Diet Coke, please.”
And then, the Ivory Nation brochures he’d commissioned tucked neatly in the zipped folder beside him, he made a mental note as his dinner guest ordered a burger and fries. The kid was seventeen, the nerdy type, but he had the power of his convictions. It would’ve been a strike against him to tell the waitress that he’d have the same thing Bobby had ordered. He needed spiritual followers, not copycats.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said, holding the young man’s gaze. Tony Littleton maintained eye contact. Another mental check in the “go” column.
“Not much to tell,” the high school senior said. “Dad took off when I was a kid. I don’t remember much about him. No brothers or sisters. Mom works a lot—has a boyfriend, nice guy, but he’s into sports.”
No close family ties. It all fit.
“What about friends?” Bobby expected that he knew the answer to this one. He’d figured out the basics of Tony’s existence, if not the details, from his chats with him online.
“I’ve never been the most popular guy in school,” Tony said with a shrug. “I’m no good at sports, not that great looking, I get good grades even when I don’t particularly try. I’m a science whiz, and I write for the school paper. Mostly all stuff the cool kids avoid.”
No close friends. Just as Bobby had suspected.
“What kind of stuff do you write?” Tony hadn’t mentioned that particular talent in their previous conversations.
“Mostly editorials.” Tony took a deep sip of the lemonade that had arrived while he was talking. “I see something that bugs me, and I write about it.”
Bobby leaned back, his hand resting against his mouth. “What bugs you, Tony?”
“Injustice.” The boy’s response was strong, his expression firm.
Bobby smiled and unzipped his portfolio.
“All rise.”
Pushing the heavy wooden chair back from a scarred table, Jan stood at the bailiff’s direction, along with the fifteen or so other people in Judge Matthew Warren’s court, just after lunchtime on Monday.
The fiftysomething judge entered through a door behind his bench. “Be seated,” he said. His black robe covered the arms of his chair.
When she’d heard that the Hall case had been assigned to Warren, Jan had opened a bottle of champagne. She’d argued before him many times and had found the man to be fair almost to the detriment of his career. Matthew Warren didn’t seem to care whose money was involved or how much might be at stake; he didn’t respond to threats or power, and he had never played a political game in his life, as far as she could tell.
He asked if the state was ready.
“Yes, Your Honor, the state is ready.”
He looked to opposing counsel for the same confirmation, and when Gordon Michaels, seated at the table across the aisle from Jan, answered in the affirmative, he called the case number. Jacob Hall stood and was released from the chain that bound him to the state’s other four guests in the jury box, which also served as the courtroom’s inmate seating section. He grinned as Warren’s deputy led him down to the podium three or four feet below and directly in front of the judge. Michaels joined him at the microphone. Jacob didn’t seem to notice.
“Gordon Michaels for the defense, Your Honor. This is my client, Jacob Hall.”
The defense attorney shifted his weight a couple of times. He looked a little tense.
Jan stood again. “Jan McNeil for the state, Your Honor.”
Judge Warren nodded, leaned toward the microphone set in front of him and ran through his spiel for the record, citing the case number and stating that he’d read the motions.
Jan checked her notes, rehearsing her justifications for denying Michaels’s motion to suppress evidence found on Hall’s personal computer.
Glancing up, she caught the defendant staring at her. And she knew he was looking forward to eating her piece by piece—in private—without clothes on. His eyes had fire in them. And a lascivious glow. It was almost as if she could hear him speaking to her—as if the room held just the two of them.
She stared back.
Warren read aloud the motion before him, asking Michaels if he had anything to say on behalf of his client. A cough came from behind her, a spectator. Someone there to watch Jacob Hall’s proceedings, or a supporter of one of the other inmates waiting for his case to be called? She didn’t break eye contact with the defendant to find out.
“Your Honor.” Michaels’s voice was clearly audible. “The warrant to seize my client’s computer was based solely on a tip given to a police officer, Detective Ruple, by a supposed confidential informant. We have absolutely no proof that any such individual actually exists and, in fact, we have reason to believe otherwise. Mr. Hall lives alone. The computer in question is a desktop unit that he keeps in the spare bedroom of his apartment, and only he has access to it. Even if someone was in that room without his knowledge, that person would not have been able to access the information on Mr. Hall’s hard drive, as he had it password-protected and he has given his password to no one. Further, Mr. Hall has spoken to no one about the contents of his computer. Thus, it is clear, Your Honor, that there could have been no informant who knew about that content. The constitution of this great nation protects not only my client but all of us from illegal search and seizure. What kind of society do we live in if, at any moment, anyone flashing a badge can enter a private home and take whatever he pleases? Our job is to protect the public by upholding the constitution, and Detective Ruple’s search of my client’s home was in direct conflict with that great document and the laws made since to support and clarify our forefathers’ intent. Yes, Detective Ruple had a warrant, but one gained solely on the word of a ghost. I ask that you suppress the evidence taken from Mr. Hall’s apartment, Your Honor, including any and all information found on his computer.”
Jan tried to breathe calmly during the brief silence that followed, refusing to be intimidated by Hall’s visual assault and hating the apparent logic of Michaels’s argument. She couldn’t win this case without the evidence taken from Jacob Hall’s personal computer.
“Ms. McNeil?”
The judge called on her, and with a last grin, Jacob Hall turned his attention back to the proceedings at hand. Jan stared at the defendant’s back for another second or two, just to make it clear, if only