ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hailey Dean was born in my heart and mind many years ago. Bringing her to life has been quite a journey, down a very long and winding road full of ups and downs.
Thank you to Glenn Yeffeth, Leah Wilson, Sarah Dombrowsky, Jennifer Canzoneri, Jessika Rieck, and the rest of the incredible crew at BenBella, along with John Paine, for making Murder in the Courthouse a reality.
Thank you to my Bama friend and anchor throughout, Dee Emmercson, a.k.a. “Moon Pie.” What good is anything without a friend to share it with?
Thank you to my dear friends Dean Sicoli, Eleanor Odom, and Mike Walker, all of whom you can spot in these pages whether named or not.
Thank you to my partner in crime, Josh Sabarra . . . you believed.
Thank you to my sweet twins, who love Mommy even when she’s working on her book instead of going on an adventure with them out in the swing or at the playground or under the stars.
Thank you with all my heart to my husband David for his presence throughout these many years. He shares with me the belief that what the mind can perceive, the body can achieve.
Thank you to my mom, who demonstrates the gold standard in perseverance.
And last, thank you, Daddy, wherever you are at this very moment, in some beautiful, magical place just beyond the stars. Thank you for all the love. And for the strength to go on. I know you are turning these pages . . . in Heaven.
There was no warning, no movement inside the darkened garage. The morning was just like every other. He locked the kitchen door, balancing a to-go coffee cup. Adjusting the thick lenses of his glasses, Alton peeked back through the door’s small panes. He absolutely had to check the coffee machine. Yes, the little red light was off. He’d unplugged it before leaving, as usual. But always better safe than sorry.
Glancing back into the kitchen was one of Alton’s rituals and extremely comforting as he headed to the courthouse and all its jarring noises, jostling bodies in and out of courtrooms, and generally untidy goings-on. He loved thinking his little kitchen was neat as a pin, smelling of coffee and sausage patties.
Turning around, the thwack to the back of Alton’s head and the slice right to his torso really didn’t register as pain . . . at first, anyway. But almost immediately, a searing shot of pain jolted Alton’s body like an electric current. Doubling over, he spotted deep red blood spurting out onto the concrete floor.
The rhythmic bursts of blood reminded him of water gushing out of the corner fire hydrant last summer when a neighbor crashed into it while texting. A fixed object! It caused a huge mess. Alton stayed up late into the night, discreetly watching clusters of neighbors, police, and fire department personnel through the curtains of his front window.
Crashing forward face-first, his forehead slammed into the back right-side tire of his Toyota Corolla. He caught a whiff of the tire’s black rubber.
It was “Magnetic Metal Gray,” a color that the ad proclaimed was “Stealthy and stunning. Drive Magnetic Metal Grey and get noticed!” Alton kept the car in absolute mint condition. But he was never noticed.
He loved taking the car to the Super Wash over on Abercorn. It made the car smell like a piña colada. “If you like piña coladas, and getting caught in the rain, if you’re not into yoga, if you have half a brain . . .”
Sausage, coffee, the manufactured smell of piña colada all crashed together in his head now pressed against the cool cement.
Alton spotted his garage door hanging over him. Why was it up? He certainly had not left it gaping open overnight, begging intruders to come in and steal gardening tools.
The figure that just dragged him by his feet bent down, but Alton could only make out a silhouette. Holding a knife. A ripping sensation tearing across his middle, above his hips, was excruciating, cutting through the haze.
A deep dark pool of blood spread out beneath him like a crimson throw rug. Somehow, the thought made him feel warmer and cozier and that was good, because suddenly, Alton felt very cold.
Cold to the bone.
His thoughts were getting more jumbled . . . but right now, all he could think of was Mother. Diabetes took her away from him. But he still loved her dearly and missed her practically every minute of every day.
Alton judged all other women by her gold standard. She confided she loved him, Alton, the best . . . even more than she had his father. They snuggled together, the two of them, more nights than Alton could remember . . . huddling against the smell of booze and the crazy rantings of his dad. When his dad beat Alton one time too many, it was Mother who came between them, taking the blows herself.
But oddly, here she was, standing behind the barbecue grill in the corner.
There was that sound again. Alton looked up in time to see the garage door lowering. His left cheek flush against the cool concrete floor, he remembered the ad exactly . . . “When seconds count, count on the Titanium-10! The garage door opener that never disappoints!”
“Mom, help me . . .” Now, she was just a few feet away, wearing her favorite short-sleeved, yellow dress, belted at the waist. Why was she wringing her hands? What was wrong? Alton hated when Mother cried.
Mother was speaking soothingly to him and he wanted to get closer, to hear what she was saying.
Two strange feet appeared at Alton’s eye level and at that precise moment, one foot pulled back and delivered a massive kick to Alton’s face. Blood gushed from his head and nose into his eyes.
He could no longer see, but he could hear. He recognized the mechanical sound of the garage lowering. Within seconds, the heavy metal door was grinding into him, severing him exactly in half.
Alton tried to reach out to Mother. She was no longer wringing her hands feverishly together. She was smiling . . . holding her arms open and then . . . Alton felt nothing more.
“Come on, Hailey. It’s just three weeks. You’re already gonna be there to take the stand as an expert witness . . . right? So why does one more day or so matter? And you don’t really have to prepare, do you Hailey? I mean . . . I never prepare. I mean . . . what is it this time . . . battered woman syndrome? Fiber evidence? No . . . I remember . . . you do a criminal profile and wow the jury . . . right? You know it like the back of your hand. You’ve tried a hundred of those cases. You don’t even have to prepare . . . am I right? You’ll have plenty of time to do the Harry Todd Show!”
Veteran TV producer Tony Russo was hell-bent on nabbing ratings by sucking the Love story dry, mining every salacious detail he could. It was all for the glory of the Harry Todd Show. It was Russo who first “discovered” Hailey, which apparently gave him license to badger her to appear on the show.
“I do have to prepare because every set of facts is different. You know that! I’m glad
