WORRY, Mr. Tucker, it’s almost over now.”
Randall Tucker sat next to his attorney in the courtroom, feeling utterly alone, even though the gallery behind him was packed to overflowing. He prayed to God she was right. In all his thirty-two years he’d never experienced anything so confusing, so terrifying or so painful.
“They can’t convict you without a body,” she said, repeating what she’d told him the moment he hired her. “When the jury gets back, you’ll see.”
When the jury gets back…
They were sure taking a long time. They’d been deliberating all day, and every minute seemed like an eternity.
Regardless, it’ll end well. They won’t put an innocent man away. Truth and justice will prevail.
“I never touched her,” he said, but he’d been saying that ever since his wife had gone missing, and it hadn’t made any difference before.
His attorney smiled confidently. “You’ll be home with your son in a few hours.”
He might go home, but their lives would never be the same. Andrea wouldn’t be there. They’d lost his wife, Landon’s mother, and there’d be big adjustments to make—
The door opened and fear clutched at Tucker’s throat as the jury filed into the courtroom and resumed their seats. Their foreman, a tall, balding man with a dark mustache, remained standing.
“Have you reached a verdict?” the judge asked.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Will you read the verdict, please?”
The man glanced nervously around the room, then looked down at the paper in his hand. “We the jury find the defendant, Randall C. Tucker—” he cleared his throat and peered at the judge, who nodded for him to continue “—guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree.”
Guilty? The word hit Tucker like a crowbar to the gut, momentarily stunning him. Numbly, he tried to raise his hand to rub away the pain, but it was no good. His chest had constricted so tightly he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.
“But I’m innocent,” he said, or maybe he only thought it. Someone was screaming inside his head, drowning out the chaos that erupted around him, drowning out his lawyer’s soft, concerned words, blocking everything but the memory of his promise to Landon. I’m not going anywhere, buddy. I won’t leave you, I promise.
And then the judge, his voice mere background noise until that moment, said something about reconvening for sentencing. Randall was pushed and prodded from the room. He spent the next few days in numb incredulity, caught in a nightmare he couldn’t escape.
When he faced the white-haired Judge Forester again, the subtle contempt Tucker had sensed during the actual trial was more apparent. Forester said it was a sad commentary on the state of society that such a successful man as Randall would murder his wife in cold blood. He asked Randall to tell authorities where he’d hidden the body so Andrea’s friends and family could receive some sense of closure. And he added his regret that the death penalty wasn’t an option in this particular case. Then he said the words that echoed through Randall’s soul.
“I hereby sentence the defendant, Randall C. Tucker, to prison for the rest of his natural life.”
CHAPTER ONE
OH, GOD, a fight!
Gabrielle Hadley quickly turned off the bathroom faucet and sought a paper towel to dry her soapy hands as hoots and hollers resounded outside. What had started as a few distinct shouts was quickly growing into a loud roar that bounced off the prison’s cinder-block walls. It was a sound she knew, a sound she feared.
“Not again,” she moaned. “This is only my third day!”
Her heart in her throat, she tossed the wadded paper into the wastebasket and left the small corner rest room in the guards’ station. Lunch break or no, she had to get out there and back up the other officers. And she’d probably have to wield her baton, as well, even though the thought of actually cracking it against someone’s skull still turned her stomach.
“Have you radioed for the Designated Armed Response Team?” she asked Eckland as she dashed by him. The only other officer in the small caged station outside the bathroom, he didn’t answer. But she was in such a hurry to get inside the cell block, she scarcely noticed. “Open the door.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I don’t think—”
“What are you waiting for?” she cried. Through the metals bars that separated her from the inmates and their cells, she could see a small group of jumpsuit-clad men circling something or someone in the cement-floored common area. Feverish cries rang out from those who watched, along with a chorus of support from the men still locked in three stories of old-style cells above. Yet she could hear the thud of fist on bone, a grunt of pain and a few muttered curses.
“Eckland!”
Finally the gears began to turn. The door slid to the left. She slipped inside the cell block and began looking for the other officers as the door closed immediately behind her.
She caught a glimpse of brown and khaki, a uniform like her own, and realized Hansen and Roddy were already in the middle of the fight. Swallowing hard, she started after them, hoping the Designated Armed Response Team would arrive soon, their shotguns filled with birdshot.
“Back off. Go to your cells now, or we’ll lock you down for three days!” she shouted, hoping to sound far more forceful than she felt.
Someone showed her just how much he respected her authority by grabbing her ass. Brandishing her stick, she whirled to face at least five inmates who could have done it. They grinned, their eyes alight with insolent challenge. But a particularly filthy string of curses called everyone’s attention back to the blows being leveled only a few feet away and they forgot her in their effort to gain a better view.
Forging on, Gabrielle broke through the ranks to find four men ganging up on one.
“That’s enough! Break it up,” she said. She half expected one of the brawling men to punch her in the jaw, but Sergeant Hansen was the only one who touched her. He took her by the shoulder and yanked her back, motioning for her to wait. Then he spread his arms wide to keep the onlookers from crowding too close. Roddy was doing the same.
What was this? Gabrielle gaped in surprise at the look of rapt attention on Hansen’s and Roddy’s faces. They weren’t trying to break up the fight; they were only keeping things from getting out of hand. And they were enjoying the spectacle as much as the inmates, maybe more.
“They could kill him!” she cried, hoping to bring them to their senses.
“They’re not gonna kill him.” Hansen’s terse words barely reached her ears for the noise.
“They’re just teachin’ the cocky sonuvabitch a lesson,” Roddy muttered, closer to her. “It’s about time somebody did.”
But it wasn’t up to the prisoners to teach anyone a lesson. And it certainly wasn’t up to Roddy, or Hansen for that matter, to decide whether or not an inmate deserved a beating!
