“Are you implying I don’t know how to do my job?”
“Corporal, calm down,” said Ms. Freddie. “No one has drawn a conclusion. What we need to do first is clarify the chain of custody.” She turned her attention to the deputy attorney general. Her broad facial features twisted into a dark mask of disgust. “Mr. Stevenson, you have to overcome the presumption of innocence. Where do the drugs go after they are tested and the lab report completed?”
“I can answer that.” Corporal North raised a hand and reached for her arm, even though he was out of range. He looked desperate and frustrated, and I wanted to let him know he wasn’t the only collateral damage in this case. “Typically, our evidence sergeant retrieves the tested substances from the CSL and stores them at the troop until trial. In this case, the envelope never returned. Our people received word the lab did an internal audit, and the evidence transfer was put on hold. So, everything stayed at the CSL until this morning.”
“I appreciate your candor, Corporal.” Ms. Freddie then raised her voice to prompt the bailiff. “Could we get the chemist, Phyllis Dodd, up here at sidebar?” When Phyllis was absorbed into our circle, the judge started her examination. “Tell us why your office held this evidence.”
Phyllis, a freckled-face brunette, who was slim, trim, and oh-so prim, spoke as if the answer was obvious. “As the person fiscally and administratively responsible for the lab, I do random inspections to ensure everyone follows procedure and our documentation matches the inventory. This deters theft and dry-labbing. We held the prosecution’s evidence for such an audit. Everything cleared.”
“Dry-labbing?” I asked. My mind was so preoccupied, I was afraid I’d misunderstood. I hadn’t heard the term before, and I certainly didn’t know how to spell it on my steno machine.
“Yes. Recording results for substances that were never tested.” Phyllis bowed her head and smoothed the lines of her French twist in a nervous way that alerted me to my mistake in highlighting her lab’s possible weakness.
“Your Honor,” Harriston pounced, “I think she’s essentially admitting knowledge of suspicious activity at the lab, which is sufficient grounds for a mistrial—”
“Excuse me, Counselor.” Phyllis’s voice was acidic. “Audits, spot checks, and dual testing are all part of the standard safeguards required to maintain our certification. The fact that we ran additional tests—”
“Your Honor,” said Corporal North, “may I add that the envelope transferred over from the lab this morning got put in your criminal unit’s evidence closet for safekeeping until trial. I watched your clerk store the item.”
“Madam Clerk, is that accurate?” Ms. Freddie squinted over the bench at Maggie, her trial clerk and one of the employees in the criminal unit. “Was the evidence intact when you received it?”
“Yes, Judge.” Maggie’s face collapsed as if she couldn’t believe they’d dragged her into the conversation.
I imagined she was grappling with the same option that cycled through my brain—cut off a limb and run screaming from this bear trap of a trial.
Maggie elaborated, “I received that delivery at seven thirty this morning and locked it in our evidence room, along with the other confiscated items in this case. That bundle came out of storage a little after nine—right after jury selection. The log didn’t indicate anyone else had been in the evidence.”
Ms. Freddie held up three fingers. “Corporal. Lab. Courthouse. What say you, Mr. Stevenson? This is your indictment. You bear the responsibility to maintain the integrity of the evidence.”
“But, the officer assured me—”
“Stop there, Mr. Stevenson. We’ve already heard from the corporal. What did you do to follow up on this timeline?”
Ms. Freddie shuffled through her paperwork while every eye in the courtroom bore into the prosecutor’s skull.
Every eye except mine.
I stretched my torso from side to side and dared to catch a glimpse of Langley’s face. Did she understand where this could lead? Stevenson was sinking fast, and she’d once again get to enjoy seeing someone out of his depth. Her face appeared beyond the huddle, and she waggled her fingers at me—one brow raised above a chilling silver eye. The movement was subtle, so as not to arouse suspicion from the bailiff, who stood nearby, but it was enough. I snapped back into place under the cloak of bodies.
“What else could I have done?” Stevenson was almost whining now. He tugged at the knot in his tie as if it was the cause of his discomfort. “Everything followed standard procedure. I move to exclude Exhibit One and—”
“The jury has already seen the evidence.” Ms. Freddie rattled her pearls. “You can’t unring a bell, Mr. Stevenson.”
“And you can’t conceal exculpatory material that may exonerate my client.” Harriston bared his teeth. “That goes right back to the defendant’s right to due process. So say it with me, Your Honor, case dismissed.”
Ms. Freddie cut her gaze at Harriston’s cheeky play to force her hand. “Well, Mr. Stevenson? Last chance to say something intelligent.”
His silence stretched for several seconds and beads of sweat formed at his temples.
“All right, Mr. Stevenson. I don’t doubt the lab report corroborates cocaine, but it’s obvious that’s not what we have.” She snapped her fingers. “Wake up. A dangerous substance is missing. This situation points to a breach. A major breach. One that might have statewide implications. I advise all of you to launch an investigation within your offices. But more importantly, I recommend the Delaware Department of Justice examine the retention practices of the Controlled Substance Lab and the State Police.”
She picked up the indictment that listed the charges for the case. “I am inclined to grant Mr. Harriston’s motion to dismiss the felony counts of possession and distribution due to a lack of evidence.”
I ventured another glance at Langley. Her head was down. She’d taken a pen and started carving into the wood of defense counsel’s table, like she didn’t have a care in the world.
“The misdemeanor paraphernalia charge,” Ms. Freddie’s voice rumbled on, “regarding the scales, baggies, cash, and cell phones still stands. I’ll give counsel thirty minutes to work on a plea, or we can go to trial on the solo charge.”
“But—but—Your Honor.” Mr. Stevenson stamped his foot.
I could tell he wanted to argue, throw some foul words at the judge—or, heck, to throw a punch at Mr. Harriston, but he couldn’t get the words out. After several uncomfortable seconds of wrenching at his neckwear and sputtering an incoherent torrent of curses, the prosecutor yanked the striped indigo tie from his neck and slammed it onto the desk in front of Ms. Freddie so his palm thwacked against the wood.
“A plea?” screeched Stevenson. “Why don’t you give her a key to the city while you’re at it?”
The sound of his mocking hung in the air. Ms. Freddie was the toughest judge in Trident County and the only female Superior Court judge of color in the state—two facts that often led to pushback from pompous men of privilege, like Stevenson. Rather than play into his game, she locked her jaw, folded her arms, and lowered her brow until her dark eyes formed the slits that marked her famous
