backed away from the bench. The musk of defeat wafted off him in waves. Phyllis, almost as sullen, followed and took a seat in the gallery.
Beau Harriston, who could barely contain his amusement, inclined his head at Ms. Freddie. “Sounds like we’ll be working on a plea.” He then plucked Mr. Stevenson’s tie from the judge’s desk and drifted after the deputy attorney general to begin plea negotiations.
My face must have shown signs of worry because, once they departed, Ms. Freddie turned to me and whispered, “Are you all right? You look tired.”
I pressed my lips together in a halfhearted attempt at a smile. Ms. Freddie was my mother’s oldest friend and Kappa Mu sorority sister. She’d watched me grow up. When I graduated from Delaware State University six years ago, she’d suggested her office as a place to intern while I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. She and my mother prayed I’d get attorney fever and apply to law school, but I astonished everyone that summer and fell in love with court reporting. Learning a secret language to capture, transform, and transcribe the spoken word into verbatim transcripts was tantamount to magic.
“What about Langley?” I asked.
“They’ll probably recommend a plea of probation or time served. With the heavy counts dropped and the defendant already out on bail, the misdemeanor won’t be enough to hold her. She’ll walk today.”
“Is that safe?”
I could hear snippets of Langley bossing around her lawyer as they filled out paperwork at counsel’s table. Each cackle made me wince. I shifted on the footstool where I sat at the judge’s knee.
“Her file says these are her first drug charges, so all we can do is hope. The rest of her record is clean, except for a DUI last year and an underage drinking charge from more than a decade ago.”
I lowered my head and blew out a loud breath. As far as Langley was concerned, that underage drinking charge was my fault. Nothing could be further from the truth.
“Is something wrong, Victoria?”
What could I say? Telling Ms. Freddie about my relationship with Langley wouldn’t make a bit of difference in the trial’s outcome, but I needed to say something in order to clear my conscience. As a sworn officer of the court, I had a responsibility to disclose any relationship that compromised my ability to remain impartial.
“Did Ma ever explain why I didn’t go to Princeton?”
Ms. Freddie furrowed her brow. “Not exactly. She asked me for some legal advice because of that accident your senior year.” She bit her lip. “She was reluctant to share the full story, so I never asked outright—but I assumed passing on Princeton had to do with your illness.” Her hand touched mine in a moment of solidarity. “Weren’t you in the hospital for pneumonia that year? My goodness, you were so young. Getting into college at fifteen is hard for anyone. old. No one blamed you for staying home.” Her dark eyes searched mine. “What does any of that have to do with this?”
“Everything.”
This wasn’t the place to share the details of such an intimate story, but I needed her to understand why I couldn’t continue with the trial.
“The pneumonia was the result of a drowning attempt perpetrated by Langley Dean—Langley Mulligan—the defendant. Her version of payback. She assumed I had gotten her busted for having alcohol on school grounds, but it wasn’t me.” I leaned forward on the stool to lend more privacy to my words. “I would have told you before trial, but I didn’t recognize her. For what it’s worth, Langley is guilty. If not for this, then something far more sinister.”
And I still have the scars to prove it.
“Victoria, I’m so sorry.” She squeezed my hand. Based on the tears in her eyes, I sensed she meant the gesture as a hug. “I can’t imagine how you feel. You were brave to have shared this, but you know I can’t do anything.”
“I know. I didn’t mean to suggest that you should.” I swallowed my anger. “I had to share the truth so you’d understand why I plan to call in another court reporter to take the plea. I can’t handle this.”
“I understand. Do whatever it takes.” She gave my hand another squeeze and blinked away her tears. “Go talk to your colleagues. I need to do the same. The law prohibits me from spearheading an investigation, but I’ll need to report a few things about this case to President Judge Yaris. Get me a copy of the transcript as soon as you can, okay?”
She lifted her head and announced to the near-empty courtroom. “We’re in a thirty-minute recess while the attorneys conduct their plea negotiations.”
The bailiff cried out, “All rise.”
I rose from my footstool and moved out of Ms. Freddie’s path.
As she stepped down from the bench, she turned to me and whispered, “Give me ten minutes. I’ll meet you in the kitchen for tea. We can have a real conversation. You can tell me the whole story…uncensored.” She pressed a finger to her lips to let me know that our teatime would be as friends, not coworkers.
Just knowing she’d taken an interest in my story made me feel better. I was lucky to have someone at work watching my back. I didn’t know how I’d survive without her guidance, so I pressed a finger to my lips in return and watched her go.
CHAPTER 3
“That’s the first time I’ve seen anything like that,” said Grace Tisdale, Trident County Superior Court’s chief bailiff and head of security.
Grace had a matronly face and a Peter Pan haircut gone prematurely white, but her body was as lithe and nimble as a professional athlete’s. She climbed onto the bench, where I was still standing after Ms. Freddie’s recent departure, and squatted beside my footstool for a private conversation. “You hear whispers about this stuff happening all the time upstate, but I never thought it would happen down here.”
“Me neither.” I plopped back onto the footstool so we could gossip face to face. “I can’t believe she dismissed the felony charges.”
Grace made a clucking sound. “This has Old Beau Harriston’s name written all over it.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. You haven’t been around long enough to see how cutthroat he can be. I’m never surprised at some of the crazy things he says or, better yet, does—especially when a juror or someone from the media is within earshot. He loves swaying the public with alternative facts.” She mimed sarcastic air quotes.
I raised an eyebrow.
“Of course, if he’s feeling gracious,” she rolled her eyes, “he’ll simply show up late to court or flood the clerk with evidence or demand dozens of sidebars to wear out the jury.”
“That stuff never works.”
“Sure it does. Check it out.” Grace handed me a navy-blue business card with bold gold letters. “Oh, and Old Beau says he wants a copy of the trial transcript. Give him a ring when you’re ready for payment.”
I skimmed the contact information and flipped the card over to find Harriston’s picture and a tagline.
BEAUREGARD
