Page 119 of The Wrong Side of the Law

Merryweather’s eyes narrow down to dangerous slits. That patience has run out.

“Chambers. Both of you. Now.”

The judge flips his gavel carelessly onto the bench, and he’s through the door before the bailiff can call for everyone to rise. Mark Anderson gets to his feet, eyeing the prosecutor suspiciously, and the two attorneys follow the judge.

No more than a minute later, Mark returns to the courtroom. He’s alone.

“What’s going on?” I ask, leaning over the rail.

Mark and my brother turn to face me, and the three of us put our heads together.

“I have no idea,” Mark says. “I’m just as lost as you are. The two of us went in there together, I never even said a word. Cooper asked to speak to the judgeex parte. Wouldn’t say what it was about with me there.”

“All rise!” The bailiff’s voice cuts through the chatter as clean as a razor, and all eyes are on the judge’s return to the courtroom.

Merryweather doesn’t sit, and only reaches across the bench to pick up his gavel.

“Court is adjourned until eight-thirty tomorrow morning,” he says, and with one more bang of the gavel, he’s gone again.

The courtroom is a madhouse for a few minutes as every reporter tries to bull their way out the door first so that they can call the station or the network, or whoever it is that can bump this up to the next level. There is definitely something going on with this trial, and each of them wants to be the first to inform the rest of the world.

“Frank,” the attorney says, “when we leave here today there’s going to be people sticking microphones in your face and asking questions. All I want you to do is…”

Gabriel never came back. I tune out the rest of Mark’s instructions for my brother, wondering where he’d gone. I’m still not sure that I’m ready to speak to him yet—not sure that I could without breaking into very public tears—but if he’s not here, I don’t even have that option.

But whether or not I can handle it emotionally, I stillneedto see him: the folder full of campaign contributions is in my purse. I don’t know I can help to repair any of the mess that I’ve made of this situation, but I need to at least try, and giving this folder to Gabriel is going to be the best first step I can make.

I wonder what Gabriel and the judge spoke aboutex parte? Judges hate to have conversations without both parties present, and he didn’t look happy about whatever it was they discussed. It must have been something serious, though: the judge called an end to the day at only three-thirty. There should have been plenty of time to get through the rest of the prosecution’s case. Certainly enough time to get to the lab evidence, at least, and start the countdown to my own arrest for evidence tampering.

I suppose I can’t complain about it. I have one more night where we can all just focus on taking care of the one defendant in the family, not worrying about a second. One more night without looking over my shoulder.

My mental wandering is cut short when I realize that Frank and his attorney are both staring at me.

“What?” I ask. “Do I have lettuce in my teeth or something?”

A man clears his throat behind me, and when I turn to look there’s a sheriff’s deputy standing there, looming massively above me.

“Miss Wilson,” he says, “would you come with me, please?”

I guess I should have been looking over my shoulder after all.

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