Page 123 of The Wrong Side of the Law

Gabriel glances over his shoulder. Is he checking on the State Attorney? No, I don’t think so: his eyes rest on Whitehall for a moment and his lips quirk in just the barest hint of a smile, but they slide on past and rest on the double doors.

“And how long have you held this position?” he asks, turning back to the witness.

“I’ve worked at the Marquee for… three years? I think?” She purses her lips, head tilted to the side, thinking for a moment. “Yes. In just a couple months it will have been three years.”

“I see. And in this position, what are your responsibilities?”

Over the next several minutes, Gabriel asks Jean-Jacques a series of increasingly detailed questions, but I can’t see that they’re leading anywhere. What will her contracting practices for garbage disposal and janitorial services tell us about my brother’s guilt or innocence? And why does Gabriel keep glancing back at the door? What’s he looking for?

No. Notwhatis he looking for.Who. He’s looking for someone who’s not there. And he keeps looking back because whoever he’s waiting for isn’t there…yet.

He’s not trying to getinformationwith these questions. No, he’s trying to gettime. Time for what? It’s important, whatever it is, and Gabriel’s glances grow increasingly irritated and impatient as the questions drag on.

Nor is he the only one losing patience: Judge Merryweather is getting annoyed, too.

“ASA Cooper,” he says, “is there a point to this line of questioning?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Gabriel answers. “I’m establishing the Marquee’s standard business practices when it comes to hiring outside services.”

The judge grunts but makes no further complaints.

“Ms. Jean-Jacques, do you make a practice of bringing in actual police officers for your security?”

“No, sir. That’s not our normal procedure,” she answers. “We have our own in-house people to do most things. But there are special cases.”

“On how many occasions, in your memory, have you used a police officer for security services?” Gabriel looks back at the door again, and now the irritation is tinged with worry.

“Just once,” says the witness. “We asked for assistance from the Point Lookout Police Department with a K-9 officer for the Robert Ferry concert some months back. The one that was broadcast on satellite radio.”

“Was this a requirement from the satellite service?”

“No.” The manager shakes her head, definite in her answer. “We’ve had a couple of live broadcasts through them, and they’ve never asked for a drug sniffing dog.”

“If it’s notyourrequirement, and it’s not thesatellite company’srequirement, then why have the K-9 officer there at all?”

“It was a last-minute addition to Robert Ferry’s contract rider,” she answers, then laughs before continuing. “He had a few last-minute changes to make, really. Originally, he’d requested a bowl of honey-roasted peanuts in his dressing room, but now he wanted chipotle almonds instead. He wanted grapefruit juice instead of tomato, as well, and Stolichnaya and Miller Genuine Draft rather than Absolut and Miller Light. Oh, and he wanted a police officer with a K-9 to screen the audience for drugs as they entered the venue.”

Soft laughter runs through the gallery at the demands, but a quiet, sighing murmur underneath it comes from the members of the press who realize the implications of Ferry’s request for police, on top of yesterday’s testimony.

“Is this normal practice for Robert Ferry?”

Ms. Jean-Jacques laughs again, and it’s the full-bodied sound of a person who is genuinely entertained by something.

“I’m sorry, that’s-” She wipes at her eyes with a sleeve. “No, it’sdefinitelynot standard for him. The night after his show at my place, you know, the Arena in Miami? My boyfriend works there, and when he came home that night? He reeked of marijuana smoke. He said they were openly passing it around in the crowd.” Marie Jean-Jacques giggles again. “If they’d had dogs there, the whole crowd would be in jail. Twenty thousand people, and then some!”

“I see,” Gabriel says, completely deadpan. He looks down at his watch, then his eyes flick back to the double doors. Nervous worry has almost entirely replaced irritation, now.

Gabriel launches into another series of questions, diving deep into a rabbit hole of irrelevance. He’s blatantly stalling, playing for time, but the judge has had enough.

“Mister Cooper,” Merryweather says. “You’re at the end of your leash. Your next question had better be something relevant or I’m cutting you off.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Gabriel takes a deep breath and starts to look toward the back of the room again but catches himself and keeps his eyes toward the front. “I, ah, have no further questions.”

“Thankyou.” The judge shakes his head and blows out an exasperated breath. “Mister Anderson, your witness.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. Defense reserves the right to recall this witness at a later time.” Mark looks back at me, helpless: he understands that we’re trying to kill time—even if not why—but he doesn’t have anything to work with right now.

“Are you sure you don’t have any questions?” Judge Merryweather leans back in his chair, arms crossed and plainly annoyed with this trial. “Are you sure you can’t come up with some way to waste everyone’s time this morning?”

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