Poetic Justice. Andrea J. Johnson
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 iron stare. Game over.
Stevenson’s ignorant display soured into embarrassment when it became clear his protest was futile. With a faint whimper, he hunched his shoulders and 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.