Free CUTTING ROOM -THE- by Jilliane Hoffman Page A

Joe Varlack and his well-heeled sidekick tried for the next twenty minutes to downplay the evidence as circumstantial and unreliable, and discredit Manny as biased, sloppy, lazy — and a zillion other disingenuous adjectives — there was no way that even liberal, let-’em-go, Slow Steyn was going to give Talbot Lunders a bond. Enough dots had been connected to keep him behind bars pending trial. And the truth be told, it was an election year. If Steyn did let Talbot Alastair Lunders of the Palm Beach Lunders buy his way out of the pokey with $150,000 in cold, hard cash, the press would start screaming favorable treatment for the rich and it would be difficult for anyone to argue otherwise come the August primaries.
    Harmony called up the next case and a fresh set of attorneys approached the podiums, ready to do battle. The lurid transfixion that had held the audience captive during Talbot Lunders’s Arthur finally broke, and the hushed conversations and illicit texting started up once again as courtroom life returned to normal. Case file in hand, Daria made her way past the rows of spectators to the majestic mahogany doors. With her palm on the handle, she turned to look back at the box. Joe Varlack and Anne-Claire Simmons were standing outside the jury box, at the side of their client, who was at the far end of the box. Although they were speaking in hushed voices and she was too far away to hear what was being said, it wasn’t hard to read the body language — both attorneys were pissed and the client wasn’t listening. More than not listening, handsome Talbot wasn’t even
affected
. And that was what held her attention as she stood at the door. Accused of a brutal murder, remanded to a jail cell for the foreseeable future, facing imminent indictment by the grand jury, and, ultimately, a possible death sentence, and the guy seemed about as interested or
affected
as if the crowd around him were discussing the weather in Nepal. She’d seen cold-blooded gang members more worked up over a traffic ticket. He almost seemed amused.
    Just as she was thinking that her defendant’s reaction, or lack thereof, to what was happening was bizarre and disturbing, she saw his lips move. Then, with a smug smirk, he raised his shackled hands together and pointed straight at Daria across the room. Those in the courtroom who had been watching the exchange looked over at her, which, in turn, started a chain reaction of courtroom rubbernecking — everyone wanting to see what or who the accused sadist was pointing at with his jingling chains, like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
    The blood rushed to her face. It was as if she’d been caught peeking in someone’s bedroom window and now the whole neighborhood was up and out on the front lawn staring at her. The case file slipped from her hands, spilling papers and crime-scene photos all over the floor. She rushed to pick them up and dropped her purse. Makeup, pens, tampons, loose change, and an assortment of hoarded receipts shot everywhere. Court again came to a complete halt. Dixon, the correction officer who was manning the door, and Manny both stooped down to help her.
    â€˜Thank you,’ she mumbled to both men as she hurriedly stuffed papers into her file and things into her purse. ‘It must’ve slipped.’
    After a few painful, all-too-quiet minutes, the judge finally broke the rubbernecking trance. ‘Okay, back to work, everyone. Ms DeBianchi, you got it together there? You okay now?’
    Daria waved a hand in the general direction of the bench. She wished she could disappear.
    â€˜Harmony, where’s my file on Acevedo?’ Slow Steyn barked. ‘This is the wrong one, I think.’ Court started up once more.
    â€˜Let’s go now!’ Corrections shouted. ‘Take your seats. That means you, too, Lunders! Caused enough trouble now, didn’t ya, pretty boy?’
    â€˜I think she’s hot for