Free Hush My Mouth by Cathy Pickens Page B

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    I was glad Fran had been spared seeing Neanna’s body. Seeing a loved one is upsetting enough after the mortician has replaced the color drained from the face and covered what would haunt dreams and shouldn’t be seen.
    “What do you think? Did she kill herself?”
    He settled back in his chair. “Lots says she did.”
    “Such as?”
    “Single gunshot wound to the head. A killshot, disrupted the brain stem. Gun in the seat beside her. A positive GSR—gunshot residue—test on her hand.”
    “A note?”
    “No note. Not yet, anyway.”
    “Not yet?”
    “She could’ve mailed one to somebody. Or left a journal or something.”
    “Who saw her last?”
    Another shrug. “Dunno. She had a concert ticket stub in her pocket and a signed concert CD by the same group in her console.”
    “Have you talked to her sister Fran? Or to Skipper Hinson?”
    “I haven’t. It’s technically not my case.”
    “Oh.” That surprised me. Was I treading on tender territory here?
    Rudy gave a deep sigh. “A’vry, we just got this, okay. Things take time. There are other crimes around here that people also demand we pay attention to, you know.”
    More important than signing letters asking for donations to the Police League? I didn’t say that out loud since I didn’t want him to know I’d been reading upside down, curious about the surprising amount of paperwork he’d been signing.
    “Would you let me see the file?”
    He stared at me over the cluttered expanse of his desk. “When we get a file, Avery, I surely will.”
    My cell phone buzzed.
    “Judge Lane can see you now.” Alma’s rich drawl didn’t waste words.
    Judge Lane? Oh, no. Not him. Not twice in two days. Why hadn’t I bothered to ask which judge was holding the bond hearings today?
    “I’ll be back.” Rudy didn’t act heartbroken when I took my leave.
    Dang. The judge moved quicker than I’d expected. I hadn’t had time to read over the few pages Alma had copied for me on Tolly Mart’s divorce.
    I tried to glance through them as I half ran back to the courthouse. Good thing I hadn’t worn heels today. For Mr. Mart’s sake, I couldn’t risk being late.
    The only people in the courtroom to witness the judge’s displeasure were Mr. Mart and a very young assistant solicitor I didn’t recognize. Probably fresh out of law school—could she have just finished in May and be here handling cases on her own? Alma sat in the clerk of court’s chair waiting to take notes on whatever was making Judge Lane look so dyspeptic. My guess? Something to do with what I hoped I’d misread on my way up the courthouse steps.
    “Am I to understand that you are asking me to set bond for Mr. Mart?”
    “Yes, Your Honor.”
    He sounded incredulous, as if bond did not exist, as if the Magna Carta itself had never seen the pen of King John.
    “Miz Andrews.” His frown deepened, directed only at me. “I realize you’ve come to town with quite a reputation for courtroom—” He paused.
    My adrenaline pumped and I fought the urge to tighten my muscles, relaxing and shifting easily on my feet. Fight-or-flight responses could backfire in a battle of wits if those primitive instincts weren’t channeled.
    “—fireworks,” he said finally. “Some successes, certainly.” His acknowledgment was grudging. “But I must say, in our two short meetings, I fail to see evidence of the courtroom prowess of which I’ve heard.”
    I kept my gaze steady, shifting my stance only slightly, my version of a fighter getting the feel of the ring. No way I’d let him think he’d landed a blow.
    “First, you failed to effectively counsel a client about the law prior to a hearing held at taxpayer expense. Then—” He leaned forward, as if to get in my face even though I stood a good ten feet away.
    “Then you come in here in my very next court session andask me to set bond for a man who, despite my stern warning and his professed understanding of the consequences, has