Cold Wind - C. J. Box [57]
Schalk’s face flushed red. “I can assure you that’s not the case,” she said. “We’re ready to proceed.”
Hewitt nodded and thumped the heel of his hand on his desk for emphasis. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s what I wanted to hear. The defendant is hereby remanded for trial to begin on September twelfth, two weeks from today. Jury selection will begin that Monday morning.”
Marcus Hand quickly folded his arms across his chest as if to prevent his hands from reaching out and throttling Judge Hewitt. He said, “Two weeks, Your Honor? Is this a major murder trial or are we scheduling a track meet?”
Hewitt let that echo through the courtroom—there were a couple of sniggers—then turned his full attention back to Hand.
“No, Mr. Marcus Hand, famed criminal defense attorney and bestselling author, this is not a track meet and this is not Teton County or Denver or Hollywood or Georgetown. This is Twelve Sleep County, and this is my courtroom.”
Hand took a deep breath and let his arms drop, fully cognizant of the fact he’d angered the judge. He shuffled his feet, recalcitrant, and looked down at the floor.
“It seems to me, Mr. Hand, if your client is as wrongly accused as you claim and as innocent as you insist, that you’d want to clear her as quickly as possible and let her go home for good. Why you’d want to let her twist in the legal wind for weeks and months is something that doesn’t strengthen your position. And if the charges are as shallow and contemptible as you indicate, you should want nothing more than an opportunity to quickly disprove them. Am I missing something?”
“No, Your Honor,” Hand said. “It’s just that I want to present the best possible defense. We’ve yet to see all the evidence gathered by the prosecutor, or had a chance to interview their so-called star witness . . .”
“You heard her—you’ll have all that,” Hewitt said. “Miss Schalk, turn everything over without any further delay and make the statements of your witness available to the defense. Got that?”
Hewitt turned to Hand. “Any motions?”
Hand made a motion to dismiss the case. Hewitt laughed, denied it, and asked if there were any others. Joe expected Hand to open his briefcase and produce a dozen motions to delay the trial or make Dulcie Schalk’s life a living hell.
“No motions, Your Honor,” Hand said.
Joe sat back, perplexed.
“So we’re set,” Hewitt said.
Schalk nodded, then followed with a weak “Yes, Your Honor.”
Marybeth talked briefly with Missy and Marcus Hand after the proceeding was recessed, while Joe went into the hallway to wait. The bailiff, an ex-rodeo cowboy nicknamed Stovepipe, sauntered from behind the metal detector he manned into the courtroom and grinned at Joe.
“He’s something, ain’t he?” Stovepipe said.
“Moves things right along,” Joe said.
Stovepipe switched a toothpick from the left side of his mouth to the right in a deft move. “I get the impression that celebrity lawyer from Jackson might not know what hit him.”
“He knows,” Joe said. “He’s done this before.”
“You think?”
As they approached Joe’s pickup, Marybeth said, “What just happened? Mom’s in shock.”
“He runs a tight ship,” Joe said. “Judge Hewitt doesn’t screw around. Marcus Hand will have to be amazing. Of course, Hand’s specialty is jury manipulation, not judge manipulation.”
“Which won’t be necessary,” Marybeth said, “for an innocent woman.”
Joe nodded.
“I’m pretty good at reading people,” she said, climbing up into the cab, “but I couldn’t read the judge. He seemed to be angry at everyone.”
“He’s in a hurry,” Joe said, starting the engine.
“But why?” Marybeth asked, shaking her head.
“Talked to Stovepipe,” Joe said. “Judge Hewitt drew a tag for a Dall sheep in Alaska. If he gets one, he’ll complete his grand slam: Stone, Rocky Mountain bighorn, desert bighorn, and Dall. Trophy hunters like Judge Hewitt will do anything to complete their grand slam, and this may be his only chance. The season up there opens and closes next month. I’ll check with a couple of buddies I know