Friction (3 page)

“You know damn well why.”

The detective’s eyes narrowed. “Just answer the question, please.”

Crawford drew a deep breath, then released it as he stated, “I was there for a custody hearing.” Neither detective responded to that, only continued to look at him. He folded his arms across his chest. “My little girl’s custody hearing. Judge Spencer was just about to hand down her decision when the shooter busted in.”

“We have a transcript of the court proceedings up to that point.”

“Then you don’t need me to recount who said what.”

“I’m curious, though,” Neal said. “How do you think Judge Spencer would have ruled?”

Crawford was about to say that what he thought regarding that had no relevance to the matter at hand, but he withheld that, shrugged, and answered. “I was hoping for the best.”

“Fearing the worst?”

Fine
, Crawford thought. If Neal was going to be a prick, he could be one back. “Well, I sure as hell didn’t
expect
the worst, which was seeing Chet Barker gunned down right in front of me.”

The statement had the squelching effect Crawford had intended. To cover the awkward silence that followed, Neal repositioned the camera a quarter inch closer to Crawford. Matt Nugent cleared his throat behind his fist.

“Talk us through it,” Neal said. “Be as detailed as possible.”

Crawford covered his face with his hands and slowly dragged them down until only his fingertips were touching his jaw. Then he dropped his hands and leaned forward, propping his forearms on the edge of the table.

“I was in the witness box. The guy came through the door at the back of the room, shooting. All hell broke loose.”

Nugent asked him to describe the gunman and he did, even though the painter’s garb and mask had been collected as evidence, so they already had a basic description. “The cap covered all but a rim of his hair. He was wearing the gloves and they extended up under his sleeves. That mask was scary as shit. Barely had slits for his eyes. Two small holes for his nostrils. It mashed all his features flat. Total distortion.”

He thought about it for a moment, recapturing his initial impression of the figure coming up the center aisle of the courtroom with such obvious intent. “But even without the disguise I think I would have picked up a bad mojo from this guy. He was focused on what he was doing. Determined.”

Neal nodded. “You said he was shooting when he came through the door.”

“Soon as he cleared it, he fired the first shot.”

“Wild shot? Or did he aim?”

“The pistol was pointed toward the front of the court. He was holding it shoulder high, arm straight out.” He demonstrated. “Pulling the trigger as fast as he could. Bam-bam-bam. Chet…” He paused and made a remorseful sound. “Chet rushed forward and raised his arms like this.” He thrust his hands in front of him at arm’s length, palms out. “He shouted at him. Stop! Something like that. Maybe he just made an exclamation. Then he went down.”

“He died with valor, doing his job,” Neal remarked.

“Yeah,” Crawford sighed. “He’ll be honored for doing so. But I doubt he’d ever drawn his service weapon. Not in the whole of his career. Then to get shot dead by some whack job in a freak show mask. It sucks.”

Chet hadn’t gotten up this morning foreseeing his death. Nor could Crawford have anticipated the wicked curve ball Fate had hurled at him. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sat back in his chair.

After a moment, Nugent asked if he’d changed his mind about something to drink.

“I’m fine. Carry on.”

Neal clicked his pen and made a notation on the legal tablet. “So…Chet’s down. What happened next?”

Crawford focused his thoughts on the scene in the courtroom. “Chaos. Noise. Screams. Joe moved like lightning, got him and Grace under cover. Everyone was scrambling, panicky.”

“Not you,” Nugent said. “People in the courtroom at the time have told us that you hurdled the railing of the witness box. Do you remember doing that?”

He shook his head. “Not really. I just…reacted. I pushed the judge to the floor and sorta…” He hunched forward, posing to demonstrate how he’d used his body to shield hers. “I heard bullets striking. I didn’t feel anything, but I was so jacked up on adrenalin that, for all I knew, I’d been hit. What with the robe, I couldn’t tell if the judge had been struck or not.

“When he rounded the witness box and stepped up onto the platform,” he continued, “I turned to look at him. He had the pistol pointed straight at us. I remember holding my breath, thinking, ‘This is it.’ I guess my survival instinct kicked in. I let him have it in the knee with my foot.”

He described the gunman’s backward topple off the platform. “Maybe that panicked him. I don’t know. In any case, he ran like hell and disappeared through the side exit.”

Neal nodded as though that jibed with what others had recounted. “Then?”

“I went after him.”

Neal glanced at Nugent, then came back to Crawford and repeated, “You went after him.”

“That’s right.”

“Just like that.”

“I didn’t think about it, if that’s what you mean. I just did it.”

“Like you hurdled the witness box railing.”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

“You acted without thinking or weighing the consequences of your actions.”

“Like you would,” Crawford fired back, “if you were any kind of lawman.”

“Well, we know what kind you are.”

Crawford lunged to his feet, sending his chair over backward. He glared down at Neal, but instantly realized that a show of temper would only confirm what the bastard had implied. He turned and righted the chair, then sat back down. He looked at Nugent, who was swallowing convulsively, as though his chewing gum had slipped down his gullet and gotten stuck.

When he came back around to Neal, Neal said, “You left out a step.”

Realizing what Neal was getting at, he said, “I stopped long enough to take Chet’s revolver.”

“Even jacked up on adrenalin, you had the presence of mind to identify yourself to the first officer into the courtroom.”

“His hand was on his holster. I didn’t want to get shot.”

“You gave him a description of the gunman.”

“A very basic one.”

“You asked for backup. But without waiting for it, you took Chet’s revolver and charged after the shooter. Why?”

“
Why
?”

“Well, considering your history, you might have exercised more discretion.”

“Discretion could have got people killed.”

“So could
in
discretion. Like in Halcon.”

H
olly’s attention was drawn to the end of the hallway when a door was opened and Crawford Hunt strode through. Looking disheveled and angry, he glanced at her but said nothing as he walked past on his way to the men’s room.

“They’ll be wanting to talk to me now,” she said to her assistant, who had refused to leave her alone while waiting her turn to give her statement. “Thank you so much for staying, but go on home, get some rest. Tomorrow will be a circus, I’m afraid.”

“But, Holly—”

“There’s no telling how long they’ll keep me.”

“I can stay indefinitely. You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

Marilyn Vidal had been of the same mind when she was notified of the shooting. She’d been prepared to drop everything and make the drive from Dallas to be with Holly, who had discouraged her from coming. “I’ll call when and if I need you. Right now, it’s rather chaotic.”

“I thrive on chaos.”

That was true enough, but Holly won the argument. Marilyn stayed put but had ordered Holly to keep in touch, particularly if she was required to issue a statement to the media. “Before you say anything into a microphone, run it past me.”

Dennis, her former boyfriend, had also called on the office line. Mrs. Briggs had spoken to him, assured him that Holly was bearing up well, and agreed to notify him in the event her status changed or if there was anything he could do for her.

However, Holly hadn’t been without a coterie of supporters. In a town of only twenty thousand, word of the shooting had spread rapidly. Judge Mason, the administrative judge of the district, had been in the neighboring courtroom at the time of the shooting, so he was immediately at Holly’s side. A few friends she had made since moving to Prentiss had rallied around her, aghast over what had happened and eager to help in any way they could.

Most of the time they had been left waiting while she was being interviewed by police. But it had been a comfort just knowing they were accessible if she needed them. Eventually they’d seen the futility of hanging around and had made their departures.

Mrs. Briggs was the last holdout. “I’ll be fine,” Holly assured her now. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll request a police escort home.”

“You absolutely should. And call me if you change your mind. I’ll come over at any hour.”

Before leaving, she got Holly’s promise to do that, although Holly knew she wouldn’t be summoning help. It had been a horrific experience, but the culprit was dead. All that remained for her to do was to give her formal statement, and then the ordeal would be over.

In the coming days, Greg Sanders would be watching to see how she responded to the crisis situation and how quickly she recovered from the trauma of it. If she showed any signs of cowardice or weakness, he would gleefully expose it.

Following Crawford Hunt out of the interrogation room, Matt Nugent and Neal Lester made their way down the hallway toward her. They had interviewed her in the Family Court immediately following the shooting, but to record her formal statement, they had asked that she come downstairs to the ground floor where, like the SO, the city police department was also headquartered.

She stood up. “My turn?”

“I’m afraid not, Judge Spencer,” Neal Lester said. “We’re only taking a break. We’ve got a lot more to cover with Mr. Hunt.”

“I see.”

“I know this is a hardship after what happened today. We’ll get you out of here as soon as possible.”

“I understand.”

“One question, though. The suspect’s name hasn’t been released because we’re having trouble locating next of kin, but his driver’s license identifies him as Jorge Rodriguez. Ring a bell?”

“No.”

“Not surprising,” Nugent said, looking happy to have something to contribute. “He had a Texas driver’s license, but it’s a fake. Fairly good one, but still phony.”

“He was an illegal?”

“We’re looking into it,” Lester replied. “But even if he was, that doesn’t mean he hadn’t wound up in your court sometime before today.”

“It’s a possibility. I’ve only been on the bench for ten months, you know. But the docket has been full. I’ve presided over a lot of trials and hearings since my appointment.”

“Maybe Rodriguez was a holdover from Judge Waters,” Lester suggested. “Held a grudge of some kind.”

When her mentor, the Honorable Clifton Waters, was diagnosed with terminal cancer, he had enticed her to resign from a law firm where she had practiced for several years, relocate to Prentiss, and apply for the bench he would be vacating.

It had been a chancy career move, but she’d taken a leap of faith, and it had paid off. Acting on Waters’s recommendation, Governor Hutchins had appointed her. Judge Waters had lived long enough to see her sworn in. It had been a proud day for both of them.

Nugent said, “We’ll send somebody over to your office tomorrow to look through court records, see if Rodriguez turns up.”

“I’ll make sure Mrs. Briggs knows you’re coming and has everything ready.”

“What about before you came here?”

“I was with a law firm in Dallas.”

Lester jotted the name down in a small spiral notebook he took from his shirt pocket. “We’ll ask them to run Rodriguez’s name through their files, too.”

She gave him a contact name. “The firm will help any way they can, I’m sure.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Crawford Hunt emerge from the men’s room. His hair was damp and had been pushed straight back off his forehead, as though he’d washed his face and then had run wet fingers through his hair. He seemed intent on walking past her again without speaking. She stepped into his path.

“Mr. Hunt, may I have a word with you?”

Neal Lester held up his hand, “Uh, judge…”

“I won’t compare notes with him,” she said to the detective. “I wouldn’t interfere with your investigation or breech ethics by discussing his custody case. I just need to tell him…” Her breath caught as she turned and looked up into the other man’s face, which conveyed all the warmth of an ice carving. “Thank you for saving my life.”

The flinty gray eyes registered surprise, but the involuntary reaction lasted for only a millisecond. “The guy was a lousy shot.”

Emotion welled up in her throat. “He was accurate enough when he fired at Chet Barker.”

The implacable eyes flickered again, and this time one corner of his mouth tensed. “At that range, he couldn’t have missed.”

“He couldn’t have missed me, either, if you hadn’t done what you did.”

“How do you remember it, Judge Spencer?”

She turned to Neal Lester, who’d asked. “When I saw Chet fall, my first instinct was to run to him, but I froze when the man continued up the aisle toward me. The mask made his face look grotesque, terrifying. Mr. Hunt came over the railing and sort of tackled me.

“I confess that the next few moments are a blur. The shots continued in rapid succession. I remember thinking that he would surely run out of bullets eventually, but I thought for certain that I would be killed before he did. His last shot must have gone into the ceiling. I’ve still got plaster dust in my hair.” She tipped her head down to show them.

“The shot went wild when Crawford kicked him in the knee,” Nugent said.

She looked at Crawford Hunt. “You kicked him?”

“Reflex.”

Absently she nodded. “The next thing I remember, you were patting down my back. I don’t remember what you said.”

“I was feeling for blood. I asked if you’d been hit, you said you didn’t think so.”

“Did I?”

He gave a curt nod.

She turned to the detectives. “Mr. Hunt pushed off me. But not before telling me to stay down.”

“But you didn’t, did you?”

She replied to Lester’s question with a rueful shake of her head. “The courtroom was in chaos. People who’d heard the shots were rushing in through the rear door. Mrs. Gilroy was crying hysterically, as was the court reporter. Mr. Hunt bent over Chet. He took his gun and shouted to another bailiff to summon officers. Then he ran out the side door.”

Lester asked, “How much time had transpired between when the gunman ran off and Crawford charged after him?”

“A minute, maybe a little more. Not long.”

“What happened next?”

“I can only speak to what was going on inside the courtroom.” Glancing up at Crawford Hunt, she added, “I don’t know what happened beyond that side exit.”

The senior detective said, “We don’t, either. Not everything. We were just getting to that when we decided to take a break.”

A taut silence followed. Matt Nugent was the first to move. He dug into his pants pocket for change and started walking toward the row of vending machines at the far end of the hall. “Anyone else want a Coke? Judge Spencer?”

“No thank you.”

“Mr. Hunt?”

“No.”

“Nothing for me.” Neal Lester’s reply coincided with the chirping of his cell phone. He pulled it from his belt and checked the readout. “Excuse me.” He moved a few yards away and turned his back, seeking privacy to take his phone call, and leaving Holly essentially alone with Crawford Hunt.

Besides that being inherently awkward, his physicality was intimidating. His boots added at least an inch and a half to his height, which was well over six feet. He had appeared in court wearing well-pressed blue jeans, a plain white shirt, black necktie, and a sport jacket.

At some point since then, he’d discarded the sport jacket, loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, and rolled up his sleeves to just below his elbows. His hair was defying the slick-back treatment he’d given it only minutes ago. Straw-colored and thick, it seemed to have a will of its own.

He went to stand on the other side of the hallway where he leaned with his back against the wall and glared at her. In her view, his animosity was unwarranted.

Trying to break the ice, she said, “Are the Gilroys all right? Your mother-in-law was terribly upset when she was finally allowed to leave the courtroom after being questioned.”

“She was shaken up pretty bad. Last I talked to Joe about an hour ago, she still hadn’t stopped crying.”

“How traumatic it must have been for them.”

He gave a grim nod.

“And how is your daughter?”

Visibly he tensed. “She’s on a sleepover with a neighbor lady and her granddaughter. I thought it would be best if she spent the night there. She wouldn’t understand why Grace and Joe are so upset, and I was tied up here.”

Holly didn’t miss the deliberate implication that the sleepover had been approved by him, as though he was the decision maker where his daughter was concerned. The angle of his chin challenged her to dispute that.

But at least she had gotten a few words out of him, even if they had been cursory. Believing their conversation was over, she turned her head aside.

“What about you?”

Surprised by the question, she looked back at him.

He said, “You okay?”

She was about to respond with the polite lie she’d been giving her colleagues and friends.
I’m fine, thank you for asking
. That’s probably what he expected her to say. But, surprising herself, she gave an uncharacteristic burble of nervous laughter. “Not really, no.” Perhaps because they’d shared the experience, she felt she could be honest with him.

His eyes were the only animate part of him as he took her in from head to toe. Meeting her gaze again, he said, “I landed on you hard. Did I hurt you?”

“No.” She accompanied her quick answer with a shake of her head.

“What about that?” He hitched his chin.

“What?”

“The bruise.”

“Oh.” Tentatively she reached up and ran her fingertips over the tender spot just above her eyebrow. “When you pushed me down, my head hit the floor.”

“Sorry.”

“No apology necessary.”

“You have a goose egg.”

“Until my assistant called my attention to it, I didn’t realize it was there.”

“It’ll hang on for a while.”

“No lasting harm done, though. When I think about what could have been, I begin to lose it.”

“Then stop thinking about it.”

“Easier said.” She held her hands in front of her at waist level, parallel to the floor. “I’ve tried to keep it from showing, but they won’t stop shaking.”

“That happens.”

“Not to me.”

“No?”

“No. Typically I don’t scare so easily.”

“Today’s scare wasn’t typical.”

“I can’t get the image of him out of my mind.”

“He was freaky, all right.”

“Honestly, Mr. Hunt? I was terrified.”

He hesitated a beat, then, speaking barely above a mumble, said, “You held it together when it counted.”

It was a veiled compliment, delivered grudgingly, so it seemed inappropriate to thank him for it. But she held his gaze for several seconds, and understanding was established.

Then he made a sound of impatience and gestured toward her hands. “It may be a couple of days before you lose the shakes. That’s a normal delayed reaction to a crisis situation.”

“Obviously you have more experience than I do with crisis situations.” The moment the words were out of her mouth, she realized how ill-chosen they were. The taut skin over his high cheekbones seemed to stretch even tighter. “Mr. Hunt, I didn’t mean—”

“Forget it.” He cut off her apology in a clipped, cold voice. Pushing himself away from the wall, he turned to Nugent, who was walking toward them carrying a soft drink can in one hand and a package of peanuts in the other.

Crawford Hunt frowned at him. “Are we going to finish this, or what?”

As they resumed their places around the table in the interrogation room, Matt Nugent asked him, “Is that awkward?”

“What?”

“You and the judge. Facing off in court today. Now finding yourselves on common ground. Survivors of a catastrophe.”

“We’re not on common ground, and despite the catastrophe, I’ll be real pissed off if she doesn’t award me custody of my daughter. One has nothing to do with the other.”

Neal punched the record button on the video camera. “I wouldn’t count on that if I were you.”

Crawford let the remark pass without comment. He wasn’t going to be spurred into talking about his custody petition with Neal Lester.