The Bad Daughter(81)

Blake led Robin to a bench at the front of the visitors section. Her eyes scanned the judge’s podium, the witness stand, the court recorder’s desk, the jury box, the long tables used by the prosecution and defense teams, and the five rows of benches reserved for spectators. Just like on TV, she thought. Maybe a little brighter, since the wall opposite the jury box was mostly windows. There was a lot of impressive-looking wood, but little color save for the large American flag on prominent display at the front of the room. The walls were beige, as was the floor. There was no carpet. The rest of the room was a blur, like a photograph that was slightly out of focus.

“You sure you’re okay?” Blake asked.

“I’m not sure of anything.”

Blake took her hand and held it as the bailiff announced that court was in session and directed everyone to stand for the arrival of the presiding magistrate. The judge’s name was Robert West and he was appropriately white-haired and distinguished-looking. A pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses were balanced low on the bridge of his nose, completing the picture of a folksy, fair-minded grandfather.

“He’s looks nice,” Robin said, her voice hopeful.

The judge directed the bailiff to bring in the first of the accused, a man charged with robbing a local 7-Eleven. He pleaded not guilty and was released on bail to await trial.

“That’s good,” said Robin, watching as the second prisoner was brought before the magistrate. The charge was simple assault, and he, too, was granted bail while awaiting trial. “Good,” Robin said again. Two out of two.

Her brother was escorted in next. He was wearing the same orange jumpsuit as the two previously accused prisoners. And after he spent all that money in Walmart, Robin thought, noting the defeated slump of his shoulders, so similar to Melanie’s. She rose slightly in her seat, lifting her right hand into the air, fingers fluttering, trying to get his attention. Only the pressure of Blake’s hand on her arm brought her back into her seat.

If Alec saw her, he gave no sign. His back was to her, and he stared straight ahead as Jeff McAllister joined him in front of the judge. The charges were read, and Alec was asked for his plea.

“Not guilty, Your Honor,” he replied.

Just like on TV, Robin thought again, wondering suddenly if this could be another of the strange dreams she’d been having since her arrival in Red Bluff. Please let me wake up. Please let this awful nightmare be over.

But, of course, she wasn’t dreaming and she knew it. This nightmare was real and wouldn’t end until Alec was exonerated and the men who’d murdered Tara and shot her father and Cassidy had been apprehended and brought to justice.

“The prosecution is seeking remand,” the prosecutor argued. She was a woman of about forty, with short brown hair that emphasized the heavy bags beneath her eyes. She was wearing a black A-line skirt and a pale yellow blouse that Robin remembered seeing on the cover of a Brooks Brothers catalog. She wore little makeup beyond her coral lipstick, and her voice all but shook with righteous indignation. “The defendant is charged with murder and attempted murder, as well as breaking and entering, robbery, and vandalism. He killed his former lover in cold blood, and severely wounded her husband, a pillar of this community, who remains in the hospital in critical condition, not expected to survive. He also shot a helpless child. If he were to be granted bail, we have no doubt that he would attempt to flee the country, given that he has already tried once to do so.”

“Your Honor,” Jeff McAllister began, “the defendant is not a flight risk. He has long-standing ties to this community, having lived here most of his life. He is currently staying with his sister, and his car and passport have already been seized.”

“His car and passport were seized during a failed attempt to flee to Canada,” the prosecutor interrupted, “and he left Red Bluff more than five years ago after his father, whom he stands accused of shooting, married his then-fiancée, whom he stands accused of murdering. He’s refusing to cooperate in any way…”

“Application for bail is denied,” the judge pronounced before the prosecutor could finish. “Defendant is remanded for trial.” He banged his gavel, and Alec was escorted from the room.

“Oh, no,” Robin cried. “Poor Alec.”

“Getting bail was always a long shot,” Jeff McAllister reminded her. In the background, reporters hovered, waiting for the statement McAllister had promised them earlier.

“What happens now?” Blake asked McAllister.

“We meet next week, set a trial date, get a look at their evidence. From what I can gather, the case against your brother isn’t very strong, and it’s entirely circumstantial. There’s nothing physical linking him to the crime scene, no DNA, no eyewitnesses, except for a traumatized twelve-year-old girl who isn’t even sure how many men were in the house. Your father had no shortage of enemies. I think a good case can be made for reasonable doubt.”

He repeated essentially the same account to the press, downplaying both motive and opportunity while emphasizing the prosecution’s lack of hard evidence. He said that since Alec had been denied bail, he would insist on his client’s right to a speedy trial.

“Which means what, exactly?” Robin asked Blake. “Are we talking weeks? Months?”

“My guess would be nothing happens until the fall.”