Chapter 2

Bob sipped from the paper cup the machine had dispensed, and then filled with what the vendor claimed was coffee. It tasted a lot like some of the stuff he’d been served in Army mess halls. As far as Bob was concerned, if you wanted the best coffee, you didn’t go to Starbucks, or any other commercial vendor. The best coffee could be found in USOs all over the world. It didn’t matter if it was St. Louis, Missouri, or London, England, or Rhein-Main airbase in Germany. USO volunteers made the best coffee in the world.

He’d had to take a break because listening to the agonizing drivel as the lawyers danced and sparred in the courtroom was enough to make a sane man convinced the entire world was crazy. The latest thing had been going on all morning. It concerned the sworn statement of somebody named Clayton Kolde, which somehow had to do with the probable cause for arresting the man on trial. The defense wanted the statement suppressed, meaning thrown out, and they spent the entire morning talking about why. There had been all manner of arguments, but the one that frosted Bob’s cake was when the defense attorney accused Mr. Kolde of being a heroin addict, suggesting that heroin addicts are incapable of telling the truth in a statement, sworn or not.

Lacey had responded that there was not a single shred of evidence that Mr. Kolde knew how to spell heroin, much less that he used the stuff.

The stalwart defender then opined that he didn’t have to know how to spell it, and that “everyone” knew that heroin was being smuggled into the United States all the time, and that Mr. Kolde couldn’t help but run into it in his official duties as a customs officer.

It was then that Bob left the courtroom to get his cup of coffee.

As it turned out, court had been recessed for lunch by the time he got back. Lacey was still at her table, loading papers into her briefcase. He walked down the aisle, passing a few late leavers, and met her at the bar.

“What do you feel like today?” asked Bob, meaning to eat for lunch.

“Loan me your gun,” she said, her voice dreary. “What I really want right now is to blow my brains out.”

“Now, now,” he said, reaching to touch her elbow. “You’re the good guy. Let’s go find your white charger and go for a ride. You can let your hair down and the wind will make it stream behind you. You’ll feel better. I promise.”

“I wouldn’t even know how to get up on a horse,” she said, “much less stay there.”

“Well, then, how about a taco? That’s almost as good.” He smiled.

She looked at him from the corner of her eyes.

“When you were off doing your special forces missions, you did this to people you captured, didn’t you? You tortured them like this to get information. Go on, you can admit it to me. I’m your lawyer now. Everything you tell me is covered by lawyer client confidentiality.”

He chuckled.

“Let’s leave what I did to get information in the deep recesses of things we’ll talk about some day when you think you’ve done something wrong, and need to be convinced that what you did wasn’t bad at all.”

She looked at him again, but he had distracted her from what she’d just gone through all morning, and her shoulders straightened.

“Come to think about it, maybe I don’t want to know,” she said. “I am hungry, though, and tacos sound as good as anything else.”

When they got back, he walked her into the courtroom and down to the bar. He was not permitted inside the swinging gates, because he was not considered to be an official member of the prosecution team. But everyone who worked for the court knew who he was, and what his job was. Some, such as the court reporter, thought Lacey was being ridiculous, hiring a bodyguard. Don Fillbert, the bailiff, felt the opposite. He knew how violent people could be, especially towards the person who was trying to put them in prison for the rest of their natural lives. Judge Edward Gardner paid no attention to the prosecutor’s bodyguard, except to warn him not to bring a gun into the courtroom. There were lockers at the entrance of the courthouse, where security screening took place, and that’s where, among others, Bob’s gun was to be stored while he was in the building.

He had just resumed his seat in the back row of the gallery when a young woman wearing a black skirt and white blouse entered the courtroom from a door that led to what Bob thought was the jury room. No jury had yet been empanelled, which was why he looked at the woman. She was carrying a tray upon which sat two clear glass pitchers of water and four glasses. She stopped at Lacey’s table and dropped off a pitcher and two glasses, even though Lacey was alone. She then walked to the defense table and did the same thing, even though there were four people seated at that table. Then she left, using the same door.

It was something so ordinary that he didn’t think much about it, at first. He even heard Lacey say, “Thank you,” to the young woman, who nodded and smiled.

It wasn’t until he saw Lacey pour herself a glass of water that he reflected on the fact that, as far as he could remember, nobody had ever delivered water to the attorneys before this. Lacey had brought bottled water to court in the past, but not every day. He couldn’t remember what the defense team had done about thirst.

He thought hard. Maybe he’d just never noticed this service before. It took him twenty seconds to come to the firm conclusion that this was something brand new. And brand new bothered him.

He’d just stood to go speak to Lacey about it when the bailiff came through the judge’s door and went through his “All rise” speech. Bob saw Lacey stand, at which point she put the glass she’d just been about to sip from down on the table. When everyone else sat, Bob hurried down the aisle to the bar.

“Sit down,” intoned Judge Gardner, staring straight at Bob.

“My apologies, Your Honor,” said Bob. “I need to give Miss Cragg some information.”

“Court is in session,” pointed out Judge Gardner. “You are not a member of the defense team.”

“It concerns her safety, Your Honor,” said Bob.

“The prosecutor is in no danger in my courtroom,” said the judge. “Now, if you will be so kind as to sit down, we’ll get on with things. Which,” he paused and looked at both attorneys, ignoring Bob completely, “have been taking entirely too long.” He looked at the defense table. “I’m ready to rule on your motion to suppress. It is denied. Mr. Kolde’s statement was lawfully obtained and established probable cause for your client’s arrest. Now, I want to move on. And I want you to understand that when I mean move on, I mean that I do not want to have to deal with any more frivolous motions designed only to extend the process. Is that clear, Mr. Summers?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said the defense attorney, who didn’t sound offended at all that the judge had just called him frivolous.

The judge’s eyes came back to Bob, who was still standing there, trying to decide what to do. If he was wrong about the water, then he might end up being barred from the rest of the trial. This judge was a crusty old geezer, who reminded Bob of more than one command sergeant major he’d known in his Army career. And if the water was spiked with something, it would become evident pretty quickly. 911 was fairly fast these days. Still, if there was something in the water and it was nasty, then even medical speed might not be able to save her.

“Don’t drink the water,” he said, hastily to Lacey, and then turned and went back to his seat.

Whether she didn’t hear him, didn’t understand, or simply forgot as she began sparring with the defense again, Bob saw her pick up the glass and take a sip. He winced, and waited. Nothing happened quickly enough for it to have been a nerve agent, or fast-acting poison, so he relaxed a little.

At three-thirty that afternoon, however, her speech became slurred and, while reaching for the glass of water she’d sipped from a total of three times, her hand knocked it off the table and it crashed to the wooden floor.

Bob was up and out of his chair, cursing himself for not having pushed things earlier. He ran down the aisle as people craned their necks, looking at the prosecutor.

“She’s been poisoned!” snapped Bob. “Call 911.”

The reaction of people within the courtroom was tepid, to be generous. The judge started barking commands for the courtroom to come to order. Bob could see Lacey was already in distress. Both sides of her face seemed to be drooping, and her eyelids were half closed. As he reached her, vomit burst from her mouth as if powered by compressed air.

Rather than wait for paramedics to make it through security and come find the patient, he simply bent over and pulled her across his shoulder. As he did so she vomited again. He could feel it coat his back.

The courtroom was in chaos, now, with people shouting as he ran through the bar and up the aisle.

“Call 911!” he roared, and then pulled the courtroom doors open. He ran down the hallway as Lacey moaned piteously, slung over his shoulder. He could feel her stomach trying to expel more of what was bothering it, but there was little left in that organ.

They were waiting for him at security with drawn weapons, demanding he stop. He laid Lacey down and showed his hands, explaining that she’d been poisoned and that if nobody had called 911 yet, that needed to be done immediately. Luckily, one of guards looked at Lacey and saw immediately that she was in real trouble. He took charge, telling Bob to stay where he was, and then orchestrated the response. Paramedics arrived within five minutes and went to work on Lacey, who was having trouble breathing by that point.

Police arrived within a minute of the paramedics and Bob was turned over to them. He identified himself as Lacey’s bodyguard as she was being taken out to the ambulance. The paramedics exhibited a sense of extreme urgency. Lacey had been intubated and was receiving help to breathe. It wasn’t until Bob’s log-in to the courthouse and the receipt he had been given for his gun were produced that things began to calm down. By then Don Fillbert, Judge Gardner’s bailiff, had arrived and further confirmed that Bob was known to be the prosecutor’s bodyguard.

“The water,” snapped Bob. “The pitchers of water that were delivered after lunch. That’s what I think the delivery method was. You need to get back up there and secure that water. It’s evidence.”

To his credit, Fillbert turned to return to the courtroom immediately. A police officer went with him.

The patrol supervisor arrived. His name tag said “Hoskins” on it and he had sergeant stripes on his sleeves. He was briefed by one of the responding patrolmen and came to talk to Bob.

“So you’re the bodyguard,” he said.

“Yes. I think she was poisoned. I need to get to the hospital. There may be another attempt on her life there.”

“If she was really poisoned, like you say, then she’ll have plenty of protection,” said Hoskins.

“That’s great,” said Bob. “But that will take time to get in place, and she hired me to protect her.”

“Doesn’t look like you did a very good job,” said Hoskins.

“I tried to warn her,” said Bob. “The water was delivered by a young woman. Five-eight, black hair in a ponytail, pale complexion. Dressed in a black skirt and white blouse. Water had never been delivered to the courtroom before. The judge wouldn’t let me talk to Lacey. You can look for the suspect. I need to get to the hospital.”

“I don’t think you’re going anywhere,” said the patrol supervisor. “I think one of our detectives is going to want to talk to you.”

“Great. Let’s talk. But in the meantime somebody needs to talk to the judge and find out about that woman who brought in the water. And you need to secure the remaining water as evidence.”

“It could have been something she ate,” suggested Hoskins.

“She and I ate the exact same thing, both this morning and at lunch,” said Bob. “Come on. Don’t be a dick. I’m ex-military, special forces, and I’ve seen this kind of thing before. If they can’t figure out what was given to her, she could die. In fact, the hospital is going to need a sample of that water. We can take it together.”

The guy looked like he wanted to argue, but just then Fillbert and the cop who had gone with him returned. Each had a pitcher of water. Close behind them was Ronald Summers and his entire defense team, consisting of a young woman and two men. They were clamoring for immediate treatment.

The patrol supervisor began to see the potential for unhappiness to spread up his chain of command, and decided to move things out of the courthouse, where too many curious onlookers were assembled, watching events with interest. Since no one else was exhibiting any symptoms, he directed them to take themselves to the hospital to be checked out. The two pitchers of water were transferred to the back seat of his patrol car, where they were held by two cops chosen, apparently at random, from the group of officers who were “securing” the scene. He fired off instructions to have Fillbert take two more officers back to the courtroom to secure it and do preliminary interviews. He also called in to his desk sergeant and updated him on the situation, requesting that detectives be dispatched. When he was finished with all that, he looked at Bob.

“This had better be the real deal. Because if this is a hoax I’m going to throw you in jail myself.”

“When they took her out they had intubated her,” said Bob.

Dan Hoskins had been around long enough to know what that meant.

“As soon as the detectives get here and take over the scene, you and I will go find out how she’s doing,” he offered.

“Okay,” said Bob. “I appreciate that.”

“While we’re waiting, let’s see this permit you have to carry concealed,” said the man.

Bob produced it and after a close examination, it was returned to him.

“You said special forces?”

“Yes, and Delta Force.”

“I was in first of the sixth Marines in Operation Enduring Freedom,” said Hoskins.

“Semper Fi,” said Bob. “Where’s that detective?”

“I’ll make a couple of calls. Don’t go anyplace.”

“Ooh rah,” said Bob. “Can I get my gun?”

“I can’t really stop you,” said Hoskins.

“Check on Lacey while you’re making calls,” said Bob.

“I was going to,” said Hoskins.

Sergeant Danny Hoskins’s attitude toward what he’d formerly classified as “The prosecutor’s dickhead bodyguard” had changed drastically after he made those calls. First, he was informed what case she was prosecuting, and just who might have wanted to poison her. Next he got an update on her condition, which was grave in the extreme. He was encouraged to get the suspect water to the hospital running code all the way.