Chapter Twenty-Four
Quinn arrives at the Barton County Courthouse and heads to the prosecution anteroom on the ninth floor, as instructed.
“Sharp suit! Holy cow, this kid cleans up nice!” says the booming voice of Arthur Griffin III, the county prosecutor.
Truth be told, Quinn felt more comfortable in his body armor and helmet than the suit and tie. But Mom deserves it; he didn’t get to wear a suit to her funeral, he might as well wear one to the trial of her murderer.
“Nervous?” the prosecutor asks. Griffin is in his sixties with silver hair and charisma oozing from his pores.
County prosecutor is an elected position, so it’s not surprising he acts like a politician.
And politician he is: Arthur Griffin III has been undefeated in the past nine elections.
As he’s fond of telling juries, his daddy and his daddy’s daddy held the same office.
“A little nervous,” Quinn admits. He’s a lot, actually, even if he’s not the focus of the trial. The case’s true star is DNA evidence. But in their prep sessions over the last few months, Griffin told him that Quinn will put a human face to the tragedy, something that’s important in a jury trial.
“Don’t be,” Griffin says. “All you gotta do is tell the truth.”
Griffin walks over, gives Quinn’s hand a firm shake.
Tests the lapel of Quinn’s suit with a thumb and index finger.
“I’d hoped you’d wear your military uniform, but this—well, it’s quite nice.
” He nods over at his team. Quinn catches Griffin wink at the two young women, junior prosecutors, sitting at a worktable.
They blush as if there’s an inside joke.
Quinn doesn’t think it’s at his expense.
Since his return to Nebraska, he’s felt like a different person.
A tour in Somalia will do that to you. But so will an extended stay in a small town in Italy with a beauty named Alessia.
She made him feel ten feet tall, confident.
They both knew theirs was not a relationship made to last. When he said he needed to return home for his little brother and to help the prosecution in his mother’s case, she kissed him and, in her precise but heavily accented English, quoted a line from a novel she’d borrowed from him: “We could have had such a damned good time together.”
Quinn quoted the novel in reply: “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
It was pretty to think so.
“Here’s the run of show,” the prosecutor says. “I think we’ll get through the whole trial today.”
“In one day?” Quinn says, surprised. He’d imagined a drawn-out affair. The O. J. trial has been going on for months. Griffin decided against going for the death penalty for some reason. Maybe that made some difference. But one day still seems remarkably fast.
“Yep. We’re gonna put the other side out of its misery quickly. We got them dead to rights on the DNA. Their alibi witness is a damn liar. And the defense lawyer is inexperienced. In way over his head. Plus we got a hanging judge.” He jumps to his down-home drawl again. “Shootin’ fish in a barrel.”
Quinn nods.
“You’ll be our side’s last witness, probably just after the lunch break.”
“Can I watch the trial until then?”
Griffin sighs. “I’m afraid not. Can’t have you in there until you testify. It’s a rule to prevent witnesses from being influenced by the evidence. But you can stay in the courtroom after you take the stand. I’ll send one of the team to get you when it’s your time.”
“Okay.”
“But don’t wander off. They’ve stepped up security after the Oklahoma City bombing and, as you probably noticed, it takes forever to get inside the courthouse, so no going outside for air. You can stay in here or in the cafeteria, which will also avoid the reporters.”
Quinn had noticed a couple news trucks outside the courthouse, but it was hardly a media circus.
“Any questions?” Griffin asks.
“I don’t think so.”
Griffin looks sincerely into Quinn’s eyes, flipping the politician switch again. “Let’s get some justice for your mom, son.”