Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
“Objection,” Jeremy Covington’s lawyer called out, making Gabriella sit up straighter in her seat a mere four rows back in the large—and packed—courtroom.
She’d purposely chosen a bench closer to the proceedings today, working up to the time when she might actually have to face her attacker from the witness stand in the courtroom and give testimony.
The court was more modern inside than its historic brick facade would suggest. A huge flat-screen television hung on a wall opposite a white-screen smart board for a high-tech-looking projector system between the counselors’ tables.
The oak panels around the judge’s bench gave way to painted walls hung with scenes from Tennessee history.
The lawyers sat in comfortable-looking chairs at their respective tables while everyone behind them used hard wooden benches.
Gabriella clenched the edge of the seat until her fingers went numb as she took in every word, every nuance, anything to give her hope this nightmare would end with justice once and for all.
The counsel for the defense was a distinguished-looking older man—late fifties, perhaps—with salt-and-pepper hair that never moved from its sleekly groomed style.
Tanned even in late November, he tapped his pen on a yellow legal pad.
“Your Honor, I see no foundation for this evidence,” he continued. “I move for dismissal.”
Gabriella bit her lip to hold back a cry of denial. All of Heartache had been waiting to see if the digital evidence against Jeremy Covington would be admissible in court since it had been given to the prosecution by Covington’s wife when she finally realized he’d been cheating on her. Often.
Right now the district attorney was attempting to admit transcripts of online chats for evidence. The ginger-haired lawyer was younger—Gabriella guessed early forties—but lacked some of the professional polish of the defense, referring to notes frequently.
“This evidence demonstrates a pattern of behavior for the defendant,” the DA insisted, stabbing his finger repeatedly at the papers in front of him. “It also shows knowledge of the victims and preparation for his crimes.”
The defense attorney cleared his throat. “My client has informed me he does not recognize the computer as the one he used in his family home, where it was allegedly obtained.”
The hum of response in the courtroom assured Gabriella she wasn’t the only one surprised at this approach.
Kate Covington had already taken the stand to testify that the computer sat in their family room for years.
Even when faster computers became available, she’d testified her husband simply moved to working on a laptop.
They’d both had photos and old videos on the outdated desktop, so they’d let it be, thinking one day they’d have the files professionally moved to digital storage.
The back and forth whispers at the prosecution’s table suggested they hadn’t expected this tact, either.
“Order in the court.” The judge, a slight, balding man with banker’s glasses and a waxy pale skin, slammed his gavel twice, sending a jolt right through Gabriella.
God, her nerves were a tattered mess. Beside her, Clayton slipped his arm around her back, his palm resting lightly between her shoulder blades.
She appreciated the comfort at a moment when so much evidence hung in the balance. Including her long-ago online chats with Covington when she thought he was Clay.
“Counselor?” The judge looked to the DA.
“Your Honor,” the district attorney said, his complexion ruddy, perhaps from frustration or having his work questioned, “the police seized this computer from the accused’s home and the accused’s wife has testified the computer was used by the defendant.”
The judge leaned forward on his desk, his black robes pooling around his arms as he stared pointedly at the DA. “A wife who instituted divorce proceedings against the accused just last week. This court is not unfamiliar with marital acrimony, which casts a less favorable light on that testimony.”
The DA looked ready to burst from holding back a response. “But Your Honor—”
Straightening, the judge banged the gavel and turned to the defense. “The objection is sustained. This court will take a lunch recess and reconvene at one p.m.”
The uniformed bailiff stood. “All rise.”
Gabriella’s stomach fell even as she rose to her feet with the rest of those in the courtroom.
Clay’s arm slipped off her shoulder and to his side, an absence she noted instantly.
Her pulse pounded in her ears, and the world around her seemed to slip into slow motion as she processed the setback.
She saw Sam shove his way out of the gallery doors first, his phone already at his ear.
Clayton leaned close to Gabby, nodding toward a bench in the back. “I see your brother and Heather. Should I flag them down?”
“Yes.” She slid her hand into the crook of Clay’s arm, ready to follow him.
He was briefly waylaid by someone in the row behind him, however, leaving her standing behind him at the end of the row.
Gabriella didn’t realize when she’d taken this seat that it was close to a door marked Authorized Personnel Only. Not until the bailiff walked toward the door, followed by Jeremy Covington. Every nerve ending in her burned, her muscles tensed.
In an instant, it occurred to her the door must lead to wherever they held a criminal defendant. A courthouse jail cell?
Her whole body froze at the approach of the man dressed in an ill-fitting gray suit. A trim, athletically built man she only recognized from his mug shots and a vague memory from the time he’d served on the town council. Jeremy Covington, local quarry owner.
Her attacker.
Numbly, she sensed Clayton turn around; perhaps he was ready to start moving again. But her mind hardly processed Clay’s nearness as Covington stepped closer.
Closer.
The man’s face was expressionless. She had a clear view from where she stood at the end of the row, but realized Clay might not be able to see because of people lingering in the rows ahead of them.
Covington’s gray eyes stared straight ahead, focused on the back of the bailiff’s head.
Yet at the last minute the prisoner’s eyes veered straight to her.
“Nice skirt, Gabriella,” he muttered so quietly she wondered if she was the only one who heard.
Her knees almost gave out. She grabbed the bench in front of her to steady herself even though Clay still held her other hand.
Clay’s grip tightened around her fingers, tugging her near. “Gabby? What happened? Are you okay?” Clay tilted his head to look past two women now crowding the aisle between the swinging authorized personnel door and the spot where Gabriella stood.
Jeremy Covington was already gone.
She remembered the skirt reference all too well. She’d dreamed about that last conversation too many times.
Been thinking about me?
You’re all I think about.
Are you wearing a dress?
How short?
She couldn’t think about the responses she’d typed back. Or the way her attacker had mocked them later. So she focused on Clayton’s dark eyes and the tender concern she found there.
“I want to leave.” She inhaled deep breaths to calm down as her heart rate spiked toward all-out panic. She focused on exhaling slowly between clenched teeth. “Now.”
“Done.” Clay wrapped an arm around her shoulders and guided her toward the exit, offering curt apologies and brief explanations that, “My wife is ill.”
Gabriella kept her head tucked against Clay’s shoulder, not caring if anyone who saw them knew she wasn’t his wife. She was most definitely ill.
“My brother?” She remembered belatedly as they pushed through the worst of the crowd and out into the expansive lobby area that they’d been headed toward Zach and Heather. Gabby owed Zach, at least, an explanation.
Clay lowered his voice for her ears only. “We just passed a hallway where he was having a heated conversation with Sam. He didn’t even notice us go by.”
Eager to get outdoors into fresh air, she picked up her pace.
“They were counting on using a whole lot of information from that computer to build their case.” She hadn’t wanted all of the details regarding the police work involved in bringing Covington to trial, but she remembered that much.
“Zach thought once they had all the evidence, Covington’s conviction was certain. ”
“They’ll get it admitted with a different approach,” Clay assured her as he used his free arm to lever open the courthouse doors.
The weak November sunlight spilled over them, the cool air a welcome relief after the close atmosphere in the courtroom.
“An objection is just a stumbling block. The DA will have to work a little harder to build the foundation. March a few more people in there who can testify that’s the computer or maybe scrounge up photos from old house parties where the computer is in the background. ”
She thought about that while they took the long stone stairs down to the street. She trusted his take on it. As a private investigator, he’d no doubt been a part of many courtroom proceedings.
“Is that what upset you back there?” Clay asked, drawing her off to one side of the street, out of the way of foot traffic.
“You went white.” He stopped in the protective shelter of a recessed brick window with a deep stone overhang.
With the blinds pulled on the inside, no one was watching them. “You’re still really pale.”
His fingers found her cheek, tilting her jaw so she looked up at him. She was so grateful for him, and even so she resented feeling weak. Resented the way Jeremy Covington reduced her to panic all over again when she’d been psyching herself up to face him for weeks.
“Jeremy Covington spoke to me.”
“Did he threaten you?” Clay’s eyebrows swooped down in a fierce scowl. “Did the bailiff hear?” He shifted as if ready to return to the courtroom.