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“Thank you, your honor,” she says, as though she could care less what he thinks of her.
Seated at one of two matching tables is Ethan Striker with a gentleman I assume is the prosecutor. From afar, I see no signs of the assault on Ethan’s face, not even a black eye.
As soon as Alex and I have sat down at the other table, she’s on her feet again. “Your honor, may I approach the bench along with opposing counsel? We need to address a recent development in this case. Despite my best efforts, I've been unable to reach the prosecutor over the weekend."
The judge looks over at the prosecutor. “Is this true, Mr. McGee?”
McGee, a heavyset man with a helmet of bushy brown hair, stands to address the judge. “I was out of town, your honor. I got back late last night.”
The judge’s brow raises above his reading glasses. “Did you not have cell service on your weekend getaway?”
“Yes, sir. I had cell service. I assumed the matter could wait.”
The judge gestures at the empty courtroom. “You may speak freely, Miss Stone. As you can see, there’s no one here but us.”
“If you say so. My client, Will Darby, was simply defending himself when he struck Ethan Striker on Saturday morning.” Alex leaves our table and walks over to the prosecutor, handing him a sheath of papers. “We’re pressing charges against Ethan Striker for harassment and trespassing.”
The prosecutor snatches the papers from her and thumbs through them. “Based on what evidence?”
“Surveillance video from Mr. Darby’s home.” She flashes him her cell phone. “I have a copy if you care to see. Striker ambushed Mr. Darby’s sister upon her arrival home early Saturday morning. He was out of line in the things he said to her. In fact, I’d go as far as to say he was verbally abusive towards her.”
McGee’s hand shoots out. “Let me see.”
Alex accesses the video and hands him the phone. The prosecutor’s face goes pale as he watches the video. From where I’m sitting, I can hear Striker insinuating Ashton is hiding something by sneaking into the house at the crack of dawn. I wouldn’t necessarily call it verbal abuse. But what Striker said to Ashton was definitely inappropriate.
The prosecutor gives Alex back her phone, and she returns to our table.
McGee has a brief hushed conversation with Striker before announcing, “Given the circumstances, I believe we can settle this matter out of court. We’re willing to drop the charges if the defense is as well.”
Alex gives a curt nod. “Agreed.”
The prosecutor’s face beams red as he flees the courtroom with Striker on his heels.
Alex turns to me. “One down. One to go. I realize the timing is inconvenient, but I have a couple of hours before I need to head back to Columbia. While I’m here, we should discuss the investigation into your wife’s case. I’m afraid an indictment for her murder is imminent.”
My stomach knots, and I’m afraid I might puke. I have a million questions for Alex, but this is not the time to ask them.
We leave the courtroom together and part ways in the hall. “The officers will transport you back to the police station and process your release,” Alex says. “I’ll wait for you in front of the station and drive you home. Your sister was instrumental in getting me this video. I look forward to meeting her.”
I remain silent on the drive back to the police station and while they process my release. My anger simmers just beneath the surface. It won’t take much for me to erupt. How could this be happening when I did not kill my wife?
More reporters are gathered outside the station, and I’m relieved when I spot Alex working her way through the crowd towards me.
“Stick close to me,” she whispers. “If we get separated, I’m in the silver Volvo parked on the curb.”
Taking me by the arm, she guides me towards her car. The reporters call out questions about both the assault and murder cases to which she responds repeatedly, “No comment.”
We’re emerging from the throng when a dark-headed man with an evil glint in his black eyes steps out in front of us. “Will Darby? I’m Detective Max Rourke, and you’re under arrest for the murder of your wife, Tracy Darby.”
Before I can react, I’m in handcuffs again and being led back inside the station. I keep my eyes glued to the ground as reporters flash their phones and cameras at me. My timely arrest provides the detective the perfect opportunity to gain exposure with the press.
For the second time in forty-eight hours, I’m fingerprinted and photographed. But instead of taking me back to my cell, I’m shown to a small, windowless interview room. I wait alone for what seems like hours, but according to the clock, only thirty minutes pass before Alex appears.
She paces angrily around the room. “Of all the dirty-handed stunts, this one takes the cake. And I’ve seen a lot in my day. How dare they arrest you in front of all those reporters! I encounter a lot of jerks in my line of work, and I don’t usually let them get the best of me. They are messing with the wrong criminal attorney.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, I can’t help but chuckle. I can see how she got the nickname Stone Cold Alex.
Alex rants on, “Their case is circumstantial. The evidence against you is weak. With friends like Julia Becker, you don’t need enemies.”
