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“Out of Pensacola or Mobile?”
“Either will work.”
“I’ll be glad to do it.”
As her sister drove off, Savannah’s phone dinged with a message with the code. She got in her car and ran the window down to enjoy the breeze while she pulled up the airline website. The existing flight was out of Mobile into London for next Thursday, so it was off by a week. It wasn’t like Jess to make a mistake. Savannah was able to reschedule it for six tomorrow morning.
She hoped whoever Jess was meeting in London made it worth the change fee. Was it a man? Maybe Jess wasn’t all about business like Savannah thought.
* * *
Tuesday afternoon Hez walked into a courtroom in the Mobile federal courthouse and surveyed the scene. He could identify everyone in the room—with one exception. The familiar clerk and bailiff sat on either side of the bench, flanking the judge’s currently empty chair. Hez’s witnesses were sitting with Ed in one of the front benches of the gallery. Hernando Morales was in the first bench with a guard beside him. Hale sat at the prosecution table, one of two that faced the judge’s bench across the open space known as the well of the courtroom. He was built like an oversize mailbox—a wide head atop a bull neck and thickset body from his shoulders to his shoes.
A short, muscular man of about forty in an off-the-rack blue suit was immediately behind Hale. The guy wasn’t wearing a sign that said “FBI agent,” but he might as well have been. And then there was a broad-shouldered young man in the back row who didn’t have an obvious role. He was watching Hez, but he dropped his gaze to his phone when Hez looked his way.
Hez didn’t have time to wonder who the stranger was. The bailiff rose as Hez walked in, signaling that the judge was about to appear. Hez hurried to take his place at the defense table.
“All rise,” the bailiff intoned. “The United States District Court for the Southern District of Alabama is now in session, the Honorable Daphne Montpelier presiding.”
Metal clinked as Hernando and his guard rose from the bench behind Hez. A creak came from the prosecution table as Hale stood.
Judge Montpelier bustled in through a door behind the bench. She was a tall, rail-thin woman of eighty-two, and she’d been on the bench for almost half her life. She was still mentally sharp and had plenty of energy, though, and she had a reputation for being a stickler who insisted on exact compliance with rules and statutes. That trait usually annoyed lawyers, but Hez hoped it would be on full display today. It was his only hope of victory.
The judge lowered herself into the tall black leather chair behind the bench. “Good afternoon. Please be seated. Mr. Hardwick, please call the case.”
The clerk, seated below and to the right of the judge, nodded. “United States v. Hernando Antonio Morales. Appearances, please.”
Hale pushed himself to his feet again. “Donald Hale for the United States.”
Hez stood. “Hezekiah Webster for Mr. Morales.”
The judge looked at Hernando. “Mr. Morales, we’re here for a preliminary hearing that will answer two questions. First, is there probable cause to believe a crime was committed? Second, is there probable cause to believe you committed it?” She spoke in a quick, smooth monotone, repeating words she must have said thousands of times over the decades. She turned to Hale. “Counsel, call your first witness.”
Hale looked back into the gallery. “The government calls Special Agent Harold Jenkins.”
The man in the blue suit rose and walked down the aisle. He passed through the well of the courtroom and took the witness stand. The clerk swore him in and he settled into the witness chair, looking comfortable and a little bored.
Hale picked up a manila folder and notepad, then strode to the lectern. “Agent Jenkins, how long have you been with the FBI?”
“Ten years, the last eight in the Mobile office.”
“Please tell the court how you came to be involved in the investigation that led to the arrest of Mr. Morales.”
“For the past five years, I’ve been assigned to a multiagency drug interdiction task force. We received a tip that a delivery would be made by boat at approximately 1:00 a.m. on September third to the east end of the beach in Pelican State Park.”
Hale pulled a document out of the folder. “May I approach the witness?”
The judge nodded. “You may.”
Hale handed the document to Agent Jenkins, then returned to the lectern. “Is this the tip you mentioned?”
Jenkins glanced at the document, which Hez recognized. A heavily redacted transcript of a Spanish-language phone call with an English translation stapled to it. “Yes.”
“Did the task force in fact intercept a boat headed for that location at approximately 1:00 a.m. on September third?”
Jenkins nodded. “Yes. We intercepted Mr. Morales’s boat.”
“Other than the fact that the time and place matched the tip, was there anything that indicated Mr. Morales was smuggling drugs?”
