Her lips trembled. Despite his inclinations, Joe’s heart went out to her.
Schalk continued, “The people ask that the defendant”—she looked down at her pad—“Missy Wilson Cunningham Vankueren Longbrake Alden—be tried for these charges and punished to the full extent of the law.”
There were several gasps from spectators, as well as a whistle of satisfaction. Joe doubted most of the spectators in the courtroom were fully aware of Missy’s track record, and had certainly never heard the names of all of her ex-husbands strung together like that. It was a bit of theater that appeared to have worked. Sheriff McLanahan turned in his seat and glowed, basking in the reaction and by doing so taking credit for it. Marybeth’s grip on Joe’s arm had become vise-like, and he could no longer feel the fingers on his left hand.
“First things first, Miss Schalk,” Hewitt said, showing a cool edge of annoyance. “You seem to be getting ahead of yourself.”
He raised his eyebrows and took in Missy and Marcus Hand. Joe noticed a softening in the judge’s features when he beheld Missy, and it surprised Joe that Missy’s appearance and demeanor had created the desired effect even on the judge.
“Mrs. Alden,” he asked softly, “how do you plead to the charges?”
It hung out there for a moment while neither Missy nor Hand responded. Then, as if so filled with disgust that the mere effort of standing seemed to demean him, the attorney rose and slowly swung his shaggy buffalo head at Dulcie Schalk. Joe could see him in profile, and it appeared the skin of his face had been drawn back in pure white rage.
“Mrs. Alden?” Hewitt prompted. “What say you?”
Missy looked up at Hand in expectation. Hand continued to glare at Schalk. Schalk responded by looking away, but Joe could tell she was a little taken aback. He thought,
Finally, after a full minute of tense silence, and as Hewitt craned forward and his eyes narrowed in annoyance, Hand’s voice rumbled out low and contemptuous. “We reject this outrageous frame-up and plead not guilty to each and every charge the county attorney has filed and every charge against my client she and Sheriff McLanahan may dream about filing in the future.”
Hewitt blinked, then regained his footing. “Mr. Hand, that will be the last of your stage performances for the remainder of this trial.”
Hand said defensively, “Your Honor—”
“Can it,” Hewitt said. “Save it for the jury. Mrs. Alden, do you concur with your attorney’s statement?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Missy said, in a little-girl voice Joe had heard her use addressing his young daughters. “I’m not guilty of anything. I loved Earl.”
Hewitt waved the last sentence away and struck his gavel. He narrowed and focused on Dulcie Schalk. “Miss Schalk, the county seems to have its ducks in a row and you appear to be chomping at the bit to proceed. Is there any good reason not to move along to scheduling at this point?”
“Your Honor?” Schalk said, with a catch in her voice.
“You heard me,” the judge said. “And I’ve heard enough from you. You seem to think you’ve got evidence and witnesses lined up. I see no reason to drag this out, do you?”
“No, Your Honor . . .”
“Pardon the court,” Hand said, looking around the room as if he couldn’t believe what was happening, “but once again Miss Schalk and the county have made damning allegations against my client based upon a mystery man they’ve not produced. While I’ve no doubt Miss Schalk is the most honorable county prosecutor in the land, I find it hard to believe that we will attempt an accelerated schedule when the star witness has yet to show his face and take the oath and attempt to condemn my client to a prison cell in Lusk or a lethal injection with a needle.”
Schalk rolled her eyes when he said “needle.”
“Miss Schalk?” Hewitt said. “Mr. Hand has a point.”
“He’ll be here, the witness,” she said, faltering for a moment. “He’ll be here to testify. And for the record, we haven’t announced if we’ll seek the death penalty.”
“So where is he now?” Hewitt asked.
“Attending to personal matters,” she said. “We expect him back within days.”
“Personal matters?” Hand said, shooting a glance at Joe, then turning to Hewitt. “This is the first we’ve heard of this. If one were suspicious or a cynic, one might come to the conclusion that the prosecution is hiding the witness away until they can spring him on the court without notice.”
Schalk’s face flushed red. “I can assure you that’s not the case,” she said. “We’re ready to proceed.”
Hewitt nodded and thumped the heel of his hand on his desk for emphasis. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s what I wanted to hear. The defendant is hereby remanded for trial to begin on September twelfth, two weeks from today. Jury selection will begin that Monday morning.”
Marcus Hand quickly folded his arms across his chest as if to prevent his hands from reaching out and throttling Judge Hewitt. He said, “Two weeks, Your Honor? Is this a major murder trial or are we scheduling a track meet?”
Hewitt let that echo through the courtroom—there were a couple of sniggers—then turned his full attention back to Hand.
“No, Mr. Marcus Hand, famed criminal defense attorney and bestselling author, this is not a track meet and this is not Teton County or Denver or Hollywood or Georgetown. This is Twelve Sleep County, and this is my courtroom.”
Hand took a deep breath and let his arms drop, fully cognizant of the fact he’d angered the judge. He shuffled his feet, recalcitrant, and looked down at the floor.
