Brad glared at Townsend. “I believe earlier you counseled me on not guessing what someone was thinking or their intentions. It seems to me you are taking some vast leaps into my mind and my intentions. Let me assure you, my intention was to ensure Sylvia and the paramedics were safe and the accused would harm no one else that night.”
Townsend approached the judge, arms outstretched. “Your Honor, I am not on trial.”
“Could have fooled me,” Blighe said.
Townsend shot Blighe an icy glare. “Your Honor, please advise the witness to answer my questions.”
“Counselor. Be sure you are asking a question.”
Townsend consulted his notes. “Detective, this was your first night back at work, correct?”
“Yes.”
“After two-and-a-half months on leave.”
Blighe jumped to her feet. “Objection, Your Honor.”
“To what, Ms. Blighe?” the judge asked.
“To the direction of this questioning. Detective Coulter’s leave and the reasons for that leave are not relevant in this case.”
“Your Honor,” Townsend said. “I believe the detective’s state of mind is relevant.”
The judge sat back, fingers steepled under his chin. “You may continue, Counselor, but tread carefully.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Townsend nodded to the judge and stepped in front of Brad. “Detective Coulter. Can you please explain, for the benefit of the court, the circumstances around your leave?”
The judge leaned forward on his bench. “Counselor.”
Brad glanced at the judge. “Your Honor, I will answer that question.”
“Very well, Detective.”
“On July 15, my fiancée, Maggie Gray, a paramedic, was murdered by Jeter Wolfe in our home. Our unborn child also died that night. In the confrontation, I was shot by Wolfe, and I returned fire.”
“Killing Mr. Wolfe.”
“Yes. After counseling, I returned to work. October 4 was my first night shift back at work.”
“About the counseling—”
“Stop right there, Mr. Townsend,” the judge said. “I warned you.”
Townsend held up a hand. “Just trying to establish a state of mind.”
“Find another way.”
“Were you angry the night of my client’s alleged assault?”
Brad shrugged. “No.”
“I understand the alleged victim was blond.”
“You know that,” Brad said. “The photos reveal a blond lady, Sylvia, severely beaten by your client.”
Townsend rolled his eyes. “Your Honor.”
“He answered your question. Move on.” The judge sat back.
“Your fiancée was—”
Blighe was on her feet. “Objection. Mr. Townsend has been counseled.”
“Sustained. Mr. Townsend, if you have questions regarding the assault, please ask them. Questions will be considered a breach of my directions, and you will be penalized. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Townsend continued his questioning for another thirty minutes, asking the same questions in different ways, but Brad’s answers remained the same.
The judge set a date for sentencing in two weeks, and the accused was released on bail.
After court, Brad and Jenni Blighe headed to a corner pub, the Jolly Judge, that was perfect for lunches and dinners as they worked late into the night on the sniper case. Despite the name, it was not in the courthouse but in an old sandstone building that was converted into apartments. On tap were several Scottish beers, but Brad had developed a taste for fine Scotch.
Brad ordered two Scotch and headed to a booth in the back corner. The waitress delivered the drinks as Blighe slid into the booth.
Brad hung his suit jacket on a hook at the top of the booth, loosened his tie, then sat.
Blighe grabbed her drink and held it out. “That went well.” They clinked glasses.
Brad sipped the Scotch. “We had the judge on our side.”
“That’s not happening so often nowadays.” She told Brad about the rape case.
Brad shook his head and sipped the Scotch. “How does that happen? Where is the accountability?”
“If you think it’s awful today, wait a few years. The scales of justice are already tipping toward the accused. If you think you were on trial today, just wait. Cops will have to defend every action, and any perceived mistake will cause an acquittal.”
“That’s a real cheery thought after you won a case. I’d hate to drink with you when you lose.”
“We haven’t won yet.” Blighe twirled her drink. “I’m not naïve anymore. We’ve talked about this. Jeter Wolfe changed our lives four months ago. Yours more than mine.”
“It’s not a competition,” Brad said. “Jeter Wolfe affected a lot of lives and none in a moral way. He’s gone. Good riddance.”
“I live in fear every day.” Blighe took a drink, then stared at the table. “I always carry mace, even when I jog. I’m taking self-defense courses and bought a gun. My house has more alarms and cameras than a jewelry store. If I’m lucky, I sleep for two hours at a time. My husband has custody of the kids because I’m terrified to have them in the house with me. They know I’m scared, but they don’t understand. They want their mommy.”
Brad leaned across the table. “Jenni, that’s no way to live. Wolfe is dead. He can’t hurt you.”
“But to stop his revenge plan, you had to shoot him. It shouldn’t get to that.” She took a sip of the Scotch. “The courts should protect people. Prison isn’t the answer for everyone, but when you have a record like Wolfe, or rape a teenage girl, or get your twentieth impaired charge, you should be in jail. Not out so you can strike again.”
“The system isn’t perfect, but it’s better than the public hangings of the last century.”
“Are you sure?” Blighe snorted. “I’ll bet that was a deterrent.”
“Was it?” Brad drank some Scotch. “What if you stole food so your children didn’t starve? Does that mean you deserve to hang as a punishment? Or get your hands cut off?”
“I’m talking about violent offenders.” She leaned forward and tapped the table with a finger. “The ones with a trail of destroyed lives. That shithead Burke Baldwin and Tony Bevan. I don’t see the Goddess of Justice agreeing that severe punishment in those instances is too harsh. I like the code of
