Slip gave me a copy and had the original marked as evidence. I
recognized the scrawl from the other letters he'd written. This one
was comparatively brief:
Dear Judge,
What does it take to get your at tension I am making good money and
have proof to show you. I will do ALL I can do to save my family.
PLEASE understand that.
'The letter is signed Melvin Jackson, is that correct?' Slip asked.
'Yes.'
'And it relates to a pending case about his eviction from public
housing.'
'It's a threat relating to his pending case, yes.'
Nelly was growing on me. I have an affinity for women who talk back.
The letter was indeed a threat, very much like the ones Jackson had
been sending for weeks.
'And is this the envelope that the letter arrived in?' Slip asked.
I restrained myself from objecting to the dangling preposition and
waited while Slip marked the envelope as evidence.
'Yes.'
'Could you please identify the date on the envelope's postmark?'
Nelly did. The date was the previous Monday, the morning after
Clarissa died.
The panic was momentary. After a few seconds, Slip's cheap trick was
apparent. I used my cross to make sure the judge saw it too.
'Hi, Nelly. Samantha Kincaid. We met earlier this week.'
'I remember.'
'You've used the mail before, right?'
'Of course.'
'And in your experience, are post offices open on Saturday nights and
Sundays?'
'No, they're not.'
'So a letter mailed on Saturday evening would be postmarked '
'On Monday.'
A lunch hour from a court hearing isn't much of a break. In an office
where we're each entirely on our own, each precious minute of recess
must be spent on the research and follow-up that supporting attorneys
would do in a large law firm. Every time I go to trial, I lose a few
pounds from the combination of adrenaline and starvation.
I stopped at the mini-mart on my way into the courthouse and grabbed a
Diet Coke, yogurt, and banana. I wolfed down the food in the elevator
and sneaked the Diet Coke into the law library. I spent half an hour
in the stacks, confirming the research I had done on Caffrey's motion
to quash. This would be a fight between Caffrey and Slip. If Prescott
asked for my opinion, I'd cite the cases I found, making it clear that
it was entirely in her discretion.
Before I left again for the Justice Center, I ran up to my office to
check messages.
The first was from Susan Kerr. 'Hi, Samantha. Susan Kern I'm sorry to
bother you again. I know you're busy, but I didn't know who else to
talk to. Can you call me if you have a chance? Thanks.' I hit the
nine button to save the message, then went to the next one. It was
from Jenna Markson, the child-support paralegal I had called last
night.
'Hi, Samantha. It's Jenna. I had a chance to run that property you
asked about when I was doing some other record searches. The owner's a
corporation called Gunderson Development, Incorporated. I checked with
the corporate registry division of the Secretary of State, and the
registered officer is a guy named Larry Gunderson.'
I scribbled his name and the name of his company on a Post-it note
while I listened to the rest of Jenna's message.
'I went ahead and ran his financials. It looks like he was a bit of a
wheeler-dealer until he went Chapter Eleven about ten years ago. My
guess is that Gunderson Development is little more than Mr. Gunderson
himself. Let me know if you need anything else. Oh, and Samantha,
don't tell anyone else I ran the financials. We only have access to
that database for child-support investigations.'
Now I understood why the attorneys all rave about Jenna. She'd
probably been running defendants for everyone in the office, telling
each of them it was an exception.
