the DA said.
“Another misdemeanor, Your Honor.”
“Yet, there are other circumstances—”
“The only relevant circumstance,” Faircloth interrupted the DA, “is that the authorities want my client locked away while they investigate another crime for which they have insufficient evidence to charge. It’s no mystery, Your Honor. You know it. The reporters know it.” Faircloth gestured at the press bench, which was packed shoulder to shoulder. Some famous faces were there, including some from the big stations in Charlotte, Atlanta, Raleigh. Many had covered the original trial. None of them could take their eyes off the old lawyer, and Faircloth knew it. “While no one would argue with the tragedy of another young woman’s early demise, the district attorney is trying to end-run the constitutional restraints of due process. Have things changed so much in my absence, Your Honor? Are we now some kind of banana republic that the state, in all its might and glory, could even contemplate such a thing?”
The judge drummed his fingers and glanced twice at the reporters. He was an ex-prosecutor and generally leaned in that direction. The reporters changed the math, and the old attorney knew it. So did the judge. “Mr. DA?”
“Adrian Wall is a convicted killer, Your Honor. He has no family in the community. He owns no property. Any expectations for an appearance at some later court date would be based on hope alone. The state requests remand.”
“For two misdemeanors?” Crybaby half turned to face the reporters. “Your Honor, I implore you.”
The judge pursed his lips and frowned at the DA. “Do you intend to file felony charges?”
“Not at this time, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Jones?”
“My client was arrested on land that had been in his family since before the Civil War. After thirteen years of incarceration, the impulse to return there is understandable. I’d further argue that any resistance he might have offered at the time of his arrest was in response to police overzealousness. Police reports indicate that twelve officers were involved—and I’d stress that number again—twelve officers on a trespass complaint. I think that speaks clearly to the state’s intent. On the other hand, Mr. Wall’s family has been in this county since the winter of 1807. He has no plans to leave and is eager to appear before this court so we might offer a vigorous defense to frivolous charges. Given all that, Your Honor, we consider remand an absurd request and ask only that bond be reasonable.”
The lawyer finished softly, the room so silent every word carried. Elizabeth could feel tension in the space around her. It went beyond the DA’s frustration or Faircloth’s dignified air. A woman was dead, and Adrian was the most notorious convicted killer of the past fifty years. Reporters craned where they sat. Even the DA was holding his breath.
“Bond is five hundred dollars.”
The gavel came down.
The room erupted.
“Next case.”
* * *
Outside, Elizabeth found Faircloth Jones on the edge of a crowd. He leaned on his cane as if waiting for her. “It’s good to see you, Faircloth.” She took his hand, gave it a squeeze. “Unexpected but really, really good.”
“Take my arm,” he said. “Walk with me.”
Elizabeth looped her arm in his and guided him through the crowd. They took the wide, granite stairs, found the sidewalk. A half dozen people spoke a word or touched the lawyer’s arm. He smiled at each, dipping his head, murmuring a kind word back. When they were beyond the crowd, Elizabeth pressed his arm against her side. “You made a very nice entrance.”
“The law, as you may have surmised, is equal parts theater and reason. The finest scholars might struggle in court, while mediocre thinkers excel. Logic and flair, and leverage where appropriate, such are the makings of a trial attorney. Did you see His Honor’s face when I mentioned the reporters? Good Lord. It appeared as if something unpleasant had taken up sudden residence beneath his robe.”
He chuckled, and Elizabeth joined him. “It was good of you to come, Faircloth. I doubt Adrian would have fared as well with a court-appointed attorney that didn’t know or care for him.”
Faircloth waved off the compliment. “The smallest thing. One courtroom appearance among a multitude of thousands.”
“You’re not fooling me, Mr. Jones.” She pressed his arm more tightly. “I was only one row behind you.”
“Ah.” He dipped his still-lean jaw. “And you noticed the sweat stain on my collar. The slight but unfortunate tremor in my hands.”
“I saw no such things.”
“Indeed?” Humor was in the word, a twinkle so lively