and it was consensual. He didn’t force her to go there.”
“How do you know? Were you also in the room?” Judge Yarrow sounded more clipped and impatient.
My yank came at Herzog’s dress jacket. “Sit down. We can’t beat this stacked deck.”
“According to the M.E.’s report, Ms. Sizemore’s body exhibited no signs of physical coercion.” Herzog took his seat.
“Don’t lecture me, Counselor. I’ve read the M.E.’s report.” She leaned back in her throne, intertwined her fingers, and shot her fierce gaze to the next table. “Mr. Prosecutor?”
A short, roly-poly man who was a dead ringer for Ned Beatty, he bellied up to the center podium. “Your Honor,” he spoke in a bland monotone. “The medical examiner’s report documents lethal amounts of PCP detected in the decedent’s system.”
“So it does. Do the People oppose Mr. Fishback’s bail?”
“Without question, we do.”
She trained her attention to a row behind us. “Mr. Sizemore, have you anything to contribute?”
Standing, Herzog objected. “Your Honor, Mr. Sizemore has no business before the Court, and it’s improper.”
“Objection overruled. This bereaved father deserves to give his input. Be seated, Mr. Herzog. Mr. Sizemore, proceed.”
“Good morning and I thank Your Honor.” Sizemore’s next words would inflict more pain than his palm sap had on me. “Ashleigh was a vivacious, beautiful spirit whom this boy destroyed. He did so without expressing a shred of remorse . . .”
“Perhaps Mr. Fishback comes prepared to do so now.” Judge Yarrow shifted to train her facial deformities on me. “Well …?”
Herzog hissed at my ear. “Showtime. Throw yourself on the mercy of the Court and beg like a whipped dog.”
“Screw it.”
“You don’t have to be genuine. Just act sincere and contrite. Only do it now.”
“Screw it.”
“Brendan, this is no time to go soft in the head. You hear me?”
“Screw it.”
“Mr. Fishback, my Court adheres to a tight schedule.”
Rattled and sore, I scooted my butt to the front of the hard chair bottom, straightened in the knees, and ascended to my full height. Vertigo left the courtroom spinning around me, but I looked Judge Yarrow square in the eye. I ignored Herzog’s finger jabs and spoke with conviction.
“Your Honor, Ashleigh drove us in her sports car to the motel. I freely admit we did what teenagers do there. Then we fell asleep. When I later awoke, she’d been dead for some time. So I hotfooted out and phoned the sheriff. Since then, I’ve cooperated and told him all that I know. I didn’t cut and run. I could’ve, but I didn’t.”
As Judge Yarrow zeroed in on one salient detail, she raised her hand. “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. Ms. Sizemore drove you from her house to the motel in her sports car?”
“Yes, it was her idea, Your Honor. Before that night, I’d never been near the motel.”
Judge Yarrow’s scabrous face lifted over my shoulder to skewer Sizemore. Her displeased voice rang out. “What is this I hear? The kids’ van arrives at your residence to discharge your daughter, but before you can say boo, she talks Mr. Fishback into her sports car, and they tool off to her love nest. She strikes me as a tart.”
Somebody, most likely Cobb, snickered. The roly-poly prosecutor yawned into his cufflink to fill the edgy silence.
“Your Honor, the boy is obviously a liar—”
Her hand chop cut off Sizemore. “Is he? I’ve a rap sheet sitting in front of me. Your daughter has a history with the juvenile courts. Arrested and booked on possession of pot and paraphernalia. Now I hear your party girl was also a tart. Frankly sir, I’m appalled.”
My fuzzy thinking caught on that Judge Yarrow had a hang up with promiscuous girls.
“Your Honor—”
Her grotesque features shrank into a glower. “Mr. Sizemore, I give you a platform to speak, and this is what I hear? Your round-heeled daughter entices the defendant to a tawdry
“How do you know? Were you also in the room?” Judge Yarrow sounded more clipped and impatient.
My yank came at Herzog’s dress jacket. “Sit down. We can’t beat this stacked deck.”
“According to the M.E.’s report, Ms. Sizemore’s body exhibited no signs of physical coercion.” Herzog took his seat.
“Don’t lecture me, Counselor. I’ve read the M.E.’s report.” She leaned back in her throne, intertwined her fingers, and shot her fierce gaze to the next table. “Mr. Prosecutor?”
A short, roly-poly man who was a dead ringer for Ned Beatty, he bellied up to the center podium. “Your Honor,” he spoke in a bland monotone. “The medical examiner’s report documents lethal amounts of PCP detected in the decedent’s system.”
“So it does. Do the People oppose Mr. Fishback’s bail?”
“Without question, we do.”
She trained her attention to a row behind us. “Mr. Sizemore, have you anything to contribute?”
Standing, Herzog objected. “Your Honor, Mr. Sizemore has no business before the Court, and it’s improper.”
“Objection overruled. This bereaved father deserves to give his input. Be seated, Mr. Herzog. Mr. Sizemore, proceed.”
“Good morning and I thank Your Honor.” Sizemore’s next words would inflict more pain than his palm sap had on me. “Ashleigh was a vivacious, beautiful spirit whom this boy destroyed. He did so without expressing a shred of remorse . . .”
“Perhaps Mr. Fishback comes prepared to do so now.” Judge Yarrow shifted to train her facial deformities on me. “Well …?”
Herzog hissed at my ear. “Showtime. Throw yourself on the mercy of the Court and beg like a whipped dog.”
“Screw it.”
“You don’t have to be genuine. Just act sincere and contrite. Only do it now.”
“Screw it.”
“Brendan, this is no time to go soft in the head. You hear me?”
“Screw it.”
“Mr. Fishback, my Court adheres to a tight schedule.”
Rattled and sore, I scooted my butt to the front of the hard chair bottom, straightened in the knees, and ascended to my full height. Vertigo left the courtroom spinning around me, but I looked Judge Yarrow square in the eye. I ignored Herzog’s finger jabs and spoke with conviction.
“Your Honor, Ashleigh drove us in her sports car to the motel. I freely admit we did what teenagers do there. Then we fell asleep. When I later awoke, she’d been dead for some time. So I hotfooted out and phoned the sheriff. Since then, I’ve cooperated and told him all that I know. I didn’t cut and run. I could’ve, but I didn’t.”
As Judge Yarrow zeroed in on one salient detail, she raised her hand. “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. Ms. Sizemore drove you from her house to the motel in her sports car?”
“Yes, it was her idea, Your Honor. Before that night, I’d never been near the motel.”
Judge Yarrow’s scabrous face lifted over my shoulder to skewer Sizemore. Her displeased voice rang out. “What is this I hear? The kids’ van arrives at your residence to discharge your daughter, but before you can say boo, she talks Mr. Fishback into her sports car, and they tool off to her love nest. She strikes me as a tart.”
Somebody, most likely Cobb, snickered. The roly-poly prosecutor yawned into his cufflink to fill the edgy silence.
“Your Honor, the boy is obviously a liar—”
Her hand chop cut off Sizemore. “Is he? I’ve a rap sheet sitting in front of me. Your daughter has a history with the juvenile courts. Arrested and booked on possession of pot and paraphernalia. Now I hear your party girl was also a tart. Frankly sir, I’m appalled.”
My fuzzy thinking caught on that Judge Yarrow had a hang up with promiscuous girls.
“Your Honor—”
Her grotesque features shrank into a glower. “Mr. Sizemore, I give you a platform to speak, and this is what I hear? Your round-heeled daughter entices the defendant to a tawdry
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