Murder in the Courthouse Read online

  PRAISE FOR MURDER IN THE COURTHOUSE

  “Nancy Grace fans rejoice! Hailey Dean is back on the case. There’s murder and mayhem in Savannah, the lush jewel of the south, a city steeped in mystery, folklore, and romance. Hailey is all business on the bench, but after hours, she falls in love with the dreamy setting and into the arms of a handsome stranger, who woos her with more than a mimosa. Pure escape from Ms. Grace, who knows her way around the law but when it comes to love is at the mercy of the court. A fabulous read, y’all!”

  —Adriana Trigiani, New York Times bestselling author of All the Stars in the Heavens

  MURDER IN THE

  COURTHOUSE

  OTHER BOOKS IN THE HAILEY DEAN MYSTERIES SERIES

  The Eleventh Victim

  Death on the D-List

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Nancy Grace

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  BenBella Books, Inc.

  10440 N. Central Expressway, Suite 800

  Dallas, TX 75231

  www.benbellabooks.com

  Send feedback to [email protected]

  First E-Book Edition: October 2016

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon reqeust.

  e-ISBN: 978-1-942952-89-3

  Editing by John Paine

  Copyediting by Katie Buniak

  Proofreading by Brittney Martinez, Jenny Bridges, and Sarah Vostok

  Cover by Sarah Dombrowsky

  Text design by Aaron Edmiston

  Text composition by Integra Software Services Private Limited

  Dust jackets printed by Phoenix Color

  Printed by Lake Book Manufacturing

  Distributed by Perseus Distribution

  www.perseusdistribution.com

  To place orders through Perseus Distribution:

  Tel: (800) 343-4499

  Fax: (800) 351-5073

  Email: [email protected]

  Special discounts for bulk sales (minimum of 25 copies) are available. Please contact Aida Herrera at [email protected].

  Murder in the Courthouse is dedicated to my father,

  Walter Malcolm “Mac” Grace, who filled our lives with joy.

  Please read this book in Heaven, my sweet dad. You gave me

  strength to finish it.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Hailey Dean was born in my heart and mind many years ago. Bringing her to life has been quite a journey, down a very long and winding road full of ups and downs.

  Thank you to Glenn Yeffeth, Leah Wilson, Sarah Dombrowsky, Jennifer Canzoneri, Jessika Rieck, and the rest of the incredible crew at BenBella, along with John Paine, for making Murder in the Courthouse a reality.

  Thank you to my Bama friend and anchor throughout, Dee Emmercson, a.k.a. “Moon Pie.” What good is anything without a friend to share it with?

  Thank you to my dear friends Dean Sicoli, Eleanor Odom, and Mike Walker, all of whom you can spot in these pages whether named or not.

  Thank you to my partner in crime, Josh Sabarra . . . you believed.

  Thank you to my sweet twins, who love Mommy even when she’s working on her book instead of going on an adventure with them out in the swing or at the playground or under the stars.

  Thank you with all my heart to my husband David for his presence throughout these many years. He shares with me the belief that what the mind can perceive, the body can achieve.

  Thank you to my mom, who demonstrates the gold standard in perseverance.

  And last, thank you, Daddy, wherever you are at this very moment, in some beautiful, magical place just beyond the stars. Thank you for all the love. And for the strength to go on. I know you are turning these pages . . . in Heaven.

  PROLOGUE

  There was no warning, no movement inside the darkened garage. The morning was just like every other. He locked the kitchen door, balancing a to-go coffee cup. Adjusting the thick lenses of his glasses, Alton peeked back through the door’s small panes. He absolutely had to check the coffee machine. Yes, the little red light was off. He’d unplugged it before leaving, as usual. But always better safe than sorry.

  Glancing back into the kitchen was one of Alton’s rituals and extremely comforting as he headed to the courthouse and all its jarring noises, jostling bodies in and out of courtrooms, and generally untidy goings-on. He loved thinking his little kitchen was neat as a pin, smelling of coffee and sausage patties.

  Turning around, the thwack to the back of Alton’s head and the slice right to his torso really didn’t register as pain . . . at first, anyway. But almost immediately, a searing shot of pain jolted Alton’s body like an electric current. Doubling over, he spotted deep red blood spurting out onto the concrete floor.

  The rhythmic bursts of blood reminded him of water gushing out of the corner fire hydrant last summer when a neighbor crashed into it while texting. A fixed object! It caused a huge mess. Alton stayed up late into the night, discreetly watching clusters of neighbors, police, and fire department personnel through the curtains of his front window.

  Crashing forward face-first, his forehead slammed into the back right-side tire of his Toyota Corolla. He caught a whiff of the tire’s black rubber.

  It was “Magnetic Metal Gray,” a color that the ad proclaimed was “Stealthy and stunning. Drive Magnetic Metal Grey and get noticed!” Alton kept the car in absolute mint condition. But he was never noticed.

  He loved taking the car to the Super Wash over on Abercorn. It made the car smell like a piña colada. “If you like piña coladas, and getting caught in the rain, if you’re not into yoga, if you have half a brain . . .”

  Sausage, coffee, the manufactured smell of piña colada all crashed together in his head now pressed against the cool cement.

  Alton spotted his garage door hanging over him. Why was it up? He certainly had not left it gaping open overnight, begging intruders to come in and steal gardening tools.

  The figure that just dragged him by his feet bent down, but Alton could only make out a silhouette. Holding a knife. A ripping sensation tearing across his middle, above his hips, was excruciating
, cutting through the haze.

  A deep dark pool of blood spread out beneath him like a crimson throw rug. Somehow, the thought made him feel warmer and cozier and that was good, because suddenly, Alton felt very cold.

  Cold to the bone.

  His thoughts were getting more jumbled . . . but right now, all he could think of was Mother. Diabetes took her away from him. But he still loved her dearly and missed her practically every minute of every day.

  Alton judged all other women by her gold standard. She confided she loved him, Alton, the best . . . even more than she had his father. They snuggled together, the two of them, more nights than Alton could remember . . . huddling against the smell of booze and the crazy rantings of his dad. When his dad beat Alton one time too many, it was Mother who came between them, taking the blows herself.

  But oddly, here she was, standing behind the barbecue grill in the corner.

  There was that sound again. Alton looked up in time to see the garage door lowering. His left cheek flush against the cool concrete floor, he remembered the ad exactly . . . “When seconds count, count on the Titanium-10! The garage door opener that never disappoints!”

  “Mom, help me . . .” Now, she was just a few feet away, wearing her favorite short-sleeved, yellow dress, belted at the waist. Why was she wringing her hands? What was wrong? Alton hated when Mother cried.

  Mother was speaking soothingly to him and he wanted to get closer, to hear what she was saying.

  Two strange feet appeared at Alton’s eye level and at that precise moment, one foot pulled back and delivered a massive kick to Alton’s face. Blood gushed from his head and nose into his eyes.

  He could no longer see, but he could hear. He recognized the mechanical sound of the garage lowering. Within seconds, the heavy metal door was grinding into him, severing him exactly in half.

  Alton tried to reach out to Mother. She was no longer wringing her hands feverishly together. She was smiling . . . holding her arms open and then . . . Alton felt nothing more.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Come on, Hailey. It’s just three weeks. You’re already gonna be there to take the stand as an expert witness . . . right? So why does one more day or so matter? And you don’t really have to prepare, do you Hailey? I mean . . . I never prepare. I mean . . . what is it this time . . . battered woman syndrome? Fiber evidence? No . . . I remember . . . you do a criminal profile and wow the jury . . . right? You know it like the back of your hand. You’ve tried a hundred of those cases. You don’t even have to prepare . . . am I right? You’ll have plenty of time to do the Harry Todd Show!”

  Veteran TV producer Tony Russo was hell-bent on nabbing ratings by sucking the Love story dry, mining every salacious detail he could. It was all for the glory of the Harry Todd Show. It was Russo who first “discovered” Hailey, which apparently gave him license to badger her to appear on the show.

  “I do have to prepare because every set of facts is different. You know that! I’m glad you’re not on the jury. You stay put right where you are, cooking up stories to get numbers for the network.”

  “Whatever. Like I was saying, why not kill two birds with one stone? This trial is what you’re all about! Don’t you see that? A new mother, Hailey, a new mother and her baby. How can you turn your back on a little baby? And get this . . . they’re both dead! Dead, Hailey! Dead, dead, dead!”

  “Will you please stop talking about them like that? I don’t like it.”

  “Murdered. And the guy’s gonna get away with it. Is that what you want?”

  It wasn’t what Hailey Dean wanted at all.

  His words kept ringing in her ears as her flight touched down at SAV, the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport. It had taken a lot to get her out of Manhattan, to leave her tiny apartment in the sky, and crowbar her away from her psych patients.

  As a friend of the prosecutor, Hailey agreed to fly down and testify, or at least consult for the state, regarding Julie Love Adams’s relationship with her husband and what may have affected Julie’s decision to stay in the marriage. She would also profile the defendant, Todd Adams; specifically, his behavior just before and immediately after the disappearance of Julie. It was all part of the psychology that would prove Julie’s murder.

  Criminal profiling, as much of an art as a science, draws on psychology and statistics combined with the profiler’s experience, knowledge, and, frankly, good old intuition. Profiling had been around since London’s Jack the Ripper.

  “Behavioral evidence” was one of Hailey’s specialties and had been a marquee element in nearly all of her homicide prosecutions. She could pick apart a killer’s behavior, reactions, and responses, or lack thereof, like no other. Behavioral evidence analysis skyrocketed Hailey to become one of the most successful, and hated, prosecutors in the South . . . possibly the country.

  Profiling often dealt with what was known but not spoken. In polite Savannah, the wealthy elite hobnob at the oldest country club in town, and “check in” regularly at offices set up by great-grandparents. The Julie Love Adams case had been one of their most salacious topics since Julie first went missing. But there was never mention nor, of course, understanding of the mind of a killer. No juicy conversations addressed warning signals before or clues left behind. It was all just gossip to get them through another bridge game, garden club, or round of golf.

  But behavior like affairs, money problems, alcohol, gambling, domestic abuse . . . none of that would ever be discussed by clusters of ladies at the Savannah Country Club in the quiet carpeted areas off their powder rooms. Pink-faced matrons “glistening” delicately in their morning spin classes would remain silent on the issue, and forget about it coming up in the men’s locker room. No way.

  The Adamses were third-generation members of “the Club.” Todd’s father and his grandfather before him had both sat on the board. Hardly a weekend passed without the parents meeting friends for cocktails and dinner there or the whole clan showing up in their Sunday best to man their usual table in the center of the club’s casual dining area near a huge stone fireplace for the predictable fare at Sunday brunch.

  For a few weeks after Julie went missing, the Adams continued their regular club visits, but after a while, it was painfully obvious the place was buzzing with gossip about Todd and Julie, so Sunday brunches came to a halt. It was Burger King before 10:30 AM now for the Adamses, a small coffee and folded eggs.

  And how they resented it.

  Julie Love Adams was murdered, her body weighted down and dumped in deep, swirling, muddy waters. She managed to wash up ashore on Tybee Island along with a chunk of cement block. Her baby ultimately detached from her uterus in the salty ocean water and followed her mommy in the next tide.

  The two were buried together in one grave, with Julie Love holding her baby’s remains in her arms inside the coffin.

  Of course, the casket was closed because there was nothing but bones, hair, and soft tissue left of Julie. No one within Savannah’s upper crust discussed it openly.

  But they would now.

  It would be plastered across the airwaves.

  Russo tried his best to convince Hailey that the “liberal media machine” would drown out the voices of the two victims with TV talking heads chanting “innocent till proven guilty” over and over. They’d be whining about the so-called power of the state and making the same old claims that police trumped up murder charges and planted evidence. Maybe pundits would even take potshots at the pregnant victim. Nothing was sacred when TV ratings were at stake . . . Hailey had learned that the hard way.

  What if one juror listened?

  But Hailey knew the truth. Julie and her unborn baby girl were brutally murdered. Extremely faint markings on what was left of neck tissue arguably suggested ligature strangulation. But it was only that . . . arguable.

  Cause of death was officially ruled “undetermined” by the Chatham Medical Examiner because by the time her body washed ashore off Savannah’s South Channel, Juli
e Love was mostly just a skeleton.

  But as fate would have it, a portion of the thick, protective layer of her uterus remained intact long enough to largely protect her unborn baby. The tiny fetus that would have been baby Lily washed up on the same sandy shore with the very next Atlantic tide, looking almost exactly like a bright and shiny, plastic and naked, store-bought baby doll.

  The sight of little Lily brought homicide investigators to tears, and the photos taken that day would likely have the same impact on a jury. Not only that, there was plastic twine tangled around Julie’s ankles, and the cement block that washed ashore was the same type block found in Todd Adams’s garage.

  Not entirely damning, in light of the fact it was also the same type of cement block found at every Lowe’s or Home Depot you cared to stop at, four of them in metro-Savannah alone. The twine was explained away as having tangled onto Julie’s dead body after being set free from some unwitting fisherman’s boat.

  Hailey heard about the story when the pregnant twenty-eight-year-old first went missing. Julie was home alone decorating the Christmas tree when she reportedly took her little King Charles Spaniel for a walk to a local park. Then, the nine months pregnant mom just “disappeared.”

  Her husband said he’d gone fishing off the tip of Tybee Island and was away all day. Months and months of investigation ensued and, predictably, a string of Todd Adams’s affairs came to light. But the cops didn’t find it on their own.

  The tabloids beat the cops to the punch by digging up the truth about Todd Adams and his multiple sleazy affairs. Mike Walker with Snoop magazine and the even more ubiquitous Snoop.com, racked up two million clicks in the first thirty-six hours after posting. Walker actually ended up doing a lot of the police’s legwork for them.

  Walker’s salacious headlines instantly translated into millions of dollars of sales. Gorgeous shots of Julie as a high school cheerleader appeared out of nowhere, wedding photos, photos of her in the baby’s soon-to-be nursery, of Julie at Christmas parties and at home in front of the couple’s Christmas tree, her tummy announcing the imminent birth of baby Lily.