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“Stefan came to believe that there is a large and complex criminal organization operating in Starksville,” I said.
“If there is, I haven’t heard a thing about it,” Bell said.
“They run drugs,” I said. “Maybe more.”
“Maybe more?” Bell said. “Sounds like maybe more bullshit to me. Sounds like a fantasy designed to muddle the facts, which, as I understand them, are conclusive beyond a reasonable doubt. Your cousin murdered that poor boy, and he’s gonna pay for it. I had my way? Someone would rope him up and drag his ass through the streets on the way to the death chamber.”
“If you were running a criminal enterprise, I imagine you would,” I said.
Bell flicked the coffee ground away, leveled his green eyes at me, and said, “If I were you, Detective Cross, I would not be casting aspersions that are unfounded. It looks bad. It looks like you are desperate. If I were you, I’d face the facts about your cousin, pack your bags, and leave the sonofabitch to his fate.”
“That’s not happening,” I said, standing. “Sorry to have taken your time.”
“Anything for the son of an old friend,” Bell said. “But you tell your niece there that if she tries to bring my name up in this trial in any way, I will surely sue her ass from here to Raleigh and back.”
Chapter
42
I remembered Bell’s words as Judge Varney gaveled the court session to a close at five thirty that Monday after four hours of testimony that made my cousin sound like a monster.
Detective Guy Pedelini had gone on the stand first. He’d testified about discovering the body and identified evidence that the district attorney wanted admitted. Chief among them was the semen sample collected off Rashawn Turnbull’s body. It matched Stefan’s DNA. The prosecution also introduced blood matching Rashawn’s that was found on the pruning saw discovered in my cousin’s basement.
Naomi did her best to get the sheriff’s detective to say these things could have been planted, but he was skeptical in the extreme, and the jury took note.
Even more damaging to Stefan’s case was the testimony given by Sharon Lawrence, a teenager I recognized as one of the Starksville girls Jannie had trained with the prior Saturday. On the stand, she was pretty, articulate, and devastating.
Strong began her examination of Sharon Lawrence by getting her to admit that she was ashamed to be there but determined to tell the truth “for Rashawn’s sake.”
The jury reacted sympathetically. I reacted sympathetically.
Sharon Lawrence had been in one of Stefan’s twelfth-grade gym classes. She said there was something between herself and my cousin right from the start.
“Coach Tate was always looking at me,” she said.
“Did you like that?” Strong asked.
Lawrence looked in her lap and nodded.
“Coach Tate make advances toward you?”
The girl nodded again, flushing and kneading her hands. “I knew it was wrong, but he was…I don’t know.”
“Smart? Good-looking?”
“Yes,” she said. “And he seemed to care about everyone.”
Stefan glared at a legal pad during this entire exchange, scribbling with a pen and shaking his head.
“He seemed to care about everyone,” Strong repeated.
“Yes.”
“But especially you?”
Lawrence said, “I guess so. Yes.”
“What happened?”
