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Tolya nodded at the compliment. “Vince called me while you were still b
eing handcuffed and gave me the salient points. He knows what info I need and didn’t waste time bleating about innocence or guilt. Doesn’t matter at this stage of the game anyway.” He flipped to the second page of his pad. “That said, I think I have a good shot at getting your bond lowered. I figured you’d appreciate that since the bond for principal to murder usually runs somewhere around a quarter mil.”
I blanched. I’d known the bond would be high, but hearing an actual figure made it horribly real. My house and property were probably worth that much, but the idea of putting it up as security—and risk losing it—left me queasy. If I used a bail bondsman I’d only have to put up twelve percent, but that was money I’d never get back. Thirty grand, gone. Not that I had thirty grand in the first place. “I’d like a lower bond very much,” I said, nice and calm.
Tolya wasn’t fooled. “Don’t be scared. The majority of their evidence is circumstantial, and I know what I’m doing.”
Right. What about terrified? “Who’s the judge, and what did he say?”
He gave a dry smile. “Judge Laurent. He knows you. He likes you. That doesn’t mean a damn thing, which of course you know. And your hearing is at eight a.m.” He straightened then stuffed the pad and his papers back into the binder. “Don’t worry about tomorrow. I’ll be doing all the talking.”
It was tough not to be buoyed by his attitude, especially since it didn’t carry the usual taint of bullshit most lawyers spewed when they opened their mouths. “When do we talk about your fee and pesky crap like that?” I asked.
Tolya stood, tucked his binder under one arm. “Pellini called in a favor.” He moved to the door buzzer and pressed his thumb against it. “Now you owe him one.” The guard opened the door. “See you in the morning, Kara. Get some sleep if you can.” With that he strode off, sandals squeaking against the tile.
I owed Pellini a favor. And I wasn’t running screaming at the thought. How weird was that?
Chapter 33
My sweatshirt tactic had been perfect for the holding cell, but it bit me in the ass in the unairconditioned van that was used for transport to the bond hearing. Along with the half dozen other prisoners going to the courthouse, my wrists had been cuffed in front of me—and, of course, I didn’t think to consider the heat until after the handcuffs made removal of the sweatshirt impossible. Even at seven-thirty in the morning, the temps were high enough to leave me a wilted, stinky, sticky mess by the time we made it to the blessedly cool courtroom.
“You look great,” Tolya lied after he pulled me aside for a quick conference. “I doubt you’ll need to say anything other than ‘Yes, your honor’ or ‘No, your honor.’ Keep doing exactly as you have been, and you’ll be fine.”
“What have I been doing?” I asked.
“Everything I say,” he replied with a wink then strode off to take his seat.
With a sigh, I settled myself on the wooden bench with the others and tried to calm the riot of butterflies in my stomach. No sign of O’Connor, but the unexpected sight of Eilahn sitting on a bench on the far side of the courtroom buoyed my flagging spirits. She met my eyes and gave me a slow nod. I am ever here for you.
Reassured, I returned the nod and even managed a weak smile.
More people filtered in. Judge Laurent’s law clerk, a court reporter, a public defender, and various civilian-types who were probably family and friends of the other defendants. The judge had yet to emerge from his chambers, and I clung to the thin reassurance that at least I wasn’t a stranger to him. I’d been in his court a number of times to testify, and he’d signed a few warrants for me over the past couple of years. He’d been on the bench as long as I could remember, and had earned a reputation as an irascible, no-nonsense type who didn’t like having his time wasted.
A ginger-haired man wearing a brown suit and a confident expression entered, moved to the table on the left and set down a stack of files. He was the assistant district attorney, but he’d been hired less than a month before I was first summoned to the demon realm, and I had to rack my brain for a few seconds to come up with his name. Finley. Colin Finley. He’d worked in New Orleans before coming to St. Long Parish, and cops liked him because he was a hardass. Wonderful.
Finley passed his gaze over the room, settling it briefly on me before he frowned and pulled a file from his stack. He skimmed the information, pointedly glanced at me again, then moved to Tolya. Though he spoke in a voice too low for me to hear, I had no trouble reading the body language. Finley, smug and assured, made a suggestion or an offer, to which Tolya shook his head in a clear negative. Finley smiled and gave a “your loss” shrug and returned to his table.
Another horde of butterflies invaded my stomach. What was that all about?
The arrival of the judge cut off my spin cycle of worry. I rose with the others when the bailiff announced, “All rise. The honorable Judge Laurent presiding.” I sat when we were given leave to do so, though I kept glancing at Tolya in the hopes of a reassuring look or thumbs up or Morse code or anything. But he maintained his attention straight ahead, damn near as impassive as a demonic lord.
Judge Laurent shuffled through the papers before him, raked a glance around the courtroom, then peered over his glasses at the assistant DA. “Mr. Finley, do you happen to know why Detective O’Connor has not yet graced us with his presence?”
Finley sighed and spread his hands. “Your honor, Detective O’Connor couldn’t be located to be served with the subpoena.”
Crap. If the detective hadn’t been served, he couldn’t get in trouble for not showing up. So much for Tolya’s clever tactic.
However, I had drastically underestimated Judge Laurent. The temperature in the courtroom seemed to drop several degrees as he leveled a frown at Finley. “Couldn’t be located?”
“That’s correct, your honor.”
The judge pursed his lips. “Mr. Finley, I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with you in a courtroom before. Is that correct?”
“That’s correct, your honor,” Finley said. “I’m usually in Judge Zeller’s court.”
“Well, Mr. Finley, I’ve been on the bench twenty years.” Laurent pulled his glasses off and used them to point at the assistant DA. “It might surprise you, but I do know how the system works. I bet you someone in the sheriff’s department can get in touch with Detective O’Connor twenty-four seven.”
Finley didn’t look as smug anymore. “Your honor,” he began, but the judge gave him no chance to continue.
