Sam sat alone at the defense table. Her purse was on the floor. Her cane was folded up inside. She studied her notes from the interview with Kelly Wilson, pretending as if she did not know that at least one hundred people were sitting behind her. Without question, the majority of the spectators were locals. The heat of their white-hot rage made sweat roll down her back.
One of them could be the person who had stabbed Rusty.
Judging by the furious whispering, Sam gathered that many of them would gladly stab her, too.
Ken Coin coughed into his hand. The county prosecutor was sitting with a veritable phalanx: a doughy, fresh-faced second chair, an older man with a brush-broom mustache, and the obligatory attractive young blonde woman. In New York, this type of woman would be wearing a well-cut suit and expensive heels. The Pikeville version had her looking more like a Catholic nun.
Ken coughed again. He wanted Sam to look at him, but she would not. A perfunctory handshake was all that she had allowed. Any gratitude that Coin believed was owed to him for killing Daniel Culpepper had been erased by his scurrilous behavior. Sam was not a resident of Pikeville. She would never return. There was no need to pretend she had any affinity for the dirty, underhanded bastard. Coin was the type of prosecutor who made all prosecutors look bad. Not only because of the cat-and-mouse he had played with the arraignment, but because of the videotape that had been made at the hospital.
Whatever was on the recording could hang Kelly Wilson.
There was no telling what the girl had said. Based on Sam’s brief time with her, she did not doubt that Kelly Wilson could be talked into admitting that she had assassinated Abraham Lincoln. The legal issue, perhaps the most important motion that Rusty would argue, would be whether or not the film of Kelly should be admissible in court. If Kelly had not been read her Miranda rights before she answered questions on the record, or if it was clear that she did not understand her rights, then the video should not be shown to the jury.
Technically, that was how it was supposed to work.
But this was a legal matter. There were always workarounds.
Ken Coin would argue that Miranda did not matter because Kelly had voluntarily made the recorded statements. There was one giant legal hurdle in his way. In order for the video to be admissible, Coin had to prove that a reasonable person—fortunately, not Kelly Wilson herself—would assume that Kelly was not in police custody when the statements were recorded. If Kelly believed that she was under arrest, that handcuffs and fingerprint impressions and a mugshot were imminent, then she was entitled to the reading of her rights.
Ergo, no Miranda rights, no film shown to the jury.
At least that was how it was supposed to work.
There were other weak links in the system, including the mood of the judge. Very rarely did you find a completely impartial figure on the bench. They tended to lean toward the prosecution or the defense. No judge liked to be appealed, but as a case moved higher up the chain, it became increasingly more difficult for a defendant to argue that a mistake had been made.
No judge liked to reverse a lower judge.
Sam closed her notepad. She glanced behind her. The Wilsons sat with Lenore. Sam had talked with them for less than five minutes before the general public was allowed into the courtroom. Cameras clicked as photographers caught Sam making eye contact with the killer’s parents. Video cameras seemed to be banned from the courtroom, but there were plenty of reporters recording every moment with their pens.
This was not the appropriate setting for a reassuring smile, so Sam nodded to Ava, then to Ely. Both nodded back, their jaws clenched as they clung to one another. Their clothes were stiff with newness, the creases from hangers and folds pronounced on their arms and shoulders. The first thing they had asked Sam after establishing Kelly’s disposition was when they would be able to return to their home.
Sam had been unable to provide a definitive answer.
The Wilsons took the lack of information with a type of resignation that seemed ingrained in their souls. They were clearly part of that forgotten swath of poor, rural people. They were accustomed to waiting for the system to play out, usually not in their favor. The hollowed looks in their eyes reminded Sam of the images of refugees in magazines. Perhaps there were parallels. Ava and Ely Wilson were completely lost, forced into an unfamiliar world, their sense of safety, their sense of peace, everything that they cherished from their life before, was gone.
Sam reminded herself that Lucy Alexander and Douglas Pinkman were gone, too.
Lenore leaned over and whispered something to Ava. The woman nodded. Sam noted the time. The hearing was about to begin.
Kelly Wilson’s entrance was announced by the distant jingle of chains, as if Santa Claus and his sleigh were on the other side of the wall. The bailiff opened the door. Cameras clicked. Murmurs filled the courtroom.
Kelly was ushered in by four armed guards, each of them so large that the girl was lost in a sea of flesh. She was reduced to shuffling her feet because they had put her in four-point restraints. The guard on the right held her by the arm. His fingers overlapped. The man was so muscular he could have picked up Kelly one-handed and placed her in the chair.
Sam was glad that he was standing beside Kelly. The moment the girl saw her parents, her knees gave out. The guard kept her from falling to the floor. Kelly began to wail.
“Mama—” She tried to reach out, but her hands were chained to her waist. “Daddy!” she yelled. “Please!”
Sam was up and across the room before she could think about how she had managed to move so quickly. She grabbed Kelly’s hands. “Look at me.”
The girl would not look away from her parents. “Mama, I’m so sorry.”
Sam squeezed Kelly’s hands harder, just enough to cause pain. “Look at me,” she demanded.
Kelly looked at Sam. Her face was wet with tears. Her nose was running. Her teeth chattered.
“I’m here,” Sam said, holding firm to her hands. “You’re okay. Keep looking at me.”
“We all right?” the bailiff asked. He was an older man, but the hand resting on the butt of his taser was steady.
Sam said, “Yes. We’re all right.”
The guards unlocked the chains from Kelly’s ankles, her wrists, her waist.
“I can’t do this,” Kelly whispered.
“You’re okay,” Sam insisted, willing her to be so. “Remember how we talked about people watching you.”
Kelly nodded. She used her sleeve to wipe her nose, holding firm to Sam’s hands.
Sam said, “You need to be strong. Don’t upset your parents. They want you to be a big girl. All right?”
Kelly nodded again. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re okay,” Sam repeated.