Cross Justice by James Patterson Read Free Book Online

toward the jail. “She credible? The mom?”
    “She’s a piece of work, that one,” my niece replied. “Got a sheet going back ten years. Real wild child and definitely the black sheep of the Caines. But on this, she comes across as more than credible. The murder has ravaged her. There’s no denying that.”
    “The dad?”
    “In and out of the picture, recently mostly out,” Naomi said. “And he’s got about as strong an alibi as you can have.”
    “He was in prison?”
    “Jail down in Biloxi. Doing eight weeks for assault.”
    “So he wasn’t a good role model in the boy’s life.”
    “Nope. That was supposed to be Stefan’s job.”
    We arrived at the jail, went inside. A sheriff’s deputy looked up from behind a bulletproof window.
    “Attorney Naomi Cross and Alex Cross to see Stefan Tate, please,” my niece said, rummaging in her pocketbook for her ID. Mine was already out.
    “Not today, I’m afraid,” the deputy said.
    “What does that mean, not today?” Naomi demanded.
    “It means that, from what I was told, your client has been a less than cooperative inmate—downright belligerent, as a matter of fact. So his visitation privileges have been revoked for forty-eight hours.”
    “Forty-eight hours?” my niece cried. “We go to trial in three days! I
have
to have access to my client.”
    “Sorry, Counselor,” she said. “But I don’t make the rules. I just follow them.”
    “Who made the call?” I asked. “Police chief or district attorney?”
    “Neither. Judge Varney made that decision.”

CHAPTER 11
     
    WE WAITED TWO hours on the second floor of the Starksville courthouse, stewing on a bench outside the chambers of Judge Erasmus P. Varney, before his clerk said he was ready to see us.
    Judge Varney looked up at us from behind several stacks of legal files and a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses. His steel-colored hair was brushed back in a low pompadour, and his steel-colored beard was close cropped. He wore a rep tie and thin leather suspenders over a starched white shirt, and he studied each of us in turn with sharp intelligent eyes.
    “Judge Varney, this is Dr. Alex Cross, my uncle and Stefan Tate’s cousin,” Naomi said, trying to control her fury. “He’s helping me with the case.”
    “A real family affair,” Varney remarked before setting down his reading glasses and standing to shake my hand firmly. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Cross. Your reputation precedes you. I read a
Washington Post
story about the terrible ordeal you andyour family went through with that maniac Marcus Sunday. Terrible thing. Miracle you all survived.”
    “It was, sir,” I said. “And I thank God for that miracle every day.”
    “I bet you do,” Judge Varney said, holding my gaze. Then he turned to Naomi. “So, what can I do for
you,
Counselor?”
    “Allow me to see my client, sir.”
    “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
    “With all due respect, sir,” Naomi said, “we are less than seventy-two hours from trial. You can’t limit my time like this without jeopardizing his right to a vigorous defense.”
    The door opened behind us. I looked over to find four people coming in: a burly, sixtyish, fair-skinned man in a blue Starksville Police Department uniform; a lanky guy, also in his sixties, in the khaki uniform of the Stark County Sheriff’s Office; a tall, whippet-thin woman in a gray business suit; and Matt Brady, the assistant prosecutor I’d met with Naomi the day before.
    “My men have rights too, Judge Varney,” said the man in khaki. “Sheriff Nathan Bean,” Naomi whispered.
    “And Mr. Tate has infringed upon those rights,” said the woman, who turned out to be district attorney Delilah Strong. “Assaulting two jailers is not something we want to be rewarding.”
    “Since when is due process a reward?” Naomi demanded. “It’s a right guaranteed every citizen under the Fourth, Fifth, and Fourteenth Amendments.”
    The blue-uniformed man—“Police chief Randy