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.
The chains hit the floor. One of the guards leaned down and gathered them in one hand.
Sam leaned into the girl’s shoulder as they walked to the table. Sam sat down. The guard pushed Kelly down into the chair beside her.
Kelly looked back at her parents. “I’m okay,” she told them, her voice quivering. “I’m okay.”
The door opened to the judge’s chamber.
The court clerk said, “All rise for Judge Stanley Lyman.”
Sam nodded to Kelly, indicating that she should stand. As the judge walked to the bench, Kelly grabbed Sam’s hand again. Her palms were soaked with sweat.
Stan Lyman appeared to be Rusty’s age, absent the avuncular spring in his step. Judges were a varied breed. Some were confident enough to simply take their place at the bench. Others sought to establish their dominance the moment they entered the courtroom. Stan Lyman fell into the latter category. He scowled as he scanned the gallery, the overflowing prosecution table. His gaze stopped on Sam. He performed an almost mechanical assessment of every section of her body, as if processing her through an MRI. She had not been so thoroughly inspected by a man since her last physical.
He banged his gavel, his eyes still on Sam. “Be seated.”
Sam sat, pulling Kelly down beside her. The unwelcome butterflies returned. She wondered if Charlie was watching from the gallery.
The clerk announced, “This is case number OA 15-925, Dickerson County versus Kelly Rene Wilson, for arraignment.” She turned to Ken Coin. “Counsel, please state your name for the record.”
Coin stood and addressed the judge. “Good afternoon, Your Honor. Kenneth C. Coin, Darren Nickelby, Eugene ‘Cotton’ Henderson, and Kaylee Collins for the county.”
Lyman gave a stern nod. “Good afternoon.”
Sam stood again. “Your Honor, Samantha Quinn for Miss Wilson, who is present.”
“Afternoon.” Lyman nodded again. “This arraignment will qualify as a probable cause hearing. Miss Quinn, if you and Miss Wilson will stand for arraignment.”
Sam nodded for Kelly to stand beside her. The girl was shaking again. Sam did not hold her hand. Kelly would be in and out of courtrooms for the next several years. She needed to learn to stand on her own.
“Miss Quinn.” Lyman stared down at Sam from the bench. He had gone off-script. “You will remove those sunglasses in my courtroom.”
Sam was momentarily bewildered by the request. Her lenses had been darkened for so many years that she hardly remembered. “Your Honor, these are my prescription glasses. They’re tinted for a medical condition.”
“Come up here.” He waved her to the bench. “Let me see them.”
Sam felt the mad thumping of her heart in her chest. One hundred sets of eyes were on her back. Cameras were clicking. Reporters were noting every word. Ken Coin coughed into his hand again, but said nothing to vouch for her.
Sam left her cane in her purse. She burned with humiliation as she limped toward the judge. The cameras sounded like dozens of grasshoppers rubbing together their legs. The images they captured would be printed in newspapers, perhaps shown online where Sam’s colleagues would see them. The stories that accompanied the photos would likely delve into why she needed her glasses. The locals in the gallery, the ones who had been around for years, would gladly provide the details. They were scrutinizing Sam’s gait, trying to see how much damage the bullet had done.
She was a veritable freak at the circus sideshow.
At the bench, Sam’s hand trembled as she removed her glasses. The harsh fluorescent light stabbed into her corneas. She told the judge, “Please be careful with them. I didn’t bring a spare.”
Lyman took the glasses, roughly, then held them up for inspection. “Were you not told to dress appropriately for my courtroom?”
Sam looked down at her outfit, the same variation on the black silk blouse and flowing black pants she wore every day. “I beg your pardon?”
“What are you wearing?”
“Armani,” she told the judge. “May I have my glasses returned, please?”
He placed them on the bench with a hard tap. “You may take your place.”
Sam checked the lenses for smudges. She slipped on the glasses. She turned back around. She searched for Charlie in the crowd, but all she could see were the vaguely familiar faces, older now, of people she recognized from her childhood.
The walk back was longer than the walk to the bench. She reached out for the table. At the last minute, she saw Ben sitting in the gallery directly behind Ken Coin. He winked at her, smiling his encouragement.
Kelly took Sam’s hand as they stood together. She repeated Sam’s encouragement back to her. “You’re okay.”
“I am, thank you.” Sam let the girl hold her hand. She was too rattled to do otherwise.
Judge Lyman cleared his throat a few times. That he had seemingly realized the hell he’d put Sam through came as no consolation. She knew from experience that some judges covered their mistakes by punishing the lawyer from whom it had been elicited.
He said, “Miss Quinn, do you waive the full reading of the charges against Miss Wilson?”
Sam was tempted to tell him no, but the departure from the norm would only drag out the proceedings. “We do.”
Lyman nodded to the clerk. “You may arraign Miss Wilson and advise her of her rights.”
The clerk stood up again. “Kelly Rene Wilson, you have been arrested on probable cause for two counts of murder in the first degree. Miss Quinn, are you prepared to enter a plea?”
Sam said, “We would ask the Court to enter the plea of not guilty.”
There came a titter of shock from the ill-informed crowd. Lyman lifted up his gavel, but the noise died off before he brought it down.
The clerk said, “A not guilty plea is entered on behalf of the defendant to all counts.” The woman turned to Kelly. Sam thought there was something familiar about her round face. Another schoolmate, long forgotten. She had not spoken up for Sam when the judge had demanded her glasses, either.
The clerk said, “Kelly Rene Wilson, you have a right to a public, speedy trial by jury. You have a right to counsel. You have a right against self-incrimination. These rights abide and stay with you throughout the proceeding.”
“Thank you.” Lyman lowered his hand. Sam told Kelly to sit. The judge said, “The first issue for me is, Mr. Coin, do you believe there will be a superseding indictment subsequent to convening a grand jury?”
Sam made a note in her pad as Ken Coin shuffled to the podium. Another one of his cheap tricks, trying to establish dominance. As with a child, the best thing to do was ignore him.
“Your Honor.” Coin leaned his elbows on the podium. “There is a definite possibility.”
Lyman asked, “Do you have a timetable?”
“Not definitely, Your Honor. Ballpark for convening is within the next two weeks.”
“Thank you, Mr. Prosecutor, you may step back to the table.” Lyman was an older judge; he knew the games lawyers played. “And the disposition of the defendant pending trial?”
Coin took his place behind the table as he addressed the judge. “We will hold the defendant either at the city or county jail, whichever is deemed the safest place for her.”
“Miss Quinn?” the judge asked.
Sam knew there was no chance that Kelly Wilson would be given bail. She said, “I have no objection to the disposition at this time, Your Honor. Though, as to a previous matter, I would like to waive the right of Miss Wilson to have the charges heard by a grand jury.” Kelly was already facing a probable cause finding for two counts of first-degree murder. Sam didn’t want to open her up to further charges by convening a grand jury. “My client has no wish to slow down the process.”
“Very well.” Lyman made another note. “Mr. Coin, is it your intention to treat this as an open discovery case, meaning you will turn over evidence and such and not hold anything back?”
Coin held out his hands, a disciple to Christ. “Always, Your Honor. Unless there is some legal basis, open discovery has always been this office’s policy.”
Sam felt her nostrils flare. She reminded herself that the hospital tape would be Rusty’s fight.
Lyman asked, “Are you satisfied with that, Miss Quinn?”
“I am for the moment, Your Honor. I am serving as co-counsel today. My father will be filing motions with the Court as soon as he is able.”
Lyman put down his pen. For the first time, he looked at her without disapproval. “How is your father?”
“Eager to mount a vigorous defense for Miss Wilson, Your Honor.”
Lyman twisted his lips to the side, clearly unsure of her tone. “Are you aware that this is a capital murder case, Miss Quinn, which means the prosecution may well seek the death penalty, as is its right?”
“Yes, Your Honor, I am.”
“I’m unfamiliar with the customs where you’re from, Miss Quinn, but down here, we take our capital cases very seriously.”
“I’m from Winder Road, about six miles up the street, Your Honor. I am aware of the seriousness of these charges.”
Lyman clearly did not like the giggles in the gallery. He asked Sam, “Why do I feel that you are not really operating in the capacity of co-counsel to your father?” He gestured broadly with his hand. “In other words, you have no intention of continuing your work through to the trial.”
“I believe you put Mr. Grail in a similar position, Your Honor, but I assure you I am engaged in this case and intend to fully support Miss Wilson in any capacity that is required of me in aid of her defense.”
“All right.” He smiled, and Sam felt her blood run cold, because she had walked right into his trap. “Do you have any question or doubt in your mind about the defendant’s ability to assist you or understand the nature of these proceedings?”
“I’m not raising that issue at this time, Your Honor.”
Lyman would not let her off so easily. “Let’s humor ourselves, Miss Quinn. Should you, as co-counsel, raise the issue in the future—”
“I would only do so on the basis of any scientific testing, Your Honor.”
“Scientific testing?” He looked askance.
Sam said, “Miss Wilson has exhibited a vulnerability to suggestion, Your Honor, as I am certain the prosecution can confirm.”
Coin jumped up. “Your Honor, I cannot—”
Sam talked over him. “Miss Wilson’s verbal intellectual range is narrow for an eighteen-year-old. I would like to have assessed her memory encoding for visual-non-verbal communication, language functioning, any deficiencies in word and encoded information retrieval, and to quantify her emotional and intellectual quotient.”
Coin huffed a laugh. “And you expect the county to pay for all that?”
Sam turned to look at him. “I was told you take your capital cases seriously down here.”
There was a bubble of laughter from the crowd.
Lyman banged his gavel several times before they settled. Sam caught the slight lift of the corners of his mouth as he suppressed a smile. Judges rarely enjoyed themselves in the courtroom. This man had been on the bench so long that he likely thought he had seen everything.
“Your Honor,” Sam said, testing the waters. “If I may raise another issue?”
He gave her an overly generous nod to illustrate the latitude he was allowing. “Why not?”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Sam said. “Miss Wilson’s parents are eager to return to their home. A timeline from the prosecution as to when they expect to release the Wilson home would be welcomed.”
Ken Coin jumped up from the table again. “Your Honor, as yet the county does not have an estimate for completion of said search of the Wilson abode.” He seemed to realize he could not match Sam’s formalized language. He flashed his teeth at the judge. “These things are very hard to predict, Judge. We need time for a thorough search, properly performed under the guidelines put forth in the warrant.”
Sam kicked herself for not reading the warrant ahead of time.
Lyman said, “There is your answer, Miss Quinn, such as it is.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Sam watched him pick up the gavel. She mulled the judge’s such as it is in her mind. She felt a rush of certainty, her instinct urging her that now was the time. “Your Honor?”
Lyman again laid down his gavel. “Miss Quinn?”
“As to discovery—”
“I believe that has been addressed.”
“I understand that, Your Honor; however, there was a video recording made of Miss Wilson yesterday afternoon while she was being detained at the hospital.”
“Your Honor.” Coin was on his feet again. “‘Detained?’”
“In custody,” Sam clarified.
“Oh, come on,” Coin’s tone dripped with disgust. “You can’t—”
“Your Honor—”
Lyman held up his hand to stop them both. He sat back in his chair. He steepled together his fingers in thought. These moments happened often in the courtroom, where the judge stopped the proceedings to think through the intricacies of a request. Most times, they ended up kicking the problem down the road, asked for motions to be written, or simply said they would delay their decision to another time.
Sometimes, they threw the question back to the attorneys, which meant that you had to be prepared to succinctly argue the merits or run the risk of prejudicing the judge against your position for the remainder of the case.
Sam tensed, feeling as if she was locked into the starting block, staring down the open track. Lyman had mentioned discovery very early on, so he likely knew that Ken Coin was prepared to follow the letter, not the spirit, of the law.
Lyman gave Sam the nod.
She took off, “Miss Wilson was in the custody of a plainclothes police officer who accompanied her from the middle school to the hospital. He was in the ambulance with her. He stayed with her in her hospital room through the night. He rode with Miss Wilson in the police car that took her to the jail this morning, and he was present when she was Mirandized this morning. If I use the words ‘detained’ or ‘in custody,’ that is because any reasonable person—”
“Your Honor,” Ken said. “Is this an arraignment or a special episode of How to Get Away with Murder?”
Lyman gave Sam a flinty look, but he also gave her more leeway. “Miss Quinn?”
“Pursuant to the prosecutor’s stated position on open discovery, we request a copy of the hospital video be turned over to Miss Wilson posthaste so that she can evaluate how to proceed.”
“‘How to proceed,’” Coin echoed, as if the notion was ludicrous. “What Kelly Wilson said was—”
“Mr. Coin.” Lyman’s voice was raised loudly enough to project to the back of the room. He cleared his throat in the silence. He told Coin, “I would consider your words very carefully.”
Coin demurred. “Yes, Your Honor. Thank you.”
Lyman picked up his pen. He turned the barrel slowly, a stalling measure that was meant to further rebuke Coin. Even Kelly Wilson knew that you did not present evidence at an arraignment.
Lyman asked, “Mr. Coin, when can a copy of this hospital video be made available?”
Coin said, “We’ll have to have the film converted, sir. It was made on an iPhone belonging to Sheriff Keith Coin.”
“Your Honor?” Sam felt her teeth grit. Keith Coin was the very definition of male authority. Kelly would have jumped off a cliff for him. “Can I be clear—as you gathered, I’ve been away for a while. Sheriff Coin is Prosecutor Coin’s brother?”
“You know he is, Samantha.” Coin leaned toward the judge, his hand gripping the edge of the table. “Your Honor, I’ve been told we’ll need to get somebody up from Atlanta to make sure the video transfer is done properly. There’s a cloud or something involved. I’m no expert in these things. I’m just an ol’ boy who misses the kind of phones that weighed twenty pounds and cost two bucks a month to rent from Ma Bell.” He grinned at the judge, who was roughly his age. “Sir, these things take money and time.”
“Spend the money, rush the time,” Lyman said. “Miss Quinn, is there anything else?”
Sam felt the euphoria that came from knowing a judge was leaning her way. She decided to push her luck. “Your Honor, on the subject of video recordings, we would also ask for the footage from the security cameras at school to be turned over as quickly as possible so that our experts have time to analyze them.”
Coin rapped his knuckles once on the table, clearly on his back foot. “That’s gonna take a while, too, Your Honor. My own people haven’t viewed that footage. We have a responsibility to the privacy of other folks at the school at the time of the shooting to make sure we are turning over only evidence that the defendant is entitled to per the rules of discovery.”
Lyman appeared dubious. “You yourself have yet to view the footage taken from the middle school yesterday morning?”
Coin’s eyes shifted. “My people have not, no sir.”
“All of your people need to view it?”
“Experts, sir.” Coin grasped at straws. “We need—”
“I’ll put you out of your misery,” Lyman said, obviously agitated. “For your people to view this footage would take one week? Two weeks?”
“I could not hazard a guess, Your Honor. The level of moving pieces is—”
“I’ll expect your answer to my question by the end of the week.” He picked up the gavel, ready to end the hearing.
Sam said, “If I may, Your Honor?”
He rolled the gavel in the air, urging speed.
“Could the prosecutor tell me if I need to retain an expert in auditory analysis as well? It’s often time-challenging to locate qualified professionals.”
Lyman said, “I have found in order to locate a courtroom professional, you need only drag a hundred-dollar bill through a university parking lot.” He smiled as some of the reporters laughed at the purloined joke. “Mr. Coin?”
Coin looked down at the table. His hand was on his hip, suit coat unbuttoned, tie askew. “Your Honor.”
Sam waited. Coin offered nothing else.
Lyman prodded, “Mr. Coin, your answer to the question of audio?”
Coin tapped the table with his index finger. “‘Was the baby killed?’”
No one answered.
“‘Was the baby killed?’” Coin tapped on the table again, one time for each word. “‘Was the baby killed?’”
Sam was not going to stop this, but she gave an obligatory, “Your Honor.”
Lyman shrugged in confusion.
Coin said, “That is what Miss Quinn is after. She wanted to know what Kelly Wilson said in the hallway after she murdered a man and a child in cold blood.”
Lyman frowned. “Mr. Coin. This is not the place.”
“‘The Baby—’”
“Mr. Coin.”
“Was the name used by the Alexander parents to describe Lucy—”
“Mr. Coin.”
“Called that by Barbara Alexander to her students. By Frank Alexander at the high school—”
“Mr. Coin, this is your last warning.”
“Where Mr. Alexander was going to flunk Kelly Wilson.” Coin turned to the crowd. “Kelly wanted to know: was the Baby killed.”
Lyman banged his gavel.
Coin told Kelly, “Yes, the Baby was killed.”
“Bailiff.”
Coin looked back at the judge. “Your Honor—”
“Me?” Lyman feigned surprise. “I didn’t realize you knew I was here.”
There was no nervous laughter from the gallery. Coin’s words had left their mark. The headlines had been set for the next few days.
Coin said, “My deepest apologies, Your Honor. I just came from little Lucy’s autopsy and—”
“Enough!” Lyman’s eyes found the bailiff’s. The man stood at the ready. “As you said, Mr. Coin. This is an arraignment, not the Get Away with Murder Show.”
“Yes, sir.” Coin rested his fingertips on the table, bracing himself, his back to the crowd. “My apologies, Your Honor. I was overcome.”
“And I am over your grandstanding.” Lyman was visibly furious.
Sam pushed again. “Your Honor, am I to understand there is audio attached to the school security footage?”
“I believe that is understood by everyone in this courtroom, Miss Quinn.” Lyman rested his cheek against his fist. He took a moment to consider the implications of what had just happened. The deliberations did not take long. “Miss Quinn, the prosecutor will deliver to your office and the court clerk by tomorrow, five o’clock sharp, the following timelines—”
Sam had her notepad and pen ready.
“The hasty release of the Wilson abode back into their custody. The release of the full, unedited videotape made at the hospital. The release of any and all security camera footage, unedited, in or around the middle school, the elementary school beside it and the high school across the street.”
Coin opened his mouth, but rethought his objection.
Lyman said, “Mr. Coin, your timelines will astonish me with their speed and specificity. Am I correct?”
“Your Honor, you are correct.”
The judge finally banged his gavel.
“All rise,” the clerk called.
Lyman slammed the door behind him.
A collective breath was released in the courtroom.
The guards came for Kelly. They slowly prepared the restraints, generously allowing Kelly a few moments with her parents.
Coin did not offer the customary handshake. Sam barely noticed. She was too busy writing in her pad, recording for Rusty what exactly he could expect tomorrow afternoon because the court transcript would not be made ready for at least another week. There was a lot the judge had demanded; more than she had hoped for. Sam ended up having to write around some of the earlier notes she had taken when she spoke with Kelly.
Sam stopped writing.
She looked at the transcription, underlined—
It’s just a little upset this time of day.
Sam turned the page. Then the next page. Her eyes skimmed down what Kelly Wilson had told her.
… Tummy was hurting like it does … Usually calms down on its own … Sick same time yesterday … Make up for missing classes last week …
“Kelly.” Sam turned to the girl. Her feet were already chained. The guards were about to handcuff her, but Sam stepped in, drawing her into a close hug. The orange jumper bunched up under Kelly’s arms. Her stomach pressed against Sam’s.
Kelly whispered, “Thank you, Miss Quinn.”
“You’ll be okay,” Sam told her. “Remember what I told you about not talking to anyone.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll keep to myself.” She held out her thin wrists so that the guards could cuff together her hands. The chain was wrapped around her waist.
Sam resisted the need to tell them not to wrap the chain too tightly.
Lucy Alexander was not the baby that Kelly Wilson had been concerned about.