LaSondra’s mother, Leola, was at the trial every day, sporting one beautiful, tailored suit after the next, eyes fixed either with gratitude on Hailey, or with hatred on the man who had snuffed out her daughter’s life, leaving a wake of pain behind him he seemed unable to comprehend, sitting in court every day, nonplussed…as if he were above it all.
Hailey tried the case solo as usual-no other lawyers to back her up as second chair. Just Fincher sitting with her at the counsel table for the State. The table was strewn with stacks of notes, evidence books, and brown paper bags containing clothes, shoes, earrings, and hose that once belonged to the dead women, each bag sealed and marked separately.
The photos of the crime scenes and close-ups of the victims’ faces in death were burned into Hailey’s brain. One in particular disturbed her. It was a photo of dirt and grass pushed up into LaSondra’s nose and mouth from being shoved facedown into the ground during the attack. In it, the angry, red elongated scratches on LaSondra’s neck were clearly visible.
But the photos-and even the media frenzy surrounding the case-were the least of Hailey’s worries.
Matt Leonard was at the helm of a fleet of high-priced attorneys and their hangers-on: paralegals, investigators, and unpaid clerks plotting to count the trial as “experience” when they padded their résumés at the end of law school-all of them banded together, determined to beat a murder rap on behalf of the most prolific serial killer ever to stalk the city of Atlanta.
Especially Leonard, who was unaccustomed to losing in court to anyone.
Hailey could feel the venom in his gaze right now as she went on with her closing argument.
She could see him out of the corner of her eye throughout the trial, though she never let the jury catch her looking over at the defense table.
She finished in a hushed tone in a rapt courtroom, barely speaking above a whisper, leaning over the rail, addressing the jurors directly. This was not for the press, not for the judge, not for the packed courtroom. It was for their ears alone. The court reporter strained to take it down.
“These women had families. Mothers and fathers, husbands, children, sisters and brothers. Families who waited for them to come home. They never did. They never did, because they crossed paths with Clint Burrell Cruise. It’s in your hands now. Do not turn away from the evidence. Your voice is the only one they have. Please, please, convict this man and return a verdict that speaks the truth. Show him the same mercy he showed his victims. None. He is guilty.” After a brief moment of complete silence, she turned from the jury and took her seat at the State’s counsel table.
Now, with Hailey’s closing arguments ended, it was finally out of her hands. She had done all she possibly could during months of long nights and weekends working. Now she could only pray justice would prevail.
“Miss Hailey?” Leola Willaims came up behind her as she gathered files into her briefcase. “I want to thank you.”
“No, Miss Leola. I only hope the jury does the right thing and you find some peace.” Hailey hugged her tightly, knowing that even a death sentence for Cruise wouldn’t bring back Leola’s girl.
They broke apart and went to the courthouse cafeteria for iced teas, going over and over the witnesses, the evidence, everything that had happened during the trial. And then, back up the elevator and to the courtroom.
Hours passed as they all sat on the courtroom’s hardwood pews, waiting. Once, when she caught Leonard staring at her again, he turned sharply away from her, pretending to study the far wall of the courtroom in deep thought.
Out of the jury’s sight, Hailey turned slightly to study Cruise as he sat at the counsel table. He was angled away from her, but she immediately noticed Cruise hungrily biting the nails on his right hand, almost like an animal. During the investigation, she retraced his movements through credit card statements and knew he must miss the weekly manicures he had gotten on the outside. Something about his gesture struck her as odd, but she was wrenched from her train of thought when the courtroom bailiff placed his hand on her shoulder. He nodded to her, giving her a heads up, silently communicating the jury was done. Almost immediately, a buzzer inside the jury deliberation room buzzed loudly in the courtroom. They had a verdict.
Guilty…on all eleven counts. Hailey published the verdict, standing alone in the center of the courtroom looking directly at Cruise. It hardly seemed real, reading out loud in a clear voice. It rang out in the courtroom as she spoke.
“I didn’t do it!” Cruise bellowed out when the last count was read. All hell broke loose in the courtroom. Cruise, in a rage, lunged at Hailey across the defense table. Books thumped to the ground, papers flew up in the air, the jury and spectators leaped to their feet.
In a matter of seconds, eight sheriffs strategically positioned about the courtroom when major verdicts came down attacked Cruise, dragging him away from Hailey. But it was just long enough for Hailey to feel what his victims had felt-Cruise’s cold hands closing around her neck.
In that moment, Hailey knew she was finished.
Years of trials and the endless parade of victims silently looking out at her from crime scene photos and autopsy tables at the morgue had taken their toll. But it wasn’t Cruise’s lunge at her that did it. It was the photo, the photo of the dirt and grass, smeared up and across LaSondra’s face.
This was Hailey Dean’s final war with a powerful and cunning Atlanta defense bar, a last stand.
She was ready now, ready to turn her back on the justice system and leave the practice of criminal law-and Atlanta itself-behind.
With Cruise off the street, Hailey Dean resigned from the District Attorney’s Office.
And on that night, the papers wrote, the city’s pimps, thieves, and killers…and their defense lawyers…danced in the streets with the Devil.
6
Reidsville State Penitentiary, Georgia
THE SMELL COULDN’T BE DISINFECTED AWAY.
No ammonia, no cleanser, no air purifier yet known to man could erase the funk left behind by thousands of killers, rapists, and child molesters. In fact, the industrial-strength cleansers mopped into the floor and scrubbed into the sideboards only added their own unique ingredient to the mix. It was a stench to remind visitors, long after they’d left the cluster of concrete buildings, just how sweet their own freedom smelled.
Clint Burrell Cruise sat in his cell on a metal bunk bolted to the floor. Imagining. Remembering.
He had been the premier star, the up-and-comer in the small, ultra-prestigious world of nouvelle cuisine called “infusion art.” He’d even convinced himself he had actually coined the phrase.
Cruise was even approached by the Food Channel to launch his own televised daily hour of infusion art. He was all set to be up there alongside the others, Rachael Ray, Paula Deen, the Iron Chefs, and maybe one day, Martha Stewart herself. Many times he’d imagined lingering over the made-for-TV kitchen counter, casually straddling a bar stool, sharing techniques with Stewart.
It could happen.
As much as he adored Martha Stewart, he hated Emeril Lagasse with that frickin’ “Bam!” every time he did something. God he hated that man. He, Cruise, should have Lagasse’s fame.
Screw him and his worn out “Bam!” routine.
The last time some ass had turned on Lagasse in the rec room, Cruise picked up a metal folding chair and threw it at the TV. He got thirty days in solitary for that, but if Lagasse said “Bam” just one more time Cruise swore he’d kill him dead with his own two hands.