Gavel to Gavel

Copyright © 2023 by A.X. Foster. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Published by Paper Raven Books LLC Printed in the United States of America First Printing, 2023 Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9876997-0-6 eBook ISBN: 979-8-9876997-1-3 Library of Congress Control Number: TXu 2-356-853 This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Dedication Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddities now, his quillities, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? Hamlet, Act V, scene 1. CHAPTER 1 Thursday, December 20, 2018 8:22 a.m. Mac sat in his office, appraising the tall stack of thick homicide case files piled up on his desk. Each one a tragedy. These were the most difficult jury trials to prepare. A baby shaken to death. A patient smothered in a nursing home. A hit man who killed for cash. Evil came in many forms to Senior Assistant State’s Attorney Mac MacIntyre. The worst cases haunted him and stuck in his mind like barnacles encrusted on a ship. He’d see these victims in sweaty dreams before sunrise. An angelic teenager named Violet visited regularly. Just 14 years old, she was strangled by a jealous schoolboy. She appeared at daybreak, ghostlike, her long, cascading blonde hair swishing across Mac’s mind. He glanced at his cell phone: the text alarmed him. TUF CASE COMING IN. BRINGING LITTLE GRIL DOWN TO UR OFC NOW. SHE SAW 0100 OF DAD. EYE WITN. B THERE 10 MINS. SERIOUS SHIT. In all the years they had worked together at the Seneca County Judicial Center, ever since Andre Okoye was an undercover cop and Mac a rookie prosecutor, Mac had never received a message with such urgency. “Tough case coming in?” he said out loud to his empty office. The sound of his own voice jolted him back to reality. 0100 was code for a murder. A little girl saw her father killed? Concentrate. Focus. That was one of Mac’s great strengths. When necessary, he could fuse all of his brainpower together to solve the puzzle or crisis looming in front of him. Before he stood to address a jury or a judge, he would write the word “FOCUS” at the top of his legal pad. It was the best advice he could give himself, better than anything he had learned in law school. Five block letters printed in red with a plastic felt-tipped pen. His phone pinged. The second text notified him: CMING UP ELVTOR WITH KID. RESERVE CONFRNCE RM NOW. He felt a dull pain throb in his stomach. Not that again. Not right now. He refused to Google “ulcer,” although the instinct to do so raced through his mind. The bright December sunlight poured through the large picture window and lit up his office. His eyes fell on a framed crayon drawing over his desk. Asymmetrical rows of square and rectangular frames displaying artwork, diplomas, various awards and newspaper articles dotted the walls: a visual roadmap of Mac’s career. But the small frame directly over his desk was different, and his gaze reflexively returned to it time and time again; it gave him daily inspiration, like a talisman. It was a child’s hand-drawn stick figure with a headline of scribbled words in a variety of bright crayon colors: some red, some blue, some green, in alternating serendipity. It read: “TO THE STAIT’S ATTOURNY MAC. YOU ARE VERY NICE AND THANK YOU FOR HEPLING MY GRAMMA. LOVE MADISON.” The stick figure was the tiny girl’s portrait of Mac. Even 10 years later, it was, essentially, an accurate rendering, portraying Mac as tall and thin, with a mop of bright red hair. His eyes were depicted as large crayon spirals in light green, the hue of traffic lights signaling “go.” A small flashing light on his desk phone blinked, signifying a call from the front desk. He lifted the receiver. “Mr. MacIntyre, Detective Okoye is here to see you. He’s got a little girl with him.” “Thanks, Lupe. ¿Carino que onda? Send Andre down to the conference room. And can you please mark me out on the board for the next hour?” “Todo bien. ¿Y tu guapo?” Lupe replied. Mac smiled. She called him handsome every day. He never got tired of it. “I’m good, preciosa,” he said, knowing how infrequent compliments were around the office. Lupe brightened at his response; then she whispered, “Hey, Mac. I gotta tell you, Fischbein’s in the office already. He asked me if you were here, like he was checking up on you.” “Thanks for letting me know. Hey, keep this between us, Lupe, but The Fish is a real pendejo.” “Right! He got elected, like, what? Has it even been a year yet? And, so far, he hasn’t bothered to learn my name, just walks right by the reception desk. Says nothing. Pretty rude for a new State’s Attorney. You’d think he’d want to be nice, especially to the support staff. I called him Mr. Fish-bean by accident when he first got here, and he stopped and corrected me. He said, ‘My name is Fish-byne!’ He’s been real mean to me ever since.” Mac looked to confirm that his door was shut and added, “Yeah, my new boss. The Fish. As I said, this guy is a born asshole.” “Maybe he’s like that because he’s so short? What do they call that? A Neapolitan complex or something?” “Napoleonic.” “What?” “Lupe, what exactly did he say? Can you remember his exact words?” “Mr. Fischbein asked, ‘Is MacIntyre here!?’ Kind of angry-like. That’s it. He never says please or thank you. Just letting you know.” “Gracias, Lupe. Thanks for looking out for