“Excuse me, ma’am!” Deputy Able said for all to hear. “Ma’am! Please step through.”

“She’s the chief of police,” West quietly told him, and she knew damn well it went without saying.

“Need some identification,” the powerful deputy said to Hammer.

A long line of restless feet stopped, all eyes on the well-dressed lady with the familiar face. Who was that? They’d seen her somewhere. Maybe she was on TV, the news, a talk show? Oh heck. Then Tinsley Owens, six deep in line, here for reckless driving, got it. This lady in pearls was the wife of someone famous, maybe Billy Graham. Hammer was nonplussed as she dug through her pocketbook, and this made Deputy Able’s assertion of self not quite as rewarding. She smiled at him, holding up her badge.

“Thanks for checking.” She could have knocked him over when she said that. “In case anybody had any doubts about the security of our courthouse.” She leaned close to read his nameplate. “O.T. Able,” she repeated, committing it to memory.

Now the deputy was dead. She was going to complain.

“Just doing my job,” he weakly said as the line got longer, winding around the world, the entire human race witnessing his destruction.

“You most certainly were,” Hammer agreed. “And I’m going to make sure the sheriff knows how much he should appreciate you.”

The deputy realized the chief meant every word of it, and Able was suddenly taller and slimmer. His khaki uniform fit perfectly. He was handsome and not nearly as old as he had been when he was at the BP pumping gas this morning and a carload of juveniles yelled, calling him Deputy Dawg, Hawaii Five-O, Tuna Breath, and other, racial slurs. Deputy Octavius Able was ashamed of himself for throwing his weight around with this woman chief. He never used to be that way and did not know what had happened to him over the years.

TWENTY-ONE

Hammer and West signed in at the Court Liaison Office and punched time cards. On the second floor, they followed a long corridor crowded with people looking for a pay phone or the bathroom. Some were sleeping on maple benches, or reading the Observer to see if their cases might be mentioned. When West opened the door to 2107, her anxiety increased. The courtroom was packed with defendants waiting for punishment, and with cops whose fault it was. Hammer led the way to the very front, sitting on the side for lawyers and police. Assistant District Attorney Melvin Pond spotted the two powerful women instantly and got excited. He had been waiting for them. This was his chance.

Fourth Circuit Judge Tyler Bovine of the Twenty-fifth Prosecutorial District had been waiting, too, as had the media from far and near. Batman and Robin, she, Judge Bovine, thought with intense pleasure as she departed from her chambers. She’d see about that when she reigned on high in the long black robe that covered her massive body of law. West felt increasingly troubled for a number of reasons. She was worried about Brazil and afraid she’d never get out of here to check on him. Tyler Bovine, as was true of the rest of the judicial herd, was a traveling judge. She resided on the other side of the Catawba River and despised Charlotte and all that was good about it, including its citizens. The judge was confident that it was only a matter of time before Charlotte annexed her hometown of Gastonia, and all else Cornwallis had failed to seize.