allowed it to affect her work. âAnd your point is?â
âFrankly, I think the pressure of that and this case has combined to affect your judgment.â Hobson fondled a brass basketball that served as a paperweight. âI canât believe you would even consider not calling this kid to testify.â
âSheâs a kindergartener, Hobson.â Mary stared at him, incredulous. âThatâs coloring books and Sesame Street andââ
âPopsicles?â Hobson interjected.
Mary stiffened. Dwayne Pugh had used Popsicles to lure little Jasmine into his truck. He would use Popsicles to lure more children if she couldnât put him in prison. Maybe Hobson and Danika were right. Maybe she ought to gleefully sacrifice one Jasmine to save twenty of her playÂmates. âYes,â she admitted, her voice flat. âAnd Popsicles.â
Hobson sat back in his chair, now looking like a triumphant dummy from the forensics lab. âSee what I mean, Ms. Crow? Iâm beginning to wonÂder if you have the guts for this job anymore.â
âOf course I do.â
âThen put Jasmine Harris on the stand, and question her as you would any other witness.â
âButââ
âThatâs an order, Ms. Crow,â Mott sliced in. âJasmine Harris goes on the stand.â
Mary looked at him, again longing for the sloppy honor of Jim Falknerâs administration. âAnything else?â
He smiled. ââJust win my case, Ms. Crow.â
âIâll do my best.â With a single withering glare, she rose and let herself out of the office, leaving the new Deckard County district attorÂney counting all the votes he would reap on the back of one five-year-old child.
Two
Little Jump Off, North Carolina
October 8
STUMP LOGAN PRESSED himself against the weathered gray logs of the store. He hadnât made this particular climb in almost twenty years, and the effort made each breath sear through his lungs like fire. As he waited for his heart to slow and his legs to stop their shaking, he studied the place that had once been his second home.
Outside, not much had changed. The Little Tennessee River still glittered like a silver ribbon on the other side of the road; the gas pump still cranked out hi-test, though not at the twenty one-cents-a-gallon price of his youth. Moths still batted against the small blue neon sign in the window, ultimately tumbling dead on the old porch that still remained silent as he hauled his sixty extra pounds across it. He smiled. It was just as if Martha Crow still lived here. His heart began to swell with the memory, then he heard an angry male voice inside the store. He turned and peered in the window.
For an instant he wondered if his brain wasnât short-circuiting again. Jonathan Walkingstick, the best tracker in all the Carolinas, was standing right there, in the prime weeks of hunting season, joggling a baby over his shoulder! Heâd shortened his hair from a ponytail into a regular barbershop haircut and heâd exchanged his Army camouflage outfit for a red plaid shirt and blue jeans. Jonathan Walkingstick was looking like a real family man.
âYouâve pissed off that whole county.â The tall Cherokee pointed his finger at a woman who was kneeling on the floor, writing with a black marker on a piece of yellow poster board. âThose men need those jobs. They have families to feed.ââ
âWeâre not asking that they not build the condos. Weâre just asking them to build them somewhere else,â the woman replied, not lookÂing up from her work. âTheyâve got plenty of other flat land over there.â
âNot on that riverbank. And not owned by the governor of Tennessee.â Walkingstick paced faster in front of the glowing fireplace. âYouâll never stop them. Theyâve got too much money. Too much clout.â
âWeâll