Trial and Terror Read Online Free

judge, William Angiers, was second-generation Haze County judiciary. But while his father had clawed his way to a seat on the State Supreme Court, Angiers, because of a well-publicized drinking problem, was trapped here. Levi had warned Summer about Angiers her first day: Don’t talk back. He’s tough but fair, his wrath displayed in direct proportion to the degree of his hangover.
    But where was the district attorney? Although the D.A.’s office was notorious for bungling paperwork, no one ever missed an arraignment. Unless there was a mix up—or a crisis. First Gundy, now this. Summer wondered what was going on.
    Angiers shuffled through the pile of folders spread over his desk. “Cruz, Cruz,” he muttered. He looked over at his court clerk. “Where’s the file on Cruz?”
    The clerk searched through an even bigger pile, then shrugged.
    Angiers removed his eyeglasses, rubbed his eyes, and peered over his gavel. His face was even puffier than usual. Summer was struck by how labored his breathing was. “And where is the D.A.?”
    Summer, the clerk, the judge, and Cruz all scoured the courtroom, but came up empty.
    Angiers made a show of containing his anger. Then he turned to Cruz and growled, “Not in any hurry, are you, young man?”
    Cruz shook his head. “No, Your Honor. I’m very sorry the court has to take the time to locate my file. It must be frustrating to have to deal with bureaucracy on a day-to-day basis.”
    Angiers leaned forward, rested his elbow on the desk, propping his chin up with his hand, his attitude like, Wow, it can talk! “You went to college?”
    “Yes, sir. Two years at Wesleyan University.”
    “You dropped out?”
    Cruz nodded.
    “Drugs?”
    “Heroin.”
    Summer glanced at Cruz’s track-marked arm. He lived in a world of needles—from piercings to tattoos to heroin—pain and pleasure and image inextricably bound. The result was a generation of needle addicts, addicted to the needle as much as to the drug.
    Angiers eyed his clerk, who was now rifling through the files piled next to the judge. He snapped at her: “I already looked through those. Listen, find me a D.A. so we can clear up these cases. And call the police, see if they sent over this young man’s reports. I don’t even know what he’s been charged with. ”
    Cruz was rocking back and forth on his feet. “I was hungry, so I shoplifted a box of gourmet cookies, Your Honor. When the security guard grabbed me, I slugged him.”
    Summer wanted to slug Cruz. Although Angiers seemed pleased with his honesty, there went any plea bargain. She said, “Let me do the talking for you, Jimi. You’ll just get yourself in more hot water.”
    Through the courtroom doors, a bailiff rushed in, sweaty and breathless. “Permission to approach the bench,” he said.
    Angiers reveled in his testiness. “Not unless you can magically transform yourself into a district attorney. You know I do not like my court disrupted, Sal. Before I let you approach, I want my overpaid clerk to tell me where Mr. Cruz’s file is.”
    Sal scratched his arm. “It’s an emergency, Your Honor.”
    Angiers slammed down his mug, spilling coffee on his wrist. The clerk handed him napkins and Angiers mopped up the mess. “Oh, all right. What is it?”
    The bailiff climbed behind the bench and whispered in the judge’s ear. Angiers’s face blanched. He whispered back. When the bailiff nodded, Angiers’s head drooped. “Thank you, Sal,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I gave you a hard time.”
    It took Angiers a few restless moments before he got back to Cruz. He removed his glasses, clenching them in his hand. Summer could see tears bunching in his eyes. “Young man, I wake up every morning wondering why I should cut anyone a break. Do you know what answer I come up with?”
    “No, sir.”
    “In the hopes they never end up in front of me in court ever again.” Angiers pointed to a wall of photos behind him, more than a hundred of them, neatly