Devil's Bridge Read Online Free

black T-shirt featured a small logo of a pizza in the center of his chest, although I found the large neon green letters above it— EAT ME —to be not only off-putting but also totally inappropriate for the occasion.
    “Mr. How-ton,” I said, phonetically breaking up the name that I read on the summons. It was spelled
Houghton.
“Am I pronouncing it correctly?”
    “Nope. No, you’re not. My people say Huff-ton.”
    Strike one for me.
    “Could you tell us a little more about the work you do at Metropolitan Hospital?” He had his sneakered feet up against the wall of the jury box. His hands were clasped together and he was twiddling his thumbs somewhat nervously.
    “I’m, like, a phlebotomist, you know?”
    “So you’re trained to draw blood.”
    “I’m in a tech program right now. I’m being trained,” Houghton said, looking over at Antonio Estevez. “I’m not quite Dracula yet.”
    Estevez pulled back one side of his mouth in half a smile and Houghton laughed. Half of the prospective jurors laughed with him, at my expense.
    Strike two for me.
    “Is there anything you’ve heard so far that might make you uncomfortable sitting on a case of this nature?” I asked.
    “Nah. You gotta prove what you gotta prove.”
    “One of the charges here is that Mr. Estevez used force to compel a young woman to engage in acts of prostitution. You understand that?”
    “I’m good.”
    I walked toward the railing at the end of the well of the courtroom. “Do you know who Jason Voorhees is, Mr. Houghton?”
    He sat up straight and dropped his feet to the floor. “You kidding me? Of course I do.”
    Jurors number two and four looked at him, puzzled by either the question or his answer.
    “Miss Cooper,” Judge Fleming said, glancing up from her notebook, “I hope you’re going somewhere with this.”
    “I am, Your Honor.” I continued talking with Mr. Houghton. “And who is Jason Voorhees?”
    “He’s the guy—the creepy one with that kind of full-face hockey mask—in the
Friday the 13th
movies.”
    Gino Moretti was on his feet. “I’m going to object to this line of questioning, Your Honor.”
    “What’s your point, Ms. Cooper?” the judge asked.
    “We intend to present evidence that—”
    “Wait a minute,” Moretti said, losing his cool. “May we approach? She can present her evidence when she’s got witnesses in the box.”
    I wanted to give the prospective jurors a taste of the People’s case. Houghton, after his Dracula reference, seemed a likely candidate to know the horror-movie genre. I thought I could see whether anyone in the room would be freaked-out by a description of Estevez, whose victims claimed he wore the distinctive goalie mask, punctuated by holes and painted with red triangles—and wielded the same machete Jason did—when he threatened them to go to work for him. Better to find out they had weak stomachs now than midtrial.
    “It’s not about the evidence, Judge. I’d like to—”
    “I know what you’d like to do, Ms. Cooper. Don’t even think about it. Next question, please.”
    “Mr. Houghton, is there anything about your familiarity with the fictional movie character Jason Voorhees that would prevent you from analyzing the facts in this case, independent of—”
    “I object,” Moretti said, practically shouting at the judge.
    “Sustained, Ms.—”
    But Houghton was ready to take his shot. “Mr. Estevez isn’t charged with hacking his old lady’s head off like in the movie, is he? I didn’t hear that count.”
    The judge had to gavel the courtroom back to order, while Houghton basked in the amusement he had provoked with his response.
    “Approach the bench, both of you,” Fleming said, making her displeasure clear when we got within earshot. “Over and out, Alex. You’re done. Move on to the next seat and ask a few questions and then Gino takes it from there.”
    “Understood.”
    “Do you want a curative instruction, Gino?” she asked.
    “Are you