The Hornet’s Nest. Patricia Cornwell

and no one could accuse her of anything less than impeccable manners. There was

nothing more important than manners, really.

ADA Pond hesitated. Hammer had faded away again;

West could not get comfortable. The bench seat was wood, and it pressed her police belt

and the small of her back. She was perspiring and waiting for her pager to vibrate.

Brazil was decompensating. It was something West sensed, yet she wasn’t certain why,

or what to do about it.

“Mr. Pond,” the judge said, ‘please continue. ”

“Thank you. Your Honor. On this particular night of July twenty-second, Mr. Anthony

did sell crack cocaine to an undercover Charlotte police officer.”

“Is this officer in the courtroom?” The judge squinted at the sea of wretches below her.

Mungo stood. West turned around, dismayed when she saw who had caused such

creaking and shuffling and whispering. Oh God, not again. West’s sense of foreboding

darkened. Hammer remembered Seth bringing her breakfast in bed and dropping keys on

the tray. The new Triumph Spitfire was green with burl wood, and she had been a

sergeant with free time, and he was the rich son of a rich land developer. Back then, they

went on long drives and had picnics. She would come home from work, and music filled

the house. When did Seth stop listening to Beethoven, Mozart, Mahler, and Bach, and

start turning on the TV? When did Seth decide he wanted to die?

“The subject, Mr. Anthony,” Mungo was saying, ‘was sitting on a blanket in the thicket Mr. Pond has just described. He was with two other subjects, drinking Magnum Forty-four and Colt Forty-five. Between them they had a dozen steamed crabs in a brown

paper bag. ”

“A dozen?” Judge Bovine queried.

“You counted them, Detective Mungo?”

“Most were gone. Your Honor. I was told there had been a dozen originally. When I

looked there were three left, I believe.”

“Go on, go on.” What patience the judge had for this drivel from the dregs of humanity was inversely proportional to her filling bladder as she took another slug of water and

thought of what she would eat for lunch.

“The subject, Mr. Anthony, offered to sell me a rock of cocaine, in a vial, for fifteen

dollars,” Mungo continued.

“Bullshit,” was Mr. Anthony’s comment.

“I offered you a fucking crab, man.”

“Mr. Anthony, if you aren’t quiet, I will hold you in contempt of court,” Judge Bovine warned.

“It was a crab. Only time I used the word crack was when I told him to crack it himself.”

Mungo said, “Your Honor, I asked the subject what was in the bag, and he distinctly

replied, ” crack. ”

“Did not.” Mr. Anthony was about to approach the bench, his public defender restraining him by a sleeve that still had the label sewed on it.

“Did too,” Mungo said.

“Did not!”

“Too.”

“Uh uh.”

“Order!” the judge declared.

“Mr. Anthony, one more outburst and …”

“Let me tell my side for once!” Mr. Anthony went on.

“That is what you have a lawyer for,” the judge said severely, and was beginning to feel the pressure of water and a loss of composure.

“Oh yeah? This piece of shit?” Mr. Anthony glowered at his free-lunch defense.

The courtroom was awake and interested, more so than ADA Pond had ever witnessed

before this morning. Something was going to happen, and no one was about to miss it,

people nudging each other and making silent bets. Jake on the third row, defendant’s

side, was putting his money on Mr. Anthony ending up with his butt in jail. Shontay two

rows over was betting on the undercover detective who reminded her of a haystack

wearing a wrinkled pinstripe suit. Cops always won, no matter how wrong they might

be, it was her belief, based on hearsay. Quik, way in the back, didn’t give a fuck as he

practiced flicking his thumb out like a switchblade. As soon as he could, the asshole

responsible for Quik’s show cause warrant was gonna pay. Ratting on him like that.

Man.

“Detective Mungo.” Judge Bovine had had enough.

“What probable cause did you have to search Mr. Anthony’s brown paper bag?”

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