Guarding Suzannah



  Guarding Suzannah

  Book 1 in the Serve and Protect Series

  by

  Norah Wilson

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Norah Wilson / Something Shiny Press

  P.O. Box 30046, Fredericton, NB, E3B 0H8

  Copyright

  Guarding Suzannah

  (Book 1 in the Serve and Protect series)

  Copyright © 2010 Norah Wilson

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and are not to be construed as real. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  This book contains content that may not be suitable for young readers (under 18).

  Cover by Kim Killion, Hot Damn Designs

  Chapter 1

  Detective John Quigley stepped inside Courtroom 2, closing the door quietly behind him. One or two people in the small gallery glanced up at him briefly, then returned their attention to the front of the courtroom where a young patrol officer was being sworn in.

  Quigg took a seat, glancing around the drab, low-ceilinged, windowless room. Provincial Court. Nothing like the much grander Queen’s Bench courtrooms upstairs or the Court of Appeal chambers on the top floor. But aesthetics aside, they did a brisk business here. In the fifteen years Quigg had spent on the Fredericton force, he’d been responsible for sending quite a few customers through these doors. Doors that all too often turned out to be the revolving kind, the kind that spit offenders right back out on the street to re-offend.

  On that thought, Quigg glanced over at the accused. Clean shaven and neatly dressed, he sat off to the right, beside the Sheriff’s deputy. His long hair, drawn back into a ponytail, glinted blue-black under the fluorescent lights. If he were conscious of Quigg’s scrutiny, he didn’t betray it with so much as a twitch of a muscle. Rather, he kept his flat, emotionless gaze trained on the witness.

  “Your witness, Mr. Roth.”

  At the magistrate’s words, Quigg faced forward again.

  “Thank you, Your Honour.” The Crown Prosecutor adjusted his table microphone and directed his first question to the witness. Mike Langan, the impossibly young looking constable in the witness box, responded, his answer clear and concise.

  Over the next fifteen minutes, the prosecutor methodically built his case with one carefully chosen question after another. Constable Langan’s manner in the witness box was confident and assured. He referred often to his notebook, which appeared to contain copious, comprehensive notes. Quigg unclenched his fingers and leaned back into his seat. What could go wrong?

  Everything.

  His gaze slid to the one area of the courtroom he’d so far managed to avoid, the defense table. Suzannah Phelps. There she sat, primly erect, all that straight blond hair pulled up into a knot at the back of her head. Even under the black tent-like court robes, she still managed to look model elegant. His pulse took a little kick.

  Dammit, why did he do this to himself? He didn’t have to be here. He was off today. He didn’t have even a glancing involvement with this case, or with Constable Langan.

  Because you’re a bloody masochist.

  “Any questions on cross, Ms. Phelps?”

  The magistrate’s voice cut into Quigg’s thoughts.

  “Just a few, Your Honour.”

  A few? Yeah, sure.

  “Please proceed.”

  Quigg glanced at Langan, saw the younger man tense. Relax man. He tried to send the thought telepathically. Don’t let her get to you. Don’t let her see you sweat.

  “So, Constable Langan, you didn’t actually see my client flee the crime scene?”

  “No, ma’am. Not from the actual scene. But I did see a man fitting the robber’s description running just four blocks from the scene.”

  “And who provided this description?”

  “The shopkeeper.”

  “And the description was...?”

  “Native ... er, First Nations individual, average height, stocky build, long black hair worn in a ponytail.”

  “Were those the shopkeeper’s precise words? First Nations individual?”

  “Huh?”

  “Did the shopkeeper describe the perpetrator as Native? Native American? First Nations?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Quigg sank lower in his seat, suppressing a groan. This was gonna be a train wreck and Langan didn’t even know it yet.

  “Exactly how did he describe him, then?”

  “He made it clear that the individual was Indian.”

  “Those were his words, then? Indian?”

  “No.” Constable Langan shifted, glancing down at his notebook.

  “What were his precise words, Constable?”

  Langan glanced at the judge, then back at Suzannah Phelps. “I believe his precise words were, wagon burner.”

  “Which you took to mean a member of the First Nations?”

  “Yes.”

  Quigg massaged his temple. Ah, Christ, here we go.

  “Thank you, Constable.”

  Her voice was polite, prim, even. Which just served to show that sharks came in all kinds of guises.

  Suzannah glanced down at her notes, then back at the hapless witness. “So, Constable Langan, could you take a guess how many males from our Native population would fit that description?”

  “Objection, Your Honour. We have eye-witness testimony from the shop owner that the accused is the individual who committed the robbery. He was picked out from a lineup containing no fewer than ten Native men of similar ages and builds.”

  Finally! An objection from the Crown. Quigg resisted the urge to rake a hand through his hair.

  “As my learned friend knows, I could cite dozens of cases where eye-witness identification put innocent men behind bars,” responded Suzannah. “And those were cases where the perpetrators’ faces were not partially obscured by a kerchief.”

  “Point taken.” The judge leaned forward. “Your objection is overruled, Mr. Roth. You may proceed, Ms. Phelps.”

  “Thank you, Judge.” She turned back to the witness. “Again, Constable Langan, in your opinion, can you tell me how many males of Mi'kmaq or Maliseet descent could answer to that description: medium height, stocky build, black hair?”

  A pause. “Quite a few, I would imagine.”

  “A majority of them?”

  “Possibly,” Langan conceded.

  “Then any Native male observed within a reasonable radius of the crime scene might have fit your description?”

  “Maybe. But then again, there aren’t a lot of them in this particular shopping district.”

  Mother of God. Quigg sank even lower in his seat.

  “Ah, so my client shouldn’t have been there in the first place, in an exclusive shopping district?”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Langan’s face hardened. “This particular Native male was fleeing capture.”

  “Is that so?” She made a show of reviewing her notes. “Was my client running when you first spotted him?”

  “No.”

  “When did he start running?”

  “When I cut him off with my vehicle. He was walking fast—I mean, real fast—down the sidewalk, in an easterly direction. I pulled into an
alley, blocked him off.”

  “And then he fled?”

  “Yes. He turned and fled back in a westerly direction.”

  “Were your red and blue bar lights flashing when you executed this maneuver?”

  “Yes.”

  She shuffled some more papers. “Is it conceivable that my client’s flight might have been an ingrained response to perceived police harassment?”

  “No!”

  “No? Constable Langan, are you a member of a visible minority?”

  “No.”

  “Objection!”

  The judge held up his hand in the prosecutor’s direction. “Overruled.”

  “Imagine for a minute that you are a member of a visible minority. What might you do if a police cruiser were to suddenly swing into your path like that?”

  Constable Langan bristled. “The guy had the money on him. The exact amount that was later determined to be missing from the cash register.”

  “Ah, so now we have a First Nations male, walking where he ought not to, with more money in his pocket than he should have?”

  “Money he stole from that shopkeeper at knifepoint!”

  Damn, the kid was losing it.

  “Ah, yes, the knife.” Suzannah flipped the page on the legal pad in front of her. “A knife which bore no fingerprints and which you haven’t been able to tie to my client.”

  “He dumped it down a sewer grate a block from where he was apprehended, two blocks from the scene. He still had the polkadotted blue-and-white handkerchief in his pocket. Give or take the coins in his pockets, he was carrying exactly the amount of money that was stolen. He was ID’d by the shopkeeper...”

  Quigg closed his eyes, pressing a thumb and forefinger against his lids. Inside his head, he heard the theme from Jaws.

  “Thank you for that summation, Constable, but I think the Crown was planning one of its own.” She flipped another page on her yellow pad. “Since you’re feeling so loquacious, maybe you can answer this question for me—do you yourself ever carry a handkerchief?”

  Langan blinked.

  “Would you like me to repeat the question, Constable? When you’re off duty, wearing your civilian clothes, do you ever carry one of those polkadotted handkerchiefs? Shoved in a front pocket of your jeans, maybe, or in your coat pocket?”

  Five more minutes. That’s all it took to completely decimate the Crown’s case. Not that Roth surrendered without a fight. He called the shopkeeper and adduced his evidence. Evidence which the defense challenged effectively. But by the time Suzannah finished her summation, she’d planted more than just the seed of reasonable doubt. No one in the courtroom was surprised when the judge pronounced his verdict without even a short recess. Not guilty. The prisoner was released.

  Quigg stood and slipped out the door as quietly as he’d slipped in.