Ms. Jett took a deep breath. Where was she headed? I didn’t wait to find out.
“As forensic anthropologist for the state, I’m under contract to both UNC Charlotte—I teach an upper-level seminar there—and to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Chapel Hill and the Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner here in Charlotte. I also provide expertise to the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaries et de médecine légale in Montreal.” Read: I am busy. I consult to police agencies, the FBI, the military, coroners, and medical examiners. You know the defense attorney will excuse me if you don’t.
“Do I understand correctly? You work regularly in two countries?”
“It’s not as odd as it sounds. In most jurisdictions, forensic anthropologists function as specialty consultants. As I’ve stated, my colleagues and I are only called in on cases where there’s insufficient flesh for an autopsy, or the remains—”
“Right.”
Jett finger-scanned the endless lineup on her yellow pad.
I stretched—tried to stretch—my unhappy phalanges.
“In the course of your work with the medical examiner’s office, do you come into contact with police officers?”
Finally. Thank you.
“Yes. Often.”
“Prosecuting or defense attorneys?”
“Both. And my ex-husband is a lawyer.” Sort of ex.
“Do you personally know anyone involved in this litigation, the defendant, his family, the police investigators, the attorneys, the judge—”
“Yes.”
And I was excused.
Ignoring my protesting pedal digits, I hobble-bolted from the courtroom, across the lobby, and out the double glass doors. My Mazda was at the farthest corner of the parking deck. Arriving ten minutes past the eight A.M. hour demanded on the summons, I’d grabbed the first space I could find, halfway to Kansas.
After a fast limp across a traffic lane, I rounded a row of vehicles and found my car closely flanked by a humongous SUV on the driver’s side and even more closely wedged on the passenger side. Sweat glands pumping, I wriggled between the two sets of handles and rearview mirrors, butt and chest skimming the grimy doors and side panels squeezing my torso. My classy tan linen now looked like I’d taken a roll in a landfill.
As I wedged the door open and squeezed behind the wheel, something clinked at my feet. A sensible citizen—that is, a citizen in sensible footwear—would have stopped to identify whatever automotive adornment had been dislodged. I focused on my escape, fingers searching for keys in the zipper pouch of my purse.
Feet aflame, I jammed the keys into the ignition and bent sideways to tug at my right shoe. The thing gripped as though grafted onto my flesh.
I tugged harder.
My foot exploded from its casing. With much twisting and maneuvering, I repeated the process on the left.
Settling against the seatback, I eyeballed a pair of spectacular blisters. Then the hated Louboutins in my hand.
My hand.
My wrist.
My bare wrist!
Katy.
A familiar stab of fear pierced my chest.
I pushed it away.
Focus. The bracelet had been in place in the jury lounge, in the jury box.
The clink. The little silver band must have caught on something during my slither along the SUV.
Cursing, I squeezed back out and slammed the car door.
The human brain is a switching station that operates on two levels. As a reflex order fired to my hand, a neural connection was already taking place in my cerebellum. Before the door hit home, I knew I was screwed. Pointlessly, I tried the handle, then checked the position of all four lock buttons.
Cursing even more colorfully, I reached for my purse. Which was lying on the passenger seat.
Shit.
And the keys? Dangling from the ignition.
I stood a moment, pant cuffs waterfalling over my bare feet, suit streaked with dirt, underarms soggy with sweat. And wondered.
Could this day get any worse?
A muted voice floated from inside the car. Andy Grammer singing “Keep Your Head Up,” announcing an incoming call on my iPhone. I almost laughed. Almost.
I’d told my boss, Tim Larabee, that I’d be at the lab before noon. In the jury lounge, I’d phoned to update my ETA to 1:00 P.M. My watch now said 2:00. Larabee would be wondering about the mummified remains awaiting my evaluation.
Maybe it wasn’t Larabee.
Hell. So now what? There was no one I wanted to tell I was standing shoeless on a parking deck, locked out of my car.
But you gotta keep your head up . . .
Right.
I scanned the lot. Full of vehicles. Devoid of people.
Break the car window? With what? Frustrated, I glared at the glass. It countered with an image of an angry woman with really bad hair. Clever.
But it was. My eyes took in the glass that no longer snugged tight to the frame. A worn or missing tooth in the window regulator, Jimmy, my mechanic, had said. Dangerous. Enough gap for some kid to drop a wire and be halfway to Georgia before you realize your car’s been boosted.