Page 36 of Stone Coast (Tyson Wild Thriller)

T he grungy numbers clicked under my fingers.

An automated voice responded, “Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try again.”

All that for nothing.

Directory assistance was blocked from this phone.

I looked for a bench to take a seat on, but they were all occupied with people lounging. As soon as I drew near, an inmate made room. My display with the phone lady had earned me some credibility in here, and that wasn’t a bad thing.

I had no idea how I was going to get out of here. The idea of sitting in the county pod until my trial wasn’t appealing.

I figured I’d have 24 hours in this holding cell before they transferred me over to the county .

I managed to make it to the next morning without interference from the other inmates. My little stunt with the phone girl had paid off.

I’m not going to say I slept well, but I managed to cop a few Zs. I still felt like a zombie in the morning, but it wasn’t complete sleep deprivation. Though I’m sure I certainly looked like a zombie. And without coffee, more like a demon.

I was transferred early to the courthouse for my arraignment. The bench loomed large, the state seal on the wall behind it, flanked by the American flag and the state flag. The walls were clad in dark wood paneling, giving the courtroom a sense of gravitas.

A court reporter banged on the stenograph, and the bailiff stood at the ready. The air was still, and the room had the reverence of a church.

I was seated with other prisoners, waiting for my case to be called.

A nerdy-looking guy with dark hair, glasses, and a gray suit approached.

He called out a list of names. “Marcus Adams, Maria Gomez, and Steven Jackson. My name is Nolan Allen. I am your court-appointed attorney. I’ll be representing you today at the arraignment.

If you have any questions, we’ll have a brief moment to huddle before your arraignment begins.

Keep your mouth shut. I’ll do all the talking. ”

“Excuse me,” I said. “I asked for a public defender.”

Nolan gave me a curious look. “What’s your name?”

I told him .

He looked at his list again. “I’m sorry. You’re not on here.”

My brow knitted with frustration and confusion. “What kind of bullshit is this? I need representation.”

The chamber door opened, and the judge strutted into the courtroom in her flowing black robe.

Her brunette hair was in a stylish updo that required lots of hairspray.

Tortoiseshell glasses framed piercing brown eyes.

This was a woman who had seen everything.

She’d heard every lame excuse imaginable, every outrageous, implausible defense.

Her laser eyes cut right through the bullshit.

The bailiff shouted, “All rise!”

Everyone complied.

“The Honorable Helen Collins presiding. This court is now in session.”

Judge Collins took a seat behind the bench, adjusted her glasses, and examined the docket before her. “Please be seated.”

Chairs creaked and groaned like pews in a cathedral as everyone sat down.

“I’ll check into your situation and get back to you,” the public defender said.

The cold steel bit into my wrists, and my nervous eyes flicked around. That sense of panic filled me again. Without an attorney, I felt naked. Vulnerable. Stupid.

“Case number 2025–CK–14627, the State of Florida versus Savannah Stone.” The judge glanced around the courtroom. “Is counsel present for the defendant? ”

A gentleman in a rather expensive navy blue suit burst into the courtroom just as she called the case number.

It was tailored to perfection. Briefcase in hand, he strolled down the center aisle with a confident smile on his face.

The silver Oyster Perpetual Rolex on his wrist told me this was no public defender.

With salon-styled hair and handsome features, he put the capital C in cocky.

He was either playing the part or he was actually a high-powered attorney.

Still, there was something a little smarmy about him.

Without missing a stride, he pointed at me, motioned me toward him, and continued to the defendant’s table. “Tanner Prescott for the defense, Your Honor.”

She stifled an eye-roll. She knew damn good and well who he was.

I didn’t know what the hell was going on, but I joined him.

The stenographer tapped the keys.

Prescott muttered to me, “Keep quiet. You haven’t said anything or admitted guilt, have you?”

“No. I’m innocent.”

“Sure you are.”

The judge gave him an annoyed look and cleared her throat.

Prescott straightened up, adjusted his suit, and regarded her with a nod.

The state’s attorney was a viper of a woman with shoulder-length auburn hair, predatory eyes, and a sharp figure.

She wore navy blue pants and a cream blazer.

I figured a stint in the prosecutor’s office would lead to a career on the other side.

But for now, she looked like she was ready to bury every dirtbag under the jail.

The judge looked at her and said, “Let’s hear the charges, Ms. Vale.”

“The defendant is charged with first-degree murder in the death of Carter Wallace. A handgun belonging to the defendant was found in a dumpster not far from the body. The ballistics match the defendant’s gun, and her fingerprints were on the weapon.

Given the severity of the crime and the fact that we believe Ms. Stone is a flight risk, the state is requesting no bail. ”

Prescott scoffed like it was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard.

“My client is not guilty and is not a flight risk. She is an upstanding member of the community and a decorated veteran who has served her country with distinction. The firearm was stolen, and my client tried to report it as such. The PBPD’s phone system was down.

Imagine that,” he quipped. “There is no evidence to suggest my client was at the scene. This whole thing is ridiculous.”

The judge leaned back and gave a suspicious glance to the state’s attorney. “Ms. Vale?”

“Your Honor, the defendant believed that the decedent, Carter Wallace, was responsible for the death of her fiancé.”

“Objection. Is she a mind reader now?”

Ms. Vale cleared her throat and rephrased. “The defendant contacted local law enforcement and suggested Wallace was a suspect in the recent murder of her fiancé. We believe the defendant took matters into her own hands. ”

“My client has no criminal history, Your Honor,” Prescott said.

“How does your client plead, Mr. Prescott?”

“Not guilty.”

The judge paused for a moment in consideration. “Bail will be set at $250,000. Ms. Stone, you are to surrender your passport and remain within the county. You are to surrender all firearms.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And stay out of trouble.” The judge banged her gavel. “Next!”

Prescott flashed Ms. Vale a smirk.

She didn’t look pleased.

I asked Prescott, “Where did you come from?”