Chet called court into session and asked everyone to be seated.
“Good afternoon,” the judge said. She asked the attorneys if all parties were present, and when the formalities were out of the way, she clasped her hands on top of the lectern.
“Although I took over this case from Judge Waters, I’ve familiarized myself with it. As I understand the situation, in May of 2010, Grace and Joe Gilroy filed for temporary custody of their granddaughter, Georgia Hunt.” She looked at Crawford. “Mr. Hunt, you did not contest that petition.”
“No, Your Honor, I did not.”
William Moore stood up. “If I may, Your Honor?”
She nodded.
In his rat-a-tat fashion, the lawyer stated the major components of Crawford’s petition to regain custody and summarized why it was timely and proper that Georgia be returned to him. He ended by saying, “Mr. Hunt is her father. He loves her, and his affection is returned, as two child psychologists attest. I believe you have copies of their evaluations of Georgia?”
“Yes, and I’ve reviewed them.” The judge gazed thoughtfully at Crawford, then said, “Mr. Hunt will have a chance to address the court, but first I’d like to hear from the Gilroys.”
Their lawyer sprang to his feet, eager to get their objections to Crawford’s petition on the record. “Mr. Hunt’s stability was brought into question four years ago, Your Honor. He gave up his daughter without argument, which indicates that he knew his child would be better off with her grandparents.”
The judge held up her hand. “Mr. Hunt has conceded that it was in Georgia’s best interest to be placed with them at that time.”
“We hope to persuade the court that she should remain with them.” He called Grace to testify. She was sworn in. Judge Spencer gave her a reassuring smile as she took her seat in the witness box.
“Mrs. Gilroy, why are you and Mr. Gilroy contesting your son-in-law’s petition to regain custody?”
Grace wet her lips. “Well, ours is the only home Georgia has known. We’ve dedicated ourselves to making it a loving and nurturing environment for her.” She expanded on the healthy home life they had created.
Judge Spencer finally interrupted. “Mrs. Gilroy, no one in this courtroom, not even Mr. Hunt, disputes that you’ve made an excellent home for Georgia. My decision won’t be determined by whether or not you’ve provided well for the child, but whether or not Mr. Hunt is willing and able to provide an equally good home for her.”
“I know he loves her,” Grace said, sending an uneasy glance his way. “But love alone isn’t enough. In order to feel secure, children need constancy, routine. Since Georgia doesn’t have a mother, she needs the next best thing.”
“Her daddy.” Crawford’s mutter drew disapproving glances from everyone, including the judge.
Bill Moore nudged his arm and whispered, “You’ll have your turn.”
The judge asked Grace a few more questions, but the upshot of what his mother-in-law believed was that to remove Georgia from their home now would create a detrimental upheaval in her young life. She finished with, “My husband and I feel that a severance from us would have a damaging impact on Georgia’s emotional and psychological development.”
To Crawford the statement sounded scripted and rehearsed, something their lawyer had coached Grace to say, not something that she had come up with on her own.
Judge Spencer asked Crawford’s attorney if he had any questions for Mrs. Gilroy. “Yes, Your Honor, I do.” He strode toward the witness box and didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Georgia often spends weekends with Mr. Hunt, isn’t that right?”
“Well, yes. Once we felt she was old enough to spend a night away from us, and that Crawford was…was
trustworthy
enough, we began allowing him to keep her overnight. Sometimes two nights.”
“When she’s returned to you after these sleepovers with her father, what is Georgia like?”
“Like?”
“What’s her state of mind, her general being? Does she run to you crying, arms outstretched, grateful to be back? Does she act intimidated, fearful, or traumatized? Is she ever in a state of emotional distress? Is she withdrawn and uncommunicative?”
“No. She’s…fine.”
“Crying
only
when her father returns her to you. Isn’t that right?”
Grace hesitated. “She sometimes cries when he drops her off. But only on occasion. Not every time.”
“More often crying after a lengthier visit with him,” the attorney said. “In other words, the longer she’s with him, the greater her separation anxiety when she’s returned to you.” He saw that the Gilroys’ lawyer was about to object and waved him back into his seat. “Conclusion on my part.”
He apologized to the judge, but Crawford knew he wasn’t sorry for having gotten his point across and on the record.
He addressed another question to Grace. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Hunt intoxicated?”
“It was a while ago. I don’t remember exactly.”
“A week ago? A month? A year?”
“Longer than that.”
“Longer than that,” Moore repeated. “Four years ago? During the worst of his bereavement over the loss of his wife?”
“Yes. But—”
“To your knowledge, has Mr. Hunt ever been drunk while with Georgia?”
“No.”
“Lost his temper and struck her?”
“No.”
“Yelled at her, used abusive or vulgar language in front of her?”
“No.”
“Failed to feed her when she was hungry?”
“No.”
“Failed to secure her in her car seat? Not shown up when she was expecting him? Has he
ever
neglected to see to his daughter’s physical or emotional needs?”
Grace dipped her head and spoke softly. “No.”
Moore turned to the judge and spread his arms at his sides. “Your Honor, this proceeding is an imposition on the court’s time. Mr. Hunt made some mistakes, which he readily acknowledges. Over time, he’s reconstructed his life. He relocated to Prentiss from Houston in order to see his daughter regularly.
“He’s undergone the counseling that your predecessor mandated twelve months ago. A year hasn’t diminished his determination to regain custody of his child, and I submit that, except for their own selfish interests, there are no grounds whatsoever for Mr. and Mrs. Gilroy to be contesting my client’s petition.”
The Gilroys’ lawyer surged to his feet. “Your Honor, my clients’ grounds for contesting this petition are in the file. Mr. Hunt has proved himself to be unfit—”
“I have the file, thank you,” Judge Spencer said. “Mrs. Gilroy, please step down. I’d like to hear from Mr. Hunt now.”
Grace left the witness stand looking distraught, as though she had miserably failed their cause.
Crawford stood up, smoothed down his necktie, and walked to the witness box. Chet swore him in. Crawford sat down and looked at the judge—in the eye, as Moore had coached him to do.
“Mr. Hunt, four years ago some of your behavior brought your ability to be a good parent into question.”
“Which is why I didn’t contest Joe and Grace being awarded temporary custody of Georgia. She was only thirteen months old when Beth died. She needed constant care, which circumstances prevented me from providing. My obligations at work, other issues.”
“
Serious
other issues.”
That wasn’t a question. He kept his mouth shut.
The judge flipped through several official-looking papers and ran her finger down one sheet. “You were arrested and pled guilty to DUI.”
“Once. But I—”
“You were arrested for public indecency and—”
“I was urinating.”
“—assault.”
“It was a bar fight. Everyone who threw a punch was detained. I was released without—”
“I have the file.”
He sat there seething, realizing that his past would devastate his future. Judge Holly Spencer was cutting him no slack. After giving him a long, thoughtful appraisal, she again shuffled through the pages of what she had referred to as his “file.” He wondered how bad it looked with his transgressions spelled out in black and white. If her frown was any indication, not good.
Finally, she said, “You went to all the counseling sessions.”
“Judge Waters made clear that each one was mandatory. All twenty-five of them. I made certain not to miss any.”
“The therapist’s report is comprehensive. According to her, you made remarkable progress.”
“I think so. I
know
so.”
“I commend your diligence, Mr. Hunt, and I admire your commitment to regaining custody of the daughter you obviously love.”
Here it comes
, he thought.
“However—”
The door at the back of the courtroom burst open and a figure straight out of a horror movie ran up the center aisle, handgun extended. The first bullet struck the wall behind the witness box, splitting the distance between Crawford and Judge Spencer.
The second one got the bailiff Chet Barker square in the chest.
S
hots were fired rapidly, one right after another. Crawford tried to count them, but lost track in the chaos that erupted inside the courtroom.
Judge Spencer surged to her feet, shouting Chet’s name in alarm.
Joe shoved Grace out of her chair and onto the floor, then ducked down beside her.
The attorneys scurried for cover beneath the tables at which they sat. The court reporter did the same.
Impervious to the scurrying and ear-piercing screams, the shooter, clad in stark white, his facial features distorted by a clear plastic mask, stepped over Chet’s still form as though it weren’t there, and kept coming, shooting, aiming toward the front of the courtroom.
All this registered with Crawford instantly, and he reacted instinctually by vaulting over the railing that separated the witness box from the judge’s podium, forcing her to the floor, then landing on top of her.
Four shots? Five? Six? Crawford had recognized the pistol as a nine-millimeter. Depending on the size of the clip—
Sensing when the shooter rounded the witness box and stepped onto the platform, Crawford whipped his head around. The shooter had a bead on him. Crawford kicked backward. His boot heel caught the guy in the kneecap, hard enough to throw the attacker off balance. His arm went up, and the shot went into the ceiling. Still off balance, he stumbled backward off the platform, then turned and ran for the side exit of the courtroom.
Crawford came up onto one knee and bent over the judge. After confirming that she was alive, he launched himself off the platform like a sprinter off the chocks. He knelt down beside Chet, determined instantly that he was dead and, without allowing himself to think about the waste of a good man, unsnapped the bailiff’s holster and yanked his service revolver from it.
A bailiff from another court barreled in through the rear door, skidding to a halt when he saw Crawford checking to make certain Chet’s revolver was loaded. The bailiff went for his own weapon.
Crawford shouted, “Texas Ranger Hunt! Chet’s down.”
“Oh, Crawford, jeez. What happened?”
Civilians were beginning to crowd in behind the nervous bailiff. “Get those people to take cover. Notify officers downstairs that we have a shooter. He’s masked, dressed in white from head to toe. Tell them not to mistake me for him.”
By now he’d made it to the side exit through which the gunman had disappeared. He opened the door a crack and when nothing happened, banged it open and lunged through, sweeping the pistol from side to side. The long, narrow corridor was empty save for a woman standing in the open doorway of an office, her mouth agape, a hand to her throat.
“Go back into your office.”
“What’s happening? Who was that painter?”
“Which way did he go?”
She pointed toward the door to the fire stairs. When Crawford came even with her, he pushed her inside the office and pulled the door closed. “Lock it,” he said through the door. “Get under your desk and don’t come out. Call 911. Tell them what you saw.”
He jogged down the hall toward the fire stairs.
A man from another office poked his head out into the hallway, saw Crawford, and his eyes went wide with fear. “Please, I—”
“Listen.” Wasting no time on an explanation, Crawford gave him terse instructions about taking cover and staying there until given the all-clear. The man ducked back into his office and slammed the door.
Crawford slowed down as he approached the door to the fire stairs, closing the remainder of the distance with caution. He took a quick peek through the square, wired window in the top third of the door. Seeing nothing through the glass, he cautiously pulled the door open and, with his gun hand extended, made a wide sweep of the stairs above and below him. Nothing happened.
He entered the stairwell, where he paused, waiting for a sound or a motion that would give away which direction the shooter had gone. Then, from behind him—
He spun around as a deputy sheriff stepped through the corridor door. They recognized each other, which was fortunate because their weapons were aimed at each other’s heads. The deputy was about to speak when Crawford placed his index finger against his lips.
The deputy, nodding understanding, motioned that he would go down, Crawford up.
Careful
, Crawford mouthed.
Keeping close to the wall, Crawford crept up the stairs to the next landing. He opened the door onto a corridor exactly matching the one on the floor below. Aggregate flooring, walls painted government-building beige. Here and there hung a framed portrait of a dour, bygone official. Doors to various offices lined both sides of the hall.
About midway down, two men and a woman were conferring quietly, their aspects fearful. One of the men, seeing that Crawford was armed, raised his hands in surrender.
“I’m a Texas Ranger,” Crawford whispered. “Did you see a person dressed all in white?” Remembering how the first woman had described the shooter, he added, “A painter?”
They shook their heads.
“Lock yourselves in an office. Stay clear of the door and don’t open it to anyone except police.”
Crawford slipped back into the stairwell. He heard footsteps coming up from below and figured the deputy sheriff had picked up a few reinforcements on their climb up from the first floor of the building where the Prentiss County Sheriff’s Office was located. Obviously they hadn’t encountered the shooter going down the stairs. If they had, there would have been considerably more noise, likely gunshots, echoing in the stairwell.
Crawford continued up. When he reached the sixth-floor landing, he stepped to the door and looked both ways through the window into the corridor. Another group of courthouse personnel was huddled together, looking frightened, but not hysterical, which they would have been had the masked gunman just raced past them.
He cracked the door and, staving off their questions about the gunshots they’d heard, identified himself and whispered instructions about taking cover, which they were quick to act on. He eased back into the stairwell and proceeded up to the next landing, which was only half a flight. It ended at the door that opened onto the roof.
In the corner adjacent to the door lay a pair of white coveralls, white cap, a pair of latex gloves, and shoe covers. Probably beneath the heap he’d find the mask, but he didn’t touch anything.
Noticeably missing from the pile of castoff items was the gunman’s pistol.
Leaning over the railing and looking below, he saw the deputy and several other uniformed officers stealthily making their way up. Crawford hitched his head toward the door to the roof. One of the officers backed down to the next landing and spoke quietly into the mike clipped to his epaulette, then gave Crawford and the others a thumbs-up.
Crawford knew that by now the rehearsed emergency response would have been implemented. The courthouse would be surrounded by policemen. Exits would be sealed off, anyone trying to leave or enter would be stopped. A SWAT team would have been deployed. Sharpshooters were no doubt already taking up positions on the roofs of neighboring buildings.
The gunman hadn’t thought this out very well. The only way it could end for him was badly. Unless he could fly, he wasn’t going to leave this building a free man. And as soon as he realized that, he might decide that he might just as well take out a couple more people before his inevitable capture. He’d already killed Chet in front of witnesses. Why not go for broke and make a name for himself as a mass murderer?
Crawford shrugged off his sport jacket and dropped it to the floor, then pushed open the exit door a crack. “Hey, buddy,” he called through it. “Let’s talk.”
He half expected bullets to pepper the metal door, but nothing happened. He opened the door another inch or two. “I’m a Texas Ranger, but I’m not in uniform. I can show you my badge. I’m coming out, okay? I’m unarmed. I just want to talk to you. You cool with that?”
By now the other officers had joined him. One whispered, “Crawford, you sure about this?”
He gave the guy a wry grin to acknowledge the danger he faced, then stuck Chet’s pistol into his waistband at the small of his back, opened the door wide enough to squeeze through, and stepped out onto the gravel roof, arms raised.
It took several seconds for his eyes to adjust to the blazing sunlight, then he immediately saw the guy. He wasn’t even trying to hide. He was standing near the low wall at the edge of the roof. He was Hispanic, late twenties or early thirties, average height, pudgy in the middle.
He didn’t look like anybody to be afraid of except for the pistol that he was aiming at Crawford with a shaky hand. In the other hand he held a smoldering cigarette.
Crawford kept his hands raised. “I’m gonna show you my badge, okay?” He eased his right hand down toward the leather holder clipped to his belt, but when the man dropped his cigarette and ordered, “No!” Crawford put his hand back in the air. “This is a bad idea, pal.”
The man jabbed the pistol forward several times.
“You don’t want to shoot me,” Crawford said. “Put down the weapon, why don’t you? Then nobody else will get hurt, including you.”
In spite of Crawford’s calming tone, the man was becoming increasingly agitated. He rapidly blinked trickles of sweat from his eyes, which darted from side to side. When they came back to Crawford, he motioned again with the pistol for him to back away.
It occurred to Crawford that he might not speak English.
“Habla inglés?
”
“
Sí.
” Then more forcibly, “
Sí.
”
The reply had sounded angrily defensive, leaving Crawford to doubt the man’s command of the language. He took a step forward and made a patting motion toward the ground. “
La pistola
. Down.”
“No.” He brought his other hand up to cradle the pistol and thrust it at arm’s length toward Crawford.
Shit
!
“Come on, buddy. There’s no good way out of this if you don’t—
No!
”
One of the officers must have come out another door accessing the roof because he had suddenly appeared in Crawford’s peripheral vision. The gunman saw him at the same time. He whipped the firearm toward the deputy and pulled the trigger twice. He missed.
But the sharpshooters in place on the neighboring roof didn’t.
The gunman’s body jerked with the impact of each bullet, then crumpled and went entirely still.
Crawford, deflating, backed up to the wall and slid down it until he was crouching on his heels. He watched as officers in various uniforms swarmed through the stairwell door and surrounded the body leaking blood onto the gravel.
Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Crawford looked up into the face of the deputy who’d expressed concern about his going out onto the roof. “You hit?”
He shook his head.
“You got lucky.” He pressed Crawford’s shoulder, then left him to join the other officers grouped around the fallen man.
Crawford’s head dropped forward until his chin touched his chest. “You dumb son of a bitch.”
Anyone overhearing his castigating mutter would have assumed he was addressing the dead man. They would be mistaken.
“Hunt?”
Crawford, who’d been staring sightlessly at the floor, looked toward the homicide detective holding open the interrogation room door and motioning with his head for Crawford to go in.
Crawford had to forcibly exert enough energy to stand up. He dreaded this like hell, but was eager to get it over with.
Inside the room, another man in plainclothes whom Crawford didn’t know was standing with his back to the wall, noisily cracking his knuckles and giving a wad of chewing gum a workout. Crawford wondered what he had to be nervous about.
Sergeant Neal Lester, the senior detective who’d laconically summoned Crawford into the room, motioned him into one of the chairs at the small table and took a seat opposite him. Between them on the table were a legal tablet and a video recording setup.
Neal Lester withdrew a pen from his shirt pocket and clicked the retractor at the end of it several times as he fixed an unfriendly gaze on Crawford. Classmates from primary school, they’d never liked each other, and the mutual dislike had intensified when, in high school, Crawford had dated Neal’s younger sister. The attraction had been short-lived and had never amounted to anything, but apparently Neal still had a burr up his butt about it.
“Want something to drink?” He made the question sound obligatory.
“No thanks.”
“You know Matt Nugent? Recently made detective.” He nodded toward the younger man who was still fidgeting.
Crawford acknowledged the quasi-introduction by hitching his chin in the detective’s direction.
He grinned, showing crooked teeth. “How’s it goin’?” A ridiculous greeting under the circumstances. Crawford didn’t reply and returned his attention to Neal Lester, who had continued the infernal pen-clicking.
“You know the drill,” he said.
Crawford nodded.
“This interview will be recorded.”
Crawford nodded.
“You ready then?”
“When you are, Neal.”
“Let’s keep it official. No first names.”
Crawford barely kept himself from rolling his eyes. One reason he’d never liked Neal Lester was because he was such a tight-ass. Even as a kid, he’d obeyed all the rules and tattled on kids who didn’t.
What galled Crawford now, Neal Lester was eating this up. He was enjoying having Crawford in the hot seat.
However, personal feelings aside, the bottom line was that two men were dead, and Crawford had been within feet of both when they died. As a law enforcement officer, Neal and his nervous sidekick had a duty to perform, and that included questioning him.
He shifted in his chair, trying but failing to better fit his tall frame into the preformed plastic. “Fair enough,
Sergeant Lester
, where do we begin?”
“Inside the courtroom.” With a decisive punch of his index finger, Neal started the recorder, stated the date, time, and who was present. “Why were you in Family Court today?”