My eyes widened in surprise and I leaned closer, trying to ignore the overpowering cat food smell. “Oh, you’re worryin’ for nothing. He can’t do that!”

She bit her lip, tears pooling in her eyes. “Are you sure?”

I nodded. “Positive.” Mostly.

I had to admit Judge McClary was a cranky old coot, but surely poisoning most of the jury wasn’t grounds to arrest someone.

Oh, wait.

We all stood as the judge entered the courtroom, his face twisted into a grimace. That didn’t bode well for poor Mrs. Baker. I cast an anxious glance in her direction. Her face was as white as Suzanne’s hair after a beauty school flunky had bleached all the pigment out.

After we were all seated, the judge banged his gavel with extra force. “This court is now in session.” He glared at Mrs. Baker and I reached my hand over to hers and gripped tight.

“Since we’ve had a day and a half recess due to a toxic-laden casserole”—if possible, his eyes narrowed even more—“we’ve got a lot of time to make up. Plan on staying late, people.”

His voice echoed around the room. Dismayed at his announcement, I dropped my hold on Mrs. Baker. I suspected this was going to interfere with my Little Rock trip. I tried to swallow the ill will I’d begun to feel toward her.

“Call the first witness!” Judge McClary barked.

Mr. Deveraux slid out of his seat, and assumed his usual lemon face. He’d purposely avoided looking at me, but as he stood and adjusted his suit coat, he turned his head to the side as if he was stretching his neck and his eye caught mine. If possible, his face scrunched up more. His bad mood rivaled the judge’s.

“The state calls Mr. David Moore.”

A man in faded jeans and a wrinkled dress shirt walked toward the front of the courtroom. His bushy, dirty-blond hair covered his ears and the top of his collar. The short steps he took, along with the fear in his eyes, suggested he was approaching a torture-filled interrogation, not a witness stand.

After he was sworn in, Mr. Moore squirmed in his seat. Even more than Bruce Wayne, and that was saying something.

“Mr. Moore,” Mason Deveraux said in a deep voice. “Tell the court how you know Bruce Decker?”

“Um…” David shifted in his seat from one side to other while his hand drummed on the witness stand ledge. “We’re friends.”

“And how long have you known the defendant?”

He looked up, wide-eyed. “Who?”

Mr. Deveraux sighed and spoke slowly. “Bruce Decker.”

“Oh…” He looked around the room and stopped when his gaze fell on Bruce. “Since we were kids.”

Bruce’s usual squirming had stopped, his full attention on the witness box.

“And you two are friends? Good friends?”

“Yeah.”

“And what types of things do you and Mr. Decker do?”

“Uh…”

“Would it be accurate to say you two smoke marijuana together on a regular basis?”

Bruce’s attorney burst out of his seat like someone had pinched him in the butt. “Objection, your honor! Mr. Deveraux is leading the witness.”

I fought to keep my mouth from falling open. Mr. Yates was actually making an attempt to defend his client.

“Sustained.” Judge McClary turned to the assistant DA and glared.

Mason Deveraux’s mouth formed a thin line, but after a moment he lifted his chin and gave the witness a fake smile. “What did the two of you do together?”

“Oh, you know…video games…hang out in my parents’ basement…smoked weed.”

Mr. Deveraux turned to look at Mr. Yates with raised eyebrows as he gloated. “And how did your friend Bruce support his habit?”

“Huh?”

“Where did he get the money to buy pot?”

“Oh!” David’s face lit up with understanding. “Well, he had a job at the Burger Shack for awhile. Then he worked at the Piggly Wiggly, then after that—”

“Objection, your honor,” Mr.Yates shouted. “While it’s true that my client has a lengthy work history, it’s not necessary to go over every single place that he’s worked.”

“Sustained!” the judge shouted. “Let’s get on with this.”

Mr. Deveraux’s face turned pink and he paced. “Mr. Moore, did Bruce always have enough money from his varied careers to pay for his weed?”

“Huh?”

“Did he make enough at his jobs to buy his pot?”

“Oh…No.”

“And how did he get money to support his habit, er, how did he get the money to buy his drugs?”

“Sometimes he’d shoplift or steal small things from—”

Mr. Yates flew out of his seat again. “Objection! Hearsay!”

Deveraux walked toward the judge. “Your Honor, this has relevance, if you’ll bear with me.”

“Overruled. Ask your questions.”

Deveraux gloated again, an unbecoming feature on a grown man. “And how did you know that Bruce shoplifted or stole things?”

“He always told me or…sometimes I’d help him.”

“Did you ever break into houses?”

He shrugged. “A time or two.”

“And did you help Mr. Decker rob the hardware store the night Frank Mitchell was killed?”

“No! I didn’t have anything to do with that.”