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Unformatted text preview: he cops keep it up every day during a long trial? That was the question. Many acquaintances were present, people Patrick had known only in passing but who now suddenly claimed to have been his dearest friends. Some in fact had never met Patrick, but that didn't stop their idle chatter about Patrick this and Patrick that. Likewise, Trudy suddenly had new friends who had stopped by to scowl at the man who had broken her heart and abandoned precious little Ashley Nicole. They read paperbacks and scanned newspapers and tried to look bored, as if they didn't really want to be there. There was movement among the deputy clerks and bailiffs near the bench, and the courtroom instantly grew quiet. The newspapers were lowered in unison. The door next to the jury box opened and brown uniforms poured into the courtroom. Sheriff Sweeney entered, holding Patrick by the elbow, then two more deputies, then Sandy brought up the rear. There he was! Necks strained and stretched and heads bobbed and weaved. The courtroom artists went to work. Patrick walked slowly across the courtroom to the defense table, his head down, though from behind the sunglasses he was searching the spectators. He caught a glimpse of Havarac on the rear wall, his scowling face speaking volumes. And just before he sat he saw Father Phillip, his priest, looking much older but just as amiable. He sat low, his shoulders sagging, chin down, no pride here. He did not look around because he could feel the stares from every direction. Sandy put his arm on his shoulder and whispered something meaningless. The door opened again, and T.L. Parrish, the District Attorney, entered, alone, and walked to his table next to Patrick's. Parrish was a bookish sort with a small ego, contained ego. No higher office was calling him. His trial work was methodical, absent of any trace of flamboyance, and lethal. Parrish currently carried the second-highest conviction rate in the state. He sat next to the Sheriff, who had moved from Patrick's...
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- Spring '10