Dead Ever After

remembered something.” But I could tell she didn’t hang any weight on Jane’s words.
    We went out a side door and directly into the parish van. Jessie had two other prisoners in tow by that time: Ginjer Hart (Mel Hart’s ex-wife), a werepanther who had a habit of passing bad checks, and Diane Porchia, an insurance agent. Of course, I knew Diane had been picked up (which sounded better than “arrested”) for filing false insurance claims, but I’d kind of lost track of her case. Women were transported separately from men, and Jessie, accompanied by Kenya, drove us over to the courthouse. I didn’t look out the window, I was so ashamed that people could see me in this van.
    There was a hush when we filed into the courtroom. I didn’t look at the spectator section, but when attorney Beth Osiecki waved her hand to catch my attention, I almost wept from relief. She was sitting in the front row. Once I’d noticed her, I caught a glimpse of a familiar face over her shoulder.
    Tara was sitting behind the places saved for lawyers. JB was with her. The babies sat in two infant seats between them.
    In the row behind sat Alcide Herveaux, leader of the Shreveport werewolf pack and owner of AAA Accurate Surveys. Next to him was my brother, Jason, and his packleader, Calvin Norris. Jason’s friend and best man, Hoyt Fortenberry, was nearby. Chessie Johnson, who was keeping Arlene’s kids, was having a low-voiced conversation with Kennedy Keyes and her boyfriend, Danny Prideaux, who not only worked at the home builders’ supply but was also Bill Compton’s daytime guy. And right by Danny glowered Mustapha Khan, Eric’s daytime guy, and Mustapha’s buddy Warren, who gave me a wispy smile. Terry Bellefleur stood at the back, shifting from foot to foot uneasily, his wife, Jimmie, at his side. Maxine Fortenberry came in, her walk ponderous and her face as angry as a thunderstorm. She’d brought another friend of Gran’s with her, Everlee Mason. Maxine was wearing her righteous face. It was clear that coming into the courtroom was something she’d never had to do in her life, but by golly she was going to do it today.
    I had a moment of sheer amazement. Why were all these people here? What had brought them to the courtroom on the same day I had a hearing? It seemed like the most incredible coincidence.
    Then I caught the thoughts in their brains, and I understood that there was no coincidence. They were all here on my behalf.
    My vision suddenly blurry from tears, I followed Ginjer Hart as she entered the defendants’ pew. If the jail orange looked awful on me, it wasn’t doing Ginjer any favors, either. Ginjer’s bright red hair was a direct slap in the face to the Day-Glo shade of the ensemble. Diane Porchia, with her neutral coloring, had fared better.
    I didn’t really care about how we looked in our jail clothes. I was trying not to think about the moment. I was so touched that my friends had come, so horrified they’d seen me handcuffed, so hopeful I’d get out . . . so terrified I wouldn’t.
    Ginjer Hart was bound over for trial since no one stepped forward to bail her out. I wondered if Calvin Norris, leader of the werepanthers, hadn’t shown up to stand bail for his clanswoman, but I learned later that this was Ginjer’s third offense and that he’d warned her the first and second times that his patience had a limit. Diane Porchia made bail; her husband was sitting in the last row, looking sad and worn-down.
    Then, finally, it was my turn to step forward. I looked up at the judge, a kindly but shrewd-looking woman. Her nameplate read “Judge Rosoff.” She was in her fifties, I thought. Her hair was in a bun, and her oversized glasses made her eyes look like a Chihuahua’s.
    “Miss Stackhouse,” she said, after looking at the papers in front of her. “This is your arraignment for the murder of Arlene Daisy Fowler. You’re charged with second-degree murder, which carries a penalty of life in prison. You have counsel present, I see. Miss Osiecki?”
    Beth Osiecki took a deep breath. I suddenly understood that she’d never represented someone charged with murder. I was so frightened I could hardly listen to the back-and-forth between the judge and the attorney, but I heard it when the judge said she’d never seen so many friends turn out for a defendant. Beth Osiecki told the judge I should be released on bail, especially in view of the very slim evidence that connected me to Arlene Fowler’s