"Are the duplicate audio cylinders intact in the Dictaphone, Thomas?" the judge asked, his tone cutting like a razor.
"The Dictaphone was left in the trunk well, Your Honor," I answered, watching Coyle's face drain of all its remaining color. "The salvage driver is currently hooking the rear axle at Oakhaven Yard."
"Sergeant Miller," Judge Miller's voice barked over the open line.
The sergeant snatched the receiver back up, standing at rigid attention. "Yes, Your Honor."
"Dispatch two marked units to Oakhaven Yard right now. Secure the vehicle, impound the tow rig, and detain the salvage operator. If that Town Car is moved an inch before the State Bureau of Investigation arrives from Columbia, I will hold you personally in contempt of court. And strip Deputy Coyle of his badge and sidearm this second."
Miller looked up at Coyle.
Coyle’s hand hovered above his holster, trembling. He looked around the room, but the two road deputies who had been typing were already on their feet, their thumbs hooked over their duty holsters, their eyes fixed squarely on his chest.
"Unclip the belt, Vance," Miller said quietly. "Slowly. Don't make this any worse than it already is."
“The United States Marshal Service is on the line.”