TWENTY-SIX
In a small room on an upper floor of the Lew Sterrett Justice Center, more commonly known simply as the county jail, Kelly Adair sat on one side of a table that formed the room’s centerpiece. Balanced by a chair beside her and two on the other side, the five pieces of furniture were the only objects in the windowless room. Meanwhile, Uncle Mac had gone to see someone in the D.A.’s office about getting in front of a judge as quickly as possible for a bail hearing. Kelly hoped the D.A. would agree to bail since the defendant was a prominent attorney, and also hoped that, if they agreed, would not insist on something unreasonably high, but something that a judge would sign off on. She had no unrealistic expectations, though. The charge was murder, after all.
As she waited, Kelly
