My gaze doesn’t linger on him, though, being drawn instead to the man standing behind him.
Logan, who defended Stuart Garnett against those charges. Who got him acquitted. Who, I’m pretty sure, actually believed his client innocent. Not that that matters much. But still.
My husband’s like a statue carved into a mountain. He’s utterly immobile, immovable, and apparently unshakable. Which might fool some people, but not me. I know that stony look in his eyes. He’s stunned, and he’s pissed.
Part of his anger might be that I got hold of this info before he did, but I’d bet my last penny that the bulk of his fury is reserved for his client.
“What are you talking about?” Stu croaks after a prolonged silence.
“Cut the crap, Stuart.” The older woman slams her water glass down on the counter. “Our investigator found the proof.”
Garnett laughs nervously. “Bullshit.”
Caroline shoots forward, across the kitchen to the counter behind the bar. “No, you know what’s bullshit?” she rages, pointing an accusing finger at her husband. “I believed you. I stood by you, went to bat for you. I talked to the press, pronounced to the whole world that you were innocent. And the whole time, you weren’t just guilty as sin, the three of you were using my business in your little scheme. Implicating my life’s work. Implicating me!”
Though he appears to fold and shrink, his countenance like that of a cornered animal, her husband finds it within himself to heave a shrug and say, “Well, that doesn’t matter now, does it? I was acquitted. Can’t be charged with the same crime twice.” Swiveling his head, he casts a questioning look at Logan. “Double jeopardy. Right?”
A muscle in Logan’s jaw twitches. And that’s his only response.
“You fucking asshole,” Caroline spits, and then her gaze drops, zeroes in on something on the counter. Time slows. Shit! I’ve seen that expression on her face before. Yesterday, when she almost pushed Stu off a cliff.
My breath catching, I shoot up from my chair just as the older woman lifts her arm above her head and sends an object flying across the room. It whizzes past within a couple of inches of her husband’s head before it hits the wall just behind him, where it crashes and shatters with a piercing bang. Water sprays the wall, broken pieces of glass scattering across the floor.
I exhale sharply. Good God, this woman. This couple, this case! It’s going to be the death of me. My gaze seeks Logan again, and I see that he looks as dumbfounded as I feel.
“Whoa!” Garnett’s face flushes blood red, and his frog-voice turns shrill. “Calm the hell down!”
“How could you do this to me?” she shrieks. And then she grabs something else off the surface in front of her before lunging around the bar counter, a maniacal glint in her eyes as she charges straight for Stu. Gripped in her hand is a long-handled wooden cutting board.
“Caroline!” I upend my chair as I explode into action, rushing at her. “Stop!”
“Hey! Enough. Enough!” I hear Logan’s booming voice somewhere behind me, and a little farther away, Stuart is squeaking, “Jesus Christ, woman!”
My client raises her arm while running at him, and I make a desperate dive for her, aiming for her makeshift weapon. Just as I reach out, grasping, her arm and the board start swinging down.
Hard. What hits me is so hard, and it thrusts me sideways, my neck twisting and bending. Stunned, I stagger backward. Everything goes black, sparks shooting and popping behind my eyes. My legs start to buckle, but then arms wrap around me, catching me, supporting me.
Clutching my face, I lean against the solid and warm body. I’m dimly aware it’s my husband, holding me close, and his voice sounds ragged near my ear as he mutters, “Fucking shit.”
“Oh, my God,” I hear Caroline moan. “Paige.”
Logan feels as strong as a pillar while he gently steers me toward the living room and the love seat—the love seat!—where he keeps the firm grip on me, lowering me onto the cushion. Sitting down next to me, he asks quietly, “You okay, baby?”
“I think so.” I pull my hands away from my face and study them. No blood, thank goodness. The whole left side of my head is pulsing and vibrating with pain, though, and my ears are ringing, making everyone’s voices sound farther away than they are.
“I’m so sorry,” Caroline breathes out, coming over to crouch down next to me, putting her hand on my arm. “I’m so sorry, Paige.”
“I’m fine,” I reassure her, and I’m more or less convinced it’s the truth. “Not even bleeding. Right?” I turn and direct the question at Logan, who’s watching me with his lips drawn tight, his forehead creased with worry, and he shakes his head no.
“How many?” he asks, holding up fingers in front of me.
“Three,” I reply, noticing he still has a slight indentation around the base of his ring finger. Unthinkingly, I touch my thumb to my own ring finger, rubbing the back of it, a fidgety habit I used to have. Back when I still wore a wedding ring.
“That’s gonna bruise,” Stu comments from over by the door.
“Thanks for your input,” Caroline snaps, whipping her head toward him, and I steel myself for another flare of her formidable temper.
“She needs ice,” Logan says, letting go of me to push off the couch and stand up.
“I got it.” My client jumps up and dashes toward the kitchen.
Sitting down again, my husband gently clasps my chin and turns and tilts my head, squinting at me. The emotion he’s restraining is reflected in his eyes, a dark and burning fury, and it makes me squirmy inside to realize how comforting I’m finding his obvious concern, his protectiveness.
I’m not a weak or needy person. I’d never want a man in my life only to have someone to take care of me. Which is why I always hated how much I loved it when he did just that. And I hate it even more now, because I realize how much I’ve missed it.
Caroline returns, carrying a dish towel turned into a makeshift ice pack. As she kneels again and delivers it to me, Logan snatches it from her and presses it against the side of my head. While my throbbing face turns cold and numb, my hands twitch in my lap. I almost lift them up to try to take the pack from him, because I can hold it myself, dammit.
But it’s not worth the bother. This is fine. As long as he’s busy being my knight in shining armor, he won’t lose his shit on our insane clients.
“Can we have a conversation like adults now?” Stuart asks, and with my one uncovered eye, I see him plunk himself down in the armchair.
Caroline stands up straight, whirling toward him. “Get out.”
Garnett blinks up at her, smiling and laughing hesitantly. “What?”
“Get out of here,” my client commands coldly. “Don’t come back for at least an hour. I’ll be gone. I don’t want to see you again.”
Her husband’s eyes shift. “Bunny—”
“Get the fuck out of here, Stuart!” she yells, pointing at the door.
Stu’s nostrils flare, and with a lurch, he gets up out of the chair. “You know,” he says nastily, “while we’re still married, you can’t testify against me. So you can kiss your quick and quiet divorce goodbye.”
What? I breathe out a laugh of disbelief. Oh, my goodness. He’s so dumb it’s painful.
“Stu…” Logan says from beside me, a weary warning. He’s so fed up with these people I can practically smell it. And I know the feeling.
“You think I give a shit?” Caroline hisses. “All I care about now is making sure you go to prison. So you can kiss your precious ass goodbye.”
Garnett’s face turns ruddy, and without another word, he flips around and stamps toward the door. The door slams more loudly than necessary behind him.
Turning back toward us and bracing her hands on her hips, Caroline watches me, her expression softening. She’s deeply and genuinely remorseful, I can tell. Which to me right now is a big, fat whatever. The woman seriously needs to consider anger management therapy.
“I’d like to talk to Pa
ige in private,” she says to Logan.
I feel him stiffen. “Forget it.”
“It’s okay.” My hands brush against his as I reach up to take over support of the ice pack. Meeting his stubborn gaze with an imploring one of my own, I say, “Please.”
Indecision flickers in his eyes, and then with a tight-lipped sigh, he gets up and follows his client’s example with equally obvious reluctance. The door doesn’t slam quite as loudly, though.
Caroline takes a seat next to me, seizing my hand and squeezing it briefly before letting go. “I’m so sorry.”
I offer her a faint smile. My face is now so numb the ice pack doesn’t even feel cold anymore. “Don’t worry about it. It was an accident.” Hitting me, anyway. She clearly fully intended to try to bash her husband’s brains in.
I can’t entirely blame her.
“What did you want to talk about?” My arm is tiring, so I slouch back against the cushions so that I can rest it on my chest.
Her troubled expression deepens. “Is it true I can’t testify against him?”
“No,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “Stu’s obviously talking about spousal privilege, but he doesn’t understand it. Most states have that provision. The idea is that no one should have to worry about getting in legal trouble over things they share with their spouse. But it just means you can’t be forced to testify against him. You can still choose to do it if you want to.”
She sighs heavily. “So, say I turn in this evidence. Can they come after me? Come after my company?”
“Maybe.” I actually doubt it, but I can’t give her any guarantees, especially since criminal law is not my area of expertise. “If you’re going to take that step, you should find yourself a good criminal defense attorney first.”
Releasing an outraged breath, Caroline grunts, “God damn him. And her. And Scott. God!”
I have no words of comfort. There are none. She’s got no options that don’t suck.
“Well, I’m not going to sit on this,” she announces briskly, squaring her shoulders. “My business is on the line.”
“Yeah,” I agree, my mouth twisting with sympathy. “If it ever comes out that you found out and did nothing, it’ll look bad. Really bad.”
With a nod, Caroline announces that she needs to start packing. Before heading out, I tell her that I’ll file a motion with the court for a continuance on her divorce and she should get in touch as soon as she’s ready to proceed. She says she will, and then she orders me to not wait to bill her. She’ll expect an invoice for what she owes me so far ASAP, she states emphatically.
Having absolutely no argument with that, I hand over the ice pack to her before grabbing my bag off the kitchen table.
“Oh, and Paige,” she says as I’m grasping the handle on the front door. “Go ahead and free up your schedule. Everyone I know who needs a family or litigation attorney, I’m sending your way.”
Thanking her with a grateful smile, I leave the cabin and almost skip down the steps, feeling like I’m walking on air as I stroll away down the path.
Because hell yeah. I’ve arrived.
Chapter 20
Logan
I find Stu on a large rock beside the path, about halfway between our cabins. He sits with his elbows on his knees, head hanging, appearing broken. I’m not fooled, though. No way he’s not going to act like a sullen child.
He raises his head as he hears me approach, his face hardening as he takes in my expression. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the first client who’s lied to you.”
“No,” I agree, “and you won’t be the last. I’m still calling Charlton to tell him he needs to find someone else to represent you. And that you’re probably going to need criminal defense again.”
My soon-to-be-former client’s brows crash down. “They can’t charge me with the same crime twice.”
Shaking my head, I draw a breath, praying for strength. “You’re underestimating the DA’s creativity. Since it turns out you had an accomplice, the most obvious charge would be conspiracy, but I’m sure they won’t stop there. And they’ll definitely be throwing the book at Johanna.”
After a short silence, Stu says, “I can convince Caroline to keep her mouth shut.”
“Don’t.” Anger flaring in my chest, I pin the older man with a glare. “For fuck’s sake, Stu. The jig’s up. Don’t even think about talking to Caroline about it. Before you know it, they’ll add intimidation to the charge sheet.”
His expression turns even stormier, and because I still have rage simmering close to the surface after witnessing his wife socking mine with a wooden board, I know I need to placate him or risk losing my own temper.
“Charlton will probably handle this himself,” I tell him. “Just keep your head down and listen to him, especially when he tells you to keep your mouth shut.”
“I want to keep you, though. You’re the best criminal defense lawyer in town.”
“Yeah,” I reply, my tone short. “Not gonna happen. Sorry.” Sorry, not sorry.
“Why?” Now he sounds downright whiny.
I close my eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I can’t represent someone who doesn’t trust me.”
“Come on!” The other man sits up straighter, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “If I’d told you I did it, you would’ve pushed me to take a plea bargain. One where I’d have to go to jail!”
“They had no real evidence.” My volume rises—I can’t help it—and I point an accusing finger at him. “All they had was your fear. They knew the only way they could win was to convince you to take a plea. I told you that. I also told you we’d win. And we did.”
“Right,” Stu shoots back, “but would you have worked just as hard to get an acquittal if you knew I was guilty?”
Fuck him. Is he for real? I have to turn from him and take a few steps away, sucking in deep breaths to calm myself, brushing my palm across my mouth.
Why am I so furious? Like I said, he’s not the first or last client to lie to me.
Maybe it’s because I believed him. His teary relief on hearing his verdict seemed genuine. Equally genuine was my sense of pride and vindication. Getting innocent people off the hook was why I chose this job. Learning he wasn’t innocent has me feeling stupid. And betrayed.
So yeah. Fuck him.
“Yeah, I would have,” I finally say with a withering glance over my shoulder at him. “Because it’s my job.”
Disbelief painted all over his face, Stu crosses his arms again, and that’s it. I’m so done. It’s time to stop coddling him.
“As for handling your divorce,” I say, “I should’ve refused.”
“Why?”
Holding up my hand, I use the other to bend one finger. “A, I don’t do divorce cases.” I tick off another digit. “B, my wife is opposing counsel.” Folding down the third finger, I finish with a blunt, “C, I kind of despise you.”
Stu’s mouth forms a stunned O. His complexion turning florid, he sputters, “You can’t talk to me like that!”
A burst of genuine amusement ambushes me, and I find myself laughing in my seven-figures-in-billables client’s face. Stepping up to him, I give him a clap on the shoulder, saying, “Good luck, buddy,” before I start down the path away from him. After a few feet, I half turn back and take in his outraged face as I add, “Do yourself a favor and stay away from your wife.”
Then I start trudging the short distance back to my own cabin, wondering if I should take my own advice. Damn, but she delivered a hell of a knockout punch this morning. I knew something was up as soon as I saw her smugness and the way she rushed off to talk to her client, so I immediately got ahold of Rodriguez and told him to send me what he had so far, even if his investigation was incomplete.
And when he sent me the photos of Caroline and Johanna Masters—walking hand in hand on a private beach this past weekend, hugging and smooching—I honestly thought I had enough firepower to counter whatever Paige had discovered.
Didn’t matter that Rodriguez also found evidence of Stu’s myriad girlfriends. Caroline wouldn’t have kept Johanna such a big secret if she didn’t feel it necessary. For whatever reason, she didn’t want the world to know she was leaving her husband for a woman. We could’ve taken advantage of that.
I’m man enough to admit defeat, though. Doesn’t matter that Stu threatened to dig his heels in. I seriously doubt Caroline is in such a hurry anymore, having found out her girlfriend betrayed her in the worst way.
No, she has all the time in the world now. She’ll do everything within her power to make sure he goes to prison, and then she’ll proceed with the divorce. While he’s locked up, it’s unlikely he’ll be allowed to attend any hearings, and a judge won’t rule in favor of a felon who’s absent due to imprisonment, a jackass who used his wife’s company to launder bribery money.
If I were as big of a moron as Stuart Garnett, I’d seriously consider putting a bullet in my head. Jesus Christ.
When I get back to the cabin, I head straight for the well-stocked fridge and pull out a bottle of beer, and after popping the cap, I bring it with me out to the porch. Settling myself down on the padded chair facing the gravel path, I take a long swig of the bittersweet liquid before digging out my phone and finding Hammer’s name in my contacts. Might as well get this over with.
My call goes to voice mail, though, and not wanting to give the old man a heart attack, I just tell him to call me back. Then I’m about to put my phone down when a message from Stu arrives.
I’m heading home as soon as Caroline’s gone, it reads. Still have the boat reservation for the day. All paid for. Feel free to use it. Take your wife and try to unfuck your life. Still love you, man.
Wow. I blow out a breath. The guy is beyond pathetic. Yeah, this probably should give me the warm fuzzies, making me think he has some redeemable qualities. But I know him. He’s sucking up, thinking there’s a chance I’ll change my mind about representing him.
So I shove my phone back into my pocket without responding. Because if I say anything at all, even if it’s just “thanks,” he’ll take it as encouragement.
Mend (Waters Book 2) Page 26