Accomplice Liability

by Stephen Penner

  “Dave?” Carlisle’s voice pulled him, mercifully, from the spiral his thoughts were descending into. “Hello?”

  “Uh, sorry,” he stammered.

  “No, I’m sorry,” she responded. “That was T.M.I. We’re colleagues, not friends.”

  Brunelle cocked his head at her. “We can be both,” he assured. “But if you start mentioning beds and bodies, I might need a moment.”

  Carlisle laughed. “Fair enough. We can all use more friends. And I’ll keep my bed thoughts to myself so you can concentrate.”

  The crosswalk signal turned white and the two prosecutors hurried across the busy street. They had to walk almost the same distance back down Lake City Way to get to the gas station across from the restaurant. It was that typical gas station busy: cars coming in and out for gas, splashing through small puddles, as pedestrians and motorists ducked into the store just long enough to give the clerk some cash, or buy a pack of cigarettes, or get the key for the restroom that was outside and around the back. Itinerant travelers and local ne’er-do-wells intersecting just long enough to hold the door open for each other or hand off the bathroom key in the light rain of a Seattle twilight.

  Brunelle and Carlisle walked through the puddles and the people to the back corner of the lot where Brunelle had stood with Chen on a darker, wetter night.

  “Right there.” He pointed down to where Derrick Shanborn’s body had been lying, bullet-ridden and bloody. There was absolutely no evidence left that it had ever been there. The city had healed itself of the affront; the residents had forgotten it. Mostly.

  “Huh.” Carlisle shrugged. “Looks like a ditch. I guess those crime scene photos are useful after all. Nothing to see here, folks.”

  Brunelle nodded. “Yeah, it was more impressive when the body was still here and there were cop car lights flashing. Everybody knew it was a big deal. Now there are just two people, way overdressed from their day jobs, standing at the edge of a dirty gas station parking lot.”

  “I suppose so,” Carlisle answered. “But it is helpful to see how this place is actually laid out.” She turned around and scanned the area. “They probably drove in right there.” She pointed to one of the driveways. “It leads straight past the pumps to right here. Although I wonder how they even knew this ditch was here. I mean, who hangs out at the edge of a gas station often enough to realize you could dump a body there?”

  Brunelle pointed at the used syringes littering the asphalt near the dumpster and the restroom door. “Drug addicts. And their dealers. This is probably a well-known place for scoring heroin. And the bathroom is right there, so no need to wait ‘til you get home to get your fix.”

  Carlisle nodded. “I suppose.” She took a step toward the building. “I wonder what’s around back.”

  Before Brunelle could answer, Carlisle stepped through the discarded needles toward the back of the gas station, past the restroom into the dark shadow cast by the streetlights which had been abandoned by any further glow on the horizon. Night had settled in. The rain was picking up too.

  “Wait,” Brunelle cautioned, but weakly. Carlisle didn’t hear him, or didn’t care to heed him. She disappeared into the shadow. He sighed and followed her.

  It was about as interesting as one would expect—which was, not very. More trash, probably syringes, but hidden in the dark. No smoking gun connecting Hernandez or anyone else to Shanborn’s murder.

  Brunelle was about to ask, ‘Are we done back here?’ when they heard voices from around the far corner of the building.

  “This shit is almost twice what Burner was charging,” a man was saying, “and it’s total shit. It ain’t doing shit for me.”

  That’s a lot of shit, Brunelle thought. But rather than say anything, he raised a finger to his lips to urge quiet. But Carlisle was looking toward the voices, not at him.

  “I know, I know,” responded another man. “But hang in there. Nate knows what he’s doing, man. I heard he’s got a whole fucking master plan. Burner’s going away, man, but Nate’s gonna beat it. He always took care of us, right, man? Everything’ll be cool again when Nate’s running shit. He was running shit anyway, but now we won’t pay extra so Burner can take his cut.”

  “Yeah, but in the meantime we’re paying twice as much ‘cause Burner ain’t here to keep things under control. They’re fucking gouging us, man.”

  Carlisle finally turned back to Brunelle. Her wide eyes were visible even in the dark. She nodded toward the voices, her expression asking, ‘Did you hear that?!’

  Brunelle nodded. He had. And it pissed him off. That was just the type of info he needed to get Edwards to realize Wilkins was playing her. It was probably too late to use Wilkins—lying in a proffer kind of burned his credibility—but still, it could help knock out that bullshit Murder on the Orient Express story. Brunelle wondered if Chen or Jackson could get down there before the men attached to the voices disappeared into the night. He reached into his pocket for his phone. But when he pulled it out, Carlisle grabbed his wrist and whispered, “They’ll see the light!”

  Brunelle knew that, but didn’t get a chance to whisper-yell back. When Carlisle grabbed his arm, it threw his balance just slightly and he took one half-step backward. Right onto a glass syringe.

  Crack-tinkle!

  Fuck, Brunelle thought.

  “Hey!” one of the men yelled. “Who’s there?”

  Nothing like a vein full of heroin combined with secret complaining about the drug dealer who murdered snitches to make an addict paranoid. Before Brunelle or Carlisle could even react, both men came barreling around the corner. Paranoid and reckless. For all they knew, Brunelle and Carlisle could have been armed drug dealers. They weren’t, of course. They were two lawyers in suits and out of their element. And the only person who was armed was the junkie brandishing his pocket knife as he came around the corner.

  “It’s cool, man,” Brunelle tried, but he didn’t get a chance to say anything else. It all happened too fast. The man extended the knife and came at them. Brunelle stepped in front of Carlisle and instinctively reached out to stop the man. The man slashed at Brunelle, slicing down the length of Brunelle’s right palm. Brunelle yelled in pain and pulled his hand back to his body.

  The man was stunned for a moment at the success of his attack. So Carlisle pushed Brunelle aside and punched the man squarely in the nose. A loud crack filled the darkness and the man shrieked. He dropped the knife and ran back the way he’d come. His friend ran away too and a moment later, Brunelle was on one knee, his suit pants stained from the dirty water and his suit coat stained from the blood pouring out of the hand he held clutched to his chest.

  “Are you all right?” Carlisle leaned down and helped him to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

  Brunelle wasn’t about to argue. Carlisle led him back into the main part of the parking lot. “We need to call 911,” she said.

  But Brunelle shook his head. “No, I’m okay. We can drive to the emergency room.”

  “That was a crime,” Carlisle protested. “We need to report it.”

  “That was a mistake,” Brunelle argued. “We should forget it. No need to add insult to injury. They’ll never catch whoever it was anyway.”

  “He dropped the knife,” Carlisle pointed out. “There may be fingerprints on it. And his nose is broken, so he might go to the emergency room too. They might very well catch him.”

  “Maybe we can share an ambulance,” Brunelle quipped.

  Carlisle put her hands on her hips. “Is this because I punched him? Are you embarrassed that you were saved by a woman?”

  Brunelle thought for a moment. “No. Actually, I’m grateful. I’m just in a lot of pain and acting like a baby. I’m sorry. Thanks for breaking his nose. Very impressive.”

  Carlisle shrugged. “I used to get into fights a lot when I was younger. I learned how to defend myself.”

  Brunelle looked at her. “Huh. I guess there’s a lot I don’t know about you y
et.”

  Carlisle laughed. “You have no idea.” Then she tugged on his good arm. “Let’s go.”

  Brunelle didn’t argue. Instead, he looked at his injured hand. The bleeding had slowed, but definitely not stopped. He supposed he was lucky—there were no arteries in his hand. He’d live.

  But he was pissed.

  Chapter 19

  Brunelle burst through the door of the law offices on the third floor of the Maynard Building. It wasn’t a law firm—not like Jacobsen, Moneybags & Jerk. It was just a conglomeration of solo practitioners, each independent, but sharing a receptionist and a conference room. Brunelle ignored whatever protest the startled receptionist shouted after him and stormed down the hall to the last office on the right. The smallest one. With the view of a brick wall next door.

  Nick Lannigan’s office.

  Lannigan was sitting at his computer, back to the door, and surfing the internet. The latest Hollywood gossip from the looks of it. Brunelle slammed a sheaf of papers on his desk with his good hand. “We need to talk, Nick,” Brunelle barked. “Now.”

  Lannigan spun around, clearly startled. His wide eyes landed on Brunelle even as his hands skittered across his desk like two crabs, unsure whether he needed to hide anything from his unexpected visitor.

  “Dave! Hey, great to see you,” tumbled out of his mouth. “Geez, what a surprise. So, uh, what brings you by unannounced?”

  Brunelle flashed his eyes at the stack of papers on Lannigan’s desk. “New discovery on the Hernandez case,” he snarled.

  Lannigan laughed nervously. “I like to think of it as the Fuller case.”

  Brunelle didn’t react. Lannigan shifted uneasily in his chair and rubbed the back of his chubby neck. Then his eyes landed in Brunelle’s hand. “Oh wow, what happened, Dave?”

  “Your client happened,” Brunelle growled. He raised his hand slightly to look at the bandage covering the palm and most of the fingers on his left hand. The wound was seeping blood again. Hell of a place to get stitches.

  Lannigan cocked his head. “Lindsey happened? I, I don’t understand. Did you get into some sort of fight with her? You didn’t go see her without me, did you?”

  Brunelle allowed a dark laugh. “No, Nick. I learned my lesson about that.”

  Lannigan shrugged. “Then what happened? I don’t understand.”

  Brunelle stayed standing, fairly menacing Lannigan over his desk. “I was in Lake City, looking at the crime scene, when I got attacked by some drug addict behind the gas station.”

  Lannigan waited a moment, clearly expecting more. “Was Lindsey there or something? I mean, I’m pretty sure she’s still in the King County Jail. I guess I could see if she bailed out without telling me, but I don’t—”

  “No, Nick,” Brunelle snapped. “She wasn’t there. That’s not the point. The point is, I shouldn’t have been there either. This case should’ve settled out with a bunch of pleas weeks ago. I shouldn’t be looking for new leads at a crime scene trying to figure out which snitch I need to court the hardest. I should be at my desk, prepping for a trial against Elmer Hernandez, and endorsing your client as a witness, not a codefendant.”

  Brunelle took a deep breath. Lannigan’s helpless expression was hard to stay angry at. “Damn it, Nick. This is ridiculous. As long as this case is pending, it’s dangerous to be me. Your client can help me end it. If Hernandez sees everyone else is lined up against him, he’ll probably just plead guilty and go off to prison. Your client gets a reduced sentence and I get back to not being stabbed behind gas stations.”

  Brunelle finally sat down in one of the guest chairs. Lannigan offered a tentative smile.

  “Look, Dave. I don’t disagree with you,” Lannigan admitted. “I think it’s in her best interest to take a deal to testify. But I’ve talked to her about it, more than once, and she’d adamant. No deal for testimony. Nothing’s changed.”

  “Wrong,” Brunelle replied. He tapped the discovery on Lannigan’s desk. “Everything’s changed.”

  Lannigan looked at the papers, but didn’t reach for them. “What is it?” he asked, as if afraid to look for himself.

  “Nate Wilkins’ proffer,” Brunelle answered. “He says your client shot Shanborn.”

  “That’s not true!” Lannigan practically shouted.

  “I know, Nick.” Brunelle leaned forward. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “But, but he’s lying,” Lannigan protested.

  “Of course he’s lying!” Brunelle almost laughed. “But he said it and he’s ready to testify to it. And not just against Hernandez. Against everyone, including Lindsey Fuller.”

  Lannigan thought for a few moments. He still didn’t reach for the discovery. “What did he say, Dave?”

  Brunelle sighed. The problem with his gambit was that Wilkins’ story was a self-serving lie. He knew it. And Lannigan, even as limited as he was, would see it too. But there was no way around it; Wilkins had said what he said, and it was on tape. So Brunelle leaned forward and related everything Nate Wilkins had told them: the good, the bad, and the bullshit.

  When he’d finished, Lannigan leaned forward too. “Ooh, just like ‘Murder on the Orient Express’!”

  Brunelle pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes,” he admitted. “Just like ‘Murder on the Orient Express.’”

  Then Lannigan leaned back again. “But that’s not what really happened.”

  Brunelle raised his gaze again. “What did really happen, Nick?”

  Lannigan started to answer, but then caught himself. “I’m sorry, Dave. I can’t say. Attorney-client privilege and all that.”

  Brunelle sighed again. He rubbed his good hand over his shortly cropped hair. “Look, Nick. I get it. I understand your position. But you need to understand mine. I have one witness who claims she wasn’t present for the shooting. I have another witness who was too high to remember what was going on. And I have one witness who says your client shot Derrick Shanborn. If I don’t get more, if I don’t get different—if I don’t get your client’s story—then that’s what I have. And that’s what I’ll go forward on. And if I do, your client is looking at going down on murder one.”

  “Even if it’s not true?” Lannigan asked, like a child first encountering the harsh realities of life.

  “Even if it’s not true,” Brunelle confirmed. “Because, see, I wasn’t there. I don’t know what’s true and what’s not. But your client does. That’s why I’m here, Nick. I can’t let Hernandez walk. I know Wilkins’ story is bullshit. So give me a better story.”

  Lannigan cocked his head. “A better story?”

  Brunelle sighed one more time. “The truth, Nick. Give me the truth.”

  Chapter 20

  Lannigan was taking too long to get back to Brunelle. If Lannigan had trouble standing up to a little bit of friendly pressure from a colleague, he was unlikely to exert much pressure himself over a hardened drug addict willing to suffer anything to avoid a snitch label. Too bad. Fuller was Brunelle’s top choice. But she wasn’t his only option.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Robyn Dunn’s number. As it rang, he stood up and looked out his office window at the Seattle downtown. He couldn’t see the crime from so high up. But he knew it was still there.

  “Law office of Robyn Dunn.” She answered her own phone. A sign of either dedication to her business, or insufficient business to afford a receptionist. “How may I help you?”

  “You can get Samantha Keller to talk,” Brunelle answered.

  There was the slightest pause. Brunelle hoped she was smiling. He imagined it, and decided to just tell himself she was. Her voice seemed to confirm it.

  “Yeah, I got the new discovery this morning,” she said. “It came by messenger. I must admit, I’m a little disappointed.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “Hurt,” Robyn corrected. “Nick got an in-person visit, but all I get is a phone call. What’s the matter, Dave? Don’t you miss me?”

  Brunelle knew to igno
re the question. “Nick’s more of an in-person guy. You can get stuff done over the phone,” he offered.

  “I get stuff done in person too,” Robyn reminded him.

  Brunelle again ignored the comment. “And in all honesty, I went to him first because I wanted to turn his client the most and she had just gotten implicated.”

  “Honesty?” Robyn asked. “Are we doing that now?”

  It dawned on Brunelle that he was actually being the professional one, avoiding and ignoring the double entendres and invitations to flirt and/or reminisce. He was sort of proud of himself. “But Lannigan’s taking too long,” he soldiered forward. “So you’re next up the ladder.”

  “But my client didn’t get implicated by Wilkins,” Robyn pointed out, apparently willing to discuss the case after all. “So his proffer doesn’t really change anything for us.”

  “Well, it means he might get a deal and do less time than your client, even though he’s more culpable.”

  “That’s on you,” Robyn countered. “If you let one of the shooters get less time than my client, who by all accounts did nothing—”

  “She fetched the gun for Hernandez,” Brunelle pointed out.

  Robyn laughed, unimpressed. “Good luck proving that. Or that she knew what Hernandez was going to do with it. Without prior knowledge, she’s not an accomplice. She walks.”

  “A known snitch gets invited over to their house and he tells her to go get his gun?” Brunelle offered his own laugh. “There’s no way she didn’t know what was going to happen.”

  “You’ll have to prove she knew he was an informant before he was shot,” Robyn insisted. “Up until then, he was just another drug addict who crashed at her place. For all she knew, he was coming over to shoot up and pass out.”