Girls With Guns

by Ali Vali

  I’d just about decided to head to the nearest burger joint when I saw a rail-thin, gray-haired woman walking toward the Bronco. She stared straight at me, so I put the car in park and rolled down the window, bracing for her to tell me to get lost. When she reached the window, she asked, “You Bennett?”

  Taken off guard, I just nodded. She handed me a bulky brown envelope, and when I took it from her I noticed her hand was wrapped in a piece of cloth. I started to ask her what was in the envelope, but she spoke first. “Take it and leave. Don’t come back.”

  This wasn’t the deal. I’d already peeled through two layers of leads, and I’d expected to get some actual intel at this point. I said as much, but she shook her head.

  “Take it or leave it, but this is all you get. Now go.”

  I didn’t have any other options at this point so, vowing to find Joey Cantoni and turn him in for the bounty Hardin would pay, I drove away with the envelope on the seat beside me and pulled into the nearest fast-food joint. I shouted my order to the hard-of-hearing drive-through operator while I tore into the envelope and poured the contents into my lap. In between moving a few feet forward in line every few minutes, I sifted through the contents, not at all sure what to make of it. Most of it seemed like junk. Matchbooks, coasters, random Google maps highlighted to show various locations around what looked to be primarily seedy parts of town. And there, at the bottom of the pile, was the jackpot: a full-color, sharp-as-shit headshot of Teresa Perez, complete with the same smug smile I’d loathed since the first time I laid eyes on her. The print in the corner of the photo read yesterday’s date, and I knew I had what I was looking for. Proof of life.

  A loud honk shook me out of my gloating, and I drove up to collect my double burger and fries. I barely had time now to make it back to the courthouse, so I wolfed the food on the way while I plotted how to get out of jury duty. I didn’t have time to pass judgment—I had a real crime to solve.

  Chapter Three

  As we filed back into the courtroom, Cris walked next to me. “Now for the fun part,” she said. Her tone told me she wasn’t kidding. Too bad people couldn’t volunteer for this gig. Would make a helluva lot more sense to have people judging a case if they were actually interested in the process. I only cared about the before and after part of justice. I pointed to my seat and edged away to keep her from engaging further.

  After the judge explained that the defendant was charged with murder, he turned the questioning over to the lawyers. The prosecutor was first up at bat—a leggy, dark-haired girl whose suit skirt was just a shade on the short side. She stood and introduced herself as Rebecca Reeve and spent the first few minutes of her allotted time droning on about how grateful everyone was that we’d shown up to perform this civil service.

  I acted bored, which wasn’t hard, while she progressed from grateful to feisty as she singled out a few folks on the panel who’d written rebellious things on their questionnaire. One woman had a relative who’d been arrested before, and there was a guy who’d served on a jury who’d found someone not guilty, and another who didn’t believe in the death penalty.

  I knew her game. She planned to either strike these folks from the panel or challenge them for cause, so she used them to get out some key points she wanted to make at trial, like how the burden of proof works or how important it is to listen to the evidence and watch for inconsistencies.

  My questionnaire probably had her confused. I’d listed my occupation as fugitive-recovery agent. A savvy prosecutor would know that meant bounty hunter, and the job would probably make her imagine a rebellious type she didn’t want on a jury. But mix that in with Jess’s name, and she’d be at an impasse. To figure out which side of the crime spectrum I fell on, she’d have to ask me some questions, which could mean opening up a can of worms. I braced for a question, but none came.

  On the other hand, the defense attorney wasn’t scared of anything. Bea Watson’s suit skirt hit just at the knees, and she paced the room with a confidence that signaled she’d done this dozens of times before. I watched while she tackled the panelists, one after the other, on various issues with provocative questions designed to eliminate everyone she spoke to. Fine by me. When she finally got to me, I was ready to go.

  “Ms. Bennett?”

  I raised my hand despite the unfamiliar “Ms.” She smiled in my direction, like a cat at a mouse. “What’s a fugitive-recovery agent?”

  I could tell by the tone of her voice she already knew the answer, but she wanted me to say bounty hunter for the benefit of the rest of the potential jurors. I figured she wanted to focus on what I did for a living to ask me a bunch of questions that would serve as a kind of allegory for the rest of the group. I played along, thinking this was the perfect way to turn myself into a lightning rod.

  “I track down fugitives,” I said in my best cop voice. “Criminal offenders who’ve violated the conditions of their bond.”

  To her credit, her expression didn’t change. She asked a couple of questions about how the job worked, who hired me to do this kind of work, etc., and then, in a casual tone, she asked, “Are some of those offenders ever armed and dangerous?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even when they aren’t armed, would you say some of them are dangerous?”

  I paused for a second. I’d been with her up to this point, but we were entering murky waters now. She better not be about to ask me specific questions about my cases, or I’d have to take the fifth. I kept my answer short and simple. “Yes.”

  “So dangerous that you’d use whatever means necessary to defend yourself or someone you cared about, if it came to that?”

  I shifted in my seat at the loaded question. What in the hell was she getting at? I dodged. “‘Whatever means necessary’ is pretty broad, don’t you think?”

  “I guess it is,” she conceded. She looked over her shoulder at the judge, and I noticed the prosecutor looked ready to pounce. “But I guess we’ll have to leave more detail until we get into the facts of this specific case.” She flipped through her notes and I relaxed, thinking she was moving on. I was wrong. “What’s the nature of your relationship with Dallas Police Detective Jessica Chance?”

  Well, this wasn’t cool. Whatever it was, it wasn’t any of her business. “We live together.”

  “You used to be a police officer, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you worked with Detective Chance?”

  “Well, she wasn’t a detective then.”

  “You’re close.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Let me put it this way. Don’t you think the fact that you haul in alleged criminals for a living and you have a relationship with a Dallas police officer would influence how you evaluate the evidence in this case?”

  That and a million other things. The right answer was no, but truth was I’d probably be influenced by everything about my own life experience, so I could honestly give the answer that was most likely to get them to toss me out for cause. “Yes.”

  “Thank you for your candor, Ms. Bennett.” She turned away and addressed the judge, “Your Honor, I’m—” But before she could finish, a now-familiar voice piped up.

  “Your Honor, shouldn’t the question have been would your relationship with a Dallas police officer cause you to be more likely to assign credibility to the prosecution’s witnesses to the detriment of the defense?” As all eyes in the courtroom turned toward her, Cris ducked her head and her voice trailed off. “Or something like that.”

  I shook my head as everyone turned back to me. What the hell? I was certain Watson had been about to vigorously argue that I should be stricken for cause, but now this busybody was about to rehabilitate me as a potential juror. The judge cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Ms. Bennett, how about you answer that question. Would you be more likely to side with the prosecution because of the things Ms. Watson has pointed out?”

  Damn. I should say yes. Lots of people would. Sma
rt people. People who had other things to do with their time than sit in a room and listen to boring lawyers talk about boring things. But every rebellious bone in my body screamed no way would I be more likely to side with law-and-order folks in any situation, despite the fact that I went to bed with a cop every night of the week. I mentally counted the number of people seated in front of me and decided I could be honest and safe at the same time. “No, Judge. I can put all that aside and listen to the evidence.”

  He nodded and then told the panel that anyone who had any private information they didn’t want to share in front of the rest of the group could stay behind while the rest of us kicked it in the hallway again. As I burst through the double doors, I felt a tug on my arm and looked over to see Cris standing beside me. I let loose. “What was that about?”

  She looked genuinely surprised. “I didn’t want you to lose out on being picked. She didn’t ask the question right.”

  Lose out, my ass. I shrugged her off and looked for a quiet corner where I could spend more time with the contents of the envelope full of Teresa Perez. Afternoons at the courthouse were reserved for those of us not smart enough to get out of jury duty, which meant the crowds that had been present this morning had thinned out. I walked far enough away from my group, but stayed close enough to be able to hear when the bailiff called us back inside.

  I reached inside the envelope and pulled out my first clue. The coaster read Shorty’s Rack. To someone who didn’t hang out in the seedier parts of town, the name could mean anything: rib joint, strip club, but I knew Shorty’s was a pool hall on the south side. It was a popular place for former or fleeing felons to pick up necessities like a fake ID, drugs, or a hooker, and I’d managed to haul in a few jumpers just by hanging out in the parking lot and waiting. But what did Shorty’s have to do with Perez?

  Clue number two was a matchbook from another dive, but this one was in Oak Cliff, a well-known watering hole for Dallas’s underbelly. I reached into the envelope and grabbed a handful of the random scraps of paper and found more of the same. Places, lots of places, but nothing that specifically pointed to Perez other than the headshot that taunted me with its implicit reminder she was still on the lam.

  The bailiff appeared in the hall and yelled that the judge was ready. I crammed the contents back in the envelope and filed back into the room with the others. I figured the formalities would take about fifteen more minutes, and then I’d be on my way.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Bowser said, “I’d like to thank you for your time. We need only twelve of you for service today. The rest of you can take your pay slips to the clerk’s office. If I read your name, please make your way to the jury box and wait to be sworn in.”

  I tapped my fingers on the bench, half out of my seat, ready for this prison sentence to end. McBusiness was the first juror in the box, and I had to fight the impulse to laugh out loud at his obvious discomfort. The next half dozen were complete nondescripts. I didn’t recall seeing them here at all, and they certainly hadn’t spoken up during voir dire. No matter, we were almost done at this point. The judge called a couple more names, and then he said, “Cris Perez-Soria.”

  I watched the couldn’t-be-happier-to-be-here chick not even try to hide a smile as she practically skipped toward the jury box, but my brain whirred in response to the judge reading her last name. Perez? I’m not big on superstition, but that seemed like a pretty odd coincidence, and I shot a look at my envelope. I didn’t need to pull out the photo to see the image of Teresa Perez that was burned into my brain. I supposed there were some physical similarities, but surely juror number eleven wasn’t any relation to Teresa Perez. Or was she?

  A light punch on the arm interrupted my thoughts, and I looked at the old lady seated to my right. “Isn’t your name Bennett?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I whispered, not wanting to interrupt the proceedings and risk holding up our release.

  “Then you better get moving so the rest of us can get out of here.”

  Her words didn’t compute at first, but as I looked around, I noticed everyone’s attention was trained on me and the bailiff was waving in my direction and pointing to the jury box. I looked from him to the judge to the motley crew already in the box, and agony ate my insides. No fucking way.

  A few minutes later, I held my hand in the air with everyone else and took an oath in response to the blah, blah, blah the judge recited while my mind spun with all the things I should be doing instead. I pretended to pay attention while both sides delivered their opening statements, but I only caught phrases like “we will prove,” “the evidence will show,” “murder,” “reasonable doubt,” “eyewitness.” Silently, I willed them to speed it up. I had my own crime to solve.

  Chapter Four

  “You’re later than I expected,” Jess called out from the kitchen as I walked through the door. “You get your guy?”

  Her question took me by surprise since the only “guy” on my mind wasn’t a guy at all. I’d left the courthouse and run by one of the bars highlighted on a map in the stack of supposed clues I’d picked up from Cantoni’s contact. The place didn’t open until nine, which didn’t compute in my world, since drunks will drink any time of day.

  I stalled, instead stopping to pet Cash, who jumped up and placed both his front paws on my chest and licked my face like he hadn’t seen me in weeks. I got it. We hadn’t been apart for more than a few hours since he’d adopted me. “I’m sorry, buddy. I promise I would be with you if I could. I’ll be gone tomorrow too, and probably the next day. You can blame your other mother for not being able to get me out of jury duty.”

  “Oh, sure, blame the cop. Everyone does.”

  Jess was standing right behind me now, a fake scowl on her face. “Did they not finish picking today?”

  “Oh, they finished all right.”

  Her scowl morphed into amazement. “No way.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Meet Juror Number Twelve. No one seemed to care that I live with a cop, that I catch criminals for a living, or that I hated being there more than I hate fries without ketchup. I guess the choices in front of me were so bad, I seemed like a good prospect in comparison. Hard to believe, huh?”

  “Impossible. Which court were you in? Did you get into any evidence today?”

  “Judge Bowser. Opening statements only. Evidence starts tomorrow, bright and early.”

  “Come eat and tell me all about it. I made spaghetti. Don’t get too excited—the sauce is from a jar.”

  I didn’t know there was any other kind. Besides, I was starving and would’ve eaten five-day-old Thai food at this point. But before we adjourned to our gourmet out-of-a jar dinner, I had to clear something up. “Thanks for making dinner, but you know I can’t talk about the case, right?”

  She laughed and tugged me toward the kitchen. “Right.”

  I dug in. “I mean it.”

  “You crack me up when you try to be all law-and-order. Come on. Dish.” She kept walking.

  “Jess…”

  She stopped and turned to face me. “Wait a minute. You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Well…” I wavered for a second. For the first time since I’d moved in, I had the upper hand. Don’t get me wrong. Life with Jess had been a breeze so far, but I’d spent the first few weeks of it recovering from a gunshot wound and the time since trying to get into the groove of working like a normal person, something I’d never tried before. The upshot of it all meant Jess was basically supporting me and I had no power. If hanging on to little bits of information about the case and my clandestine search for Teresa Perez were what I needed to give me a boost, I planned to grip tight, even though I knew I was being petty. “Of course I’m serious. Besides, you’re a detective. If you want to know something about the case, you can detect it for yourself.”

  “Okay.” She pivoted and strode off to the kitchen without another word. I stood in the living room and stared at Cash, who cocked his head as if to say he didn’t have a
clue what to make of her reaction either. I signaled for him to follow, and we took off toward the smell of an amazing dinner to which I was no longer sure I was invited.

  Jess was feeding pasta into boiling water, and in a sea change from moments ago, she didn’t even look up when I walked in. If I didn’t know her better, I would’ve thought she was pouting, but Jess didn’t play games. If she was pissed, she said so. Still, a childhood spent with a drunk dad and petulant mother doesn’t come without some baggage, and right now I carried the guilt of having maybe possibly hurt her feelings. I slid my hands around her waist and kissed the back of her neck, making sure to find the magic spot. “Hey, babe, dinner smells wonderful. You want me to open some beers?”

  She turned in my arms, her eyes black with desire. She pulled me tight against her and gave a little grind against my thigh as she leaned in close, her breath hot against my skin. The heat trailed up my neck and threatened to explode just as she whispered in my ear, her words killing the mood. “The prosecutor is new. Well, new to state court. She used to work at the U.S. Attorney’s office. The charge is murder. I know every last detail about the evidence, and the whole thing’s pretty open-and-shut, if you ask me. You want me to tell you what I know about your top-secret case?”

  I play-shoved her away and Cash nipped at my ankle. She pointed at him. “See, even your dog is on my side. The only thing I don’t know about your super-secret case is how the hell you got picked for the jury. Did you tell them we live together?”

  Her eyes reflected the slightest hint of insecurity, like she wasn’t quite sure if I’d been willing to admit our relationship to a bunch of what to me were virtual strangers. I pulled her back against me. “Of course I did. I gotta figure either they didn’t care or there were too many crazies seated in front of me they had to strike first.”

  “You probably just confused the hell out of them.”