“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jo. Men would lust after a vacuum cleaner if it wore a blonde wig.”
“Maybe I wasn’t...experienced enough. Before Jamoke I had one boyfriend in law school...can’t say we set off any smoke alarms.”
“What’s with the we? Maybe you did for him, but he didn’t for you. Bad sex happens.”
“Let’s change the subject before I get more depressed.”
“Okay. See the news last night?”
“No, watched a movie.”
“Another cowboy flick?”
“Western film, yes.”
After discovering a public domain vintage western film site with free downloads, she’d gotten hooked on the world of dusty streets, whistling winds and second chances. Especially second chances. If a notorious gunslinger could find redemption or a female rancher could save her herd of cattle during a blizzard, surely a dispirited defense lawyer could believe in herself again.
“They give me hope,” Joanne admitted.
“Nothin’ wrong with that. Anyway, last night on channel nine, Burnette announced he’s running for governor.”
Joanne snorted a laugh. “Watch out, he’s going to fight even harder and dirtier now to win cases—needs to look like the hero prosecutor for the masses.”
“Especially after he was forced to dismiss Sebastian’s case.”
Joanne smiled. “My sweet revenge.”
On November fifth, after Judge Fields charged Joanne with contempt and sent the jury home, a reporter in the courtroom drove to the neighborhood of a closed-down bar in Henderson, where Sebastian claimed to have been on the night of the crime and Joanne was not allowed to prove. After knocking on doors and asking if anyone had attended Las Vegas High School five or so years before and been friends with Sebastian Vaughn, the reporter found the witness, named Louis, who Joanne pinpointed in discovery. The reporter recorded her interview with Louis, who confirmed being with “Tater,” Sebastian, in the Henderson bar, thirty miles from the scene of the attempted murder. Louis expressed surprise that a reporter was asking him about that night because “I told all this to that investigator from the DA’s office months ago.”
Things escalated quickly after that, culminating with a furious Sam Burnette filing a motion to dismiss the case.
Nevertheless, Joanne’s circumstances didn’t change. Paul Ochs sent her an officious letter, cc’ing Roger, stating that although Sebastian Vaughn’s case had been dismissed, Joanne’s “outrageous and disrespectful behavior” at court destroyed his confidence in her abilities to be a public defender, and therefore her termination remained in effect.
Like she had any desire to return to the tawdry crime scene of Roger and Tiffany’s office romance.
“…your beige pantsuit with the gold buttons would be good to wear today,” Gloria was saying. “Professional, but cute.”
“It might not fit…I’ve gained a few pounds.”
“How ʼbout that maxi dress with the strawberries? Thought I saw it in your closet the other day.”
Then Gloria repeated everything was going to be okay, she’d be there in twenty minutes, and to never forget that believing one is great in bed was half the battle.
A short while later Joanne checked out her reflection in the dresser mirror. Spending hours yesterday in a steamy kitchen had frizzed her corkscrew curls to poodle-fur consistency, which with a touch of shea butter and some serious scrunchie wrangling, she’d coerced into a ringlety top-knot. The dress was a bit tight around her midriff, but pretty, although she had never noticed how the mix of her freckles against the strawberries was almost dizzying.
She had inherited her freckles and red hair from her dad’s side of the family, but their freckles were normal. Hers were ridiculous. As if God got tired of doling them out bit by bit and dumped the rest on her. Then balanced things out by giving her wide-set green eyes and Angelina Jolie-size lips that today she slicked with pink gloss.
All in all, she looked pretty good. This visit to her potential landlords was starting to feel like a first step toward her new life.
Joanne Galvin, defense lawyer…and renegade cowgirl.
Ready for a second chance.
* * *
A grandfather clock chimed one o’clock as Joanne and Gloria walked into Fossen-Chandler Investigations, the front duplex of a renovated corner bungalow in downtown Las Vegas. Gloria wore skin-tight jeans, studded boots and a cropped leather jacket she nicknamed “Bad” after the Michael Jackson album. Her short brown hair was spiked, her make-up heavy. Walking next to her, Joanne felt like the Strawberry Patch Kid.
As they passed a mirror in the entranceway, she made the big mistake of glancing at her reflection. Gusts of wind had pummeled her scrunchie-do, which now looked like a Koosh ball stuck on her head. The old Joanne would have laughed it off. But the new Joanne saw it as yet another inadequacy. She couldn’t manage her career, her relationship, or even her damn hair.
Determined to not give in to a bout of insecurity, she pretended she was riding in on her horse Cherry Garcia, fearlessly hittin’ a new trail.
The front office of Fossen-Chandler Investigations had the ambiance of an upscale antique store. A tasteful chandelier, tapestry rugs and heavy, ornate furniture from an elegant bygone era. A Christmas garland decorated with red and gold bows decorated the top of a bookcase.
At the desk sat a thirtyish guy wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, his curly brown hair exploding from a ponytail at the back of his head. A computer, several notepads, and an electric Christmas flickering candle sat on his desk. A large framed photograph of the Tennessee Titans football team hung on the wall behind him.
As he was deep into a phone conversation, Gloria and Joanne stood at a discreet distance to give him some privacy, although the room, which reeked of popcorn, was too small to not overhear.
From his side of the conversation, Joanne knew he was trying to hire a criminal lawyer for someone charged with a felony B, the second-highest category of crimes in Nevada, punishable by imprisonment up to fifteen years and a possible $15,000 fine. Serious stuff. Felony Bs were one rung below murder, and included crimes like assault with a deadly weapon, battery with intent to kill and malicious arson.
He complained about a news story linking the defendant to other violent criminals—if true, a judge could spike that bail another ten or fifteen thousand at arraignment. The bigger and messier the case, the bigger the legal retainers. Defense lawyers were probably asking for ten to fifteen thousand, maybe more.
He ended the call and looked at them, his face clouded with worry.
“I have an appointment to see Ms. Chandler about an apartment,” Joanne said gently.
“Well, looky here…it’s our new neighbor-to-be! Darlin’, I’m Kimberly, but all my friends call me Kimmie,” said a young woman in her twenties who sailed into the room from a kitchenette to their right. She wore a loose top the color of tomato soup, black pants that matched her black bobbed hair and ballerina slippers. They quickly made introductions. “My hubby, Hal, is working a case in Henderson today, but he said to tell you welcome!”
Based on Kimmie’s drawl and the photo of the Titans, Joanne figured she hailed from Tennessee or thereabouts.
“How’s it goin’, Lenny?” Kimmie asked.
“Last dude wanted twelve thou, all upfront.” He rubbed his stomach. “Haggling with lawyers about money is givin’ me odjidda.”
“Od-what?” Kimmie asked.
“Indigestion,” Gloria explained.
“Heartburn,” Lenny said at the same time.
They looked at each other.
“Brooklynite?” she asked.
“Moved to Williamsburg when I was fourteen.”
“Bensonhurst. My dad’s Sal Falco.”
He did a double take. “Man, that dude was righteous...busted some major cases.” He turned somber. “My condolences…”
Gloria looked around the room as though taking it in, but Joanne knew differently. Six years
ago, Gloria had been working with her dad in the Falco Investigations office when he had suffered a heart attack. She gave him CPR while getting 9-1-1 on the line and following their instructions, but despite her heroic efforts he died in her arms.
She never hesitated to proudly identify herself as Sal Falco’s daughter, but talking about her dad stopped there. “People write articles and tell stories about the legendary Sal Falco, but I can’t...my dad was bigger than any words,” she once told Joanne.
Her composure intact, Gloria resettled her gaze on Lenny. “Sounds like you got a friend in trouble.”
“Big trouble. Few nights ago a clothing store, Organica Streetwear, burned down.” He held out the bowl of popcorn, and Gloria helped herself to a handful. “Cops arrested my friend—her name’s Dita—and charged her with arson because there’s surveillance footage of her jogging to her car, which happened to be parked near the store.”
He held the bowl out to Joanne, who waved it off.
“Other cars were parked in the vicinity,” he continued. “But there’s no footage of anybody else walking or running, so Dita gets the bum rap.”
“That footage doesn’t even show her, or her car’s, proximity to Organica Streetwear,” chimed in Kimmie. “In fact, the store isn’t visible at all, although a street sign establishes its location. But the cops, based on that surveillance tape, claim she was fleeing the scene.”
“Then the fuzz tracked Dita to her apartment,” Lenny said, his glassy eyes fixed on a far wall as if watching a replay of the night’s events. “They saw the gasoline container on the floor of her car, end of story.”
“They arrested her at that point?” Gloria popped several kernels into her mouth.
“Busted into her car first, without a warrant, then they arrested her.”
“Sounds like the container in her backseat was in plain view,” Joanne said. “Gave police probable cause to search her car without a warrant.”
Lenny pressed the air with his palms in a no-need-to-explain motion. “Hey, I’m a Fourth Amendment groupie, too...that container was underneath a bunch of books. Plain view? Only with x-ray vision.”
Gloria shot a look at Joanne, who arched a questioning eyebrow in response. Lenny obviously cared very much for Dita, but he wasn’t there when the police looked into her car, so were books really piled on the container?
“So I went to the station to talk to the guy who’d helped Dita when she ran out of gas,” Lenny said. “But he’s since boogied out of town. An employee said his name’s Dave and he has brown hair...which matches the description of five zillion other people on the planet.”
“Why didn’t they know his last name?” Gloria asked.
“Dude said he only worked there a few days…got paid under the table.”
“Reminds me of the Jackson case,” Gloria said to Joanne. “They’re trying to hang everything on a single surveillance tape, just like that prosecutor with the streak of white in her hair...forget her name...”
“Lucy Gorman. Who wanted desperately to railroad that poor woman into prison.”
Gloria huffed something about the Bride of Dracula, then said proudly, “But you, my brilliant friend, walked her.”
“Walked?” Lenny repeated. “You’re a defense lawyer? I thought you were one of us.”
Which she assumed to be a PI, unless the pod people had taken over their bodies and she was the last to go. More important, she sensed what was coming next and needed to put a stopper on it.
“Yes, I’m a defense lawyer but—”
“Solid.” He pumped his fist. “Dita’s first court appearance is in an hour. I wanted to be there and give her support, but I need to serve a subpoena before three. Judge could set bail as high as forty or fifty, but if he believes that news report about Dita once being a member of the eco-terrorist group Animal Freedom Party, and that she taught them incendiary device tactics, he could deny bond and she’d end up in jail for months.” He sat for a moment, his eyes getting that glassy look again. “But you,” he said, his voice cracking, “can save my Dita.”
Kimmie placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “They were once engaged.”
“Sorry things didn’t work out,” Joanne said.
She truly felt sorry, too. Poor guy seemed to be barely holding it together...so obviously Dita had broken his heart. The worst hurt in the world had to be the hurt of learning you’re not wanted.
“However,” she continued, “I can’t take this case be—”
“Jo will be at the arraignment and make sure Dita gets bonded out.”
Kimmie gasped, her gaze bouncing from Joanne to Gloria. “F’sure? I mean, you just said you can’t take this case...”
For several long, awkward moments, the only sound was Lenny making crunching sounds as he ate popcorn.
“Excuse me,” Joanne said, turning to Gloria the Big Mouth. “I need to speak to my investigator.”
She faced Gloria, her back to the others who started rustling papers and chatting loudly about work to give them privacy.
“I can’t believe you lawyered me up with an alleged arsonist-eco-terrorist whose case has LOTS OF TROUBLE FOR NO MONEY stamped all over it,” she whispered. “No more decision-making on my behalf, remember?”
“This isn’t about my making a decision for you,” she whispered back. “It’s about seeking justice for a poor woman they’re trying to railroad into prison.” She rolled back her shoulders, making her five-nine look six-two.
Using my own words against me. Plus that puffed-up height-thing…how low could her friend go?
“Sorry to interrupt, Miss Galvin,” Lenny said loudly. “But as I mentioned, Dita’s arraignment is in an hour and I’d like to quickly discuss a retainer.”
As she turned around, his lips kept flapping.
“I have three thousand dollars left in my savings. If the judge increases her bail today, all of that will go to her bondsperson. But I’m hoping my parents can chip in, plus this is a great time to sell things with people buying Christmas presents.”
As he talked about selling some vintage concert posters on eBay, she imagined the looks of horror on his poor parents’ faces as their son asked them to “chip in” thousands of dollars for some ex-girlfriend’s felonious arson escapades.
What a crazy, tragic mess. Without a lawyer, Dita was going to be eaten alive by the legal system at her arraignment, but if Joanne took on this case for little or no money, life would eat her alive.
Then it dawned on her how to feed life’s monsters. For today, anyway.
“Forget the retainer, Lenny. I’m going to represent Dita for her arraignment, free of charge, then I’m off her case and you’ll need to hire another lawyer.”
She quickly explained how she’d once handled an arraignment hearing as a one-time deal. All she needed to do was inform the judge she was making a specialty appearance with no commitment to handle the rest of the case.
“Darlin’,” Kimmie said, “for helpin’ out Lenny like this, I’d like to give you the first month rent free.”
Joanne felt a spurt of happiness. One free month stretched her money further, no need to embarrass herself asking for a second discount. That ten-minute walk to the courthouse saved her lots of gas money, too. Looked like this cowgirl was going to save the herd despite the blizzard, after all.
“Thank you, Kimmie. Of course, I’d like to see the place before I sign anything…”
“F’sure. Let’s do a walk-through after the arraignment hearing. That way we can take our time.”
Joanne could almost hear the bluebirds chirping over the rainbow, except for one issue. “I can’t wear a strawberry-print maxi dress for a court appearance. Well, I could if I wore a nice jacket or coat...got anything I can borrow, Kimmie?”
“Darn it, no.”
“Bad to the rescue.” Gloria shrugged off her profoundly cool, and extremely badass, leather jacket.
A jacket would add some dignity to her strawberry dress, hideous shoes
and Koosh-ball hair, but that rocker-chick jacket would make her look like the lead singer for Hole.
“It has zippers,” she muttered.
“Lots of jackets got zippers.”
“But five or twenty? Anyway you’re a size six...I’m a ten.”
“Four zippers. I’m an eight, and Bad is super roomy.” Gloria held it up. “Let’s slip it on.”
Resisting the urge to say something juvenile like I can dress myself, Joanne opted for her best withering look, the one she liked to give prosecutors to let them know she’d had enough of their bull.
But all her petty, mean-spirited intentions evaporated when she looked up at her friend’s face.
Miss Tough-PI-Chick was smiling so sweetly, her eyes all sparkly-happy, Joanne felt like an idiot for reacting to the cannoli shell and forgetting its sweet insides. Gloria’s intentions came straight from her heart...a good, decent heart.
“Time for me to get Bad,” Joanne said, sliding her arm into a sleeve
Worse case scenario, she’d slip off the jacket before going into the courtroom. On the other hand, maybe Bad would look good on her.
As Gloria adjusted the jacket collar, Kimmie spoke quietly to Lenny. Joanne looked away, wanting to give them privacy, but the room was too small to not overhear.
“Tell Dita her lawyer will be meetin’ her outside the courtroom. Describe what Joanne will be wearing, and be sure to explain this is a one-time deal. Oh, and tell her to not stare at her lawyer’s hair.”
* * *
Chapter 3
Late Friday afternoon, special agent Mike Day walked into the office of his boss and friend, Assistant Agent in Charge Theodore “Harley” Lambert, who sat at his desk flipping through papers. They worked in the Glendale office of the Los Angeles division of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, although the agency still went by its old acronym, ATF. Whenever someone asked Mike why it wasn’t ATFE, he replied omitting the “E” was another of the agency’s cost-cutting measures. A joke with a ring of truth. After several press exposés about ATF botching its gun-smuggling investigations and costing the government millions of dollars, the agency had gone “lean and mean” to clean up its image, including tighter scrutiny of agents and massive cost-cutting measures.
Mistletoe and Murder in Las Vegas Page 3