by Lis Wiehl
A razor blade? More frantically, Mia arched her back, twisting and kicking. She didn’t care if she kicked someone else or if Young tore all the hair out of her head. She had to get loose before he slashed her throat.
For a moment the weight left her neck, but even before she could feel a surge of relief it was back. And then Mia felt a small sharp edge press against her throat.
CHAPTER 2
Everything was moving in slow motion. Mia had all the time in the world to think, even if she had no time to save herself. Time to imagine how the delicate white skin of her throat would part in a red line that would widen into a bloody smile. Time to think about her children. Brooke was only four, Gabe fourteen. Both of them needed their mother. Needed Mia more than ever, since the car accident seven months earlier that had taken Scott from them.
“I got his wrist,” Trevor yelled as an elbow pressed into Mia’s rib cage. “Cuff him from the other side!”
And suddenly the weight came off Mia as the group of men wrestled a swearing Young back, yanking him to his feet. She sucked in air. With a trembling hand she risked touching her throat, afraid of what she might find.
But no hot blood pulsed from her neck. Her shaking fingers found just smooth skin.
Two more deputies ran into the courtroom with their guns drawn. Everyone was talking at once.
Mia pushed herself to a sitting position and turned to Catherine, who had crept closer. “Did he cut me?”
“No,” Catherine said. Her eyes were wide and she had her hands to her own throat. “No, thank God. Should I call an ambulance?”
“I’m sorry!” Young called out, though he didn’t look it.
Trevor pushed his shoulder. “It’s a little late for that.”
Rolf helped Mia to her feet and guided her to a chair. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Just before we came in, he asked me if I thought you had any remorse. I said you were just doing your job. I’m sorry if that had anything to do with it.”
“It’s the truth,” she said, massaging her neck. “And thanks for helping get him off me.”
He smoothed down the front of his now rumpled suit. “As soon as Bernard ran past me and I heard you scream, I decided I no longer cared about attorney-client privilege.”
Mia was surprised to find that she could still smile.
One of the deputies who had responded knelt in front of her. He had a shaved head and golden brown eyes. “I have first aid training.” As he spoke, he pulled on bright purple vinyl gloves. “Where are you injured?”
“I thought he cut me, but I guess he didn’t.” Lifting her chin, Mia touched the spot where she had felt something sharp. “Like right here.”
He bent closer. “From the shape of it, I’d say it’s a fingernail mark. But it didn’t break the skin. Did you get hurt anyplace else?”
“Some bruises, but that’s all.” Now that it was over, Mia was starting to shake in earnest. “Everyone piled on him so fast, I don’t think he had a chance to hurt me.”
“He had a razor blade,” Trevor said grimly, “but I knocked it out of his hand.”
Rolf said, “Thank God for that. He’d have cut your throat for sure, Mia.”
“Okay, I’m going to touch your neck.” The deputy gently cradled the back of Mia’s head in one hand while he stroked and pressed her throat with the other. “I think you’re right. Just bruises. Nothing broken. Your hyoid bone feels intact. You might want to go to the hospital to get checked out. It’s up to you. We could call an ambulance.”
Mia knew she most definitely did not want to spend the next two hours getting poked and prodded, surrounded by the stress of a busy emergency room. All she wanted to do was go back to her office, pick up her things, and go home to her kids. “I don’t think I want to do that.” She looked up at the judge, who had come down off the bench too late to join the fray. It was strange to realize the whole thing had lasted only a few seconds.
“You sure you don’t want to go to the hospital, Mia?” he asked.
“I’m sure.” Everyone was looking at her, including the man who had just tried to kill her. It was one thing to be the center of attention when you were asking the court to take away a man’s life, either literally or figuratively. It was another when the tables were turned. When you were the one at risk.
Judge Rivas turned to Rolf. “Obviously, sentencing will have to be delayed. And your client will probably face more charges.”
“Obviously.” Rolf straightened his tie. “And his family may need to hire a new lawyer. It’s one thing to make sure my client gets a fair trial. It’s another to have to stop him from killing the prosecutor.”
CHAPTER 3
Mia leaned against the elevator wall. Her legs didn’t feel strong enough to hold her up. As soon as the doors opened, she would go straight to her office, grab her coat and purse, and get out of here. Right now she couldn’t bear to talk about what had just happened. Couldn’t bear to have everyone gather around, concerned and solicitous.
Mia wasn’t a victim. She had file folders of real victims on her desk. Some with photos of people who hadn’t even had time to be surprised before they were dead. And some with photos of victims who had far too much time between the realization that something bad was happening and the end of it.
As Mia walked in, Frank D’Amato was just coming out of his office. He was both Mia’s boss and the King County prosecutor. At least he was as of today. The election was only eight days away.
“Mia, I’m glad I caught you. I’ve got a case I need you to take.”
“Can it wait, Frank? There’s something I need to—”
“I’m afraid it can’t, Mia.” He had already turned to go back to his office.
By the expression on the face of their secretary, Mia knew word had traveled faster than the elevator. Judy pulled down her mouthpiece. “Frank, Mia was just—”
“It’s all right, Judy.” Mia knew there would be lots of questions, lots of discussion, a thorough postmortem designed to prevent some future prosecutor from being slashed to death on a courtroom floor. Just not, if she could help it, today. She would put what had happened out of her mind, listen to Frank, and then she would leave. She would wait until she was safely at home behind her closed bedroom door before she would allow herself to break down. Until then, her memory of what had just occurred would go into a box.
Mia was getting pretty good at putting things in boxes.
She followed Frank in. He was already behind his desk, staring at his computer screen, his black eyebrows pulled together in a frown. Mia could remember when Frank was the kind of guy who wore Dockers, but now he favored Italian wool suits. His dark hair was artfully touched with silver at the temples. With his athletic body and cleft chin, he looked like an actor hired to play the part of a district attorney—or even president. And Frank was nothing if not ambitious.
“Come look at this,” he said, motioning her around his desk. Then he clicked on a file, and a poor-quality video from a security cam began to play. It was black and white, shot from about ten feet above a wide pedestrian bridge.
“Where is this?” Mia asked as a parade of people passed the camera: Moms herding toddlers. Old ladies clutching purses. Young women swinging shopping bags. Adolescent boys sauntering in baggy cargo shorts despite the weather.
“The walkway connects a parking garage to a mall,” Frank said.
Her phone buzzed again, and Mia realized she had forgotten to check it earlier. It was probably someone wanting to know more about what had happened in the courtroom.
“What exactly am I looking for?” Ignoring her phone, she mentally put on her prosecutor hat. There would be time to talk about what had happened—and what had almost happened—later.
“You’ll know it when you see it,” he said grimly.
Two teenage boys entered the frame, wheeling an empty shopping cart. A third trailed behind them. One of the boys wore a white hoodie. The second wore a football jersey with the number 12 on the b
ack, as well as a name she thought started with a B. The third boy, dressed in a dark hoodie, walked in front of the cart and began waving his arms. Mia watched the dark spot of his mouth opening and closing. If she had to guess, she would have said he was yelling.
The whole thing was a guess. The picture was so blurry and pixilated, she couldn’t really say that all three were boys. Or even kids. The only real clue to their identities was the football jersey. She glanced at Frank, but he was focused on the screen. She just hoped the video wasn’t all the evidence they had.
Now the two boys lifted the front of the cart and balanced it precariously on the metal lip of the railing. The front half jutted out into space. Mia caught her breath as it wobbled back and forth. How far above the ground was the walkway? Two stories? More? And what was below? Because she was sure now, sickeningly sure, that the cart was going to plummet. But what was underneath? A child? A bicyclist? A car whose driver would crash?
But the two boys kept both their hands on it, even as the nose dipped and the handle rose. At one point the boy in the dark hoodie grabbed the side of the cart next to the boy in the football jersey, their bodies blurring as they moved. Mia watched in helpless horror as the cart tipped forward and then suddenly disappeared.
All three boys stood for a moment, empty-handed. Each of their smudgy faces held the round, dark O of an open mouth. And then they ran. The boy in the dark hoodie ran to the left. The boy in the white hoodie and the boy wearing the football jersey ran to the right.
“So what happened when the cart hit the ground?” Mia asked.
Instead of answering, Frank raised his hand to tell her to wait. The screen went black, then images from a second video appeared.
This camera was mounted along the side of a narrow road. For the moment there were no cars, just a half dozen people walking in all directions. On the far side of the road were a sidewalk and two sets of glass doors—the entrance to a store. Two people—one taller than the other—were moving toward the double doors and away from the camera. If anything, this video was even blurrier than the first, the figures nearly outside the camera’s range.
Although she knew what was going to happen, Mia still gasped when the cart suddenly crashed from above into the frame.
CHAPTER 4
The shopping cart barely missed the shorter person while smashing the taller one to the ground. Then the boy in the black hoodie darted into the frame and ran to the injured person, even as the shorter one stood unmoving, seemingly rooted to the sidewalk. More people came, pushing out of the store, stopping their cars in the middle of the road, all of them running to help the person pinned under the cart.
The video ended. Even black and white and blurry, it was still a clear picture of senseless tragedy.
“Who was hit by the cart?” Mia asked.
“Tamsin Merritt. She’s thirty-eight. Her fourteen-year-old son, Luke, wasn’t injured. At least not physically.”
“And Tamsin?” Mia was already using the woman’s first name, just as she would in front of a jury to make them think of her not as a victim, but as their friend. Mia was ready to go to war on this woman’s behalf. Her breath was speeding up again, not from fear, but from anger.
“I’m told she died right there, at least technically. She didn’t have a pulse, and she wasn’t breathing.” A muscle flickered in Frank’s jaw. “A doctor who happened to be in the store gave her CPR. As of a few hours ago, it was still touch and go. But even if she lives, she’s more than likely suffered brain damage.”
Mia shuddered. “How far did the cart fall?”
“That walkway is four stories up, so about fifty feet.”
“And the kids who did it? Do we have them?”
“So far, the only name we have is Manny Flores. That’s the boy who tried to stop the other two.” Frank pressed his fingers against his temples. “He became hysterical watching the doctor trying to revive her. They ended up having to call an ambulance for him too, and he had to be sedated. He’s in Willow Grove, that mental hospital for kids, and right now they’re saying he’s not in any condition to answer questions. We’re hoping to take the other two into custody soon. We’re hearing they’re around the same age as Manny—fifteen.”
“At least that one kid was wearing a shirt with his name on the back,” Mia observed. “That should help us find the other two.”
“What?” Frank shot her a puzzled look.
“That football jersey with the number twelve. It looked like his name started with a B.”
“Brady?” A near-smile flitted across Frank’s face. “Haven’t you heard of Tom Brady?”
Mia shook her head. Had she?
“Of the New England Patriots?” Frank rolled his eyes. “Remind me never to give you a case that revolves around football. There’re people wearing that exact same jersey all over the country. I’m afraid it’s not much of a clue.”
“So where do I come in?” For a second Mia lost her focus on the case and flashed back to what had just happened in the courtroom, her terror when she felt something sharp press on her throat. Pushing the thought away, she leaned against Frank’s cherrywood credenza to steady herself, taking care not to knock over any of the framed photos of his two kids. It was rumored that these photos were about as close as Frank ever came to actually seeing them. You had to make certain sacrifices if you wanted to be district attorney. And even more if you wanted to be reelected.
“I need you to decide whether they should be charged as adults or juveniles. And if it’s as adults, I want you to prosecute them.”
In the state of Washington, youths sixteen or older and charged with certain violent felonies were automatically transferred to adult court. But even younger kids could still be charged as adults.
“Fifteen’s awfully young,” Mia said, trying to buy herself time. If she took on this case, how much time would she have at home with her own kids?
“We’re not talking about little angels,” Frank said impatiently. “You saw what they did. It’s a miracle the son wasn’t injured too. And there’s still the chance Tamsin might die.”
Making it a second-degree homicide. Part of Mia wanted to throw the book at these two kids who had acted with reckless indifference. At the same time she knew how easily kids were influenced, how little they thought things through.
At the beginning of the school year, her son had fallen in with a new group of friends. Gabe had taken part in a flash mob that robbed a convenience store. He hadn’t taken anything—claimed he hadn’t even known what was going to happen—but still, Mia was uncomfortably aware of how a single poor decision could have horrifying consequences.
Gabe, the two boys, Manny, even Tamsin’s son, Luke—they had all been babies once. How did a baby grow up to be a kid who would set into action a plan that could kill a stranger? For that matter, how did a baby grow up to be Bernard Young? Was there anything you could do to stop it from happening? Juvenile courts were aimed at rehabilitation, but was the direction of these two kids’ lives already set? Should they be written off, the energy refocused on protecting those around them?
“I want you to work with Charlie Carlson,” Frank continued. “You two make a good team.”
Charlie. She wasn’t sure how she felt about working with him again. “But, Frank, I don’t—”
“Mia,” he snapped. “This is my top priority. I need the best people on it. That means you and Charlie. And I need your decision as soon as possible, before the election. I do not need to hear any more from my opponent about this office being soft on crime. Whatever you decide, we need to be able to defend it.”
Unlike Frank, his opponent, Dominic Raines, did not look like a district attorney. He was not much taller than Mia and had the pallor of a man who spent all his time indoors. But he had also run a shrewd campaign, using cherry-picked examples to accuse Frank of coddling criminals. According to Raines, far too many were being granted sweetheart plea bargains.
The general public, brought up on p
rime time courtroom dramas, did not realize that ninety-five percent of felony convictions were the result of plea bargains. Only a handful went to trial. The justice system simply couldn’t handle the caseload otherwise.
Raines had been focusing on the cases that sounded the worst, without mentioning any nitty-gritty realities. In some cases there had been a lack of evidence, and a plea bargain had been preferable to a defendant likely getting off scot-free. But on the face of it, probation for a third-degree rape case or nine months in prison for arson did not sound like enough.
“I want you to consider everything carefully, Mia,” Frank said. His brilliant blue eyes bored into her. “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”
Her phone buzzed again, and she finally peeked at the screen. The caller ID read Seattle Security. Seattle Security had put the new alarm system in her home when she went back to work. Just one of a million decisions she had made on the fly. But why would they be calling her now?
A fresh burst of adrenaline pumped through her veins. “Excuse me, Frank. I have to take this.” She pressed the button to accept the call. “This is Mia Quinn.”
A bored man’s voice said, “This is Seattle Security calling for Mia Quinn.”
Hadn’t he heard her? “This is Mia,” she repeated, not bothering to hide her impatience.
“We’re just calling to notify you that there’s been an alert at your home, and no one is answering the phone there.”
“Of course not. Nobody’s home.” Although maybe they were by now. She thought of her phone buzzing when she was in the courtroom. It could have been Gabe.
“We’ve also notified the police department.”
She stiffened. “Don’t you have someone who goes out to the house and checks?” Why hadn’t she read the contract? And she was an attorney.
“No, ma’am. We monitor, we check with the homeowner, and we notify the police department.”
Mia had a realistic view of how long it might take the police to respond. More than ninety-five percent of automated alarms were false, so responding to them was a cop’s lowest priority.