Hard Bitten

by M. K. York

  “Let the DA worry about that.”

  “No, I have to worry about that. If she gets into trouble on cross, our whole case looks a lot shittier.”

  “Can’t argue with that. Drink?”

  “Kelly would worry. I’d better get home.” Lena stretched, her back making a series of pops that would have made a chiropractor’s mouth water.

  “Well, hopefully a couple of weeks from now there’ll be nothing left to worry about.”

  “Don’t jinx us. God only knows how long we’re going to be in court on this one.”

  “How long can the trial take, really?”

  “Depends on how much the witnesses run their mouths and how many of them Dauer really means to lay into.”

  “Great.”

  Mark made it home, and went a whole twenty minutes of microwaving dinner and trying to watch TV before giving up and pulling out his laptop and notepad to start reviewing the plan for the trial yet again.

  He was in the middle of a bite of mediocre freezer curry and squinting at the witness list (Ron Williams appeared on both the prosecution and defense lists, which would annoy the shit out of Judge Kline when he realized they did mean to examine him twice) when his phone went off. He picked up, without looking, swallowing hastily.

  “Hi, this is Mark.”

  “Hey, Mark.”

  He froze and slowly lowered the fork. “Hi, Lukas. What’s, uh, what’s up?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Lukas wryly. “No more emergencies.”

  “Well, thank God for small favors.”

  “I was wondering—the trial starts Monday...”

  “Yeah.”

  “When should I plan on being there?”

  “Oh, shit, we didn’t talk about that, did we? I’m figuring at the least the first couple of days will just be the prosecution’s case. You don’t need to show up for that. I mean, technically you can’t. Witnesses can’t sit in on the trial before they testify. Possible tainting of testimony, you know?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll give you a heads-up when we’re going to need you, the night before at the latest. My best guess right now is Thursday. I’m thinking most of Monday for jury selection and the prosecution’s opening statement, then Tuesday for most of their witnesses, some of their stuff on Wednesday. Depends on whether they get talky. So either Wednesday or more likely Thursday. Friday if it turns into a real shit-show.”

  “Okay, that works. Good to know. Thanks.”

  There was an awkward pause. Mark coughed. “How are you doing?”

  “Oh, great. Peachy.” Lukas snorted. “I’ve got to shuffle around my jobs for next week so I can testify at a trial that I think a rich guy who knows my friends offed his lieutenant in his drug-running operation.”

  “That’s how it is on the criminal side of things. Convenience isn’t a big factor.”

  “Somehow I hadn’t really figured on that.” Lukas sighed. “How are you?”

  “Good. Just...you know, worrying. About everything.”

  “You? Worrying? I’m shocked. I’m so shocked. Listen to how shocked I am.”

  “You know, I distinctly remember you telling me you don’t talk much, and yet, here you are, sassing me.”

  “Yeah. Here I am.”

  That led to a longer, sadder pause, as Mark absorbed that.

  “You know,” Mark started, and trailed off, not sure what to say. Not sure what he could say.

  “I do.” Lukas sounded tired. “We talked about it. We talked it to death. I get it. I’ll just—we’ll finish out this trial and sooner or later things go back to normal, I guess.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Careful. Don’t want to say anything you couldn’t admit to under oath.”

  Mark was stung. “I thought—”

  “I get it. I’m telling you, I get it. Doesn’t mean I have to like it. Besides, it’s real advice, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Mark laughed, a short, scratchy laugh. “I told Lena about the stakeout. That I was there. In case it does come up, for some reason. You know what she asked me?”

  “Do I want to know?”

  “She said, ‘You fucking Nystrom?’ Like, your last name and everything. Just. Matter-of-fact, like that.”

  “You think she would have pulled you off the case if the answer was yes?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  “Yeah. I get it.” Lukas blew out a breath. “How did she—”

  “She’s a criminal attorney. She’s spent her entire career needing to notice things.”

  “It’s a little...”

  “I know.”

  “Can I tell you something?”

  “I won’t stop you.” Even though I probably should, thought Mark.

  “I go to this place for coffee, down on Market. It’s got glass windows, floor to ceiling, all along the street. I meet clients there a lot, but I go just to get coffee, take my laptop, do some research, whatever.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. And lately—I can’t get shit done unless I’m on a deadline, because I just sit there and I drink my coffee and I watch the street, and I think, what am I doing? What am I fucking doing with my life?”

  “You’re—come on, you’ve made a career for yourself. A successful, albeit tiny, company. A corporation of one. Are you incorporated? You really should be.”

  “I am, you’re missing the point.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “The point is, did you ever finish painting your spare room?”

  Mark darted a guilty glance toward the darkened doorway. “No.”

  “There you go,” said Lukas, as if he’d said something that made sense. And the worst part was, Mark suspected he did understand. The empty, unfinished room; Lukas’s apartment, perpetually looking like he’d just moved in, or was about to move out again. He could picture it in the hazy night, rain blowing past, blurring the streetlights: Lukas sitting on his couch, staring at the dark television screen, phone to his ear.

  Mark sighed. “You staying safe?”

  “What, like marching up to people and telling them I think they’re drug dealers? Yeah, I’m staying safe. Jesus.”

  “I just—I know it’s hard not to say something.”

  “It’s easier with Frank. He’s a numbnuts. We don’t talk a whole lot to start with.”

  “He is a numbnuts. No argument there.”

  “Christ, when you came to see that movie with us, I was convinced you’d meet Frank and decide you never wanted to hang out with us again.”

  “Yeah, well, he wasn’t exactly the strongest selling point.” Mark made a soft, rueful noise. “He always jump around like that at games?”

  “Every damn time. You can’t give him the popcorn bowl unless you want to end up wearing it.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “If I’m right about him...”

  “Don’t think about it now. That’s the cops’ job.”

  “I don’t get how you can split it up like that. The cops, you guys. Isn’t it all about the truth?”

  “Hell, no. Half the time my job is to let my client tell as little of the truth as we can legally manage. What we do is make the best outcome possible for our clients. The cops are the ones who are supposed to find out what all the facts are. If they do their jobs right, there shouldn’t be anything for me to contest. And yet! I knew a guy who had a client, turned out the cops fucked up so bad they brought somebody with the same name but totally not the criminal in and charged him, and he damn near went to jail over it. So. I don’t have a lot of faith in them.”

  “I can see where that would come from.”

  “So—” Mark hesitated. He should go. He should hang up, before they got too cozy, before they started talking the way they kept drifting into: fond. Familiar.

  But it was Friday night, and he had the biggest trial of his life starting on Monday, and just hearing Lukas’s voice was settling his nerves, somehow.

  “So?” asked
Lukas.

  “What kind of cases do you have coming up? I’m sorry we’re fucking your schedule.”

  “Ah, it’s not a big deal. Couple of infidelity cases, one insurance fraud.”

  “Yeah?” And he managed to keep Lukas talking for a while, long enough that his shitty curry went cold.

  When Lukas finally said, surprised, “Oh, man, is it really ten? I’ve got to get going, I’m on an early job tomorrow,” Mark made himself sit forward and open his eyes.

  “Yeah, better get your beauty sleep.”

  “Hah, very funny. See you Wednesday, maybe.”

  “Yeah. See you.”

  After they hung up, Mark looked back down at his notes. He was still wearing his work clothes—he’d shoved his sleeves up to his elbows, but his belt was digging in uncomfortably, and he started to strip.

  On a moment’s impulse, he put on some music. If it was music that reminded him of Lukas, well, that was his own shitty idea. Nobody needed to know.

  *

  Mark didn’t really sleep the night before the trial started. Lena had decided that she was going to wait until after the prosecution presented their case to give her opening statement; it was her prerogative, as the defense attorney, to either give it right away after the prosecution finished theirs, or wait until the defense was ready to start their case.

  Which was great, that was fine, except now he had a hard knot in the pit of his stomach at the thought of the jury getting this picture of Gina Carville as a drunk, vengeful, jilted woman, coming back to the warehouse with a can of gas and a lighter. And no immediate response on their end to it.

  It was going to be fine. Lena knew her business. Nausea gnawed at his gut. He managed two bites of bagel before giving it up as a bad job.

  He wore his best suit—black—and a completely unremarkable, unobjectionable tie in a sober navy blue. He fidgeted mercilessly in his car on the drive in (this was not a day to trust the light rail not to spill coffee on him), and when he finally got into the courtroom, Lena was already there.

  “Hey there, Counselor,” she said by way of greeting, and waved him to the seat next to her. Gina wasn’t there. “Just getting my notes together. Jury selection should be a barrel of monkeys.”

  “I assume you mean finding a pool of jurors that have been hiding under rocks?” The story had been all over the news when it first happened, and there had been a renewed flutter of interest since the trial was starting.

  “That is exactly what I mean.”

  He had a water bottle—no coffee today; he didn’t think his heart could stand it—and the gallery was already getting uncomfortably full.

  John Dauer showed up at the next table, with his own junior counsel, and gave Lena a polite little nod as he set up his briefcase. Gina came in with her guard and got escorted to go change from prison orange to something less prejudicial to the jury.

  Jury selection turned into the usual slog: trying to find twelve people who seemed like they were mostly all there, and who didn’t already have violently strong opinions based on the media coverage.

  “Well, she’s a slut, right? Wait, can I say slut in court?” asked one man.

  They vetoed him.

  “He probably had it coming,” said an older woman. The DA vetoed her.

  It was well after lunch by the time they had a full jury and alternates selected, and Judge Kline seemed to briefly exhibit signs of life, perking up when it was time for the prosecution’s opening statement.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” said Dauer, smiling an easy, confident smile. He turned to the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you are going to hear a story that is undeniably tragic. A man, a husband, a pillar of the community, lost his life as a result of what has to be viewed as a senseless and premeditated crime. You will hear evidence that the defendant in this case, Gina Carville, was found mere blocks from the scene of the crime, heavily intoxicated, with the means to commit the crime. Her motive was perhaps the oldest motive of all. Love, that was unrequited, with her married lover planning to leave her and return to his wife of fourteen years.”

  Dauer put his hands behind his back and rocked forward as he continued to talk—more of the usual, more sweeping and grand statements. He looked so earnest and so honest. Mark envied him that poise; he had not managed to stop sweating, and the nausea had only eased as it turned into a ravenous hunger, too late to do anything about it.

  “It may seem difficult to understand what would motivate a crime this heinous, but I urge you to consider the history of the defendant. She is known for emotional, impulsive acts, and known to have strong love that could easily turn to bitter hate. Her reaction to being left, this perception of being abandoned, motivated her to commit murder. Premeditated murder. Along with arson, to cover up her crime. She has committed murder in the first degree, and once you have been presented with the full evidence, it will be your responsibility to find her guilty of that crime.”

  Lena scratched something on the legal notepad next to her and nudged Mark with her elbow, without looking at him. He glanced down. Yada yada, she’d written. He nodded slightly at her.

  After the prosecution’s opening statement, it was definitely time to call it for the day. Mark experienced the pronouncement of recess with mixed feelings. On the one hand, thank God, he would get to go home and take a shower instead of continuing to bathe in his sweat, but on the other hand, he was now that much closer to their case actually starting.

  “Mark,” said Gina faintly. “Was that—do you think they’re going to believe him? About me?”

  “I think they’re going to get a chance to see the same evidence we saw, and that evidence is not compelling. Reasonable doubt is a real thing, Gina. It means something.” Mark leaned toward her and spoke in a low voice, trying to project all of his confidence. “You didn’t commit the crime, and that puts the DA on the defensive. They have a weak case and they know it.”

  “It’s going to be okay?” Gina’s eyes darted back and forth between him and Lena.

  “It is,” said Lena firmly.

  Gina closed her eyes briefly, looking as though she might cry, and then it was time for her to go back for the night.

  Mark had the utterly surreal experience, while watching the ten o’clock news, of seeing his own face on it. Son of a bitch, he did look ten pounds heavier on camera. He’d always wondered if that was true. Lena looked like a boss, and he was walking two steps behind her, like the husband of the Queen of England.

  “Attorneys from the Public Defenders Office refused requests for comment,” the anchor droned, “while the DA said that his office was confident of the outcome.”

  He turned the TV off and stuck his tongue out at it. “Yeah, right, asshole,” he muttered.

  Lukas texted him. did you see you’re famous now?

  Shut up

  nope

  Uuuuuugh

  you knew you were going to be on camera and you still wore that tie?

  What’s wrong with my tie?

  nothing. forget I said anything

  That tie is fine. You just don’t like ties

  guilty as charged

  UUUUUUGGGGGHH

  *

  “Can you state your name and occupation for the record?”

  “Detective James Garisch. Seattle Police Department detective for the last fifteen years.”

  The prosecution had started the morning with the cops who’d made the initial arrest (who denied, strenuously, on cross-examination that they had initiated the search on her vehicle prior to obtaining either consent or a warrant), and they were moving on to the more senior of the detectives who’d done the bulk of the investigation. It was crazy to think that these were the guys who should have done the kind of work Lukas had thought to do—they should have seen that the company was crooked, rather than gunning for his client mercilessly.

  And, like any detective, he didn’t seem like a bad guy on the stand. Mark didn’t have a lot of faith in how police office
rs seemed. He’d seen too many clients show up, pulped to a bloody mess, charged with resisting arrest.

  There weren’t any major surprises in the police testimony. No one brought up the company, at least until Lena stood up in the midafternoon and closed in on the witness stand like a circling shark.

  “Detective Garisch,” she said, pleasantly. “You’ve stated that you independently verified Mrs. Kupfer’s alibi with security camera footage. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the detective, with a grim set to his mouth. He’d done this dance before, evidently, and knew that no matter how Lena seemed, she was not going to be his friend.

  “What about the owner of West Cascades Shipping, Ron Williams?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Did you verify his alibi?”

  “We spoke with his housekeeper. She confirmed that he was at home during the time in question.”

  “That’s interesting.” Lena raised her eyebrows. “The only confirmation of Mr. Williams’s location during the time of the murder and arson is a woman who works for him?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did you have any other evidence suggesting that Mr. Williams was, in fact, home during that time?”

  “No, ma’am, we felt that his housekeeper’s corroboration was sufficient.”

  “You felt that the word of someone who depends on Mr. Williams’s liberty for not only her paycheck but the continuation of her visa status was sufficient?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the detective through gritted teeth.

  “Did you check his credit and debit card receipts during the time of the murder?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Did you check his cell phone records during that time?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “So you went to great lengths to verify the alibi of Mrs. Kupfer, but you took no such steps to verify the alibi of Mr. Williams.”

  “We didn’t feel it was necessary.”

  “That’s very interesting, Detective. In retrospect, if you wished to verify his alibi with greater certainty, what other steps would you have taken?”

  “Objection,” said Dauer.

  “Sustained.” Judge Kline was glowering at Lena.

  “Your Honor, this is on cross. Greater leeway is permitted.”