WINTER’S
LAW
STEPHEN PENNER
Winter’s Law
©2016 Stephen Penner. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transferred without the express written consent of the author.
ISBN-13: 9780692822029
ISBN-10: 069282202X
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity with real persons or events is purely coincidental. Persons, events, and locations are either the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously.
Lynette Melcher, Editor.
Cover image by James Weston and M. Dolan.
Cover design by Stephen Penner.
Also by Stephen Penner
THE DAVID BRUNELLE LEGAL THRILLERS
Presumption of Innocence
Tribal Court
By Reason of Insanity
A Prosecutor for the Defense
Substantial Risk
Corpus Delicti
Accomplice Liability
Other Stephen Penner Novels
Scottish Rite
Blood Rite
Last Rite
The Godling Club
Mars Station Alpha
WINTER’S
LAW
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
Excerpt from Presumption of Innocence
About the Author
(1) Prosecutions for criminal offenses shall not be commenced after the periods prescribed in this section.
(a) The following offenses may be prosecuted at any time after their commission:
(i) Murder
—Revised Code of Washington 9A.04.080
Limitation of Actions
Chapter 1
‘Talon Winter, Attorney at Law’
Talon put her fists on her hips and smiled at the words freshly added to her new office door.
But the smile faded slightly as she realized her name was the last of the five attorneys etched on the glass of the wood-framed door. Black adhesive letters stretched from eye level all the way down to the hem of her knee-length suit skirt.
Least among equals, she thought. Five independent attorneys, sharing office space and a receptionist to reduce overhead, but not combined into any type of firm. No sharing of profits and glory. And if she failed, she’d fail on her own.
It was a long drop from her previous job. Senior Associate Attorney at Gardelli, High & Steinmetz, the most prestigious corporate law firm in Tacoma, Washington. She’d been there seven years and was next up to make partner. Not only had she put in her years, she had littered those years with the bloodied corpses of her opponents. No one deserved the promotion more than her. No one.
But before the managing partners brought her fully into their fold, they wanted a showing of her loyalty. They asked her to sign an affidavit that she knew wasn't true. A senior partner had missed a filing deadline. Talon was supposed to swear she'd mailed the pleadings and they must have gotten lost in the mail. The case would be saved by 'the mailbox rule' and her declaration. The managing partners explained that it was the firm's biggest client. They explained that if they lost the case, they'd also lose half their expected revenue for the next year. They explained that no one would ask any questions and she could forget all about it.
She explained she couldn't sign something that wasn't true.
And they explained she was fired.
So the partnership went to Justin Gardelli, the boss’ nephew. Three years out of law school and couldn’t find the courthouse if you put him across the street and pointed.
Talon knew she had a cause of action. She also knew they’d fight her like hell and it could be years before she saw any money, if ever. And she knew she’d probably need to eat in those intervening years. So she had to figure out what to do.
Chaos equals opportunity.
Talon didn’t have a clichéd Chinese character tattoo on her shoulder blade or anything, but she was aware of the concept that bad situations may be good opportunities in disguise. And she wasn’t the type to go home and cry. She was the type to go home, get her sword, and make the other side cry. She’d been kicking opposing counsel around courtrooms for years. And enjoying it. So, as she contemplated her next career move, she tried to remember the time she enjoyed it the most.
That was easy.
It was the one time she wasn’t doing what Gardelli, High & Steinmetz had told her to do. It was the time she defended a murder suspect against a hotshot Seattle D.A. There was always a rush when she stepped into a courtroom, but nothing before or after had compared to the feeling of defending a man accused of murder and locking horns with all the advantages and resources and arrogance of the government. Any Justin Gardelli could win a motion to compel discovery on an insurance subrogation claim. Yawn.
It took a Talon Winter to acquit a killer.
Talon glanced down again at her name emblazoned on the office door. Her residual smile descended to full frown. The tail of the R in 'Winter' was peeling up. She bent over to press the plastic back onto the glass. It took a moment to rub the adhesive letter sufficiently to keep it in place. Before Talon could stand up again, she heard a man behind her say, “Looking good.”
She stood up, spun around, and tugged her skirt down—all in one fluid motion—to confront the dirty old pervert behind her. But when she did, she discovered the man was neither dirty nor old. And whether he was a pervert or not became a curiosity rather than a condemnation.
“Hi,” the clean, young, possibly perverted man greeted her as he extended his hand. “I’m Curt. Curt Fairchild. I work across the hall.”
Curt jerked a thumb in the general direction of the hallway behind him, but that only served to flex the muscles in his forearm and draw attention to the muscles under his shirt. He was either a few years younger than her 33 years or a few years older, with a boyish face but mature eyes. Thick black hair was cut stylishly and combed back from his face. He wore what passed for semi-formal business attire any more: khakis and a polo shirt, unbuttoned. The only people left in the Northwest who wore suits were the lawyers.
She remembered that she was irritated when she turned around to find Curt Fairchild standing there, but it took her a moment for her to remember why. When she did, though, she forgot all about his cute face and thick arms. She didn't shake his hand.
“What did you say to me?” she demanded.
But Curt just lowered his hand and smiled, either ignoring or oblivious to the edge in her voice. He pointed a
t the door behind her. “Your name on the door,” he said. “That looks great. ‘Talon Winter, Attorney at Law.’ You just set up your own practice, right? Congratulations.”
Talon turned back to the door. “Uh, right,” she replied slowly. She wasn't convinced that's what Curt had really been talking about 'looking good.' But she admired his mental dexterity. “Thanks. I guess.”
She was still having trouble convincing herself that going from a six-figure salary with gold-plated benefits to a glorified cubicle with no clients was something to celebrate.
“So what's your area of practice?” Curt asked, combing his hair back from his face with his fingers. He had really nice hair.
“Criminal defense,” Talon answered, although there was the tinge of a question in her reply. It wasn't like she had any actual cases yet.
Curt just nodded. “Well, nice to meet you, Talon Winter, Criminal Defense Attorney at Law.” He waved good-bye and took a small step backward toward his office. “I hope we'll see more of each other.”
Talon offered a practiced smirk. “I'm sure you do.”
Curt smiled back—a broad, honest grin—then turned and disappeared down the hall without any further conversation. Talon smiled more fully, at herself, then collected her thoughts and walked back into her new office.
“Hello, Ms. Winter,” Hannah said from behind her elevated receptionist’s desk. It sported small business card stands for each of the attorneys who office-shared there. Hannah worked for all of them, her salary divided equally among the attorneys. She answered the phones, greeted visitors, and generally made the place feel as if it were a unified office of a law firm, rather than a loose stable of solo practitioners.
“Call me Talon,” Talon replied. Hannah seemed nice enough, although they really hadn’t had much time to get to know each other. She was 20-something, with light brown hair and a round face. Talon hoped she'd be pleasant upon arrival and departure and competent in passing along messages. More interaction than that, Talon wasn’t really interested in. Still, no reason to be formal. “Any messages?”
Hannah smiled. “Since you went outside to look at your name? No.”
Talon smiled too. It had been a silly question. She was just trying to make conversation. Her mistake. “Right. Okay. Well, I guess I’ll head back to my office then.”
“I saw you talking with Curt,” Hannah grinned. “He’s really nice.”
Talon tried to look casually over her shoulder at the hallway. “Yeah. He was admiring my name too.”
Hannah raised an eyebrow. “Your name. Sure.”
Talon decided to, if not change, at least deflect the conversation. “Is he a lawyer too? He said his office was down the hall.”
Hannah shook her head. “No, he’s an investigator. He does some work for some of the other attorneys here. Mostly personal injury stuff, I think. Maybe some criminal. I’m not sure.”
Talon nodded. That was good information. If she needed an investigator maybe she could use her ‘name’ to get Curt to help her out for a discount. “Well, I really should get to my office,” Talon said. “I have a lot to do.”
* * *
Three hours later, Talon had arranged the stapler, tape dispenser, and two-holepunch on her desk, had selected the wallpaper pattern for her computer desktop, and was pretty sure where she was going to hang her diploma. Her phone hadn’t rung once.
She leaned back in her chair and looked at the decorative clock atop her one bookshelf. 4:58. Quitting time. At least for Hannah. One of her office-mate attorneys was in a closed-door meeting with a client; another had left at 4:00. The other two had never even come into the office, as far as Talon could tell.
“Night, everyone,” Talon heard Hannah shout out, the front door’s electronic bell letting everyone know of her departure. Hannah didn’t wait for any reply. Talon didn’t offer one. She wasn’t one to yell down the hall.
A half-hour later, the client meeting was done and Talon was alone in the office. She picked up her phone and dialed another attorney. But he’d gone home for the night too.
Hello. You’ve reached the desk of Samuel Sullivan. I’m sorry I missed your call. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks. –Beep!
“Hello, Mr. Sullivan. This is Talon Winter. I was calling to see if there was any update on my lawsuit against Gardelli, High and Steinmetz. Just checking in, I guess. Please give me a call when you get a chance. Thanks.”
Talon hung up and sighed. She did some quick calculations in her head. Without any clients, she’d run through her savings and have to shut down her practice in about five months. Six, if she started skipping lunch.
The front door chimed again and Talon heard Curt’s voice call out, “Hello? Is anyone still here?”
Talon stood up and checked her appearance in the mirror she’d leaned against the wall by her office door.
“I’m here,” she announced and walked toward the reception area. When she got there she was greeted not only by Curt, but also by a 40-something African-American man with a proud posture but worried eyes.
“Talon,” Curt said. “I'm glad you're here.” He gestured to his companion. “This good man needs a lawyer.”
Chapter 2
“Murder?” Talon confirmed. “You’re charged with murder?”
The man across her desk nodded. He had a name. Michael Jameson. Curt sat next to him in the other guest chair.
“Yes,” Michael replied, somewhat formally. He was clearly nervous.
Good, Talon thought. He should be. Shows he’s paying attention.
“Murder One or Murder Two?” she followed up. It was an important distinction. In Washington State, a first-time offender could serve as little as nine years on a second degree murder. First degree murder carried a mandatory minimum of twenty years.
“Murder in the first degree,” Michael responded. “But not intentional or felony murder. It’s charged as extreme indifference murder.”
Talon took a beat to size up her potential client. Nervous or not, not a lot of murder defendants knew the difference between the two degrees of murder. Even fewer knew the three different ways a Murder One could be charged. Michael Jameson was already proving interesting. She’d get back to the crime. She wanted more information about the man.
“How are you even out of custody?” she questioned, leaning back and crossing her arms. “Bail for murder usually starts at a million.”
Michael nodded. “So I’ve learned,” he said. “But I have no criminal history. I’ve had the same job for sixteen years. I have a wife, two kids, and a mortgage. Plus, the case is twenty-five years old. The judge set bail at only five-hundred-thousand.”
“That’s still a lot,” Curt observed.
Michael agreed. “Yes. But I’ve been paying that mortgage for eighteen years, and more than the minimum. Alicia and I were trying to get it paid off in twenty years instead of thirty so we could really start saving for retirement. Instead, I had enough equity to pull out fifty-thousand and pay a bonding company to post the full bail.”
He shook his head. “I can’t sit in jail. I have a family to support. I already sat in the jail for two weeks while we got that worked out. I’ll never get those two week backs, but now that I’m out, I’ll be damned if I’m going back to jail. Not without a fight.”
Talon took another beat. She liked Michael Jameson. He was smart, informed, and a fighter. He reminded her of herself. She uncrossed her arms.
Michael had dumped a lot of information just then. People did that in conversations. But lawyers—good ones, anyway—stopped the conversation, backed up, and went through the information again, thoroughly and carefully.
“Murder in the first degree,” she said. “By way of extreme indifference.”
Michael nodded. “Yes. I had to look up the statute, but it says you can be charged with first degree murder three ways: premeditated intent, an unintentional killing during the course of a serious felony, or doing something
that shows an extreme indifference to human life and someone dies.”
Talon nodded back. Revised Code of Washington, section 9A.32.020. She hadn’t had time to pull her statute book out of its box, but she recalled the statute from her last—and only other—murder case. At the time, she’d wondered what ‘extreme indifference to human life’ even meant, until another lawyer explained it to her with the simplest way to commit it. “Firing into a crowd,” she suggested. “Is that what happened?”
Michael’s expression hardened ever so slightly. “Not exactly.”
Talon leaned forward. “So what happened? Exactly.”
But Michael wasn’t about to let Talon run the meeting. Not all of it anyway. He’d obviously dealt with a lot in the last few weeks and his nerves didn’t seem anywhere near shot. He had a tolerance for stress and knew how to protect himself. Or at least knew he should try to.
“I haven’t hired you yet,” he said. “I want the attorney-client privilege before I say anything.”
The shade of a smile pressed into the corner of Talon’s mouth. She liked his caution. She liked more that she could show off her knowledge too. There was no better way to impress a prospective client.
“The attorney-client privilege is already in effect,” she assured. “It’s automatic as soon as you start talking with an attorney about a legal issue, even if you don’t end up hiring the attorney.”
Michael considered the information for a few seconds, then pointed at Curt. “What about him?”
Talon hadn’t expected that, but she was ready with a response. “He’s my investigator,” she declared. “The privilege extends to the entire defense team.”
Curt raised an eyebrow, but remained silent. Talon tried to ignore the grin he was suddenly wearing.
She focused intently on Michael Jameson. “Tell me what happened,” she repeated.
Michael turned his attention back to Talon. He didn't cross his arms, or narrow his eyes, or anything else aggressive. He simply met Talon's gaze and calmly said, “No.”
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