He leaned back again. “It’s just sloppy. You may be able to get away with that in criminal practice, but you can’t be sloppy in civil practice. The stakes are too high.”
“Higher than in criminal?” Talon half-laughed. “I have a man’s life in my hands.”
“And I have your career in mine,” Sullivan returned gravely. “But I’m not going to do it pro bono. You have some soul-searching to do, Talon. Is this really what you want? If so, then start acting like it. But if not, then stop wasting my time. I’m not your mommy, or your nanny, or your cheerleader. I’m your lawyer. If we’re going to win, it’s going to be my way. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose your way.”
Sullivan terminated the meeting on that note. He stood up, Talon followed suit, and they said their good-byes. As she exited his office and pressed the down button at the elevators, Talon thought about Sullivan’s parting shot.
He was absolutely right.
But not about her case.
About Michael Jameson’s.
Chapter 22
Sullivan wasn’t the only lawyer who could summon a client to a meeting. The difference was that Talon called Jameson herself, and she greeted him in the lobby as soon as he got there.
“Thanks for coming, Michael.”
“Of course,” he replied. “You’re my lawyer. If you say we have to talk, we talk.”
Talon patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Michael. I appreciate the helpful attitude.” She directed him toward her office. “Come on. We have a lot to talk about.”
The walk down the hallway was a short one and soon Talon was face to face with her one and only client. Her stubborn, well-meaning, but ultimately self-defeating client. She reached into her in-box and pulled out the stapled sheets of paper on top. She pushed it across the desk to him. “This just came in.”
Michael picked up the document and looked at the top page. “What is it?”
“It's a report,” Talon answered, “from our ballistics expert.”
“What does it say?” Jameson asked.
Talon felt the slightest twinge of irritation at Jameson expecting her to summarize the report, rather than bothering to even look at it himself. But she realized that allowed her to control the conversation all the more.
“It says we have a chance.”
Michael nodded. “Well, that’s good.” Then, after a moment, “How so?”
“The only way the State can link you to this murder,” Talon started, “is through the gun they recovered from your house.”
“They recovered it from the man who burglarized my house,” Michael corrected. “Not actually from the house.”
“And that may prove to be an important distinction,” Talon agreed, “depending on how the testimony comes out. But you acknowledged the gun was yours once it was recovered. The gun is linked to you.”
“I suppose so,” Michael admitted. “And the gun links me to the murder.”
Talon raised a hopeful finger. “Maybe not. That’s where the ballistic report comes in.”
Michael leaned forward in his chair. “Go on.”
Talon took the report back from him, and raised it like a demonstrative exhibit. “We had all the ballistic evidence released to a firearms expert named Anastasia St. Julian.”
She paused, half-expecting a wisecrack from Michael about the name. But Michael kept his inscrutable expression, so Talon continued.
“She examined everything,” Talon said, “and she disagrees with the State’s expert.”
Michael raised his eyebrows. “She thinks the gun isn’t linked to the murder?”
Talon couldn’t tell if that was hope in his voice, or disbelief because they both knew it was linked, no matter what the expert said.
“Not exactly,” Talon answered. “See, when a bullet is fired from a gun, it travels down the barrel and gets scratched by rough spots inside the gun. Those rough spots are harder than the bullet, so they remain there in the barrel, shot after shot after shot. That means every bullet fired from the same gun has the same exact scratches on the side. The rough spots aren’t put there on purpose. They’re just from inefficiencies in the manufacturing process—it’s difficult and too expensive to try to make a perfectly smooth barrel—so every gun is a little bit different. That means every scratch pattern is unique to that gun. Like a fingerprint.”
Michael nodded. “That’s how they linked the gun to the shooting.”
“Right,” Talon said. “They compared the bullets from the crime scene to test-fires from your gun. The State’s expert said it was the same gun.”
Talon waved the report again. “But Ann doesn’t agree with them. Not completely, anyway. Like I said, it’s difficult and expensive to make a perfectly smooth barrel, but it’s not impossible. And some manufacturers work harder at it than others. Glock has a barrel now that basically never leaves unique markings. So, next time you kill somebody,” Talon quipped, “use a Glock.”
Michael just stared at her. He didn’t seem to appreciate the joke. Understandable, Talon supposed.
“Anyway,” she continued quickly, “Ann put in her report that the markings the State’s expert used to identify the gun aren’t sufficient to link it conclusively to the murder. The gross characteristics are enough to identify the brand of gun used in the murder, but there are insufficient fine characteristics to identify your gun specifically.”
“So it’s not a fingerprint any more,” Michael said.
“Nope,” Talon confirmed. “More like a shoe print. You may have size eleven Nikes, but so do thousands of other people. It doesn’t exclude you as a possible suspect, but suddenly a hell of a lot more people are included.”
“So that’s good news,” Michael said.
“Yes,” Talon confirmed. “But there’s bad news. There’s always bad news.”
“Of course there is.” Michael leaned back again in his chair. “What’s the bad news?”
“It’s more like realistic news,” Talon clarified.
“Fine.” Michael crossed his arms. “What’s the realistic news?”
“There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”
Michael shook his head irritably. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means we have to pay her to testify,” Talon translated.
Michael sighed and dropped his arms again. “I should have known.”
“Sorry,” Talon said. And she was. One of the problems with the criminal justice system—and there were a lot of them—was that it was also a business. And not just for the private defense attorneys. That much was obvious. But the prosecutors got paid too. And the judges. And the jailors. Hell, some states contracted their prisons out to private companies to run—they didn’t even pretend. But everybody has to eat. Defense lawyers, prosecutors, judges. Expert witnesses, too. And there’s no such thing as a free lunch.
Michael nodded. “How much?”
“Eight hundred for the initial evaluation,” Talon answered. “We already owe that. But if we want her to testify, it’s three-hundred an hour, including travel time. It’s a three-hour drive each way and her testimony will fill the better part of a day. If it spills into a second day, we’ll have to pay for her hotel. And meals.”
Michael’s expression didn’t change. “How much?” he repeated.
“Four grand, minimum. Maybe five. It just depends.”
Michael put his head in his hands. “I don’t have four grand. I spent everything I had to post the bail money and hire you. I don’t even know how I’m going to buy groceries this weekend.”
Talon understood. But it didn’t change anything. “We need her, Michael.”
Michael looked up again. “I need a lot of things, Ms. Winter. I need an acquittal.”
“And that’s why you need Ann St. Julian.”
Michael ran his hands over his face. “What do you want me to do?”
“Commit to this,” Talon answered. “One hundred percent.”
Michael frowned and sho
ok his head. “That doesn’t mean anything. Of course I’m committed to this.”
“Then do whatever it takes. What about a second mortgage?”
But Michael shook his head. “No. Alicia will need to sell the house if I go away. Without my income, they’ll need the equity.”
“Stop making contingency plans to lose,” Talon replied. “Invest to win.”
“More words.” Michael waved them away. “I have to be realistic. I can't gamble with my family's future.”
“See, that comment just shows you don’t get it,” Talon answered. “You can't help but gamble with your family's future. You don't have any choice in the matter. You have to play. And if you don’t play to win, you’ll lose.”
Michael closed his eyes and sighed. “I know.” He took a deep breath, but kept his eyes downcast. “So what do I do?”
“You play to win,” Talon answered. “You hire Ann St. Julian and you give the jury a reason to acquit you.”
Michael sighed again and raised his gaze. “I just don't have the money, Talon.” Then his face lit up with an idea. “Wait. Can you pay her? If we win, then I can take out that second mortgage and pay you back.”
But Talon shook her head. “I can’t do a contingency fee on a criminal case, Michael,” she answered. “It’s unethical. I’d lose my license.”
“But you can front costs, right?” Michael pressed. “That’s allowed, isn’t it?”
Talon frowned. “Technically, yes,” she admitted. “But not if I don’t think you can repay me.” Then Talon seized the topic and turned it back on her client. “Anyway, why should I? You’re blocking our ability to win this case. I can’t jeopardize my firm if you won’t take my advice.”
“What?” Michael was taken aback. “Of course I’ll follow your advice.”
Talon raised an eyebrow. “No matter what?”
Michael nodded. “Yes. We’ll do whatever you say. Whatever we need to do.”
“Whatever I say?” Talon pressed.
“Whatever you say,” Michael confirmed.
Talon crossed her arms. “I need to talk to your brother.”
Michael reacted just how she’d expected. “No.” He crossed his own arms and set his jaw. “No, this isn’t about him. It’s about me. If I beat this by betraying my brother, I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.”
Talon was unmoved. Again, she’d expected his reaction. “If you lose this because you refuse to let me do my job right and talk to your brother,” she said evenly, “then you’re going to live the rest of your life in a prison cell.”
Michael crossed his own arms and looked away. “I’m prepared for that.”
“Well, good for fucking you,” Talon shot back.
Michael’s head spun back to her.
“Is your wife prepared for that?” Talon demanded. “Is your son? Your daughter? You’re putting your brother in front of your wife, and her children. How do you think that makes her feel?”
Michael didn’t reply.
“What about Marcus?” Talon pressed. “Without a dad, with no faith in the system, how long until he joins you in there? And don’t forget Kaylee. How long until she starts dating losers who treat her like the piece of shit she thinks she must be because you didn’t do everything you possibly could to be there for her?”
Michael just sat there. He lowered his gaze.
“God damn it, Michael,” Talon raised her voice. “This isn’t just about you.”
Then she remembered what Sullivan had told her. “If we’re going to win,” she echoed, “it’s going to be my way. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose your way.”
Michael pushed back in his chair and looked away. He sighed heavily through his nose. Talon could see his eyes flash with anger. But one thing he didn’t do was say, ‘No.’ She waited.
Finally, Michael turned back to her. “Okay. Fine. Talk to my brother. But,” he raised a finger, “that doesn't mean we call him as a witness. You tell me what he says and I'll decide whether we use him.”
Talon seized the concession, but made sure not to make any of her own. “Okay, I'll talk to him. Then you and I will talk.”
Michael exhaled and ran his hands over his head. “Shit. This sucks.”
Talon smiled weakly. She had no trouble agreeing with that.
Chapter 23
Clallam Bay.
It was about as Northwest-sounding a name as possible. Practically all of Western Washington was on some bay or inlet or another, and 'Clallam' was so typical of the sound of local Native American place names that if it hadn't been real, it should have been. The name should have evoked images of a small fishing community, half a day's drive from the hustle and bustle of Seattle and Tacoma. Instead, ‘Clallam Bay’ meant the Clallam Bay Corrections Center, a medium security prison tucked away on Washington’s otherwise idyllic Olympic Peninsula. While perhaps not as well known by the general public as its eastern cousin in Walla Walla, it was nevertheless considered the worst prison in the state by those knowledgeable of the criminal justice system.
And by Talon Winter.
She knew the place, but had never set foot inside. Not until she went in as a criminal defense attorney. To talk with Ricky Jameson.
That is, if he was willing to talk with her.
Checking in was easy enough. Only two types of people came to visit at a prison: lawyers and family. Talon showed the guard at the reception center her bar card and driver’s license and explained she was there to speak with prisoner Richard David Jameson.
“You his lawyer?” the guard asked.
“I’m a lawyer,” Talon answered.
The guard frowned slightly. “He expecting you?”
Talon smiled. “Probably. If he’s smart.”
The guard’s frown slipped into a smile. “Oh yeah. Ricky Jameson’s smart. Too smart sometimes.”
Talon wasn’t surprised to hear that, judging by his brother Michael. But then she looked up and around at her surroundings. “Maybe not quite smart enough though,” she said to herself.
“Have a seat, Ms. Winter,” the guard said, sliding her cards back to her. “We’ll locate Jameson and bring him to one of the meeting rooms. Then we’ll come get you. It could take ten or twenty minutes, depending on where he’s at right now, so make yourself comfortable.”
Talon took a seat in the waiting room. It was sparse, but adequate. Yellow plastic chairs and a small table covered by months-old magazines. No one else was there. Talon was thankful for that. She imagined the types of people who would be sitting in a prison waiting room. Then she caught herself and realized she was imagining the stereotype of what ignorant people thought about what kinds of people had loved ones in prison. Overweight women in too-tight clothes, a dozen kids in tow, unemployed and under-educated, cashing their welfare checks while they waited for their men to finish their time and come back home to the single-wide.
But Talon knew better.
Human beings in cages. That's all a prison was. The good people of the world—the ones who held that prison-wife stereotype—told themselves the prisons kept the murderers and rapists locked safely away from the schools and playgrounds. And there was some truth to that. But murders were usually more the result of circumstances than of men—that's why serial killers were so interesting, so rare. And half of the men in the cages were drug addicts, caught with dope in their cars or stealing something to buy more of it—no real danger to anyone's life or limb. Besides, no matter how they got there, all of those men in the cages—the murderers and the rapists, the drug addicts and thieves—they all had mothers and fathers, wives and girlfriends, friends and children, brothers and sisters.
“Ms. Winter?” The reception guard had returned. “Jameson is waiting for you in interview room B.”
“Already?” Talon had gotten lost in her thoughts, but it hadn't been anywhere near twenty minutes.
The guard nodded. “He was working in the kitchen, so it was easy enough to find him. And sure
enough, he said he was expecting you.”
Interview Room B wasn't as comfortable as even that institutional name suggested. Indeed, even the word ‘room’ was a misnomer. It was an interview space, to be sure, but it was more like two closets, divided by glass and joined by telephones, one side for the visitor and one for the prisoner. The prisoner was already waiting for the visitor. His head and jaw were shaved, his arms were covered in tattoos, and the phone receiver was already in his hand.
Talon took a seat across the glass from Ricky Jameson and put the phone to her own ear. “Mr. Jameson,” she started, “I'm Talon—”
“Winter,” Ricky finished with a grin. “I know. I've heard a lot about you.”
Talon shifted uneasily in her chair. She hated that phrase. It suggested knowledge without confirming its accuracy. Or revealing its source.
“And I haven’t heard nearly enough about you,” she parried. She didn’t want to talk about what he’d heard about her. “That’s why I’m here.”
“You heard enough to know to come,” Ricky answered. “I knew Mike would throw me under the bus when it got hot enough for him.”
“He didn’t throw you under the bus,” Talon assured. “In fact, it took me forever to convince him to even let me talk to you. He’s one stubborn son-of-a-bitch.”
That pulled a laugh from Ricky. Talon had found that men didn’t expect women to swear, so throwing out an f-bomb or an S.O.B. could really break the ice. “Yeah,” Ricky agreed. That’s true. That’s damn true.”
“But I have a job to do,” Talon explained. “So I was able to convince him. I can be pretty fucking stubborn too.”
Ricky didn’t laugh that time. But he smiled. “So he ain’t selling me out? That’d be the smart thing to do. I’m already inside. They’ll just add the time to my sentence.”
“How much time do you have left?” Talon asked, almost like it was a normal conversation.
Winter's Law Page 12