Winter's Law

by Penner, Stephen

  “Seven months,” Ricky answered. “I’m scheduled to ship out to Shelton next month to get processed out.”

  Talon nodded. “Well, don’t change your plans,” she said. “I’m not here to add time to your sentence.”

  “Why are you here then?”

  Talon took a moment to appraise the man on the other side of the glass. He was only a few years older than Michael, Talon knew, but he seemed more like Michael’s father than his brother. He was that much more mature—harder. It wasn’t just the prison tattoos on the rippling arms. It was his eyes. Ricky knew what Michael was in store for if Talon lost the case. And prison tattoos or not, he was still a big brother.

  “I need your help,” Talon answered. “I need to know what really happened.”

  “And then you’ll tell the jury?” Ricky asked. “And Mikey walks?”

  Talon frowned slightly. “Well, honestly, that would be my plan. But Michael won’t agree.”

  Ricky laughed darkly. “Yeah, that sounds like him. He’s always been a fucking martyr.”

  Talon nodded. “And what’s the use of being a martyr if no one knows?”

  Ricky took a beat, then smiled. “You do understand him, don’t you?”

  “I think so,” Talon answered, with more than a little pride. “I know he cares about you.”

  Ricky laughed outright at that. “I’ve been here eight years. He hasn’t visited once.”

  Talon took her own beat. “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. It just means…” But she trailed off.

  “I know what it means,” Ricky said. “I don’t fit in with his world. Successful suburban dads don’t want brothers in prison. Makes for awkward conversation at the PTA meetings. ‘Hey, Kaylee, what did you do this weekend?’” he mimicked a child’s voice. “’We went to see Uncle Ricky in prison!’”

  “Well, that’s better than visiting her dad in prison,” Talon responded. “A murder conviction doesn’t fit well with the suburban dad image either.”

  “Is that what changed his mind?” Ricky asked.

  “No,” Talon answered. “I did.”

  Ricky leaned back in his chair and conducted his own appraisal. “So what do you want to know, Ms. Winter? Do you want me to say I had the gun? I shot the guy? Mike wasn’t even there?”

  Talon shook her head. “No, I already know Michael was there. He told me that much.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  Talon hesitated. Not because she was afraid to tell him what Michael had said. Because she didn’t want to take the time to recount it. The important part wasn’t what he said, it was what he didn’t say. The alleged blackout. But she couldn’t communicate that part without spending the time on everything else. And that just seemed like such a waste of time—Ricky had been there, he already knew. She sighed. “Fine…” And then she told him the whole story, everything Michael had said, up to and including the alleged, and completely unbelievable, blackout at the exact time of the shooting.

  When she finished, Ricky shook his head. “No one’s gonna believe that.”

  “I know,” Talon replied. “The real problem is, they’re gonna believe everything except the blackout—the drug dealing, the robbery plan, everything—and they’ll know what the blackout means.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means Michael pulled the trigger.”

  “Is that what you want me to say?”

  “I want you to tell the truth.”

  Ricky paused. Then he smiled knowingly. “Is that really what you want?”

  Talon took a moment as well. Did she really want Ricky to tell the truth? She supposed that depended on what the truth was. If the truth was that Ricky shot the victim, then yes, she wanted Ricky to admit it. Then it would be a matter of convincing Michael to throw Ricky squarely under that damn bus after all.

  But if the truth was that Michael pulled the trigger, well, then, that complicated things. As it stood, Talon could put Michael on the stand to tell the jury what had happened. Maybe he’d also tell them his brother Ricky had pulled the trigger, and he had no idea there was going to be any robbery, let alone a murder. Maybe the jury would let him walk. But if Talon knew the truth was that Michael was the shooter, then she couldn’t put him on the stand to say it was Ricky. That would be suborning perjury. And if she put Ricky on the stand to tell the same lie, that would be more perjury—and an injustice. Ricky had done his time. He deserved to go back to Shelton and then home again. Maybe. If he was innocent. Which he might be. Or maybe he wasn’t.

  “I don’t know,” Talon admitted.

  Ricky nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  Finally, Talon leaned forward and said into the phone, “You know, maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. Let me ask you two questions.”

  Ricky thought for a moment, then smiled. “Okay. Two questions.”

  Talon took a moment to make sure her thoughts were organized. Then she asked the questions.

  “Do you remember who shot Jordan McCabe?”

  Ricky nodded. “Yes.”

  “If I put you on the stand, will you tell the truth?”

  Another nod. “Yes.”

  And that was all Talon really needed to know after all.

  Chapter 24

  Talon took her time driving back from Clallam Bay. She could have crossed over the south end of the Puget Sound on the Tacoma Narrows Bridge—it would have been quicker and the toll was minimal. Instead, she drove around the bottom of the Sound, through Olympia. And Shelton.

  She didn’t stop. But she drove by. Again. And then she went home.

  Or rather, she went to her home away from home. Her office. Only one case, but building a law practice was a full-time endeavor. There were plans to make, papers to prepare. Bills to pay.

  The office was dark and quiet. Hannah and the rest had gone home hours ago. She had the place to herself. Herself and her thoughts.

  She walked to her office, flipping light switches as she went. When she got to her office, she dropped herself into her chair and surveyed the room. But she already knew what she was looking for.

  She reached into her in-box and pulled out two letters. Both of them were bills.

  $5,000 for Samuel Sullivan.

  Or $4,000 for Anastasia St. Julian.

  Talon reached into her desk drawer and pulled out two more things: her account ledger and her checkbook.

  A look in the ledger confirmed what she already knew. She had $5,801.47 in her business account. Enough to pay rent and her share of Hannah’s salary for a few more months.

  But her practice wouldn’t last a few months more without making some hard decisions.

  She opened her checkbook and started filling out the check. Sometimes the hard decisions were the easiest.

  Pay to the order of … Anastasia St. Julian…

  Chapter 25

  “Well? What did Ricky say?”

  “He confirmed the story,” Talon answered. “The drug deal gone wrong. Everything.”

  “Did he say who pulled the trigger?”

  “No,” Talon said. “I didn’t ask him.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I don’t want to know. I don’t need to know.”

  “What if the prosecutor calls him as a witness? What if he says he’s not the one who shot him?”

  Talon shook her head. “The State can’t call him. He’ll plead the Fifth. They can’t make him testify about a crime.”

  “Can’t they just give him immunity?”

  “They can,” Talon admitted. “But they won’t. If they do that before they know what he’s going to say, then he just takes the immunity, says he pulled the trigger, and both of the Jameson Brothers get away with murder.”

  “But we can still call him?”

  “Yes,” Talon assured. “They can’t force him to testify, but he can testify if he wants. He can be our witness and only our witness. He’s our ace in the hole.”

  “So, all of our witnesses are
ready?”

  Talon nodded. “Yes. Ricky’s available if we need him. Ann St. Julian is on board. The State endorsed Earl Daggett and Reggie Oliphant, but we can get good info from them on cross. The witnesses are ready.”

  She looked to Curt, who had been sitting silently in the corner of her office. “Are you ready?”

  He nodded solemnly. “Ready, boss.”

  Then she turned back to face the man sitting across her desk. “Are you ready, Michael?”

  Michael Jameson shook his head slightly. “Ready? Ready to go into a courtroom and do nothing while my fate is determined by a bunch of strangers? Ready to sit still while my lawyer does all the talking to a judge who doesn’t know me and twelve people I’ll never see again? Ready to listen to a prosecutor twist the evidence and make me out to be the worst type of person imaginable? Ready to hear a judge say everything I’ve done with my life for the last twenty-five years is irrelevant? Ready to sit back and watch the drama unfold, knowing there are two possible outcomes: I spend the rest of my life in prison or I walk out the door a free man? No. I’m not ready for that. How can anyone be ready for that?”

  Talon frowned slightly. “No one can. But I have to be. Trial starts a week from Monday. To the extent you can, try to forget about this. Let me worry about it. You spend time this week with your family, your wife, your kids. Get everything in order. When this is over, I want you walking out that door a free man, but I can’t guarantee it. No matter how prepared we are, I can’t guarantee the result.”

  “Right,” Michael acknowledged. “Of course.” He looked down for several seconds, then looked up again. His usually stoic mask had slipped. “I’m scared, Talon.”

  Talon‘s mind skimmed over several possible responses:

  ‘Don’t be. It’ll turn out fine.’

  ‘Good. That’ll give us the edge.’

  ‘You should be. It shows you’re paying attention.’

  ‘Not as scared as the prosecutors are.’

  But none seemed appropriate. Or honest. Instead, she simply reached across her desk and grasped his hand. “I know.”

  Chapter 26

  The night before trial, Talon was in her office, watching the sun disappear behind the Olympic Mountains, the coming night the only barrier between her and the trial of The State of Washington versus Michael Jameson.

  She was busying herself with the minutiae: organizing her briefcase, double-checking her trial binders, trying not to vomit. She was to report to Judge Kirchner’s courtroom at 9:00 a.m. sharp. She knew she should go home, try to get some sleep. That was more important than triple-checking that her court rules were in her briefcase. But she also knew there was no way in hell she’d be sleeping that night. Actually going home would just confirm it. Unable to relax even in her own home, she’d spend the night lying awake, her restless mind going over every angle again and again while the clock ticked the night away.

  She kept hoping she’d hear the front door unlock and one of the other lawyers call out, ‘Hello? Anyone here?’ Then she could engage them, admit she was nervous, and ask for advice. She’d receive some gem of insight that would come to her as she began to deliver her closing argument, enabling her to rally the jury to her cause and save the life of an innocent man.

  But no such luck. The office was as silent as a crypt. She’d have to come up with her own gems of wisdom for the jury. Or smoke and mirrors.

  Besides, whether Michael Jameson was an innocent man was still an open question.

  Talon checked her briefcase one more time, then grabbed her coat and headed for the exit. She turned off the lights and locked the door behind her.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she reminded herself. And, a bit to her surprise, she believed it.

  Chapter 27

  “Are the parties ready in the matter of The State of Washington versus Michael Jameson?” Judge Kirchner took the bench and got right to business.

  Quinlan and McDaniels both stood up. “The State is ready,” Quinlan answered for the prosecution team.

  Talon stood up next, gesturing slightly to Michael to stay seated. “The defense is ready as well, Your Honor.”

  Kirchner nodded. Her hair was pulled back in her usual bun, but she seemed to have applied the faintest layer of makeup. Jurors apparently rated higher than lawyers.

  “All right then,” the judge said. “Are there any matters to discuss before we bring in the panel and start with jury selection?”

  “No, Your Honor,” Quinlan answered again for the State. The State always answered first, an outgrowth of the State having to go first to try to prove the case against an otherwise presumed innocent defendant. Talon wondered whether, and when, McDaniels might get to speak.

  “Nothing from the defense, Your Honor,” Talon added. She was anxious to get started. There was something about being back in court—real court, with juries and witnesses and verdicts. And something more. She’d tried her share of multi-million dollar tort cases, but she’d never had a man’s life in her hands. It was a huge responsibility. It was also, if she was honest with herself, a huge rush.

  Kirchner offered another “All right,” then instructed her bailiff to fetch the panel of prospective jurors from the jury assembly room on the first floor. It would take a few minutes to bring the sixty of them up to Judge Kirchner’s courtroom on the second floor. Thank God she wasn’t up on the eighth floor. Of the sixty, they would only seat twelve, plus two alternates in case someone got sick or otherwise couldn’t finish.

  “We each get to strike six jurors,” Talon explained to Michael in a whisper. “Plus two more for the alternates.”

  Michael nodded. They’d talked about the logistics before. “And we’re stuck with the first twelve who are left. Great system. Justice by rejects.”

  Talon conceded the point with a shrug. Each side got rid of the jurors they thought would be best for the other side, leaving the quieter, meeker, less opinionated people to decide the fate of a man they’d never met. But if each side got to choose their favorites, every jury would end up deadlocked. Then again, that wouldn’t be so bad for the defense. It would sure beat a conviction. And meek, less opinionated people were more likely to follow the rules, and favor the prosecution—the ultimate rule follower.

  Talon shook her head to herself and wondered at all the subtle ways the cards were again stacked against a criminal defendant, no matter how many times the judge repeated, ‘A defendant is presumed innocent…’

  When the panel arrived, everyone—even the judge—stood for their entrance. It was a nice gesture, but Talon wondered if the jurors truly appreciated it. She studied their faces as they entered, but not to gauge their approval at being stood for—that was their issue. She was getting first impressions as they filed in, holding their juror numbers, one to sixty. Talon had found her first impressions were usually right. People advertise who they are with their clothes, hairstyles, piercings, whatever. It was important to assess those nonverbal cues. Someone who’s wearing an ‘I love Cops’ T-shirt was never getting past her and onto the jury, regardless of how perfectly they might answer the lawyers’ questions. But it usually wasn’t that obvious.

  Other things were.

  “There’s no Black people,” Michael whispered to Talon as the last member of the panel entered the courtroom and the bailiff closed the door to the hallway.

  That wasn’t quite accurate. There were three African-Americans: a young man in the first row, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans; a middle-aged woman in the third row, wearing a sweater and carrying a large purse; and an old man in the last row, with white hair surrounding a bald crown and glasses perched on his nose. Talon had already done the math: twelve jurors, plus two alternates, plus eight strikes each, equaled thirty jurors. The last half were there just in case someone in the first half had to be excused ‘for cause.’ Maybe they knew one of the attorneys, or had read about the case in the paper and already made up their minds. Or they really couldn’t miss that much work and ne
eded to be excused. The young man was in the first twelve, so he’d be on the jury unless he got struck. The woman was Juror #29, so they might get to her if both sides used all of their strikes. But the old man was Juror #54. There was almost no way they would get to him.

  “There’s three,” Talon answered.

  “I thought I was supposed to get a jury of my peers,” Michael complained.

  Talon nodded as the judge asked everyone to sit down again and began explaining the nuts and bolts of the jury selection process to the jurors.

  “You are,” Talon answered, “but it doesn’t mean you get a jury made up of people who are exactly like you.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t get a jury with no one like me either,” Michael responded. “Shouldn’t there be more Black people on the panel?”

  Talon had anticipated this issue as well. According to the last census, Pierce County, Washington, was approximately 4% African-American. Three jurors out of sixty was 5%. She wouldn’t prevail on a motion for a new panel. And even if she did, and the numbers doubled for the next sixty, Michael would still only have six African-Americans on his jury panel; with two or three of them out of reach in the back row again.

  “Maybe,” Talon whispered. “But there’s nothing I can do about it right now.”

  Michael frowned at her. “What if I tell you that you have to do something?”

  Talon smiled. She really did like him. “The trial has started now, Michael. Things are going to move fast. I can’t have every decision be a joint decision. You hired me for a reason.” She pointed around the courtroom. “This is the reason.”

  When Michael didn’t immediately reply, she added, “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  And she did. Because she knew what Quinlan would do.

  But first, they had to talk to the jurors.

  Quinlan went first. Or rather, the prosecution—as always—went first, and Quinlan stood up to talk, not McDaniels. He was the man, after all. And he was white. Talon wondered whether he even realized he was tokenizing McDaniels. More importantly, she wondered if the jurors realized it. If Quinlan couldn’t even see the implicit bias in the white guy always getting to talk first, how many of the jurors might not see it either? After all, the D.A. is supposed to be a white guy in a suit.