“Talon? It’s Sam. Sam Sullivan. Do you have a minute?”
Talon considered. “No, not really, Sam. I’ve got a verdict.”
“A verdict?” Sullivan echoed. “Okay, I’ll make this quick. I spoke with the managing partner at Gardelli, High and Steinmetz and I think—”
“I have a verdict, Sam,” Talon interrupted. “I have to go.”
“This’ll just take a second,” Sullivan assured. “I spoke with the partner and I got him to make a nuisance value offer of—”
“Does it pay your fee?” Talon interrupted again.
“Er, yes,” Sullivan answered. “But just barely. And you wouldn’t get your old job back.”
“I don’t want my old job back,” Talon said. “So, you’re paid off and the case is closed. I don’t owe you anything any more?”
“Right, all my fees and expenses are covered, but there’s really nothing left after that. I told him you’d reject it, but if we make a counter-offer, I think I can get you—”
“Accept the offer,” Talon instructed. “No counter.”
“But Talon,” Sullivan tried.
“Accept the offer, Sam,” Talon repeated. “Pay yourself, and send me whatever’s left.”
“It’s not even worth printing the check,” Sullivan responded. “Let’s make a counter. That’s how it works, Talon. You know that. You’re a civil litigator.”
Talon thought for a moment. She looked at her private investigator standing in her cramped office and let herself really feel the gnawing acid-pit of anxiety and fear and worry and hope in her stomach.
“No, Sam,” she declared. “I’m a criminal defense attorney.”
She hung up the phone then and grabbed her coat.
“Come on, Mr. Fairchild. Let’s go take a verdict.”
Chapter 47
Twenty minutes later and the courtroom was electric. Everyone who’d been there for the closings was there again, plus more. A few more junior prosecutors. A few more people from the public defender’s office. Even a news camera. And Kaylee and Marcus Jameson.
Their father sat at the defendant’s table, his expression hard, but his pulse visibly racing in his neck.
Talon put a hand on his arm. “I did everything I could,” she said. “I hope it was enough.”
Michael thought for a moment, then nodded. “I hope so too. Thank you.”
After another moment, he asked, “What do you think the verdict will be?”
Talon frowned. “I don’t know. I’ve tried a lot of civil cases, but this is my first criminal verdict. I don’t think there’s any way to know.”
“Right. But what do you think?” he repeated. “What’s your gut?”
Talon didn’t answer immediately. She didn’t know. That was what her gut told her. Or what was left of it after nearly thirty minutes of worry and panic. “I’d like to think the system works,” she said finally.
Michael couldn’t help but laugh slightly at that. Then he looked over his shoulder at his kids. “I’d like to think that too.”
Talon took a moment to look around too. Alicia smiled at her—a frightened, hope-against-hope smile. Kaylee’s face displayed her own terror at what might happen. Marcus was there, but he was staring at the floor.
A lot of the other lawyers and onlookers and gawkers had brought things to do to pass the minutes before the judge came out. Police reports on other cases to review, smartphones to play on, one even had a Kindle. For them, it was so much sport and they were just the spectators. With the media over their shoulder to record the victory. The only question left was, whose victory would it be?
She stole a glance at Quinlan and McDaniels. Quinlan had his hands folded on the tabletop in front of him and his eyes closed, as if he were meditating. Easier to disconnect from the moment if you don’t have an actual client sitting next to you, Talon supposed. McDaniels was looking straight ahead, but seemed to notice Talon staring at her and turned. They met eyes for maybe the first time during the entire trial. McDaniels offered a slight nod.
And then the judge came out.
“All rise!” the bailiff called out, and the noise of dozens of people rising to their feet filled the courtroom. A few moments later, Judge Kirchner had ascended to the bench.
“Be seated,” she instructed. She scanned the counsel tables. Everyone was there. No one was in Canada. “The jury has reached a verdict. Does either party wish to address any matters before we accept it?”
Quinlan’s eyes were open again. He stood up, always the first to answer the judge’s question. “Nothing from the State, Your Honor.”
Talon followed suit. “Nothing from the defense.”
“Bring in the jury,” Kirchner ordered her bailiff. He rose from his station directly below her and crossed the courtroom to the jury room door. He knocked and entered. A few seconds later, he emerged again and the jury filed into the jury box. Talon knew the foreperson would be holding the verdict form. She hoped, as they walked into the courtroom, it would be Juror #29, the African-American woman. But it wasn’t. It was Juror #9, a middle-aged white man. She wondered if that was good or bad. Also, as they walked in, they all kept their gazes down, not looking at either side. She also wondered if that was good or bad. And she wondered if she could stop guessing at the verdict and just know it already.
But there was still some formality left. She was dying inside. What must it be like for Michael?
“Will the presiding juror please stand?” Judge Kirchner said.
Juror #9 stood up.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?” she asked.
“Yes, Your Honor,” the foreman answered, raising the verdict form slightly as an indication.
“Please hand the verdict form to the bailiff,” Kirchner instructed. The juror complied and the bailiff walked the form to the judge.
Judge Kirchner took a moment to read the verdict. So now she knew the result. And so did the jurors. The bailiff had probably snuck a peek on his way to deliver it to the judge. Somehow that made the wait even worse.
“Will the defendant please stand,” Judge Kirchner ordered.
Michael stood up. Talon did too.
They’d come this far together. She thought back to the moment Curt had brought him over to her office. ‘This good man needs a lawyer.’ She thought about their late night strategy sessions, begging him to tell her what had really happened, driving all over the state with Curt, the advice from Olson, the testimony from St. Julian, the backyard barbeque, and the visit with Ricky.
Talon grabbed Michael’s hand just long enough to give it one last squeeze of encouragement. But he seized her hand and didn’t let go.
“In the matter of The State of Washington versus Michael Jameson,” Judge Kirchner read the verdict form into the record. “Case number CR8004127. We the jury…”
The judge paused, just the appropriate half-second pause required by the construction of the sentence, but an eternity for Talon, her hand shaking in her client’s, “find the defendant…”
Another unending pause at the comma that separated off his name, “Michael Jameson…”
Talon’s ears were ringing; she thought she might not be able to hear the judge’s next words.
“…not guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree.”
Talon dropped her head. Thank God.
She turned to shake Michael’s hand but he embraced her in a bear hug. There was a lot of noise all of a sudden. Gasps of relief, cries of disbelief, her heart pounding in her ears. And Michael’s voice.
“Thank you.”
She pulled back and looked him in the eye. “My pleasure.”
And that was the crazy part. All of it, everything, even the terror of a possible conviction—she’d loved it. All of it.
Quinlan and McDaniels were probably doing something, some sort of reaction. But she didn’t look. She didn’t care. It wasn’t about beating them. Not exactly. It was about winning. They were just the obstacle. And anyway, Alicia and
Kaylee and Marcus had spilled into the front of the courtroom to hug their husband and father. The man who would, after all, be going home with them that day.
Alicia hugged Talon, even tighter than Michael had, and she held on longer. She couldn’t control her tears. “Thank you, Talon,” she managed to squeak out between sobs. “Thank you so much.”
Talon hugged her back. “Of course. You’re welcome. Of course, of course.”
The judge left the bench and retired to her chambers. The jurors were led back into the jury room by the bailiff; there were some administrative matters to attend to before they could be formally excused. The prosecutors made their way out of the courtroom. Mrs. McCabe-Johnson had come for the verdict, too, but Talon decided to avoid her gaze. It didn’t matter. The courtroom cleared out and Curt finally made his way up to Talon.
He extended a hand. “Congratulations, counselor.”
She cocked her head at him. A handshake? Really? She thought a hug was probably more in order. But she stopped herself, and reflected on their still ill-defined relationship. Maybe he was right. And maybe it was okay to meet him on his terms. She shook his hand. “I couldn’t have done it without you, sir.”
Curt laughed. “Don’t lie to me, Talon. Do whatever else you want, but don’t lie.”
Talon liked the sound of that. She pumped the handshake one more time. “Deal.”
The trial was over and the afterglow of the acquittal was already fading. The courtroom had cleared out, but Talon had one more thing she wanted to do.
“Alicia,” she said. “Could I have a moment alone with Michael. One last attorney-client thing I need to attend to.”
She could have asked Alicia to do anything at that moment. “Of course, Talon. Of course. Come on kids, we’ll wait for your dad in the hallway.”
The hallway. Freedom.
Curt went with them and Talon and Michael found themselves alone in the courtroom.
“Okay,” she said, looking him square in the eye. “The trial is over. You were acquitted. You can’t be charged again. Double jeopardy. You could write a book about exactly how you did it, and you’re glad you did it, and you’d do it again, and double jeopardy would still bar any retrial. So it’s over. Now you can tell me.”
She took his hand again. “Tell me, Michael. Did you do it?”
Michael smiled. He nodded lightly. He pulled his hand back.
“I already told you, Talon,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”
EPILOGUE
It doesn’t matter.
Michael Jameson’s words echoed in Talon’s head as she drove through the rolling countryside southwest of Tacoma.
She was alone this time. It gave her time to think.
Did it matter whether Michael had shot Jordy? Did the intervening years of being a faithful husband, good father, and hard-working employee erase whatever eighteen-year-old Michael Jameson did?
If it didn’t matter, what else didn’t matter?
Did it matter that she got fired from Gardelli, High & Steinmetz?
Did it matter that she won the case?
Did it matter that she had sex with Curt?
And if none of that mattered, what did matter?
Alicia? Kaylee and Marcus?
Ricky?
Family?
Or nothing at all?
Or did she just like to pretend nothing mattered so she could stay aloof and aloft, above whatever might make her care, make her hurt?
Deep thoughts for a long drive, but eventually she arrived at her destination. Shelton, Washington. The Washington Corrections Center.
She drove past Grounds Zero and parked in the visitor lot. She locked her car—of course—and headed into the main entrance. At the reception desk she presented her bar card, proof she was an attorney and not restricted to the limited visiting hours of the general public. She provided the name of the inmate she wanted to meet with and took a seat in the waiting area. It was empty but for her. That was fine with her. Not that she was ashamed to be there. Why should she be? It didn’t matter.
After about fifteen minutes, they called her name and escorted her to the meeting rooms. She took a seat in the small plastic chair on one side of the Formica table and waited for her counterpart.
Shelton was the processing facility. There were a few prisoners whose sentences were short enough that they served their few months right there, but mostly it was the prisoners who were just going in before serving a long sentence somewhere else. Or about to get out after that self-same type of sentence.
The secure door to the interior of the prison opened with a loud metallic clank. In walked a man. He was tall, with thick black hair and high cheekbones. He had a barrel chest and huge biceps, the product of years, and years, of lifting weights on the inside. He walked up to the table and looked down at her.
She returned his gaze, and forced a smile. “Hey, William.”
William nodded at Talon. But he didn’t smile. He just pulled out the plastic chair with a loud, long scuff and dropped his heavy build into the seat.
“Hey, sis.”
END
The following is an excerpt from
PRESUMPTION
OF
INNOCENCE
David Brunelle Legal Thriller #1
Chapter 1
'Don't go inside. Call 911 and wait for the police.'
Brunelle examined the note taped to the impressive front door of the Montgomerys' suburban home. Its neatly penned letters were bathed in the red and blue strobe of the cop cars the neighbors never thought they'd see in their subdivision.
"The parents went inside, didn't they?" Brunelle asked without taking his eyes from the warning.
"Of course they did," answered Detective Chen. "The poor fools. Now they'll never get that sight out of their heads."
Brunelle shook his head. "That's too bad," he said. "You and I get paid to forget, at least once the case is over. Forget and move on to the next one."
Chen put a hand on Brunelle's shoulder. "You're gonna have trouble forgetting this one, Dave."
Brunelle frowned. He was a prosecutor with the King County Prosecutor's Office. He'd been there nearly twenty years, working his way up from shoplifting, through drug possession and burglary, to robberies and assaults, and finally homicides. He'd tried over a hundred cases and handled literally thousands more. He had to forget the details of each, at least a little bit, to be able to prosecute the next. He didn't want to get his facts mixed up in front of a jury.
But Larry Chen had been a Seattle Police officer for going on thirty years. He'd worked his way up from beat cop, to sergeant, to detective. From property crimes, through drugs and vice, to special assaults, and finally major crimes and homicides. Brunelle only saw the cases the cops could solve, but Chen saw all the ones the criminals committed. If Chen thought it was bad, it was bad.
Brunelle pushed the door open.
It was worse.
Hanging from the balcony banister at the top of the sweeping staircase that framed the palatial foyer, blocking what would otherwise have been, as designed, a breathtaking view of the perfectly decorated and immaculately clean home, was the upside-down and very lifeless body of thirteen-year-old Emily Montgomery.
"Fuck," exhaled Brunelle, the dead girl's lifeless eyes swinging grotesquely only a few feet from his own.
"Exactly," agreed Chen.
"Okay!" called out a woman from the other side of the entryway. "You can let her down now."
Brunelle watched as two patrol officers on the balcony slowly began to release the rope holding the victim aloft by her ankles. The woman who had called out to the officers stepped over to guide the body to the floor with latex-gloved hands.
Brunelle had never seen her before.
"Dave Brunelle, assistant district attorney," Chen commenced the introductions. "This is Kat Anderson, our new assistant medical examiner."
Kat was already kneeling next to the body, checking for signs of rigor. She looked
up long enough to offer the quickest of hellos, then set back to her examination.
"Uh, nice to meet you," Brunelle stammered. He wondered how someone so pretty had ended up choosing cadaver-carving as a career. "I'm David."
Kat glanced up again and smiled. "Got it," she winked. "I was here when he said it."
Brunelle fought back a blush. "Right. So, uh, what did she die of?" he said to change the subject.
"Well, David Brunelle, assistant district attorney," Kat said while palpating the tissue around the girl's neck, "my thirty second diagnosis is cardiac arrest brought on by acute loss of blood."
"She bled out?" Brunelle asked doubtfully. He waved a hand around the home's entryway. "There's not a drop of blood in here."
Kat stuck a gloved finger into the linear wound in the girl's purple-white neck. "There's not a drop of blood in here either."
Brunelle frowned. He had to admit, the corpse was unusually pale. "Really?"
Kat shrugged, her finger still jutting into the lifeless neck. "Well, there's probably a few drops left, and it'll take a full autopsy to confirm it, but it looks to me like most of it's gone."
She pointed to some purple blotching just visible under the dead girl's blonde hair. "The only lividity is in the head. That means she was upside down when she died. There will be blood pooled in her head, but the rest of it left the body somehow."
"Yeah, but to where?" asked Brunelle.
"Sorry, assistant district attorney David," Kat grinned. "That's your job."
Brunelle smiled too. "No. My job is convincing the jury the bad guy did it. But figuring out just what the bad guy did?" He slapped Chen on the back. "That's the detective's job."
"Thanks, Dave." Chen looked sideways at him. "Glad we all know our roles."
"Well, here's one thing to help you." Kat pointed to the wrists of the dead girl. There were thick lines of even whiter skin distinct in her pale flesh. "Her hands were bound when she died. This blanching means the bindings were removed after she died."
Winter's Law Page 25