by Ann Jacobs
Special Ellora’s Cave Book Bundle
Lawyers in Love Series
by Ann Jacobs
In His Own Defense
Mastered
Bittersweet Homecoming
Gettin’ It On
Eye of the Storm
ISBN: 9781419982156
Ellora’s Cave Publishing
www.ellorascave.com
IN HIS OWN DEFENSE
An Ellora’s Cave Publication, June 2003
Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.
1056 Home Avenue
Akron, Ohio 44310
ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-437-X
Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):
Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML
IN HIS OWN DEFENSE © 2003 ANN JACOBS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Edited by Allie Sawyer.
Cover art by Syneca.
In His Own Defense
Ann Jacobs
Chapter One
“Harper wants this case to go to trial. Can you handle it on your own?”
“Yes.” Kristine Granger met the questioning gaze of her boss, Andi Young, one of three chief assistants to State Attorney Harper Wells.
Adrenaline pumped through her body. Finally. The opportunity she’d waited for. Eight years of grueling preparation. Nearly a hundred months of positioning herself to be able to rid the community of one of the drug lords whose poison had robbed her of her family. Kristine pictured this bastard rotting in a cell somewhere, his filthy coke and heroin off the Tampa streets because of her. The prospect made her want to jump up and yell out loud.
“You’ve got a week to prepare your case.”
“A week?”
Andi smiled. Kristine found it somehow right that her boss had a name uncommon for women. After all, Andi had made it in a man’s world—on her own terms.
“It’s hardly murder one. Just a simple case of possession with intent to distribute. Garcia’s lawyers will probably try to get us to let him cop a plea and take probation.”
“Probation? Garcia’s been bringing drugs into Tampa longer than I’ve been alive.”
“Allegedly. Kristine, I understand you have personal reasons for wanting to bring dealers down, but you’ve got to maintain your—”
“Andi, I can handle this.” No way would Kristine let Andi snatch back this opportunity.
“Just keep things in perspective. Remember, you’ll be prosecuting Garcia on the charge before the court—not for every crime he ever allegedly committed.”
What had Andi said? Perspective? That was it. She’d keep her perspective, and she’d win. “I’ll get the job done.”
“Garcia’s lawyers won’t cut you any slack. And Manny spares no expense, hiring the best of the best.”
Kristine flipped through the case file, saw no evidence that any other attorney than Hank Ehlers was involved. “Hank? He’s just a junior associate at Winston Roe.”
Andi nodded. “Yes, he is. Frankly, I’m surprised Manny accepted an associate representing him at arraignment. When he goes to trial, though, I’ll lay odds Tony Landry himself will be sitting at the defense table.”
“But he’s in Miami.” Bile rose in Kristine’s throat. Just a few months ago Landry had come to Tampa for a high-profile drug trafficking trial and hung their former boss, Sandra Giancone, out to dry. And she recalled reading about several big criminal trials in Miami during which Landry had won acquittal for his clients.
What a waste of talent, she thought. Talent a man like him should be using to put criminals in jail, not keep them out.
“He’s not in Miami anymore. Winston Roe promoted Landry to partner and transferred him here to head their criminal defense division after Tom Ellis retired last month. Word has it, he moved into his corner office last Monday.”
Andi grinned. “He’s a hunk—and from what I understand he’s single, which makes him fair game,” she mentioned as she turned and walked away.
Kristine couldn’t care less if the man looked like Mel Gibson and Brad Pitt rolled into one. Tony Landry had built his reputation by getting accused criminals acquitted with nearly no-miss precision. There was no way he’d ever look good enough to mask the black hole that passed for his heart.
Besides, she wouldn’t let anything or anybody distract her from her goal. She hunkered down at her battered metal desk in its wobbly, temporary cubicle.
Kristine flipped open the file and began to study the police report on Manny Garcia’s most recent arrest. It didn’t take long for her to figure out why Andi had passed along the case. As cases went, this was two on a scale of ten. Maybe.
The only concrete evidence they had was a couple of pounds of cocaine, found stuffed into a case of lettuce during a raid on Garcia’s produce warehouse. A raid made because apparently someone had phoned in an anonymous tip.
Kristine saw nothing in the report to tie Garcia himself to that cocaine—other than that he’d been seen in the warehouse shortly before the cocaine was found, and he had prior arrests for dealing.
No wonder Andi had dumped the case. Ambitious and savvy, Andi liked to try cases she was certain she could win, and she avoided bad press like the plague. Kristine imagined local reporters would crucify the prosecutor who let Manny Garcia walk or plead to lesser charges.
She was to become a sacrificial lamb.
Too bad there had to be political implications from the cases the state attorney’s office took to trial. Kristine shook her head. State attorney, indeed. A strange name for the lawyers elected to prosecute criminals in state courts in Florida, the official most people knew as “district attorney” from the cop-and-lawyer shows on TV. Beads of sweat collected on Kristine’s upper lip.
She glanced at her watch. Six o’clock. Nerves hadn’t caused the sweat—at least not entirely. The air conditioning in the building shut down promptly at five, a response to some county commissioner’s clichéd suggestion for “trimming the fat.”
Time to pack it in, before the office turned into an oven.
Kristine stuffed the file into her briefcase. She’d dig deeper into it when she got home. If she looked hard enough, surely she’d find some shred of evidence she could use to send Garcia away, something she had missed at first glance.
Shedding her suit jacket as she stood in the elevator, she tried to figure angles she could work to turn what looked like a sure acquittal into a conviction.
When she stepped outside the building, the heat stole her breath. Too hot today, even for dope peddlers. The breeze didn’t begin to evaporate the sweat from her body before more formed and dripped between her breasts and down the crack of her butt, making her itch in places she couldn’t scratch in public. The heat also made her wish she’d chosen anywhere else on earth to be this August day.
She got into her car and jammed the key into the ignition. The steering wheel burned her palms, and the vinyl seat toasted her backside. More sweat trickled between her breasts and down onto her belly, making her crank down the windows to release the worst of the hot air.
The car’s air conditioner labored, and a steamy breeze blew in through windows she’d opened to let out the trapped heat. Nothing made a dent in the misery.
Tampa, Florida—kissed on three sides by the waters of the bay and bisected by the meandering Hillsborough River—had to be the hottest place this side of hell, but Kristine was used to it. Except for the seven years she’d spent in college and l
aw school at Gainesville, less than a two-hour drive away, she’d lived here her whole life.
Storm clouds gathered to the south, foreshadowing rain that would cool things off only marginally and add to the humidity.
Kristine hated summer. Hated the dying flowers and crops that wilted in the fierce heat. She hated remembering the losses she would always associate with the sweltering season eight summers ago when she’d found herself suddenly and terribly alone.
As she drove by a clump of stores west of downtown, she glanced at the shady spot under a sagging awning. Deserted now, the place usually served as headquarters for a half-dozen wild-eyed teenagers who dealt death to support their own killer habits.
Today, Kristine imagined they’d crawl out of their holes after the temperature dropped. After dark, like the cockroaches they were.
Her resolve deepened. Andi might have assigned her to the Garcia case because she didn’t think there was a chance in hell anyone could get a conviction, but Kristine would prove her wrong. She had to.
For years she’d waited for a chance to strike back at the bastards who’d as good as killed her sister Helen with their poison, and caused her dad’s death as certainly as if they had actually aimed a gun at his head and shot him. She might be short on admissible evidence, but she figured she could appeal to the jurors’ emotions as well as anybody.
Better than most. She was glad the state attorney, Mr. Wells, had decided he wouldn’t let this defendant cop a plea.
Not even the prospect of sparring with the defender who’d amassed an almost unbelievable win-loss record in Miami’s courts dimmed Kristine’s enthusiasm.
* * * * *
“The state attorney’s office won’t bargain?” Tony Landry found that hard to believe.
He got up from behind his massive mahogany desk and stared out the window at what looked like toy boats bobbing on a trench no wider than his hand. The Hillsborough River and the University of Tampa buildings with their sparkling minarets beyond made for a great view from his fortieth-floor corner office—far more peaceful than the busy street he’d looked out on from his office window in Miami.
“What do you know about the prosecutor?” Tony asked.
Hank Ehlers, the young associate he’d inherited from Tom Ellis when he’d retired, shrugged. “Her name is Kristine Granger. She assisted the attorney of record on a couple of cases Tom tried. This may be her first solo case. She’s young, not more than a year or so out of law school. Local Tampa girl.”
Tony got the picture of a kid a lot like Hank, raring to go and looking forward to trying that first case on her own. “This isn’t the kind of case I like to take to court. I wanted to talk our client into pleading on reduced charges and settling for probation. Think she’ll change her mind?”
“I doubt it. And I don’t think it’s Ms. Granger that’s refusing to deal. Word is, Harper Wells himself wants Garcia to go to trial.”
Politics. There couldn’t be any other reason for the state attorney to refuse to plea bargain a lousy case like this one. “Son-of-a-bitch.”
Maybe he could let Hank handle Garcia’s defense. No. Garcia demanded the best, and he had no problem paying for it. If this case went to trial, it would be his, even if it stuck in his craw that his first case in Tampa, and as a partner in Winston Roe, would involve his getting a reputed midlevel drug kingpin off on the ignominious charge of possession with intent to deliver.
“This Granger woman has to know her case has holes I could drive my car through.” Maybe she’d mount a cursory prosecution. His spirits brightened.
Hank shifted from one foot to the other and fixed his gaze on the carpeted floor. “Word has it she’s obsessed with throwing the book at every defendant who’s ever been within a mile of controlled substances. Something about her sister dying of an overdose.”
Damn! A crusader. Just what Tony needed to herald his arrival on the local scene. He pictured the press making Kristine Granger Little Red Riding Hood and casting him in the role of the big bad wolf.
“When do we go to trial?” he asked, resigned to his fate.
Hank glanced at the card in front of the fat Garcia folder he held. “Jury selection’s next Friday.”
“Okay.” Tony wanted to strangle Hank, but he restrained himself. After all, it made no sense to kill the messenger. “Leave the folder here. I’ll spend some time getting to know and love our Manny. Has anyone from the press been sniffing around here about this case?”
“No more than usual. Garcia’s one of the journalists’ favorite folks to smear.”
Tony didn’t doubt that. A more unsavory client he would have to look under rocks to find. “They’re going to love Ms. Granger for going after him on a case she can’t possibly win,” he muttered, not anxious to dwell on what the reporters would say about him when he went to court as Garcia’s defense counsel.
“Do you care?”
“Of course I care. I’m damn good at defending criminal cases, but I’d just as soon not be painted black because some starry-eyed kid just out of law school wants to convict Garcia for everything he’s ever done.”
Tony lifted the folder, then slammed it back on his desk. “Hell, these charges are so flimsy the state attorney’s office was lucky to get an indictment.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. I did my best to get the charges dropped, but the judge didn’t buy my arguments.” Hank sounded as though he expected Tony to take a swing at him. “I can go back, try again to set up a plea bargain.”
“It’s not your fault.” The last thing Tony wanted was to intimidate his young associate. “Just bad luck Tom had left and I hadn’t arrived when Garcia got himself arrested. Don’t worry about it. If this Ms. Granger won’t bend, she’ll just have to learn how it feels to lose. I’ll spend the weekend working on the case.”
There went Tony’s plans, but they really hadn’t mattered all that much. He’d call Gretchen and beg off before she left Miami. Just as well. His latest main squeeze was getting too possessive.
He had a new job, a new home. It was high time for him to find new female companionship. He’d never noticed a shortage of sleek, sexy brunettes with legs that wouldn’t stop and tits that made every man stop and look at least twice. Not in Miami, and not here, either.
Easy come, easy go, had been Tony’s philosophy about women for longer than he could remember. If his cock got too unruly, he could always take up one of his new neighbors on her standing invitation for a no-strings-attached fuckfest.
“Want me to stay and help?”
Tony frowned. In Hank’s position, he wouldn’t have asked. He’d have dug right in, anxious to accumulate billable hours while he learned the ropes at some partner’s elbow.
He almost told the kid to go on and enjoy his weekend, then changed his mind. “Yeah. See if you can find some precedents, cases where a crime was committed on a defendant’s property ostensibly without his knowledge.”
That search, if Hank was diligent, could result in thousands of dollars rolling merrily onto Garcia’s bill. Tony hadn’t made partner at the relatively tender age of thirty-four by neglecting to consider the firm’s profits.
“Get busy. I’ll expect to find at least a dozen case references on my desk by Monday morning.” He grinned at Hank’s retreating back.
Settling into his dark green leather desk chair, Tony pushed thoughts of fun and games to the back of his mind. He called Gretchen and canceled their plans, then got busy learning all about his new client.
He read the police report again. He’d been right the first time. Nothing in it linked Garcia to the cocaine found in his warehouse except in the most circumstantial way. Just one witness, and he apparently hadn’t seen Manny handling the drug.
The other information in the folder made him frown. Manny might not have had anything to do with the particular bag of coke that had gotten him arrested this time, but Tony’s doubts about even that grew exponentially as he flipped through the file. Tom Ellis had defended Manny Garcia
for a colorful variety of crimes that spanned two decades.
Sweet Jesus, but he didn’t want this kind of case to set the tone for his practice in Tampa. Garcia might be innocent of the crime for which he was going to trial, but he was far from being the wrongly-accused kind of client who made Tony feel good he had chosen criminal defense as his specialty.
Damn Manny Garcia, damn State Attorney Harper Wells and his political ambitions, and damn the do-good, wet-behind-the-ears woman who apparently thought she was going to make her career by taking a shaky case like this before a jury.
For good measure Tony damned himself, because since making partner in the firm he’d suddenly acquired a need for the public to see him as a white knight. And he was fairly certain that after Manny’s trial the press would be painting him as a skillful shyster willing to get anybody off on any charge, as long as they had the means to pay for his services.
Garcia had occupied his mind too long. He had to get away for a while.
Standing, Tony tossed the file onto the desk and shrugged into the jacket of his khaki suit. As he waited for the elevator to take him to the private level of the parking garage that took up the first four floors of the building, he could hardly wait to strip out of his professional clothes.
He anticipated the run he would take down the man-made beach outside the condo on Harbour Island where he lived. He could practically feel the heat on his sweat-slicked back, scalding sand crunching under his bare feet, a salty breeze whipping at his hair.
Tampa wasn’t Miami, but there was something sensual about the heat and humidity here, something that struck a chord from long ago. Tony liked living on the water’s edge, within walking distance of his office, less than twenty miles from where he was born.
He liked the fact that home now was a far cry from the series of migrant camps on farms east of town where he’d spent most of the first ten years of his life, or the modest foster homes where he’d lived for the next eight.