by Diane Kelly
Despite the circumstances, I chuckled.
He gestured for me to take my seat as he slid into the enormous throne behind his desk. He took a sip of his coffee and held the mug two-handed in front of his chest. He arched a shaped brow. “So-o-o-o-o. Daniel tells me you’re a federal agent who has found herself in some hot water.”
That was putting it mildly. The water I was in was boiling. If I were a lobster, I’d be ready for melted butter and a fork. “I was fired from my job with IRS Criminal Investigations last week.”
“Dish,” he demanded. “Tell me everything, Miss Holloway. Every last, dirty, disgusting, lascivious detail.”
Something told me I could trust this guy. I took a deep, fortifying breath and ran through the events of Geils’ bust, starting with the undercover investigation at the strip club, moving on to the dancers abused by violent patrons, the drugs that led to a dancer nearly overdosing, and ending with me putting four bullets in the leg of the bastard who ran the place. I told Giacomo that Nick and I were dating, that Christina and I were friends off the clock, that I’d paused between each bullet I’d put in Don Geils’ leg and contemplated what a total waste of flesh the bastard was.
Giacomo said little as I told him the story. He listened intently, occasionally running his eyes over me as if evaluating my posture, my body language, the tilt of my head. When I finished, he said, “I’ll be darned. An honest client.”
“I take it you don’t get many of those?”
“I don’t get any of those,” he shot back. “I waste unbelievable amounts of time sorting through piles of poo, trying to find the truth.”
His job didn’t sound too different from being a special agent. The people we investigated often told us lies, too.
I cut to the chase. “What’s the punishment for excessive force?” I asked, fearing the answer.
“Depends on the circumstances,” the attorney replied. “A minor abuse against some thug would get probation, maybe a small fine. Something egregious, where an innocent victim is severely maimed or killed, could land a cop in jail for life.”
Life? My insides turned to pudding. Holy—
“I’ll need to gather some information from you.” He shifted the coffee mug to his left hand, pulled a gold pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, and slid the legal pad closer so he could write on it. “Prior to the incident at the club, had you ever used your weapons on the job?”
“Yes.” I gave him my long and complete history, including my shooting a box cutter out of the hand of an auto parts store owner intent on killing me, a later shoot-out at a private residence, moving on to my putting a bullet in a target’s testicle, to a later incident in which I put one bullet each in a set of twins. I’d also been forced to shoot a rifle out of the hands of a crazy old coot who led a secessionist group, and I’d improvised a flamethrower with a lighter and a spray can to fend off another attacker. That one happened in my home, when I couldn’t get to my gun, though the man who’d broken in and attacked me had been a target in a tax evasion case.
The attorney jotted down notes as I spoke. When I finished, he looked down at my long list of human targets, then up at me. Tinkle-tinkle. “This is quite a list. How many years were you with the IRS?”
I gulped back the lump in my throat. “Eight months.”
“Eight months?” His eyes went from my face to his list and back to my face again. “You’ve been quite a busy girl, haven’t you?”
What could I say to that? I simply shrugged.
“I assume there was some type of internal review each time you used your gun?”
I nodded. “My actions were deemed justified each time.”
“Mm-hm. But not this last time?”
I forced a small smile. “Apparently not.”
“Were you given a copy of the internal affairs report?”
“No. I didn’t ask for one. I didn’t see the need.” Fired is fired, after all. The hearing had been bad enough. I didn’t particularly want to relive the event by reading a summary of it.
“Get me a copy,” he said. “In fact, get me copies of all of your internal affairs reports. I suspect the prosecutor will try to use them against you and I need to be prepared.”
I nodded.
“I have a few more questions about what went down at the bar.” He sipped his coffee before continuing. “At any time while you were in the VIP room with Donald Geils did you reload your gun?”
“No.”
He jotted a note. “Did you empty your clip?”
“No.” I’d been damn tempted, but I hadn’t.
“Was the clip full?”
“Yes, but I fired only the seven bullets.”
“Three in the bouncers, four in Don Geils,” he clarified.
“Right.”
Another note. “Did you attempt any fatal shots? Maybe aim for Geils’ head or his heart, but he dodged the bullets?”
“No. If I’d attempted a fatal shot he’d be dead.” It wasn’t bragging. It was true. I’d been handling guns since my father gave me my first Daisy BB gun when I was just three years old. I’d learn to shoot a gun before I could ride a bike. “My bullets go exactly where I aim them.”
“So I hear. Daniel says they call you the Annie Oakley of the IRS?”
“They do.” At least they used to. I only hoped I wouldn’t become known as the Annie Oakley of the Seagoville Federal Correctional Institution. “I was also called the Sperminator after I shot the target in the testicle.”
The attorney hunched in phantom agony. “Let’s not talk any more about that incident. It’s just so…”
Apparently unable to find a suitable term, he fluttered his hands as if the motion could cause the very idea to dissipate. What was it with men and their family jewels? Women had mastectomies and hysterectomies all the time and you didn’t hear us bellyaching about having our body parts ripped out.
Giacomo put his pen back to the paper, drawing a repeating circle as he looked past me to the wall, lost in thought. After a moment he stopped doodling, his eyes boring into me. “You enjoyed putting those bullets in that bastard’s leg, didn’t you?”
I closed my eyes as if unable to face the truth about myself. “Yes,” I said weakly.
“You wanted him to suffer for what he’d done to your fellow agents, to those girls at the club.”
“Yes.”
When he asked no further questions, I opened my eyes.
With another tinkle, Giacomo turned away from me, looking out his window on to downtown Dallas as he mulled things over for another moment or two. When he turned back to me, he said, “This is how I anticipate the prosecution will spin things. They’ll say there was no need for you to keep shooting Geils once he’d dropped his weapon and was too injured to flee. You were pissed at Geils for threatening your boyfriend and your friend and that’s why you shot him multiple times. You intentionally retaliated against him. You took punishment into your own hands.”
I supposed the guy was playing Devil’s advocate in order to evaluate the case, but I didn’t like it. There was some truth to what he said, a lot of truth in fact, but did that necessarily mean I had used excessive force? Did it mean I, like Geils, was a criminal? The mere thought made me sick.
Giacomo looked into my eyes. “Geils shot at you first. You had a legal right to kill the man.”
I slumped back in my seat. “That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”
“So why didn’t you?”
I looked Giacomo in the eye. “Honestly? I don’t know. After he fired at me I turned around with every intention of shooting him in the head. But…” I looked down at my hands, clasped tightly in my lap, before looking back up at the attorney. “My hands seemed to have a mind of their own. They aimed for his leg rather than his head.”
“So your actions were instinctive? You were acting on reflex? Impulse more than intent?”
I nodded. “I’d lost it by that point. Geils deserved to die, but I suppose on some subconsciou
s level I knew I could let him live. I … I’m not sure I could live with myself if I ended a life. But holding back was hard. Really hard. A person has only so much restraint.” Tears welled up in my eyes and I gulped back a sob. “Am I expected to be superhuman just because I’m a federal agent?”
A slow smile spread across Giacomo’s lips. “You’re pathetic.”
What? Had this guy really just called me pathetic to my face? After I’d spilled my guts to him, opened myself up emotionally?
“You’re nothing but a candy ass,” he said. “You’re not a tough federal agent at all.”
I sat bolt upright in my chair. “Yes, I am!” Or at least I had been.
“No, you’re not. Any other agent would’ve shot the guy dead. But you couldn’t bring yourself to kill a pimp and drug lord who clearly deserved it.”
I didn’t want to be a criminal, but I didn’t want to be a chickenshit, either. Ugh!
“You didn’t use excessive force.” His eyes glimmered as he continued. “In fact, I’d say you used woefully insufficient force.”
Oka-a-ay. Now I saw where he was going with this. I took a deep breath and settled back in my chair.
He pointed his pen at me. “For the prosecutor to prove you used excessive force, he has to show that you used force beyond what a reasonable and prudent law enforcement officer would have used under the circumstances. This is the tricky part. A reasonable and prudent agent would have blown Don Geils’ head off or put a few bullets in his chest. You didn’t. The question is, if you did less damage than a reasonable and prudent agent would have but continued to put more bullets in the guy’s leg once he seemingly no longer posed a threat, did you use excessive force or not?”
If that was the question, then … “What’s the answer?” I wanted this guy to tell me I wasn’t guilty. I needed someone to tell me I wasn’t guilty.
Giacomo exhaled. “I could tell you what I think, but that’s not what really matters. It’s what the jury will think that matters. The prosecutor will focus on the minutiae. I’ll convince the jury to take a step back and look at the bigger picture.”
It would be like taking a photograph. But would the jury use a wide-angle lens or a zoom?
Giacomo’s eyes gleamed. “This trial will be a soap opera. Any jury would eat this up.”
I didn’t like the idea of being a spectacle, of my future being played out like some kind of Broadway production or reality TV show where the jurors could decide whether or not to vote me off the island. But I supposed I didn’t have much of a choice. For better or worse, this was how the American justice system worked.
He waved a hand dismissively, causing his hat to give off another tinkle. “Of course I’m getting way ahead of myself here. This case hasn’t even gone to the grand jury yet. Besides, once we speak to the DOJ the prosecutor might decide not to bring charges.”
Dropped charges? That would be the best Christmas present ever.
Anthony took another sip of coffee. “Who’s the prosecutor?”
“Troy Kerr.”
“Kerr. Hm-m.” Giacomo sat his coffee mug on the desk, twirling his pen in his fingers as he appeared to formulate his thoughts. “A case against a federal agent would send the message that Kerr is tough. Not to mention that a case against a federal agent is sure to be high profile and get him some attention.” He stopped twirling the pen and pointed it at me. “One of the judges for the Northern District announced he’ll be retiring in March. There will be a spot opening up on the bench here in Dallas.”
My hand reflexively went to my chest. “What does that have to do with me?”
“Troy Kerr has had his eye on the bench for years.” Giacomo jabbed the pen in my direction. “He’s using you to get that judicial appointment he’s been after.”
Great. I’d become nothing more than a pawn in a game of courtroom chess over which I had no control. I felt like George Bailey in the early scenes of It’s a Wonderful Life where his life was spinning into total chaos. “How does that affect my chances of getting the charges dropped?”
“Hard to say,” Anthony said, the pen twirling again. “There’s a lot at stake for Kerr personally. He’s a competent enough attorney, but he hasn’t handled any real newsworthy trials. He needs a big, high-profile case to pad his résumé, and the timing of your case would be perfect.”
Perfect for him, maybe. As far as I was concerned, there was never a good time to be put on trial.
“On the other hand,” Giacomo capitulated, “he’s got a lot to lose if this trial doesn’t go his way. His reputation could be irreparably damaged. He’s taking quite a risk.”
I felt like an unwilling player in a game of legal football, forced out onto the field without a helmet, mouth guard, or pads, with only Giacomo on my team, supporting me like a jockstrap, protecting me like an athletic cup.
I wondered if a guardian angel would come to help me if I wandered out onto the Margaret Hunt Hill Bridge, like the angel had helped George Bailey in the Christmas classic. I supposed I shouldn’t count on it. Then again, maybe Giacomo would prove to be my guardian angel. I certainly hoped so. “Kerr wants to meet with us tomorrow at ten.”
He frowned. “Christmas Eve?”
“It’s not a federal holiday,” I said.
“Hmph. Well, write me a retainer check for five grand and I’ll be there.”
Sheesh. Guardian angels don’t come cheap, do they?
He cocked his head. Tinkle-tinkle. “I mentioned I charge extra on holidays, right?”
I chuckled.
“I’m not kidding this time.”
Damn.
I made out the check, mentally cursing Don Geils all the while. At least I’d made some extra money while working for the jackass. Not anywhere near five grand, though. And I could forget the beautiful cobalt-blue coat from Neiman’s. No way could I afford it now.
“I almost forgot,” I said. “There have been some other developments.” I dug in my briefcase and pulled out the petition I’d been served with yesterday. I handed it to the attorney.
Giacomo quickly scanned the document and tossed it aside. “Not a problem. Whenever there are parallel prosecutions—both a criminal and a civil case pending at the same time—the civil case is put on hold until the criminal case is resolved.”
He went on to explain that the burden of proof in a criminal case, beyond a reasonable doubt, was higher than that required in a civil case, which required the plaintiff only to show it was more likely than not that the defendant had violated civil law. He noted that if I was found guilty in criminal court, a legal doctrine known as estoppel could prevent me from asserting my innocence in the subsequent civil trial.
My heart sputtered. “So if I’m convicted in criminal court, I’ll automatically lose the civil case, too?”
Giacomo shot me a pointed look. “My clients don’t get convicted.”
I wanted to believe him, but I suspected he was only trying to build my confidence. No matter how much hair he had on his ass, no matter how smart the guy was, he couldn’t guarantee we’d prevail. Only time would tell how things would turn out.
I stood to go, stopping at the door. “I know if my case goes to trial it will be up to a jury to decide whether I’m guilty, but I’d still like to know. Do you think I used excessive force?”
He offered a small smile and looked me directly in the eye. “No, Tara. I don’t.”
I felt a surge of relief. Looked like there was still a chance I’d make Santa’s “nice” list this year.
chapter nine
EZ Money, Difficult Case
I left Gertz, Gertz, and Schwartz with mixed feelings. I felt somewhat relieved that Giacomo now shouldered the burden of my defense, yet I knew I wouldn’t be able to fully relax unless Troy Kerr agreed to drop the charges against me. And if Kerr didn’t agree, I was looking at several weeks of intense anxiety until the trial. Then, what? Even if I was acquitted I still wouldn’t have my special agent job; I’d still be unemployed. A
nd if I was convicted … Ugh. I didn’t want to let my mind even go there.
Oddly, a small part of me hoped Kerr wouldn’t drop the charges. If a jury found, once and for all, that I hadn’t used excessive force, that I was innocent, I’d feel vindicated, exonerated, blameless. I’d be able to forgive myself—if I had anything to forgive myself for—and the dark cloud hanging over me would dissipate.
If I was found not guilty, was there a chance the IRS would take me back? Make me a special agent again? I didn’t let my mind linger on that thought long. The chances were slim to none. No sense setting myself up for more disappointment.
As I returned to my car, I received a text from Nick. Lunch?
Sure, I texted back. Meet me in front of ur office in 5.
I swung by the IRS office and picked him up at the curb.
“What sounds good?” he asked once he’d settled in the car and clicked his seat belt into place.
“Sushi.”
“Again?”
I could eat the stuff for every meal and never get tired of it. I put on my sad face and batted my eyes at him.
“Okay,” he said. “You win.”
I knew where every sushi place in the Dallas area was located. I drove to the closest sushi bar, located near the Winspear Opera House, which, according to the sign out front, currently featured the Nutcracker ballet.
After miso soup, a seaweed salad, and a couple of California rolls, we topped the meal off with another round of green tea ice cream. I should try to find a store that sold the stuff. Now that I wasn’t a special agent anymore, I wouldn’t have to stay in shape. I could eat all the green tea ice cream I wanted.
Whaddya know? Getting fired had an upside.
After Nick paid the bill, we made our way back to my car and climbed in.
“Which way to EZ Funz?” I asked. Nick had mentioned he’d be making a stop by the place today and, being the upstanding American citizen I was, I volunteered to go along to help. I was going nuts without a job, without a sense of purpose. I wasn’t the type of woman who could be happy lying on a couch sucking down bonbons all day.