“I don’t care what breed it is. I have the dog. Or rather, your dog has my cat. I would suggest you collect him immediately before I contact animal control.”
“Aslan has your cat?”
“Please come get him at once.” The feminine voice vibrated.
“Where are you?”
“Fifth floor. In the hallway.”
The elevator doors had closed, so Chandler headed to the stairs. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Sooner would be better.” There was an edge to the woman’s voice. An edge that warned him she wasn’t a dog lover and had experienced a rough day.
He clomped up the stairs while she kept talking, and a minute later he banged through the stairwell door to the fifth floor. At the other end of the hallway he saw a woman gesticulating wildly while holding a phone to her ear. She was tall, dressed in a work pantsuit, with long, dark hair spilling over her shoulders. At her feet Aslan stood at attention, focused on something Chandler couldn’t see but would bet was a cat. He hurried toward them and let out a short whistle.
The dog’s head turned but he didn’t move. “Aslan.” When the dog ignored him, staying on point toward something in the ficus tree in the corner, Chandler raised his voice and inserted authority. “Release.”
Aslan gave a clipped bark.
“Now.”
The dog’s head sank as he slunk back a step. Then another.
The woman backed away as if afraid of being grazed by his fur.
“You all right, ma’am?”
“Not yet.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Your mongrel is still here.”
He bristled at her words, yet as he took a second look he wondered why he hadn’t noticed her before. The complex was large, but he would surely remember someone as striking as this woman, especially with the sparks flying from her. He bit back a smile. “Aslan wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Tell that to Simba.” She pointed at a marmalade cat standing at the base of the ficus tree, gaze locked on Aslan. The ridge of fur on its back stood at attention.
“They look like they belong together.”
“What?” She turned incredulous eyes on him.
“The colors. They match.” He shrugged, realizing the ice queen didn’t appreciate his comment. “Come, Aslan. Time to get you home.” Aslan edged back with one more reluctant yip.
Chandler turned to the woman, who seemed to be studying him with the intensity of one assessing danger. “I apologize, ma’am. But really, he wouldn’t hurt anything.”
Her gaze softened a little, yet there was still an edge to her voice. “You might want to continue his training.” She scooped down and picked up the cat, who didn’t appear to relish the contact.
Did the creature reflect the emotions of its owner? Or had she picked a cat because it wouldn’t require her to get too close?
He grabbed Aslan’s collar, thinking it was the only way the woman would relax. “I’ll get Aslan back home. I’m Chandler Bolton, by the way.”
“Jaime.” She nodded at him, and it was clear he’d been dismissed.
All right. “Come on, Aslan.”
He headed toward the elevator, only releasing the dog when the doors opened and they could enter. When he turned around, with a firm hand command demanding obedience, he found the woman, cat in her arms, still standing as though planted, her gaze locked on him.
CHAPTER 4
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 2
Jaime waited until the elevator doors closed, then hurried down the hall to her apartment. She didn’t want the Captain America look-alike knowing which apartment was hers. It was bad enough he knew the floor. And what was that beast of a dog doing up here anyway?
No one on her floor owned dogs, not even small, yippy ones. Just one more reason she loved the still-new-to-her sanctuary atop the apartment complex. The view and the trails edging it added to the appeal.
“Come on, Simba. Let’s get inside where it’s safe.” Simba didn’t squirm to get away, as if the cat knew Jaime needed a few moments of petting his silky fur to reorient herself. After she closed the apartment door, she refilled his bowl of dry cat food and set him in front of it. Then she stood at the refrigerator, even though she’d just returned from dinner with friends. There was no need to open the door. She knew exactly what she’d find: a bag of salad mix that had seen better days, a couple tubs of carryout, a small carton of eggs, and three containers of Greek yogurt.
Living alone used to be a balm to her weary heart. Now it seemed to spotlight how distant she’d become from everyone.
She shouldn’t feel this weary at twenty-nine. She had her whole life in front of her—but if this was all there was, it promised to be depressing.
Taking the step to press charges against her uncle was supposed to take away the sense of being restrained by her past, but she was no closer to resolving the ugliness of his abuse. His evil actions when she was eight years old had colored every moment of the years that followed.
She took the lid off her diffuser and filled it with water, then added several drops of lavender oil. It only took a minute for the soothing scent to begin to fill the space and edge back the darkness.
White.
She desperately longed for the color of newness and purity.
Her walls were white. Her futon was white. Her curtains an equally blank slate. The only colors were the gray-and-black throw pillows and the variegated black to gray to white blanket tossed artfully over the back of the futon. Her wardrobe was black, her car black, and her cat an annoying shade of yellowish orange that showed up on everything—just like the stain of her uncle’s abuse.
Okay, she had to stop this runaway train of thought.
She inhaled slowly, willing the lavender to calm her harried thoughts. Maybe exercise would distract her.
After changing into workout clothes, she descended to the first floor where the workout room overlooked the Potomac. It didn’t matter that she’d already invested an hour earlier in the day. She leaned over the handlebars of the stationary bike, closed her eyes, and pedaled as if Uncle Dane were pursuing her. If she pedaled long enough, she could leave his touch and scent far behind her. She could feel her body becoming more powerful . . . If he ever tried to hurt her again, she’d be equipped to escape.
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 3
The next morning the haze was fighting off the lingering night when Jaime reached the Alexandria Public Defender’s office off the main road in Old Town. She loved the idea that she worked in the historic area where George Washington had worshiped and shopped.
She made a mug of peppermint tea and then settled at her desk to work. The lights in the hallway outside her office flicked on, but Jaime kept her gaze locked on the monitor. The behemoth filling her desk wasn’t some slick flat-screen. You didn’t get top-of-the-line new equipment when you worked for the public defender. The computer ran slow as a mouse through snow, but most days it let her do the research she needed. When it didn’t, she grabbed her personal laptop and headed somewhere with faster internet. It wasn’t ideal, but she did what she could to prepare the best defense for her court appointments.
People assumed when they landed a public defender they’d receive a halfhearted defense, but she lived to prove them wrong. To the extent it was in her control, she gave her best. Getting the Commonwealth to offer a plea bargain on occasion counted as success. But as she reviewed the file for her trial in two weeks, she didn’t think that would happen.
Alexander Parron had been caught red-handed with enough drugs that no jury would believe they were for personal use. The amount was one evidentiary issue she’d dispute. The police officer alleged there had been over five hundred pills, but less than half of that was in evidence. So where had the rest gone, if it had existed? Alexander, of course, denied there had been that much, but the jury would expect that testimony.
She had to peel back this case until she identified the simplest story that was the truth. The Virginia code was clear.
If someone was arrested for manufacturing, selling, giving, distributing, or possessing controlled substances with the intent to do any of those, the jail time and fines were steep. Unfortunately for Alexander, the state argued this was his third such offense, even though the other convictions were out-of-state misdemeanors. Based on the underlying charges, the judge could decide to treat those as if they had occurred in Virginia, where they’d be felonies.
If convicted, he could go away for essentially the rest of his life. What should be between five and ten years, based on her experience with other clients, would automatically bump to life imprisonment, with the possibility of less if the judge decided to be lenient.
She had to prove the drugs weren’t in his possession, and, failing that, that he had no intent to manufacture, sell, give, distribute, or possess the OxyContin. It was enough to make her head swim, and she practiced in this space.
She picked up her mug, but when she raised it to her lips, it was empty. She’d reached the office at five to take advantage of the quiet hours to prepare before her nine o’clock appointment with Parron and the meeting with her boss. She’d reload her cup with the nasty coffee brewed in the small office kitchenette.
She grabbed her You Got This mug and walked to the kitchen. Her lower back was tight, telegraphing that she’d been hunched too long over her keyboard. She needed the hook for this case before the meeting, which meant she couldn’t be distracted by whatever it was her boss needed to discuss.
Speaking of . . . Grant stood at the coffeepot, watching the black liquid drizzle down as though mesmerized by the process. She noticed a new box of Constant Comment by the pot and smiled. Someone had bought another box of the tea only she drank. Forget the coffee. She stopped next to Grant and filled her mug with hot water.
He startled and his attention shifted to her. “Morning. Need to talk to you.”
“I got your text.”
“How’s your load?”
“Average.” There was rarely a healthy balance. This job required mountains of time, and the office was routinely short one attorney and often two.
He stroked his trim, dark beard as he studied her. “I’m concerned about you.”
“No need.” She kept her head down and did her job.
“I’ve had a couple complaints.”
“Not unusual.” After all, if they didn’t get off, the clients weren’t pleased.
“These are different. Do I need to pull you off a few cases?” His gaze speared her.
“No.”
“Then get your act together.” His jaw was tense. “I need your best work, or I’ll find someone else.”
Was this their “meeting”? A threat by the coffeemaker in the break room?
“Message received.”
“Good.”
She sighed, wanting to defuse the tension that threatened to explode in the small space. “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?” Maybe something productive?
He slid the coffeepot out and maneuvered his mug in place to get the coffee faster. As soon as it filled, he reversed the process and lifted the mug toward her. “We have a new attorney starting next week. I’ll need you to orient him. He’ll focus on misdemeanors. Get his feet wet before we throw felonies at him.”
“If Grace can send me his first cases, I’ll review them over the weekend, but I’ll spend most of my time on trial prep.”
“Watch your cases and let me know what you need.”
While he meant the words, his hands were tied, given their tight budget. The office required creativity in making do. But throwing money at the Parron case wouldn’t do much to turn it around anyway. That required good old-fashioned creative thinking.
An hour later Jaime led her client to a small conference room that had a one-way mirror, Grant’s words still echoing in her mind. Who had complained now, and should she be concerned?
She settled in a chair and eyed her client. The one-way mirror provided some accountability, as anyone could walk by anytime and check her safety. While Alexander Parron was not a physical threat to her, that wasn’t true of all her clients. Alexander was forty-four, thin as a sapling, and held himself stiff against the back pain that never relented, the result of a car accident. As he eased onto the edge of a chair, his tattoo sleeves caught her attention. He’d tried to tell her their significance the first time they met, but she’d delayed his erratic telling when he kept repeating himself in a cycle of confusion.
Could there be a seed there to build the story she needed to persuade the jury? There was something about his unfocused behavior that indicated it was possible he would fail a court-ordered drug test. Had he started adding heroin or another uncontrolled substance to his cocktail of pain meds? If so, could he even remember the reason behind his sleeves?
“Alex, I need you to focus.”
He turned to her and groaned. “The pain is real bad today.”
“That may be, but you are headed to trial. You’ll sit in a courtroom for at least two days, maybe longer.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You’ll have to. It’s that or plea bargain.”
“But I didn’t do what they say.” His claim never changed.
“The amount of OxyContin you had far exceeded the prescription. That gives the state evidence you intended to distribute.”
“There ain’t no one I can give or sell it to when I need every pill.”
“I understand. But the Commonwealth doesn’t. At twenty-five dollars a pill on the street, you’ve got a good reason to distribute them. Remember, the Commonwealth’s Attorney must prove two things. First, that you committed the illegal act, and then that you intended to break the law. One isn’t enough.”
“I was headed home.”
“With five hundred pills?”
“Yes.” The word exploded from him, and there was a fire in his eyes that made Jaime glad the solid table provided a barrier between them. “Sorry. I should have taken another pill.”
“That’s what got you into this trouble.”
“It was that doctor. I wish he’d never given me the prescription.”
“The state didn’t charge him. You’re the one on trial.”
“Can’t you make it go away?”
“Sure, but that requires you to accept the plea bargain.”
“Ain’t doing that.”
“I know.” She glanced at his arms and neck. Maybe talking about the tattoos would distract him. “Would you tell me about your sleeves?”
“Why? You weren’t interested before.”
“I am now.” She met his gaze. “Please.”
“I don’t see how this will help with the trial. I can’t go back to jail.” He glanced down to where his hands trembled on the table. “Ain’t no way I can defend myself in prison when I move like a ninety-year-old.”
“Let me decide what will help. Tell me your story, Alexander.”
So he did. He talked about the accident that wrecked a back already weak from high school football. The doctor prescribed the narcotic, and his life spiraled out of control. Each sleeve told a piece of his pain. It was exhausting listening, but then he mentioned charges in West Virginia.
“Wait a minute. Run that by me again.” Jaime had the cause numbers from the court filings and had found everything she could online. The subpoenas requesting copies were out, but she’d had no response. “What were you charged with?”
He told her, and she grabbed a file from his folder. “That doesn’t match what the state listed. Maybe that’s why I don’t have the files yet.” She made a note to call and talk to someone. “I need everything you have on those.”
“Didn’t I bring those in already?”
“I requested them, but you’ve forgotten.” More proof of how much the drug had messed with his mind. “If you get me that information, I might prove the prosecution made a mistake. What you’ve described sounds like a misdemeanor here. That wouldn’t allow the state to compound the jail time it’s seeking, and
we could land a better plea bargain.”
He started to sputter, but she held up a hand. “We need a stronger position. You want a convincing argument for why you had those pills, but knocking the other convictions down to misdemeanor equivalents helps.”
“I don’t see how.”
“You don’t have to. That’s why you have me. For this to work, I need that information today. The moment you leave, I want you to find it and bring it to me.”
“All right.” He edged back on the chair, then froze. “Can I mail it?”
She reached for her pocket, but her roller bottle of lavender wasn’t there. “No, you cannot mail it. Your trial is in eleven days.”
She took a deep breath as a flash of pain swept his face. Time to refocus on his testimony.
Jaime looked through her notes. This wasn’t going to be a straightforward matter of building a case that proved the drugs were only for him. The quantity was incriminating. But she could poke holes in the idea that he had intent to distribute. The prosecution didn’t have evidence on that if he stuck to what he’d told her today.
She’d decided early in her career her job wasn’t to build the prosecution’s case. Instead, she would hold it accountable for every charge filed and every piece of evidence presented.
Today had solidified the direction her thoughts were headed about the proof. Now to pull together the law that would support her position. She walked Alexander to the front with a reminder to get her the information on his West Virginia charges. Then she settled in her office and opened the case database. The search for relevant cases was slow going, but eventually she’d find what she needed. The law demanded persistence, a trait Jaime Nichols had in abundance.
CHAPTER 5
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 3
Sunlight streamed through a crack in Chandler’s curtains, knocking his eyeballs with the message it was time to get up, but his brain refused to cooperate. It felt like a razor blade sliced through his skull. His alarm went off, and he groped along his nightstand trying to find it. He cracked open his eyelids and groaned. 8:10? How had he slept through not one, not two, but three alarms? Had his nightmares of a convoy of exploding armored vehicles turning to shrapnel been so exhausting that his subconscious had clicked his phone off while he slept?
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