by Tami Hoag
The complexity and diabolical qualities of this move hit a nerve inside her and ground on it like a stiletto heel. Her temper flared and she clenched her jaw against the need to let it go. She shut her briefcase slowly, deliberately, the click of each lock as loud as a gunshot in the silence of the room.
She leveled a gaze on Jay Butler Brooks that had turned better men to ashes. “No, you obviously don't need my permission, Mr. Brooks. And it's a good thing because I'd throw you out of here in a heartbeat.
“I'm due in court,” she announced with a cursory nod to Glendenning and Stovich. “If you gentlemen will excuse me.”
She expected a reprimand, but none came as she walked out of the office. Or perhaps it was that she simply couldn't hear above the roar of her blood pressure in her ears.
Phoebe jumped up from her desk, wide-eyed, abandoning Quentin Adler in midcomplaint.
“Phoebe!” he wailed.
She made a face at the grating sound but ignored him, her attention on Ellen. “What did they want?”
“To make my life a living hell,” Ellen snarled.
The phrase attracted Quentin like a bell for Pavlov's dogs. A career grunt in the Park County system, Quentin was a man whose ambition overreached his abilities—a truth that left him with a perpetually bitter taste in his mouth. Fifty-something, he held himself stiffly erect, discouraged from relaxation and respiration by a super-control girdle that seemed to push all his fat up into his florid face. His latest affectation to battle the aging process was a dye job and permanent that left him looking as if he had a head covered with pubic hair—a transformation that coincided with rumors of a fling between Quentin and Janis Nerhaugen, a secretary in the county assessor's office.
“Ellen, I have to speak with you about these cases you've dumped on me,” he said.
“I can't talk, Quentin. I've got to be in court. If you don't want them, talk to Rudy.”
“But, Ellen—”
Phoebe butted in front of him, pulling a handful of pink message slips out of a patch pocket on her tunic. “I've got messages for you. Every reporter in the western hemisphere wants an interview, and Garrett Wright has fired his attorney.”
“There's a big surprise,” Ellen muttered. Denny Enberg's heart hadn't been in the case from the start. She wondered if Wright had truly fired him or if he had withdrawn and allowed Wright to call it what he wanted so as not to prejudice his case in the eyes of the press. She would call on Denny later to find out what she could, although she didn't expect to learn much. What went on between a client and his attorney was privileged; a severed relationship didn't change that. “Any word on who's taking his place?”
“Not yet.” Phoebe lowered her voice conspiratorially. “He has a really volatile aura.”
“Who? Denny?”
“Jay Butler Brooks. It suggests inner turbulence and raw sexuality.”
“Ellen, this is important,” Quentin wailed.
“Tell that to Judge Franken when he cites me for contempt,” Ellen said, handing the slips back to Phoebe. “His aura suggests intolerance. I'm out of here.”
CHAPTER 7
Miss Bottoms,” Judge Franken wheezed. “Do you understand the charges against you?”
Ellen had a suspicion much of life was a mystery to Loretta Bottoms. The woman stood gaping at the judge like a beached bass. An exotic dancer whose stage name was Lotta Bottom, Loretta had been working the circuit of strip clubs along the interstate between Des Moines and Minneapolis. She claimed to have been “working her way back home” when she was arrested for soliciting at the Big Steer truck stop on the outskirts of Deer Lake.
She stood before the court in a zebra-stripe knit dress that redefined the limitations of spandex. Built like an hourglass, tilting over on four-inch heels, breasts heaved up into her décolletage like a pair of huge cling peaches. Franken was mesmerized by the sight. When he spoke, he addressed her breasts. Ellen figured he had as much chance of getting an intelligent answer from them as from any other part of Loretta.
“Miss Bottoms, have you discussed the charges with your attorney?” the judge asked.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And what?” Loretta sank a long red fingernail into her mare's nest of bleached hair to scratch her head. “I don't get it.”
Beside her, her attorney, Fred Nelson, rolled his eyes and banged a fist against the side of his head as if trying to dislodge the rocks that would explain his having taken on Loretta as a client.
“Loretta”—he spoke to her as if she were a thick-headed child who had asked “why” ten times too many—“we've heard the police report. The officer tells us he caught you in the men's room of the Big Steer truck stop performing a sex act with a twenty-dollar bill in your hand.”
Loretta jammed her hands on ample hips. “I wasn't performing a sex act with a twenty-dollar bill. His name was Tater.”
The spectators burst out laughing. Ellen bit the inside of her lip.
Judge Franken banged his gavel. His whole misshapen little head turned maroon—a sign that his temper had been worn down to the nub and his blood pressure was soaring in direct proportion.
“How do you plead, Miss Bottoms?” the judge demanded.
“Well, Freddy here tells me I gotta plead guilty, but I don't see why. It's nobody's business whose dick I had in my mouth.”
Franken smashed his gavel down to quell the new wave of mirth. “We've been through this three times, Miss Bottoms,” he croaked, trembling with frustration. “You don't have to plead guilty if you don't want to. You can plead not guilty, but then you'll have to come back from Des Moines to stand trial. Do you want to stand trial?”
“Well, I don't really, but—”
“Then do you want to plead guilty?”
“No.”
Fred Nelson squeezed his eyes shut. “Your Honor, I have been over this with my client. We discussed the possibility of Ms. Bottoms entering a plea of not guilty, the court setting a date for trial and bail in the victinity of two hundred fifty dollars cash. Then Miss Bottoms can go home and give this matter some more thought.”
Two hundred fifty dollars was a usual fine for soliciting, and no one had any hope of or interest in Loretta Bottoms returning to Park County to stand trial. Ellen and Fred had hashed out the agreement in the judge's chambers. The county would get its money out of Loretta in the form of the forfeited cash bail when she failed to appear, and Loretta would be out of everyone's hair. It seemed a sweet deal to everyone but Loretta. The proceedings had already dragged on half an hour longer than they should have because they couldn't state the deal outright in front of God and the court reporter, and the need for discretion had confused Loretta. Franken was sinking down farther behind the bench. In another minute only his wrinkled forehead would be visible.
“Is that what you want to do, Miss Bottoms?” he asked through his teeth.
Loretta batted her false eyelashes. “What?”
No one held back their groans, including Franken. His was the loudest. His head popped up, and he groaned again, louder, a look of surprise widening his tiny eyes. Then he disappeared from view altogether, a dull thump the only clue he was behind the bench.
For a moment no one moved or spoke as everybody waited for the judge to pop back up like a puppet. But the moment stretched into another. Ellen looked to the bailiff, who started for the bench. Renee, the clerk, beat him to it, disappearing behind the bench herself. In the next second her scream split the air like an ax blade.
“He's dead!”
Ellen bolted from her chair and around the bench, where the clerk was on her knees, sobbing hysterically and pulling at Franken's robes.
“He's dead! Oh, my God, he's dead!”
“Call an ambulance!” Ellen shouted, and the bailiff dashed into the judge's chambers. As Ellen called out for someone to help with CPR, she was already tipping the judge's head back and feeling for a pulse.
“Has he got a pulse?” someone asked
.
“No.”
“Then let's have at it, Ms. North.”
The voice registered with a jolt. She jerked her head up, and saw Brooks positioning his hands over the judge's sternum.
“As much as I'd rather have you putting those lovely lips against mine,” Brooks murmured, “I think the judge here has a more urgent need.”
“He was a good judge,” Ellen murmured as she stared out the window of Franken's chambers.
The view overlooked the park and a sidewalk crowded with protesting college students. The imitation gas streetlamps were winking on. Life was continuing. The world was still turning.
The last hour was a blur of paramedics and people rushing in and out of the courtroom. Reporters loitering in the rotunda had stormed the courtroom for this latest twist in the tale, and a near riot had ensued when someone had recognized Brooks. The bedlam had culminated with a deputy clearing the room and the ears of the sound technicians with a shrieking bullhorn. The silence now seemed both welcome and odd.
“He was tough and fair,” Ellen said, her thoughts returning to Victor Franken. She wanted to remember him as she had known him for the past two years, not as a crumpled husk on the floor of his courtroom, the black robes he had prized so highly torn open to reveal the thin, sunken chest of a very old man. “He had common sense and a sense of humor.”
“Did you know him well?” Jay asked softly.
He watched her from his seat on the end of Franken's massive oak desk. They were the only people left in the room that had been the judge's office and sanctuary. Bookcases towered on all sides of the room, the shelves filled to capacity. The furniture looked so old it might have set roots into the floor. The ferns that sat in massive pots all around the room were the size of bushel baskets. With the green-shaded desk lamp the only light on, the atmosphere was almost forestlike.
Ellen lifted a shoulder. “I know he lost his wife years ago. He lived alone. He liked to garden.” She fingered the frond of a fern that filled the window ledge. “The bench was his life. And now he's gone. Just like that.”
She brushed a tear from her cheek, not embarrassed to have shed it in front of a stranger. A good man had just vanished from existence. There was no shame in mourning that. Still, she drew in a deep breath and composed herself, turning to Jay with a dignified facade.
“Thank you for helping.”
He shook it off, frowning. “I don't need thanks. Jesus, my being there turned the whole thing into a damn circus. I'm sorry that happened.”
“So am I,” Ellen said. “He deserved a more dignified passing, although I heard him say it more than once—he wanted to die on the bench.” She shrugged again and reached for some cynicism to insulate herself. “He got his wish and you got some publicity. Not a bad deal if you look at it that way.”
“I didn't come here for publicity.”
“No. You came here for a story.”
He pushed himself away from the desk and crossed the room slowly, his gaze assessing, scrutinizing. The sensation it evoked was disturbing, but Ellen refused to let herself move away from it, from him. The rule she had applied with the Sci-Fi Cowboys came back to her—show no fear. Jay Butler Brooks posed no physical threat to her, but he was a threat in other ways, a clear and present danger on other levels—professional, ideological . . .
She knew she was leaving one out as he stopped just a hair's breadth too close. His eyes were silver in the colorless light from the narrow window.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly.
Her hair had come loose from its twist as she'd worked to revive the judge. Strands fell along her cheeks, making him wonder how she would look with it all down. Younger, softer, vulnerable—traits that didn't complement her professional image. But the image was slipping now. Her studious glasses were gone, along with the jacket of her charcoal suit. The top button of her proper white blouse was open, giving him a glimpse of the tender hollow where throat met collarbone. The armor was coming undone. She couldn't seem to decide who she should be in this moment—Ellen North the consummate professional, or Ellen North the woman.
An opportune chance for him. The reason he had hung around as the paramedics packed their things and zipped the black bag on old Franken, he told himself. So he could take advantage of her when she was off balance. So he might be able to catch a glimpse of something she never would have shown him otherwise.
What a guy you are, Brooks. Prince of the jerks.
“I'm fine,” she announced, though she clearly was not. The hand she raised to comb the loose strands behind her left ear was trembling.
“Looks to me like you could use a drink. I know I could,” he admitted. “I never had a judge drop dead on me before—though I admit I wished it a few times.”
“That's right. You used to practice before fame and fortune came calling.”
He shrugged, ignoring the sting of her words. “I did my time as a lowly associate, chased an ambulance or two, tried a little of this, a little of that. ‘Little' being the operative word, according to my ex-wife. She had to be the first lawyer's wife in history who actually wanted her husband to put in eighty-hour weeks.”
Even now he could hear Christine's criticism. It had worn a trench into the back of his mind like water running over stone; the years only made it deeper. “Why can't you work harder? Why haven't you made junior partner? Why won't you join the family firm? You'll never amount to anything the way you bounce around.”
“Well, you got her in the end,” Ellen said. “Justifiable Homicide—an overworked young attorney is framed for the brutal murder of his scheming ex-wife. The book's dedication: ‘To Christine, who, I am pleased to say, will never get a dime of the royalties.' A charming sentiment.”
“And well deserved, I assure you.” A wry smile twisted across his mouth. “I thought you were unfamiliar with my work, Ms. North.”
“I lied,” Ellen said without remorse. “I read the article in Newsweek.”
“And what did you think?”
“I think I made my opinion clear earlier. I don't like what you do.”
“I present actual, terrifying events to my readers in a way that can bring them to a deeper understanding of what happened, why it happened, how the justice system worked—or failed to work in some cases,” he said. “I give them insight. I give them closure. What's wrong with that?”
“You're a mercenary profiteer who's no better than a vampire. A hack looking to steal the lives and pain of victims to compensate for a lack of any real imagination. You feed off people's fears and morbid curiosities and contribute to the nation's unhealthy obsession with sensationalism,” Ellen countered. “Don't try to put a noble face on it. You're in the entertainment business—those were your own words.”
“Everything I say can and will be used against me,” he said dryly.
“Do you deny it?”
“No. I'm not a journalist. People get their news from a paper or on TV. They don't fork over twenty bucks in the bookstore for a hardback version of Time. People read true crime to escape—same reason people read anything.”
“And you don't find that just the least bit twisted? Escaping into someone else's real-life tragedy?”
“No more so than picking up a Stephen King novel or an Agatha Christie mystery. To that reader my book is just a story, something to get lost in and ponder; all the more interesting because it really happened.”
Ellen moved away from him then, shaking her head in disgust. “Fine. You go talk to Hannah Garrison about what she's been through and what she's going through, and be sure to tell her it's just a story. That'll be such a comfort to her.”
Jay pursued her across the dusky room to the desk, automatically reacting to her righteous indignation. He was contrary by nature, born to take the opposite side just for the sake of a good argument. It wasn't anger that rushed to the fore—it was excitement, adrenaline.
“Hey, I can't change what's happened to make a story a story. It's there, i
t's happened, it's history.”
“So you might as well make a buck off it?” She pulled her jacket off the back of Franken's chair and slipped it on.
“If I don't, someone else will.”
“Oh, well, that makes it all right.”
“I didn't invent the game, counselor—”
“No, but you're hell-bent on winning it, aren't you? Going straight to the top, dragging Glendenning into it. Of all the dirty—”
“Not dirty,” Jay clarified, wagging a finger in her face. “That's hardball and it's the way I play this game. I go after what I want and I get it.”
The declaration hung in the air between them, a challenge that took on deeper nuances as Ellen stared up at him. He was standing too close again. She was leaning toward him. The scant few inches of air between them seemed to thicken, and a dormant sixth sense came to life inside her, rising to the surface like air bubbles in water. Awareness, not of an adversary in a duel of wits, but of something much more fundamental.
“I go after what I want, Ellen North,” he whispered again, sliding a hand beneath her chin. His thumb brushed across the bow of her lower lip. “And I get it,” he breathed. “Remember that.”
“That you're ruthless?” Ellen murmured, telling herself to brand it into her mind.
“Determined.”
“Dangerous” was the word she settled on. Dangerous to her in ways she had never anticipated a man could be.
“Damn, I like the way you fight, counselor,” he said softly. “How about that drink?”
The invitation in his expression was far more intimate than an offered glass of brandy. That he could slide so easily from contention to seduction, as if it didn't matter what she thought of him, disturbed her.
“Just because we disagree doesn't mean we can't be civil,” he said. “I like you, Ellen. You're smart, sharp, not afraid to say what you mean.” He chuckled. “I thought ol' Rudy was gonna have a stroke in your office. And you just stood there, cool as well water. What do you say we go find a nice quiet bar with a fireplace and argue the evening away?” He served the suggestion with the kind of smile that could have charmed nuns from their habits.