Talon Winter Legal Thrillers Box Set

by Stephen Penner

  He shook his head. “I can’t sit in jail. I have a family to support. I already sat in the jail for two weeks while we got that worked out. I’ll never get those two week backs, but now that I’m out, I’ll be damned if I’m going back to jail. Not without a fight.”

  Talon took another beat. She liked Michael Jameson. He was smart, informed, and a fighter. He reminded her of herself. She uncrossed her arms.

  Michael had dumped a lot of information just then. People did that in conversations. But lawyers—good ones, anyway—stopped the conversation, backed up, and went through the information again, thoroughly and carefully.

  “Murder in the first degree,” she said. “By way of extreme indifference.”

  Michael nodded. “Yes. I had to look up the statute, but it says you can be charged with first degree murder three ways: premeditated intent, an unintentional killing during the course of a serious felony, or doing something that shows an extreme indifference to human life and someone dies.”

  Talon nodded back. Revised Code of Washington, section 9A.32.020. She hadn’t had time to pull her statute book out of its box, but she recalled the statute from her last—and only other—murder case. At the time, she’d wondered what ‘extreme indifference to human life’ even meant, until another lawyer explained it to her with the simplest way to commit it. “Firing into a crowd,” she suggested. “Is that what happened?”

  Michael’s expression hardened ever so slightly. “Not exactly.”

  Talon leaned forward. “So what happened? Exactly.”

  But Michael wasn’t about to let Talon run the meeting. Not all of it anyway. He’d obviously dealt with a lot in the last few weeks and his nerves didn’t seem anywhere near shot. He had a tolerance for stress and knew how to protect himself. Or at least knew he should try to.

  “I haven’t hired you yet,” he said. “I want the attorney-client privilege before I say anything.”

  The shade of a smile pressed into the corner of Talon’s mouth. She liked his caution. She liked more that she could show off her knowledge too. There was no better way to impress a prospective client.

  “The attorney-client privilege is already in effect,” she assured. “It’s automatic as soon as you start talking with an attorney about a legal issue, even if you don’t end up hiring the attorney.”

  Michael considered the information for a few seconds, then pointed at Curt. “What about him?”

  Talon hadn’t expected that, but she was ready with a response. “He’s my investigator,” she declared. “The privilege extends to the entire defense team.”

  Curt raised an eyebrow, but remained silent. Talon tried to ignore the grin he was suddenly wearing.

  She focused intently on Michael Jameson. “Tell me what happened,” she repeated.

  Michael turned his attention back to Talon. He didn't cross his arms, or narrow his eyes, or anything else aggressive. He simply met Talon's gaze and calmly said, “No.”

  Talon's eyebrows raised. “No?”

  Michael nodded. “No. I won't tell you what happened.”

  Although Talon knew she was irritated by Michael’s response, her irritation was subsumed by a sort of admiration. The man was strong-willed.

  But so was she.

  “I can’t represent you if I don’t know what happened,” she insisted.

  Michael disagreed. “Of course you can. It doesn’t matter what happened. It only matters what they can prove.”

  Talon surrendered a small nod. He had a point. But only to a point. “If you don’t tell me what really happened, how will I know if they got something wrong? How will I know the truth?”

  Michael smiled darkly and leaned forward. “The truth? You want to know the truth? Fine, I’ll tell you truth.” He locked eyes with Talon once more. “The truth is, I’m a forty-three-year-old Black man with a good job, a great family, and a house in the suburbs. And the truth is, I’m not supposed to have all that.

  “I grew up on the Hilltop when the gangs ran everything and there were drive-by shootings every night. If there were only three murders, it was a slow weekend. I grew up in that shit and I did what I had to do to survive. I’m not proud of what I did, but I did it, and now it’s over.

  “I got out of there and turned my life around. I went to college. I got a good job and make good money. I’ve been married to the same woman for almost twenty years. We have two great kids. And I did all that despite the fact that I’m a Black man from the Hilltop.

  “Do you have any idea how many roadblocks there are between where I was and where I am now? And now the cops are gonna reach back to something that happened when I was eighteen and try to take away everything I have, everything I’ve built since then?”

  He leaned back again and crossed his arms. “No.” He shook his head. “No fucking way. You want to know the truth? The truth is, it doesn’t matter what I did back then. It doesn’t matter at all. What matters is what I’ve done since then. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let them show up twenty-five years later and take it all away from me.”

  Talon raised her fingers to her lips in contemplation. She kept her expression controlled as she considered his soliloquy.

  “The real question,” Michael leaned forward again and challenged her, “is whether you’re going to help me fight this battle.”

  Talon allowed her expression to slip. “A battle, huh?” She grinned. “I like battles.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Unlike its cousin to the north in Seattle, the Pierce County Superior Court didn't reside in its own 'county courthouse.' Instead, it was spread throughout the 11-story 'County-City Building,' sharing space with the sheriff, the county council, and local government departments. The building was five blocks uphill from the waterfront, and three blocks down from MLK Jr. Blvd., the edge of the Hilltop neighborhood where Michael Jameson grew up.

  Talon had been smart enough to rent space a few blocks over on Tacoma Avenue, thereby avoiding a daily climb up the hill. That morning, she also avoided the nine flights of stairs from the lobby to the Pierce County Prosecutor's Office. Instead, she stepped off the elevator and turned left into the prosecutor's waiting room.

  The belly of the beast.

  “Hello,” she greeted the receptionist with her sharpest smile. “My name is Talon Winter. I'm a defense attorney and I represent Michael Jameson.” She extracted a sheet of paper from her briefcase and slid it to the middle-aged woman behind the safety glass. “Here's my Notice of Appearance. I'd like to speak with the assigned prosecutor if he or she is available right now.”

  The receptionist glanced down at Talon's N.O.A. then back up at the lawyer who'd signed it. “You're new,” she observed. “I know most of the defense attorneys, but I've never seen you before.” She looked Talon up and down again, from her dark tailored suit to hair that fell to her shoulders like black rain. Her Native features completed the look she liked to think of as exotic and deadly. Like a cobra. Cobras knew when, and whom, to strike. Not yet; and not the receptionist.

  “Is the prosecutor available?” she repeated.

  The receptionist smiled away Talon’s brush-off and turned to her computer. “Let me see who’s assigned to this one.” A few key-strokes and mouse-clicks later, she looked back up to Talon. “It’s Eric Quinlan.” She picked up her phone. “I’ll see if he’s in yet.”

  Talon raised an eyebrow at the ‘yet.’ She glanced at the lobby clock. It was already 8:42. These government types were supposed to start at 8:30. She hoped her tax dollars weren’t being wasted.

  The receptionist hung up the phone. “Mr. Quinlan is in. He said he’ll be right out. Please have a seat.”

  Talon thanked the receptionist and sat down in one of the cushy faux-leather chairs her tax dollars had also paid for. The lobby was nice, but not extravagant. About what she’d hope for from a government agency. She wondered if Eric Quinlan would also meet her expectations of a government lawyer.

  If punctuality had been one of her expectat
ions, she realized after fifteen minutes of sitting in the lobby that Quinlan wasn’t going to meet that one. When he finally showed up three minutes after that, he also failed any expectation of making a good first impression.

  He opened the door from the lobby to the interior of the prosecutor’s office and offered a low whistle upon seeing her. “Wow. Look at you. All shiny and new, ready to take on a murder case. I’m Eric Quinlan.” He extended a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  He was late thirties, maybe forty, with thinning black hair and beady eyes. He was short for a man, although not exceptionally so. He was on the thin side, but with a gut pushing against the end of his tie. His suit coat was off and his sleeves were turned up at the cuff, apparently ready to dig into whatever the day had to offer him.

  Talon shook his hand. It was small, and a little too warm. She extracted hers quickly. “Talon Winter,” she identified herself. “I represent Michael Jameson.”

  She followed Quinlan back into the bowels of the office. He led her down several twisting corridors, like a rat in a maze.

  “I know,” Quinlan replied as they walked. “Becky told me your name. I looked you up while you were waiting.”

  Talon nodded. “Ah.” That explained the delay.

  “You don’t have any other cases,” Quinlan went on. “He must be paying you a hell of a lot to only have one client.”

  They’d reached Quinlan’s office. He stepped inside and gestured toward the two guest chairs jammed into the small space. Quinlan himself shimmied between the wall and his desk and sat down. The cramped room made Talon’s office look palatial in comparison.

  “I don’t really discuss fees with the prosecutor, Mr. Quinlan,” Talon replied, her disapproval not at all hidden.

  “Oh no, of course not,” Quinlan replied with a chuckle. “You have no problem taking the money, you just don’t want to be reminded you’re doing it.”

  Talon didn't force a smile. Not her style. She also didn’t take the bait. Instead, she sat down and got to business.

  “I represent Mr. Jameson and I wanted to introduce myself. And see if I could find out a little more about the case. My client indicated he was charged with first degree murder by way of extreme indifference. That's fairly unusual, isn't it?”

  Quinlan shrugged. “I don't know, maybe. But it matches what your guy did.”

  “And what exactly did my guy do?” Talon asked, adding the all-important, “allegedly.”

  Quinlan scoffed at the 'allegedly.' “He shot into a crowd of rival gang members. Hit and killed one Jordan McCabe.”

  Talon considered the information. She could hardly claim the victim wasn't shot. That left claiming her guy wasn't the shooter. “Did the witnesses say my client was the shooter?”

  Quinlan shook his head. “No. The only description was Black male, eighteen to twenty-two. That's why the case went cold.”

  “What made it go hot again?”

  Quinlan smiled. “That's the best part. Your guy did it to himself.”

  Talon raised an eyebrow. “He confessed?” Why wouldn't he tell Talon what had happened if he'd already told the cops?

  “No,” Quinlan replied. “Better. Well, nothing's better than a confession. But this is hilarious.”

  Talon doubted that very much. But she let him continue.

  “Your guy's house was burglarized a couple months back. He reported it and soon enough they found the guys who did it. But here's the great part: the burglars stole some guns and when we recovered them we test-fired them to make sure they were operable.” He paused, then added, “We need to make sure they're operable to charge possession of stolen firearms and up the burglary from residential burglary to burglary one.”

  “Of course,” Talon said. She didn't give a crap about the burglars. She just wanted him to keep talking.

  “So anyway,” he continued, “we uploaded the test-fires to IBIS, the nationwide ballistics database.”

  “I've heard of it,” Talon said. She knew what was next.

  “Right. And when they do: Bam! It matches the shooting. Your guy was stupid enough to keep the gun all these years.” Quinlan shook his head. “The jury should find him guilty just for being so stupid.”

  Talon acknowledged the joke with a frown. “No one should be found guilty of anything unless the State can prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  Quinlan frowned too, but a less serious, more condescending expression. “Come on, Talon. Your guy's guilty. Do the right thing and plead him out.”

  “The right thing,” Talon explained, “is to represent my client to the best of my ability.” She'd obtained the information she wanted. No need to humor him any more. “I expect to receive the police reports by the end of the week, or I'll be filing a motion to compel. My investigator and I will need to view the property as soon as possible, so please contact the property room to schedule that. As for witness interviews...”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Quinlan put his hands up. “Hold on there, honey. That's not how these things go.”

  Talon's eyebrow raised again. 'Honey'? That was almost entertaining.

  “Is that right, Eric?” She leaned back and crossed her legs. “And how do these things go?”

  Quinlan leaned back too, and put his hands behind his head. “The way these things go, Talon, is I make an offer to settle the case. You make a counter-offer. I reject your counter-offer, then you plead your guy to my offer. Then we both move on to our next case and forget about this one. Any questions?”

  Talon just stared at Quinlan for several seconds. She narrowed her eyes and focused in on his smarmy smile. She was going to enjoy smacking it off his pasty face. Metaphorically, of course.

  “Now, let me explain how these really go,” she said. “I represent Mr. Jameson. Just him. Not you and not the victim’s family or the citizens or justice or whatever. I’m not about to plead him out just so I can get on to the next case. My guy has no criminal history and your evidence is twenty-five years old. So you dump it or we go to trial and I win. Any questions?”

  Eric Quinlan wasn't smiling any more. He lowered his hands and puffed up what there was of his chest. “I win almost all of my trials.”

  Talon didn't need to puff out her chest. She knew it was perfect as it was. And she'd let her lawyering do its own talking.

  “That's because,” she responded, “you deal away the hard cases and only go to trial on the ones you know you can win. But you can't win this one and he's not taking any deals.”

  She stood up. “I'll see myself out. And don't forget to get me those reports by Friday. I'd hate to have to start kicking your ass so early in the case.”

  Quinlan didn't have a response ready.

  Good. She filed that away. Easy to rattle. She decided to have a little fun. Instead of stepping into the hallway, she leaned onto Quinlan's desk, highlighting that perfect chest. “Actually, I hope the case goes to trial. I'd like to spend more time with you. Intense time.”

  Quinlan couldn't quite find his breath. Even better. She was going to have fun with this one.

  She turned and headed into the corridor.

  After another moment, Quinlan managed to call out, “Nice to meet you, Talon.”

  Talon would have returned the sentiment, but lying wasn't her style either.

  CHAPTER 4

  Talon threw open the door to her office. “What a douche bag!”

  Hannah looked up with a start. “Who? Curt?”

  That surprised Talon. “Wha—? Curt? No, not Curt.” Her brow wrinkled. “Why would I mean Curt?”

  “Oh, well, he was just in here talking about you,” Hannah explained. “He just left. I guess I figured you ran into him in the hallway or something.”

  “No,” Talon answered. “I— Wait. You were talking about me?”

  “Who's a douche bag?” Greg Olsen, one of the other attorneys who shared space there, popped his bald head out of his office.

  “Uh, the prosecutor,” Talon answered him, still distr
acted by Hannah's comments. “On my murder case.”

  “Oh yeah,” Olsen agreed. “They're all douche bags.”

  Talon shrugged. She wasn’t sure that was necessarily true. On the other hand, she was still learning. Quinlan hadn’t helped their cause.

  “What’d he do?” Olsen came all the way out of his office and joined the women in the lobby. He had a bit of hair still over his ears and around the back of his head; classic male baldness. His face was pasty and his waist was round. His sleeves were rolled up and his tie loosened.

  “It’s more like what he didn’t do,” Talon explained. “He didn’t listen to me. He didn’t respect me. And,” she considered for a moment, “he didn’t impress me.”

  Hannah giggled at that. Olsen seemed to appreciate it too. “Who was it?” he asked.

  Olsen didn’t do a lot of criminal defense. He handled more of a grab-bag of divorces, wills, and car accidents. Typical small-time lawyer hustling to make ends meet. But he’d been hustling for a long time and knew most of the lawyers in town.

  “Quinlan,” Talon answered. “Eric Quinlan. Eric Quinlan, Douche Bag.”

  Olsen smiled and thought for a moment. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him, but I don’t really know him.”

  Talon shrugged. That wasn’t terribly helpful.

  Then Olsen offered some advice, “But don’t trust him.”

  Talon cocked her head. “Oh yeah? Why not?”

  “Because,” Olsen replied, as if the answer were as obvious as the stain on his tie, “he’s a prosecutor.”

  Talon liked that answer, but before she could pile on, Curt walked into the office.

  “Oh,” Talon said, a bit too loudly. “Curt. Uh, hey.” She grasped for something to say. “I heard you were just in here looking for me.”

  Curt glanced at Hannah. She looked away. “Not exactly,” Curt answered. “But I was wondering how your meeting with the prosecutor went.”

  Olsen cleared his throat and excused himself. “I’m gonna get back to work, Talon. Remember my advice.”

  Talon acknowledged Olsen’s departure with a nominal, “Mm-hmm,” but kept her attention on Curt. “So how did you know I was meeting with the prosecutor?”