“Well, technically, there are only forty questions,” Sullivan responded. “There are just a lot of sub-questions.”
“That’s bull,” Talon shot back. “I say we answer the first forty and let them cry about it.”
“That’s one approach,” Sullivan agreed. “We could also ask the court to strike them completely for exceeding the limit.”
Talon shook her head. “The judge won’t do that.”
“No, he won’t,” Sullivan agreed.
“He’ll just give them leave to exceed the forty-question limit,” Talon knew.
“Yes, he will,” Sullivan confirmed.
“Shit,” Talon breathed. “I really don’t have time for this, Stan.”
“I thought you only had one case,” Sullivan replied. “That should leave you enough time to answer a few questions.”
“A hundred and seven questions,” Talon corrected, looking at the stack of papers. “And I suppose they’re as personally invasive as possible, right? Every last bit of information about my finances, everything?”
“You used to do this for a living, right?” Sullivan asked.
“Yeah,” Talon admitted.
“Then you know the answer. Every question you ever put to a plaintiff to embarrass and burden them, it’s in there. Hell, they probably took them from your old directory.”
Talon shook her head at that. “Using my own methods against me. Ugh. And what happens if I just refuse to answer them?”
“Hm, well, there are probably a few where you can legitimately claim privilege,” Sullivan considered, “but you have to answer the rest. You know that. And if you don’t, they’ll make a motion to dismiss your case for want of prosecution. You can’t risk that. The judge will grant it if you don’t have a good reason not to answer.”
“Is them being complete dickheads a good reason?”
Sullivan laughed. “Lawyers suing lawyers. Even the judge is a lawyer. We’re all dickheads.”
Talon ran a hand through her hair. She was questioning whether the lawsuit was really worth her time any more. She also knew it was normal for plaintiffs to get tired and have second thoughts, and that 107-question interrogatories were designed to increase that fatigue to the breaking point. Still, knowing it didn’t make it any less true.
“Any new offers on the table?” she asked.
Sullivan laughed again. “There aren’t even any old offers on the table. We talked about this already. It’s too soon to talk settlement. Unless you want to give up.”
Talon frowned. She wasn’t a quitter. She was just having a bad run of things. Secret brothers, credible victims, confusing investigators. “No, I don’t want to give up. I just want to win without having to work so hard for it.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
Talon nodded to herself. “It’s not.”
“Good,” Sullivan answered. “You’ve got thirty days to answer those interrogatories. Don’t take a minute less. We’ll schedule a meeting to go over them before we submit them, along with a hundred and eight of our own. Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” Talon said. “Thanks, Stan.”
“Now go win your other case,” he said.
Talon smiled. “Deal.”
She hung up the phone and looked again at the interrogatories. She’d gotten pretty good over the years at estimating how many hours of work any given task might take her. You can’t budget your time if you don’t know the currency. But this time was different. The hours it would take to answer those 107 questions—and it would be a lot of hours—weren’t just hours of her life wasted; they were hours not spent on Michael Jameson’s case.
Suddenly that seemed very important to her.
The bills piling up on her desk were growing increasingly urgent as well.
She picked up the phone again. After a few moments, Sullivan’s secretary put her through to him.
“Samuel Sullivan,” he answered.
“Stan, it’s Talon again. I want you to make them an offer. Fifty thousand to settle everything.”
“Fifty thousand?” Sullivan practically choked on the number. “This case is worth a hell of a lot more than that. My time is worth a lot more than that. You didn’t hire me to settle this case for fifty thousand.”
“I hired you to represent me,” Talon answered. “And this is how I want to proceed.”
“They’re going to reject it, Talon. It’s too soon. We just started discovery. They’re going to know you’re losing your nerve and they’re going to reject it.”
“Fine,” she said. “Let them reject it. Then we get attorneys’ fees if the jury gives me one dollar more. Remind them of that when they say I’ve lost my nerve.”
She could hear Sullivan shaking his head over the phone. “’Talon, Talon, Talon. This is a mistake. Answer the interrogatories. I can ask for more time. I can make a motion to limit it to forty real questions, not the hundred and seven bullshit they’re pulling. I thought you’d have time, with just the one case, but we can handle it differently.”
“That’s just it, Stan,” Talon replied. “I don’t have time. And it’s because I just have one case. Make the offer, and let me know what they say.”
“You know what they’re going to say,” Sullivan complained.
“Then make them say it and we’ll go from there.”
“This is a mistake, Talon.”
Talon thought for a moment. She’d spent her entire career trying to do everything perfectly. Then one small ‘mistake’—trying to do the right thing—and she lost everything. She understood Michael Jameson’s attitude better than she thought she would. It should be okay to make a mistake. Life goes on.
“Maybe,” she answered. “But it’s my mistake to make.”
CHAPTER 15
The next time Talon saw Michael Jameson was in court, at the omnibus hearing. Like every criminal defendant, Jameson had asked her what an ‘omnibus hearing’ was. Lawyers seemed to take particular pleasure in giving normal things obscure names so they could look smarter than everyone else in the room.
“Omnibus is Latin for ‘everything,’” Talon explained. “This is the hearing where the judge makes sure everything is ready for trial.”
“Is it?” Jameson asked.
Talon thought for a moment. Not really, she knew. They had more witnesses to interview. They hadn’t even settled on their defense yet. Self-defense? Alibi? Or the dreaded ‘general denial,’ which basically meant, ‘Yes, I did it, but I’m going to make you prove it.’ The problem with that defense was the prosecution usually did prove it.
“No,” Talon admitted. “But we’ll get it done before the trial date. We have to. I mean, we could ask the judge to delay the trial date, but delaying the trial just gives the prosecutor more time to build his case. We’re better off moving forward today, advising the judge what’s left to be done, and promising we’ll get it done.” She paused. “Unless you want to talk about settling the case. Judges always give more time if it means a case might settle. One less trial to jam into the already overcrowded courtrooms.”
But Jameson shook his head. “No. No deals. I’ve told you that from the beginning.”
“I know.” Talon nodded. “But people change their minds. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t at least check in with you every now and again.”
“How noble,” came a voice over Talon’s shoulder. It was Quinlan. “Your job is very important. Not as important as mine, but it has its role.”
Talon forced a tight smile to her opponent. “Good morning, Eric.”
“Good morning, Talon,” Quinlan replied, then added, “Mr. Jameson,” even though he wasn’t supposed to speak with a represented defendant. “The judge will be out in a few minutes. Shall we go through the form?”
The omnibus hearing consisted of the judge reviewing the omnibus form on the record, confirming what the parties had reduced to writing regarding what preparation had been completed, and what remained to be done.
Talon had obtained a blank form from the judge’s clerk prior to Quinlan’s arrival and written in the case name and case number. “I’ve already started one.”
But Quinlan waved it away. “Oh no, I’ve already completed it.” He pulled a three-page omnibus order from his briefcase and handed it to Talon. The blanks were filled in with type-written answers. She wondered who even had a typewriter any more.
“You filled in my sections too,” she observed.
“Yes,” Quinlan replied. “I thought it would save time.”
“You do know you don’t represent both sides, right?” she replied.
Quinlan rolled his eyes. “Look,” he started. “We both have a job to do here, but that doesn’t mean we can’t work together. My job is to prove your guy committed the crime. Your job is to protect his rights while I do that.”
Talon raised an eyebrow but let him continue. She was aware Jameson was also listening—he was sitting right there—but Quinlan was acting like he wasn’t there, or didn’t matter.
“So,” Quinlan continued, “I went through the form and filled in the parts where you protect his rights, but don’t assert anything stupid. For example, I put the defense as general denial, since he obviously can’t claim alibi.”
Talon finally interrupted. “Why is that obvious?”
Quinlan sighed again. He appeared to enjoy being exasperated. “Because the gun was found in his house. He kept it for twenty-five years. He can hardly claim he wasn’t there if he’s the one who fired the gun.”
Talon knew two things right then: that was faulty logic, and not to correct it. Not until the trial. There was no reason to warn her opponent of his errors in advance. “Okay. What else did you fill in?”
“I put in that we won’t need a suppression hearing regarding your client’s statements.”
“Because he didn’t make any statements?” Talon tried to confirm.
“Not exactly,” Quinlan responded. “He did ask for a lawyer. If he takes the stand and tells some b.s. story, then we get to tell the jury he didn’t tell the cops that story when he was arrested.”
“No, you don’t,” Talon countered. “He has the right to remain silent and the right to a lawyer. You can’t use any of that against him at trial.”
“I can if he tells a different story on the stand,” Quinlan insisted.
Talon knew he was wrong, which meant he was also stupid. Or at least ignorant. That was good. Overconfident, ignorant prosecutor. Very good.
“Look, Eric,” she interrupted. “I appreciate you trying to do my job for me and everything, but maybe we should just each do our own job. Mr. Jameson didn’t hire you to represent him. I think he might prefer if I made the decisions about what our defense will be and how we’ll try the case.”
Quinlan paused and looked at his neatly typed form. After a few moments, he sighed through his nose. “It took a long time to type this out.”
“I know,” Talon soothed. “And we appreciate the effort.”
Quinlan looked up at the clock on the wall. “And the judge will be out any minute. He won’t be happy if we don’t have our form ready. Can’t we just use mine? We could always amend it later.”
But Talon shook her head. “No, Eric. I’m sorry. We can’t do that. I really do have to represent my client’s best interests, not what you think those interests should be.”
Quinlan’s countenance hardened. “You’re just being obstructionist.”
Talon nodded. “If you want to send my client to prison for a crime he didn’t commit, then yes, I will try to obstruct that.”
Just then, the judge entered the courtroom from his chambers.
“All rise!” ordered the clerk. “The Pierce County Superior Court is now in session, The Honorable Patrick Gallagher presiding.”
Gallagher ascended the few stairs to the bench and took his seat above the attorneys. “Please be seated,” he instructed. Gallagher had a reputation for being reasonably affable. Not friendly exactly—that wouldn’t be judicial—but not standoffish either. Just an old lawyer finishing out his career on the bench. One disadvantage Talon had as a civil litigator was that civil cases went to trial a lot less often than criminal cases. The judges tended to get to know the public defenders and the prosecutors the best because they were the attorneys who tried the most cases. That meant she knew Gallagher by reputation only, but Gallagher already knew Quinlan by experience.
On the other hand, familiarity can breed contempt.
“Are the parties ready in the matter of The State of Washington versus Michael Jameson?” Gallagher asked. He looked first to the prosecutor.
“Uh, well, Your Honor,” Quinlan started. “I think we’re not quite ready actually. I filled out the omnibus form, but, uh, the defense attorney is refusing to sign it.”
Gallagher frowned. “The defense attorney has a name, I presume?”
“Uh, yes, Your Honor,” Quinlan practically admitted. “Ms. Winter refused to sign the form.”
Talon stood up, the protocol for addressing a judge in open court. “Talon Winter for Mr. Jameson, Your Honor. And I didn’t refuse to sign the form. I simply declined to endorse Mr. Quinlan’s theory of how I should defend the case.”
Gallagher smiled. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Winter. I’m sure I’ve seen you in the courthouse, but I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of having you appear before me. Welcome.”
Talon nodded. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
Gallagher looked at the clock and sighed. Criminal practice was all about the volume—high volume. Charge ‘em, plead ‘em, try’ em, next. “Would the attorneys like me to step off the bench for a few minutes so you can work out your differences?”
It would be a lot quicker for the judge if he could just sign off whatever the attorneys agreed on. In the meantime, he could be in chambers reading the briefs for his next hearing.
Talon was willing to give it a try, if only to please the judge, but Quinlan answered for them, “I don’t believe that will be productive, Your Honor. Ms. Winter doesn’t seem to appreciate the situation the defendant finds himself in.”
Gallagher’s eyebrows raised at the assertion. He looked back to the defense table. “Ms. Winter?”
Talon resisted the urge to verbally attack Quinlan—and the smaller, but extant, urge to attack him physically. “I fully appreciate the position Mr. Jameson is in. Certainly, I appreciate it more than Mr. Quinlan whose advice to me has been to do nothing more than protect my client’s rights while he convicts him of murder and sends him off to prison. I’d be willing to save Your Honor some time, but I fear it will be fruitless to try to work with Mr. Quinlan.”
Gallagher sighed and allowed an almost imperceptible nod. “All right then. Why don’t we go through the form and see whether the case is ready to proceed to trial?”
Talon assented. “Yes, Your Honor. Thank you.”
Quinlan just nodded.
“Mr. Quinlan,” the judge started, “has the State provided the defense all of the discovery in the case?”
The answer to that should be easy: Yes. It should always be yes. The prosecution can’t hold anything back. The defense gets to see everything, no interrogatories required.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Quinlan confirmed.
“Has the State provided the defense with a list of its expected witnesses?”
Quinlan nodded. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Are there any outstanding forensic tests which will need to be disclosed before trial?”
Quinlan shook his head. “No, Your Honor.”
Talon began to understand why Quinlan wanted to fill out her part of the omnibus order. It was boring to be a prosecutor. Turn everything over, do it on time, wait for the defense to pull a fast one.
“Will we need any interpreters?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Will we need a hearing regarding competency of child witnesses?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Any out-of-state witnesses with
scheduling difficulties?”
“No, Your Honor.”
Quinlan sounded like a glorified secretary. Or a waiter. ‘Do you want fries with your indictment?’
Gallagher turned his attention to Talon. This was where it would get interesting. And fun.
“Ms. Winter, has the defense finished its investigation of the case?”
The defense got to do its investigation in secret. If she found something that would be helpful in negotiating, she could tell Quinlan, but she could also wait until the last second and spring it on him. Or if the investigation turned up something seriously damaging to her client, not only could Talon keep it from the prosecutor, she was probably ethically obligated to do so. Quinlan represented the State, whatever that was. Talon represented Michael Jameson, the very real human being sitting next to her.
“No, Your Honor. We’re still interviewing witnesses.”
Quinlan shot a look at her, like a lover wounded by a secret. She ignored him.
“Will the interviews be complete before the scheduled trial date?” Gallagher followed up.
Talon considered for a moment. Not because she didn’t immediately know the answer; she just wanted Gallagher to know her response was thoughtful. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Have you completed whatever forensic investigation you plan to do?”
Talon considered that as well. They hadn’t planned on any forensic investigation. The crime was twenty-five years old. The crime scene was definitely corrupted since then. Still, when in doubt, reserve. “No, Your Honor. But any forensic investigation will also be complete before the trial.”
“Your Honor,” Quinlan rose to object. “I would just like to make a record that I haven’t received any notice of expert witnesses from the defense.”
Talon frowned. That was the one area where the defense had to give at least a little advance notice. If a defendant plans to call an expert, the prosecutor is entitled to the expert’s resume and any reports he or she writes.
“We will provide those prior to trial,” Talon responded, “if we decide to call any experts.”
The answer was cool, but it raised a question in her mind as to whether she was missing something. Why would Quinlan get his panties in a bunch about that particular issue?
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