Talon Winter Legal Thrillers Box Set

by Stephen Penner

  “I dunno.” Curt shrugged. “I bet Canadian jails are probably pretty nice. Polite. ‘Excuse me, Mr. Inmate, sir, but would you mind turning your reading lamp off soon? It’s about time for lights out.’”

  Talon had to laugh at the dark humor. She was about to return with something about a prisoners’ ice hockey league when the phone rang.

  Her phone didn’t ring much. Again, no cases, and no new business coming in either. She’d need to think about how to make it rain if she was going to grow her firm. But that was for later. For right then, every time the phone rang, her heart jumped. Was there a verdict? But until then, every phone call had been either a wrong number, a solicitor, or Curt asking if she wanted him to grab her a cup of coffee.

  Until then.

  “Ms. Winter?” Judge Kirchner’s bailiff confirmed over the phone. “We have a verdict.”

  Holy crap, she thought to herself. Curt could read her expression.

  “Verdict?” he whisper-asked.

  She nodded to him. “Okay,” she told the bailiff. “When does the judge want us there?”

  “Judge Kirchner wants everyone convened in her courtroom in thirty minutes,” the bailiff answered. “Please make sure Mr. Jameson is present.”

  “I will,” Talon assured, although now that it was real, she thought maybe that Canada idea wasn’t so bad after all. She hung up the phone.

  “Shit,” she breathed. “Here we go.”

  Curt reached out and patted her arm. “I’m sure it’s a good verdict. You did great. Better than great.”

  But Talon shook her head, the rapidly growing knot in her stomach threatening to overcome her. “It doesn’t matter how I did. It’s over. One way or the other.”

  “That’s good, right?’ Curt asked.

  Talon thought for a moment. “It depends on what the verdict is.”

  She picked up the phone again and dialed Michael’s number.

  “Verdict?” he answered the phone. Caller I.D., and no other reason for Talon to call.

  “Yes,” Talon confirmed. “The judge wants us all there in thirty minutes.”

  “Okay,” Michael answered stoically. “We’ll be there.”

  For a moment Talon considered mentioning the idea of Michael not showing up. But it wouldn’t be ethical to tell a defendant to flee. And it wasn’t Michael’s style. He’d made it this far. He’d stare down the ultimate result, whatever it was. With Alicia at his side. Probably Kaylee too. Maybe Marcus.

  But definitely Talon. And Curt.

  She stood up. “Come on. Let’s head over.”

  Curt stood up too. “Right. We don’t want to be late for this.”

  Talon was about to try a snappy rejoinder, anything to take the edge off the sickening anticipation, when the phone rang again. She thought maybe it was the bailiff with a change in schedule, or even Quinlan for some reason. But it was neither of them.

  “Talon? It’s Sam. Sam Sullivan. Do you have a minute?”

  Talon considered. “No, not really, Sam. I’ve got a verdict.”

  “A verdict?” Sullivan echoed. “Okay, I’ll make this quick. I spoke with the managing partner at Gardelli, High and Steinmetz and I think—”

  “I have a verdict, Sam,” Talon interrupted. “I have to go.”

  “This’ll just take a second,” Sullivan assured. “I spoke with the partner and I got him to make a nuisance value offer of—”

  “Does it pay your fee?” Talon interrupted again.

  “Er, yes,” Sullivan answered. “But just barely. And you wouldn’t get your old job back.”

  “I don’t want my old job back,” Talon said. “So, you’re paid off and the case is closed. I don’t owe you anything any more?”

  “Right, all my fees and expenses are covered, but there’s really nothing left after that. I told him you’d reject it, but if we make a counter-offer, I think I can get you—”

  “Accept the offer,” Talon instructed. “No counter.”

  “But Talon,” Sullivan tried.

  “Accept the offer, Sam,” Talon repeated. “Pay yourself, and send me whatever’s left.”

  “It’s not even worth printing the check,” Sullivan responded. “Let’s make a counter. That’s how it works, Talon. You know that. You’re a civil litigator.”

  Talon thought for a moment. She looked at her private investigator standing in her cramped office and let herself really feel the gnawing acid-pit of anxiety and fear and worry and hope in her stomach.

  “No, Sam,” she declared. “I’m a criminal defense attorney.”

  She hung up the phone then and grabbed her coat.

  “Come on, Mr. Fairchild. Let’s go take a verdict.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Twenty minutes later and the courtroom was electric. Everyone who’d been there for the closings was there again, plus more. A few more junior prosecutors. A few more people from the public defender’s office. Even a news camera. And Kaylee and Marcus Jameson.

  Their father sat at the defendant’s table, his expression hard, but his pulse visibly racing in his neck.

  Talon put a hand on his arm. “I did everything I could,” she said. “I hope it was enough.”

  Michael thought for a moment, then nodded. “I hope so too. Thank you.”

  After another moment, he asked, “What do you think the verdict will be?”

  Talon frowned. “I don’t know. I’ve tried a lot of civil cases, but this is my first criminal verdict. I don’t think there’s any way to know.”

  “Right. But what do you think?” he repeated. “What’s your gut?”

  Talon didn’t answer immediately. She didn’t know. That was what her gut told her. Or what was left of it after nearly thirty minutes of worry and panic. “I’d like to think the system works,” she said finally.

  Michael couldn’t help but laugh slightly at that. Then he looked over his shoulder at his kids. “I’d like to think that too.”

  Talon took a moment to look around too. Alicia smiled at her—a frightened, hope-against-hope smile. Kaylee’s face displayed her own terror at what might happen. Marcus was there, but he was staring at the floor.

  A lot of the other lawyers and onlookers and gawkers had brought things to do to pass the minutes before the judge came out. Police reports on other cases to review, smartphones to play on, one even had a Kindle. For them, it was so much sport and they were just the spectators. With the media over their shoulder to record the victory. The only question left was, whose victory would it be?

  She stole a glance at Quinlan and McDaniels. Quinlan had his hands folded on the tabletop in front of him and his eyes closed, as if he were meditating. Easier to disconnect from the moment if you don’t have an actual client sitting next to you, Talon supposed. McDaniels was looking straight ahead, but seemed to notice Talon staring at her and turned. They met eyes for maybe the first time during the entire trial. McDaniels offered a slight nod.

  And then the judge came out.

  “All rise!” the bailiff called out, and the noise of dozens of people rising to their feet filled the courtroom. A few moments later, Judge Kirchner had ascended to the bench.

  “Be seated,” she instructed. She scanned the counsel tables. Everyone was there. No one was in Canada. “The jury has reached a verdict. Does either party wish to address any matters before we accept it?”

  Quinlan’s eyes were open again. He stood up, always the first to answer the judge’s question. “Nothing from the State, Your Honor.”

  Talon followed suit. “Nothing from the defense.”

  “Bring in the jury,” Kirchner ordered her bailiff. He rose from his station directly below her and crossed the courtroom to the jury room door. He knocked and entered. A few seconds later, he emerged again and the jury filed into the jury box. Talon knew the foreperson would be holding the verdict form. She hoped, as they walked into the courtroom, it would be Juror #29, the African-American woman. But it wasn’t. It was Juror #9, a middle-aged White man. She won
dered if that was good or bad. Also, as they walked in, they all kept their gazes down, not looking at either side. She also wondered if that was good or bad. And she wondered if she could stop guessing at the verdict and just know it already.

  But there was still some formality left. She was dying inside. What must it be like for Michael?

  “Will the presiding juror please stand?” Judge Kirchner said.

  Juror #9 stood up.

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” she asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the foreman answered, raising the verdict form slightly as an indication.

  “Please hand the verdict form to the bailiff,” Kirchner instructed. The juror complied and the bailiff walked the form to the judge.

  Judge Kirchner took a moment to read the verdict. So now she knew the result. And so did the jurors. The bailiff had probably snuck a peek on his way to deliver it to the judge. Somehow that made the wait even worse.

  “Will the defendant please stand,” Judge Kirchner ordered.

  Michael stood up. Talon did too.

  They’d come this far together. She thought back to the moment Curt had brought him over to her office. ‘This good man needs a lawyer.’ She thought about their late night strategy sessions, begging him to tell her what had really happened, driving all over the state with Curt, the advice from Olsen, the testimony from St. Julian, the backyard barbeque, and the visit with Ricky.

  Talon grabbed Michael’s hand just long enough to give it one last squeeze of encouragement. But he seized her hand and didn’t let go.

  “In the matter of The State of Washington versus Michael Jameson,” Judge Kirchner read the verdict form into the record. “Case number CR8004127. We the jury…”

  The judge paused, just the appropriate half-second pause required by the construction of the sentence, but an eternity for Talon, her hand shaking in her client’s, “find the defendant…”

  Another unending pause at the comma that separated off his name, “Michael Jameson…”

  Talon’s ears were ringing; she thought she might not be able to hear the judge’s next words.

  “…not guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree.”

  Talon dropped her head. Thank God.

  She turned to shake Michael’s hand but he embraced her in a bear hug. There was a lot of noise all of a sudden. Gasps of relief, cries of disbelief, her heart pounding in her ears. And Michael’s voice.

  “Thank you.”

  She pulled back and looked him in the eye. “My pleasure.”

  And that was the crazy part. All of it, everything, even the terror of a possible conviction—she’d loved it. All of it.

  Quinlan and McDaniels were probably doing something, some sort of reaction. But she didn’t look. She didn’t care. It wasn’t about beating them. Not exactly. It was about winning. They were just the obstacle. And anyway, Alicia and Kaylee and Marcus had spilled into the front of the courtroom to hug their husband and father. The man who would, after all, be going home with them that day.

  Alicia hugged Talon, even tighter than Michael had, and she held on longer. She couldn’t control her tears. “Thank you, Talon,” she managed to squeak out between sobs. “Thank you so much.”

  Talon hugged her back. “Of course. You’re welcome. Of course, of course.”

  The judge left the bench and retired to her chambers. The jurors were led back into the jury room by the bailiff; there were some administrative matters to attend to before they could be formally excused. The prosecutors made their way out of the courtroom. Mrs. McCabe-Johnson had come for the verdict, too, but Talon decided to avoid her gaze. It didn’t matter. The courtroom cleared out and Curt finally made his way up to Talon.

  He extended a hand. “Congratulations, counselor.”

  She cocked her head at him. A handshake? Really? She thought a hug was probably more in order. But she stopped herself, and reflected on their still ill-defined relationship. Maybe he was right. And maybe it was okay to meet him on his terms. She shook his hand. “I couldn’t have done it without you, sir.”

  Curt laughed. “Don’t lie to me, Talon. Do whatever else you want, but don’t lie.”

  Talon liked the sound of that. She pumped the handshake one more time. “Deal.”

  The trial was over and the afterglow of the acquittal was already fading. The courtroom had cleared out, but Talon had one more thing she wanted to do.

  “Alicia,” she said. “Could I have a moment alone with Michael. One last attorney-client thing I need to attend to.”

  She could have asked Alicia to do anything at that moment. “Of course, Talon. Of course. Come on kids, we’ll wait for your dad in the hallway.”

  The hallway. Freedom.

  Curt went with them and Talon and Michael found themselves alone in the courtroom.

  “Okay,” she said, looking him square in the eye. “The trial is over. You were acquitted. You can’t be charged again. Double jeopardy. You could write a book about exactly how you did it, and you’re glad you did it, and you’d do it again, and double jeopardy would still bar any retrial. So it’s over. Now you can tell me.”

  She took his hand again. “Tell me, Michael. Did you do it?”

  Michael smiled. He nodded lightly. He pulled his hand back.

  “I already told you, Talon,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  EPILOGUE

  It doesn’t matter.

  Michael Jameson’s words echoed in Talon’s head as she drove through the rolling countryside southwest of Tacoma.

  She was alone this time. It gave her time to think.

  Did it matter whether Michael had shot Jordy? Did the intervening years of being a faithful husband, good father, and hard-working employee erase whatever eighteen-year-old Michael Jameson did?

  If it didn’t matter, what else didn’t matter?

  Did it matter that she got fired from Gardelli, High & Steinmetz?

  Did it matter that she won the case?

  Did it matter that she had sex with Curt?

  And if none of that mattered, what did matter?

  Alicia? Kaylee and Marcus?

  Ricky?

  Family?

  Or nothing at all?

  Or did she just like to pretend nothing mattered so she could stay aloof and aloft, above whatever might make her care, make her hurt?

  Deep thoughts for a long drive, but eventually she arrived at her destination. Shelton, Washington. The Washington Corrections Center.

  She drove past Grounds Zero and parked in the visitor lot. She locked her car—of course—and headed into the main entrance. At the reception desk she presented her bar card, proof she was an attorney and not restricted to the limited visiting hours of the general public. She provided the name of the inmate she wanted to meet with and took a seat in the waiting area. It was empty but for her. That was fine with her. Not that she was ashamed to be there. Why should she be? It didn’t matter.

  After about fifteen minutes, they called her name and escorted her to the meeting rooms. She took a seat in the small plastic chair on one side of the Formica table and waited for her counterpart.

  Shelton was the processing facility. There were a few prisoners whose sentences were short enough that they served their few months right there, but mostly it was the prisoners who were just going in before serving a long sentence somewhere else. Or about to get out after that self-same type of sentence.

  The secure door to the interior of the prison opened with a loud metallic clank. In walked a man. He was tall, with thick black hair and high cheekbones. He had a barrel chest and huge biceps, the product of years, and years, of lifting weights on the inside. He walked up to the table and looked down at her.

  She returned his gaze, and forced a smile. “Hey, William.”

  William nodded at Talon. But he didn’t smile. He just pulled out the plastic chair with a loud, long scuff and dropped his heavy build into the seat.

  “Hey, sis.”

&nb
sp; END

  WINTER’S

  CHANCE

  Talon Winter Legal Thriller #2

  Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

  —U.S. Constitution, Amendment VIII

  ‘Persistent offender’ is an offender who: Has been convicted … of any felony considered a most serious offense; and Has … been convicted …on at least two separate occasions … of … most serious offenses …”

  …a persistent offender shall be sentenced to a term of total confinement for life without the possibility of release …

  —Revised Code of Washington

  9.94A.030(38)(a) & 9.94A.570

  I

  CHAPTER 1

  “I’m too good for this.”

  Talon Winter frowned at the stack of new files handed to her by the office receptionist, Hannah Trimble. Hannah’s desk was the first thing anyone encountered when they entered the office space Talon shared with four other attorneys. Hannah was a shared asset too. She answered phones for all the attorneys, booked appointments for them all, and held all their mail. Talon and Hannah had gotten to know each other over the few months since Talon rented her small, windowless office there. But familiarity didn’t always breed contempt. Sometimes it just bred indifference.

  “Mm-hm,” Hannah replied without looking back up from whatever work she’d returned to on her computer.

  Talon’s frown deepened. “Are these all the files from D.A.C.?”

  Department of Assigned Counsel. The public defender agency for Pierce County, Washington. Talon wasn’t a public defender, but she took conflict cases from them—cases where the regular public defender couldn’t handle them for some reason, so they had to be farmed out to some local defense attorney who was struggling enough to need the minimal hourly rate the county paid to defend indigent defendants.

  “Yeah,” Hannah answered, eyes still on her screen. “They dropped them off this morning while you were in court.”