In court on another Class C felony, the lowest level. One count of taking a motor vehicle without permission. Her client wasn’t even the driver, so, really, it was just joyriding. The prosecutor had the misdemeanor offer sheet filled out before she even opened her mouth. Still, it paid the bills. Well, some of them. She picked up her mail and thumbed through it. There were a lot of bills.
“Nice talking to you,” she chirped at Hannah.
Hannah offered another, “Mm-hm,” and Talon trudged back to her office.
She flipped on the light switch and walked over to her desk, standing over it like a surgeon preparing to operate. Or a butcher preparing to gut something. She was in more of a butcher mood right then.
“Theft two.” She threw the first file on her desk in disgust. Wham!
“Unlawful possession of a controlled substance.” Bam!
“I.D. theft two.” Slam!
“Another theft two.” Thump!
“Attempting to elude a police vehicle.” She punched the file. “All Class C’s. Ugh.”
“I’m pretty sure punching a file is assault two,” came a voice from the hallway. It was Greg Olsen, the older, jack-of-all-trades attorney who had the office at the very end of the hall. He stepped onto her office. “And assault two is a Class B.”
Talon threw the last file on the pile. “I wish one of these were a Class B. Assault two, robbery two. Hell, even a drug delivery, instead of simple possession. D.A.C. won’t give me any Class B’s until I’ve done three Class C trials, but—“
“But Class C’s never go to trial,” Olsen finished. “They almost always get a misdemeanor offer. And the ones that don’t, the guy has credit for time served by the time the trial rolls around, so it’s plead as charged and get out.”
“See, you get it,” Talon answered.
“And that’s why I got out,” Olsen replied. “I could never do just criminal cases. Maybe you should consider expanding your practice. Bankruptcies are pretty easy.”
“Mindless, you mean,” Talon scoffed. “No, thanks. I’m not looking for even less challenging work. I want to sink my teeth into something that matters. Something I shouldn’t win. Just so I can see the look on the face of the prosecutor when I crush his heart with a completely unexpected two-word verdict.”
Olsen paused. “And also so you can help your client, right?”
Talon laughed. “Yeah, sure. That too.”
But her grin slipped away and she finally dropped herself into her chair. “I guess I should be patient,” she complained.
“Being patient sucks,” Olsen offered.
Talon pointed at him. “Right. Yes. That.”
Olsen stepped over to Talon’s desk to examine her latest cases. He opened one and began reading the documents inside. “Well, your complete lack of patience may have paid off. It looks like they sent you something bigger after all.”
Talon leaned forward and took the file from Olsen.
“State of Washington versus Ezekiel Frazier,” she read the charging document aloud. “One count of unlawful possession of a controlled substance, to wit: cocaine.” She looked up. “Big deal. Simple possession. Another Class C.”
“Oh, it’s a Class C, all right.” Olsen nodded at the file. “But look again. There was a gun in the car. They added a firearm enhancement to the drug charge.”
Talon’s eyes dropped again to the charging document to confirm, but she shrugged. “Big deal. That adds, what, two years? He’s a run-of-the-mill drug addict, not some violent predator. No one wants him prison. They’ll offer to drop the enhancement if he pleads guilty to the drug charge.”
“I don’t think they’ll drop the enhancement.” Olsen shook his head. “Any felony with a weapon enhancement is a most serious offense. It’s a strike.”
Talon’s eyebrows raised. She knew that, of course, but it was rare to see a drug charge turned into a strike offense, so she hadn’t thought of it immediately. Of course, it only mattered if…
She turned to the criminal history fastened on the opposite side of the file. It was long, two full pages, single-spaced. Her finger scanned down the list of misdemeanors and low-level felonies every drug addict commits to feed his addiction. But then, “Robbery one,” she announced when she got to another strike offense. Followed by, “Assault two.” She looked up. “Oh, shit. This is strike three.”
“It sure is," Olsen confirmed. “You’re the only thing standing between that run-of-the-mill drug addict and life in prison without the possibility of parole.”
CHAPTER 2
The Pierce County Jail was housed in two buildings next to the County-City Building—which was effectively the Pierce County Courthouse, but also housed the County Council and County Executive’s Office. The two buildings were known as ‘the Old Jail’ and ‘the New Jail’ for self-evident reasons. Generally speaking, the Old Jail was dark and dingy and used for the scarier, more violent offenders—rapists and murderers—while the New Jail was light and airy and used for the less scary, more compliant defendants—thieves and drug addicts. But Ezekiel Frazier was housed in the Old Jail. He may have been just a thief and a drug addict, but he was facing Life Without. Security was paramount.
Talon took the cramped elevator to the fourth floor check-in area. She put her phone and keys in one of the small lockers in the lobby and gave her bar card and I.D. to the corrections officer assigned to sit inside the bulletproof glass reception cubicle that afternoon. He slid back her bar card and exchanged her driver’s license for a visitor’s badge. She clipped it on her suit and waited for the secure entry door to buzz open. After a few minutes longer than she thought it should have taken, the door buzzed, the lock clunked, and she entered into the bowels of the Old Jail.
It smelled sour inside. Like disinfectant and old bread. There were several iron-barred gates she had to traverse, each opening automatically after the one behind her closed. Eventually, she arrived at the interior and followed the signs to 4-West. She’d been practicing criminal long enough to know that 4-West was one of the better locations in the Old Jail. A lot better than 3-South, where the mentally ill and chronically misbehaved ended up in solitary. At least Ezekiel Frazier seemed to be behaving himself. So far.
A corrections officer met her at the last remotely-controlled gate. He directed her to one of the private attorney-client meeting rooms and went to fetch the inmate. She pulled her file out of her briefcase and looked around the white-painted cinder blocks of the meeting room, as windowless as the rest of the Old Jail. She wondered whether Ezekiel Frazier knew he was facing the rest of his life behind bars. She also wondered whether he could handle it.
Yeah, she thought as he walked into the room, he can probably handle it.
Ezekiel Frazier was at least 6’3” and well over 250 pounds. He was probably late 30s, with dark skin and a bright smile. He made up for his receding hairline with a thick black beard that just made the broad grin even more disarming. Talon stood up and extended a hand, which he shook with a bear hug of a grip. “Hey,” he said. “I’m Zeke.”
“Nice to meet you,” she replied. “I’m Talon Winter. I’m your lawyer.”
Zeke set his large frame onto the small plastic chair opposite her. “Yeah, that’s what the guard said. So, you’re the public defender?”
Talon shook her head. “No, I’m a private attorney. But I take some public defense cases on the side.”
“Oh.” Zeke frowned. “So you’re not that good. I mean, if you gotta take public defense cases, too, right?”
Talon took a beat. “I’m good,” she assured him.
“But you gotta take public defense cases on the side,” he repeated. “So, I mean, you know.”
“Be glad I do,” Talon returned. “I’m good. I’m smart. And I win. The only reason I took your case is because you’re facing life in prison without the possibility of parole.”
“Yeah, that’s bullshit,” Zeke answered.
“Okay, good,” Talon said. “There’s at lea
st one thing we agree on. Now, I need to go through some things with you.”
Zeke nodded and leaned back on the tiny chair. Talon half-expected it to break under the strain. “Shoot, counselor,” he said with that grin.
“Okay.” She opened her file. “So, you’re charged with one count of unlawful possession of cocaine.”
“Crack,” Zeke clarified.
“Uh, yeah,” Talon said.
“Yeah, that was mine,” Zeke confirmed.
Talon paused. “Okay,” she said. “And there’s a firearm enhancement.”
“Yeah, that’s bullshit,” Zeke repeated. “Wasn’t my gun.”
“It was under your seat,” Talon pointed out.
“Wasn’t mine,” Zeke insisted, almost casually.
“Well, good,” Talon said. “Because the gun is the real problem. That’s what makes it a strike. Under Washington law, any felony with a firearm is a strike.”
“And for me, that’s Strike Three,” Zeke knew.
“Right.”
“Yeah, total bullshit.” Zeke waved the accusation away with a thick hand. “I’ll do the time on the drugs, but wasn’t my gun.”
“Well, the drugs are a problem too,” Talon explained. “You’re in trouble for the combination of the gun and the drugs. If I can knock out either one, then it’s not a strike any more and you’re just looking at a few years in prison. Not great, but better than life.”
Zeke nodded. “Okay. Fine. The drugs weren’t mine either.”
Talon cocked her head. “They were in your pants pocket.”
Zeke was undeterred. “Not my pants.”
Talon pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay, look. Maybe I’ll just read the reports and tell you what defense we should use. ‘Not my pants’ isn’t going to work.”
“Not my pants,” Zeke repeated. “Not my crack. Not my gun. Not my car. It’s bullshit. All of it. Total bullshit.”
Talon decided not to argue the point any more right then. “It’s possible the prosecutor will drop the gun and let you do the time on just the drugs. With your history, it’d be somewhere around three years.”
“You think they’ll offer that?” Zeke asked.
Talon frowned. “No, probably not.”
Zeke finally extinguished that smile of his, replacing it with a thoughtful frown. “Yeah, me neither,” he agreed. “They got a chance to put another Black man in prison forever, they’re not gonna miss that.”
But Talon’s brow creased. “Well, now. I don’t know if race has anything to do with it.”
Zeke looked at her. “Huh.” The smile returned, but it was cold. “I thought you said you were smart.”
CHAPTER 3
That County-City Building next to the Old Jail also housed the Pierce County Prosecutor’s Office. Talon went directly from one oppressive government building to another. She figured she might as well find out the prosecutor’s position sooner rather than later. Maybe she’d get that four-year offer after all.
The Prosecutor’s Office was on the 9th floor. She didn’t have an appointment, but it was toward the end of the day, and most attorneys were back from court by then. Even the prosecutors. Or rather, especially the prosecutors. There were dozens of them, all supported by dozens more paralegals and legal assistants, not to mention the cops who did all their prep work for them. Talon would be at her office well after dinner making sure her business survived another month. Joe Prosecutor would be home in time to enjoy a home-cooked meal and go to bed one day closer to his cushy government pension.
Or Jill Prosecutor.
“It looks like Laura Alcott is the prosecutor assigned to that case,” the receptionist told Talon after looking the case up on her computer. “I’ll see if she’s in.”
She was, of course, and a few minutes later the door to the interior of the Prosecutor’s Office opened with a buzz and click eerily similar to the one used to keep the inmates in their cells. A tall blonde woman in a white blouse and navy skirt opened the door. She’d been back from court long enough to shed her jacket already.
“Ms. Winter?” she greeted Talon with a pleasant smile. “Hi. I’m Laura. Come on back.”
So far, so good. Talon thought. Laura Alcott seemed nice enough on first impression. Maybe she’d be reasonable enough not to want to put a drug addict in prison for the rest of his life. Her office confirmed the general feeling of niceness. Framed photographs of rural landscapes, fresh flowers in the corner, desktop photos of two young children, and a small brass statue of Lady Justice on the window sill. She was like a younger Martha Stewart, with a law degree.
“So which case do you have again?” Alcott asked as they sat down. She turned to her file cabinet, ready to extract the relevant file.
“Ezekiel Frazier,” Talon answered.
“Oh, yeah,” Alcott smiled and yanked a file out of the drawer with a flourish. “I love this one.”
Talon wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. But she could guess.
“This,” Alcott said, holding up the file, “is the case that’s going to get me out of here.”
Talon waited a moment to understand. But after that moment, she still didn’t. “Out of where?”
“Out of the Drug Unit,” Alcott expounded. “I’m itching to get to Violent Crimes, but everybody starts in Drugs. Well,” she clarified, “first, Misdemeanors, then Drugs. Then Violent Crimes. Some people go to Property Crimes after Drugs, but I really want to skip that. I mean I can’t even tell you. I’ve been in Drugs for sooo long now, you know?”
Talon didn’t know. But she also didn’t interrupt as Alcott offered a summary of her professional accomplishments to date and aspirations for the future.
“I mean, you can only get so good trying drug cases. You know what they say about drug trials: two rocks, two cops, two days. Ugh. Shoot me. Am I right?”
Alcott didn’t actually pause for Talon to answer. Which was fine. Talon wasn’t inclined to anyway.
“But this case.” Alcott again indicated her file on Ezekiel Frazier. “This is a strike. Strike Three! I put your guy away and I’m finally on my way across the hall. I’ll be doing robberies and assaults by Christmas.”
“How nice for you,” Talon finally interjected. “Merry Christmas.”
“I know, right?” Alcott gushed.
“But what about my guy?” Talon asked.
Alcott’s beaming smile faded. “What about him?”
“Well,” Talon offered, “while you’re moving your things across the hall, my guy will be spending the rest of his life in prison.”
“Look, I don’t write the laws.” Alcott shrugged. “I just enforce them.”
“For your own professional advancement, apparently,” Talon returned. “Prosecutors have a lot of discretion. ‘Prosecutorial discretion’ is an actual term of art. You could drop the gun enhancement and my guy would plead out today. He’d get four years. That’s more than enough time for two rocks.”
Alcott crossed her arms. “Right. It’s called discretion for a reason. I don’t have to exercise it.”
“I’m pretty sure you do,” Talon countered. “It’s automatic. Refusing to offer a deal is still using your discretion. Even if it’s just to get a promotion.”
“It’s not a promotion,” Alcott answered. “It’s a transfer. I won’t get paid any more.”
Talon raised her palms sarcastically. “Oh. Sorry. My mistake. I didn’t mean to question the motives you just admitted to.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t giving any deals just so I could get transferred,” Alcott insisted.
Talon raised an eyebrow. “You kinda did.”
Alcott set her jaw. “Don’t turn this on me. Your client is the one who broke the law.”
“He had some drugs in his pocket,” Talon played it off. “It’s not like he hurt anyone.”
“He could have,” Alcott rejoined, “with that gun under his seat.”
“Life in prison isn’t a fair sentence, even for all that,” Talon trie
d.
But Alcott was unmoved. “He should have thought of that before he broke the law.”
Talon dropped Alcott a look. “Oh, and you’ve never broken the law?”
“No,” Alcott shot back. “Of course not.”
“Really?” Talon raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You never smoked pot in college? You never drank before you were twenty-one? You never bumped another car while you were parallel parking but drove away without leaving a note?”
“I never hit-and-run a parked car,” Alcott replied. “And trying pot or a drinking a little in college is different than driving around with crack cocaine and a gun.”
“Why?”
“What?” Alcott squinted at Talon.
“Why is it different?” Talon clarified.
“Well…” Alcott considered for a moment. “Because it is. It’s harmless and accepted. It’s just part of going to college.”
“You’re right,” Talon said. “That is the difference.”
“It’s harmless and accepted?”
No,” Talon said. “It happened in college. Not out in the streets of a Black neighborhood. Where did you go to college?”
Alcott hesitated. “Evergreen.”
“Evergreen State College?” Talon confirmed. “That’s in Olympia, right?”
“Right.”
“Not South Tacoma?”
Alcott crossed her arms. “No, not South Tacoma.”
“So, you didn’t have cops cruising through your dorm, checking to see if your desk lamp bulb was burned out?” Talon demanded. “They didn’t search your dresser if you got behind in your sorority dues? They didn’t uncover your stash of beer and pot because you had to use your paycheck for food instead of a speeding ticket?”
Alcott didn’t reply.
“See, that’s the difference,” Talon continued. “The only difference. It’s not you and Ezekiel Frazier who are different. It’s the worlds you live in that are different. Black men in South Tacoma get stopped by the police and the police find the drugs and the booze. White girls in Pullman get to use all the drugs and booze they want, because there’s no cops in the hallways of the Kappa Slappa Whatever sorority house.”
Talon Winter Legal Thrillers Box Set Page 26