by Maggie Wells
“In my phone,” Sophia replied, waving a spoon toward the kitchen table without looking up.
Lori used her parents’ wedding anniversary date to unlock her mother’s phone and quickly forwarded Jasmine’s mother’s contact information to her own phone. The moment she set the mobile back on the table, her mother appeared at her side with a plastic container.
“Here. You can have these for supper.”
Lori smiled, kissed her mother on the cheek and graciously accepted the warm-from-the-oven enchiladas. “Thank you.” As she headed out the back door, she called back another “I love you, Mama” just for good measure, then headed for her car.
She left the house wondering if her stomach would ever stop roiling enough for her to eat a bite of those delicious-smelling enchiladas. Climbing into her car, she placed the box of mementos and food container on the passenger seat. Gripping the steering wheel tight, she counted to four as she drew a breath in, held it for four, then let it go slowly.
She drove to the end of the block, hooked a right, then pulled to the curb. Out of sight of her childhood home, Lori took her phone from her pocket and pulled up the contact information. As she waited for Jasmine’s mother to answer, she gnawed her lip. Her intervention in the teenager’s life would most definitely be unwelcome, but she had a duty. When the other woman answered, cheerful in her oblivion, Lori knew in her gut she was doing the right thing. The last thing she wanted was to find her sister’s best friend walking down the side of Highway 19, scared and crying. Or worse.
Chapter Four
The following morning, Simon was heading for the district attorney’s office when he ran into Deputy Cabrera in the atrium. Well, he didn’t run into her so much as she stopped dead in front of him and directed her death-ray stare at him. “Good morning,” he said politely.
The deputy narrowed her eyes warily and he fought back the urge to smirk. Her expression said any smiling or smirking would be completely unwelcome. And, well, for some reason, he wanted her to welcome seeing him.
“Good morning.”
They stood staring at one another awkwardly. At last, Simon gestured to the door behind him. “I was heading to a meeting with District Attorney Hayes.”
“Good for you.”
He ignored her smart remark and switched to a different tactic. “When I was talking to him the other day, he told me about the methamphetamine problems you all have been sorting out these past few years.”
She pursed her lips. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear about those cases from your grandfather. Wendell handled the defense for most of the accused. At least, those who were locals. Maybe he figured you wouldn’t be interested in Pine Bluff news.”
Simon swallowed a wince. People around here had a way of making it clear they disapproved of his absence from his grandparents’ lives without coming out and saying so.
“I suppose it was sort of abstract for me,” he answered honestly.
She crossed her arms over her chest and widened her stance. The combative move should have made her more intimidating, but perversely enough, Simon found it attractive. He had always been attracted to women who weren’t afraid to stand their ground.
His mother might look the ultimate politician’s wife on the outside, but there was no question who ruled the roost. Simon had been raised to respect women. In a weird way, Deputy Cabrera reminded him of his mother, though the two of them couldn’t have been more opposite in appearance and demeanor. Bettina Wingate was petite, blonde and perfectly put together.
Lourdes Cabrera was also petite, but the similarities ended there. She was curvy. Shapely. She reminded him of those World War Two–era pinups guys painted on the fuselage of their planes. He’d only seen her in uniform, but her figure was impossible to hide.
And she made those curves look dangerous. Powerful. This woman couldn’t play the delicate Southern flower if she tried. She was commanding, with her intense dark stare and the utility belt stuffed with weaponry. Don’t think he hadn’t noted how the nylon belt hugged her rounded hips.
Hooking a thumb over his shoulder, he said, “Well, either way, I got my first taste of how seriously people feel about drug trafficking in these parts early this morning.”
She nodded, her expression sober. “The Showalters called you, I’ll bet. I heard Mike busted Timmy Showalter for possession with the intent to distribute last night.”
The corner of Simon’s mouth kicked up. Though he’d spoken with his client for only five minutes, there was absolutely no doubt in Simon’s mind that the story the kid was feeding him was complete BS. Good thing it wasn’t Simon’s job to believe him or not. It was Simon’s job to make sure he had an adequate defense. “My client has absolutely no idea how those pills ended up in his backpack. This was his first offense, and he’s a minor.”
Her frown deepened. “He’s seventeen. Timmy and my brother Lorenzo are in the same class. They were in Cub Scouts together.”
Simon wanted to kick himself for sounding so cavalier about the kid’s arrest and the seriousness of the charges. It was easy to be flippant when one didn’t have a relationship with the people one was representing. He had to remember he wasn’t in Atlanta anymore. With the metropolis’s booming population, it seemed hardly anyone was a local. Almost everyone he came across in this town was someone to somebody else.
He felt a brief longing for his old boring job of cajoling senators and representatives on behalf of special-interest groups. In politics, the lives hanging in the balance were far more removed than those in his present situation. In politics, you had to watch your every step. Even if you were playing within bounds, there was always someone who would spin the angle to suit them. He’d learned that the hard way.
“I’m sorry. It must be tough seeing a kid you watched grow up get into trouble. I’ll do my best for him.”
“Please do.”
Simon took a deep, steadying breath. In any other jurisdiction, a cop would be hoping Simon’s client got the book thrown at him. Hard. Here, she wanted him to do a good job defending the kid. The fact of the matter was, he wasn’t entirely sure he was going to be any good at providing adequate defense to people he felt were absolutely guilty.
He’d lain awake for hours the previous night thinking about Coulter’s cold eyes, and the smug, reflexive smile the man wore like a mask. Perhaps it was simply because Coulter had money and was used to getting his way, or perhaps he was born a supercilious ass. Either way, the man’s attitude didn’t settle well with Simon.
She unfurled her arms and let them fall to rest on her belt. “To be honest, I don’t get how you defense attorneys do it,” she said, shaking her head in slow wonder. “I spent a lot of time trying to lure your grandfather away from the dark side.”
Surprised, Simon gazed at the woman. “We have all the cookies,” he replied, falling back on flirtation.
Wendell had never mentioned anything about the sheriff’s officers other than to commend the work Ben Kinsella and his crew did in picking up the pieces after the Drug Enforcement Administration left the county in tatters.
“You and Wendell were friends?” he asked, hating the suspicious roil of his stomach.
Her narrow gaze became distinctly disdainful. “Yes, Wendell and I are friends,” she replied, correcting his tense. She spun on her heel and headed for the sheriff’s office. She’d about reached the door when she paused and looked back at him.
Simon froze, arrested by the intensity in her eyes. “Was there something else, Deputy?”
“Yes.” She let her hand fall away from the door handle and took two steps back in his direction. Simon silently willed her to take more, but she stopped. The rubber soles of her utility boots squeaked on the tile floor when she drew to a halt. “How well acquainted are you with the people who work for your client?”
Simon was not at all surprised by the derisive tone she used
when she spoke the word client. He got her meaning, but he needed her to be more direct.
“I’m not sure I’m following the question,” he replied cautiously.
“The people who work for Coulter. Have you, uh, met any of them?” she asked, hitting him with her impenetrable dark gaze.
He shook his head. “I have not. I am not well enough acquainted with people around here to identify who works where and for whom. Why do you ask?”
Deputy Cabrera hesitated. For the first time since he’d laid eyes on her, he saw her fidget.
Granted, it was a small tell. Her fingers toyed with the Velcro closure on one of the compartments on her belt. A nervous twitch of her hand he might not have noticed if it weren’t for the ripping of Velcro hooks tearing through the silence between them. Over and over again, she opened the flap, then smoothed it down again. He hoped it wasn’t the pocket with a Taser or similar weapon.
“I’m worried about my younger sister,” she began abruptly, jolting him from his study of her nervous movements.
“You are?”
She wagged her head, stunned to find herself confiding in him.
“Well, not her... One of her friends.”
Sensing she was struggling, he fell back on doing what lawyers do best—ask questions until the person unwittingly tells everything.
“How many siblings do you have?” he asked, keeping his question light and friendly.
“Five. Four brothers and one sister.”
The rigidity in her stance and the succinct answer told him she hadn’t wanted to disclose any more information. His breath caught when he saw the pretty pink wash of a blush flare high on her cheeks. Obliged by his upbringing, he did the gentlemanly thing and helped her out of the corner she’d talked herself into. “Your sister is how old?”
“Fifteen. She’s a sophomore. Her name is Lena.”
“Pretty name.” He made a motion for her to go on.
“Lena has a friend. They’ve been friends since they were in preschool. Her name is Jasmine.”
She stopped there, and Simon waited patiently. He got the feeling Deputy Cabrera wasn’t accustomed to confiding secrets. He was certain it was costing her more than she let on to share information with him, of all people. He was fairly sure she’d pegged him as public enemy number one.
“Jasmine. Got it.”
She wanted something from him. Needed his assistance in some way. And when a woman as competent as Deputy Cabrera asked for help, a smart man sat up and took notice, because something big had to be weighing on her.
“Her friend is...kind of hanging around a guy who works for your client.”
The way she spit the words your client at him made him flinch.
“I see.” He scowled. “She’s fifteen, you say?”
“Jasmine is sixteen, but this guy... From what Lena tells me, he’s older.”
“And you want me to poke around and see if any of the guys who work for Coulter have been in trouble?”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than she threw up her hands and backed off again. “You know what? Never mind.”
He took a step closer, and when she didn’t back away, he pressed. “I’m not your enemy. You asked for help. I’m willing to help.”
“You know what? I don’t need your help,” she snapped.
“Deputy, I’m doing the exact same job Wendell would have done. I’m not the bad guy here.”
“I don’t think you are,” she answered a shade too quickly.
This time he couldn’t repress his smile. “You do, but I’m going to do my best to convince you you’ve got me all wrong.”
“Why do you care?” she asked, bristling.
“Because I want us to be friends,” he answered.
“Why?” she asked again. This time, the single word sounded bewildered. Simon saw his opening and was careful to tread lightly.
“I don’t have any friends here,” he said, opting for the blunt approach. “Being new in town and all, I would prefer to have more friends than enemies.” He made sure he was looking straight into her eyes. “And we are on the same side, Lourdes.”
“Lori.”
Simon fought the urge to grin because her expression was so expressively solemn. She’d offered him the diminutive, and damn it, he was going to take it. “Lori,” he corrected.
She blinked, breaking the connection between them. “I don’t understand how you figure we’re on the same side. Hayes and I, we’re on the same side. But you...” She shook her head. “I can’t understand how defense attorneys can defend people they know are up to no good.”
“We can do it because everybody has a right to an advocate,” he said, repeating the party line his law professors hammered home about the topic. “It’s all about checks and balances. It doesn’t mean I’m on their side or condoning heinous and criminal behavior.”
She chuckled and gave her head a shake. “You contradict yourself, Counselor.”
“Simon,” he interjected.
“Simon,” she amended with a jut of her pointed chin.
He wanted to ask her to say his name again, but based on the conversation they were having, he didn’t think she’d be inclined to indulge him. So, he fell back on another of his grandfather’s favorite sayings.
“There are some who say the defense attorney is the only person without an agenda in the courtroom.”
“Yeah, Wendell used to use the same con. He didn’t have any better luck getting me to swallow the line than you will.”
She backed off a step and reached for the door again. Rather than fleeing into the offices of the sheriff’s department, she glanced back again. Simon mentally snapped a picture of her. With her expressive dark eyes and the heavy knot of hair pinned tightly to her nape, she was utterly arresting.
“I understand what you’re saying, and I’m aware this isn’t an easy town to live in when you’re an outsider.”
The phrasing of her statement was almost as compelling as the husky rasp in her voice. He cocked his head and waited for more. Prayed there’d be more.
She gave the door handle a yank. “We won’t be enemies, but I’m not so sure about the friends thing.”
He nodded and shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, not caring if he ruined the line of the tailoring. “I’ll take not-enemies for now.”
She ducked into the office, and the door swished shut behind her on its hydraulic hinge. He withdrew his hands from his pockets and looked around at the municipal building’s dormant atrium, wondering if the budget was so tight they couldn’t afford to at least run the fountain.
They weren’t going to be enemies, he repeated to himself as he studied the pattern in the mosaic tiles. He would work on the friends part. He would, because something told him Lori would be a good friend to have. She had already shown herself to be fierce and protective. She was asking after some guy who was messing with a friend of her sister. She was obviously the type to be loyal and unwavering in her companionship. It sure couldn’t hurt to have a friend in this insular town.
Christ. He scrubbed a hand over his face. He didn’t want her to see how conflicted he truly was. Simon didn’t want to go poking around in his client’s personnel records. He hadn’t expected to find all this...unsavory stuff here in Pine Bluff. Had his grandfather spent his entire life defending drug dealers and perverts? How did the old man sleep at night?
The outer door opened and Simon physically shook himself out of that line of thinking as the district attorney walked in. Simon gave Harrison Hayes a closer inspection this time. He’d been too blinded by Coulter and the potentially hefty billable hours to pay much attention to the man he’d be facing in court on a fairly regular basis. To his relief, Hayes looked much like the guys Simon had come through undergrad and law school with. In other words, he wore a decent suit, kept his sh
oes polished, leaned conservative in the barber’s chair, and his sharply intelligent eyes caught everything.
The prosecutor drew up short when he saw Simon standing there. “Did we have a meeting?”
Simon gave the other man a wan smile. “I’m here to represent Timothy Showalter,” he announced.
Hayes headed toward the door opposite the sheriff’s department, what Simon had earmarked the justice side of the county’s law and justice headquarters. The second floor of the municipal building held the county clerk, emergency management, economic development and finance offices. Fire and rescue were housed in a prefabricated building on the edge of town.
Holding back, he watched as the DA pulled a key ring from his pocket and juggled his briefcase from one hand to the other. “Come in. We’ll talk.”
What Lori had said about the guy messing with the high school girl niggled at Simon. “Have you guys had a lot of trouble coming out of Coulter’s place?” he asked when the other man swung the door open wide.
“I wouldn’t say a lot,” Hayes equivocated. With a practiced swipe of his hand, he switched on the fluorescent lights. “There was the girl Lori picked up the other night. A few of the local teenagers have scored weekend jobs out there, so that’s made it something of a hot spot. Some have tried to sneak in.”
Simon blinked, giving his pupils time to adjust to the sudden brightness after standing in the dim atrium. Glancing back, he realized not only was the fountain drained dry, but also the two-story lobby itself was lit only by skylights and the glow spilling from the glass-walled offices surrounding it. “The refuge is open to the public.”
“Only on weekends and for the price of admission,” Hayes answered. “Some people don’t care to pay admission. Mostly it’s been kids daring each other to sneak in and that sort of thing. Up until recently, Coulter’s been cool with letting Ben put the fear of the law into them, but now that he’s retained you, who knows. We may be seeing more trespassing charges pop up.” He motioned for Simon to follow. “Come on back.”