Licensed to Thrill: Volume 3

by Diane Capri

  But the smile made his relaxed appearance irrelevant. The display of ivory was a genuine toothpaste commercial, complete with sparkles and it was more infectious than a virus. I felt it spread to my face and stay there.

  “I’ve never met you before, but I owe you a debt of gratitude,” I said as I told Harris about the fateful effect he’d had on my decision to become a Tampa resident.

  On the day I resolved to leave my Michigan law practice and move to Florida, I was sitting in a blinding snowstorm in the middle of April. I’d been practically parked on the interstate for over three hours, moving toward my office at a snail’s pace in the dirty grey snow and snarled traffic. I was lost in thought about the choice to be made because my husband had unexpectedly inherited an historic old home down in Tampa. Should we move? Not?

  “Paradise Living,” one of Harris Steam’s most popular songs, came on the radio at that exact moment: Warm days, hot nights, cool breeze, bright lights; February paradise.

  The song and its message penetrated my brain in one of those “aha!” moments that make irrational decisions seemingly easy. I remembered there were places in the world where it doesn’t snow in April, where the sun shines year round and the blue skies beckon, where I’d never sit in traffic for three hours on the way to work.

  Like the song that accompanied my first kiss and the one that played when my husband proposed, “Paradise Living” was forever embedded in my psyche.

  “The rest, as they say, is history. We’ve been living in paradise ever since and never looked back,” I finished the tale—to smiles all around the small group.

  “If not for ‘Paradise Living,’ we’d be having this conversation in Detroit,” Kate added, causing Leo to shudder at the very idea. Detroit is a great place for hockey teams and ethnic food, his wrinkled nose conveyed, but not for hottie Italian models.

  Harris removed his sunglasses to reveal hazel eyes and an earnest expression and focused on me as if I was the only person on the planet right at that moment.

  “An artist always hopes his work will bring pleasure to his fans,” he said. “If I can really make a difference, improve someone’s life in a meaningful way, well, then I’ve really succeeded. I’ve heard many stories just like yours and it’s good to know that my songs reach people on such a visceral level.”

  The words themselves resembled a line he might use to pick up women in a bar, but he came off more like a spiritual advisor. He continued to talk about how his music had changed the world and he shared his plans for the future. Although he looked like a punch-drunk wavehead, he was a serious man with serious goals.

  I could easily understand how Kate and Leo could have become so attracted to him. Harris Steam was definitely more than just a pretty face with a pleasant voice. Just meeting him brightened my day and made me want to listen to his music.

  Eventually, the four of us walked through the buffet line and moved over to the patio table. During a brief lull in the conversation, I had the chance to ask Kate the question that had popped into my mind when I couldn’t find a parking space out front. “Why do you have so many people here today?”

  Harris answered for her. “Kate and Leo were kind enough to host a Motherless Day party. For those who have no family to share the day with.” The unexpected words hit my stomach with a force like a blow. Motherless. Me, too, and I didn’t need to be reminded. “Pretty nice of them, don’t you think?” His words were genuine, his tone wistful. I sensed great sadness in his life, but maybe I was projecting a little of my own uneasy feelings.

  Knowing my history, Kate explained more gently, “Just about everyone here is alone today. Including Leo. His kids are with their mom in Italy and he was missing them. So we decided to have this party to perk him up.”

  Another surprise. And not a welcome one. What kids? I thought, as I looked over at Leo, who nodded at Kate’s words, to show, indeed, he needed cheering up.

  “Suits me perfectly,” Harris put in, turning to take Kate’s hand, the one Leo wasn’t holding.

  “How so?” I asked, realizing I had to say something and trying to get past the shock of learning that Leo had children of his own, in Italy or anywhere else.

  I’d been worried for Kate since I first met Leo Colombo and this piece of unwelcome news would only complicate their relationship further. I didn’t believe Leo was actually in love with Kate. As dear as she is to me, she was close to twice his age and if the punch bowl brunette was to be believed, Leo was such a hottie that he could have any number of women more suitable for him.

  I didn’t believe Leo and I didn’t trust him.

  Harris looked down at the ground, a slight red blush creeping up his neck to his cheeks. “My girls are with my ex-wife and my mother is in prison,” he replied, quietly, as if he was embarrassed to say so, but had no choice. At the time, I thought it odd that he would share such personal information, but in less than two seconds, Leo cleared that up.

  “Yes, Willa,” Leo said, jumping right in with his characteristic impetuosity. “Kate and I told Harris you’d be willing to help him get his mother out. Will you do it?”

  I was still preoccupied with Leo’s children and not paying as close attention to the conversation as I should have been. How could Leo be a parent, I thought. He was childlike himself. “Do what?” I asked absently.

  “You do that kind of stuff all the time. Look at all that trouble George was in and you fixed it.” I glared at him, to no effect. Leo apparently did not know the meaning of the word tact. He’d orchestrated this scenario so that Harris Steam and I would feel some sort of kinship, I supposed.

  How like Leo to think that having a loved one wrongly accused of murder would be a bonding experience for two perfect strangers. If I hadn’t been so appalled that he would mention George’s unfortunate experience in front of Harris Steam, I might have been a little quicker to understand what was being asked of me.

  Some time ago, my husband had been arrested for the murder of a United States Supreme Court nominee because of his political connections to the nominee’s enemies. No one who knew George would seriously consider him a murderer, but the charges had threatened our marriage and George’s misplaced sense of chivalry had nearly destroyed it.

  George thought he needed to protect me from the scandal and I thought he needed to participate actively in finding the real killer. We’d separated for a time over it. To save my way of life, I had taken matters into my own hands and discovered the identity of the killer. Still, it wasn’t the kind of thing I discussed with casual acquaintances at garden parties and Leo shouldn’t have brought it up.

  After my experience with George, I can hardly go to public events without being barraged with requests for help of all kinds from people who find themselves caught up in the legal system. I get calls and letters all the time, too. Even among my friends and colleagues, there are many who urge me to investigate and solve every murder committed in Tampa.

  “You must help Harris get his mother out of prison,” Leo repeated, “You have to do it.”

  Because she knows how I feel about people pushing their problems on me, I was surprised and a little hurt that Kate would allow Leo to do this to me in her home. I tried to hide the growing anger I felt toward both of them for putting me in such an outrageous predicament.

  “Harris, I don’t think I can help you,” I said gently. “I’m a United States District Court judge, which is more than a full-time job. Besides, I’m prohibited from offering legal or financial help in cases now that I’m a judge. I’m supposed to avoid any circumstance that would even appear to influence my judicial conduct or judgment.”

  A federal judge can be criminally prosecuted although even when that happens, it doesn’t automatically remove us from office. Still, just because something can be done, doesn’t mean it should be done. There were ethical rules that judges should live by and I tried to give him the practical and the ethical excuses together, so that he would politely back down.

  I expe
cted him to say, “Of course, I understand. Please forgive me for asking.” Then, I’d let Kate and Leo have the full force of my displeasure another time. And it might have worked, if Leo had kept quiet.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “OH, YOU DO THIS sort of thing all the time, Willa. You can free Billie Jo. I know you can,” Leo continued to push me.

  I wanted to throttle him. But I don’t actually keep my nose out of situations where my help is truly needed, and both Kate and Leo knew it. Sometimes, I do accept these challenges, when I see an injustice that I think is appropriate for me to resolve. That’s why everyone keeps asking. I figure I’m the best arbiter of what will improperly influence me or my decisions, which is not much.

  The truth is that I’m going to get criticized for whatever I do, so I might as well do what I think is right. What good is being appointed for life if you can’t follow your own conscience once in a while? So far, no one had tried to have me impeached for improper conduct and I didn’t believe I’d done anything to warrant such an action. Indeed, I’d have fewer problems with my colleagues if I allowed them to coerce me.

  But this was the first time I’d ever been asked to help free a convicted felon. Freeing criminals is more than a little bit out of my league and it would require much more time than I could reasonably take away from my work. Besides, the chances that Harris’s mother was wrongfully convicted were slim. Despite popular fiction, innocent people don’t get convicted all that often.

  I began to try to extricate myself from the situation as politely as possible. I must have known about his mother’s conviction, but until Harris raised it, I had forgotten.

  “Why is your mother in prison?” I asked, thinking that more facts would provide me with a legitimate way to politely refuse his request, as I do most of the others I receive that are no less deserving.

  “She was tried and convicted for killing my father, back in ’72,” he answered. “But she didn’t kill him. She was just a convenient defendant.”

  Sure, I thought. That’s what they all say. I’ve rarely met a defendant who admitted guilt. The accuseds’ strongest defense is: deny, deny, deny. Even after they’re convicted, many inmates continue to protest their innocence and their families try hard to believe them. This was nothing new.

  In any case, it’s very difficult to prove the police have the wrong suspect after he’s arrested. Most police departments do a good and thorough job of investigating homicide. The Tampa Police Department was no different.

  So long after the murder was committed, it’s nearly impossible to demonstrate that the entire judicial system had completely failed. Especially when a convicted murderer has already served three decades. I, for one, find some comfort in the knowledge that we’ve all done our jobs.

  Most of the time, those of us charged with administering justice do it right.

  I must have looked as skeptical about his mother’s innocence as I felt because Harris put down his fork and leaned closer to me across the table.

  “I know what you’re thinking. But you’ve never met my mom. She wouldn’t kill anyone. She certainly couldn’t have killed my father. She loved him.” His desperation was plainly apparent, but was he right? Or was he just a child who wanted his mother back? That, I could understand only too well. “We’ve got to get her out of prison before she dies there.”

  “You mean she’s on death row?” I asked. If so, I could appropriately refuse his request. Attempting to free a death row inmate was more than a full-time occupation. I didn’t have the expertise to do anything that complicated, or the time to learn how to do the job, even if I had been convinced that I should get involved.

  “No,” Harris shook his head, “nothing like that. But she’s sick. Mom has terminal cancer.” Delivered deftly on Mother’s Day, when I was already edgy, the words landed another hard blow to my stomach. My visceral reaction only proved to me that no matter how objective I think I am, my emotions are always there to pounce in an unguarded moment.

  My pain must have shown clearly on my face. Kate looked at me with great concern, but Leo took up Harris’s cause before she could say anything.

  “She’s been locked up almost thirty years. Isn’t that long enough?” Leo asked petulantly. “The woman was sentenced to life in prison. She’s been there a lifetime, hasn’t she? Hell, thirty years is almost longer than I’ve been alive,” he needlessly reminded us.

  I suppressed a groan, still trying to calm my churning stomach. “Why are you asking me to do this right now?”

  “Mom is coming up for parole. She’s been up before, but she’s been turned down every time. This is her last chance,” Harris said.

  A long series of defeats meant less likelihood of success this time. Kate, the mother of four lawyers, knew this as well as I did. I sent a beseeching glance her way. She had to know what an imposition this request was, how hard it would be to succeed, how much I wouldn’t want to become involved.

  Why was she pushing me?

  “This is a good cause, Willa,” Kate insisted, rejecting my silent plea to get me out of this. “These days, Billie Jo Steam wouldn’t even have been tried, let alone convicted. No justice was done in this case. You might be the only one who can help her after all this time. You need to try.”

  Leo piped in again, interrupting Kate’s explanation. He was as annoying as the kid who always jumps out of his seat in the front row, waving his hand so the teacher will call on him. “She has to get out. And she needs you to help her. That’s simple, isn’t it? Harris, tell Willa what your mom said about her.”

  Harris, at least, had the grace to realize he was asking for more than he had a right to request. Only the futility of his mother’s struggle seemed to prompt him to continue. “Mom knows you’ve been through the nightmare of trying to prove your husband was wrongly accused of murder. You feel the injustice of false charges in a way others don’t, she said.”

  He gave me his sexy smile—the one I’m sure he’d used to get everything he’d ever wanted since he was old enough to realize its effect on women.

  I could no longer resist the three of them, all pressing for a commitment, refusing to let me sidestep the question. More to end the pleading and cajoling than anything else, I considered Harris’s request seriously.

  This was exactly the kind of project that Chief Judge Ozgood Richardson, who thinks he’s my boss, would not want me to get involved in. If I helped Harris Steam, I’d have to figure out what to do about the C.J. Maybe that was a reason to take the job right there, I smiled to myself. Thwarting the C.J. was always worth the effort.

  But I had another, more emotional reason to look into the matter. Today was Mother’s Day. Kate Colombo, who had been everything to me that any real daughter could ask for, was asking for my help. Kate rarely asks me for anything.

  After all the sacrifices she’d made for me, this was something I could do for Kate, something for which she still needed me. I’d never refused any request she’d ever made of me and now all she was asking was that I help someone else. I wasn’t hard-hearted enough to refuse her the courtesy of at least considering the matter.

  Of course, C.J. would say this was no affair of Kate’s, either. Harris Steam and his problems were far removed from Kate Colombo. Strains of “Paradise Living” wafted out from the stereo speakers in the house, floating on the scented breeze, reminding me that I owed Harris something, too. His song was at least partly responsible for the happiness I’ve had living here in Tampa since “Paradise Living” pushed me over the edge of indecision into our paradise.

  Not that C.J. would be persuaded by such a frivolous point, but it wasn’t frivolous to me and it was just icing on the cake, anyway. An excuse that would seem so silly to him that he would never believe it. But I didn’t need C.J.’s permission to do something Kate wanted so badly.

  As I listened to the back and forth of my internal argument, I must have nodded involuntarily, because without knowing what was really going on, I felt my arm flailin
g up and down. Harris had grabbed my hand to pump it the same way I’d been pumping his earlier, his eyes sparkling to match the smile.

  “Thank you, Judge, thank you so much. I’ll send her file over to you by messenger tomorrow. Take a look at it, and then tell me you don’t think she should be free.” Leo and Kate were beaming, too, as if they’d just won the lotto.

  “Harris,” I said, trying to extract my hand and stop this roller coaster before it careened out of control. “Listen to me. I don’t know if I can help you or not. All I’m willing to do, as a favor to you and to Kate and Leo, is to look at your mother’s file. I’m not making any promises.”

  “I know. But you’ll help us. I can tell,” he said, refusing to release my hand until I pulled it away by gentle force.

  I saw Kate smile her thanks at me and I felt the addictive warm glow of her approval. How far would I go to keep that approval washing over me?

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  CHAPTER ONE

  GILBERT IRWIN DROVE AWAY from Tampa through the vicious thunderstorm. Away from Denton Bio-Medical. Away from everything. Tears coursed down his ruddy cheeks while rain hammered his car. He couldn’t see through the steamy windshield. He turned defrosters on high and swiped foggy glasses with a grimy napkin. The napkin smelled like Annabelle. He began to cry again.

  “How could she? How could she?” he wailed inside the cabin where no one could hear him. He’d been blubbering like this for days, and he couldn’t seem to stop, no matter what he tried. This is how a broken heart felt. He knew he’d never get over her and he didn’t want to. He wanted Annabelle back. She’d loved him, too. He knew she had.

  His Miata swerved on the interstate’s slick pavement and slid quickly across two lanes. Then a blasting horn jerked Gilbert out of his self-pitying fugue.