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Contents:
Prologue
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23
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Prologue
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"Stand up straight when I'm talking to you, Brenna James," her father ordered. "And stop looking at your feet Look at me. Explain these grades." He waved her school papers in her face.
Brenna stole a glance at her older brother, Michael, who stood with her in front of their father, then back at her father. Her eyes lit on the shiny insignia on his shoulders, then on the rows of colorful ribbons above his pocket.
"Answer me."
Her eyes jerked to his, and her chin quivered.
"I don't understand this, Brenna. Look at how well your brother is doing in school. You know what the difference is between you and Michael? He tries. You don't try, do you?"
"I try." A single tear slid down each cheek.
"I try, what?"
She swallowed and her gaze fell to her shoes. "I try, sir."
"Look at me, Brenna."
She raised her eyes to meet her father's. She hated looking at his eyes. They made her hurt clear down inside her tummy.
"You don't try." He lifted her chin with hard fingers. "You'll never make it to second grade like your brother unless you pay attention to your studies. You want me to be proud of you, don't you? The way I'm proud of Michael?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then you have to bring home papers with good marks. Now, stop crying. You're not a baby anymore, are you?"
"No, sir." She tightened her lips to keep them from quivering. "Daddy?"
"Yes, Brenna."
"It's hard for me." She dropped her head, then, peeking a glance at him, added, "Sir."
"The things that matter are always hard. You have the potential to have perfect papers, just like Michael. I expect you to practice. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir," she said. And because he expected it, she added, "I'll practice, sir."
Brenna sat down at the kitchen table, her legs dangling from the chair, and watched her brother hand his papers to their father. His papers were excellent, that's what the teacher said. "Michael's work is always excellent, Captain. He's such a bright boy."
Michael smiled and her father smiled. All because Michael had perfect papers.
She picked up a pencil and began tracing the letters. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched her father tousle Michael's hair.
She knew who was perfect. And she knew who her father loved.
Michael. Tears splashed on her tablet. She couldn't be perfect like Michael. She tried so hard, but it was never good enough. Not perfect.
So why even try?
Gripping the pencil, she drew bold, black lines across her paper, over her carefully formed letters.
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Chapter 1
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"Am I understanding you correctly, Ms. James? You didn't know you had violated your lease when you began storing dangerous chemicals on the premises?" Cole Cassidy moved toward the witness stand, his inner turmoil at odds with the steady, aggressive tone of his questions. Grudge matches were not—never had been—his thing. He regretted he had allowed himself to become embroiled in this one.
"I don't know what dangerous chemicals you mean."
Brenna James's eyes, clear and bright as a sunny day, never left his face. Cole's experience had taught him that liars and cheats couldn't look you straight in the eye. Her unwavering gaze hadn't fallen beneath his intense stare even once.
"Fifty-five-gallon drums of—"
"Soap," she finished, her gaze straying to Cole's client, Harvey Bates. "Biodegradable soap."
"You've also stated in your deposition that you kept ammonia, naphtalene and other solvents in your shop."
"Not in fifty-five-gallon drums."
"What kind of quantities?" Cole believed that, whatever she had stored in her shop, it was insignificant compared to that used by the automotive custom paint shop, a tenant in the same industrial complex.
"A gallon or two at a time, at the most." Her gaze drifted from his a moment, then returned. "Once I filled out an order for supplies incorrectly, and for about two weeks there was a drum of ammonia in the shop." She paused. "The kind used for commercial refrigeration."
Cole was stunned at her admission. There was always hope that someone would slip and volunteer information, but it never happened. Never. Cases were built on evasions, omission and deception. A good attorney coached his clients never to answer questions that weren't asked.
Cole cleared his throat. "You were aware of the potential hazard?"
"Yes. As soon as we knew it would be several days before it could be picked up, I called Harvey."
Yes, the woman answered. No evasion, no omission, no deception. Like so much else with this case, Brenna James's testimony didn't fit Bates's accusations that she had intended to defraud him. Cole studied her face for a moment. He believed her. He turned around to stare at his client, who shrugged his shoulders.
His client, hell. Bates and a senior partner. Roger Markham, were close friends. The case, too insignificant for a partner, had been assigned to Cole.
Bates's civil case against Brenna James had two charges, neither of which should be taking up the court's time. He accused her of storing "dangerous chemicals" on the premises and of writing bad checks. The clause in her lease that described dangerous chemicals was so ambiguous it could have included tap water. As for the check, that should have been handled by a collection service.
Cole stalked back to his table and picked up the only real piece of evidence he had in the case—a check she had written for two months' rent that had bounced higher than a spiked football. Triple jeopardy, Cole thought, recalling Colorado's stiff penalties for writing bad checks. If the woman didn't have seventeen hundred dollars, it was a sure bet she didn't have the five thousand that she would owe Bates under the state statutes.
Cole's research during his discovery revealed James Cleaning Service had held its own for a little more than three years, and the clients Cole had talked to had been universally enthusiastic about Brenna James and her staff. However, shortly after the bookkeeper quit to have a baby, the business took a downhill slide. The whole thing perplexed Cole. He knew he hadn't asked the right questions, but damned if he could figure out what the right questions were.
Cole handed her the check. "This is a check from James Cleaning Service, signed by you, and made payable to Harvey Bates, isn't it?"
"Yes."
He took the check back. "Did it ever clear your bank?"
"I thought it had."
"Ms. James, I find it inconceivable that you expect the court to believe—"
"Is there a question in that statement, Mr. Cassidy?" the judge interrupted.
Cole glanced at the judge, then back at Brenna's attorney. He deserved to be admonished by the judge, but he would have preferred an objection from John Miller. Cole had become more aggressive, trying to goad the man into actively defending his client. Miller had not asked for a pre-trial deposition from Harvey Bates, had not issued a subpoena for Bates to testify, had not adequately defended his client in any way at all—another puzzle.
Cole returned to the table where Harvey Bates sat. Unlike the woman on the stand, Bates avoided Cole's eyes.
Cole picked up a copy of a bank statement and handed it to Brenna. "Recognize this?"
He watched her as she studied the sheet.
A full minute passed before she answered. "It's a bank statement from my business account."
"For what month, Ms. James?"
Another long pause followed.
Come on, Brenna, he silently urged.
Let's get this over with.
"February."
Cole held the check back up. "Did this check clear, Ms. James? Check number eighteen fifty-three?"
He waited patiently as one slim finger slid slowly down the column of figures. She gave the task her complete concentration, just as she had with every other exhibit he had asked her to examine. He caught the bored expression of her attorney and the look of lazy indolence from Harvey Bates. Both men angered Cole. There was no sense in litigating a seventeen-hundred-dollar dispute. This was exactly the petty kind of civil suit that kept the courts clogged.
And keeps you employed, came a nagging thought.
Bates had told Cole he wanted to be paid in full. "Where does she have the money?" Cole had wanted to know. The credit report he ran on her indicated she was twenty-six years old and broke, with no property that could be attached. Her cleaning service had closed, and she had a mountain of debt. Bates insisted her family had money—her father was a retired colonel who had a fat-cat consulting contract with his old Pentagon cronies, If Brenna's father had given a single thin dime to her, Cole hadn't been able to find it.
Cole longed for the case to be finished. He backed across the floor until he could see them all—the judge, the court recorder, the clerk, the bailiff, his client, Brenna James and her attorney.
How did you get into this mess, Brenna James? he wondered for the thousandth time. Despite the evidence, he believed she was telling the truth. From the beginning he felt a primal recognition that had little to do with time or space. They had never had a personal conversation. That didn't matter. He had been attracted to more sophisticated women, perhaps even more beautiful. He had been engaged to one. But no one—no one—had ever hit him in the gut the way Brenna James did.
Realist that he was, he didn't entertain a single notion of pursuing her when this was over. He was Bates's tool of retribution. End of fantasy.
Today that made him angry.
"I'm waiting, Ms. James." His strident voice broke through the quiet courtroom, his hand slapping the varnished wood of the rail with a resounding whack.
"It isn't listed here," she answered, her calm reply stretching the limits of his temper.
He pushed himself away from the rail, picked up another bank statement from the table. "Did the check clear in March?"
This time she didn't glance at the sheet. "I don't believe so."
"In April, Ms. James? Did it clear in April?"
She shook her head, and her eyes never left him.
"I can't hear you." When in hell was her attorney going to object?
"No."
"Did this check clear your back during any month that you know of, Ms. James?"
For the first time, her voice faltered. "No."
Her whisper knifed through him. "I can't hear you, Ms. James."
Cole was surprised how hard it was to keep from averting his own gaze when she looked up.
"No," she repeated. "It didn't clear."
Cole handed the papers to the bailiff. "Enter these as exhibits eight through ten." He stalked back to the plaintiff's table and thought about the questions he had intended to ask, about the points of law he considered important. He faced Brenna, assessing the inexpensive gray suit she had worn both times he had seen her, her dark hair pulled into a bun at her nape. Her expression and unwavering gaze gave him no clue to her thoughts.
He sat down. "I have no further questions, Your Honor."
"Your witness," the judge told her attorney.
John Miller stood, fastening the button of his jacket in an automatic gesture. "I have no questions, Your Honor." He sat back down.
The flat statement stunned Cole.
His attention shifted to Brenna, and he wondered if her attorney's actions came as a surprise. Her expression had not changed. Cole might have thought she was prepared for her attorney's statement had he not noticed her clasped hands—so tight her knuckles were white with tension.
"Do you want to address the court, Ms. James?" the judge asked.
She stared at her attorney. The courtroom was quiet except for a muffled cough and the scrape of a chair across the hardwood floor. When John Miller dropped his gaze to the table, she answered, "No, sir."
Cole wanted to leap out of his chair, wanted to demand an explanation, wanted to yell at John Miller, wanted to rant at Brenna for not speaking out to defend herself.
Instead he sat and waited for the judge to speak.
Judge McCauley reviewed the contents of the file in front of him, then mid, "Ms. James, I had not planned to announce my decision today. However, as you have not presented any evidence in your favor, you leave me with no other choice. This court finds in favor of the plaintiff. This judgment includes all moneys owed to Mr. Bates as stated in his complaint, all penalties due him under the statutes of the State of Colorado, court costs and any and all attorneys' fees he is entitled to collect. Mr. Cassidy, would you prepare the order?"
"Bailiff, please note that. Mr. Cassidy, Mr. Miller, I want to see both of you in my chambers. Now."
He slammed the gavel down.
"Court dismissed," the bailiff said before following the judge out of the courtroom.
Cole stood and began gathering the papers on the table. Next to him, Bates also stood, hung the ivory-and-brass handle of his cane over his forearm, and made a show of unwrapping a cigar. He clipped off the end, which he let drop on the floor.
"Good work, Cassidy." He slapped Cole on the back. "Roger Markham will be proud of you, boy."
Cole stuffed the folders into his briefcase without speaking. He snapped the lid shut and looked at his client. Bates's attention was fastened on a picture of the President of the United States hanging on the far wall. Cole was suddenly reminded of the previous two cases he had won and how hollow those victories had also felt. Neither of those clients reminded him of Harvey Bates, but they, too, had said, "Good work." And Cole had won largely because his clients could afford the legal trappings that came with the huge retainer his firm required. Not because justice or the law had been served.
Cole frowned, disliking the turn of his thoughts. He wanted to believe he fought for justice. He wanted to believe he represented cases that were right in the abstract, not necessarily right because they were profitable for the firm.
"I want an airtight agreement, complete with a confession that she knew that check was fraudulent," Bates said.
Cole's gaze followed Brenna James as she walked out of the courtroom alone. Her back was straight under the conservative suit, the line of her body feminine and elegant as royalty.
Cole's eyes narrowed when his gaze returned to Bates.
"I suppose you'd like a pound of flesh, too," Cole said, his temper not quite in check.
Bates smiled, all teeth and no humor "You've got it."
"Her attorney will recommend she sign the minimum agreement required to comply with the judgment." Damn Roger Markham's friendship with Harvey Bates, Cole thought. As cases went, this one was the dregs—vindictive if profitable.
Bates pulled an engraved gold lighter out of his vest pocket. "Her attorney doesn't know squat. She'll sign whatever you put in front of her."
"My secretary will call you as soon as we have the terms worked out and she's signed—"
"No terms. Cash. And you call me. I want to be there when she signs."
"She doesn't have the cash, Bates. If she did, you would have seen it by now."
"All she has to do is ask her rich daddy." Bates lit the cigar, ignoring the No Smoking signs posted on the wall. He inhaled deeply and walked away, leaning heavily on the cane, his limp more pronounced than usual.
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"I want to know what the hell is going on," Judge McCauley said. He sat down behind his desk and loosened his tie. "I've never in fifteen years seen such a poor defense, John Miller. I will not tolerate such indifference in my court again. Do I make myself clear?"
Miller pulled at his mustache. "Yes."
His gaze shifted from Miller to Cole, who resisted squirming under the judge's pointed finger. "And you came this close," he said holding his thumb and forefinger an inch apart, "to overplay this case. You didn't have a single valid reason to badger the defendant. I allowed you to continue your examination because of my friendship with David Simmons. I expect better from an associate of his firm than what you presented here today."
Cole's eyes didn't waver from the judge's. "I understand, sir."
The judge gave his head a sharp nod. "I expect to see the order for this judgment on my desk before the end of the week. And I expect the two of you to hammer out an agreement for the method of payment." He closed the folder and swiveled his chair around to face the window. "That will be all."
Miller followed Cole out of the judge's office. "Let me know when you've got the order drafted," he said. "Brenna and I will come by your office."
"Will that be before or after you review it?"
Miller raised an eyebrow. "For being on the winning side, you're a little testy, don't you think?"
"And you act like you don't give a damn," Cole said.
"Spare me the bleeding heart act," Miller said walking away from Cole. "You were only in this for the money—what happened to Brenna James didn't matter a bit."
Cole stopped cold. The other attorney walked down the middle of the corridor, his footsteps echoing against the tile floor. At the door leading outside, he turned, gave Cole a mocking salute, and went outside.
Damn John Miller for being right.
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Chapter 2
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"Here's the revised settlement agreement on the Bates case," said Cole's secretary, Myra, from the doorway of Cole's office. She glanced at her watch. "With ten minutes to spare."
"I appreciate your making those last-minute changes. Thanks." Like everything else in this case, the last week had been filled with tension and demands from Harvey Bates.
Myra set the documents on the corner of his desk. "Spare me the thanks. I know the lovely Mr. Bates is to blame, not you." She moved toward the big window behind Cole's desk.
CASSIDY'S COURTSHIP Page 1
