A Prosecutor for the Defense (David Brunelle Legal Thriller Series Book 4)

by Stephen Penner

  Kat looked sideways at her daughter, then planted a big kiss right on Brunelle’s lips. “Sorry, honey,” she laughed. “We’ll try to behave.”

  Brunelle wouldn’t have been very interested in behaving just then, but the presence of Kat’s daughter, a half dozen scowling security officers wearing rubber gloves, and the ten million travelers in line behind him returned his focus from his girlfriend to the metal detector he needed to walk through.

  One of the gloved security officers pointed at him. “Next!”

  He turned back to Kat, wiggling his toes in his socks. “I hate feeling like a criminal.”

  Kat had to laugh. “Said the man who puts people in prison.”

  He shrugged and fought off a frown. And now tries to get them out again.

  *

  Their flight departed from Gate N7. They had to take the underground tram from the main terminal to the north satellite. Once there, they took the escalator up and walked down the concourse to the gate. Lizzy trailed slightly behind, listening to her music, glancing around, and generally lost in her own thoughts.

  “She seems okay,” Brunelle observed quietly to Kat.

  Kat shook her head. “It’s an act. She’s scared to death.”

  Brunelle stole a glance at Lizzy, then turned back to Kat. “What about you?”

  “Me?” she said. “I’m angry.”

  “Angry?” Brunelle repeated. “Really? Why is that?”

  The scowl that had seized Kat’s face couldn’t quite hold on. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I’m worried too. I’m not that big of a bitch. We were together a long time. We have a child together. I consider him a friend. But this is just confirmation that he’s the same self-centered prick he was when we were married.”

  “Jeremy Anderson, Prick,” Brunelle joked. “Maybe that’s how I’ll introduce him to the jury.”

  Kat cocked her head, then laughed out loud. But it wasn’t really that funny. Brunelle said so.

  “It’s not that,” she said. “It’s hearing you say ‘Jeremy Anderson.’ His name is Stephenson, not Anderson. Oh my God, he’d be so mad if you called him Jeremy Anderson.”

  “Stephenson?” Brunelle asked. “Not Anderson? Did you go back to your maiden name after the divorce or something?”

  Kat shook her head. “No, I never took his name. I wasn’t going to be Kat Stephenson.”

  Brunelle considered. “I dunno. It has a certain ring to it.”

  Kat grimaced. “Yeah. A real Peace Train, Cat’s in the Cradle kind of ring. No, thank you.”

  Brunelle had to laugh. “Oh yeah. Okay. I can see that.” Then he asked, “You didn’t want to hyphenate? Kat Anderson-Stephenson?”

  “Nope,” Kat replied. “Anderson Stephenson sounds like an accounting firm. And too many syllables anyway.”

  Brunelle nodded. “Yeah, that is a lot of syllables.”

  “Five’s my limit,” Kat explained.

  “Five?” Brunelle cocked his head. “Why five?”

  Kat rolled her eyes. “Think about it, Romeo. Let me know when you figure it out.”

  Brunelle did think about it. Then he figured it out. Then he blushed and changed the subject. “Well, anyway, maybe this time it’s not his fault.”

  “Maybe.” Kat shrugged. “I don’t really care.”

  “You don’t care if he’s guilty or not?”

  “Well, of course,” Kat admitted. “I want him to be innocent. I don’t want him to be a murderer.”

  They’d arrived at N7. Lizzy marched forward and plopped into a seat in the boarding area, pulling her phone out as she did so to text or tweet or whatever it was kids did any more. Brunelle and Kat lingered in the walkway.

  “What I really care about,” Kat pointed at her daughter, “is her. Being a teenage girl is hard enough as it is. She doesn’t need the stigma of having a father in prison. She’s worked really hard—hell, I’ve worked really hard—to get us where we’re at. But do you think she’s going to keep friends once they find out her dad’s in prison? Even if the friends understand, what about their parents. Would you let your daughter hang out with a girl whose dad’s in prison for murder?”

  Brunelle looked over at Lizzy. That was a lot to think about all of a sudden. Kat took his hand.

  “So thank you for doing this,” she said. “I know you’re doing this for me. But don’t do it for me.” She nodded toward Lizzy. “Do it for her.”

  Chapter 4

  The first stop was the hotel. It was in San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf area, rather than downtown. In addition to being a little cheaper, it was also a nicer place for Kat and Lizzy to hang out while Brunelle was away working on the case. In addition, it was just barely within walking distance of the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood, famous for its bohemian counter culture, and home to the office of attorney Andy Dombrowski. Dressed in a full suit, Brunelle felt a little conspicuous as he reached the neighborhood. He figured that must be why Dombrowski chose to put his office there. Why else would he be so far away from the courthouses downtown except to make visiting prosecutors from other states uncomfortable when they came begging for help?

  Upon meeting the gentleman, however, it became clear that Andy Dombrowski was in his element. The office was located on the second floor of two story building, above a used clothing boutique and some sort of restaurant or bar or spa or club or something. Brunelle wasn’t quite sure. The windows were darkened but peering inside, the business appeared to deal more with making people feel a certain way than with providing them with objects. He found it both disconcerting and appealing. Like the light in front of an angler fish’s jaws. He decided there would be time later to explore mysterious clubs in strange parts of town. He had business to attend to.

  Kat and Lizzy had stayed back near the hotel to explore the beach and shops and restaurants, so when Brunelle reached the small lobby of Dombrowski’s office he allowed himself to be taken in by the beauty of the very young receptionist Dombrowski was fortunate to employ.

  She had long, curly brown hair, piled haphazardly in what he and his college buddies used to call the ‘just fucked’ look. Heavy eye make up, lots of earrings and rings, and tattoos covering most of her visible skin up to her jaw all served to accentuate rather than distract from her naturally breathtaking bone structure and general fitness. “Hello,” she greeted him in a high, almost squeaky voice. “Can I help you?”

  Oh, I’m sure you could, Brunelle thought, but he was smart enough to say instead, “Is Mr. Dombrowski available?”

  “Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked.

  Brunelle shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I was referred by a friend.”

  The young lady smiled. “Well, that’s good to hear. Andy’s in his office. He always makes time for new business.”

  Brunelle cocked his head at the receptionist as she stood up and stepped toward the closed door of the only office in their suite. “New business?” he asked.

  “Right,” she replied. “New business. You want to hire Andy, right? He always makes time for new clients.”

  Brunelle finally understood. He was about to explain that he was not in fact a criminal defendant looking for a lawyer, when the young lady with too much make up and too many tattoos cocked her own head and looked at him appraisingly. “Sex crime?” she guessed.

  “What?” He was flabbergasted. “No,” he protested. “No, I’m not charged with a sex crime.”

  The woman raised her hands defensively. “Oh, sorry. It’s just, with the suit, trying to look all respectable, and the way you were ogling me when you came in, well, I just figured you were some kind of pervert.”

  “I’m an attorney,” he protested.

  “Oh, right,” she choked back a laugh. “No attorneys are perverts.” She shook her head and giggled. “But it explains the suit. I’ll get Andy.”

  She knocked on the door and slipped inside while Brunelle fought off his indignation at being mistaken for a sex offender. He replayed t
he conversation in his mind and had just realized that he’d forgotten to insist he wasn’t ogling her when the office door opened again and Andy Dombrowski stepped out to shake his hand.

  He was a large man, a little taller than Brunelle and a lot heavier. He had long gray hair, thinning in the front and pulled into a ponytail in the back. His plastic rimmed glasses slid down his nose from the oil that generally glistened on his features. He had at least one day’s worth of salt-and-pepper stubble, and yellowing teeth that were on full display when he smiled broadly to greet his visitor. “Hello there! Kylie tells me you’re a lawyer. You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you? Kylie says you’re not a pervert.”

  “I said he’s not charged with a sex crime,” Kylie corrected and she gave Brunelle a wink. He watched in stunned admiration as she retook her place at the reception desk.

  “What can I do for you, good sir?” Dombrowski effused.

  Brunelle finally pulled his eyes away from Kylie and looked at Dombrowski. “Matt Duncan sent me. I need some help.”

  *

  “Wow.” Dombrowski leaned back in his chair when Brunelle had finished explaining. “You’re—“

  “Don’t say ‘whipped,’” Brunelle interrupted.

  Dombrowski stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing, falling forward in his chair and almost choking he laughed so hard. “Ha ha ha. No. No, I was going to say, ‘Wow, you’re fucked.’ But yeah, maybe that other thing too.”

  Brunelle decided not to protest the ‘other thing.’ Instead he inquired about the ‘you’re fucked’ thing. “Why am I fucked?”

  Dombrowski managed to stop laughing. In part because he was done; in part because of what he started thinking about in order to explain his ‘you’re fucked’ comment. “Have you met the prosecutor yet?”

  Brunelle shook his head. “No. I came here first. I need a local attorney to sponsor me. Matt said you’d do it.”

  Dombrowski nodded. “Oh, I will. But it won’t help you any.”

  Brunelle wasn’t sure what that meant. “Why not? Do they not like you or something?” He could definitely think of some defense attorneys he didn’t like. Then again, he could think of some prosecutors he didn’t like either.

  “No, they don’t like me at all,” Dombrowski replied with obvious pride. “I don’t play their games. They’re dirty, the whole lot of them. And I call ‘em on it.”

  “Dirty?” Brunelle replied. He knew what Dombrowski was alleging; he just had trouble believing it.

  “Yup,” Dombrowski replied. “The elected D.A. is Tom Kincaid. Wants to be governor someday. Best way to do that is to make sure everybody knows your name. Best way to do that is to be in front of the cameras as much as possible. Best way to do that is to charge sexy cases, no matter how weak the evidence is or how innocent the defendant is.”

  Ah, thought Brunelle. Dombrowski was a ‘true believer.’ All prosecutors were dirty. All defense attorneys were heroes. All defendants were innocent.

  He nodded and said, “Oh,” in a way that he thought would suggest he believed Dombrowski. Apparently not.

  Dombrowski laughed, but it was mirthless. “It’s okay. Don’t believe me. But you’ll see.” He leaned onto his desk and folded his thick hands in front of him. “Let me ask you this: is your girlfriend’s ex innocent?”

  That, Brunelle realized, was one hell of a good question. “I don’t know.”

  Dombrowski shook his head. “Well, you better figure it out, Dave,” he said. “But guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Even if he is innocent. Even if you can prove he’s innocent, you’re fucked. Kincaid never dismisses cases.”

  Brunelle shrugged. “I don’t dismiss too many cases either.”

  “You’re not getting it, Dave,” Dombrowski pressed. “You know your client is innocent. Your girlfriend wouldn’t have asked you to defend him if he wasn’t.”

  Brunelle wasn’t so sure of that.

  “But it doesn’t matter,” Dombrowski went on. “They don’t care. Kincaid has a murder case and he’s going to get a murder conviction, evidence and ethics be damned.”

  Brunelle was beginning to bristle at the attack on his particular branch of the profession. “Just because a prosecutor pursues a case vigorously doesn’t make him dirty.”

  “It does if the defendant is innocent.”

  “Well, that doesn’t happen very often,” Brunelle replied. “It’s not supposed to anyway.”

  Dombrowski grinned sardonically and leaned back in his chair again. “How many innocent people are in prison right now, Dave?”

  Brunelle shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Dombrowski nodded. “Exactly. You don’t know. But do you know what your answer should have been? It should have been, ‘zero.’ There shouldn’t be any innocent people in prison, but there are. And it’s because of prosecutors like Kincaid. Like that guy in North Carolina who went after the lacrosse players. Like the guy who put that football player away for five years for a rape he didn’t commit. Don’t even get me started on the death penalty.”

  Dombrowski shook his head, a deep frown creasing his thick features. “I remember Matt. He was a good guy. It sounds like, talking to you, he still is. But Kincaid isn’t. And you’re fucked.”

  Brunelle exhaled deeply and tried to take in what Dombrowski was saying with both an open mind and a grain of salt.

  “You’re one of us now, Dave,” Dombrowski said, “For your client’s sake—and your girlfriend’s—you better start thinking like it.”

  Chapter 5

  The San Francisco County Courthouse was actually called the ‘Hall of Justice.’ Like the Superfriends’ headquarters. Brunelle had always liked the Superfriends. But with Dombrowski’s words still echoing in his head, he actually wondered whether he was going to like the prosecutors whose offices—along with the San Francisco P.D., the county medical examiner, and even the county jail—were housed inside the famous art deco structure that filled an entire city block. He even let himself wonder whether these prosecutors were actually seeking justice, at least for his client.

  He’d known overzealous prosecutors before. Every office, every organization, has its jerks. His office was no exception. Neither was the public defender’s office or the bench. But it was easier to tolerate an intransigent, ‘no deals’ prosecutor when he was on the same side of the table as you.

  Brunelle stepped through the front doors and queued up for another pass through the metal detectors. He could see this trip was going to involve a lot of humiliation and body cavities. To that end, he refastened his belt and walked over to the elevators, steeling himself for the reception he fully expected from the San Francisco D.A.’s office.

  The receptionist for the prosecutor looked a bit different from the one employed by Dombrowski. She was probably just as young, but her hair was straight and shoulder-length, she had no visible tattoos, and her make-up was barely noticeable. She also wore a conservative dark suit and a minimum of appropriately shiny jewelry.

  “Hello,” she greeted Brunelle as he entered the lobby. “Can I help you?”

  Despite his current role, he felt far more comfortable than he had in Haight-Ashbury. “Yes. I was wondering if I could talk to the prosecutor assigned to the Jeremy Stephenson murder case.”

  She smiled as if she knew which case he was talking about—she might or she might not, there were a lot of cases in San Francisco—and then asked the obvious question.

  “And how are you related to the case?”

  The answer would direct her response. If he were the detective, he’d likely get full access to the prosecutor. If he were family of the victim, he’d at least get a Victim Advocate to come out to the lobby to see what his questions were. If he were a reporter, he’d probably get the run-around. And the defense attorney? He’d probably get some shit.

  “Actually, I’m a prosecutor from Seattle.” When that succeeded in raising the young woman’s eyebrows, he followed up, ambiguous
ly, “It’s a long story.”

  Both of those statements were true, even if entirely misleading when joined together in that order in response to that question. He almost enjoyed it.

  “Oh, okay,” said the receptionist. “Just a moment, sir. What’s your name?”

  “Dave Brunelle. Thanks.” Then he quickly took a seat in one of the faux-leather chairs in the waiting room.

  A few minutes later, a young man in a dark suit with short brown hair and fashionable glasses opened the door and greeted him. “Mr. Brunelle? I’m Jim Westerly. I’m the prosecutor on the Stephenson case. You’re here all the way from Seattle? I didn’t know there was any Seattle connection.”

  Brunelle stood up and shook Westerly’s hand. “Oh, there’s a Seattle connection, all right. You got a few minutes?”

  Westerly grinned, realizing something was going on. “Sure,” he said anyway. “Come on back.”

  *

  “So, wait,” Westerly interrupted half way through Brunelle’s explanation. “You’re going to be Stephenson’s defense attorney?”

  Brunelle shrugged. “I’m afraid so.”

  Westerly ran a hand through his fine brown hair. “Wow.”

  Don’t say I’m whipped, Brunelle thought.

  He didn’t. Instead, he nodded and stuck out an appraising lower lip. “Okay. Well, great. Maybe that’s a good thing. You’ll get where we’re coming from on this. Excuse my French, but your guy’s fucked. Have you talked to him yet?”

  Brunelle shook his head. “No. First stop was my local associated counsel. Then here. I’ll talk to him next.”

  Westerly offered a cautious grin. “Who’s your local counsel?”

  Brunelle could guess this wouldn’t help gain any trust, so he tempered it with an explanation. “My boss, the elected D.A. up in Seattle, knew a guy in law school. Andy Dombrowski.”

  “Dombrowski?” Westerly half laughed, half spat. “That guy? Oh my. Well, you’re in for one hell of a ride, Mr. Brunelle. Did he tell you we’re all dirty?”