Courting Disaster

by Carol Stephenson

  How could longing for what we once had hurt as much as if we had just broken up? Maybe I was experiencing the pain as fresh because I couldn’t remember the first time.

  I drew in a deep breath to steady myself. “Even though I know a car T-boned me, I keep seeing a room with a bald, frightened man. Weird, huh?”

  Jared’s grip tightened like a vise and I cried out. “What do you remember?” he asked. “Have you regained your memory of the night you were shot?”

  “Hey, you’re hurting me!”

  His hold eased but his expression was intent.

  The image of the man slid into place. “He was my client, Borys Dolinski. You never found his killer.”

  “Or the bastard who shot you.”

  The barely suppressed frustration in Jared’s voice surprised me. Did he still care for me?

  Had he once loved me?

  Uh-uh, tricky questions about love were the last thing I needed to confront right now. Golden rule of examining a witness on the stand: never ask a question to which you don’t know the answer.

  “Wasn’t I with Borys in a secure conference room at the jail?”

  “You could be the Natasha to my Borys,” a man’s voice joked in my head. “Just like that cartoon ‘Rocky and Bullwinkle.’”

  Jared ran his fingers through his hair. “Yes, but the security camera had been disconnected. Whoever the hit man was, he was familiar with the layout of the detention center.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill Borys? He was an accountant being charged with money laundering. If I remember, the state’s evidence was shaky at best.”

  A knot of tension eased in me. My memories weren’t completely mashed together. I knew Borys’s case.

  Jared didn’t move a muscle, but I could sense his intensity just revved up a notch. “We were talking about a deal.”

  “Please listen to reason, Borys. The prosecution can protect you. Give you a new identity.” While urging the frightened man, I leaned across the table.

  “No one can protect me. I’m already a dead man,” he replied with quiet resignation as he looked over my shoulder.

  Then what? I couldn’t remember.

  I wrapped my arms around my legs and pressed my throbbing forehead against them.

  “I should take you to the hospital,” Jared said with a hint of desperation in his voice.

  “No, the doctor gave me some pain pills.”

  “You look like hell.”

  I raised my head and gave him a grim smile. “Gee, thanks, Manning. You always did know how to compliment a lady.”

  “Carling—”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Thank God,” Jared said as he strode to the door. He opened it to let in my anxious-looking friends Nicole and Kate.

  Kate reached the couch first and knelt beside me. “How are you?”

  Jared jammed his hands in his pockets. “Your pain-in-the-ass partner won’t let me take her to the hospital.”

  Nicole stood beside him. “I have to admit, Carling, you look like death warmed over.”

  “For the last time, I. Am. Fine.” I pronounced each word carefully. If my friends weren’t here to rescue me from Jared, then they could leave with him so I could indulge in being miserable.

  “Of course you are.” Kate rose, pulled out her phone and walked toward the kitchen. She spoke quietly into the phone so I couldn’t hear the conversation.

  “She’s confusing what happened last year with the present,” Jared advised Nicole.

  “What?” Nicole sat on the edge of the coffee table. “You’re remembering?”

  I hitched my shoulders. “Yes. No. Some.”

  “She called me at work.” A shadow appeared in Jared’s eyes. If I didn’t know better, I would have bet it was regret.

  “Don’t feel so smug, Manning. I called a lot of people…” My voice trailed off when I noticed his grim expression.

  “What is it, honey?” Nicole reached out to touch my shoulder.

  “Nothing.”

  “Now that you two are here, I’ll be leaving.” Jared brushed his hand over my head. “Nice seeing you again, Carling. Take care.”

  He’d patted me on the head like I was a dog or a distant relative. My throat burned and I felt the unfamiliar pressure of tears building.

  I would not cry. Not in front of him.

  I forced my lips to form a polite smile, worthy of Kate’s aristocratic “freeze in hell” one.

  “Thanks for coming. It’s been real. We must do it again—” I consulted the Dolphin football watch on my wrist, “—in, oh, say another thirty years.”

  Jared’s expression lightened and he laughed, his first real one. “Thank God, the old feisty Carling returns. I’ll see you on the criminal battlefield.”

  “Look forward to whipping your ass.”

  “That will be a cold day in hell, Dent.” He nodded at the others and left.

  Something heady buzzed through my blood. The thrill of competition, I realized and then relished the feeling. I remembered the scent of battle, the champagne fizz of victory, made all the sweeter when Jared was on the other side of the courtroom.

  My memory might be mixing the past with the present, but who I was remained rock solid: I was an attorney who right now could visualize my heel print on Jared’s backside.

  I smiled with relief.

  “Uh-oh, when you look like that, a poor sucker’s blood is about to be shed,” observed Nicole. “You must be feeling better.”

  “I am.” I wrapped mental fingers around my lawyer identity and held tight. As long as I had that, I would be all right.

  An hour later Kate and Nicole left. Despite their offer to cover my calendar for the next few days, I’d refused. I needed to be back in action. Besides, I knew neither one would appreciate the in camera evidentiary hearing scheduled in my rape case tomorrow.

  Cradling a mug of tea, I curled up on the sofa—whatever had possessed me to buy this uncomfortable rock?—and opened my case file. What my client Larry Clark wanted me to submit as a demonstrative model at trial was ludicrous, and the prior decisions by the Florida courts were clearly against the admission of such an exhibit. I needed to figure out how to distinguish the facts of our situation from those in the other cases.

  I frowned as I read the copies of case law. As I occasionally highlighted a line here and there, the squeak of the pen competed with the throbbing of my head in the silence of my house. I really should turn on the stereo for white noise, but before I could move, I heard the snap of a branch outside the living room window.

  I lifted my head. The plantation blinds were open and I could see the dark shadow of the solitary palm tree in the front yard. It was dead still.

  I rose and crossed to the window. High in the sky rode the sickle of the quarter moon, casting very little light. However, the Venetian-styled lamps placed at intervals along the street spilled an eerie yellow glow onto the lawn. The developer of this particular townhouse project had landscaped each yard with a profusion of tropical plants, especially along the front and sides of the homes. During the day the effect was attractive and colorful, but at night the plants created swaths of shadows.

  So much better for someone to hide in, my mind whispered.

  Get a grip, I ordered myself. But then the hairs rose on the back of my neck. I had an unsettling feeling, as if someone hidden in the night was watching me.

  Was that a shadow moving at the corner of the house?

  Br-r-ng!

  I about jumped out of my skin. Damn, that phone was loud. I shook off my uneasiness and hurried over to the phone on the end table.

  “Hello?” Good, my voice was steady.

  “Carling.”

  “Jared. Long time no speak.” Just breathe, kiddo. I sat down.

  “I wanted to…” His voice faded a bit as if he was on his cell phone.

  “I couldn’t hear that last part. Your phone cut out.”

  He cleared his throat. “I was about to ask yo
u something when your friends arrived.”

  “Sorry, but I truly don’t remember anything more about Borys’s death.”

  “Not that.” His tone was impatient. “About us.”

  “Us? According to you, we broke up.”

  “Do you remember why?”

  I stared at the opposite wall. We had fought here, I realized. In this room. There had been a heated argument. Hurtful things said. How could two people who once murmured terms of love end up using words like loaded guns?

  The break-up was why I had gone on a decorating binge, I remembered. I’d wanted to erase all memories of Jared’s presence in my life.

  “I recall that it was downright ugly.”

  There was a charged silence before Jared spoke. “Yes, it was. For that I’m sorry.”

  I curled my legs up. “Me too.”

  “I just didn’t know how to deal with the changes in you anymore.”

  “You accused me of accepting any criminal that called my number scratched on the wall by the phone in the jail.” Good, no hurt in my voice.

  Jared didn’t back down. “And that hasn’t changed, Carling. You’re still taking on cases recklessly, without a care for your reputation. You’re becoming the criminal version of an ambulance chaser.”

  Battle on. There’s nothing a lawyer appreciates more than the fine art of an oral argument with its nuances and turns of phrases. However, an occasional verbal slugfest in the trenches cleansed the soul, and I was spoiling for a way to get rid of the anger and fear churning inside me.

  “Gee, Manning, forget your oath as an attorney? Not only is a person presumed innocent until proven guilty, but the accused is also entitled to counsel.”

  “And I remember when you believed that being an attorney wasn’t a job but a duty to see justice served.”

  I opened my mouth to say I was doing exactly that, and then saw the case file on the sofa. A particularly nasty man accused of raping a teenager but who had paid a hefty retainer. Had I taken Larry Clark’s case without caring whether or not I believed he was innocent?

  No, the money wasn’t the reason. The victim’s identification was shaky. That’s why I had taken the case. I had to believe that.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Carling, but even more important than that, you should be disappointed in yourself.” Each word pelted me like icy pellets.

  “Attorneys who live in glass offices prone to corruption shouldn’t throw stones.” My contrition was immediate. During the years Jared had served as a prosecutor, no hint of scandal had ever rocked the state attorney’s office.

  Nor was it his fault that his law school buddy Harold Lowell, a U.S. Attorney and Kate’s former boyfriend, had taken campaign bribes. Jared even admitted that Kate had been right to turn Harold in to the authorities.

  “I’m sorry. That was a mud shot.”

  He replied with quiet resignation. “After we saw each other tonight, I thought there could be a chance we could be friends again.”

  The pain in my head faded in comparison to the pain in my heart. “Doesn’t seem to be possible. You think I’ve sold out on my principles, and I think you’re uncompromising on yours.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good night, Carling. You take care.” A click sounded in my ear.

  I replaced the phone, picked up the file and then dropped it back on the sofa.

  Had I become reckless with my clients and my life? On some level I had never gotten over Borys’s murder or the attack on me.

  But what good was reliving the past if I couldn’t change it or find answers?

  Chapter Three

  “Counselor, you can’t be serious.” From his chair behind the bench, Judge Mark Weller wagged his finger at me.

  I steeled myself for the argument. “Your Honor, one of our defenses is that it’s impossible the rape as described by the victim could have been committed by my client.”

  “Simply because of the size of his penis? That issue has been already decided by the appellate courts and not in your favor.”

  Sending a quick prayer to the god who protected criminal defense attorneys from the crazy notions of their clients, I uncovered the model that I had set on top of the table.

  “Here’s the model we seek to use as a demonstrative exhibit. I have the artist here prepared to testify that the model is in accordance with the exact dimensions of my client’s penis.”

  A gargled sound emanated from the bench, as the judge’s expression studied the model. I bet he could hardly wait to escape to the judicial version of the locker room. As I removed the photographs from a manila envelope, I had to admit my client’s dimensions were pretty unbelievable, the stuff of quadruple-X-rated movies.

  “Also, the defense requests permission to admit these photographs of Mr. Clark’s anatomy at trial. Unlike the prior cases on this subject, we are not requesting a public display of my client’s penis.”

  “That’s very considerate of you, Ms. Dent.” Judge Weller glared at me. “However, that one deviation is hardly going to save your request from being of dubious probative value or turning the trial into a voyeuristic peep show, thus confusing the issues for the jury.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see state prosecutor Andy Lopez grinning ear-to-ear. He could put his feet up on the desk for all that the judge was making his arguments for the state.

  “If I may approach the bench?”

  “Approach, both of you.”

  Andy came to stand beside me as I handed the judge the photos. “Your Honor, if you would notice—”

  “It’s hard not to, Ms. Dent.” The judge’s lips twitched and Andy made a strangling sound.

  With grim determination, I plowed on. “As I was about to point out, Your Honor, there’s a birth mark on the right side of my client’s penis. It resembles…” I drew in a deep breath. I must not laugh, I must not laugh.

  “It resembles a seashell.”

  “Oh, do you mean like a sand dollar or, given your client’s size, a conch?”

  Andy’s shoulders shook.

  I bit the inside of my mouth—hard. “No, Your Honor,” I managed to say, “more like the banded tulip. See how the mark bulges in the middle?”

  Andy reached out and gripped the edge of the bench.

  “I see. Counselor, this science lesson in mollusks is very educating but what does it have to do with admissibility of these photos?”

  “If you review the charging affidavit, the victim describes in detail how her attacker’s body was shaved and how he made her stroke his penis, but she never mentions a birthmark.”

  Suddenly, tension radiated in the room. Andy straightened and reached for one of the pictures while the judge scanned the affidavit with a serious expression.

  I cleared my throat. “The probative value of these exhibits goes to identification of my client being the assailant.”

  “So I see. All right. I rule that the model will be excluded on the basis of dubious probative value. I will, however, allow photographs, cropped to the extent that they show only the birthmark and the location of the mark on your client’s penis. Do I make myself clear, Ms. Dent? No sensationalism will be permitted in my court.”

  Victory hummed through my veins. “Crystal clear, Judge.”

  “Good.” The judge rose and left the chambers.

  I let out a long breath.

  “Didn’t see that ruling coming in a million years,” said Andy. “You’ve never lost your touch for sweet-talking judges.” Surprised at the bitterness in his voice, I glanced at him and saw that his jaw was set. As a public defender, I had tried a number of cases against him. Andy tended to be a sore loser.

  Particularly when it came to rape cases. Every criminal attorney has his or her hot button, and Andy’s was rapists. He never cut deals unless he absolutely had to. Once he had commented that he didn’t want to put the slime back on the streets unless he was certain vigilante justice would get the criminal.

 
Normally, though, outside the courtroom Andy was genial. With his blond hair and blue eyes, he epitomized the all-American guy. Once, when I had asked him about his last name, he had explained that his family came from a northern region of Spain where being fair was the norm. They had moved first to Cuba and then fled to America during Castro’s reign.

  He turned and stalked to his side of the table. I shrugged, crossed to my table and began packing up. My sleep hadn’t exactly been restful.

  “Carling?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Sorry for that crack just now. How about I make up for it by buying you a cup of coffee?” His expression was earnest. At one point, I’d thought he might be interested in me, but I’d never felt any zing with him. Unlike the way my heart sped up when I thought of Jared.

  “Sorry, Andy, perhaps another time. I’ve got a full schedule today.”

  “I heard about your accident,” he said. “I hope you’re all right.”

  “Nothing that two aspirin won’t cure.”

  I hitched the strap of my briefcase over my shoulder and picked up the box containing the model. “See you around.”

  Thirty minutes later I sat facing another good-looking all-American male. However, my client had a definite “ick” factor.

  While I’d never own up to it to Nicole or Kate, there were times Larry Clark made my skin crawl. Another blond man with blue eyes, but for the prison garb, my client was the clean-cut collegian every mother wished her daughter would marry.

  Unless the mother really looked into his eyes.

  If she did, like I was doing now, she would see the cold arrogance, the flashes of superiority he directed at the world in general and women in particular.

  I didn’t want to know what gang affiliation the ugly, violent tattoo of a dripping knife on his upper arm indicated he had. It wouldn’t be from a hood. No, his would be a hate affiliation.

  My client might not be guilty of rape, but I would lay odds that his sins were of the dark variety.

  He gave me a self-satisfied smile, one I always wanted to smack off his face. I’d noticed he reserved it for when we were alone, never in public. I hoped he maintained that policy—a jury could convict on the expression alone.