Defending Pacer

by TJ Hamilton

  “Sounds like something I could handle.” Brad pouts femininely. “Tell me more.” He nudges my side.

  “Will you two stop it? First of all, you know my rules about intimacy with clients. Second of all, he is all kinds of bad, and that’s being generous.”

  I ignore their giggles as I almost gulp my Collins gin cocktail. I pray that the ice-cold drink extinguishes the burning in my chest. After two hours in an initial consultation with Pacer Fratelli, my mind and body are holding their own courtroom debate. My head knows how wrong he is, but his arms, the tattoos that cover them, his chest, his wicked smile, and leather gloves … Who knew men’s gloves were so hot? He floods the receptors in my brain that differentiate good from bad.

  Sienna and Brad’s voices slowly drone out as I think about the crime scene photos and Sean Collins —Pacer’s victim: a headless body covered in burn marks and deep cuts. I’d never be able to un-see the autopsy photos that identified who he was, and it was Pacer Fratelli who did that to him. The body was found on a boat that was set on fire. Sean Collins bought that boat from Pacer only three months prior. His DNA was bound to be all over the vessel. But what makes this worse is Pacer isn’t denying it. He’s a ruthless murderer, and now it is up to me to keep him from going to prison. How am I meant to prove to the courts, prove to society, that he will not cause harm to anyone when he clearly has no regard for human life? Nor does he seem to hold an inch of remorse for his actions.

  But I know there’s more to him. His dark eyes spoke to me. They mainly wanted me to undress, but there’s something in me that wants to protect him. There was a look in his eyes when I spoke harshly to him. He listened to everything I had to say. It made him seem almost vulnerable. I want to keep him on the right side of the law, so that I can get to know him a little better.

  My God, what am I thinking? Why do I even feel like this?

  “Earth to Chelsea?” Brad tilts his head and frowns. “Where were you just then?”

  “Sorry. This case is just very intense. I’ve never led something as big as this on my own before. If I win, I think they’ll offer me a partner position.”

  I draw back on the remainder of my drink until it makes a bubbling sound in the empty straw. I can’t drink it quick enough.

  “You’ll be fine. They wouldn’t have given you this case if they didn’t think you could handle it.” Sienna always soothes my ego.

  “That’s the thing—I think they have thrown me in the deep end to test me.”

  “Well if you don’t want Mr Mobster, hand him over to me.” Brad winks.

  I shake my head and smile. “Honey, Mr Mobster is likely to cut your head off if he hears you say that.”

  Brad breaks into fits of laughter. “I don’t know if that excites me or scares the hell out of me.”

  I know the feeling.

  “I think I might head home. There’s a ton of evidence to sift through before I’m due in court in the morning. I have to adjourn the bail hearing as it is.”

  Getting up from my seat, and say my goodbyes. I’m against the clock with this matter. I have a feeling that the next twelve months of my life are going to be absorbed by this guy. I think he’s going to keep me very busy.”

  ***

  As soon as I get in the door of my terrace apartment, I kick off my black work pumps, pull at my bun and shake my hair out. With my head failing to stop thinking about my bail hearing tomorrow, I decide to start by finding the best precedence to use to keep Pacer out of remand. I know why the partners have given me this case. I’m blonde and a woman, so I’m a soft touch that will appeal to the jury during the trail. The magistrate, on the other hand, may be harder to convince—and that’s who I’m dealing with tomorrow to get a two week adjournment. The change of council in the representation of Pacer should be enough to convince the magistrate to approve it. I don’t know why Pacer changed his legal representation when he’s had Michael Hangcock represent him for years.

  I note that Jackson Reed is the crown prosecution on the case. He always goes with the same legislation at bail hearings. The lazy fool.

  I’m sure Pacer wouldn’t do anything stupid when there’s a million dollars riding on him to behave. But these gangsters seem to have very little respect for money, or human life … or the law, for that matter. They are a law unto themselves. If he doesn’t toe the line, my unblemished reputation in the courtroom will suddenly take a step back. And I am not about to let that happen; I’ve worked too hard for this.

  But if I win, I get everything I want.

  I pour myself a glass of the week-old wine from the fridge and sit down at the coffee table, spreading out all of the police fact sheets and textbooks on legislation, together with the cases that hold precedence. As much as I can afford the luxuries of expensive wine, I just don’t have the time for it, so this vinegar shit will do. I wince at the sour taste when I take my first sip, but by the second gulp I can drink it without cringing.

  Paciano Salvatore Fratelli, it reads across the top of his dossier.

  I look at Pacer’s dozen pages of criminal history and bite down on my pen, something that’s quickly becoming a habit since meeting him. Biting my pen seems to diminish the heat from rising out of my underwear. Must be the leather gloves.

  I pick up one of his first charge photos. Boy, was he young. He’d been in and out of juvenile detention five times on serious charges before he had even become a man. I wonder what kind of childhood he must have had to be so involved in criminal activities at such a young age? I look at his photo again and try to find some answers in the two-dimensional image.

  I set aside the photos with their respective charges, ready to stick up on my corkboard for a timeline.

  Taking another sip of my wine, my mind wanders to the image of his muscular arms that burst from the rolled up sleeves of his white shirt, the tattoos that I could see across his forearms, and the way the shirt clung to his round chest. Every time I looked up at him I could just make out the shape of his erect nipples beneath the layer of fine cotton. Then when he took his glove off, finger by finger … fuck me! I think that was what I was literally thinking when he did that. Him fucking me with that leather-clad finger.

  Sweet baby Jesus!

  A spark of electricity shoots across my body with every image, and my nipples harden against the lace of my bra. I brush my fingertips across them and feel a pulse throb down between my thighs. I wonder what he looks like with his shirt off, and another pulse shoots across me. I slide my hand down the front of my skirt and into my underwear and push against my yearning clit. I rub over it and pulse again. Images of Pacer Fratelli’s seriously seductive smile floods my mind as my hand eases my burning desires for this forbidden fruit. My pebbled nipples beg to be touched and I squeeze them lightly as I imagine Pacer’s tongue flicking across them. I push my fingers hard against myself and just wish it were he, about to drive into me. There is something carnal about my desires for this man, and I am incapable of stopping them. His dominance both scares me and excites me. I felt my heart race when he sniggers. I know how dangerous he is, but there another side to him that I see. I slide two fingers inside, and my internal walls grip tight in a sensual embrace, welcoming the their touch. His smile flashes before my eyes again, and his obnoxious laugh sends me over the edge.

  Pacer Fratelli is so bad, but the fantasy of him is sublime. I would never, could never be with someone that is so heavily involved in criminal activity, but the very thought of him … it does this.

  What the hell is this?

  It’s all too much, and my feverish hands make quick work of my thirsty urges. Fuck, I need to get over this, quick smart. My orgasm pulses deep and spills out across my body in pounding spasms.

  My face fills with an instant burn, and a prickly heat springs across me. Perspiration beads glisten on my skin like tiny crystals. I catch my breath and slip my hand out of my underwear. The sudden excitement of Pacer, trapped in my mind, has made light of my yearning to just get laid
. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me? I just need a solid fuck. God knows how long it’s actually been. Four, no five … I can’t bring myself to think of how many months it’s been since a man has found his way into my bed.

  My poor little puss; she’s so neglected. I give her two pats and laugh at myself.

  Those damn leather gloves. I blame them.

  I run my free hand through my hair to blow out at the wet strands that have stuck around my lips, and I grab my glass and gulp the remainder of my week-old wine, before flopping back against the couch to collect my thoughts.

  Seriously though, what the hell was that?

  Pacer Fratelli is my client! A dangerous client. A client I know is a murderer.

  I can’t feel like this, but I do.

  His smile flashes before my eyes again. Oh my God, would you just leave me the hell alone? I punch my fists down onto the chair on either side of me.

  I strip down as I head to the shower, peeling off each layer as if I’m shedding skin and discarding the clothes on the floor with an angry slap. My body is still abuzz post-assault, but at the same time I am pissed off. These thoughts have no place in my mind. They can fuck right off.

  A after a good talking to myself in the stream of the cold shower, I throw on my old university sweats, ready to see my night out in front of the coffee table … and all things Pacer Fratelli.

  Dangerously hot Pacer Fratelli.

  Gah!

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Your honour, my client has not had a charge against him since two thousand and ten, and he is the sole caregiver for his elderly mother. He has strict conditions on his release and a million dollars riding on his bail. Clearly, he is not a risk to the city.”

  The judge is still not impressed; I can tell. His nostrils always flare when he’s pissed off. Damn it! He looks to the prosecutor on the bench next to me.

  Jackson Reed, newly appointed member of the Queen’s Counsel, and all-round asshole. I had the unfortunate experience of graduating law school with him more than ten years ago. Dirty money has paid for his career. Guys his age don’t make QC. I’ve had to claw my way through courtroom battles with him my entire working career. We seem to have mirrored each other, but on two completely different paths. The difference is, I know there has been dodgy deals set up behind closed doors, and he still has never come out on top with me. The guy will never learn. Two weeks into Pacer’s studying investigation and I already feel like Jackson is too involved in this case when he shouldn’t be.

  Jackson gets out of his seat and leans across the bench, arms out wide, fingertips spread with an air of arrogance. “What Miss Tanner has failed to mention during her well-trained speech is that her client is also wandering around our city with a charge of murder on him. This is not some minor matter; this is going to be a trial for someone’s intentional death—someone who is missed by his family because he is dead. Although I’d love to say this may be resolved quickly, and Paciano Fratelli will be sentenced to being behind bars where all murderers belong, we all know that won’t be the case. His trial is going to take some time. Time means he can, and most probably will, reoffend. His records show he has little regard for authority, and the only reason he’s been let out at all is because his criminal associates have posted the ridiculous asking price of a million dollars for his release. This is a high-profile case, your honour, and we are treating it as some joke. A man is dead because of Miss Tanner’s client.”

  Jackson sits back in his seat as if he has won the debate, but I don’t let his ass hit the chair before I rebut.

  “My esteemed colleague has forgotten that the trial is yet to be held, so all the allegations he mentioned are just that. None of the evidence has been tested, your honour. As far as our legislation suggests, my client is not guilty of any such accusation until your court has correctly established all the findings.” Judge Nolan’s eyes do not shift from me. Not even for a moment. “My client is taking this charge very seriously and will be fighting every allegation against him. A million dollars is not pocket change, your honour. Not to anyone. My client will be adhering to all the conditions set to him. If you ask me, Mr Reed seems to be acting as judge, jury and prosecution. Your honour, his tone seems far from impartial. Perhaps he has taken this case for personal reasons, not professional?”

  I turn to face the cocky fuck and flash him a look of triumph. “Wasn’t it the Legano’s who were accused of planting a bomb in your car, Mr Reed? An allegation that was thrown out of this very court.” Jackson’s jaw clenches. Swallow that, asshole.

  Judge Nolan’s eyes narrow in my direction. I know I’ve got Jackson on that technicality. I bite at the smirk within me as Judge Nolan looks down at his paperwork and scribes away. His expression is non-emotive.

  “Bail remains granted, all conditions to continue as listed, with the addition of Mr Fratelli to report to police, daily. An ankle monitor is to be fitted within twenty-four hours. Hearing adjourned until July the twenty-fourth. A new QC is to be appointed to the prosecution for this case. That is all.”

  Two loud thumps from the judge’s gavel sees the first hurdle over with. Pacer is still out of prison. I gather all the paperwork that’s spread across the bench in one swoop and shove it into my brown leather bag. I’m more excited than I should be about telling Pacer the good news. Both Jackson and I wait standing while Judge Nolan exits the courtroom. We both bow to the code of arms above the judge’s chair as he leaves.

  The moment the magistrate’s little door is shut, I make a dash for the exit at the back of the room but am stopped when Jackson catches my arm. “What do you think you’re playing at, Chelsea?” His eyes are wide and wild. “You think you’re some hot shot now that you’ve got these pieces of shit bank-rolling your income? You are running with the wrong bulls, girl.” His grip slightly loosens and he shakes his head. “It’s a shame. I thought you were a good girl. Guess I was wrong.”

  I pull my arm from his grip and stare into his brown eyes. He would be handsome, if I didn’t know him. His jaw is wide and sharp, and his features are similar to Matt Damon’s—all clean-cut and respectable looking. But he’s a dirty player, both in the courtroom and out.

  “This is work, Jackson. Do I need to remind you of that again? You’re losing your grip. Ever since your car bomb scare, you’re hell-bent on putting the Legano’s and everyone associated with them behind bars.”

  “Because they are all criminals, Chels.” He says my name through gritted teeth.

  “Let’s leave that up to the courts to decide.” I continue towards the door without so much as a glance behind me.

  “I really thought more of you. You had so much to offer back in university.” I hear him call just as the door swings shut.

  I know you thought more of me, asshole. You told me every time you’ve been drunk, and tried hitting on me … since university.

  Scratching at my hair through my barrister wig, I pull my phone from my purse and scroll through it to find Pacer’s newly added number. Stupid, itchy horse hair wig. The damn thing always itches the hell out of me. Our courts have such annoying traditions.

  CHELSEA: Mr Fratelli, I have some good and bad news. Meet me at my office in half an hour? – Chelsea Tanner.

  PACER: Busy with my ma until noon. How about I meet you at my Uncle’s restaurant on Stanley Street? We can eat some good Italian food while you give me the news.

  I smile at the message. Why am I smiling? This is business. I write the reply and close my eyes while I press send.

  CHELSEA: I know the place. See you there at noon. –Chelsea Tanner

  PACER: You don’t need to keep reminding me who’s sending the message Chelsea

  Still smiling, I put my phone in my bag as it buzzes again.

  PACER: And please call me Pacer.

  Stop smiling. You’re a professional barrister –Chelsea Tanner.

  ***

  As I walk into the restaurant, a short, typically olive-skinned Italian man in a chef’s u
niform comes out from behind the bar. His smile is both warm and welcoming; his arms open wider than the Christ the Redeemer statue in Brazil, ready to greet me.

  He leans in and kisses me twice, once on each cheek. I always forget Italians do this, so the second kiss is awkwardly stuttered as usual.

  “You must be young Pacer’s new lawyer, eh?”

  I look around the empty restaurant and nod bashfully, the heat of my embarrassment about to take over my cheeks.

  “He said a beautiful blonde would be coming in at noon to see him. You’re cosi bella and it’s noon on the dot.” He winks. “Bravo. Very efficient.”

  The jovial presence of the tubby man quickly rubs off on me and my tense shoulders relax a little. The idea of seeing a client outside the office has me unusually wound up. It’s not the first time I’ve had a meeting with a client at a restaurant, but there’s never been the added feeling of God-knows-what that’s currently rolling around inside me. The amount of times I’ve masturbated over Pacer since our initial consult over two weeks ago is a new record for me. The images of his tattoo-covered body have been perfect for my spank-bank material. I try my hardest not to allow the heat of my silent obsession spill out over my cheeks. This is the first time I’ve seen him since then, so I don’t know how cool I can really play this.

  Pacer has similar features to his high-profile Uncle, however unlike Pacer’s lack of care when it comes to his criminal vocation, his Uncle now claims to be out of the game, quietly running the restaurant.

  “I’m Carlo, Pacer’s Uncle.” He smiles as he directs us out of the main room and down the stairs that lead to the cellar.

  The restaurant is renowned for having part of its dining in the old cellar down below. Dust particles rest upon some of the older, more expensive wines within the extensive collection. The cellar is like a rabbit warren of rooms with white-clothed tables and walls of wine bottles.