One to Save

by Tia Louise

  Another, equally large black guy is sitting hunched over his plate of shit. Beside him is a skinhead white fellow just as big as he is. In the next seat is a smaller, wiry guy with sallow skin and a black buzz cut.

  “Who’s the little guy?” I say, turning back.

  “Reverend Moon. Rev for short.” Chairman leans back and a look of admiration passes over his face. “Don’t cross that little fucker or you’ll end up in a sling. Or worse.”

  Taking another sip of OJ, I look at the man in front of me then I look around the room where we’re sitting. “This is central lockup. We’re not in prison, there’s no culture here. How do you know so much?”

  He’s off defense, and his chest deflates slightly. “You’re a rookie.” Shaking his head, he acts so wise. “You’ll see when you’ve been around a while, it’s one big circle. Maybe you get out... Well, you’re never getting out, but maybe Rev gets out. He’s just a habitual drug offender. He’ll be back. After a while, we know you. And you know us.”

  His eyes laser into mine, and I nod. “Badass.”

  “Or pussy.”

  Without another word, he stands and takes the tray off the table in front of him. I watch as he goes, thinking this is my life now. I might not like it, but I’d better get ready.

  * * *

  Stuart sits across the glass from me, holding a phone. My partner’s dressed in a brown tweed blazer over a white shirt, no tie. He’s also wearing jeans. I mentally wonder what it is with the Knight brothers and suits.

  “How you holding up?” His brown-hazel eyes assess me through the glass.

  “Apparently I’m a badass.”

  A short laugh, and he shakes his head. “I could’ve told you that. Anybody giving you trouble?”

  “Nah, just the usual shit you’d expect.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I’m sorry you’re in here, brother. You killed a worthless piece of shit. You did the world a favor.”

  Shaking my head, I don’t let that continue. “I broke the law. Now it’s a matter of whether I’ll find mercy or whether I’ll stay here for the duration.”

  “I’m meeting with the prosecution tomorrow morning,” he says. “They’re going to try and make the case for why you should stay, but we’re ready to fight it. Melissa got you one of the best lawyers in the country, from what she claims...”

  “Elaine’s brother.”

  “Right. Do you know him?”

  Shaking my head, I look down at my hand. “Only by reputation.”

  “He’s flying out here tonight. We’ve collected everything you put together on Sloan—good work, by the way—and with Melissa’s evidence, we should be able to build a strong case for ‘defense of others.’”

  My eyebrows rise. “I hadn’t considered that.”

  “You can thank my little brother,” he laughs. “Seems you’re not the only college graduate in the office.”

  “If you weren’t so busy playing soldier, you’d have finished college.”

  “Somebody’s got to defend our country.”

  It’s our old banter, and it takes my mind off the shit I’m living with now. The America private citizens wonder if we should worry about defending. The America they’d rather kill. My mind drifts to the nighttime. The things I miss most.

  “Can you get me a picture of Melissa?” I ask, looking down at my hands. “When they arrested me, I only had my phone, which they confiscated.”

  “Of course.” He nods. “You got it.”

  “And one of Dex.”

  “I’ll get them to you tomorrow. Tonight if I can.”

  We’re quiet a moment, and I can’t help saying what’s on my mind. “She has to go on record with what happened to her.” Wincing, I look down at the Formica space between us. “She never wanted anyone to know. She wanted to put it behind us.”

  “Look at me.” Stuart’s voice is sharp, and when I glance up, his brow is lowered. “Melissa is more determined than I’ve ever seen any woman. She’s not angry or backing down. She’s doing whatever it takes to get her man home.”

  “Yeah,” I say through an exhale. “Because of what I did.”

  “You did what you had to do.” His tone is more emphatic, and I can’t stop the label that floats across my brain: Badass. “We’re doing what we have to do. Keep your spirits up. It won’t be long.”

  * * *

  Dinner. I’m in the line, holding my tray as a blob of what appears to be pulled pork is dumped on it. Turning away, I’m faced with a cafeteria full of men waiting to be convicted, sentenced, and either let back out into the population or sent to prison.

  Two young guys who should be in college joke and laugh as they take their seats. An old man who looks too weak to do anything significant passes. He’s probably the worst offender of all, preying on those weaker than him. Then my eyes land on the table in the back, the group of thugs waiting to see if I’ll join them.

  I was a Marine. I took an oath. Now I’m one of these guys, a convict trapped in a holding pen while the system either succeeds or fails. Clenching my jaw, I start toward the same spot where I had my lunch earlier, where I’ve had every meal here alone. I’m not a pussy, but I’m not a thug. I might be a badass, but I’m not joining the ranks of the repeat offenders.

  Nobody speaks as I take my seat, but I feel Chairman’s eyes follow me. Regardless of what happens outside with Stuart and the rest, I’m on the inside, and I have to establish my identity. Here it is.

  Chapter 14: The Case

  Stuart

  Pacing my hotel room, I study the photographs I printed off at the drugstore earlier. One is Melissa looking up from where she’s sitting on the beach and smiling. The breeze is swirling her long hair back, and her sunglasses are pushed up on her head. I nod. It’s a good one.

  Flipping it back, I have one of Dex. Melissa texted it to me. It’s from his birthday party, and he’s hugging Derek, climbing into his lap with a big smile. The last is the one from his condo. I’ve seen it in a frame there dozens of times. Melissa, again, forwarded it to me. They’re perfect—loving and sweet—they’ll keep his spirits up, remind him of home, help him remember why he has to get out.

  It’s late or I would take them over tonight. Instead, I’ll run them by first thing in the morning before I meet with the prosecutor. My phone buzzes, and I slide my finger across the face.

  “Stuart here.”

  “It’s Marcus,” the male voice says. “Just checking in about tomorrow. I’m pretty sure we have all we need.”

  “Did you get Melissa’s evidence.”

  “It was on my computer when I got to the hotel.” He pauses, and I hear him struggling for words.

  I help him out. “It’s tough stuff.”

  “I’ve never met Derek Alexander.” His tone is serious. “I don’t usually take cases where I haven’t met the client. Her photograph changed my mind.”

  “We’ve got a pretty sound case for defense of others.”

  “If we can get around the premeditation and entrapment allegations.”

  “Entrapment would be stronger if it’d happened on the first night. In terms of when it happened, Sloan propositioned her. He was offering her a job, giving her a trial run.”

  Marcus exhales a laugh in my ear. “You’d make a good lawyer.”

  “I just know my friend.” My stomach is tight, determination burning in my chest. “He doesn’t belong in prison. If he made the executive decision to take this guy out, it was the right call.”

  “Only he wasn’t at war. He was at home, a civilian, committing a crime against another civilian.”

  “Defense of others.”

  “If that fails, we can go with objective reasonableness.” I hear pages flip in the background. “Derek was licensed to use deadly force. He didn’t work as a cop, but he was trained as one. He was also a decorated commanding officer, responsible for leading troops. His judgment should be without question.”

  “It’s not the most popular defe
nse right now.”

  “Still, it should gain more sympathy than an abusive suspected murderer who was in the process of trying to kill an escort while Derek was in the next room.”

  Adrenaline surges in my veins. “I feel like we’ve got a strong argument.”

  “I was going to suggest bringing Patrick in to testify, but at the moment, they have Derek acting alone.”

  “He’ll do whatever it takes to help get Derek out.”

  “I’m thinking of my little sister. If this doesn’t go well, I’d rather not be the asshole who put her husband behind bars.”

  My fist clenches, and I look at the clock. It’s after ten. “They did the right thing. I’m holding onto that fact.”

  “I’ll meet you in jail.”

  Hanging up, I pace the room again. Bennett had better keep his ass far away from here. If I ever cross paths with that traitorous sonofabitch, I’ll kill him.

  * * *

  A suit isn’t my dress code of choice, but today’s business calls for a professional image. Tough, no bullshit. I skip the tie in favor of a black dress shirt unbuttoned at the top. Sliding the cuffs forward, I fasten the top button on my grey herringbone two-piece. I’m shaved, and my hair is brushed neat. I look like I’m in fucking Oceans 11.

  It’s a far cry from jeans and Carhartt jackets, breaking horses on my uncle’s ranch in Montana, sleeping by a campfire under an endless sky, holding Mariska’s body next to mine as the winter wind rages outside that small cabin on the plain. Damn, I miss that.

  I give the king suite where I spent the night one final sweep. Marcus is bringing all the paperwork. I have the photographs I’ll leave at the desk for Derek. It appears I have everything I need. Door card in my pocket, I head out to face this day.

  When I agreed to return to Alexander-Knight, I never expected my first case to be fighting a murder rap against my best friend. I came back unsure what direction I wanted to take. Derek said I could have some time to find what interested me. One week back, and I’m fighting to keep him out of prison, going head to head against a life-sentence for murder facing experienced prosecutors. I haven’t been in a pre-trial conference in ten years. Turning my Silverado into the parking lot of the state correctional facility, I consider if this keeps up, I’ll have to trade my truck in for a sedan. Not happening.

  Marcus is at the jail when I arrive, and he’s dressed in dark-grey sharkskin holding a black leather messenger-style satchel.

  “Interesting,” I say, nodding at his suit.

  “It’s my favorite for defending murderers,” he says with a smile. “Classic Rat pack.”

  “Where the hell did you find sharkskin?”

  “Brooks Brothers.” He nods at me. “Armani?”

  I shrug. “Louis Vuitton.” I didn’t grow up on a horse ranch. I just prefer it to this.

  I pass over the envelope containing the photographs Derek requested while Marc fills out the check-in form. I’m next, then we empty our pockets before going through the metal detector. On the other side, Marcus holds his arms up as the security guard pats him down. It’s like going through airport security, but worse. No cell phones in jail, no devices of any kind. If something goes down, we’re stuck here just like every other criminal in the joint.

  “I spent half the night going over all we’ve got,” he says under his breath, as we follow the guard down the corridor. “Sloan Reynolds has no family, no dependents, and his company doesn’t want his shit coming out.” His eyes meet mine, and he nods.

  I smile and nod back. “You’re the best, right?”

  “That’s what I hear.” We pause outside the door before facing the prosecution.

  * * *

  We enter the small conference room and each shake the hand of the prosecutor, a solemn-looking African-American gentleman.

  “Earl Mason,” he says, taking a seat across the table from us, files spread out before him. “I’ve reviewed the case against Derek Alexander, and I have to say, it looks pretty open and shut.”

  Dark eyes glance up at us, and I can tell he’s not finished. “Your client willfully and of sound mind murdered Sloan Reynolds. He said so right here in his confession. As far as I can tell, we have every reason to expect a conviction for first-degree murder.”

  Marcus places his satchel on the table beside him. “Quite a bit is left out of that confession, which is why we’re here today.” I watch as he pulls out three thick files.

  “And you are?” A salt and pepper brow lowers over Earl’s eyes.

  “Marcus Merritt, attorney for the defendant.”

  “I haven’t seen you around the courthouse before.” He scrutinizes the man beside me, but I don’t even sense a tremor from Marc. “Are you licensed to practice in the state of Maryland?”

  “If necessary, I will associate local counsel for trial, but we don’t think a trial will be necessary.” Marcus answers with a swagger that makes me wince. This old man is not one to fuck with.

  The prosecutor holds his gaze a beat longer before returning to the documents in front of him. “We’re here to informally discuss resolution of the pending charges against Mr. Alexander before pretrial discovery and trial preparation begins. I’ve told you what I have. What do you have?”

  Sliding the first folder across the table, Marcus begins. “My client is, and was, engaged to the ex-wife of the deceased.”

  “That doesn’t exactly help you.”

  Marcus pauses, and his expression grows stony. “Until you see what’s in that folder.”

  We wait as Earl opens it, watch his brow line as he peruses Melissa’s evidence. “What is this?” he finally asks.

  “Miss Jones divorced Sloan Reynolds after he beat her to the point documented in that photograph.” A pause, and I feel my partner collecting himself. “That battery followed her discovery of his penchant for prostitutes.”

  A slow inhale, and our opponent closes the folder. “Was this incident reported to the police?”

  “No.” Marcus’s voice is grave. “But she has a witness that can corroborate her story.”

  “It’s weak, but I’m still listening. You’re describing a conviction for second-degree murder, a crime committed in the heat of passion. It carries a ten-year sentence with at least five to be served. Do you have anything else?”

  Another manila folder crosses the divide. “The defendant was in the process of building a case against Sloan Reynolds when the crime occurred. In this folder you will see evidence, including photographs almost identical to Miss Jones’s, of a woman Reynolds assaulted, Jessica Black. My client had reason to believe Reynolds murdered Miss Black.”

  Again we wait while the prosecutor evaluates the files in front of him. His lips tighten as he turns page after page. “Is any of this on the record?”

  “Miss Black did file a police report for battery, which is how we obtained that photograph of her beaten face.” Marcus’s fingers cross as he folds his hands. “She later backed down from pressing charges. She didn’t name Reynolds in her case, but we have evidence that she was in Baltimore as his escort when the crime occurred.”

  A few moments pass, and the attorney across from us puckers his lips as he thinks. “So Mr. Alexander took the law into his own hands. Voluntary manslaughter.”

  No one speaks for a moment.

  “So there’s more. Okay, Mr. Merritt. What’s behind Door Number Three?” His eyes are on the last folder Marcus holds.

  “It’s the heart of our defense of others argument.” He slides it across, and the older man takes it. “Inside you see a photograph of the victim dead, and in his pocket is a pair of thong underwear.”

  “I hope this is relevant.”

  “We are in possession of that undergarment and believe if it’s tested, you will find Reynolds’s DNA on it.”

  “And?”

  “You will also see photographic evidence of one Star Brandon, a high-class hooker Reynolds was... servicing at the time my client acted in defense.”

  T
he prosecutor seems bored at this point. “How is this evidence?”

  “As you can further see in the photograph, Ms. Brandon’s neck and torso are bruised and battered. Reynolds was in the process of strangling Brandon to the point of death when my client was compelled to use deadly force to rescue her.”

  “Sloan Reynolds was unarmed at the time of death. Deadly force was not required. Three to five years, one year in prison less time served, the rest on probation.”

  In that instant, Marcus’s tone changes, and I hear why he’s the best. “We’re not letting our client spend one more night behind bars. We want him out now. He’s a decorated veteran, a former commanding officer, a member of law enforcement, respected Ivy League professor, and a leader in the security field. He had objective reason to believe the only way to stop Sloan Reynolds’s pattern of abusive murder was to take him out in the line of duty. Sloan Reynolds was a low life using his family’s money to fund his lifestyle of abuse and cruelty to women. I think we’ve got as solid a case as we need, sir.”

  Silence falls over the conference room. The clock ticks slowly, and mentally I’m standing, spiking the ball, and doing the Harlem Shuffle all at once. On the outside, we’re as cool as the minute we walked in.

  Earl sits back and sighs. “As you may know, no one has come forward to press these charges on behalf of Mr. Reynolds’ family or friends. Only one party seems genuinely interested in the possibility of a conviction.”

  My insides are tense, and I sense Marcus preparing to hear him out. I can’t believe anybody would have anything good to say about Sloan.

  “Mr. Reynolds’ company took out a sizable life insurance policy on him. The insurance company has been reluctant to pay because of the appearance that Mr. Reynolds might have somehow committed suicide, since he was alone and there was no recorded cause of death. In which case they do not have to pay.”

  “Makes a difference,” Marcus says with a nod.

  “On the other hand, if Mr. Reynolds were murdered, the company stands to get a double recovery under the policy.”

  “Double indemnity.” Our attorney half-smiles.

  “What is this?” I say.