Panther's Prey

by Lachlan Smith

  “You’re sure about Mauldin?” he finally asks.

  I nod. “I’m sure.”

  “And you’re positive the cops aren’t going to charge him as an accessory to murder?”

  “We have no proof Hastings was the one who killed her. He didn’t confess.”

  Lawrence sips his bourbon, then wipes his mustache. “I’m glad you can tell me stuff that’s bothering you. It’s good to know we have that kind of relationship.” He hesitates. “Something bad could happen to this guy Mauldin, you know. Maybe a lot worse than having to write a big check. You think having to open his wallet to Jordan’s daddy is enough?”

  “Not even close,” I tell him. “But, satisfying as it might be, it’s not my job to punish the man.”

  “That’s what I thought. I just wanted to make sure. Stay true to your principles.”

  Lawrence leaves crisp twenties on the bar. Dot’s expecting him. Whatever their problems might have been while they were abroad, they’ve seemingly patched things up. Having money must help.

  These days, he seems to have plenty.

  Not a night goes by without dozens of arrests, people plucked from their homes, from their cars, but most of all off the streets. Most probably need to be arrested, but many just are in the wrong place, of the wrong skin color, at the wrong time. Some are hardened but many are scared, homeless, addicted to drugs and alcohol, caught in the hustle like rats on a wheel. The system dehumanizes equally all whom it catches.

  I often think of Jordan. I can no longer remember what her body felt like against mine in the dark, except when she returns to me in dreams.

  What remains after the gut punch fades is my certainty that Jordan would’ve gone on doing this work. She’d never have turned cynical, and she’d never have taken out her frustrations on her clients. She’d have fought for them day after day, brushing aside the inevitable defeats, choosing the side of the least powerful among us against the blind power of the state that seeks to destroy the lives of all who get caught in its machinery, which repays harm with harm in an endless cycle that doesn’t deserve the name of justice.

  Each case is a new case, but each case is also the same case.

  Because of her, I’m proud to call myself a public defender.

  Only, it can’t last. The ultimatum comes when I least expect it. I’m in jail to meet a client when the guards bring in another man. I’m about to inform them of their mistake when he gives me a look that shuts my mouth.

  The deputies gone, the inmate tells me, using short, rehearsed-sounding sentences, about the details of my niece’s life. Carly’s preschool, the names of her teachers. The books on the shelf beside her bed. Descriptions of her stuffed animals. What she eats for breakfast.

  “What’re you wasting your time in the public defender’s office for?” the man asks next. “You could be making real money, buy that sweet girl some pretty things.”

  Bo Wilder’s name isn’t mentioned.

  It doesn’t need to be.

  No threat is made.

  But that afternoon I put in my two-week notice, giving as my explanation that I intend to return to private practice. I don’t tell my brother and father the real reason, but they must guess. My brother looks at me sorrowfully, probably thinking I’ve at last consented to the inevitability of corruption.

  He’s wrong, but I can’t tell anyone that for now. I’m biding my time, hoping for the opportunity to make everything right.

  In the meantime, I do a brisk business representing Wilder’s foot soldiers, pleading out men who don’t need me to remind them not to talk. For now, I’m not asked to perform any unethical acts, or to do anything illegal. But I know it’s only a matter of time. One of these days, I’ll get the midnight call, the bag of cash I’ll be expected to hold until the right person comes to retrieve it. When that day arrives, I’ll be ready with a plan to save my family.

  If such a plan exists.

  If my family wants to be saved.

  For Carly’s sake, I tell myself, they must.

  Acknowledgments

  I’m grateful to Otto Penzler for believing in this series—and for continuing to support it. Without him, Leo Maxwell would still be a figment of my imagination. Michele Slung, my top-notch editor, has saved me from embarrassments and improved these books in more ways than anyone can know. I’m indebted to the team at Grove Atlantic, especially Allison Malecha, Peter Blackstock, Deb Seager, Charles Rue Woods, Julia Berner-Tobin, and Paula Cooper Hughes, along with others who’ve worked behind the scenes. I’m still awed that Gail Hochman, my amazing agent, stuck with me for years before I ever published a word. Many thanks to Matt DeClaire for website help.

  My good fortune from the people named above pales in comparison with the love and support of my dear wife, our parents, our extended families, and our children. Thank you and my love to all.