Mercy (A Neon Lawyer Novel Book 2)

by Victor Methos

  But few prosecutors would give up this case. Kevin looked as though he wanted to fight, but he glanced back to someone in the courtroom: his boss, Vince Dale. Vince shook his head, and Kevin swallowed before saying, “The State rests, Your Honor.”

  “Very well. Ms. Becker?”

  “Nothing from the defense.”

  “Alright, before I read the juror instructions and send them for deliberation, I assume the defense has a motion?”

  “I do, Your Honor.”

  “Bailiff, clear the courtroom, please.”

  The bailiff, a large man with red scars on his face, rose and announced, “All rise for the jury.”

  Molly stood up, as did Lee Olsen. He glanced back at his wife and smiled as the jury was led out of the courtroom. When they were gone, Molly said, “At this time, the defense makes a motion for a directed verdict. The prosecution has not presented enough evidence to pass even a probable cause standard, much less beyond a reasonable doubt. They simply have not met the elements of this offense.”

  “Well,” the judge said, “they passed probable cause at some point, since the case made it to trial.”

  Molly grinned. A different judge had previewed the evidence in a preliminary hearing to determine whether there was enough to prove the prosecution’s case. Most prosecutors avoided giving the defense the opportunity to cross-examine the victim by submitting written statements from the victim in lieu of the victim’s testimony at prelim. Here it had backfired. If Michael had come to the preliminary hearing and testified, they could’ve had a video of him testifying and pointing the finger at Lee to play for the jury. Instead, they had old written statements that no longer seemed relevant.

  “Your Honor,” Kevin began, “even with—”

  “Mr. Renteria, you’re not seriously going to argue that this should go to the jury, are you?”

  He swallowed. “Not now, no.”

  The judge was silent a moment. “Okay, well, I’m granting the defense’s motion and finding the State has not provided enough evidence on the elements of the case to prove to me the jury should deliberate on the matter. Your case is dismissed, Mr. Olsen. You’re free to go.”

  Some members of Lee’s family celebrated by clapping and hollering, particularly his wife and father, but not Michael. He hugged his mother, who stared with venom at Lee and led her son out of the courtroom. Lee tried to hug Molly, and she pushed him away.

  “That was lucky,” he said.

  “Lucky my ass,” she whispered. “Did you threaten that little boy?”

  “What? How could you even ask me that?”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Lee. Did you threaten him?”

  He chuckled. “You did your job and got your fucking money. Our shit is done.”

  Lee walked back to his family and received hugs and backslaps, then sauntered out of the courtroom as if he owned the place. Molly crossed her arms and leaned against the defense table. A couple of spectators remained, including Vince Dale. He grinned and came toward her, asking Kevin in passing, “How the hell did you not know he was going to change his testimony?”

  Kevin shrugged.

  “I’ll deal with you later,” Vince said. He turned to Molly and smiled widely as she gathered her things.

  “Nice job,” Vince said.

  “It is what it is.”

  “You know he probably threatened that boy’s life, right? Maybe he said he would rape his younger siblings if he didn’t change his testimony.”

  “There’s no evidence of that.”

  Vince chuckled and held out his arms, gesturing at the courtroom. “Since when does a courtroom have anything to do with evidence?”

  Despite his abrasiveness and reputation for over-aggression—and some would say corruption—Vince and Molly had always gotten along. They were both people who had risen from nothing and made what they wanted to make of themselves. No one had given them handouts, and they molded the world around them to what they wanted it to be. They had never discussed this openly, but the understanding was there between them, unspoken and respected.

  “You know, I called your office last week. You never called me back,” he said.

  “I know. Sorry, just busy.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said with a mischievous grin. “I think you know what I’m going to offer you, don’t you?”

  “I have to go, Vince. I’ll talk to you later.” She stopped. “Why didn’t you let him finish? He had four other witnesses.”

  Vince shook his head. “There would be no point, and I would’ve paid four other witnesses’ expert fees. The first boss I ever had as a prosecutor, a drunk hillbilly from Tennessee, taught me the best philosophy a prosecutor could have: if the victim don’t care, we don’t care.”

  He smiled as she brushed past him and left the courtroom. Outside, Lee and his family were laughing and joking. She didn’t see Michael anywhere near them.

  10

  Brigham sat in the courtroom waiting for a bailiff to arrive and unlock the back room reserved for clients to speak with their lawyers. Brigham wasn’t looking forward to seeing Ted in handcuffs and a jumpsuit.

  The bailiff came in and opened the door, calling Brigham’s client out to see him. Ted came out into the small corridor where Brigham was standing. He’d only been in jail three days, but he looked worse, trembling and pale. It might have been Brigham’s perception of him because he knew what the man was going through—the conditions he was living in, the terror from the other inmates who were all younger and stronger, the horrid meals, and the even-worse sleep that sometimes wouldn’t come at all because of the fear of what his cell mate, or a guard, would do to him while he slept. Ted tried to appear brave, but to Brigham he looked like a man lost in a desert with no water in sight.

  “I visited your kids,” Brigham said. “They’re doing okay.”

  “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

  Brigham nodded, glancing away. “You know, they can’t be on their own. Eventually a neighbor or someone will call DCFS and they’ll take them into state custody.”

  “Why? Monica’s almost eighteen.”

  “Until then, they’re just kids. Even when she turns eighteen, she has to show she has the ability to provide for and take care of them.”

  Ted thought for a moment, the look on his face fading to a deep melancholy. “Will they be together?”

  “I don’t know. If a foster family will take all three in. Otherwise they’ll be separated.”

  Ted shook his head. “I can’t believe I put them through this.”

  Brigham couldn’t look him in the eyes, so he looked down at the thin file he held in his hands. Ted’s file held nothing but a new-client intake sheet and a few notes. “Today’s an initial appearance. We discuss bail and release, then we’ll set it for a preliminary hearing.”

  He nodded. “Okay. Have you been paid?”

  “Yes, your father called and paid with a credit card, thank you.” He hesitated. “I don’t think the judge is going to lower bail today, Ted. I think you’ll be stuck in jail unless you can come up with fifty thousand dollars.”

  “I would have to use the money I set aside for my kids, and I’m not going to do that.”

  “If you’re out, you could work. I don’t know how long this case is going to take. If you’re in jail, I’d have to hurry everything. I can either do a good job or a fast job, but usually not both.”

  He nodded. “I understand. If you think it’s for the best.”

  “Let’s have that be a last resort. First I’ll see if I can convince the judge to lower the bail.”

  Brigham stepped back out into the courtroom. A line of attorneys filled the seats behind the defense table, ready to call their cases. Brigham stood against the wall, as there wasn’t room to sit.

  The cases went slowly, and Brigham did almost nothing but stare at the clock. An hour and ten minutes later, it was his turn at the lectern. “Ted Montgomery, Your Honor.”

  Judge Kathleen
Macdow called, “Montgomery, number twelve on the calendar.”

  Ted was brought out and stood next to Brigham. He seemed out of place, in the wrong environment. He couldn’t even stand without displaying the deep fear he was no doubt feeling.

  The judge continued, “We’re here for an initial appearance. Counsel?”

  “Judge,” Brigham said, “bail is currently set at half a million bondable. We ask that it be lowered to something more reasonable. My client has no record and deep ties to the community, including three children.”

  The prosecutor, who was covering initial appearances today and someone Brigham hadn’t seen before, rose. “Your Honor, he is accused of killing his wife. Frankly, I think the children are better off. And half a million on a murder case is not unreasonable. In fact, it’s lower than usual.”

  “I would remind the court that Mr. Montgomery hasn’t been convicted of anything yet,” Brigham said halfheartedly. The truth was, the State didn’t need a conviction. Accusing people was enough to ruin their lives, and even judges assumed guilt during the bail phase. “Also,” Brigham continued, “the allegation is that Mr. Montgomery’s wife was dying of incurable cancer, and this was a mercy killing. My client is not a danger to anyone in the community.”

  “I’m keeping bail where it is,” the judge replied. “Preliminary hearing before Judge Lawrence on… April fourteenth at two.”

  “That works,” Brigham said. “If I may be excused, Your Honor.”

  “You may, thank you.”

  Brigham turned to Ted. “I’ll call your father and see what we can do.”

  Ted nodded, scanning the audience, probably for his children. The bailiff grabbed his arm roughly and said, “Eyes forward.”

  “Hey,” Brigham said, “take it easy.”

  The bailiff gave him a stern look and yanked Ted away. Confronting the bailiff had been a rookie mistake. They couldn’t do anything to the attorneys, so the bailiff would take out his aggression on Ted.

  Brigham left the courtroom and headed for the elevators. He stopped in front and checked his phone. Several potential clients had called, and the discovery on Ted Montgomery was in his inbox.

  11

  The courthouse was too loud. It was shaped like a dome, and everything echoed, including the people shouting bids at the real estate auctions in a corner on the bottom floor. Brigham went outside and sat on the steps facing State Street, where he opened and read Ted’s file.

  It held nothing surprising. His wife, Ruby, had been suffering from cancer for more than a year. Her nurse and several doctors had been interviewed, and Ted had asked all of them if there was anything they could do to alleviate her pain. One of the oncologists had told the police that Ted had asked him point-blank to end his wife’s pain. When he refused, Ted told him it was cruel of him to deny her.

  Brigham’s biggest question was where the morphine had come from, and the police had been unable to answer it other than guessing that it had likely come from the hospital pharmacy. He didn’t know much about how hospital pharmacies dispensed medications, particularly opiates, but he guessed getting them wasn’t as simple as just asking for them. Prescriptions were probably forged, although there was no record of it. He made a note to find out where the morphine had come from and how Ted got hold of it.

  Unfortunately, Ted had given a full confession, which had been recorded. Brigham would have to get that later. But the detective’s summation pretty much covered it all: Ted had gone through every detail of how he’d hooked up the morphine to her drip and how he’d brought his kids up to spend time with their mother as she died. He said several times that it was peaceful and that she had finally found some comfort. It was clear Ted didn’t feel he’d done anything wrong.

  Brigham’s guts were tied in knots, and he had to take several deep breaths to relax himself. Reading the details of the morphine and how Ruby had closed her eyes and how her breathing had slowed dredged up something he hadn’t thought about in a long time. It threw him off, and he didn’t like that.

  He checked the time on his phone. He had to be in West Jordan for a hearing on a shoplifting case. He retrieved his bike and headed for the train.

  By six in the evening, court was finished, and all the potential-client calls had been returned. More paperwork still needed to be completed and more motions drafted, but Brigham didn’t feel like doing that right now. Right now, he needed a drink.

  The Oatmeal Pub near his apartment was rarely occupied by more than a few people at a time. They served little more than beer but had more than two hundred varieties. Brigham ordered the first one that looked appealing, a brown sugar oatmeal stout, and drank by himself at the bar.

  The dark amber fluid swirled with bubbles, and he watched the froth as it bubbled over the mug and onto the slick bar. The sheer number of bars in Salt Lake had been a surprise to him when he’d moved here from Louisiana. Utah was seen as being dominated by the temperate Mormon faith, but he’d found downtown Salt Lake had more bars per mile than anywhere near his law school of Tulane in New Orleans.

  He pushed the mug away when it was still half full. As it turned out, the beer wasn’t what he had come here for. The solitude was what he had needed. For so long, he had fought to get where he was: a partner in his own law firm, in demand, and in court every day. Now that he had it, it seemed like nothing but more effort.

  The work was enjoyable for the most part. The majority of his clients were normal, everyday people who had made mistakes. There were some gangsters and sex offenders of course, who couldn’t or wouldn’t change for anything, but by and large his clients were decent people who had done bad things. The surprise was how many of them came back to him. Even within a year, he was seeing the same names over and over again. People who just couldn’t change their behavior to follow the laws. The question was what to do with them, and he didn’t have an answer.

  “Scotty said you’d be here.”

  Rebecca sat down next to him. She pushed up her glasses and put both hands on the bar, glancing over the bottles of beer set up in front of a mirror.

  “It’s quiet, and nobody really comes here.”

  “Nobody as in lawyers and judges, you mean?”

  He nodded, playing with the coaster his mug sat on. “I don’t like talking about law all the time. I need time away from it.”

  “Well, you’re not gonna like this, then: a reporter from Channel 2 wants to interview you about Ted Montgomery.”

  “No. Definitely not. Tell them ‘no comment’ for right now.”

  “Can I ask you something? It seemed like you didn’t want to take that case. Every defense attorney in town is jealous, according to Scotty. You should be psyched.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not.”

  “Why?”

  Brigham rose and laid a five on the bar. “How was your first day?”

  She grinned. “That sensitive, huh?”

  “Something I’d rather not talk about. But on the subject of Ted, I’d like you to do the case with me.”

  “Really? I’m, like, brand new.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I always interview the jury after a verdict. Two separate cases we won, both Scotty’s cases that he did with me, the jurors said they were impressed that we had two lawyers on the case. So now I try to have two attorneys at the table on the major cases.”

  “Well, I’m flattered to be a prop already.”

  He grinned. “Just be at the office early so we can watch the interviews.”

  As he was walking out, he heard Rebecca order a mixed drink. The men in the bar were eyeing her, but she didn’t seem to notice. He turned and left. The DA’s office should’ve been nearly empty by now.

  12

  The Salt Lake County District Attorney’s Office took up several floors of a skyscraper in the heart of downtown. Numerous law firms, accounting firms, and investment companies shared the building, and it had the air of being expensive office space rather than a government building.

 
; Brigham rode up to the fifth floor. The receptionist was still there, but most of the staff, he knew, checked out at five p.m.

  “Hello,” she said behind bulletproof glass. “Who are you here to see?”

  “Whoever is handling Ted Montgomery. Homicide at the Matheson. I’m the defense attorney on it.”

  “Hm,” she said, checking her computer. “Looks like that’s Debra Flynn. I’ll buzz her.”

  She pressed a button on her phone, and Brigham went to look out floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the gym across the street and the investment bank across from that. Cops, prosecutors, defense attorneys, and witnesses were still coming in and out of the building even though the office was closed, for all intents and purposes. The county’s DA office filed more cases every year than the rest of the DA’s offices in the state combined. Though Salt Lake was a medium-sized city, the crime rate was growing to that of a large city.

  “She’ll see you now,” the receptionist said. “I just need your Bar card.”

  Brigham handed it over and was buzzed into the offices. The receptionist led him to an office tucked away in a corridor with a painting of Salt Lake fifty years ago hanging in it.

  A woman he had seen in court several times but had never spoken with sat at a large desk, a wall of glass behind her with a view of the setting sun.

  “Thank you,” he said to the receptionist as he stepped inside the office.

  He didn’t see any dust anywhere in the office, no decorations on the walls, and the law books on the shelves were glistening. The windows were spotless, even more so than those in the lobby, and the desk shone, buffed to a high polish. The room smelled of lemons.

  “Please sit,” she said, not looking up from her computer.

  Brigham sat and waited quietly as she finished typing what looked like an email. When she was through, she closed her browser and leaned back in the chair. A slight smile parted her lips, and Brigham smiled back.