by Parnell Hall
Praise for Parnell Hall’s Steve Winslow Mysteries
“Highly entertaining courtroom drama.”
—Publisher’s Weekly
“Scenes out of court are good, but those taking place in court are superb.”
—Associated Press
“Flashy and great fun.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Remindful of Perry Mason at his best.”
—Abilene Reporter News
“Brilliant courtroom scenes.”
—Drood Review of Mystery
The Innocent Woman
Parnell Hall
Copyright © 1993, 2011 by Parnell Hall (writing as JP Hailey)
Published by Parnell Hall, eBook edition, 2011.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-936441-30-3
ISBN (ePub): 978-1-936441-31-0
Cover design: Elizabeth DiPalma Design
For Lynn, Justin and Toby
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Books by Parnell Hall
1.
STEVE WINSLOW FROWNED. “What’s the charge?”
Tracy Garvin pushed the long blonde hair off her forehead. “That’s not the point.”
“It may not be the point, but it’s certainly relevant. What’s the charge?”
“You have to understand,” Tracy said. “This is a respectable young woman. It’s hard to imagine her being accused of anything. I think as soon as you see her, you’ll agree that—”
“What’s the charge?”
Tracy took a breath. “Petty theft.”
Steve smiled. “I’m not surprised.”
“Oh?”
“If it were serious, you’d have said so. The more you stalled, the more trivial it had to be.”
“If you’ll just talk to her,” Tracy said.
“About a petty theft?”
“That’s not the point.”
“So you say,” Steve said. He leaned back in his desk chair, cocked his head. “Tracy, one of your chief jobs as my confidential secretary is to keep stuff like this from crossing my desk. I don’t have a normal law practice. I’m not looking for clients. If an offer I can’t refuse comes along, fine. But aside from that I have only one client. I’m administering Sheila Benton’s trust fund. Not a particularly demanding job, but mine own. I am not actively seeking trail work. Particularly a case involving petty theft.”
Tracy Garvin took her large round framed glasses off, folded them up, put her hands on her hips.
“Uh oh,” Steve said. “The glasses off routine? I’m guess I’m in trouble now.”
“Damn right you are,” Tracy said. “I don’t need a lecture on your law practice. I mean, give me a break. It’s me, Tracy. I know what you do and don’t do.”
“Then you know I wouldn’t touch this.”
“You took the Kelly Blaine case.”
“That was different.”
“How was it different?”
“She was naked.”
Tracy’s eyes blazed.
Steve held up his hand. “Sorry. Withdrawn. I don’t want to get into it. The point it, that case was unusual.”
“How do you know this one isn’t?”
“A petty theft?”
“All right, look,” Tracy said. “You say my job’s to listen and weed ’em out. Well, I listened and I’m bringing you this. If you don’t trust my judgment, what’s the point?”
Steve sighed. “All right, what’s the case?”
“I’d rather you heard it from her.”
Steve grinned. “I’m sure you would. If I’m going to see her, I want the background first. What’s the basis of the charge? What is it she supposedly stole?”
“Money.”
“From whom?”
“Her employer.”
“And how was this alleged theft accomplished?
“She’s accused of taking money out of petty cash.”
“The petty theft of petty cash,” Steve said. “Great. And you’d like me to get this woman out of jail?”
“She’s not in jail. She’s in the outer office.”
“She’s not in jail?”
“You know that,” Tracy said impatiently. “I told you she was here to see you.”
“Right,” Steve said. “Sometimes attorneys ask a question to which they know the answer just to make a point. So, I’m not dropping everything to get this young woman out of jail—she’s not in jail. Tell me, when did this crime occur?”
“About a month ago.”
“Is that when she was arrested?”
“That’s right.”
“She’s been arraigned for petty theft?”
“Yes, she has.”
“What was the disposition of the case?”
“She was bound over for trial and released on her own recognizance.”
“Why doesn’t she have a lawyer?”
Tracy hesitated a moment. “She has a lawyer.”
Steve’s eyes widened. “Oh?”
“A court appointed lawyer. She had no money to hire one, so court assigned counsel.”
“Really?” Steve said. “So, at her arraignment the judge bound her over for trial, released her on her own recognizance and assigned her counsel. Am I to assume he also set a court date?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And when might that be?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
Steve’s grin became broader. “So,” he said. “The young woman is charged with petty theft. She’s been arrested, arraigned, given a court date and the trial starts tomorrow. She has a court appointed attorney representing her, and she has no money with which to hire any other. And you would like me to hear her case?”
“That’s right.”
Steve Winslow shook his head. “I can’t beat logic like that, Tracy. This is almost irresistible. By all means, show the young woman in.”
2.
AMY DEARBORN WAS AN ATTRACTIVE young woman, with short dark hair, curled under and framing a face that at first glance appeared as innocent as a newborn babe.
All except the eyes, which were calculating and shrewd.
For Steve Winslow, who had grown adept at sizing up prospective jurors, that was his first impression—that Amy Dearborn was a young lady motivated by self-interest, and
perfectly capable of taking care of herself.
She wasn’t one to mince words, either. “You don’t look like a lawyer.”
Steve Winslow smiled. Indeed he didn’t. He and Tracy both wore jeans around the office, since they had no clients to impress. Today he was also wearing sneakers, blue T-shirt, and brown corduroy jacket. That, coupled with his shoulder length hair, didn’t really conjure up the image of a lawyer.
“Then we’re even,” Steve said. “You don’t look that much like a thief.”
Amy Dearborn’s chin came up. “If you’re a lawyer, we’re not even,” she said. “Because I’m not a thief.”
“I understand,” Steve said. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“Nothing much to tell,” Amy said. “My boss says I took some money and I didn’t.”
“Some details might help,” Steve said. “For starters, who’s your boss?”
“I work for F. L. Jewelry. On 47th Street.” She jerked her thumb. “Just on the next block.”
“What’s F. L. stand for?”
“Fletcher and Lowery.”
“They’re partners?”
“That’s right.”
“Which one is accusing you?”
“Frank.”
“Frank?”
“Mr. Fletcher.”
“Frank, is it?”
Amy’s eyes narrowed. “No, it isn’t. It’s a small firm. Everyone’s on a first name basis.”
“I see.”
“There’s nothing between me and Frank Fletcher.”
“I never said there was.”
“Don’t give me that. You said, Frank, is it? Implying there was something going on. Well, there isn’t. And I resent the implication.”
“Noted,” Steve said. “May I assume the same is true of Mr. Lowery?”
Her eyes widened. “Marv? Are you kidding? Of course not.”
“I see,” Steve said.
Her face darkened. “Just what the hell’s going on here? I’m accused of a crime. All you can think of is sex.”
“I’m sorry if I gave that impression,” Steve said. “But in any crime, the basis is the relationship of the people involved. So if you don’t mind, could you tell me something about these two men?”
She took a breath. “Marvin Lowery’s in his forties. He has a wife and, I think, three children. He’s always been a perfect gentleman, never made a pass at me, if that’s the way your mind’s running.
“Frank Fletcher’s, a little younger, say in his thirties. He’s unmarried and he’s asked me out a couple of times. I didn’t go.”
“Why not?”
“I happened to be dating someone at the time.” Amy Dearborn took a breath. “Now, if you’re through with my personal life, would you mind if we talked about the case?”
Steve Winslow shot an amused glance at Tracy Garvin. “Not at all,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“There isn’t much to tell. I came to work one day last month. Monday morning. There was a man in the office.”
“A man?”
“A detective.”
“Police or private?”
“Private. I didn’t know it at the time. The man flashed an I.D. at me, asked me if I was Amy Dearborn. When I said I was, he asked me to empty my purse.”
“Did you?”
“I did not. I asked Frank and Marv what the hell was going on. Frank said there’d been a robbery. Marv said he knew I didn’t do it, but would I please cooperate with the detective and help clear it up.”
“Did they tell you what had been stolen?”
“Not then.”
“What did you do?”
“I emptied my purse.”
“What happened then?”
“The detective went through my billfold. I had eighty some dollars in it, mostly twenties. The detective whipped out a notebook, started comparing the twenties to that. He whistled, called Frank over, Frank took a look and called the cops. They came and arrested me.”
“On what grounds?”
“Two of the twenty dollar bills from my purse matched the serial numbers the detective had written in his notebook.”
“And the detective had planted those bills in the petty cash drawer?”
“That’s right?”
“When was that done?”
“Friday afternoon. I’m accused of taking a hundred dollars out of petty cash when I left Friday night. The forty dollars I had Monday was supposedly what I had left.”
“I see,” Steve said. “On the basis of that you’ve been bound over for trial?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I believe you have counsel? A court appointed lawyer?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then why do you need me?”
“Because I don’t trust my lawyer.”
Steve Winslow put up his hand. “Just a minute. That’s what I was afraid of. Let me tell you, it’s perfectly natural not to trust a court appointed lawyer. Happens all the time. But just because a lawyer’s doing pro bono work doesn’t mean he isn’t any good. I’ve done it myself. So I could just as easily be that lawyer you don’t trust. You see what I mean?”
Amy shook her head impatiently. “Don’t be dumb. I’m not a prejudiced moron. I was perfectly happy with my lawyer up until this morning.”
“What happened then?”
“He called me up. I thought it was just to prepare me for court tomorrow. But no. Seems he’d had a call from the A.D.A.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” Amy said. “My lawyer’s all pleased with himself. Said we wouldn’t have to go to trial at all. The prosecution was willing to settle.”
“For what?”
“Plead guilty to a misdemeanor and they let me off with a thirty day suspended sentence, no probation, no fine.”
“I see,” Steve said. “Miss Dearborn, why are you here?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You have a very capable attorney who’s gotten you a very advantageous deal. The attorney isn’t costing you a dime. The deal isn’t costing you a dime. And here you are, trying to hire me. I don’t work for nothing. Even if you had the money to retain me—which you don’t—I’d be hard pressed to come up with a better deal than you already have. All in all, I don’t see why you don’t take it and tell yourself you lucked out.”
Amy’s eyes blazed. “Oh, is that your opinion? Great deal, huh? Gee, I thought you’d be different. Guess not. You know the problem with the deal? I didn’t do it. I didn’t take the money. Now, maybe it would make everybody’s life a lot easier if I just said I did. But why should I? And why should I be grateful that someone’s not gonna fine me and send me to jail? What sort of bullshit is that? If I lie and say I’m guilty, I’ll be forgiven and I won’t be punished? Great. I’ll have a nice blot on my record. Have a hell of a time getting another job. Unless I lie on the application, say I’ve never been convicted. That would be pretty neat, huh? Two lies adding up to the truth. Until they find out about it and I’m out on my ear.”
Amy paused for breath, looked up at Steve Winslow. “Well, how about it,” she said. “Is that what you think I should do.”
Steve sighed. “No, I guess not.” He chuckled, shook his head ruefully. “Oh dear, what a mess. It appears the only stumbling block here is you’re innocent.” He shrugged. “Too bad. Be a hell of a lot easier if you were guilty.”
3.
JUDGE DALRYMPLE COULD FEEL a headache coming on. He looked down at A.D.A. Pearson and frowned. He had understood this matter was going to be settled. Yet here before him stood the prosecutor. And at the defense table sat the defendant, with not one but two attorneys, her regular court appointed lawyer and a long haired young man in corduroy jacket and jeans.
Judge Dalrymple rubbed his brow. “People vs. Amy Dearborn,” he said. “Mr. Pearson. Do I understand you are ready to proceed?”
“Yes, Your
Honor.”
“Is the defense ready?”
Amy Dearborn’s lawyer, a clean cut, earnest-looking young man stood up. “Your Honor, I am as you know the attorney appointed by the court to represent Miss Dearborn. At this time I ask to be relieved of that responsibility.”
“On what grounds?”
“Miss Dearborn no longer wishes my services. She has discharged me and retained another attorney.”
“And who would that be?”
“Mr. Steve Winslow, present here in court.”
“I see,” Judge Dalrymple said. “Miss Dearborn?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Have you heard what your attorney said?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Is what he said substantially true?”
“Yes it is, Your Honor.”
“You no longer wish him to function as your attorney?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“You wish to be represented by Mr. Steve Winslow?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Very well,” ,Judge Dalrymple said. “You are excused.”
The attorney nodded his thanks, gathered up his briefcase, and left.
Judge Dalrymple smiled. Maybe this wasn’t so bad/after all. “Mr. Winslow,” he said. “May I ask when the defendant first approached you in this matter?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“I see. I would assume you would need time to prepare. Under the circumstances I would be inclined to grant any reasonable continuance you might ask.”
“I don’t want a continuance, Your Honor.”
Judge Dalrymple frowned. “You don’t?”
“The defendant has been accused of a crime. There is no foundation for the charge whatsoever, and I see no reason for her to walk around with a cloud over her head. I want her vindicated now. The defense position is, call the jury and let’s go.”
The dull ache behind Judge Dalrymple’s temple was becoming more pronounced. He turned to the prosecutor. “Mr. Pearson?”
The A.D.A. frowned. “Your Honor, I had anticipated the defense would want a continuance.”
“Well, they don’t,” Judge Dalrymple said shortly. “So let’s get on with it. Bailiff, bring in the jurors and let’s go.”
There was a brief delay while fifty prospective jurors were brought up from the assembly room downstairs, ushered in, and seated on the benches in the back of the courtroom.
At the defense table. Amy Dearborn turned to look. She whispered to Steve Winslow, “So many. Why so many?”
