Defending Justice

by Adrienne Giordano

  Yep. DelRay and Associates just catapulted itself to the top of the hot-shot lawyers list.

  Josh glanced at the limo, then to Jackie. She jerked her head. “Our ride is here.”

  The limo door flew open, revealing her father in dark dress pants and a gray blazer. He slid across the seat and Jackie piled in to find her mother and brother on the adjacent seat. Mom wore her usual pantsuit, blue this time, with a white shell under the jacket. Her ash blond hair fell to her chin, the ends curling up a bit from the humidity. Even with the stray curls, her mother pulled off ‘poised and polished’. She’d built a career on that look.

  And she’d come to celebrate with her daughter.

  A huge win and now Jackie had her family. How good was life? She let out a squeal.

  Before the mob of reporters could flash photos, Josh shoved her over and slammed the door behind him. Jackie launched herself at her father, squeezing him tight as the limo lurched from the curb leaving the shouting reporters behind.

  “I can’t believe you came.”

  Her mother held her arms out. “A little bird told me the verdict was in. We wanted to be here.”

  “How did you get here so fast?”

  Her mother gave her a bored look. “Darling, I’m the Mayor of Philadelphia. I have a helicopter.”

  “Holy crap,” Josh blurted. “That’s cool!”

  Calvin, her PITA of a brother, held up his hand. “Hey, sis. Don’t mind me. I’m just along for the ride.”

  Always a smartass. That’s what coming from a family with three lawyers got her. “Hey, Cal.” She plopped on the seat between Cal and Mom, then gave him a squeeze and a smack on the cheek. “I can’t believe you guys are here.”

  “What?” Cal asked, “You think we’re gonna let you celebrate the biggest case of your career alone?”

  “At ten at night? Yes, besides, if my estimate is right, when you left Philly, you didn’t know I’d won.”

  “True,” Mom said. “But I had no doubt. My girl destroyed the prosecution.”

  Being a career prosecutor, her mother would know. Her family. Unbelievable. A bunch of hard-noses, all of them, but this impromptu visit? Crazy devotion. Jackie tucked her hair behind her ears and let out a breath.

  “Lord, I feel ninety years old.”

  Mom’s gaze moved to Jackie’s mangled suit. “Sorry, honey, but you look it, too.”

  Yep, same old Mom. “It’s been a long day.” She elbowed her brother. “And, silly me, I forgot to check my lipstick before I went into court.”

  Mom would have. Even as a lowly prosecutor on a tight budget, she’d amped up her beauty queen appearance. Now that she had money and the title of mayor, she didn’t leave the house without designer duds and perfect makeup. Elegant and strong. That was her mother.

  Jackie may have inherited Mom’s legal prowess, but when it came to her appearance, she just hoped her blouse matched her suit. One of the main reasons she stuck to solid, easily matched colors. The family joke had long been Jackie’s need for adult Garanimals.

  “Jon and Will wanted to be here,” Dad said. “They couldn’t swing it. Will is on call and Jon has court in the morning.”

  Will, the next oldest from Jackie – yes, she’d dealt with three older brothers – was a heart surgeon. Mom liked to joke that with three out of her four children being lawyers, she’d somehow gone astray with Will.

  “Where to?” Dad asked. “Have you two eaten?”

  Jackie pondered the question, then looked at Josh. “Did we eat?”

  “Yesterday, I think.”

  “We’ll fix that.” Mom hit the button to lower the glass screen separating them from the driver. “Take us to Charlie Palmer’s. We have celebrating to do.”

  Jackie, still wedged between her brother and Mom, gripped both their hands and rested her head back. So much for sleep. Who cared? She had her family and the biggest win of her career. What more did she need?

  Two

  Beck made it home before midnight, letting out a sigh of relief as he tossed his car keys into the dish next to the door and laid his jacket on the table to take to the cleaners the next day. It had been one long, crazy evening, and he was ready to shower off Annabelle’s perfume, forget all the groping and fondling she’d done to him, and spend his weekend hoping Byron Lockhart III didn’t show up on his doorstep to punch him out.

  “Tink?” he called.

  He wasn’t surprised when there was no response. The cat could hold a grudge like nobody’s business. The styrofoam carryout container in Beck’s hands might be his savior.

  The stop at Annabelle’s had resulted in a drink and her trying to seduce him. He’d dodged that bullet as gracefully as he could and managed to get her out to dinner at Flat 1776. The place had opened only a few weeks ago and was booked months in advance, but Kershaw, one of his old college buddies and part owner, had done him a solid. Thank God he’d had the sense to set the whole thing up before the auction—the nine p.m. reservation had saved his bacon. They’d enjoyed a lovely four-course meal and Annabelle had nearly drunk herself under the table. She could now tell all her friends at the country club she’d eaten at the hot, new 5-star restaurant in town with her runway-model/former-football-star boy toy.

  Begging off from returning to her place afterwards had been much easier than he’d anticipated, but she’d already texted him.

  Sexted him was more like it. He hadn’t even made it out of her long, winding driveway when she’d sent him a picture of herself in sexy lingerie and asked him to come back.

  No way in hell.

  As expected, Tink was on Beck’s pillow, face buried in the covers. He no longer made up his bed because it did no good. The cat—a stray who had shown up on his doorstep just before Christmas—always undid his work.

  He opened the container with the leftovers from his meal and waved it in front of her nose. “Look what I brought you.”

  She peeked one eye open and gave him a scornful look, then tucked her head back down.

  Hello, cold shoulder.

  “Your loss.” He set the container on the floor near the bed, knowing she’d eventually come around. “I’ll leave it here for you, and remember, tonight was for a good cause, not because of work.”

  She burrowed farther down.

  After his shower, he found the container licked clean and Tink had moved over to her side of the bed. He got in and turned on ESPN. Once he was caught up on the various scores of his favorite teams, he picked up the book on criminal sociology from his nightstand. The shower had done some good to clear his head, but he still couldn’t get the sight of Annabelle in her lingerie out of his mind. She might be divorcing Byron, but it still seemed wrong to know she liked pink satin…it was like seeing the Pope in his skivvies.

  Sometime later, a loud noise woke him with a jerk.

  ESPN hummed in the background and the book lay open in his lap. Tink was curled next to him, having forgiven him. But at the noise, she came to attention.

  Bambambam. Tink hurled her chubby body off the bed and Beck sat up, rubbing his eyes. The bedside clock showed it was nearly one a.m. Who the fuck was at his door at this time of the morning?

  God help him, it was probably Theresa, or one of his other siblings, needing a handout. He hadn’t heard from any of them in over six months now, and then it had only been Corey texting him for bail money.

  Or worse than his criminal family, it might be Byron Lockhart coming for his balls.

  Bambambam. A man yelled his name.

  He never slept in anything, so he threw on sport pants and headed for the door.

  “Just a goddamn minute,” he shouted back. “I’m coming.”

  His townhouse was in a decent neighborhood, but, as he hadn’t recognized the voice, he still checked the peephole before opening the door.

  What he saw made him pause before deactivating his security system. Two uniformed cops stood on his doorstep.

  “Beckett Pearson,” one called through the door
. “This is DC Metro. Open the door.”

  What the hell?

  Beckett flipped on the porchlight and unlocked the door. Cool night air met his bare chest. “What’s going on, fellas?”

  “Beckett Pearson?” the taller of the two asked. The guy behind him had his hand on his weapon.

  Shit. Byron must be really pissed…

  “Yeah, I’m Special Agent Pearson.”

  “Mr. Pearson, please turn around and put your hands on top of your head.”

  “What?”

  In the next second, cop number two pulled his weapon. “On your knees!”

  “Whoa.” Beck raised both hands. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”

  “No mistake.” The bigger cop waved down his sidekick, taking out his handcuffs and motioning for Beck to turn around. “Mr. Pearson, you’re under arrest for the murder of Annabelle Lockhart.”

  Three

  Half comatose from the most amazing New York strip she’d ever tasted, Jackie pushed through her apartment door, double-checked the lock and hung her keys on the hook before heading to her bedroom.

  The day had been long, the evening, despite the lovely surprise from her family, even more so. Now they were on their way back to Philly and every inch of her ached. It was a jazzed-up tired though. One that came with the knowledge her family loved her enough to fly down and celebrate her largest victory to date.

  Had to love those DelRays.

  Even if they drove her half-crazy sometimes.

  Hell’s bells, her body protested every tiny movement. She passed the small bedroom on the right that doubled as her home office and made her way into her room. Slivers of moonlight through the blinds gave her rumpled sheets an eerie glow. This morning, like every one for the last month, she’d left in a hurry. What did an unmade bed matter when she’d been the only person in it for over a year?

  That’s what happened with smart-mouthed career girls. Throw in a hot temper and men tended to run screaming. She didn’t have the time – or compulsion – to chase them. Not when her trusty vibrator got the job done.

  Oh, Maurice, how I love you.

  Distracting thoughts of Maurice caused her to trip on the small mountain of dirty laundry at the foot of her bed. Now that the case was over, she’d start doing it again rather than dumping it all at the cleaners.

  Not bothering with the light, she tossed her briefcase on the chair by the bed and kicked her shoes into the open closet.

  Bed. All she needed now was a solid ten hours of sleep. Something she hadn’t had in...hell, she didn’t know. Tonight she’d get it. Even if the building fell down around her. Even if the earth opened up and swallowed the entire block.

  She’d declared tomorrow her own holiday and told Josh to take the day off. They both deserved it. Time to get their lives back in order. Pay bills, watch television, grocery shop, and here’s a novel idea, call a friend. Assuming she still had any after the lack of contact.

  This life. Who the hell lived like this?

  Her mother, that’s who. Did Jackie want that? Barely seeing her loved ones and then, when she did, battling to stay emotionally present. That’s how it had been. Mom coming and going while Dad provided the steady guidance. Her father had been Mr. Mom when it wasn’t exactly status quo. It had worked, but…

  Sigh. In Jackie’s Career vs. Family war, the battles raged on.

  “I’m tired,” she said to no one. “That’s all.”

  Just as her fingers reached her skirt’s zipper her cell phone rang. No way. Seriously?

  She peered at her briefcase spewing the offending sound.

  Ignore it.

  Phone calls at one a.m. were never good. And with her family on their way back to Philly? What if the chopper crashed?

  An irrational panic rattled her. Damned helicopters. She hated those things. Tired. That’s all. Holding her panic in check, she hustled to the chair, dug in the front pocket of the briefcase and checked the phone.

  Chessie. Her investigator. She punched the screen before the call dropped. At least her family hadn’t perished in a fireball dropping from the sky.

  “Chesley Morton, this better be good.”

  “It is.”

  When Chessie said it was good, it usually was. At fifty-eight years old, he’d spent thirty years as a homicide detective with the PD. Now retired and working for her full-time, he had enough contacts to keep her well-informed.

  Jackie’s fatigue took a backseat to the burst of adrenaline plowing from her brain.

  She closed her eyes and forced herself to focus. “What is it?”

  “Just got off the phone with one of my guys. Annabelle Lockhart – estranged wife of the director of the FBI – was murdered.”

  Jackie drew a hard breath. “When?”

  “Tonight. Her throat was slit. They arrested someone.”

  Already? Either they got seriously lucky or someone confessed. “Captured at the scene?”

  “Nah. This thing sounds...eh.”

  In Chessie-speak, eh meant sketchy. “What’s the problem?”

  “They got the guy down at the PD in an interview room. No phone call yet.”

  Meaning the detectives were more than likely stalling in allowing this poor schmuck to call his lawyer. “Unbelievable,” Jackie said. “I guess they haven’t learned much from the beating I just gave them.”

  “It gets better. You’re not gonna believe who they pinched.”

  “Who?”

  “Your buddy, Beckett Pearson.”

  Beck.

  For a few long seconds, it didn’t sink in. She’d definitely heard the name. Had even, on some level, processed it. But...Beck?

  She pictured him in his slick suits, his perfect cheekbones and immaculately groomed hair that never, ever, dipped below his ears. At least these days.

  Then there were his eyes. Oh, my, that intense blue did her in every time. Made her think about Mr. GQ butt naked on a bed in a crappy motel room.

  Ft. Lauderdale. Spring break. They’d met during her senior year and had a fling that included copious amounts of fantasy-worthy sex. She’d been sucked in by his muscles and easy swagger. She’d also been pleasantly surprised by his ambitions. He had a brain behind the brawn and a soft spot for the underprivileged, lost, and abandoned. Hell, she’d barely known him when she’d refused to give him her number, but gave him everything else.

  Fast-forward five years and there she was, a prosecutor in DC, when glamour boy showed up in her courtroom. Not as a defendant, but as an FBI agent with a light in his eyes and a case to win.

  Beck.

  God. What could he have gotten into? And if he hadn’t been given his phone call yet, it meant no attorney.

  Huge problem. One she could avoid.

  She moved to the closet and scooped up her shoes. She should change into a fresh suit but...no. Even a few minutes could cost him. On her way out of the bedroom, she grabbed her briefcase and then her car keys from the hook by the kitchen entry.

  “Did I lose you?” Chessie asked.

  “No, I’m here.”

  “I figured you’d want to know,” Chessie said. “Given the high profile of it.”

  “You figured right. If it’s Beck, he knows to keep his mouth shut. I can’t believe the cops are screwing with an FBI agent. A damned good one too.”

  “Probably waiting on him to get good and tired, see if he’ll slip.”

  “That’s not gonna happen. Not if I can help it.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Jackie stormed into the police station lobby where a desk sergeant tucked behind a glass enclosure glanced up from a computer. At this hour of a weeknight, the lobby was quiet with only one other person sitting on a bench against the wall.

  Who knew what the man was here for. In DC it could be anything.

  “I’m Jackleen DelRay,” Jackie told the sergeant. “Attorney for Beckett Pearson. Where is he?”

  Technically, Beck hadn’t hired her yet, but they�
�d worry about that small detail later. The man needed an attorney. Even if he didn’t want her for the long haul, for now, she’d keep him from doing any damage. An FBI agent accused of killing the estranged wife of the director of the FBI? Talk about tabloid fodder.

  Beck better have kept his lovely mouth shut.

  The desk sergeant took in her mess of a suit and more-of-a-mess hair and a smirk formed on his mouth. She resisted the urge to tell him she’d been at it for over eighteen hours and he could shove his opinions straight—and all the way—up his ass.

  So tired.

  She needed to stay cool here. She jerked her chin at the door leading behind the glass. “Buzz me in.”

  “Give me a sec.”

  He picked up his desk phone, speaking softly and well out of her earshot before hanging up.

  “Davis,” the sergeant said to another officer, “take her to interview two.”

  Interview room two. The big one. She’d been there plenty of times as a prosecutor, but never as the defense.

  The inner lobby door buzzed and she whipped it open. Knowing the way, she charged forward, leaving the cop in her wake as her heels clickety-clacked against the linoleum.

  “Guess you know the way,” he cracked.

  “You bet.”

  She took the first right, walked ten feet and halted. This was it. She breathed in, fighting the aftereffects of a blood rush that left her mind and body feeling like a hundred-and-twenty pounds of sludge.

  Her vision blurred against the stark white of the wall and she blinked. Time to focus. She set her shoulders, and did that little chin lift her mom had taught her. That and the mental benefits had saved many a case.

  The cop set one hand on the door, turned the knob and Jackie focused on her entrance. That moment when she’d march in and take over a room.

  Shark Jackie.

  He pushed the door open and – show time – she sailed through.

  A shirtless Beck – Yoi, the man’s chest was still a finely sculpted work of art – sat with his hands neatly folded on top of the metal table. He faced a two-way mirror where Jackie surmised a prosecutor watched the festivities. Beck’s gaze snapped to her and his perfect eyebrows shot up. Two detectives. Muldoon and Brasich – she thought – sat across from him. Both angled back, spotted her and, if she wasn’t mistaken, Brasich groaned.