Substantial Risk (David Brunelle Legal Thriller Series Book 5)

by Stephen Penner

  There were a few moments of silence, then Yamata raised an eyebrow. “Master Michael?”

  Brunelle rolled his eyes, but had to laugh. “Yeah. That’s his stage name, or whatever. But the point is, the victim is dead because of her lover’s actions. He needs to be held responsible.”

  “It was an accident,” Fletcher sneered. “Accidents aren’t crimes.”

  But Jurgens shook his head. “They can be. What about vehicular homicide?”

  “You get drunk and run somebody over, that’s not an accident,” Fletcher countered.

  “You don’t have to be drunk,” Brunelle responded. “You can get charged with it just from driving recklessly.”

  “But that’s a car,” Fletcher insisted. “Not a rope and some handcuffs. You pull the trigger on a gun you think is unloaded but it’s not, you’re an idiot and you deserve to go to prison. But you tie up your perv girlfriend a little too tight? That’s a mistake, not a crime. If there’s no evidence he planned it to get rid of her, then I say we don’t charge shit and Mister Michael walks.”

  “Master Michael,” Brunelle corrected. He turned to Duncan. “What do you think, Matt? It’s your call.”

  Duncan had been listening quietly to his prosecutors. He leaned forward onto the conference table. “What’s your gut tell you, Dave? It’s your case.”

  Brunelle thought for a moment. “It’s not murder. He didn’t intend to kill her. But it’s not just an accident either. He should have known better. It was reckless, or at least negligent. You kill someone with criminal negligence, that’s manslaughter.”

  Duncan nodded then looked around the table. “Joe, I know what you think. What about you, Paul?”

  Jurgens shrugged. “I dunno. It kind of doesn’t matter. She isn’t coming back no matter what we do.”

  Yep, thought Brunelle. He’s as jaded as they get.

  Duncan turned to Yamata. “Michelle?”

  Yamata pursed her lips into a thoughtful frown then drummed her perfectly manicured fingernails on the conference table. “Like I said, Fletcher’s got a point. This feels like an accident. But it was an avoidable one. That woman shouldn’t be dead. I agree with Dave. It’s manslaughter.”

  Duncan nodded. “Good. Then you’re going to be second chair.”

  “Second chair?” Brunelle questioned even before Yamata could. “I don’t need a second chair. I can handle a fucking manslaughter case by myself.”

  Then he remembered to look at Yamata. “No offense,” he assured.

  She laughed. “Oh, no. Of course not,” she said sarcastically.

  But Duncan was undeterred. “It may not be P.C. and I’ll deny it to anyone who asks, especially the media, but you need a woman at the prosecutor’s table with you. This is too sensitive to have it look like it’s being prosecuted by some middle-aged man from the suburbs who doesn’t know an arm-sleeve from a shirtsleeve.”

  Brunelle just blinked at him for several seconds. “I live in the city.”

  Yamata let out a small laugh. “That’s your reply? Oh, yeah, you need me on this case.”

  “You’re too vanilla,” Duncan explained.

  “Vanilla?” Brunelle repeated. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  Yamata leaned over and patted him on the shoulder. “Exactly.”

  Chapter 6

  Brunelle drafted up the complaint and supporting affidavit. One count of manslaughter in the first degree. Not murder, but still a homicide. Minimum seven years in prison, so serious stuff. Master Michael Atkins had spent two nights in the King County Jail. Under the court rules, Brunelle either had to charge or release him on day number three. So he scheduled the arraignment for 1:30 that afternoon, when he would formally file the charge. Usually the public defenders handled the arraignment, then the defendant could opt to hire his own attorney, although it wasn’t unheard of for an attorney to be hired beforehand.

  So when Brunelle answered his phone, it never even occurred to him that the attorney on the other end of the line had just been hired by Atkins.

  “Hey, Dave!” gushed Nick Lannigan. “How’s it going, man? Long time, no cases.”

  Lannigan had been a defense attorney in Seattle at least as long as Brunelle had been prosecuting there. But Lannigan didn’t do homicide. He barely did any felonies at all. Maybe a car theft or simple drug possession for an existing client who got a new charge, but his business model was high volume misdemeanors: DUI, driving suspended, misdemeanor DV. Get in, get paid, get out. Not homicides.

  “Hey, Nick,” Brunelle replied. They’d gotten along well enough when Brunelle was still doing shoplifting cases. “Good to hear from you. What’s up?”

  “Well, actually, I’m calling about the Atkins case,” Lannigan said. He sounded embarrassed to even say it.

  Brunelle didn’t know what to say. He was speechless. Was Atkins really that stupid?

  “Dave?” Lannigan said after a moment. “Dave, you there?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Brunelle replied. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m just, uh, surprised, I guess. I didn’t think you handled homicides.”

  Lannigan laughed. “I don’t. But I handle money. This Atkins guy got referred to me. Do you know how much I can charge for a murder case? It’s worth ten DUIs. Maybe twelve.”

  Brunelle nodded into the phone. He understood the business side of it. He’d overheard plenty of conversations in the courthouse hallways between defense attorneys discussing fee arrangements and 401(k)s and condos in Hawaii. But just because he knew about the money motive didn’t mean he wanted to talk about it.

  “I hope you got paid up front,” Brunelle said, a bit cryptically.

  “Oh, I did,” Lannigan replied. “No way I’m touching this without half up front. I take credit cards, so he actually paid it. And it’s non-refundable, so please tell me you’re not filing charges. It’ll be the easiest money I’ve ever made.”

  “We’re not filing murder charges,” Brunelle said with a grin.

  “Woohoo!” Lannigan yelled. “Thank you, David Brunelle. I should give you a cut of the fee.”

  Brunelle ignored the completely unethical suggestion. He was eager to deliver the punch line. “We’re filing manslaughter charges.”

  “What?!” Lannigan wailed. “Manslaughter? Are you freaking kidding me?”

  “Sorry, Nick,” Brunelle lied. “Looks like you’re going to have to earn that fee after all.”

  Lannigan hesitated then laughed again. He was a pretty genial guy. Brunelle liked him well enough—and he was confident he could pretty much wipe the courtroom floor with him. “I guess so,” Lannigan conceded.

  “The arraignment’s at one-thirty,” Brunelle informed him. “See you then.”

  Lannigan sighed. “Well, at least it’s not a murder charge. I’m already ahead of the game.”

  “If you say so, Nick,” Brunelle replied. “See you in court.”

  * * *

  The cameras practically choked the hallway. So to speak. Brunelle shook his head at the metaphor that had popped into his head and strode toward the arraignment court.

  “Hey, Dave.” Several of the local cameramen and reporters greeted him as he approached. There were also some national guys Brunelle didn’t recognize. The local guys knew he wouldn’t comment until after the arraignment, and then only to offer a tepid sound bite about holding people responsible for their actions and having confidence in the strength of the evidence. But the national guys didn’t care about the subtleties of criminal law or the ethical constraints on a prosecutor when addressing the media. There were there for one reason: sex sells.

  “Mr. Prosecutor,” one young blonde woman ran up to him, microphone extended and cameraman in tow, his spotlight blinding Brunelle momentarily. “Could you please comment on the bondage murder case? Will you be seeking the death penalty? Do you think the killer would enjoy it?”

  Brunelle blinked at the reporter for a moment. It wasn’t a death penalty case. It wasn’t even a murder case. Enjoy being execute
d? What the hell was wrong with the media? But he bit his tongue. “I’ll comment after the arraignment.”

  The woman ignored the brush off. “Could you just say something like, ‘We have enough evidence to prove he’s fifty shades of guilty’?”

  “Fifty shades of guilty?” Brunelle couldn’t help but repeat back, stunned by the phrase.

  “Good,” the reporter said, “but say it like a statement. That sounded like a question. We can’t really use that.”

  Wow. Brunelle almost admired her tenacity. And her creativity. But he knew better than to try any case in the media. “I’ll comment after the arraignment.”

  Then he broke off and headed for the courtroom door. One of the local guys opened the door for him, “Can we get copies of the charging docs after the arraignment?”

  That was the standard operating procedure. Brunelle patted his file. “Got ‘em right here. Thanks, Brian.”

  Brian the cameraman nodded and Brunelle stepped into the courtroom. There were more reporters inside and the one ‘pool’ camera the judges usually allowed. All the stations would share the footage. Brunelle passed through the secure door and into the forward part of the courtroom set off from the gallery by a wall of windows. The courtroom was used all day for felony arraignments, most of the defendants being in custody. It was far more secure to have the front part of the courtroom locked off than have to worry about every defendant thinking about making a break for it in a crowded courtroom. And when the microphones were off, Brunelle could speak his mind.

  “What the fuck is wrong with those national reporters?” he asked Jessica Edwards, his counterpart at the King County Public Defender’s Office. She was one of their top people and had apparently come down to handle the Atkins arraignment personally. She must not have heard from Lannigan yet. “Somebody’s dead and they want me to say the defendant is ‘fifty shades of guilty.’”

  Edwards let out a laugh despite herself. “Oh, that’s awesome. You gonna use that in your opening?”

  “No way,” Brunelle replied, setting his file down on the prosecutor’s table. “And I’m not going to use the word ‘opening’ either. This case is going to be full of double entendres.”

  Edwards smiled. She was about the same age as Brunelle, with straight blonde hair and wise lines around her eyes. She would have been a much tougher adversary than Lannigan. Brunelle actually mourned the loss a bit. “Can I look at the paperwork before the judge comes out?” she asked.

  Brunelle frowned. “Sorry. Atkins hired a private attorney. He’s supposed to show to do the arraignment?”

  Edwards smile evaporated. Clearly she wanted to keep the case. It was going to be entertaining. It was also one the defense could actually win. “Who’d he hire?” she asked.

  Brunelle tried to keep a poker face. “Nick Lannigan.” He knew he’d failed.

  “Nick?” Edwards asked, almost aghast. “He’s not qualified to do a murder case.”

  Brunelle didn’t disagree. “Well, good thing it’s a manslaughter case then.”

  “Manslaughter?” Edwards asked. Then she thought for a moment and nodded. “That’s a good call, Dave. You were gonna have a hell of a time proving intent.”

  “I know,” Brunelle agreed. “I’m pretty sure I can prove recklessness. I saw her at the scene. The whole escapade looked pretty damn reckless.”

  “Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it, Mr. B.”

  Brunelle turned and saw her—again. It was Robyn Dunn, one of the junior attorneys at the public defender’s office. She looked as great as the last time Brunelle had seen her. Her auburn curls bounced on her shoulders as she walked over to him from the row of private attorney-inmate conference stalls. She had that same dimple on just one side of her face that popped when she was smiling, like right then. And she had that scar on her opposite cheek that she made no effort to conceal. “Long time no nothing,” she said as she got one step too close to him. “Are you trying to avoid me?”

  Brunelle wasn’t very good at trying to avoid attractive women. “No, ma’am,” he managed to reply without stammering. He was suddenly very glad Nick Lannigan, balding, middle aged man, was going to be the defense attorney.

  “Ma’am?” Robyn giggled. “That would make me the dom, silly.”

  Brunelle just stared at her, uncertain how to respond. Robyn cocked an eyebrow at him, then turned to walk away. “I think you might want to do a little research before you try this case.” She looked over her shoulder and lowered her eyelids. “Sir.”

  Brunelle felt a rush of blood go to several parts of his body, including his cheeks.

  Edwards shook her head at him. “She’s half your age, Dave.”

  Robyn had stepped out of the courtroom, so Brunelle felt at liberty to respond, “She’s two-thirds of my age, thank you. And anyway, I have a girlfriend.”

  Edwards nodded. “Yes, I know,” she said. “Dr. Death. Just you be sure to remember it too, good sir.”

  Again with the ‘sir,’ Brunelle thought. He needed to get on with the arraignment. “Where the hell is Nick?” he asked testily.

  “Right here, right here,” Lannigan answered as he scurried through the security door. “Sorry I’m late. I was giving an interview to one of the national reporters. It was kinda fun.”

  Brunelle rolled his eyes. “Can we just get on with this? I want to get back to my office.”

  He handed Lannigan copies of the charging paperwork.

  Lannigan accepted them and scanned the top sheet. “We’ll waive formal arraignment. Let’s just set a pretrial hearing and get out of here.”

  Brunelle sighed. Edwards chuckled.

  “You can’t waive arraignment on a felony,” Brunelle explained. “You can only do that on misdemeanors. Are you sure you’re ready for this, Nick?”

  Maybe there was still a chance for the defense team of Jessica Edwards and Robyn Dunn.

  “I got paid,” Lannigan replied, “so I guess I better be. I’ll figure it out.” He looked around. “Which table is for the defense attorney?”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Master Michael had been brought into court handcuffed and wearing orange jail jammies decidedly less stylish than his leather and bare chest look of a few nights earlier. Lannigan had known enough to plead not guilty and the judge set bail at $100,000, standard on a manslaughter charge. There had been a titter through the gallery when it was revealed that the prosecution wouldn’t be seeking a murder conviction, so Brunelle knew he was in for a grilling when he returned to the reporters in the hallway.

  “Mr. Brunelle, Mr. Brunelle!” It was the blonde national reporter who elbowed her way to the front of the paparazzi in the hallway. “Why aren’t you pursuing murder charges?”

  Brunelle was prepared. “We reviewed all the available information and we charged Mr. Atkins with the crime we believe best fits the evidence.”

  The reporter’s expression showed that she found his explanation strange. “But we’ve been reporting this as the bondage murder case all week,” she protested.

  Brunelle nodded and smiled politely. “I know.”

  The reporter’s eyebrow knitted together. “Well, can you give us a sound bite anyway? Maybe something like, ‘It’s manslaughter even if it’s a woman’ or something. Something catchy.”

  Brunelle held his smile. “We reviewed all the available information and we charged Mr. Atkins with the crime we believe best fits the evidence,” he repeated. “Thank you.”

  He turned and walked toward the elevators. The reporter shouted another question after him but he knew he was ethically prohibited from saying anything other than the charges and that they had reviewed the evidence to arrive at those charges. Prosecutors weren’t supposed to try cases in the media. But he wasn’t thinking about her questions anyway.

  He was thinking about research.

  Chapter 7

  “Research?” Kat asked over Brunelle's shoulder as he hastily spun his laptop away from her. “That's not research
. That's porn.”

  Brunelle sat up straight in his seat at his dining room table where he'd set up a makeshift office and internet station. “I assure you, madam, this is for purely professional purposes.”

  “It’s after hours and you’re at home,” Kat reminded him.

  Brunelle laughed. “There’s no way I could look at this stuff on my county computer. I’d get fired in an instant.”

  “Matt would never fire his Golden Boy,” Kat returned. “Lemme see what you’re looking at.” She turned the laptop back around so they could both see the computer. “Oh my.”

  On the screen was an image of what likely would have happened that night between Master Michael and Tied-up Tina if Mikey hadn't ended up strangling her during the proceedings. A lithe young woman was kneeling on some sort of platform. She was wearing a combination of lingerie, leather, and bindings. Her movement was obviously restricted. Directly behind her stood her lover, his proximity leaving no doubt as to their current activity.

  “Wow,” breathed Kat after a few moments. “They do look like they're having fun.”

  Brunelle nodded, but didn't pull his eyes from the screen. “Yeah. Of course she's not being strangled to death.”

  Kat put a hand on Brunelle’s shoulder. She gave it a squeeze and rub. “So you've been looking at a lot of this stuff?”

  Brunelle shrugged, enjoying the weight of his lover's hand. “I guess so. There's a surprising amount of it. You should see the videos.”

  Kat squeezed his shoulder again, then ran her hand up to the base of his neck. “Videos? Yeah, maybe I should.”

  She let go of Brunelle's neck and picked up the laptop.

  “What are you doing?” Brunelle asked.

  But Kat ignored the question. She started walking toward Brunelle's bedroom. “Do you have any rope?”

  “Rope?” Brunelle repeated. “Uh, no. Who has rope lying around?”

  Kat nodded at the laptop screen. “I bet these two do.” She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Well, no worries. You have lots of neckties, right?”