Substantial Risk (David Brunelle Legal Thriller Series Book 5)

by Stephen Penner

  Brunelle frowned slightly. He glanced at the book of court rules on his bookshelf. “Not off the top of my head,” he admitted.

  Taylor crossed her arms and shook her head. “How can you know whether you've violated a rule if you don't even know the rules?”

  Brunelle nodded. “That's a good point.” He thought for a moment, although not really about the bar complaint. “What's the best way to learn the rules?”

  Taylor nodded toward the same set of court rules. “Go straight to the source. And don't just read the rule you think you might be violating. Read them all. You can't understand a single rule unless you understand how they all interrelate.”

  Brunelle nodded again. That made a lot of sense. A lot.

  Taylor leaned forward. “Look, Mr. Brunelle. I don't need to tell you, this is a big deal. Allegedly infringing on a criminal defendant's right to counsel is something we take very seriously. This could very well impact your ability to practice. Have you considering hiring an attorney with experience in this field?”

  “Experience?” Brunelle asked. “Are there attorneys who specialize in defending against bar complaints?”

  Taylor nodded. “Yes. Just a few, but they know what they’re doing. It’s a specialized practice. Most of them are former bar investigators like me.”

  Brunelle grinned darkly. “Something to fall back on later?” he suggested.

  Taylor cracked a smile. “Maybe. But for now, I’m after you. So you better get some help.”

  Brunelle took the threat for what it was: professional only. “What’s my other choice?” he asked

  Taylor shrugged. “Maybe you have a colleague who has experience with this sort of thing. I suppose you could ask their advice. But if you defend yourself, you’ll have to do all the research on your own and hope you get it right. Serious research, too,” she warned, “not playing around at the edges and making it up as you go along.” She leaned forward, her black curls falling over her shoulder. “But really, Mr. Brunelle, I don’t advise that.”

  Brunelle pursed his lips and tapped them with a thoughtful finger. He considered his options. He’d recently met an expert in the field. He knew a colleague who was more experienced. But he knew, deep down, he was a loner. He liked to do things himself. Maybe that was the problem.

  A smile appeared on Brunelle’s features despite the circumstances. “Thank you, Ms. Taylor,” he replied, again not really to the topic at hand. “But I kind of like doing my own research.”

  Chapter 18

  He couldn’t go back to the Cu-CUM-ber Club. That would be too obvious. People might recognize him. Luckily it was Seattle. And Capitol Hill. There were more sex clubs up there than Starbucks, and that was saying something.

  And he couldn’t bring his research partner. He probably should have, but somehow he couldn’t. Or he didn’t want to. He needed to be himself, not Kat’s boyfriend.

  And he couldn’t really be himself. Not Dave Brunelle. He wasn’t famous, but he didn’t need his name remembered later if anyone started asking questions. So he decided he’d be ‘Andrew Brown.’ ‘Andrew’ because that was his middle name. ‘Brown’ because ‘Brunelle’ was French for brunette. So in a way, it was still his name; just not in a way anyone would recognize it.

  “Welcome, Andrew,” said the shapely woman at the front door of The Opal Room. He paid his cover and she opened the door to the club. “I hope you enjoy yourself.”

  Brunelle nodded. He was sure he would.

  That was part of the problem.

  Inside was dark. That was the first thing he noticed. But maybe not as dark as he would have liked. He would have preferred sufficient dimness to feel anonymous. Instead, it was dim enough to be comfortable but bright enough that he would definitely be recognized if he ran into someone he knew.

  But he didn’t really expect that. Matt Duncan wasn’t going to be caught dead anywhere near there. Kat was home with Lizzy—he’d confirmed that before deciding what night to go. And Robyn…. Well, she was a regular at the Cu-CUM-ber Club, right?

  Somehow, that last thought actually made him a little angry. Angry at her that she would be with someone else, even though he turned her down. And angry at himself for turning her down. And just angry at the whole situation. Robyn should have been there with him, playing tour guide. Kat probably would have come if he’d asked her. But he didn’t ask her.

  Damn, he wished it were darker in there.

  Surveying the main room, it didn’t look that much different from any other bar or nightclub he’d been in. There was music, a bar, tables, and lots of people and couples talking with other people and couples. Employees were visible taking drink orders and criss-crossing the space. And no one was overtly having sex in the middle of room.

  That was probably in another room, he supposed.

  He decided to get a drink. He knew that was a good idea.

  There were several seats at the bar and he sat down on the nearest stool. The bartender was a young man with several tattoos and piercings. Not Brunelle’s type at all. He ordered a whiskey on the rocks and turned to look around again while he waited for his drink.

  His eyes having adjusted to the not-dark-enough dark, he noticed a stage across the room, complete with a stockade and several similar devices pushed to one side. There was no show just then, but he wondered when the next one might be. With his eyes adjusted, he also noticed there was at least one couple in one corner either wrestling or having sex. He couldn’t quite tell the genders from across the room, which just made him more curious. He didn’t realize he was staring.

  “They should get a room,” the bartender said as he handed Brunelle his drink. “I mean really. We have rooms upstairs.”

  Brunelle looked at the bartender, not surprised as much as interested. He wondered what else might be upstairs.

  The bartender nodded toward the couple in the corner. “That what you’re into?’ he asked.

  Brunelle squinted across the room again. “Not sure what that is,” he admitted. “But they seem to be enjoying each other.”

  The bartender chuckled. “Yeah, but they need to knock it off or go upstairs. We have rules.”

  Brunelle looked again. “Is that two guys?”

  The bartender nodded. “Pretty much. One of them is trans. The other guy is into that. Looks like a girl, fucks like a man. Is that your thing?”

  “No!” Brunelle snapped. A bit too emphatically, he realized. “No. I’m straight.” Like that wasn’t obvious. Forty-something dude drinking at the bar and staring at the other patrons. He probably looked like a cop. Not that far off, he supposed. “I mean,” he added quickly, with a nod toward the corner couple, “not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  But the bartender disagreed. “Actually there is. They can’t do that shit in public. That’s why there’s rooms upstairs. We don’t need some undercover cop citing us for lewd conduct.” He stepped out from behind the bar. “I’ll be right back.”

  The bartender made quick work of the situation. On the way over, he swung by one of the several workers who were walking around with bowls full of condoms, grabbed a handful, and then stepped between the amorous couple. No small feat given the complete lack of space between some of their body parts. Distribution of the condoms and a few gestures later, the couple was heading for the stairs and the bartender was heading back to Brunelle.

  “Sorry about that,” he apologized.

  “No worries,” Brunelle replied. He kind of found it interesting. “So undercover cops come here sometimes?” He found that interesting too.

  The bartender shrugged. “Some of the neighbors think we’re a nuisance. Like any place, there are bad apples who come. Drug use and fights and shit. We have rules but we have to enforce them. Otherwise some narc in street clothes suddenly flashes a badge and we’re shut down for two weeks while the cops decide if we can reopen.”

  Brunelle looked down at his own street clothes. “I’m not a cop,” he felt compelled to say.


  The bartender laughed. “Oh, yeah. I knew that. You’re way too uncomfortable. The cops who come here are all pervs. They love it. They spend an hour watching and touching and shit, and then at the end suddenly pull out the badge and cite us for all the shit they were just participating in. No, you’re just another middle-aged guy looking for a thrill that may or may not be here.”

  Fuck. Brunelle would have preferred being mistaken as a cop. He hated being figured out.

  “So why are you here?” the bartender asked. “You said it wasn’t the trans thing. You bi-curious? That happens a lot with guys like you. If you want, I know a couple guys who are really gentle with newbies…”

  “No!” Brunelle waved his hands at the bartender. “No, that’s not it. It’s, um…” But he paused. He felt compelled to explain why he was there, if only to confirm he wasn’t interested in guys. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Still, he felt a little uncomfortable just telling the bartender. Like he was ordering another drink. ‘I’d like some bondage on the rocks, please.’ Instead, he managed to say, “Uh…”

  He tried to figure out how to explain it without sounding like the dirty old man the bartender obviously thought he was—and he himself was wondering he might be. But before his mouth could find the right words, his eyes beheld the right image.

  Coming out from a back hallway behind the bar was the most beautiful woman Brunelle had even seen. Well, maybe not the most beautiful face, or body, or hair. But the most beautiful outfit. Or an outfit that made her the most beautiful. His heart nearly fainted, it started pumping so hard at the sight of her.

  She was young. Too young. Half Asian, half something else, with broad cheekbones and thin eyes. Exotic. Her black curly hair was pulled back severely into a loose knot of a bun. Her frame was poured into a leather bodice that ended just above the complete lack of panties she was wearing. Black boots with such high heels that her feet were pointed almost straight down, like a ballerina on point. On her wrists were padded leather cuffs with silver rings hanging from them, and around her throat was a black leather collar, with matching silver metal rings at the front and sides. It was so thick it forced her chin into a permanently raised position.

  “Uh…” he repeated.

  The bartender followed his gaze to the gorgeous woman entering the area. He smiled, but Brunelle barely noticed—his eyes still adhered to the Aphrodite in Leather.

  “So that’s your thing,” the bartender said. “Okay, yeah, I can see that. You have that vibe, I guess. But don’t hold your breath over that one. She’s owned.”

  That was enough to tear Brunelle’s gaze away. “Owned?” he questioned.

  The bartender nodded. “Yep. She’s owned. By another one of our regulars. And you don’t want to cross him. He’s big and not afraid of violence. He doesn’t mind if you look—in fact he kind of likes it—but don’t touch. In fact, don’t even talk to her. You talk to her, you’ll be talking to him. And you don’t want to talk to him.”

  Brunelle was about to say something about not being afraid to talk to anyone, and words being his weapon of choice, and something else equally insipid. But before he could, the lights went on and the clientele scurried for the corners like so much vermin.

  “Police!” came a shout from the front door. “Party’s over, folks. We’re shutting this place down tonight.”

  A man ran out from the back and up to the two uniformed officers who had invaded the sanctum. He was obviously some sort of manager. “What are you doing?” he demanded, rather bravely, Brunelle thought. “You can’t just barge in here like this.”

  But the shorter officer raised his hand to push the man back slightly. “We don’t care what your patrons do to each other in the privacy of your establishment, sir, but when they start selling drugs, we can’t just look the other way.”

  “Sell drugs?” the manager replied. “What are you talking about? Where?”

  “A neighbor reported a drug transaction in the alley behind the club,” the taller, thinner officer answered. “When we arrived there was a man in the alley with a fresh needle in his arm. He said he bought the drugs in here.”

  The manager literally shook with anger. “You stormed into my club on the word of a heroin addict? Are you crazy? I’ll have your badges.”

  But the cops weren’t impressed. “And we’ll have witness statements from everyone inside the club. If there were drug transactions in here, someone saw something. And if someone saw something, your business license is in jeopardy, sir.”

  The threat to the manager was obvious. The one to Brunelle less so, but he understood it completely. When they came to take his statement, he could honestly tell them he didn’t see anything. But he couldn’t honestly tell them his name was ‘Andrew Brown.’ That would be the crime of False Statement to a Public Servant. Only a misdemeanor, but probably more than enough to get fired from being a prosecutor. But if his real name ended up in a police report…

  “I need to get out of here,” he turned to the bartender. “Now.”

  The bartender didn’t miss a beat. And he didn’t ask any questions. He just nodded, then gestured toward the door behind the bar. Brunelle moved quickly, especially for a dirty old man, and darted through the kitchen area to the door to the alley. A moment later he was outside. A moment after that, he was running down the dark alley, as far away as he could get from The Opal Room.

  A few minutes later, he made his way back to the main road, his shoes soaked from the alley’s puddles and his lungs burning from the cold night air. He didn’t have to worry about ending up in a police report, but that wasn’t what he was thinking about. He was thinking about the woman in leather. Maybe it was good the cops had busted in. He probably would have ignored the bartender and tried to talk to her. And bravado aside, her master likely would have kicked his ass six ways to Sunday.

  Still, the image of the woman was burned into his brain and it wasn’t going to leave lightly. He looked up at the street signs and got his bearings. His car was back by the club, so he’d have to walk. But it wasn’t that far. He could walk to get to what he needed. Who he needed,

  When he finally arrived, he was damp from the rain and exhausted from the walk. But he was driven on by the urge coursing through his veins. He pounded on the door a little too loudly. It was late. Past bed time for good people.

  It took a minute or two, but eventually Brunelle heard the deadbolt unlock and the door opened to him.

  “David?” Kat was already in her pajamas—flannel, with a matching robe over them. “What are you doing here? You said you were working late tonight.”

  Brunelle ignored the question. He stepped forward, grabbed her firmly by the back of her neck, and looked deep into her eyes. “I need you, Kat.”

  Kat took a moment, but then smiled and pulled Brunelle inside.

  Chapter 19

  The close call with law enforcement distracted Brunelle from further curiosity about Seattle's sex club scene. The ensuing night with Kat, and the several nights following that, distracted him from his curiosity about Robyn. And the imminent hearing on Jacobsen’s motions to suppress, redress, and dismiss distracted him from Yvonne Taylor’s efforts to disbar him. By the time he walked to Judge Quinn’s courtroom for the motions hearing, Brunelle was singularly focused on seeking justice, defending his prosecution from Jacobsen’s frivolous attacks, and celebrating his inevitable victory that night with Kat.

  So running into Robyn in the hallway was triply devastating. Or rather, her sly whisper as he passed was. “Andrew Brown?” Her little giggle was the icing on the focus-shattering cake.

  “Wh-what?” Brunelle choked, his hand frozen on the courtroom door handle. Then, sure he was blushing and damning himself for it, he tried, “Is that a new client of yours?”

  The giggle unfolded into a headshaking laugh. “No, Dave. You left before the cops could arrest you.”

  Brunelle didn't immediately respond, unsure of how to, and that was confirmation enough fo
r Robyn. “I'm friends with the bartender,” she explained. “He told me about this good-looking guy in his forties, checking everything out like a kid in a candy store, then bailing out the back door when the cops arrived. I actually wasn't positive it was you until now. Your face is redder than a paddle-spanked ass cheek.”

  Brunelle still couldn't find any words, but he smiled slightly. She said I was 'good-looking.'

  “Good luck with your motions, Andrew,” she laughed. Then she lowered those lids again. “And you don't have to go to all that trouble. My offer is still open.”

  With that she walked away and left Brunelle to try to regain himself somehow.

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened the door to the courtroom. The sight of Jacobsen and Atkins sitting at the defendant's table almost, but not quite, forced out the mental image of Robyn's paddle-reddened ass cheeks.

  “Mr. Brunelle!” Jacobsen called out upon seeing him. “Good to see you again.”

  Brunelle wasn't so sure. But he said, “You too,” anyway.

  “Are you ready for round one of our motions?” Jacobsen went on. “You could just concede the first one, you know. Then the rest of them would become someone else's problem.”

  Brunelle nodded. The first motion was to disqualify him from the case for his alleged misconduct in speaking directly to Atkins. Although superficially tempting—he had plenty of other work to do—there was no way he was going to just concede it and walk away. It would be a terrible precedent to set that a defendant could bump a prosecutor off his case just by filing a bar complaint.

  “Thanks,” Brunelle replied, “but I think I'll stay. I like this case.”

  Jacobsen grinned over his client's nodding head. “Oh, I know you do. And I know why.”

  Brunelle felt the blush sear his cheeks again. Did they know about The Opal Room? What he'd done with Kat? What more he wanted to do with Robyn?