Talon Winter Legal Thrillers Box Set

by Stephen Penner

  Marcus lowered his head for a moment, then punched the picnic table and looked up again. “But it was a lie. Because no matter how much good he did, no matter how hard he worked for his family, no matter how much he succeeded, he's still a Black man. And they'll go back twenty-five years if they have to, but they’ll take it all away. They can take it all away.”

  Talon looked over again at Michael Jameson. He was still manning the grill, but he turned his head and caught her gaze. He was acting the part of strong father, but she could see the fear in his eyes, even across the crowded yard. She turned back to Marcus and leaned into his space, grabbing him by the back of the neck and staring into his equally frightened eyes. “Not if I can help it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  It was easy enough to tell Marcus Jameson that she'd keep his dad out of prison. It was another thing to actually do it.

  Facts, it's said, are stubborn things. And words are empty things. Full of meaning but devoid of anything tangible. The currency of politicians and cheating lovers, of con men and cult leaders. And lawyers.

  So when the offer from Quinlan finally came, Talon knew it was only so many words. But still, words she had to share with her client. Even the worst offer had to be communicated to the client; it was the client’s decision to accept or reject it, after appropriate advice from the lawyer. A lawyer who failed to communicate an offer was just asking for a bar complaint later—especially if the client got convicted as charged at trial.

  And the offer from Quinlan wasn’t the worst offer. Unfortunately, it was a pretty good offer. Unfortunate for three reasons. One, because she knew Jameson wouldn’t take it; two, because she would have to counsel him to at least consider it; and three, because her advice to at least consider it could threaten the trust they needed between them if they were possibly going to win the case at trial.

  It was best to do that kind of conversation in person. With a witness. So a few emails later, she’d scheduled a client meeting with both Michael Jameson and Curt Fairchild, to discuss the offer, then start preparing for the inevitable trial. Curt arrived a few minutes early, which was nice since it gave them a chance to prepare for the preparation. Hannah waved him through reception and he settled into one of Talon’s office guest chairs almost before she knew he was in her office.

  “Hey, boss,” he started with a boyish grin. “What’s the plan?”

  Talon felt a combination of irritation that Hannah hadn’t given her a moment to compose herself before Curt stepped into her office and pleasure at seeing him again even if she wasn’t fully ready for the meeting. And anyway, she was mostly ready. She knew he was coming after all.

  “Here,” she said, pulling a print-out of Quinlan’s email from her file and sliding it across the desk.

  Curt leaned forward and took the document. He read in silence for a moment, then looked up. “Murder Two? That’s not a terrible offer.”

  Talon nodded. “I know. But it’s not good enough. Even with no criminal history, he’ll still do ten years.”

  Curt shrugged. “So counter with a manslaughter. That’s, what, three years?”

  “Two-and-a-half for Manslaughter Two,” Talon corrected. “But seven for Manslaughter One. And that’s exactly what Quinlan wants me to do. A Murder Two offer means he’ll accept a Man One counter. Seven years for Michael and case closed for you and me.”

  “Are you gonna do it?” Curt asked.

  “No. She isn’t.”

  Talon and Curt jerked their heads up to see Michael Jameson in the office doorway, Hannah peeking out from behind him.

  “No deals,” Michael reaffirmed. “I already told you that.”

  Talon stood up to greet her guest. “Michael. Good to see you again. Great barbeque. Thanks again for the invitation.” She looked past him to Hannah, who was doing a terrible job receptionist-ing that day. “That’ll be all for now, Hannah.”

  Hannah offered a contrite nod and headed back toward the front desk.

  Talon gestured Michael into her office and the three of them sat down again.

  “I know what you told me,” Talon assured. “In fact, that’s what I was just telling Curt when you walked in. That you wouldn’t take any deals. But I still have to communicate it to you.”

  “Why?” Michael demanded. There was more of an edge to him than at their initial meeting. The stress of the case, Talon supposed.

  “Because it’s your case,” Talon answered, “not mine. You make the decisions, even the decision to reject something. But you can’t make the decision if I don’t tell you the information.”

  Michael crossed his arms. “Fine. But I’m not taking any deals. I can’t go to prison. I can’t lose my job. I can’t take anything but an acquittal.”

  “Or a dismissal,” Curt offered. Not all that helpfully, Talon thought. But at least it reflected a positive attitude.

  Michael must have thought so too. He offered a half-smile. “Or a dismissal,” he confirmed. “So how do we get there?”

  “Hard work,” Talon answered. “And preparation.”

  “And a little bit of luck,” Curt added.

  Michael looked at him, a bit shocked. Talon glared at him too, annoyed. She didn’t need that.

  “What?” Curt protested. “I thought we were being honest.”

  Talon remained tense for a moment longer, then sighed. “Fine. A little bit of luck never hurts.” She looked at the clock. They’d set the meeting at 5:30 so Michael wouldn’t miss any work. “How late can you guys stay tonight?”

  “As late as it takes,” was Michael’s answer.

  Curt nodded and offered Talon another boyish smile. “Ditto.”

  Talon sighed again. Between Michael’s life in her hands and Curt’s beautiful face in her office, it was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  It was even longer than she expected. It was after eight o’clock and they’d gotten almost nowhere.

  “Michael,” Talon practically gasped, “this isn’t going to work if you won’t tell us what happened.”

  But Michael just crossed his arms. “It doesn’t matter what happened. It matters what the prosecution can prove.”

  Talon ran a hand through her thick, black hair. He was right, technically, but he was missing the bigger picture. “Look, if this were law school, I’d agree with you. But it’s not. It’s real life. Those twelve jurors, whoever they are, are going to be real people, with real lives and real life experience. They don’t go through their lives holding accusers to pre-set burdens of proof. They listen to both sides, then make a decision. They can’t listen to both sides if our side doesn’t give them anything.”

  “The judge is going to tell them we don’t have to prove anything,” Michael insisted.

  “Right,” Talon agreed. “The judge is going to tell them that a dozen different times, from the beginning of jury selection to the end of closing arguments. And do you know why? Because nobody does that in real life!”

  Michael was taken aback by Talon’s sudden shout. He uncrossed his arms and looked to Curt for support, but found none. Curt was equally surprised, but he knew which side he was on. Talon’s. And she knew too. She pressed her advantage.

  “This is real life, Michael. You are really facing a murder charge. And you are really looking at twenty-five years in prison. The prosecutor is really going to call witnesses against you. And the jury is really, truly, honestly, whether they should or not, think you’re probably guilty if you’re sitting in the defendant’s chair. Jurors don’t want to live in a country where innocent people are charged with crimes. We all know it happens because it’s on the news. But it’s on the news because it’s not supposed to happen.”

  “And it won’t happen here,” Michael asserted, but his voice wavered.

  “It will if you don’t wise up,” Talon retorted. “Look, I admire your bravado. And I admire that you’re willing to go to the mat on this. But sometimes people go to the mat and get pinned. They lose. And if you lose, it’s more
than some stupid wrestling match. It’s your life. It’s twenty-five years. You’re already, what, forty-five? You think you’ll make it to seventy in prison? No way. Life expectancy in prison is way lower than on the outside. You’ll die in there. And while that’s happening, your family will lose everything. Everything. That beautiful house of yours, college funds, everything. And Marcus will know once and for all that there is no justice for a Black man in this country. And his dad lied to him all those years.”

  Michael stood up abruptly. “You leave Marcus out of this!”

  “No!” Talon stood up just as forcefully. “I can’t leave Marcus out of this! I can’t leave Kaylee out of this and I can’t leave Alicia out of this. They’re all in this because you’re in it. And if you refuse to help yourself, then you’re refusing to help them. Maybe that means you deserve whatever happens to you, but damn it, Michael, they don’t deserve it!”

  Michael ran a hand over his head and looked to the ceiling. “What do you need?”

  “I need you to tell me who pulled the trigger,” Talon answered. “Somebody shot him. I can’t tell the jury he was faking it. The medical examiner will call bullshit on that. That means somebody shot him. I know it wasn’t you, but I need to tell the jury who it was.”

  Michael hesitated for a moment, but only a moment. “No.”

  “Damn it, Michael!” Talon slapped her desk. “If I don’t tell them who really shot the victim, the jury is going to think it was you. The prosecutor is going to tell them it was you. I need to be able to tell them who it really was.”

  “No,” Michael repeated. “I’m not throwing him under the bus.”

  “Who, Michael?” Curt tried, in a calmer tone. “Who can’t you throw under the bus?”

  “There is no fucking bus!” Talon interjected. “There’s a prison! A big, dark, scary fucking prison. And that’s where you’re going to die if you don’t let me help you!”

  “No,” Michael insisted, but he avoided eye contact.

  Talon let out an exasperated sigh and pulled at her hair. “Whoever this person is, he better be pretty fucking important. Because you know who else is going to prison? Not just you, Michael. You know who else? How about a young Black man named Marcus who’s about to learn there’s no reason to go to college, no reason to get a good job, no reason to find a good woman and settle down in a nice four-bedroom house in the suburbs? How about someone so angry at the system it won’t be long before he’s dealing drugs, robbing liquor stores, pimping girls—and sharing a cell block with his old man? If you don’t care about yourself, then care about your son, God damn it! Who could be more important than your son? Who could be that fucking important?!”

  Michael absorbed Talon’s verbal onslaught like so much Kevlar. But it still hurts when the bullets hit the vest. He looked up again and met Talon’s gaze with narrowed eyes. “My brother.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Your brother?” Curt repeated. Talon would have asked it, but her jaw was still hanging open.

  But Michael just slumped back into his chair. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  Talon hesitated then sat down again herself. Curt followed suit. “No,” she assured. “It’s good that you did. I need to know the truth.”

  But Michael was unmoved. “I told you, the truth doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters,” Talon insisted. “It’s all that matters.”

  Michael shrugged, but didn’t reply.

  “Michael, tell me what happened,” Talon nearly pleaded.

  “I didn’t shoot anyone,” Michael answered. “That’s the truth.”

  “And your brother did?” Talon tried to confirm.

  “I didn’t say that,” Michael pointed out.

  “You didn’t not say it,” Curt tried. Both Talon and Michael looked at him disapprovingly.

  “Look,” Michael ran a hand over his head. We’ve been here a long time. I’m exhausted. I don’t want to talk any more. I’ve said too much already.”

  “Maybe you have,” Talon agreed, “so you might as well keep talking.”

  But Michael just crossed his arms and looked away.

  “Look, Michael,” Talon softened her tone, trying a different tack. “I really respect your desire to protect your brother. I totally understand it and I admire it. And I'll respect it. If you ultimately decide we can’t use the information in your case, well then, that's your call. You're the client and I have to do what you say. But let's have a full discussion about it. You hired me to give you the best legal advice I can. Don't hamstring me by withholding information. Tell me everything and I'll tell you what's important and why. There may be ways of doing this that help you without implicating your brother at all. But I can't know if you won't tell me anything.”

  Michael continued to stare at the wall for several seconds. Curt raised a hopeful eyebrow to Talon but didn't say anything. Finally, Michael looked up again. “If I tell you not to use something, then you don't use it, right?”

  Talon was quick to nod. “Right. You're the client. I advise, but you decide.”

  Michael nodded lightly too. “Okay.” He took a deep breath. Talon and Curt leaned forward.

  “It was twenty-five years ago,” Michael began. “I was living up on the Hilltop with my mom and my brother. My dad lived nearby but was never around. He was always off hustling, doing something he didn’t want us around for. Just as well. He was a good role model for me later—exactly the kind of father I was never gonna be. But back then, I was just a kid, fresh out of high school with no prospects and no plans. Our mom was working two jobs to pay the rent, so she wasn’t around much either. It was just me and Ricky, hanging out with too much time and too little money.

  “Ricky was two years older than me. He’d had a couple of jobs, but never for very long and they never paid much. Back then, if you wanted to make real money, you ran drugs. Crack and crystal meth—the good stuff, from Mexico. Not that crap you make at home from Sudafed and battery acid.

  “Mom raised us right, and I never saw my dad do drugs, but you hear stuff. And you see stuff. Like guys younger than us with new cars and tons of girls. You wanna get an 18-year-old boy’s attention? Flash money and girls at him. Throw in some weed and a bad-ass looking .45, and it’s too much for anyone to resist.”

  Michael stopped for a moment, then admitted, “Well, it was too much for me to resist. Especially when Ricky told me he had a plan for us to score an easy two-grand. A thousand bucks each. That seemed like a fortune back then. Now, it doesn’t even cover a month’s mortgage payment, but back then, it seemed like all the money in the world. Especially with the promise of more.

  “Now, Ricky and I weren’t in a gang. Mom at least succeeded in that. She told us our dad had been in the Hilltop Crips, the biggest gang up there, and we both hated the old man enough that we both wanted to stay out of it. But there were plenty of gangs to choose from. Mostly the Hilltops, but the Bloods were around too, plus a couple of smaller Crip gangs. They had all of the drug distribution worked out among them. As long as the Bloods didn’t try to sell on Hilltop territory, nobody got shot. Well, not for that anyway.

  “So when Ricky came to me with this plan, it seemed crazy at first. Some O.G. from Compton had come up and wanted to break into the game. He thought the Tacoma gangs were weak, and I guess they were by Compton standards. He figured as long as he was willing to shoot first, he’d be able to carve out some action. But in case the Hilltops shot quicker than he thought, he wanted someone else to be the first target. That was Ricky. And Ricky brought me in.”

  Michael paused again as he remembered the details from so long ago. Talon supposed he probably hadn’t talked about it much since then—maybe never, if he was as smart as he seemed. The emotion of reliving it caught up with him for a moment. But only a moment.

  “The guy fronted Ricky ten-grand worth of ecstasy. Something a little different than what the Hilltops were running. Maybe that was on purpose, so they wouldn’t fe
el threatened. But it didn’t matter. Anyone making money was a threat, or a target. Ricky started selling it, and it sold. Man, did it sell. You ever use that stuff? Of course it sold. It’s called ecstasy for a reason, and there were plenty of unemployed teenagers and twenty-somethings looking for something new for their parties.

  “The Hilltops came looking for Ricky. Not to hurt him. To rob him. They wanted the ecstasy. But Ricky had to sell the stuff and get the money to the O.G. from Compton. If he stiffed that guy, well, there wouldn’t be any doubt about who shot who.

  “So one night, me and Ricky were making a delivery. He’d sold about half the stuff by that point. He mostly kept me out of it. Just had me come with him in the car, act as a lookout, keep him company mostly. But that night, he was really agitated. He was usually clean when he ran the stuff, but it seemed like he was on something. Not the ecstasy; that would’ve made him relaxed and happy. It was some kind of stimulant. Crack, probably. He’d never done crack—that was our old man’s drug of choice, so, yeah. But that’s how he was acting. All jumpy and wide-eyed. He seemed cracked out. And scared.”

  Michael paused, his eyes open but fixed twenty-five years earlier. “Yeah, he was really scared. Most of the sales had been to people we knew. Hell, everyone knew everyone. We’d even sold to some of the Hilltops and Bloods—guys Ricky knew since grade school, before anybody was wearing colors. Looking back, that’s probably how they found out about it. And why they decided to take Ricky’s supply for themselves.

  “It was a set-up. Ricky was scared because he didn’t know the buyers. It was supposed to be some guys down from Seattle to party. But they wanted a lot. Basically everything Ricky had left, and they were willing to pay extra. If it was a legit sale, we’d be done in two weeks instead of four, and we’d have sold it all for fourteen grand instead of twelve. After paying the O.G. back, we would’ve cleared two-grand each. It was too good to be true, but too good to pass up.