Talon Winter Legal Thrillers Box Set

by Stephen Penner

  The lobby was a little run down, especially when compared to the freshly decorated lobby of the Prosecutor’s Office. It also wasn’t located in the courthouse. Instead, the public defenders had to trudge three blocks uphill every time they went to court. It wasn’t hard to see that the County Council steered more money to the prosecutors than to the defenders. And it wasn’t hard to know that no one except the defenders cared. Criminal defense could be a thankless job, and the public defenders’ lobby reflected it. She sighed, then checked in with the receptionist, a middle-aged woman in a purple sweater with thick red hair barely tamed into a sort of ponytail.

  “Hello, I’m Talon Winter,” she introduced herself. “I’m a local defense attorney, and I was wondering if I could speak with the director?”

  Talon was expecting the City of Oz treatment: ‘No one sees the Director! Not no one, not no how!’ But the woman was actually very nice.

  “I’ll see if she’s available,” she said, and disappeared into the back. Barely a minute later, the receptionist was back. “Ms. Comstock will be right out.”

  Wow, Talon thought. Nice. “Thank you.”

  She took a seat in one of the metal-framed waiting room chairs, again far less elegant than the stuffed and upholstered chairs on the ninth floor of the County-City Building. For the first time, she noticed she wasn’t the only one waiting. There were several people seated throughout the large room, filling out paperwork, or whispering to each other. Some looked poor, all looked nervous, none of them looked at her. She suddenly became aware of sitting where the defendants sit, and not just next to them. Of feeling, however briefly and superficially, like being one of them, not just being for them.

  She shook her head to clear her thoughts. It had been a long day.

  “Ms. Winter?”

  Talon looked up to the see the Director of the Department of Assigned Counsel holding open the door to the offices behind her. She was an older woman, with a strong frame, shortly cropped gray hair, and wrinkles she wore like battle scars. “I’m Elizabeth Comstock. Margie said you wanted to talk with me?”

  Talon stood up and crossed the room to shake Elizabeth Comstock’s hand. They’d never met before, but Talon instantly liked her. She always liked meeting older professional women who’d helped pave the way for younger professional women. Or more like cleared the path, with machetes. Talon liked a machete-wielding professional woman.

  “Thanks for taking the time to meet with me,” Talon said. “I’ll try not to take too much of your time. I’m sure you’re busy.”

  “Don’t worry, my dear,” Elizabeth said as they walked back to her office. “I’m always busy. I was busy before you got here and I’ll be busy after you leave.” They sat down in her cluttered but cozy office. “What can I do for you?”

  Talon got right to the point. She expected her host would appreciate that. “It’s the Ezekiel Frazier case.”

  But Elizabeth just shrugged. “Sorry. We have a lot of cases. I don’t know them all by name.”

  “It’s an Unlawful Possession of Controlled Substance, with a firearm enhancement,” Talon explained. “I got the case yesterday, but then got a call today that you wanted to take it back.”

  Elizabeth cocked her head. “Why would we do that?”

  “Uh,” Talon hesitated. “It might be because it’s a strike offense. And it’s Strike Three for the client.”

  “A third strike case?” Elizabeth confirmed. “Oh, well, yes. That might explain it.” She turned to her computer and found a pair of reading glasses among the files and coffee cups atop her desk. “Talon Winter, right?” she confirmed, as she squinted at her computer monitor. “Yes, here you are. And yes, that’s it. We don’t send third strikes out to just anyone. We consider them the same as Class A felonies. And you can’t do Class A’s until you’ve tried three Class B’s.”

  “I know,” Talon interjected. “And I can’t do Class B’s until I try three Class C’s.”

  Elizabeth nodded and again checked her computer. “Looks like we’re still just sending you Class C’s. One of the legal assistants must have missed the firearm enhancement. Without that, it’s not a strike, and it would be exactly the kind of case we would send you.”

  She took off her readers again. “Sorry for the confusion, but thanks for bringing the file back.”

  But Talon shook her head. “No. I’m not giving the case back.”

  Elizabeth’s eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?”

  “I didn’t come here to give the file back,” Talon explained. “I came here to tell you I’m keeping it.”

  Elizabeth thought for a moment, then frowned. “You’re not keeping it if I say you’re not. I make that decision, not you. And you aren’t qualified yet.”

  “The hell I’m not,” Talon answered. “I’ve defended murder cases.”

  Elizabeth offered a patient, but nevertheless slightly patronizing smile. “Private defense is a bit different, my dear. Any fool can hire an attorney to represent them. But I run the public defense agency. I have an obligation to make sure that only most experienced attorneys handle the most important cases. This isn’t your case, Talon. It’s a public defense case. And I say who represents those.”

  “It is my case,” Talon asserted, “and you’re going to let me keep it.”

  Elizabeth took a moment to size up her guest. She could have simply demanded the file and ended the conversation. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and folded her hands on her stomach. “I am, am I? And why is that?”

  “Because I’m the only one who can win it. I’m the only one who wants to.”

  Elizabeth frowned slightly and nodded at Talon. “What does that mean?”

  “Have you ever heard of the National Appellate Justice Project?” Talon asked. Then she explained her visit from Marshall Lenox. The plans Lenox had for Ezekiel Frazier. That it was the perfect test case. And that it would be so very easy for an attorney—especially an overworked public defender who’d taken the job because of his or her personal dedication to work for the greater good, or some other private conflict attorney who was only in it for the money and not the justice—to succumb to that kind of pressure from the smooth-talking Marshall Lenox and let Zeke get convicted. After all, the drugs were in his pocket, and the gun was under his seat.

  “If you reassign it,” Talon argued, “some other attorney will do just enough to make rent, then do the stipulated trial, and Ezekiel Frazier spends the rest of his life in prison. If you leave it with me, I’ll win the case.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “You can’t promise that. No one can.”

  “Then I’ll just have to do it,” Talon answered.

  Elizabeth took several moments to consider what Talon had told her. And to consider Talon herself. She picked up those reading glasses again and chewed on the earpiece as she thought. Talon waited patiently. She had more arguments ready, if she needed them.

  Finally, Elizabeth pointed the readers at Talon. “I’ll make you a deal. You can keep the case, for now. Don’t stipulate to anything without checking with me first. I’ll look at your workup and maybe you can keep the case for good.”

  But Talon hadn’t come just to keep the status quo. “I’ll make you a better deal,” she said. “I keep the case. Period. And if I win it, you start sending me Class A’s.”

  Elizabeth clicked her tongue. “It’s against the ethical rules to bet on the outcome of a criminal case,” she pointed out.

  “It’s not a bet,” Talon answered. “It’s a reward. And motivation.”

  Elizabeth Comstock thought for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, deal.” She stood up to shake Talon’s hand. But when Talon took her hand, Elizabeth pulled her in close and looked her square in the eye. “Win the damn case.”

  CHAPTER 8

  By the time Talon parked underneath her condo complex, it was already long past dinner time. She was exhausted. It been a long day of fighting—win, lose, and draw—and as she opened the door to her unit, the only thing
she wanted was a hot shower and a warm bed. But as she pushed the door open she was accosted by the stench of someone else and the sound of gunfire.

  "Hey, sis!" Will shouted over the television from his spot splayed out on the couch. "I was wondering if you were ever coming home."

  Talon sighed. Her home smelled like microwaved food and dirty socks. It smelled like a dude. And not in a good way.

  "Have you been home all day?" she asked as she crossed the room to open a window.

  "Yeah," Will answered with a stretch. "I woke up kinda late. Then I found this ‘Lethal Weapon’ marathon on cable. I forgot how funny these are."

  "You should go outside," Talon said as she threw open a second window.

  Will laughed. "Why? The fridge is stocked. Oh, by the way, we're out of beer."

  "Get some fresh air," Talon replied as she started picking up glasses from the coffee table—not one of them on a coaster. "Get some exercise. Get a job."

  "Wow." Will pushed himself up into a sitting position. "Nagging already? God, you sound like mom."

  Talon slammed a glass back down on the coffee table. "It's not nagging if it's my house!" She dropped the rest of the glasses onto the table. "You know what? You clean this up. I spent my day cleaning up other people's messes. I'm not cleaning up yours. Not again."

  "Not again?" Will echoed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You know what it means," Talon snarled. "You never listened. Mom and Dad were always bailing you out. Literally."

  "Yeah, well, Mom and Dad had lots of plans for us that never worked out."

  "They worked out for me," Talon returned. "I worked my ass off."

  "Yeah, and what did it get you?" Will asked. "Fired. And now you're taking public defense cases to pay your electric bill."

  Talon crossed her arms. "How did you know—?"

  Will waved a hand at her. "Everybody does it. Hell, my last case, I got one of those high-priced lawyers with the office down on Dock Street. Didn't help me any. He took his five hundred bucks or whatever from the county and pled me out to eight years." Then he shrugged. "But I was looking at twelve, so I thought it was a good deal."

  Talon frowned. "You should have fought it."

  Will shrugged again. "I thought prison would be easy." He paused, his eyes distant. "It wasn't easy."

  Talon looked at her little brother. Her smelly, messy, inconsiderate little brother. She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. "Look, I had a hell of a day."

  “Big case?” Will asked.

  Talon shook her head. “No, little case. Big sentence.”

  “How big?”

  “Life without the possibility of parole.”

  Will whistled. “Doesn’t get bigger than that. Is he guilty?”

  Talon laughed. “What does that have to do with it? Sure, he had some crack in his pocket. And sure, there was a gun in the car. But you shouldn’t go to prison for the rest of your life just for possessing stuff. He didn’t hurt anybody.”

  “Well, I totally agree, of course,” Will offered. “But can’t you just ask for a lower sentence?”

  “No,” Talon answered. “It’s mandatory. Strike Three. The only way…” but she trailed off.

  “The only way what?” Will followed up.

  Talon sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “There’s this guy from some advocacy group who wants me to throw the case and get it up to the Court of Appeals so maybe they’ll strike down the Three Strikes Law, at least as it applies to stupid things like drug possession.”

  “Yeah!” Will nodded enthusiastically and pointed at her. “Do that.”

  “No,” Talon responded. “Don’t do that. The only way the Court of Appeals will see it is if I lose. And I don’t intend on losing.”

  Will looked around the condo. “So you were working on that all day and then you come home to this mess,” he finally realized. “Shit, sis. I’m sorry.”

  But Talon waved the apology away. “Whatever. Like I said, it’s been a long day.” She gestured toward the mess on the coffee table, and on the couch, and in the kitchen. "Just promise me you'll clean all this up before you go to bed tonight, okay? And I mean dishes in the dishwasher, not just in the sink."

  Will nodded. "Sure thing, sis."

  "And will you promise to go out tomorrow and start looking for a job?" she continued. "And an apartment? I can't have a roommate. I just can't. If you stay here, I'll end up killing us both."

  "Then you'll go to prison," Will answered. "For murder."

  "Not if I kill us both," Talon explained. But Will just offered a confused expression.

  Talon shook her head and turned toward her bedroom. "Okay, I'm going to take a super way too hot shower then pass out." She looked back and pointed at her brother. "Remember: dishes, dishwasher."

  Will pointed back at her. "Remember: murder, prison."

  Talon jabbed her finger again. "Remember: job, apartment."

  Will laughed and shook his head. "You're kind of a bitch, sis."

  Talon laughed back, but darkly. "No 'kind of,' bro. Good night."

  CHAPTER 9

  Will did start going out during the days, or at least for parts of them. But it wasn't as if he was going to find a job and an apartment on the first day, so Talon's condo still smelled and looked like someone else lived there. As a result, she found herself spending more and more time at the office and less and less at her, now shared, home. So when Saturday rolled around and she decided she needed a break from her office, she didn’t stay home. Instead, she set up camp at a new coffee shop on neo-trendy Sixth Avenue, using part of the space from the latest restaurant to close its doors. It used to be a Mexican restaurant. Talon thought it had been doing well, although she'd never gone. She supposed she must not have been the only one to think that, or not go.

  The space was large and roomy, with plenty of outlets for her laptop and phone chargers. She took a seat at the counter by the windows, planning to alternate between reading police reports, writing down ideas and strategies, and people watching. And drinking coffee. But mostly people watching.

  There were several soccer moms in yoga pants pushing high-end strollers. There was one guy who was either crazy or talking on a Bluetooth. And/or. And a very large number of people who really weren't that interesting after all. Which helped her do a little more work than she might otherwise have expected. Bad for her, but good for Ezekiel Frazier.

  But the thing about people watching out one window was, she couldn’t see who walked in the front door from the other direction. Not more soccer moms in yoga pants. Private investigators in t-shirts and jeans.

  "Talon?" Curt called out from behind her.

  She turned to see him wave and start toward her. She didn’t wave back immediately, immobilized by her ambivalence. On the one hand, she didn't mind being interrupted—she was just looking for something to do outside of her apartment. On the other hand, she wasn't sure she was ready to talk with Curt just yet. On yet another hand, he did look good in that tight t-shirt.

  But that just confirmed she wasn't ready to talk him just yet.

  Which was too bad for her, apparently.

  "Hey, how's it going?" Curt asked, standing by the stool next to hers but not sitting down. Yet. He nodded toward her laptop. "Working on that new case I heard about? Life without parole for a pocketful of crack?"

  Talon raised an eyebrow. "How did you—?" But she knew the answer before she finished the question. "Hannah."

  "Hannah," Curt confirmed.

  Talon thought for a moment. "Were you asking about me?"

  Curt smiled slightly and dropped his gaze to the floor.

  But before he could answer, Talon said, "Don't do that. If you want to know something, ask me directly. I don't like people talking about me behind my back."

  Curt raised his gaze again. "Okay,” he accepted her invitation. “Why have you been avoi—?"

  "Okay, fine," Talon interrupted. "You want to know what I've been working on? I'll
tell you." She spun her laptop to face him. “See?”

  Curt grinned at her, then went ahead and took that seat next to her. He pulled the laptop closer. “Not my pants?” he asked after a moment.

  “I know, right?” Talon replied. “That’s not gonna work. So I need to figure out what will.”

  Curt shrugged. “Not to be dismissive, but it’s just a possession case. Hardly seems worth spending a sunny Saturday worrying over.” He nodded toward her coffee. “Wanna put that in a to-go cup and walk over to Wright Park? Feed the ducks or something?”

  Talon ignored that he had basically just asked her out. “No, there was a gun under his seat. They firearm enhanced it, and so now it’s Strike Three for this guy.”

  Curt’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Shit. That’s why it’s Life Without. I thought maybe Hannah just didn’t understand the sentencing grid.”

  “She probably doesn’t.” Talon spun her laptop back to face her. “But yeah. It’s kind of a big deal. And, really, I’ve got a lot to do. No Wright Park for me today.”

  Curt frowned slightly and nodded. “Rain check?” he ventured.

  Talon sighed. “I don’t know. Probably not.” Then, “I mean, I just have a lot going on right now. Work-wise. The firm is finally up and running. I’ve got this big case. I practically had to put the director of D.A.C. in a headlock to keep it. I can’t lose the trial. Except there’s this guy who wants me to, but that wouldn’t be right. And then there’s my bro—“ But she stopped herself. “There’s just a lot going on,” she repeated. “Now isn’t really a good time for,” she pointed at him, then her, then back and forth between them, “this,” she finished.

  “Maybe before closing argument?” Curt joked.

  Talon didn’t laugh.

  Curt’s smile faded. “Look. Can I ask you something?”

  Talon nodded, but she didn’t say anything.

  Curt hesitated. “Well, I was just wondering…” he started. “That is…”