Talon Winter Legal Thrillers Box Set

by Stephen Penner

  “Tough day at court?” she squeaked.

  Before Talon could rip into her, Olsen dashed into the lobby. “What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” Talon barked. “Two White cops told a White judge they stopped my Black defendant for a defective license plate light down in South Tacoma, then arrested him for drugs and guns. And the old man White judge says, ‘Oh yeah, that’s cool. No problem.’ Never mind that nobody except cops even know cars have license plate lights, let alone when they’re out. Have you ever checked to make sure your God damned license plate light isn’t out? Never mind that the White doctor or lawyer or fucking judge in the Proctor District would never get stopped for that, or if he did, he’d get a warning.

  “But Black guy in South Tacoma? License plate light out? Oh, that’s a fucking felony stop. Better have multiple officers show up for that shit. Pull his Black ass out of the car, cuff him and stuff him. No warrant? No problem. Just search his pockets. Found drugs? Great. Search his car. Found a gun? Great. Boom! Life in prison without the possibility of parole!

  “Meanwhile, Dr. Whitebread drives on home, his hundred-dollar speeding tickets easily paid off, his seven handguns all locked up in his gun safe, and his ten different bottles of pills all lined up in his bedside table because he can write himself a prescription for whatever mind-altered state he wants to go into. And he rests safe and sound knowing there’s one less scary Black man roaming free.

  “That’s what fucking happened!”

  Feingarten had strolled out of her office, too, by then. She looked at Hannah who only looked back at her and Olsen with wide eyes.

  “You know what?” Talon went on. “If they ever want to get rid of open carry laws, just get a group of three or four Black men with guns on their hips downtown. Have them go into a Starbucks and order a fucking latte. Open carry would be illegal by sundown.”

  Olsen looked at Feingarten, then back at Talon. “Uh… was his license plate light actually out?”

  Talon glowered and pointed a finger at him. “Don’t even start.”

  “No,” Olsen protested. “I mean, maybe it was a lie. Maybe the cop lied.”

  “Maybe,” Talon answered, stomping over to pick up her briefcase and its spilled contents. “Probably. But that’s not the point. Don’t you see? The point is—“

  “Is everything okay?” Curt Fairchild walked into the lobby just then. “I heard a crash and then yelling. Is everyone all right?”

  “Oh great!” Talon threw her hands up. “Here comes another Great White Male to tell us how to behave.”

  Curt’s brows knitted together. “Uh, I was just worried.”

  But Talon wasn’t done. She pointed at him. “You even wanted to be a cop, didn’t you? That just makes it worse.”

  “Okay, well, I’m not really sure what ‘it’ is,” Curt responded, “but I’m not a cop. I’m a friend.” He paused, then added, “I think.”

  Talon glared at him for several seconds as everyone else in the room just stood silently. Finally, she threw her arms down to her sides. “Aw, fuck. Fuck.”

  She kicked her briefcase. “The system isn’t fair. It seems fair. Each individual part seems fair. Each department. Each division. Each rule. Each decision. It all seems fair. But then you step back and look at the results, and it’s not.

  Curt frowned and nodded. “Nope.”

  “So, that sucks,” Talon said.

  “So, do something about it,” Curt said.

  “I tried!”

  “Are you done trying?” he asked.

  Talon lowered her gaze for a moment, then looked up again, eyes steeled. “No.”

  “Good,” Curt answered. “Are you hungry?”

  Talon shook her head slightly. Was he asking her out? Right then? “What?”

  “I was heading out to grab some teriyaki when I heard you yelling,” Curt explained. “Do you want me to bring you back something? You can’t fight injustice on an empty stomach.”

  “Uh,” Talon started to reply. “Yeah. Sure. That’d be nice. Thanks.”

  The danger apparently passed, Olsen and Feingarten retreated down their hallway and Hannah lowered her head again, returning to whatever work she’d been doing when Talon’s briefcase soared across the lobby.

  “When I get back,” Curt offered, “tell me what you’re gonna do to make the world a better place. Maybe I can add some valuable insight. After all, I used to want to be a cop.”

  Talon grinned sheepishly. “Sorry about that,” she offered. “And sure thing. That sounds great.”

  Curt turned to go fetch the food.

  “Thanks,” she called out.

  “No worries.” Curt smiled over his shoulder. “That’s what friends do.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Talon and Curt’s brainstorming session went well past 5:00. By the time they were done, or done for the day anyway, it was dark out. Curt drove Talon home, so she could keep looking through her file as they traversed the rainy streets of downtown Tacoma.

  “So for this partial fingerprint,” she was saying as Curt neared her condo, “we’re going to need an expert, right? Our own expert, not the State’s.”

  “Right,” Curt agreed. “Their expert already said it didn’t have any value.”

  “We need someone who will say it does,” Talon replied. “And that it doesn’t match Zeke.”

  “What if it does?” Curt asked.

  Talon smiled. “Then we thank him for his work, pay him for his time, and never tell the State what we found out.” She patted her file. “Sometimes I really like being a defense att—“

  “Whoa!” Curt slammed on the breaks, sending the car skidding slightly on the wet pavement.

  “What’s wrong?” Talon asked, squinting into the dark through the rain covered windshield.

  “Somebody’s standing in the middle of the road,” Curt answered. He honked the horn. And again. “He won’t move.”

  Talon wasn’t sure what to suggest. But it didn’t matter. Curt didn’t wait for advice. He undid his seatbelt and opened his car door. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

  She wasn’t sure that’s what she would have suggested, but he didn’t really give her time to formulate an alternative. Anyway, her mind was on the case, not some idiot in the middle of the road. She opened her file again to see if she could find that property sheet again. She’d need to know the item number of the fingerprint card if she was going to get it released to an outside expert.

  “Fuck you!” she heard someone yell. When she looked out the windshield again she could see the fight was on.

  And she wasn’t one to shy away from a fight.

  She slid her file to the car floor and jumped out into the rain. Curt was in the middle of a serious physical altercation with the man from the middle of the road. The man had grabbed Curt by the waist. Curt was punching him in the back, trying to make him to let go. Eventually he did, but only to stand up and punch Curt in the face. Curt fell back, reeling, but righted himself and threw a series of punches at the other man. One missed, but the others landed, striking him in the ribs, then the face. The man fell to his knees and Curt punched his face again, in a large downward arc, sending him to the ground, and filling the air with a loud, wet thud.

  Talon ran up to them. Curt was standing over the man, panting. He had blood on his mouth and cheek, and was holding his right hand in his left armpit. “He, he just attacked me,” he gasped.

  Talon looked down at the man on the ground. He was conscious but obviously in a lot of pain. He wasn’t even wearing a shirt, despite the rain, and he was barefoot. In the dark Talon didn’t recognize the tattoos, but when the man rolled over to look up at them, she recognized his face.

  “Will?!”

  Curt looked from his assailant to Talon. “You know this asshole?”

  “This asshole is my brother, you jerk,” Talon spat. She crouched down next to Will. “Are you okay?”

  “H-hey, sis,” Will managed to say through h
is quickly swelling lips. “Long time, no see.”

  Talon stood back up and appraised the situation. No shirt, no shoes, middle of the roadway, violent. “You’re high, aren’t you?” she demanded.

  Will laughed. “Actually, I’m really low right now.” He slapped at the wet pavement next to his head. “Low, low, looow.”

  “That’s your brother?” Curt asked, flabbergasted. “I didn’t even know you had a brother.”

  “Well, that just goes to show what a shitty investigator you are,” she shot back.

  “Hey, don’t be mad at me,” Curt said.

  “You just beat up my brother,” Talon replied. “Don’t tell me who to be mad at.”

  “He attacked me,” Curt protested.

  “And you attacked him back,” Talon said. “Even though he’s obviously high and can’t defend himself.”

  “Yeah!” Will put in from the pavement.

  “And you.” Talon pointed at her brother. “You’re done. I told you. No drugs. No screw-ups. And getting high and fighting in the middle of the fucking street right in front of my home is a major royal screw-up. You’re gone. I’m kicking you out.”

  “Where am I supposed to go?” Will pleaded, finally sitting up, but still soaked in rain and blood. “I have nowhere else to go.”

  “That’s your problem,” she replied. “Not mine. Not any more.”

  She marched back to Curt’s car to grab her things, then stomped back through the puddles, not finished with them quite yet. She started with her brother. “I’d throw your things out on the sidewalk, Will, but you don’t have any things. Everything is mine. So, here.” She pulled off her coat and threw it at him. “Don’t die from exposure. But don’t come back here any more. Not until you’re clean and I can trust you again.”

  Curt nodded, but Talon had words for him too.

  “And you,” she jabbed a finger into his chest. “I don’t have time for some wanna-be cop who can’t control his own testosterone. If you can’t subdue some drug addled loser without beating him to the ground, then I don’t want you around either. Just go. Hell,” she pointed at Will, “take him with you. Drop him off at a shelter. Or maybe find some other helpless drug addict to beat to death.”

  “He attacked me,” Curt repeated. “I was just defending myself.”

  “Tell it to the judge,” Talon growled. “He’s a White guy like you, so you’ll probably get off with a warning. Hell, tell him your victim was Native American and you’ll probably get a medal. But whatever else you do, get the hell out of here. Now.”

  Curt was flummoxed. “But, but what about the fingerprint expert?” he tried. “We were going to find—“

  “I’ll find one myself,” Talon cut him off. “You’re fired.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Of course, finding a good, independent fingerprint expert was easier said than done. After the spectacle of her brother and her—what? Friend? Investigator? Ride home?—well, whatever he was, he and Will beating on each other in the middle of the street in front of her condo, Talon was in no mood for anything or anyone. She spent several hours scrubbing her condo of any remnant of Will. And that meant truly scrubbing. There were rings and residue and grime just about anywhere she cared to look. No actual drugs, but that was probably because he’d used the three glass pipes she’d found hidden throughout the condo to smoke it all.

  It ended up being a night of cleaning followed by a day of work. But there was nothing better than a successful day at the job to block out the raging dumpster fire of failure that was her relationship with her brother. And with Curt.

  So the next morning, job number one was finding a fingerprint expert. But the problem with fingerprint experts was that almost all of them worked for police agencies. And if they didn’t, there was a reason why.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Robertson will be on vacation in Europe for the next two months.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Ingalls isn’t taking new clients at the moment.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ottingham doesn’t consult for criminal defense attorneys.”

  “We’re sorry, the number you have reached has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”

  Talon put her head in her hands. There was only one name left. And it wasn’t one of the ones she’d gotten from Olsen or Feingarten or the other attorneys she’d bothered for recommendations. It was from a Google search on her phone. After all the others fell through. As she dialed, expecting the worst, she wondered if Craigslist might have an ‘expert witness’ category.

  “Sure,” came the response after Talon explained what she was looking for. “I can do that.”

  “You can?” Talon almost didn’t believe him. Him being Eric Emerson. According to Google, he was a forensic technician, formerly employed by the Washington State Patrol Crime Laboratory. She was suspicious for two reasons. One, why was he ‘formerly’ with the Crime Lab? And two, why was he available?

  “I was fired by the Crime Lab,” Emerson admitted, almost casually. “I developed a drinking problem back then and wasn’t able to make it to work on time, or at all some days. They couldn’t keep me on if they couldn’t rely on me to be there, or do quality work. I didn’t really give them a choice. But I’ve been sober going on three years now. They wouldn’t take me back, so I decided to go out on my own.”

  As for the second question, he answered, “I’m available because, quite honestly, not a lot of people want to use an expert who was fired by the Crime Lab. It doesn’t really help my credibility. In fact, I’m not sure this whole expert witness thing is going to work out, but I really don’t want to go back to painting houses with my dad.”

  Talon wasn’t sure about Eric Emerson, but she could tell one thing: he was honest. Almost to a fault. A side effect of his twelve step program, she supposed. But if he was going to say that the partial fingerprint from the gun actually did have value and didn’t match Zeke’s prints, well then, she was going to need the jury to believe him. So, honest was probably good.

  “Okay, Mr. Emerson, you’re hired,” Talon said. “Let’s schedule a time to meet.”

  “Sounds great!” Emerson replied. “But please, call me Eric. Mr. Emerson is my dad. And he paints houses.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Talon elected not to seek the release of the actual physical fingerprint card. She had received a copy of the image in discovery and Eric had said he could work off that, at least for an initial evaluation. If Talon wanted to get a piece of evidence released to her expert, she would have to get permission from the prosecutor or, if Alcott refused—as seemed likely—then from the judge. She would probably get the order releasing the card to her expert, but then everyone would know she’d retained an expert. If she got the card, gave it to Eric, then gave it back and said, ‘Never mind,’ everyone would know the print didn’t have value after all. Or worse yet, that it did have value, and it matched Zeke. If that was going to be Eric’s opinion, she needed his report to die in her file, where no one would even know to look.

  But his report didn’t say that. In fact, when he brought it to Talon’s office personally for her review, she learned that it said exactly what she’d hoped for. Almost.

  “Probably?” She looked up from the report. “The latent print probably has value?”

  Eric nodded. He was sitting opposite her, uncomfortably, in one of her guest chairs. He was a tall, lanky man, in his late 40s, with loose skin and longish brown hair swept back from a deeply receding widow’s peak. “Probably,” he confirmed. “The print isn’t ideal, but I think there’s enough of it to make some general observations.”

  “General observations?” Talon pushed back in her chair. “You think? I’m not sure how that’s going to play with the jury. Can you sound more definitive? More, I don’t know, expert-y?”

  Eric frowned slightly. “Experts should tell the truth, right? Well, that’s the truth. I bet the jury will understand.”

  “Easy for you to bet. It’s not your life that’s on the line.” Talo
n sighed. She could hardly ask him to lie. But maybe she could help him with the presentation. She crossed her arms and rolled a wrist at him. “Okay, Mr. Expert. Make me understand. Why should I rely on something you think, probably, might be true?”

  Eric smiled slightly and took a deep breath. He seemed to understand her request, her challenge. But he still looked nervous. Talon wondered if he wanted a drink. She wondered how much worse it would be when he actually testified at the trial.

  “Everyone has fingerprints,” he began. “I mean, sure, a few people have managed to scrape and scar their fingerprints off, but that really, really hurts, and it was only like this one guy who didn’t ever want to be identified for anything. Not just crimes, anything. I think he was mentally ill. I mean, why not just wear gloves, right?”

  “Eric,” Talon interrupted.

  “Yeah?”

  “Forget the crazy guy with no fingerprints,” she instructed. “Super interesting in a different context. Not here. Here, it’s a tangent that confuses the jury.”

  Eric nodded repeatedly. “Okay. Right. Sure. That makes sense.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, everyone has fingerprints,” he started again. “And everyone’s are different. Even identical twins. They have the same DNA, but their fingerprints form in the womb, after they separate, so they’re different. If one identical twin committed a crime and left behind some blood or something, the DNA couldn’t tell you which twin did it. But if he left behind a fingerprint, you’d know.” He paused. “Oh, is that a distracting tangent, too?”

  Talon considered. “No, it’s an interesting tangent. Just barely. Try to stay on task. Get me past ‘maybe, probably, could be helpful, you think’.”

  Eric gave a good-natured frown at her description of his opinion, and soldiered on. “So, anyway, fingerprints are made up of a series of raised ridges on your fingertips. Actually, you also have those ridges on your palms and on your feet. So, really, print evidence isn’t limited to just fingerprints.”