Whitaker waited for the diatribe to end, then took a beat to just stare down at Pollard. “I’m the judge who just set your bail at two million dollars,” she said. “Thank you for the extra information to help me confirm my decision.” Then, to her bailiff, “Next case.”
Pollard wasn’t finished yelling expletives, but his target switched to the two corrections officers who grabbed him to drag him out of the courtroom, rather expertly as it turned out.
“That was unexpected,” Edwards said to Brunelle once the secure door slammed behind her client.
But Brunelle shook his head. “No. That was exactly what I expected. I just expected it yesterday.”
CHAPTER 6
Brunelle wasn’t going to be surprised when Pollard’s parents posted his bail, even if it took them a few days. But he was very surprised when, after those few days, Pollard’s parents instead came to visit him. Or Pollard’s father, anyway.
“Harold Pollard,” the receptionist informed Brunelle over the phone of an unexpected visitor in the lobby. “He says he’s here on one of your cases. I think he’s a victim, maybe?”
“I do homicide cases, Bobby,” Brunelle explained. “My victims don’t visit me at the office.”
“Okay. Whatever you say, Mr. Brunelle,” Bobby replied. “But whoever he is, he says he’d like to meet with you. Should I tell him you’re not in?”
Brunelle paused, suspecting he was on speaker phone. “Can he hear you right now?”
“Um. Yes.”
“Then, no, don’t tell him I’m not in.” Brunelle sighed. “Tell him I’ll be out in a minute.”
That minute slid into several more before Brunelle finally got out of his chair and walked to the receptionist area to meet the father of the man he was trying to put in prison for the next few decades. If he were in private practice, he could just tell an unwanted visitor to go away. But he was a public servant, and the public also included the friends and family of the defendants he prosecuted.
Besides, there was the small chance Daddy Pollard might have information helpful to the prosecution. That was worth twenty minutes of Brunelle’s day.
The senior Pollard presented as miles away from his incarcerated son. For one thing, he was calm. In addition, he possessed an affable smile, a smooth voice, and great hair. He didn’t scream ‘rich’ so much as whisper it. He was dressed in a simple shirt and slacks, each of which Brunelle guessed probably cost more than one of Brunelle’s suits. Maybe two of them.
“Mr. Brunelle,” Harold Pollard extended a hand. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I know this may be uncomfortable.”
Brunelle shook Harold’s hand. “Discomfort is part of the job sometimes. Let’s head back to my office.”
Once they were settled in on opposite sides of Brunelle’s desk, Harold began the conversation. “I’d like to start with an apology,” he said. “For my son’s actions, both what he did out on the streets and how he behaved in court the other day. I was in the gallery, and I can tell you, I was mortified.”
Brunelle tried to play it off. “It’s a stressful situation. Everyone reacts differently.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid it’s more than that,” Harold said. “Justin has a documented history of emotional instability. He’s a sick young man. He’s not responsible for his actions.”
Ah. And Brunelle knew what Harold’s agenda was.
“Well, that’s not really how the law works.” Brunelle raised a cautionary hand. “You can be mentally ill and still be responsible for your actions. Especially when you kill someone.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here,” Harold explained. “To make sure you understand everything you need to know about Justin. To make sure you see the bigger picture. He’s not evil. He’s just sick.”
“You can be sick and still be a murderer,” Brunelle opined.
Harold frowned. “Haven’t you ever done something wrong, Mr. Brunelle? Something you did when you weren’t thinking straight? Something you regretted?”
Brunelle didn’t need to think long about that question. “Of course. And there were consequences.”
“Consequences,” Harold repeated with a rueful chuckle. “What about forgiveness? What about mercy?”
Brunelle shook his head. “Not my department. Talk to the sentencing judge. But first I need to convict him.”
“Do you, though?” Harold challenged. “Do you really need to convict him?”
“Your son murdered someone, Mr. Pollard,” Brunelle reminded him. “It’s my job to hold him responsible.”
“Your job,” Harold repeated, a bit darkly. “Yes. About that. Wouldn’t you say part of your job is being able to distinguish between those cases that deserve to be prosecuted to the fullest extent and those that present mitigating factors that justify, maybe even require, leniency?”
“You mean prosecutorial discretion?” Brunelle replied. “Yes, I’m familiar with the concept.”
“Good,” Harold said. “So, perhaps you’d also agree that someone in your position, who is unable to see which cases deserve leniency, should maybe not be in your position.”
Brunelle raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything immediately.
“Look, Mr. Brunelle.” Harold leaned forward onto Brunelle’s desk. “I know people. Important people. People who know other people. Like the governor, and your boss. If you can’t understand what makes Justin different, maybe you don’t have what it takes to handle a case like this. Maybe you shouldn’t be handling homicides at all. Maybe you should go back to doing car thefts and drug possession.”
Brunelle leaned forward as well. “Are you threatening my job?”
“No, no, of course not,” Harold insisted. “I’m just pointing out that it takes something special to do this kind of a case, and I’m not convinced you have that something special.”
“Well, I’m convinced,” Brunelle responded, “that I don’t have to convince you of anything.” He stood up. “I think we’re done here.”
But Harold Pollard leaned back in his chair and waved away at the tension he’d ignited between them. “Why do you want to do these kind of cases anyway, Mr. Brunelle? Why do you want to be a prosecutor at all? Way too much stress for way too little money, am I right? Somebody like you, with your trial experience, you could make a lot of money in the private sector. A lot of money. Like I said, I know people. I could get you a position with the biggest firm in town. You’d be making three, four, even five times what you’re making now. And no more two a.m. murder scenes and eight a.m. autopsies. Why get hung up on this one little case? Make it go away, and then go make yourself some money.”
“Okay, now I know we’re done,” Brunelle said. He gestured toward the door and stepped around from behind his desk. “I’ll have my legal assistant show you out.”
“That’s fine.” Harold finally stood up as well. “I got what I came for anyway. I wanted to meet you in person. See if what I heard about you was true.”
“Is it?”
But Harold ignored the question. “Think about what I said, Mr. Brunelle. Handle this case the right way, and things could work out very nicely for you. Handle it the wrong way, and you’ll regret it. That’s a promise.”
“A promise?” Brunelle laughed darkly. “Good. Then I know it won’t happen. My life’s been filled with broken promises.”
CHAPTER 7
It would be several days before Brunelle received another visitor on the Pollard case, and it wasn’t family.
“There’s an attorney here to see you, Mr. Brunelle,” Bobby the Receptionist informed him over the phone. “She says it’s about the Justin Pollard case.”
“Is it Jessica Edwards?” Brunelle asked. Edwards usually just called him if she wanted to talk about a case.
“No, Mr. Brunelle,” the receptionist answered. “She says her name is Robyn Dunn. That’s what it says on her notice of appearance too.
A cascade of emotions exploded through Brunelle’s heart and mind, at first so
aring through the air before collapsing into a leaden heap of ‘Oh, no’.
“I—I’ll be right out,” he stammered and hung up the phone. He lowered his head into his hands. “Robyn Dunn. On this case. Fuck me.”
And although he hadn’t meant those last two words literally, when they passed his lips, he couldn’t help but recall his past with the siren-like Robyn Dunn.
Brunelle pushed himself out of his chair and made his way out to the lobby, trying to figure out what he should say when he got there. But it didn’t matter because, of course, she spoke first when he opened the door.
“Mr. B!” She threw her arms wide. “You look fantastic. Homicide looks good on you.”
She was the one who looked fantastic, though, not him in his wrinkled dress shirt with the rolled-up sleeves and the loosened tie from three Christmases ago. Her reddish-auburn curls were a little longer than last time he’d seen her, brushing the tops of her shoulders, and that one dimple appeared when she smiled as she said his name. But before he could give voice to any of those thoughts—which was good, because he knew he shouldn’t give voice to them—she waved her hands at the length of her figure and asked, “Do you think it will look good on me?”
Several responses flew through his mind, including but not limited to, first, everything looks good on her, and second, he wouldn’t mind being one of those things. Instead, he managed, just barely, to stay on task and ask, “You’re doing homicides now?”
Robyn smiled again, sending that dimple a’ popping again. That made Brunelle look to the corresponding spot on her other cheek and the small circular scar she wore where a second dimple should have been. Innocence and experience, together in perfect symmetry.
He was in trouble.
“Oh, Dave,” she said, stepping over to him and pressing a finger on his chest. “I’m not that same little girl you first met all those years ago.” Then she lowered her voice. “I guess that sounds kind of gross, doesn’t it? When you think about what we did.” She smiled at him. “And don’t tell me you don’t think about what we did.”
Brunelle summoned up the ability to step back from Robyn’s hand. “So, Daddy Pollard paid you a big retainer, huh?”
Robyn stepped back as well and crossed her arms. “I never discuss my clients’ fee arrangements.” Then a light laugh. “But yes.”
Brunelle nodded. “Well, then. This will be fun.”
Robyn laughed and stepped back into Brunelle’s personal space. “Oh, Dave. This won’t be just fun.” She pressed a red-nailed fingertip onto his lower lip to emphasize the very last word of her sentence: “It’s going to be a total mind fuck.”
CHAPTER 8
“I was really surprised when you called me up and asked me out to dinner,” Detective Casey Emory told Brunelle across the restaurant table. “Pleasantly surprised. But still, surprised.”
“Yeah, well, I realized I really liked talking to you,” Brunelle offered with a shrug. “And I didn’t know when I might run into you again. There aren’t a lot of murders in Bellevue and if there was one, who knows if I’d even get the case? So, I decided to be proactive.”
“What about the Pollard case?” Casey asked, taking a sip from her wine glass. “We’ll work together on that one, right? This isn’t some sort of conflict of interest, is it?”
“That’s really more of a Seattle case,” Brunelle had an answer ready. “The only thing you really did was that interrogation, and I’m not likely to use it. He didn’t really admit to much. And anyway, I can always call Goodman to testify to what he said instead of you. So, no, no conflict of interest.”
Casey laughed slightly. “Well, if my interrogation was so bad, maybe the defense attorney would want to call me as a witness. Then we’ve got a conflict of interest after all.”
“Not if she’s the one who calls you as a witness,” Brunelle replied. “And I don’t think you’re going to be going out to dinner with her.”
Then he had a bolt of panic as he realized he shouldn’t make assumptions about other people’s sexuality. He’d made that mistake in the past.
“Unless…,” he stammered. “I mean, I shouldn’t make assumptions. Whatever, you know? I mean, I’m cool with that. Not that it matters if I’m cool with anything.”
He stopped to take a breath and realized something else. “Oh, wait,” he said. “Never mind. She’s definitely straight.”
Casey, who had been smiling at his awkward verbal gymnastics, raised an eyebrow. “Definitely straight?” she repeated back. “Oh, is that right, Mr. Brunelle? And how do you know that she’s definitely straight?”
“You know what?” Brunelle threw on his best disarming grin and raised his whiskey glass at her. “Let’s not talk about defense attorneys. Let’s talk about you.”
Casey laughed. “Deft.”
Brunelle laughed as well. “I don’t know about that. But thanks.” He took a sip of his drink. “Seriously, though, tell me more about yourself. Let’s start with the obvious first question. What made you want to become a cop?”
“Oh, you know, all the typical reasons,” Casey answered. “I wanted to help people. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to make sure the system was fair, from the inside. I wanted to make the world a better place, not just talk about it.”
“Those are all good reasons,” Brunelle agreed.
“And my dad was a cop,” Casey added with a grin. “That may have had something to do with it.”
“Ah, yes. Classic,” Brunelle said. “Was he a detective too?”
“Nope.” Casey shook her head. “He worked patrol his whole career. Blue uniform, gold badge, and a silver stripe added to his sleeve every two years. When he got fifteen stripes, he got out. Full pension.”
Brunelle smiled and nodded. “Good for him. And you. I’m glad it wasn’t one of those stories where you guys got a call in the middle of the night.”
“Oh, we got those calls, but it was because dad was helping out somebody else who’d gone down,” Casey said. “He was lucky, but he knew it. And so did we.”
“So how did you end up in Bellevue?” Brunelle followed up. “It’s not like this place has a lot of crime. Not violent crime anyway. Most cops I know like a little more action. Or was that part of why you liked Bellevue?”
Casey shook her head. “No, it was just the right opportunity at the right time. I got my B.A. in criminal justice and right about then Bellevue was hiring a bunch of new officers. Seemed like it’d be a good first job. And it was. I just never left.”
“Worked your way up to detective,” Brunelle acknowledged. “You’ll be chief before too long.”
“No, thanks,” Casey laughed. “I like police work, not politics. Being the chief is all schmoozing with the city council and kissing babies for the cameras. That’s not me.”
“Why do you hate babies?” Brunelle joked.
Casey just shook her head. “I am not talking babies on a first date.”
“Wow.” Brunelle laughed. “Good. So, do you ever wish Bellevue had more crime? Do you ever get bored?”
Casey shrugged. “Just because there aren’t murders doesn’t mean there isn’t crime. We have plenty of crime. Drug running, sexual assault, human trafficking. Money breeds as many problems as it solves.” She paused. “But yeah, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be in a different city, up on the front lines, fighting back against gang violence, solving murders, making a difference for kids who would otherwise grow up in some neglected, crime-ridden neighborhood.”
She took a drink of her wine. “But that’s what’s weird about it. You and me, we have jobs because other people do bad things. And so, you want that balance where there’s enough bad things that it’s interesting, but not so many bad things that you can’t fix it. I mean, if everyone started being nice to each other, you and I would be out of a job. We’d have to go do something way more boring. So, you almost want a certain level of violence and people victimizing each other just so it stays interesting. But that’s me
ssed up.” She shook her head and looked up at him. “Does that make sense?”
Brunelle met her gaze and nodded. “It makes perfect sense.”
Casey smiled. “It’s nice to have someone who understands.”
“Yeah,” Brunelle knew. “It sure is.”
CHAPTER 9
There were also downsides to having people understand you.
“Good morning, Mr. Brunelle,” Bobby greeted Brunelle as he answered his phone. “Attorney Robyn Dunn is here to see you again.”
Brunelle closed his eyes and punched the bridge of his nose. He had work to do. “What does she want?”
“She says she’s here to drop off some paperwork.”
“So, have her drop it off.” That seemed obvious.
“She said she wants to hand it to you personally, Mr. Brunelle,” came the explanation. “I told her most people just drop things off, but she was very insistent.”
“Yeah,” Brunelle sighed into the receiver. “She can be like that.”
He told Bobby he’d be right out, then stood up and steeled himself. A few moments later he was walking out into the lobby where Robyn stood, somehow even more radiant than the last time he’d seen her, a several-page document rolled up in her hand, almost as if she were going to swat him with it. Which just stirred up more emotions and memories.
“What?” he demanded.
Robyn looked startled for a moment, then smiled slowly. “No.” She crossed her arms. “Ask nicely.”
Brunelle sighed again. “Do we really have to do this?”
“The question is,” Robyn answered, “do we have to do this here? Can’t we go to your office?”
Brunelle shook his head. “I’d rather not.”
“Don’t trust yourself?” Robyn teased.
“I don’t trust you,” Brunelle retorted, then instantly regretted it.
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