Brunelle frowned slightly. “By the train station.”
* * *
“It’s kind of a ritual,” Brunelle explained as he and Casey stepped out of the coffee shop, each with a drink in hand. “I always go back to the scene when the case is over. Out of respect. And for closure.”
Casey nodded. “I get that. But the case isn’t quite over, is it?”
“My part is,” Brunelle answered.
They crossed Occidental Avenue and headed up King Street. Brunelle pointed out the geography of the crime as they passed through it.
“This is the crosswalk the victim was in when Pollard yelled at him.”
“This is where the victim abandoned his cart when Pollard ran at him.”
“This is the staircase the victim ran down when Pollard was chasing him.”
“That’s the platform the victim was on when Pollard caught up to him.”
“And that—” Brunelle stopped as they emerged fully from the staircase. “That’s Pollard.”
Sure enough, Justin Pollard was sitting on the edge of the platform, right where he had pushed Leonard Holloway off, his legs dangling over the tracks, his hands folded in his lap, and his head bowed.
“He’s out?!” Casey exclaimed.
“Yeah, his dad bailed him out last night,” Brunelle explained. “But he failed to appear in court this morning. The judge issued a warrant for his arrest.”
Casey didn’t need any more information. She drew her handgun. “Justin Pollard!” she called out. “On your knees. Hands on your head! Now!”
Pollard looked up at them, but made no effort to comply with Casey’s commands.
“Oh,” he said. “Mr. Brunelle. And the detective. Sorry, I don’t remember your name.”
“On your knees,” Casey repeated taking a step toward him. “Hands on your head.”
Again, no effort by Pollard to stand up or in any way comply with Casey’s directives. “I’m sorry I threatened you at the beginning of the trial, Mr. Brunelle. When I get stressed, sometimes I lash out. But I guess you knew that. That’s why I didn’t come back to court this morning. I didn’t trust myself.”
“Uh, thanks, I guess,” Brunelle responded. “I can’t actually talk to you, by the way. You’re represented. I have to go through your lawyer.”
“It’s okay,” Pollard said. “I don’t mind.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure she would,” Brunelle returned.
“She’s a good lawyer,” Pollard said. “That’s not really why my dad hired her, but she did a good job. Is the trial over?”
“Everything but the verdict,” Brunelle answered. “The judge issued a warrant for your arrest.”
“Move aside, Dave,” Casey instructed, stepping around him. She had her handgun in one hand and her cell phone in the other, calling for backup. After giving her location and hanging up, she put away the phone and took out her handcuffs.
“I’m not going to say it again,” she warned. “Move away from the train tracks, get on your knees, and put your hands on your head. You are under arrest.”
Pollard sighed and looked down at the tracks again. “I really couldn’t help myself. I know you think it’s all made up, but it’s not. I really do have that problem Dr. Sanchez was talking about. I just lose it sometimes. I can’t control it.” He looked up at Brunelle. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Brunelle said. “You killed someone.”
Pollard sighed, then finally pushed himself to his feet and stepped away from the edge of the platform.
“Haven’t you ever done something you regretted?” he asked Brunelle, as he lowered himself to his knees and put his hands on top of his head.
“You should have come to court today,” Brunelle answered. “You would have heard all about it.”
Casey moved on Pollard, holstering her gun as she grabbed one of his wrists, expertly handcuffing him before he had a chance to even consider resisting after all. Then she pushed him forward, facedown onto the platform.
“I really am sorry,” Pollard said, his cheek pressed to the concrete.
“I already told you,” Brunelle said. “It doesn’t matter.”
CHAPTER 43
The next morning, at the respectable hour of 9:30 a.m., Brunelle got the call.
“The jury has reached a verdict.”
Nine-thirty meant they had actually decided the night before, but wanted the night to sleep on it. They checked in with one another, confirmed no one had changed their minds, double-checked a couple of facts, then waited a few more minutes so it looked like they hadn’t rushed to judgment.
Brunelle thanked the clerk, then hung up and called Carlisle. “Verdict,” he said when she answered.
“Yeah, I know,” she said. “They called me first.”
“Oh.”
“I’m lead, remember?” she teased him. “Meet you in the courtroom?”
“Sounds good.”
He hung up. The only thing more nerve-wracking than waiting for a verdict was being told there was a verdict, but then having to wait until all the necessary parties could be assembled in the courtroom for its unveiling.
Brunelle stood up, checked his tie in the reflection of his window, and buttoned his coat. He took a deep breath, then headed for the door. He didn’t bother bringing his file. No need. Either way, the case was over. Guilty, and they would set a sentencing hearing about a month out. Not guilty, and Pollard would walk out the door. He didn’t need a file for either of those outcomes.
He walked to the elevators and pressed the elevator call button, trying not to imagine how an acquittal would feel. Not only would Pollard skate on the murder, but Robyn’s I.E.D. defense would make him unprosecutable for any other crime—like stealing a guard’s gun, or threatening a prosecutor.
The elevator arrived and he rode it to the courtroom floor, but not before it stopped on three floors as other people—people who weren’t about to take a murder verdict—extended the agony of not knowing what the jury had decided. Their conversations about their weekends and their kids and their dogs all muffled by the blood rushing in Brunelle’s ears.
Carlisle had just stepped off a different elevator across the hallway. They turned together toward Whitaker’s courtroom.
“You ready?” Carlisle asked.
Brunelle forced a smile. “It doesn’t matter.”
Robyn was already in the courtroom. So was Pollard. He was in street clothes again, but Brunelle could tell by his posture that his hands were cuffed to a belly-chain under his suit coat. The two corrections officers who had been ubiquitous background decorations the rest of the trial, standing near the exits but not near the presumed innocent defendant, were joined by a third officer, and all three were within lunging distance of Pollard.
No one else was in the courtroom. Not even Pollard’s parents. They probably wondered why he hadn’t driven the three quick hours to the Canadian border. Or there simply wasn’t time to get there before the verdict was received. The judge would wait for the lawyers and the defendant—she had to—but she wasn’t going to wait for spectators, even family of the accused.
As Brunelle and Carlisle made their way to the prosecution table, the court clerk picked up her phone and a few moments later Judge Whitaker entered the courtroom, heralded by the bailiff’s, “All rise!”
They hadn’t even had a chance to sit down.
“We have been informed the jury has reached a verdict,” she informed the lawyers, rather unnecessarily. Then, to the bailiff, “Fetch the jury.”
The jurors filed into the jury box. They could tell who had been selected the presiding juror because she was holding the verdict form.
“Presiding juror, has the jury reached a verdict?” Judge Whitaker asked.
“We have, Your Honor,” came the reply.
“Please hand the verdict form to the bailiff,” Judge Whitaker instructed.
Brunelle sighed. It was the absolute worst. The verdict was a d
one deal. It was in the Court’s hands. There was no taking it back. He wished the bailiff would just turn to them and give them a thumbs-up or thumbs-down. But no. There was a procedure, a pageantry, to receiving a verdict.
The bailiff took the verdict form and walked it over to the clerk. The clerk inspected it and then handed it to the judge. The judge read it to herself. So everyone knew what the verdict was, except for the attorneys. And Pollard.
“The defendant will rise for the verdict,” Judge Whitaker directed.
Pollard stood up. Robyn stood up next to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder in support.
And the judge read the verdict form. There were a lot of words before she got the one, or two, that mattered.
“In the Superior Court of the State of Washington, by and for the County of King, in the matter of The State of Washington versus Justin Edward Pollard. We the jury, find the defendant, Justin Edward Pollard…”
Brunelle held his breath.
“…guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree.”
“Fuck yes!” Carlisle whisper-yelled under her breath.
But Brunelle just exhaled slowly. “Thank God.” It did matter after all.
epilogue
Brunelle chose a table by the window as Casey walked over with their drinks.
“Double tall Americano.” She handed him his. “Extra shot.”
Then she looked around the joint. Warm wood and the latest in cutting edge light fixtures. Electrical outlets built into every table, a full pastry case, and even gelato. It was the newest location of Emerald City Espresso, with shops near King Street Station, Pike Place Market, and now on Capitol Hill.
“This is nice,” Casey said. “How did you find it?”
Brunelle glanced around the space as well. He had different memories, from when it was a different place. “It’s not too far from my condo. Sometimes I go for walks and I just end up places. A few weeks ago this was just another empty storefront.”
“And before that, who knows?’ Casey added. “Well, I like it. It has a new, comfortable vibe to it.”
Brunelle looked around again and saw what Casey saw. Then he rested his gaze on Casey herself, and couldn’t help but smile. “New, comfortable, and happy. Yeah, I could go for that.”
END
The following is an excerpt from
WINTER’S
LAW
Talon Winter Legal Thriller #1
CHAPTER 1
‘Talon Winter, Attorney at Law’
Talon put her fists on her hips and smiled at the words freshly added to her new office door.
But the smile faded slightly as she realized her name was the last of the five attorneys etched on the glass of the wood-framed door. Black adhesive letters stretched from eye level all the way down to the hem of her knee-length suit skirt.
Least among equals, she thought. Five independent attorneys, sharing office space and a receptionist to reduce overhead, but not combined into any type of firm. No sharing of profits and glory. And if she failed, she’d fail on her own.
It was a long drop from her previous job. Senior Associate Attorney at Gardelli, High & Steinmetz, the most prestigious corporate law firm in Tacoma, Washington. She’d been there seven years and was next up to make partner. Not only had she put in her years, she had littered those years with the bloodied corpses of her opponents. No one deserved the promotion more than her. No one.
But before the managing partners brought her fully into their fold, they wanted a showing of her loyalty. They asked her to sign an affidavit that she knew wasn't true. A senior partner had missed a filing deadline. Talon was supposed to swear she'd mailed the pleadings and they must have gotten lost in the mail. The case would be saved by 'the mailbox rule' and her declaration. The managing partners explained that it was the firm's biggest client. They explained that if they lost the case, they'd also lose half their expected revenue for the next year. They explained that no one would ask any questions and she could forget all about it.
She explained she couldn't sign something that wasn't true.
And they explained she was fired.
So the partnership went to Justin Gardelli, the boss’ nephew. Three years out of law school and couldn’t find the courthouse if you put him across the street and pointed.
Talon knew she had a cause of action. She also knew they’d fight her like hell and it could be years before she saw any money, if ever. And she knew she’d probably need to eat in those intervening years. So she had to figure out what to do.
Chaos equals opportunity.
Talon didn’t have a clichéd Chinese character tattoo on her shoulder blade or anything, but she was aware of the concept that bad situations may be good opportunities in disguise. And she wasn’t the type to go home and cry. She was the type to go home, get her sword, and make the other side cry. She’d been kicking opposing counsel around courtrooms for years. And enjoying it. So, as she contemplated her next career move, she tried to remember the time she enjoyed it the most.
That was easy.
It was the one time she wasn’t doing what Gardelli, High & Steinmetz had told her to do. It was the time she defended a murder suspect against a hotshot Seattle D.A. There was always a rush when she stepped into a courtroom, but nothing before or after had compared to the feeling of defending a man accused of murder and locking horns with all the advantages and resources and arrogance of the government. Any Justin Gardelli could win a motion to compel discovery on an insurance subrogation claim. Yawn.
It took a Talon Winter to acquit a killer.
Talon glanced down again at her name emblazoned on the office door. Her residual smile descended to full frown. The tail of the R in 'Winter' was peeling up. She bent over to press the plastic back onto the glass. It took a moment to rub the adhesive letter sufficiently to keep it in place. Before Talon could stand up again, she heard a man behind her say, “Looking good.”
She stood up, spun around, and tugged her skirt down—all in one fluid motion—to confront the dirty old pervert behind her. But when she did, she discovered the man was neither dirty nor old. And whether he was a pervert or not became a curiosity rather than a condemnation.
“Hi,” the clean, young, possibly perverted man greeted her as he extended his hand. “I’m Curt. Curt Fairchild. I work across the hall.”
Curt jerked a thumb in the general direction of the hallway behind him, but that only served to flex the muscles in his forearm and draw attention to the muscles under his shirt. He was either a few years younger than her 33 years or a few years older, with a boyish face but mature eyes. Thick black hair was cut stylishly and combed back from his face. He wore what passed for semi-formal business attire any more: khakis and a polo shirt, unbuttoned. The only people left in the Northwest who wore suits were the lawyers.
She remembered that she was irritated when she turned around to find Curt Fairchild standing there, but it took her a moment for her to remember why. When she did, though, she forgot all about his cute face and thick arms. She didn't shake his hand.
“What did you say to me?” she demanded.
But Curt just lowered his hand and smiled, either ignoring or oblivious to the edge in her voice. He pointed at the door behind her. “Your name on the door,” he said. “That looks great. ‘Talon Winter, Attorney at Law.’ You just set up your own practice, right? Congratulations.”
Talon turned back to the door. “Uh, right,” she replied slowly. She wasn't convinced that's what Curt had really been talking about 'looking good.' But she admired his mental dexterity. “Thanks. I guess.”
She was still having trouble convincing herself that going from a six-figure salary with gold-plated benefits to a glorified cubicle with no clients was something to celebrate.
“So what's your area of practice?” Curt asked, combing his hair back from his face with his fingers. He had really nice hair.
“Criminal defense,” Talon answered, although there was the tinge of a
question in her reply. It wasn't like she had any actual cases yet.
Curt just nodded. “Well, nice to meet you, Talon Winter, Criminal Defense Attorney at Law.” He waved good-bye and took a small step backward toward his office. “I hope we'll see more of each other.”
Talon offered a practiced smirk. “I'm sure you do.”
Curt smiled back—a broad, honest grin—then turned and disappeared down the hall without any further conversation. Talon smiled more fully, at herself, then collected her thoughts and walked back into her new office.
“Hello, Ms. Winter,” Hannah said from behind her elevated receptionist’s desk. It sported small business card stands for each of the attorneys who office-shared there. Hannah worked for all of them, her salary divided equally among the attorneys. She answered the phones, greeted visitors, and generally made the place feel as if it were a unified office of a law firm, rather than a loose stable of solo practitioners.
“Call me Talon,” Talon replied. Hannah seemed nice enough, although they really hadn’t had much time to get to know each other. She was 20-something, with light brown hair and a round face. Talon hoped she'd be pleasant upon arrival and departure and competent in passing along messages. More interaction than that, Talon wasn’t really interested in. Still, no reason to be formal. “Any messages?”
Hannah smiled. “Since you went outside to look at your name? No.”
Talon smiled too. It had been a silly question. She was just trying to make conversation. Her mistake. “Right. Okay. Well, I guess I’ll head back to my office then.”
“I saw you talking with Curt,” Hannah grinned. “He’s really nice.”
Talon tried to look casually over her shoulder at the hallway. “Yeah. He was admiring my name too.”
Hannah raised an eyebrow. “Your name. Sure.”
Talon decided to, if not change, at least deflect the conversation. “Is he a lawyer too? He said his office was down the hall.”
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