Courting Death - Carol Stephenson [1]
“Chalk, not paint.” I gritted my teeth. Although we’d been friendly during my years as a state prosecutor, the friendship hadn’t survived my conversion to the “dark side,” as she loved to say. If she only knew… Switching to defense wasn’t all that difficult with conscience’s fangs snapping at your heels.
“Trust me.” Connie dropped her hands. “It will be paint by the time the reporters get through with the story.”
True enough, I reflected as I collected my briefcase and purse. If a story had enough sympathy play, the dry facts could easily get lost in the hue and cry. I glanced at my watch.
Damn. Without a deal, I wouldn’t be out of here until late. That meant I couldn’t stop by the house before my evening appointment, and this was the day the caretaker had to leave early. The all too familiar sensation of tension filled my chest like a balloon, pressing against my lungs until I could hardly breathe.
Stop it, I told myself, fighting to take a normal breath. Now’s not the time to hyperventilate. It wasn’t as if Mom had started wandering off and getting lost like the doctor warned about. She’d be fine by herself for a few hours. Still, a burning sensation flared in my lower chest. I thumbed a tablet from the antacid roll I kept in my jacket pocket.
The door of the small conference room opened and Bailiff Doug Scott poked his head in. “Ms. Sterling, Ms. Sanchez. The judge is ready to resume the proceedings.”
“Oh, thank you, Doug.” Despite the dark circles under her eyes, Connie’s eyes flashed with sudden fire. She practically tripped over herself to follow the bailiff out.
Not that I blamed her. The buff deputy was easy on the eyes and a spark to any woman’s libido. His being single didn’t hurt the fantasy factor either. There was always a moment of reverential silence whenever he strolled by a group of female lawyers in the courthouse hallways.
As I allowed the bailiff and enamored prosecutor to get ahead, I pulled out my cell phone and called my law firm partner Kate Rochelle.
“Kate? It’s Nicole. I need a favor.”
“Of course,” she responded in a cultured tone instilled by her Palm Beach upbringing. “The hearing not going well?”
“The state’s presented its case, but the prosecutor won’t offer any deal that doesn’t include jail time.”
“Tough break. Your client may have to testify after all.”
“Looks that way. I have that funeral service tonight at seven. I might not be able to swing home, could you—”
“Stop in and check on your mother? Not a problem.”
Relief swept through me. Sometimes I wondered at what quirk of fortune had blessed me with friends like my partners. “Thanks, Kate.”
“Go kick some butt.”
I laughed as I switched off the phone. Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the courtroom door and walked to the table where my client, Trevor Jordan, sat guarded by the bailiff. I nodded to Doug, who withdrew only a slight distance.
After sitting down, I leaned over and said in a low voice, “Sorry, Trevor. The state wants jail time. The best deal they’ll offer is a year and a five thousand dollar fine. I might be able to reduce the fine in exchange for an agreement to do the time.”
God help me. Deep inside, that cowardly part of me wanted him to take the deal. I glanced at the podium stationed in front of the bench and swiped my cold, sweaty palms along my thighs.
Trevor’s lower lip quivered before he swallowed. Five-ten with a stocky build, he wore his blond hair one-quarter inch longer than military. Given his father, Tommy, sat glowering at the rear of the room, his own short hair bristling with indignation, I knew Trevor’s quarter-inch represented a visible mark of rebellion.
“If I put you on the stand, the whole truth may come out. Once I open up the issue of motive, the prosecutor will jump all over herself to cross-examine you.”
The boy studied his clasped hands on top of the table. “I understand.”