Читать книгу Courting Danger - Carol Stephenson - Страница 8

I’m a hired gun.

Not the blazing bullets kind…the legal kind.

After all, attorneys are the only publicly sanctioned form of revenge and payback our society allows. If someone damages your car or hikes your rent, instead of stringing him or her from the nearest tree, you go to court and duke it out.

However, if you do decide to take matters into your own hands or otherwise flaunt the laws of our country, you’ll still need someone like me: Katherine Rochelle, criminal defense attorney, the ultimate in legal weapons.

We can be found in the yellow pages; you can’t miss the ads with the pictures and bold assurances of our qualifications to defend you. If we appear to be larger than life, we have to be, for you are placing your life in our hands.

What you don’t realize is that behind our serious demeanors, diplomas and certifications are individuals as flawed as you are. My brethren drink, gamble, lie, cheat and steal. They fight with their spouses and raise kids who land in trouble.

For some that’s a dollar sign above their heads, not a halo, having sold out their ethics for the almighty buck or other glory.

For others, like me, the struggle to keep our principles and honor intact as we fight for justice leaves our armor dented and tarnished. Sometimes we needed crutches, like the kind I had now.

I paused before the double wood doors and fumbled in the pocket of my ivory silk jacket for the ever-present roll of antacid tablets. A little stomach insurance wouldn’t hurt before I entered the chambers. Even this early in the morning, a cacophony of sound filled the Palm Beach courthouse hallway: heels clicking on the marble floor, briefcase locks snapping, voices echoing—questioning voices, irritated voices, hurried voices. I tuned it all out to focus on the challenge before me.

A familiar burn began in the pit of my stomach so I took a few deep breaths. Here in the alcove, ammonia and orange furniture polish from last night’s cleaning warred with attorneys’ colognes. Inside a new scent would be added: fear. Fear of the accused, fear of the judge, fear of failure.

Anticipation stirred to life, kick-starting my pulse. It had been six long months since I’d had been in a courtroom. What did it matter that this was only a county court misdemeanor hearing where the main thing heard was criminal traffic offenses?

It was action. Soon enough I would work my way into circuit court where weightier crimes, such as battery, armed robbery and murder, were tried.

Granted, the hiatus I’d taken to work with my two girlfriends, Carling Dent and Nicole Sterling, in setting up our own criminal defense firm certainly had been fulfilling. Our law school dream—the Law Offices of Dent, Rochelle and Sterling—was now a reality.

However, it still bit that I had been a casualty in a scandal at the U.S. Attorney’s office. Losing my job hadn’t sat well. Neither had waiting for our offices to be finished.

Practicing law was like falling off the horse; if you waited too long to get back on, you wouldn’t.

I was more than ready to get back in the legal saddle. I reached for the door handle, but the overweight bailiff standing to the side shook his head. “You can’t go in yet, miss. The judge don’t let anyone inside until ten minutes to court time.”

The docket was scheduled to start at 9:30. I glanced at the slender Chopard watch on my wrist: nine-sixteen. I cocked an eyebrow at the bailiff, but he merely folded his arms across his stomach in an “I won’t be budged on this” manner. The way he kept looking around indicated tension.

In a low tone I asked, “Is there a problem?” X-ray machines and guards at every entrance were a way of life at the courthouse, but you never knew.

“No, but we had an incident last week.”

A male attorney, checking the docket sheet, glanced up. “The judge pissed someone else off?”

The bailiff’s lips quirked but he managed to keep a straight face. “The judge was just doing his job.”

The attorney grimaced. “Great. Can’t wait for today’s performance.” He moved away and I crossed the hallway to wait.

“Well, look who’s here.” A man’s loud nasal voice scraped my eardrum. “If it isn’t Katherine Rochelle.”

After I could get past the vision of six wiry hairs combed across the gleaming pale skin of the man’s head, I locked gazes with Leo Feinstein. Age wasn’t being kind to my former law school classmate. In fact, it was gouging his face with a steel brush.

“How nice that the state attorney let you out of your cubicle, Leo.”

His flush did nothing for his massive bald spot. “You were a nice woman, Katherine, until you hooked up with those two pals of yours.”

He meant that I had been an amenable debutante, in danger of fading into nonexistence as a human being, until Carling and Nicole had rescued me. A man like Leo didn’t care for strong women attorneys like Carling or Nicole who ran circles around him every day in court.

“Hey, someone left today’s paper.” Always the cheap-skate, Leo bent over, his faded navy-blue polyester tie dangling forward.

The bold headline of an article on the front page caught my attention: Is The Courthouse Restoration Jinxed?

The answer? Absolutely.

Unable to stop myself, I gazed through the wide bank of tinted windows that lined the main corridor. Across the street shimmering under the bright Florida sunlight was the old courthouse. Black skeletal fingers of scaffolding encased it much like the frustration that gripped me whenever I looked at the 1916 structure.

Would it never release its secrets?

When the 1970s brick wraparound was first stripped away, revealing the building’s facade as it had existed thirty-five years ago, I had haunted the construction perimeter. Had I half expected to see my grandparents walk down those steps as they had when they had disappeared all those years ago? Had I hoped their unknown killer would experience contrition at the déjà vu of seeing the original courthouse and confess?

How much death had those halls witnessed?

So lost was I in my contemplation of the past that I jolted when Leo spoke. “Isn’t it something that a woman was killed there the other night?”

The woman had a name and a life she hadn’t deserved to lose in that tomb of horrors.

“Her name was Grace Roberts,” I stated.

“Hey, that’s right. Your family’s a big supporter of the restoration. Did you know her?” Leo’s greed for gossip hadn’t lessened in the years since graduation.

I shifted my briefcase from one hand to the other. “Love to chat, but I’m due in court.”

Leo jerked his head, dislodging one precious hair so that it spiraled straight up. “Are you here for Winewski?”

My stomach did a perfect flip. “Yes.”

“God, how the mighty have fallen.” His smile reminded me of a vampire all set for the final love bite. “Katherine Rochelle attending a lowly misdemeanor hearing rather than gracing the lofty halls of federal court. Not to worry. I’m the prosecutor today, and I’ll keep in mind that you won’t know your ass from your head in there. I’ll try to go easy on your poor sucker of a client.”

Terrific. It appeared the rumor mill that was the West Palm Beach legal community had generated a nasty spin on my leaving the U.S. Attorney’s office. Either Harold Lowell, my former lover, or the female U.S. attorney who had replaced him, had been bad-mouthing me.

“Don’t do me any favors, Leo. I can handle myself.”

He sneered. “Yeah, I heard plenty about how you handle yourself outside the job.” His attention zeroed in on my chest. That ruled out the U.S. attorney even though she had fired me for “incompetence.”

To my chagrin, I had learned a hard lesson about being a whistle-blower: your co-workers avoid you like the plague. After all, you’ve brought disruption in their jobs and gotten a popular man into hot water. When they had looked at me, I had seen their speculation—had I turned him in merely because of a lover’s quarrel?

Yet underneath the speculation I knew their real fear was they would lose their jobs because they had illegally contributed to Harold’s campaign fund for attorney general.

However, I knew the current chief attorney was smart enough not to risk a lawsuit by maligning my reputation.

Since Harold was already on the slow road to disbarment and conviction for all sorts of federal crimes and had nothing to lose, my money was on him. The bastard.

In times of trouble, though, adages are wonderful crutches, especially ones drummed into the very pores of your being. If my great-aunt Hilary had said it once, she had said it a thousand times, “Rochelles never sweat in public.”

I arched a brow, giving my aristocratic freeze-in-hell look. “Gee, Leo, I’m quaking in my shoes. Don’t tell me that you actually manage to stay awake for a whole hearing nowadays?”

Law school classmates have long memories and one of mine was that of Leo snoozing through nine a.m. Criminal Law.

Leo’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for breath. He stormed across the hall into the courtroom, sending the doors swinging so wildly that the bailiff rushed to steady them.

Was my petty moment of besting Leo worth a guaranteed payback from hell? My lips twitched.

Definitely.

I strolled across to the chamber and nodded to the still-huffing bailiff as I entered. I made a beeline to the opposite side, away from where Leo stood, and sat at the end of the bench seat. Letting him cool down wouldn’t be a bad idea.

Studiously ignoring Leo’s glare, I read the graffiti etched on the back of the wood bench before me. Although cameras and microphones had been installed in the rooms when the current courthouse had been built ten years ago, technology hadn’t defeated the artistic endeavors of the accused and defiant.

The newest artist had definite opinions on Judge Kurt Winewski’s anatomy. I chuckled, but the laugh died in my throat as I glanced up. A group of attorneys had gathered around Leo, who was talking a mile a minute. A few gawked at me, their expressions ranging from curious to baleful. The latter belonged to those lawyers whose clients I’d prosecuted during my days as an assistant U.S. attorney. I hadn’t won any popularity contests then, either, due to my prosecutorial zeal, and it appeared I wasn’t going to now.

Let them look and gossip.

But it wasn’t fair that my own integrity was getting maligned. A crook was a crook, right? So what if the criminal happened to be a fellow attorney? I was the one who had been wronged, not Harold. My only fault was once more having no—that’s nada, zilch, zero—judgment in men.

Absently I watched people fill the room. Why hadn’t I immediately seen through the charisma of my boss and lover to his rotten inner core? It wasn’t as if sex with him should have blinded me; that had been uninspiring and blessedly infrequent.

For whatever reason, I hadn’t suspected anything until I had found Harold’s little black book in between my sofa cushions and, after decoding it, realized it didn’t contain women’s phone numbers but illegal contributions for his campaign fund. I had been faced with only one option: I had gone straight to the federal authorities.

“All rise.” The bailiff adjusted his utility belt around his girth as he struggled to stand.

Tucking away the past, I stood with everyone else and watched the judge march to his bench. For one moment the seal of Florida hanging on the wall framed Judge Winewski’s head like a gold halo…or a crown of thorns some would mutter, given the judge’s use of his power.

Beneath white bushy brows his piercing regard swept the courtroom, a maneuver designed to keep the audience standing a moment longer. At once he honed in on me with a look of condescension and distaste, as if a disgusting bug had crawled into his domain. Even though we had never met in person, I knew he recognized me.

Sometimes bearing the Rochelle trademark looks of honey-blond hair, vivid blue eyes and tall, lithe build was a definite negative. I didn’t need to open the gold filigree locket I wore to realize that I was the spitting feminine version of my grandfather. The family had harped on that unfortunate fact my entire life as if they expected my soul to have been stamped with all his faults, as well, like a generational doppelgänger.

“I never expected to see a Rochelle dare to appear in my chambers again.” Winewski’s legendary sonorous voice boomed to the courtroom’s farthest corners.

What was this? Sweep-out-Katherine-Rochelle’s-dirty-linen-closet day? No doubt the family scandal was about to be rerun.

I straightened my shoulders and managed a cool smile. “Nice to meet you, Judge.”

“We’ll see about that, Ms. Rochelle.” The man who once had bounced my mother on his knee wagged his finger as if I was a recalcitrant child.

“Unlike your grandfather, I run a tight courtroom and tolerate no improprieties.”

His implication was clear. My grandfather had been a crooked judge. The cold flame of injustice replaced the nerves churning in my stomach. I had paid enough for my family’s sins and my own stupid mistakes. No one was going to make me turn tail.

“I don’t intend to commit any.” Keeping my eyes locked on the judge’s as he plopped into his seat, I experienced a small victory. The judge looked away first.

“Call the first case,” he ordered.

Everyone sat and the court fell into a rhythm of defendants and their lawyers presenting their cases.

I flipped opened the client’s folder and studied the charging affidavit. Simone Jean-Charles. A thirty-year-old Haitian immigrant with four children to support on her housekeeping earnings. The divorce settlement obligated her ex-husband to pay the car-insurance premiums for one year. Of course, he hadn’t and when Simone had been stopped for a busted taillight six months ago, she’d been ticketed for expired insurance. Then the ex had promised to take care of the ticket. Of course, he hadn’t and her license had been suspended.

Simone’s bad luck continued when she had been stopped by an Officer Pitt because her car resembled one involved in a jewelry store robbery. He had checked her license and charged her for driving with a suspended license. A misdemeanor but my client needed to drive to keep her job. Although I was working on straightening out the insurance mess, a conviction on the latest charge could be economically devastating.

I glanced at the police report and compared the entry to the arresting affidavit. I smiled. Glancing up, I spotted Simone entering the room. I gathered my briefcase, rose and crossed to the center aisle, preparing to take my place by her side when her name was called.

The current on-deck attorney was pleading his case. Judge Winewski rapped his gavel. “Denied. This man’s driving license is suspended.” The attorney shrugged and turned to his client.

“You can’t do this!” his client yelled. “I’ll lose my job.”

His counsel tried to calm him, but the man cursed a blue streak, drew back his arm and landed a direct blow to the attorney’s nose. Blood spurted as the lawyer fell backward.

“Bailiff,” the judge called out, but the guard, sitting in a chair too tight for his girth, could barely lumber to his feet.

As if on cue, everyone raced for the exits, including the judge.

Self-preservation warred with the ingrained Rochelle family code of conduct, but since the wounded lawyer kept yelling at the top of his lungs, I knelt beside the attorney trying to silence him.

Mistake. Berserko’s fingers gouged my shoulder. He locked his arm tight around my neck, dragging me to my feet. Not an easy task as I’m five-eight and had four-inch heels on.

“We’re going out that door, girlie.” Berserko’s breath stank of booze, garlic and desperation.

No, we weren’t. He had picked the wrong woman on the wrong day. I faked a stumble, twisted and whacked him over the head with my briefcase.

Berserko shrieked in pain but he wasn’t down.

Yet.

I spun and jammed my Jimmy Choo stiletto heel into the man’s groin. White-faced, the man dropped like a stone to the floor, writhing in agony.

“Would someone like to arrest this man?” I called out. “I’d like to get on with my hearing.”

The judge’s door cracked open. The bailiff scrambled up and rushed over to cuff the prisoner. Winewski ventured out, his incredulous gaze darting from the prisoner to me.

I tugged the corners of my fitted jacket. “Judge, I believe next on your docket is the case of the State versus Simone Jean-Charles. If the Assistant State Attorney can be located…” I lifted a brow.

“Feinstein, get in here!” the judge bellowed.

The hall door creaked and moments later Leo stood behind the opposite table, but he kept casting a nervous glance at Berserko being escorted outside.

“Mr. Feinstein, if you can quit worrying about your hide and focus on the matter of Simone Jean-Charles, we might finish before lunch.”

“Judge, I have an ore tenus motion to suppress,” I said.

“The excitement going to your head, Ms. Rochelle?”

“No, Your Honor. If you would look at State’s Exhibits One and Two, the arresting officer’s affidavit and police report.”

Leo, his face flushed as he struggled with his file, snapped, “Which exhibits?”

“One and Two. Get with the program, Counselor.” The judge shuffled a few papers. “I have the exhibits. Proceed, Ms. Rochelle.”

“The probable cause basis for the traffic stop of my client was information Officer Pitt received when he called in her tag number that her car was connected to a robbery.”

“So? That’s a textbook stop.”

“Compare the number the officer called in and the number on his report. He transposed the last numbers.”

“Eh?” The judge’s brows drew together.

“The officer stopped the wrong car for the wrong cause, Judge. Anything he found is the result of an illegal search. The charges should be dismissed.”

“Any response, Mr. Feinstein?”

Leo’s mouth opened and closed.

“Thought so. Defendant’s motion is granted. The charges are dismissed. Next case.”

Oh yeah, I felt like doing a happy dance, but instead I whispered to Simone that everything was going to be okay. I sauntered across the courtroom out into the hall. The moment the door swung closed behind me, I pumped my fist in the air. “Yes!”

I was back.

An hour later I squealed my gold-colored Jaguar to a stop behind the shell-pink stucco one-story building that housed the Law Offices of Dent, Rochelle and Sterling. I entered through the back door into the warren of offices and cubicles that was the heart of our operations. I paused, absorbing the dull clatter of keyboard keys and low voices on phones.

Not for the first time, pride burned in me. This was ours. This law firm represented the hopes, dreams and wills of three women who had formed a bond in the early days of law school. I would do my part to hold up my end. I wouldn’t let my friends down.

After walking down the abbreviated hall, I entered the second office on the right, dropping both my purse and briefcase on my desk. As I sat with relief, I noticed a telephone message propped against the phone and grimaced. Big, bold letters, words underlined.

“Great. Perfect morning so far.”

“Talking to yourself?” Carling Dent, her sharp elfin features split by a wide grin, asked as she entered. Because she was dipping a tea bag in her mug, her normal bounce was more like a flounce.

I motioned for her to close the door. Halfway across the room she stopped and stared.

“What happened to you? Since when did morning hearings turn into a demolition derby?”

“Just my luck.” Shucking off my jacket, I examined the gaping side seam, mentally adding a trip to the cleaners on my to-do list.

“All right, Kate. Give.” Carling plopped herself into a plush client chair. “Did Winewski and you go a round?”

I wiggled out of my ruined panty hose, balled them up and tossed them into the wastebasket. “Hardly.”

Anyone who saw this dark-haired babe and what they imagined to be a vapid gaze with her soft green eyes was in for a rude awakening. Carling was sharp as a tack and had the instincts for nailing a person to the wall.

“Wasn’t he a friend of your grandfather’s?” she asked.

“Former,” I corrected as I pulled out a package of panty hose from my bottom drawer.

“Gave you a hard time?”

“Started to.” I slid the nylons over my pedicured feet and stood to pull on the hose. “Then the defendant on the docket before me took exception to Winewski’s suspending his driver’s license. After decking his lawyer, he made the mistake of grabbing me. He figured because I was a ‘girlie’ he could use me as a shield.”

“Next time he’ll be sure to ask about your sports trophies. Naturally, you were the victor.”

I smoothed out my skirt but smothered an oath when I spotted the blood on my favorite royal-blue blouse. It would never come out. “You should have seen Leo Feinstein run for the high hills the moment trouble broke out.”

“Leo had traffic detail?”

Rummaging in the drawer, I found a patterned silk scarf that wasn’t too bad a match for the remnants of my outfit. “He’s down to six hairs.”

My friend snickered. “Get this. I heard that he’s planning to do hair implants.”

I suppressed a shudder. “I don’t even want to think about where the hair will come from. He’s too cheap to spring for anything on the high end.”

As I wound the scarf around my neck, Carling sprang up and rushed around the desk. “My God, Kate. Your throat!”

Granted, it hurt to swallow, but her look of horror sent me scrambling for a mirror. Gingerly I peeled away the collar. The vivid bruise ran from red to purple in a solid band across the base of my throat. Carling’s fingers were gentle as she touched the skin, but I still winced at the stab of pain.

“That bastard had you by the throat, didn’t he!” she demanded.

“Yes.” I buttoned the top of my blouse. The material was silk and wouldn’t scratch the abused skin too much. I then looped the scarf one more time around my neck for extra coverage.

“You should see a doctor. What’s your schedule for the rest of the day? I’ll cover. You leave now and seek medical attention.” She snapped out the series of orders like a general going to battle.

“You’ll even cover the summons from Aunt Hilary?”

The look of abject horror on her face tickled me. I gave her a quick hug. “I didn’t think so.”

She swallowed, hard. “I can call and tell her you’re indisposed.”

I opened the door to the small closet, took out a black blazer and put it on, remembering to transfer the antacid roll into the pocket. Although it covered only part of the damage, this jacket would have to do. No time to go home and change. Aunt Hilary needed to make her club luncheon.

I pivoted. “Well, how do I look?”

Carling folded her arms and took her sweet time surveying me from head to toe. “Like someone who has been through the ringer and is trying to cover up.”

My arms dropped. “Thanks a lot.”

My friend’s lips curved in a big smile. “You’ll do, Katherine.” Her emphasis on my name didn’t go unnoticed. In the world I had once inhabited, my formal name was always used. Carling had been the first daring enough to shorten it. And it was into that former environment I was now heading.

Carling gave me a thumbs-up. “Good luck.”

“I’m going to need it,” I said under my breath as I crossed the room.

“If you don’t return in an hour, we’ll send out a search party to the cemetery of dead debutantes.”

“Ha-ha.” I opened the door and reached into my pocket.

“Kate.” I looked back. Carling would make a great mother. “You’re stronger than you think.”

I slid my hand clear and displayed my empty palm. “This advice from a woman who would rather cut a vein than confront my great-aunt.” I winked and left before she could recover. Getting the last dig in was always a challenge with her.

Outside I blinked against the glare of the sunshine and crossed the postage-stamp parking lot in a few strides. As I drove out of the lot I thumbed another antacid tablet from the roll.

For once traffic wasn’t snarled along Flagler Drive. While oil tycoon Henry Flagler may have started West Palm Beach as a bedroom community for the servants and workers of Palm Beach, to keep them out of sight from his rich cronies he brought in on his railroad, today West Palm Beach was its own city. Technology, banking, tourism, and even the entertainment industry had prospered here. True, it had a tawdry underbelly, but it had a personality of its own.

I loved it.

I drove across the bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway and on the other side entered the preening world that was Palm Beach. Regal royal palm trees lining the pristine road swayed in the breeze. Chic shops and restaurants thrived with customers. Valets in jaunty white jackets or crisp white shirts ran back and forth, parking a succession of Mercedes, Rolls-Royces and Jaguars.

I turned onto Ocean Boulevard and drove past one stunning mansion after another. Only light waves ruffled the Atlantic Ocean while the late March sky was crystal blue, not a cloud in sight. A picture-perfect tourist day in paradise. So why couldn’t I relax and enjoy it?

Because I no longer belonged here.

Turning onto a driveway of hexagonal pavestones, I punched in a security code and waited for the massive wrought-iron gates to open. I passed immaculately cultivated gardens, lush with fronds of palmetto, areca and foxtail palms and vivid blossoms of verbena, hibiscus and bougainvillea. I parked in the semicircle at the front of the palatial house, took a deep breath, and with the practiced grace of the debutante, swept from my car.

I needed to be at the top of my game. This morning had been a cakewalk when compared to the judge, jury and executioner waiting inside.