Now that I was closer, his body odor, sharp and rancid, made me turn my head. I shrugged. “You never know with a jury. But we did all we could-”
The bailiff poked his head in. “Wrap it up. Judge says we’re ready to roll.”
Five minutes later, Ringer was seated next to me at counsel table as the judge called for the jury. I watched their faces as they came out. The foreman glanced at me, then hurriedly looked away. A bad sign. I studied the judge’s expression as he checked the verdict forms, but he was stone-faced. He handed the folder to the clerk and said, “Will the defendant please rise?”
I stood and helped Ringer up. He was shaking so badly now, I could hear the chains on his ankles rattling.
The clerk read the verdict in a quavering voice. “We, the jury in the above-entitled cause, find the defendant, Harold Ringer… not guilty.”
The courtroom went dead silent. I blinked for a moment, then stared at the clerk. I couldn’t have heard that right. But then a cry came from the audience. “No! You can’t! You’re wrong!”
I turned to see Aidan standing, red-faced, as he clutched the back of the bench seat in front of him. Tears began to roll down his face as he stared at the jury in disbelief. A stab of pain shot through my heart. The judge called for order, and the victim advocate put an arm around Aidan’s shoulders. He sank back onto the bench and put his face in his hands. I turned away and glanced at the jury. Some of the jurors looked shame-faced; others looked sad. The judge thanked the jury without much enthusiasm and told them they were discharged. A few minutes later, the show over, the courtroom emptied out.
Ringer had been subdued, but now he snapped back to his old obnoxious self like a rubber band. He fist-pumped the air. “I knew it! I knew they’d never believe that little faggot!”
I glared at him. “You didn’t know it ten minutes ago.”
“I was just nervous. But I killed up on that stand. I was a fucking rock star!”
Disgusted, I started to pack up my briefcase.
Jimmy, the bailiff, gave me a look of sympathy as he came over to escort Ringer back into lockup. “I’ve got his court clothes. They his? Or yours?”
I sometimes had to provide a decent-looking shirt and pants for clients so the jury wouldn’t see them in their orange jumpsuits. But Ringer had brought his own. He wasn’t wearing them now because once the jury has a verdict, there’s no point in bothering. “They’re his. You got them in lockup?” Jimmy nodded. I thought for a moment. “Give ’em to me. I’ll take them over to Twin Towers, put them with the rest of his stuff. Is he going to process out today?”
“Yeah. Should be out by five o’clock or so.”
Jimmy took Ringer by the arm. I picked up my briefcase and nodded to my client. “I’m taking off. Good luck.” Ordinarily, I’d make arrangements to get him a ride home, but as far as I was concerned, this jerk could walk.
Ringer gave me his old, snotty smile. “Yeah, thanks.”
A few minutes later, Jimmy emerged from lockup with a dress shirt and a pair of slacks on a hanger. I took them and headed out to the Twin Towers jail.
When I got down to the property room, I handed the clothes to the custodian. She took them and sighed. “I need to check these?”
“Nope. Bailiff cleared everything. They’re good to go.” She turned to get a plastic bag to store them in. I held up a hand. “Don’t bother. He’ll be down here any minute. He’s going home.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Congratulations. I guess.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
SIX
I told Michelle and Alex about Ringer when I got back to the office.
Alex looked stunned. “Seriously? Why?”
Michelle’s mouth fell open. “No way. How could they walk that filthy worm?”
I shook my head. “I’d like to think I’m just that good-”
“Actually, you are. But still.” Michelle gave a sharp sigh. Her e-mail pinged. She went to her computer and held up a hand. “Listen to this. ‘Errol Messinger has given a statement saying that due to previous commitments, he will not be able to take Dale Pearson’s case.’” Michelle looked up. “You’d think Messinger would’ve known that before he met with Dale.”
I smiled. “Oh, he knew. He’s just saving face. Pearson turned him down.”
It might’ve been the thrill of the hunt. That same animal instinct that makes you grab for the last blouse on the bargain table even though it’s a hideous shade of puce, is missing a button, and you know deep down that you’ll never wear it.
Or maybe it was because I was feeling invincible after the win on Ringer’s case. I wasn’t sure. I just knew in that moment that I was going to go for it. “Do you guys have a number for Pearson?”
They cracked wide grins. Alex pumped a fist in the air. “All right!”
But when I went into my office and picked up the phone, I hesitated. I told myself to just do it. Just make the call. But I was still standing at my window, staring at the sliver of sky that peeked between the buildings when Michelle buzzed. Her voice was low. “This is so bizarre. Guess who just called? Dale Pearson. Line one.”
“I… uh…”
“Take the damn call, Samantha.”
I clicked over. Dale Pearson introduced himself and asked me if I knew about his case. I told him of course I did. He got right down to business.
“I’d like to discuss the possibility of you representing me.”
His voice was deep and smooth, like old single-malt scotch. And it had the authoritative timbre of someone who was used to giving orders. But it stopped just short of the macho, condescending tone some cops have. Then again, I reminded myself, he was on his best behavior.
“I’m not sure I can, Dale. I’ve got a pretty heavy caseload.” It was a strategic move, a way to keep the upper hand. If I did take his case, I wanted him to know he was lucky to get me.
“I kind of figured you would. But I thought I’d give it a try before I moved on to the others who’ve lined up, because you came highly recommended by someone I trust.”
Someone recommended me to a cop? Couldn’t be anyone who really knew me. “Who?”
“Rick Saunders.”
Now I got it. I’d had a case with Saunders before. He was an honest cop. If Saunders really was a buddy, Pearson might not be all bad. It’d be easy enough to verify. I checked my calendar. “Why don’t you come by the day after tomorrow?”
“I might already be in custody by then. Can you spare any time today? I can come in as late as you want.”
We agreed on five o’clock. I walked out to tell Alex and Michelle. “He’s coming by at five o’clock. You guys don’t have to wait. I’m sure he won’t feed my body to the shredder.”
Alex tsked. “Your shredder’s way too small.”
Michelle shook her head. “And you’re high if you think we’re going to miss this.”
I figured. “Give me everything you’ve got on Pearson. And Alex, see if you can find out whether he’s tight with this LAPD detective Rick Saunders.”
Michelle tapped a few keys on her computer. “There. Go read.”
It wasn’t much. Dale Pearson, fifty-one years old, had been married and divorced twice. Nothing unusual for a cop. Or a trial lawyer. We’re notoriously bad marriage material. One daughter from the first marriage, Lisa Milstrom, who was seventeen now. He’d graduated cum laude with a BA in political science from UCLA. So he hadn’t always wanted to be a cop. Whatever he’d been planning to do, it took him just one year to figure out it wasn’t happening and sign up with the LAPD.
And he’d done well. He’d made detective within five years, which was pretty fast. He’d done stints in West LA, Rampart, and South Central before winding up in the Hollywood Division.