“After a while,” West said, “you don’t even notice the smell.”
“I’ll take your word for it because I’m not there yet.”
“Well, don’t worry,” he said, patting her knee. “Given enough time, you can get used to just about anything.”
Alex flinched at his touch, pulling away as she set her bottle on the bench. “Why do I think you’re not talking about horseshit?”
“Horseshit or bullshit, it all stinks, and somebody’s got to clean it up. That’s what you and I are doing. These stalls are no different than the people you defend, though my horses are a hell of a lot smarter. Your clients go through life crapping on everyone and everything, and, hell, half the time they get community service or probation. And the ones that go to prison don’t stay there long enough because the fucking prosecutor gave them a sweetheart deal or because the prison is overcrowded. And you know what they do when they get out? They rape, rob, or murder someone else. Over half of them are back behind bars three years after they get out. You know what Missouri’s recidivism rate is? It’s fifty-four point goddamn four percent, third highest in the entire goddamn country.”
Alex had heard the judge’s speech enough times to know it by heart. For him, the statistics were personal insults.
“I know,” Alex said as she stood and faced the judge.
He squinted at her, his head turned slightly to one side as if to get a better view of her.
“You look like someone who’s got more to say, and I don’t think I’m going to like it.”
She took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.”
“All right. I’ll clean the stalls on my own from now on.”
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about. Kalena Greene offered John Atwell a deal for fifteen years. He told me to take it and I did.”
“You know that I was going to deny your motion.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“And what would have happened after that?”
Alex stiffened and stuck her hands in her jeans pockets, resenting that he was treating her like a schoolgirl. “Kalena would have withdrawn her offer and my client would have been convicted.”
“That’s right. And I would have sentenced him to life on the robbery and a hundred years on the armed criminal action and he would have been off the street forever. You do understand that.”
Alex bristled. “Of course I do.”
The judge rose, his face reddening. “That day you came in my chambers crying about what a bad man Dwayne Reed was, you told me that you’d do whatever it took to get rid of him and all the others like him. So what happened? Did you stay up late last night reading a John Grisham fairy tale and get all excited about the majesty of the law?”
Alex planted her hands on her hips, not backing down. They weren’t in the courtroom, where she had to feign respect.
“Something like that. Anyway, I’m done. From now on, I’m playing all my cases straight. You and I can’t meet like this anymore.”
“For Christ’s sake, Alex! You had the balls to shoot Dwayne Reed to death and now you’re telling me that because you had a conscience fart you’re gonna let John Atwell get off with fifteen years, which isn’t even fifteen because he’ll be eligible for parole in three fucking years!”
They stared at each other, Alex refusing to blink. “Kalena made the offer, I conveyed it, and my client accepted it. End of story. You and I are done.”
“I don’t think so. Wait here,” Judge West said. He lumbered toward his house, went inside, and returned a few minutes later, handing Alex a large manila envelope. “Take a look.”
She slipped her finger under the seal and pulled out a grainy eight-by-ten-inch photograph of her kneeling next to Dwayne Reed’s body. In the photograph, she was holding his raised arm, the gun in his hand aimed at the ceiling, his finger on the trigger. Her hand was wrapped around his, her trigger finger on top of his.
Alex’s skin burned, her gut twisting, as she glared at the judge.
“Where did you get this?”
“Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that this photograph corroborates the prosecution’s claim that you shot Dwayne Reed in cold blood and then fired his gun to make it look like self-defense. Now, the good news for you is that I acquitted you on the murder charge and double jeopardy prevents you being charged again, in state court, anyway. However, the U.S. attorney might take an interest in charging you with depriving your client of his civil rights. The Justice Department takes that sort of thing so seriously they’re still trying to solve murders of black people in Mississippi back in the 1960s. What do you think they’ll do with a murder of a black man by his white lawyer from last year?”
Alex’s head was buzzing with questions. Where had the photo come from? How had the judge gotten his hands on it? Who could have taken it? There were no answers that made any sense. She swallowed hard, forcing the bile in her throat back into her stomach. If the photo was real, she was dead. If it wasn’t, she was just as dead unless she could prove it was phony. Since she couldn’t accept that it was real, she counterattacked.
“Nothing, because the photo is a fake,” she said through clenched teeth. “I don’t know who Photoshopped it or where you got it or how, but it’s a fake.”
“Are you saying that’s not the way it happened?”
“I’m saying it’s a fake and we both know it.”
She slipped the photograph back into the envelope and threw it on the floor. Judge West bent down and picked it up, grunting with the effort.
“Well, now, that’ll be for the jury to decide if it comes to that. And I don’t know any lawyer whose career can survive two trials for killing the same man, even if she’s acquitted both times.”
Neither did Alex, though she wouldn’t admit it. One of the lessons she’d learned in courtroom combat was to counterpunch when the prosecution thought they had the upper hand. It was the same lesson her mother had taught her when she was a little girl-never let them see you sweat, even if you’re about to pee your pants.
“And I don’t know of any judge who could explain how he tried to sucker the U.S. attorney into a bogus prosecution with a bullshit piece of evidence like this. I thought you were too smart for that, but if you’re not, be my guest. I won’t be bullied and I won’t be blackmailed.”
West grinned. “That’s what I like about you, Alex. You’re always ready for a fight, even if it’s the wrong one, and that’s enough to get most people to back off. But I’m not most people. If and when this photograph lands on the U.S. attorney’s desk, my fingerprints won’t be on it, but yours will be.”
She shook her head, not believing she’d been so easily duped. Her fingerprints would give the photograph more credibility, especially since no one would believe her when she explained how they got there. She eyed the judge and the envelope, measuring the distance between them, arms at her sides, fists balled, and considered whether to try to wrestle the envelope away from him. He was bigger, maybe stronger, but she was younger, faster, and motivated.
West grunted, stepped back, and wrapped his free hand around the pitchfork.
“Tell me you aren’t that stupid, Alex.”
She let out a breath, releasing the tension in her coiled muscles.
“Not tonight. What do you want?”
“I want you to honor our agreement. Now, I’m willing to forget about the Atwell case.”
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t give me a choice. I’m bound by the plea agreement. And I’m more interested in how you handle your next case, not your last one.”
“I’ve got a stack of cases on my desk. Which one are you talking about?”
“None of them. You’re going to be assigned to a new case tomorrow. Your client has already confessed to a gruesome murder. All you have to do is go through the motions, get the discovery you’re entitled to from the prosecutor, conduct a limited-and I mean limited-investigation so you can say you did, and when the prosecutor offers to let him plead guilty and be sentenced to life without possibility of parole instead of being executed, you will convince him to take that deal. Now, if you do that, why, then, this photograph will go back to where it came from and it will stay there.”