Mason asked, "Have you ever tried to find your birth mother?"
Jordan shook her head. "My parents always blamed my problems on my birth mother. I used to hear my dad tell my mom that they didn't get the pick of the litter with me. I never thought about looking for my birth mother. I was afraid my parents might be right."
"What if they were wrong?" Mason asked.
"I was afraid of that too," she said.
Chapter 11
Courtrooms have personalities, Mason thought as he made his way to the counsel table in front of Associate Circuit Court Judge Joe Pistone's bench. Pistone's courtroom reminded him of a hundred-year-old saloon, where the floor had absorbed lifetimes of blood, booze, and spit, sagging from perpetual fatigue, resigned to the next spilled fluid. Judge Pistone was well matched to his courtroom, having sentenced himself to a life term in associate circuit court, first as a lawyer, then as a judge. Mason bet he was gray-haired and shoulder-hunched at birth, holding his mother in contempt the first time she burped him.
Mason felt as worn as the floorboards in the saloon. His body creaked like it had been trampled on. His eye looked like a doorstop. He ignored Sherri Thomas and her cameraman, who had set up shop in the hallway outside the courtroom. He smiled with unfelt good nature at the jabs from other lawyers who asked if he'd gotten the license number of the truck that hit him, or if the other guy looked worse than Mason.
He was hopeful that Jordan's arraignment would be brief and routine. He would waive formal reading of the charge, enter a plea of not guilty, and ask for bail. The prosecutor would demand bail in six figures, at which point he knew hope would go out the window like Gina Davenport if Arthur Hackett made good on his threat of the night before.
Mason had called Hackett after his jailhouse meeting with Jordan. He had to talk with Hackett about Jordan's rape story, and tell Hackett that he couldn't let him pay his fees any longer. Mason also wanted to see if Hackett would choose between his children again, defending his son, condemning his daughter.
Their meeting had been brief, more of a monologue delivered by Mason to a stone-faced audience of one. Hackett had absorbed Mason's report without comment, save one question.
"Do you believe her?" he asked Mason.
"It doesn't matter what I believe. She believes it. I've got to investigate it. That means your son is a possible suspect. I can't take any more of your money."
"You don't have to," Hackett said. "You're fired."
Mason had been too tired to remind Hackett that Jordan was his client, not him. An uneasy night's sleep hadn't soothed the kinks out of Mason's body or mind as he waited for the deputies to bring in his client and introduce her to Judge Pistone.
Rachel Firestone stood in the far corner of the courtroom. She had passed on covering Jordan's case, as he thought she would. Her impish smile framed by her molten red hair boosted his spirits from across the room.
Abby Lieberman joined her, giving Mason a slight, waist-high wave that he grabbed like a lifeline, before she huddled with Rachel like co-conspirators.
Mason was trying to figure out what they were up to when someone bumped into the back of his chair, apologized, and slid into the seat next to his.
"Sorry, Lou," said Brandon Potter.
Potter was a grizzled criminal defense lawyer who ruled the courtroom in his youth, drank his way through mid-life, and was plea-bargaining his way to retirement.
"Goddamn Pistone," Potter muttered. "I can't wait for that bastard to die. I swear his favorite words are 'bail denied.' "
Before Mason could commiserate with Potter, a trio of sheriff's deputies ushered a platoon of prisoners into the courtroom, shackles rasping against their ankles, slapping against the chairs in the jury box where they were seated, Jordan on the end of the front row, back ramrod-straight, jaw clamped. Rage made for good posture, Mason thought as he watched her.
Jordan searched the courtroom, finding her parents in the second-to-the-last row on the opposite side from Rachel and Abby. Centurion Johnson and Terry Nix were seated behind Arthur and Carol Hackett. Jordan nodded in their direction, Mason wondering which of them Jordan was glad to see.
Judge Pistone processed the first three cases, keeping his head down, as he always did, not looking at the lawyers or the defendants as he set bail and scheduled trials.
"State v. Hackett," the judge announced. "State your appearances."
"The State appears by Alan Walker, assistant prosecuting attorney."
Mason hadn't dealt with Walker previously, but knew he was a good lawyer since Patrick Ortiz had hired him. Since being elected prosecuting attorney, Ortiz had upgraded his staff with career prosecutors. Unlike his predecessor, who was more politician than prosecutor, Ortiz was all prosecutor, all the time. He required the same from the lawyers who worked for him. Mason wouldn't get any breaks.
Mason rose to announce his appearance, surprised that Brandon Potter rose alongside him. He was more surprised when Potter joined him in telling Judge Pistone they were representing Jordan Hackett, their duet bringing the judge's head up.
"You gentlemen rehearse that before you came down here?" he asked, frowning with disappointment when no one in the audience laughed. Judge Pistone could kill a punch line just by letting the words collect in his mouth.
"Your Honor-" Mason began.
"He is no longer representing Miss Hackett," Potter said, interrupting Mason. "The family retained me last night after Mr. Mason quit the case. I wasn't able to reach Mr. Mason to inform him of the change in counsel."
"Gee, Brandon," Mason said. "You were sitting right next to me while we were waiting for this case to be called. You couldn't have been any closer to me if you were doing a lap dance."
The spectators laughed and Judge Pistone gaveled them into silence, reminding Mason that he had broken one of the cardinal rules of the courtroom-never be funnier than the judge.
"Okay, Counselors," Judge Pistone said. "Who's it going to be?"
Mason beat Potter out of the blocks. "Your Honor, the defendant's father has been paying my fees on behalf of his daughter. Yesterday, I told him that I couldn't accept any further payments from him, but I didn't quit the case. Jordan Hackett is my client, not her father. My client is indigent and I ask the Court to appoint me as her counsel."
"If I may, Your Honor," Potter began.
"You may not, Mr. Potter," Judge Pistone replied. "Miss Hackett, which of these two lawyers do you want to defend you?"
Jordan looked at her parents. Carol Hackett hid behind dark glasses, concealing her response. Arthur Hackett burned his unspoken demand with a steel-eyed glare. Behind them, Centurion Johnson opened his beaming smile for business, holding up one hand, the thumb and forefinger in the shape of an L.
"I want Mr. Mason," she said. "But I don't have any money and I don't have a job."
"Very well, Miss Hackett," Judge Pistone said, banging his gavel like an auctioneer. "Mr. Mason it is, for fifty dollars an hour, courtesy of the taxpayers."
Brandon Potter shrugged off the defeat, mentally dividing his fee by the cost of a fifth of gin, and left the courtroom. Mason waited for Potter to exit, punctuating his victory.
"We'll waive reading of the charges, Your Honor, and enter a plea of not guilty. We request a reasonable bail. The defendant is a lifelong resident, not a flight risk or a danger to others. She surrendered voluntarily. She needs psychological counseling she can't get in jail."
Judge Pistone asked, "What's your position, Mr. Walker."
"The defendant confessed to killing Gina Davenport. She is charged with first-degree murder with aggravating circumstances. If convicted, she'll be sentenced to life without parole or death by lethal injection. She shouldn't get bail at all. If she does, the State insists on a million dollars."