Poetic Justice. Andrea J. Johnson

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СКАЧАТЬ Point taken. He knows how to win.” I plucked the business card with my middle finger. “Still, you can’t blame the man for taking pride in his work—but what you’re suggesting is evidence tampering. That’s illegal and a whole lot different than blabbing to the press.”

      “True. But take a second to consider why he’s won so much. Either he’s only accepting cases he thinks he can win, or he’s dancing with the devil to make those wins happen.”

      We eyeballed each other.

      Grace was the oldest and sharpest bailiff on staff. She’d worked in the courthouse for over twenty years. If anyone’s opinion was worth considering, it was definitely hers. But was it realistic to think a prominent attorney would be willing to risk his career for a witch like Langley?

      I slipped Harriston’s card into the pocket of my suit and looked over at the balding attorney. He was resting his backside against the edge of Stevenson’s table with his legs crossed at the ankle and his arms folded. Based on the twitch of Harriston’s bulbous nose and heavy jowls, he appeared completely dissatisfied with the words of the frenzied prosecutor. I wanted to see if I could eavesdrop on their conversation from my perch, but Grace interrupted my thoughts.

      “Think about it. This is the kind of publicity his business needs. Getting clients acquitted after winning a trial is one thing. But getting the charges dismissed during trial makes him a demi-god, especially when all the big law firms from upstate have shaved his business down to nothing.”

      “So, you think…” my lips puckered on a seed of doubt, “Mr. Harriston needs to win this case because he’s losing clients?”

      “Exactly. Don’t you ever walk The Quad? Old Beau has a ‘for lease’ sign in his window. I mean, come on—his office has been there since I was a kid.”

      Even though I lived less than two miles from Bickerton Square, where the courthouse was located, I never walked to work and didn’t spend time hanging around the building. Bail bond agencies, the drug lab, and the county’s government offices crowded most of the area. To my mind, nothing in the center of town was worth exploring except Cake & Kettle, a local teashop that had become my lunchtime hideout.

      “For all you know, he could be leasing his office space and moving to a better one.”

      Grace shook her head. “He’s on the verge of eviction for late payments. Maggie says he’s constantly in and out of the Prothonotary’s Office asking for favors because his secretary and law clerk quit eight months ago. Their paychecks kept bouncing.”

      “Paralegal. The true definition of a law clerk is one who works for a judge.”

      I didn’t mean to correct Grace. The words came out as absentminded filler because I didn’t know how to respond. Her theory was pure hearsay, but the idea made sense. Harriston had been awfully smug at sidebar.

      “Sorry, Grace. Can we talk about this later?” I lifted my steno machine and stood. “I’m going to send in another reporter right after I check my laptop. I’ve already cleared the switch with the judge.”

      “Everything okay?” Her voice grew serious.

      “For now.” I fixed my lips into what I hoped was a carefree grin. “Just be mindful of the switch, will you?”

      “Whatever you say, boss.” Grace unfolded from her crouch and adjusted the long sleeves of her starchy polyester uniform. “If I didn’t have to get back to those jurors, I’d make you talk.”

      “Excuse me, ladies.” Phyllis Dodd’s high-pitched voice pierced our conversational bubble.

      The chemist’s willowy frame and flawless posture placed her freckled face at eye level, despite our elevated position on the bench.

      “My time is valuable. I’m due to give testimony upstate in less than two hours. Is my presence still required here? If the judge dismissed the drug charges, shouldn’t the trial be—”

      “Yes, ma’am,” Grace said, “but we still have a plea on the table. She likes to hold the jury and witnesses until the final disposition. But if you come with me, I’ll walk you through to chambers. We can ask the judge’s secretary if it’s okay for you to leave.”

      And with that, Grace climbed down from the bench and escorted Phyllis out of the courtroom through the side door that led to the judges’ collection of private offices.

      As I strolled back to my workstation, I focused my sights on Harriston and Stevenson. Their discussion was loud enough to hear from my desk, but I missed my opportunity to eavesdrop when I bumped into the back of Maggie Swinson, the judge’s trial clerk. She’d perched on my desk shamelessly flirting with Corporal North, who still sat on the witness stand.

      “You know, most of us clerks hang out at Cooper’s on Wednesday nights for karaoke. You should stop by for a drink,” Maggie said in her southern Delaware drawl where U’s were elongated and G’s barely exist. “We could do a duet together. ‘Endless Love’ is one of my particular favorites.” She emphasized the statement by leaning her medically enhanced bosom close to the corporal’s face.

      “Seriously, Maggs? Can you park your rear somewhere else?”

      Rude? Yes, but I feared her enormous rump was going to knock my water cup onto the laptop I’d left running. Besides, Corporal North had a white-knuckle grip on the edge of the witness stand—a sure sign he needed saving. Maggie was a full-figured country queen with a honey-blonde bouffant, a brilliant smile, and a notorious reputation as a man-eater.

      “Excuse me, darlin’.” She snapped at me. “I wasn’t in the middle of a conversation or nothing.”

      Maggie slid off the desk, and her genteel façade slipping for a second as she narrowed her eyes at me. She then twirled back to the corporal, reached into her bra, pulled out a slip of paper, and handed it to him.

      “Here’s my number, in case you want to come.” She rocked her hips like a pendulum, pivoted, and sashayed over to the attorneys, who were still deep in debate.

      I sat down and plugged the charger cable into my steno machine. Then I scrolled through the transcription software to make sure the Bluetooth connection had successfully transferred all the notes from sidebar to the laptop. I even checked the mini-microphones I kept running during trials in case of emergencies. When I paused to reach for my Styrofoam water cup, Corporal North stared at me.

      “You spent a long time talking to the judge and bailiff.” His voice was higher and tighter than the coarse bass he’d used during testimony—the strained voice of a man trying to hold back his anger. “What’s going on? Is the judge planning something?”

      Did he really expect me to answer that? Sure, he was the investigating officer on the case, but he was also a witness. My goal was to maintain neutrality or silence when confronted by witnesses.

      “The judge?” I sipped my water and conjured up a generic reply. “She clarified a few issues for the record. Criminal trials can be rough on stenographers.”

      No exaggeration there.

      “Rough on witnesses, too.” He gave a derisive snort. “At least you didn’t embarrass yourself in front of the jury.” He cleared his throat and muttered to himself, “Damn that Mulligan chick. Should’ve gone with СКАЧАТЬ