Chapter Two
Assistant State’s Attorney Ellen Martinez was nothing, if not completely organized. When I stopped by her office to talk about Tina Jackson, she retrieved the girl’s file in an instant—a quick walk to a file cabinet and a glance in one drawer. She wore a white suit. I searched for a spot or stray hair and came up empty. People that neat and organized should be shot.
“Tina Jackson. Let’s see.” Martinez rocked in her high-backed chair, flipping through the file. She stopped, her eyebrow arched. “First offense. They might have let her slide at intake, if she hadn’t broken that poor woman’s arm.”
“That was an accident,” I said. “She never meant to hurt her.”
“Little Tina has a mouth on her, too, says here.”
“I think her talk is bigger than her walk.”
Martinez fixed me with a
