Pas de Deux

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

Day fifty-eight of the trial ended the same way it began—with the jury still out. James Scott spent the entire day in touch with his co-counsels, but only because they were sending him increasingly anxious text messages. The jury deliberations were supposed to last two days at the most. Three days if the closing had been rocky. But Scott had delivered the closing himself, and it had been far from rocky; in fact, it had been as smooth as butter. And Scott wasn’t the only one who thought so. Instead of a quick and breezy two days, the deliberations went on. And on. And on. Four days. Six days. Ten days. It was unprecedented. It was nerve-wracking.

Most of all, it was distracting.

Scott finally had no choice but to turn the volume down on his phone, close his laptop, and leave the office. He was just as anxious as anybody else to know the jury’s verdict, but Sam Jenkins was not his only client. At that moment, Sam wasn’t even his most important client. The final arguments had been made, the final motions filed, the final plea bargains attempted and rejected. Sam Jenkins’s fate was in the hands of Lady Justice now. If things didn’t go as planned, he would of course find a way to appeal. But in the meantime, Scott had other things on his mind.

The first step out of the towering office building stole Scott’s breath. Having grown up in the Midwest, he was accustomed to very specific seasons. His internal clock was telling him that the leaves should be changing color and a cool breeze should be whispering warnings of a wild winter to come. But San Francisco had done nothing but wreak havoc on his internal clock since his arrival, five years earlier, and that late September day was no exception. There wasn’t even a bit of a fog off the bay to dampen the heat.

Despite the sweat already gathering at the nape of his neck, Scott bypassed the bus that would take him to the BART station. As much as he would have liked to abandon the entire city, he couldn’t quite leave for home. The best he could do was spend an hour in his favorite café before his meeting with one of the partners, John Terrell. Of course, an hour was an impossible luxury these days, but Monica had firm orders to keep Scott’s location on a need-to-know basis. Maybe, for once, an hour to himself would be possible.

Candace, his favorite barista, smiled at him as he ducked into the small coffee shop. He returned her smile and nodded before settling at his usual table. He immediately began unpacking his briefcase, loathe to waste even a second of his so-called free time. Usually, he carried files from several cases, but that afternoon, there was only one case. Only one very thin file.

“James!”

He kept his head down, steadfastly arranging the documents on his table. He did not have time for random small talk. Anybody who truly needed to speak to him would contact Monica and arrange a meeting.

“James Scott.”

James sighed to himself and glanced up through his lashes. Sergeant Donald Isaakson’s ruddy face smiled back at him. Scott liked Don well enough. It was difficult not to. There was nothing fake about his smile, and the two of them had a certain baseline of respect for each other. Even so, Scott’s heart fell as Don invited himself to sit in the opposite chair. The conversation would no doubt be interesting, but Scott was going to lose an hour of sleep to compensate for the time.

“You working?” Don asked.

He swallowed his annoyance at the question. “Just taking a break from the office.”

“You hear back on the Jenkins case yet?”

“No, not yet. But I’m optimistic about tomorrow.”

“You optimistic about the verdict, too?”

Scott shrugged. “Would you be?”

“Griswold is a good assistant DA, but he’s young. He made a few mistakes.”

His lips twitched. “Are you saying that if I do win, it won’t be on my own merits?”

“I’m saying, he made a few mistakes.”

“Well, a good defense attorney knows when to use those mistakes.”

Don shook his head. “Do you think you deserve to win?”

“I think I gave my client the best defense anybody could mount. That’s all that matters.”

“It’s not, but I know I can’t convince you otherwise.”

Candace brought over Scott’s coffee and looked over to Don. “Can I get you anything?”

“Water is fine. Thank you.”

Scott took a sip and hoped the caffeine would kick in soon. He would probably have to augment it with a shot of espresso before he left. “It is all that matters, Don. We live in a country where everybody is entitled to a sound and thorough defense. That’s the cornerstone of our entire legal system.”

“What about technicalities?”

It was an old argument. One he had had many times with Don. He didn’t take it personally, though he would have liked to save it for another night. Preferably another night when he was drinking beer instead of coffee. “Most of the so-called technicalities come down to Miranda rights and faulty police procedure. You boys stop being so sloppy, and you won’t have to worry about technicalities.”

Instead of launching into a long, well-known spiel, Don merely smiled. “I don’t think you have to worry about that with your next case.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re defending on the Tana Mayfield case, aren’t you?”

“How did you know that?”

“The city’s hottest defense attorney is suddenly defending somebody like Hector Young—pro bono I might add—and you think there’s anybody who doesn’t know?”

“If you’ve come to ask me what I was thinking, or try to talk me out of it, or anything else, you can save your breath.” There literally wasn’t anything Don could say that Scott hadn’t heard before. There probably wasn’t much Don could say that Scott hadn’t already said, himself. But his mind was made up and he had given the young man his word.

“No, no, nothing like that. Though I guess I did want confirmation that the rumors are true.”

“They’re true.”

“He hasn’t even been formally charged with anything yet. Isn’t it a bit early to take the case?”

Scott shrugged. “He’s going to need a competent attorney long before he’s charged. Not that the public defenders aren’t good at what they do, but they’re even more overworked than I am. Somebody needs to watch that boy’s back.”

“And that somebody has to be you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because somebody, somewhere, is out for Hector Young’s head.”

“How about, somebody, somewhere, is out for justice?”

“Justice won’t be served if Hector is just the convenient conviction. Anyway, I thought you said you weren’t going to try to talk me out of it?”

“Oh, I’m not.” Candace returned with his bottle of water. He smiled appreciatively before taking a deep swallow. “But there’s one thing I thought you might want to know.”

“What’s that?”

“Saucedo isn’t on the case anymore.”

The news in and of itself didn’t bother Scott. It wasn’t hugely common for the lead detective to be reassigned, especially with cases that made national headlines, but it wasn’t completely unheard of, either. “Who is?”

“Owen Duke. Do you know the name?”

Scott sought the corners of his memory, and then was forced to shake his head. “No, I don’t think our paths have ever crossed. Is he new to the department?”

“No. I guess you’ve just been lucky so far.”

“Lucky?” Scott arched his eyebrow. “Is there something I should know about this guy?”

“Yeah.” Don finished his water and stood. “You’re not going to get any technicalities with this guy at the helm.”

“He’s good, then?”

“He’s the best. I fear your luck has just run out.”

Scott flashed his most charming smile. “I make my own luck, Don. You know that.”

“Either way, it’s going to be a hell of a show. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Yeah, have a good evening, Don.”

As soon as the cop stepped out into the street, Scott took out the small, digital voice recorder he always kept in his pocket. “Check out Owen Duke. Everything. His arrest record, his education, his life off the force. I want to know where the guy buys his shoes.”

With that reminder in place, he tucked the recorder in his jacket pocket and turned his attention back to the documents on the table. Now he only had forty-five minutes. Forty, if he didn’t want to jog down the block back to the office building.

On July 25th, twenty-two year-old Tana Marie Mayfield had helped finish up end of year paperwork for the San Francisco Ballet and said good-bye to her colleagues until September, when she would return to start the grueling rehearsal schedule for the Nutcracker, a holiday tradition in the Bay Area. Though not a principle dancer, she was a well-liked member of the Corps, and had been specifically chosen to aid in their prestigious school for its five-week summer session. Her tasks were mostly administrative with the occasional demonstration thrown in for the students, but her superiors claimed she had a brilliant future with the Company. People liked her. She’d left them with smiles.

On August 21st, Tana’s body had been pulled out of the bay. Autopsy reports said she’d been strangled by someone with enough force to break her slim neck before getting dumped. She still wore the jeans and leotard she’d worn her last day at the Company, though her shoes were gone and there were scratches and bruises on her bare heels. Two toes on her left foot were broken.

Nobody claimed to have seen her in the time she’d gotten aboard a BART train to go home, and the moment an unsuspecting tourist had spotted her body from the Pier. She lived alone in a tiny apartment, had no boyfriend, and her wealthy family resided on the east coast. She might have been completely forgotten about until Nutcracker rehearsals had rolled around and she hadn’t shown up for her call. At first glance, it was more than a little sad.

Until police went to her apartment and found it ransacked. Then, their random murder took a more ominous tone. The parents showed up, demanding justice, and Detective Saucedo went to town gathering evidence from Tana’s apartment. Amidst the chaos, they found a single, partial fingerprint belonging to twenty-four year-old Hector Young, two time loser for breaking and entering.

Hector never stood a chance.

The fingerprint was enough to get a warrant. Hector knew enough to keep his mouth shut when he was brought in for questioning, and Saucedo had held him the full forty-eight hours before charging him. Saucedo had simply stopped looking elsewhere for a suspect. He’d even timed it perfectly. Hector had been charged after hours on Wednesday, which meant the police could keep him from getting arraigned until the following Monday. That was a full week in custody without any hope of getting out. Scott noticed the case then. Every instinct he had told him there was something just not right. And Scott had long ago learned to trust his instincts. If somebody competent didn’t watch that boy’s back, he would be bullied into a confession. He had no doubts about that.

Learning that there was a new detective to the case just confirmed his suspicions that something, somewhere, was not exactly on the up-and-up.

Scott managed to finish two cups of coffee and an espresso before he gathered up the documents and shoved them back in his case. He had a meeting with Hector Young bright and early the next morning. It would be their first since Scott officially took the case. It would also be, to Scott’s knowledge, the first time Hector offered any sort of interview. The fact that the younger man was so good at stonewalling hadn’t actually helped his case in the eyes of many, many people. Like the refusal to say something potentially self-incriminating was an incriminating act, in and of itself.

Hector Young was still at the front of his mind when he jogged back to the office building. He took a brief detour to the restroom to splash cold water on his face before riding the elevator up to the top floor. He knocked on the door at precisely six o’clock, pleased with himself for his punctuality. One did not keep a man like John Terrell waiting. Scott’s time was valuable—each minute was worth thirty dollars—but Terrell’s time was even more valuable than that. And he didn’t invite people to his office for drinks in order to indulge in idle chitchat and office gossip.

“Come.”

Scott opened the door to see John already enjoying a whiskey and soda. He was thirty years older than Scott, but due to the gym and the miracles of modern science, he really didn’t look older than fifty. He was a bit of a legend in the firm. Not because he made it to partner, but because he was the first man outside of the family who had reached that position. Before John Terrell, the law firm had been known simply as Chesterson & Chesterson.

“Ah, James. It’s good to see you. What’s your poison?”

“Same as what you’re having, sir.”

“Good choice. You look a little winded.”

Scott swallowed. “No, sir. It’s just been a busy day.”

“You’re still waiting on the Jenkins verdict, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You think this delay is good news or bad news?”

Scott shrugged and accepted the tumbler. “It’s difficult to say.”

“A case like this…it’ll catch you some attention.”

Scott smiled. “Only if I win, sir.”

“Win or lose, I think you might be the youngest associate in the history of the firm to be considered for partner.”

Scott’s eyes widened, his drink forgotten. That had always been his goal, of course, but it was the first time he received confirmation that his goal was actually in line with reality. His pulse quickened, but he took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down. He wouldn’t impress anybody by being too overeager.

“That’s very kind of you to say, sir.”

“No, not kindness. Though that is why I wanted to speak to you tonight. I heard that you’ve accepted Hector Young’s case?”

“For now. The DA timed it too perfectly for them not to be sure they’ve got the right man in custody. If they had something on the kid, they would have already used it. They’re just trying to make him sweat. I doubt this will end in anything except a release.”

“You’re willing to stake your entire career on that?” John asked.

“It’s hardly my entire career. I’ve taken cases like this before.”

“It just doesn’t seem like it’s worth the firm’s time.”

Scott stiffened. “That’s why I’m doing the work pro bono and on my own time.”

“I just want you to be careful.” John walked around the side of his desk and clasped Scott on the arm. “I like you, James. I always have. I think I see a little of myself in you.”

“Thank you for the compliment.”

The corner of John’s mouth lifted. “That includes the tendency to get myself in a little over my head. Just don’t let yourself get swept away.”

Scott’s frown only deepened. He had no idea what John was talking about. Had the older man finally started to go senile? Or was he offering what seemed like very sage and important advice? Scott didn’t want to discount anything John said, but it seemed like they had their wires crossed. There was absolutely no danger of being overwhelmed by Hector Young’s case. There wasn’t anything the least overwhelming about it. The department had a kid with a record, a partial fingerprint, and a beautiful, but tragic, victim. Letting Hector go now would be bad PR, especially since they had been avoiding investigating other suspects. Stupid and pointless, sure, but not uncommon. And not anything that Scott couldn’t handle.

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

“Good. And James? Don’t beat yourself up too much about the Jenkins case. Nobody could have asked you to do better.”

“Hey, I haven’t lost yet.”

A sharp rap on the door pulled John away. “Mr. Terrell? Your car is waiting downstairs, and you have a seven o’clock reservation at The Fifth Floor.”

“No rest for the wicked, eh?”

Scott smiled. “No, sir.”

“Just keep your head above water,” John warned, as they walked to the office door. “Maybe try to give yourself a break before you work yourself to death.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“That’s what we call famous last words.”

They walked together to John’s private elevator. Scott demurred from joining him, as he had already been away from his laptop and his phone for too long. But as he settled in his chair and woke his computer up, he wondered if maybe John Terrell didn’t have a small point about getting in over his head.