Chasing The Dead (An Alex Stone Thriller) (3 page)

“Knowing and proving are two different things. I thought they taught you that in law school.”

Alex had been a public defender for fifteen years, long enough to handle a young assistant prosecuting attorney. But Kalena Greene wasn’t a typical newbie. Alex met her during the Dwayne Reed trial a year ago when Kalena’s boss, Tommy Bradshaw, wouldn’t let her do more than escort witnesses to the stand. Since then, Bradshaw had given up trying to hold her back, her unflappable tenacity and innate trial instincts earning her the right to handle cases he usually reserved for more experienced lawyers.

Alex shared Kalena’s love for the courtroom, but there were differences between them. Alex was white, tall, and athletic, deliciously rugged according to her partner, Bonnie Long. Kalena was African American, slender, slight, and attractive. If she spent time in the gym, it didn’t show. But Alex had seen her in action enough not to mistake softness for weakness.

“Like I said, you should take the deal.”

“If Judge West grants my motion, you’ve got no case. Knock it down to five years less time served.”

“Wild Bill West cutting a defendant a break? That’s what you’re counting on?”

“The motion is solid. West might deny it, but Atwell will have great grounds for an appeal. You want to tell Tommy Bradshaw that you turned down my offer and blew this case just when he’s given you your wings?”

Kalena ignored the bait and packed her briefcase. “You want to tell John Boy that he’s going away forever?”

Alex wanted to say yes, she’d love to tell him that, because everything Kalena said about Atwell was true. He’d been in trouble since he was a teenager. One court-appointed psychologist, noting his disregard for himself and others, persistent anger, arrogance, lying, manipulation, penchant for violence, and lack of remorse or guilt, had diagnosed him with antisocial personality disorder.

Her motion to suppress had been an exercise in mediocrity that belied all her legal skills except for the one she was forcing herself to learn—the ability to do just enough to meet her obligation to her client while ensuring his conviction.

Ever since she’d won an acquittal for Dwayne Reed only to have him go on a killing spree, she’d promised herself that she would do exactly that rather than allow another monster back on the street. And that’s what she’d done over the last year, leaving a credible paper trail of modest defense motions and driving soft bargains with the assistant prosecuting attorneys on the other side of the table. No one in her office had questioned her, and her clients had accepted her advice that their deals were the best they could get in light of the incriminating evidence.

Trials were trickier because there was an audience—judge, jury, and prosecutor—for everything she did. Every objection she made or ignored, every question she asked or avoided, every witness she chose to call, and every opening statement and closing argument she made had to be carefully calibrated to meet the constitutional standard of an adequate defense.

She’d tried half a dozen cases in the last twelve months, losing all of them. That wasn’t an unusual track record for a PD, and none of the lawyers in the Public Defender’s office appellate division had filed a motion for a new trial on the grounds that she’d failed to provide an adequate defense. The strength of the evidence against her clients had insulated her against critical scrutiny.

A few judges had raised their eyebrows when she’d let something slide, but she ignored them just as she ignored the occasional smirks from the assistant prosecutors, who were happy to reap the benefits. She glossed over any worry about her professional reputation or regret at her ethical lapses with memories of the innocent people Dwayne Reed had slaughtered and her determination to save others from the same fate. She accepted the irony that the images that woke her during the night also got her through the night, allowing her to forgive herself for what she’d done to her clients.

Atwell’s case was different. There was no doubt that he was guilty, but there was substantial doubt about whether the search that resulted in the discovery of crucial incriminating evidence was legal. If she did her job, she had a great chance of winning—and losing again. She was straddling a line, a balancing act that threatened to rip her apart, leaving her wondering if she could turn her back on another client for the greater good.

She’d managed to write a subpar motion, gritting her teeth as she typed because it would have been so easy to write a great motion, but going on the record in open court proved more difficult than she had imagined, as she slammed the police and prosecutors for their callous disregard of John Atwell’s constitutional rights against unlawful search and seizure. She didn’t know whether it was because her client was watching or because of her ingrained courtroom combativeness or because she finally remembered that she’d become a public defender because there was honor in protecting the individual against the state when life and liberty were at stake. And it felt fantastic.

“My client understands the risks.”

Kalena snapped her briefcase shut. “Good, because I’m not waiting for the judge’s ruling. Today is Tuesday, September fourteenth. Mark it in your calendar, because when the sun goes down, the offer goes away forever, and so does John Boy.”

Alex thought back to her conversation the week before when she told Atwell about the prosecutor’s deal.

“What are my chances?” Atwell asked.

“Better than fifty-fifty,” she said.

She didn’t tell him that those were his chances in front of any judge but Wild Bill West, who applied his own brand of hang-the-bastard justice, making the odds in his court a hundred percent against Atwell. Alex knew that because the judge had persuaded Alex to join his private crusade after Dwayne Reed was acquitted, Alex agreeing to make it easy for the judge to throw the book at her most vicious clients, meeting with him after hours at his ranch to orchestrate the outcomes of her clients’ cases.

“If I say no, can I change my mind later on?” Atwell asked.

“As long as the prosecutor doesn’t change her mind.”

“What happened in your case? Did they offer you a deal?”

Alex had killed Dwayne Reed while he was out on bail. She was charged with murder and acquitted, which gave her more street cred with her clients than she ever could have imagined.

“Doesn’t matter. Every case is different.”

Atwell thought for a moment. “Will the judge decide at the hearing?”

“No. He always takes these motions under advisement and rules later.”

“Then there’s no downside to going through with the hearing. I want to have a look at him. Get a feel for him.”

They hadn’t discussed the plea bargain again. When the hearing was over, Atwell whispered in her ear.

“The judge looked at me like I was roadkill he wanted to back up and drive over again. Tell the prosecutor I’ll take the fifteen. That asshole is going to hang me.”

If Alex ignored her client’s instructions, he’d be convicted and never heard from again. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have to worry about his future victims for fifteen years. And, she realized, she’d reclaim a part of herself she’d given away too easily.

“Hey, Alex,” Kalena said, bringing her back to the moment. “What’s it going to be, fifteen years or roll the dice with Wild Bill? I’ve got another hearing in twenty minutes.”

Alex smiled. “Fair enough. We’ll take the deal.”

Kalena tilted her head up. “Really? Just like that?”

Alex shrugged. “You saw my client whispering to me. He thinks Judge West doesn’t like him.”

“Then why all the dancing around about fifty-percent discounts and five years less time served?”

“I was hoping there was some wiggle room, but you made it clear to me that there wasn’t.”

Kalena studied her for a moment. “Yeah. I guess I did, didn’t I? I’ll let the court know and get a hearing scheduled to enter the guilty plea. And, by the way, you really brought your A game today. I was impressed.”

Alex smiled as Kalena left, then lingered alone in the courtroom, a place that had been her cathedral until she’d lost her faith in a system that too often got it wrong. It wasn’t that countless guilty people went free, though some would in any system. It was the innocent victims of crimes she had hoped she would prevent by making certain that the worst of the worst didn’t get the chance to commit them. If she could save one life, it would be worth the violation of her oath as a lawyer. Or so she’d kept telling herself until now. When faced with the choice in John Atwell’s case of doing her job or abandoning her client, she’d stepped back across the line to the side where a criminal defense lawyer belonged.

Judge West opened the door from his office to the courtroom.

“Alex.”

She turned toward him. “Yes, Your Honor?”

“Tonight, eight o’clock, at the ranch.”

Alex nodded as he closed his door. She’d been summoned.

Chapter Six

ALEX’S CLIENTS HAD TAUGHT her a lot about the human capacity for shifting blame, dodging responsibility, and denying guilt. Some were robbers or rapists. Some beat their women and abused their children. Some killed for kicks or because of uncontrollable rage. Some blamed their victims, some said they were entitled, and some said they just didn’t care. Regardless of their crime or their excuse, every explanation came down to the same refrain—mistakes were made, but not by me.

Alex was too harsh a critic of her own actions to take refuge in that sort of self-justification. She owned what she’d done. Dwayne Reed was dead. Nothing to be done about that except hope the nightmares would one day end. As for her deal with the judge, that was another matter altogether.

As she drove to his ranch, she realized that John Atwell’s case had persuaded her that her partnership with the judge was over. She’d done her job for Atwell because of what she owed him as his lawyer, no matter the crimes he’d committed in the past or might commit in the future. There was more than honor in fulfilling her duty; there was power in doing the right thing, power that gave her the strength she needed to move on from Dwayne Reed and the deal she’d made with the judge. It was time to walk away.

She was nervous about telling him. She’d represented enough partners in crime to know what happened when one of them backed out of the deal. The other was rarely satisfied with his future former partner’s vow to keep his mouth shut, often closing it for him—permanently. While she didn’t think Judge West would kill her, she wouldn’t underestimate his reaction. But knowing how good she would feel when she was free of him turned her dread to the joyful anticipation of something wonderful about to happen.

The judge’s ranch was off Little Blue Road near the eastern edge of the city limits, the wooded, hilly acreage far removed from the county courthouse in downtown Kansas City. There was an old house and an older barn that housed half a dozen horses and a pony for his grandchildren to ride. It had the one thing that he valued more than anything else: privacy.

It was dark when Alex arrived, her headlights bouncing off the front porch of the house. Judge West’s wife, Millie, was standing on the porch smoking a cigarette. She flicked it into the yard, turned, and went back in the house as Alex got out of her car, not even a wave to acknowledge her arrival.

It was always the same whenever Alex saw Millie at the ranch. They never exchanged a word, each of them pretending the other didn’t exist. She’d learned Millie’s name only when she found an article in the online archives of the
Kansas City Star
profiling the judge when he was appointed to the bench twenty-five years ago. The one time she’d asked him why they always met in the barn, never in the house, he said it was because his wife was bat-shit crazy and constantly accused him of having an affair anytime she saw him talking to another woman. He said it without elaboration and Alex never brought the subject up again.

It was a cool evening, and Alex gathered her light jacket around her as she made her way to the barn, the smell of manure hitting her in waves the closer she got. The barn door was open, a string of low-wattage lightbulbs casting weak light down the center of the barn. She stood at the door for a moment, watching the judge shoveling straw and manure from one of the stalls and dumping it into a wheelbarrow, his knee-high rubber boots caked in mud and muck.

“Come on in, or are you afraid of stepping in some shit?” he asked.

Alex glanced at her scuffed Danner boots and laughed. “It’s nothing that won’t wash off.”

West smiled. “Then grab that pitchfork,” he said, pointing to one hung on the wall to the right of the door, “and lend me a hand.”

Alex didn’t mind the work, though he’d never asked her to do it on any of her prior visits, welcoming it after a long day, glad for the chance to loosen her muscles and keep her mind off what she had to tell the judge. She quickly churned up a sweat, removing her jacket and getting into a rhythm as the judge cleaned out the stalls and she layered in fresh straw and bedding. An hour later they were finished and sitting on a wooden bench, each holding a cold bottle of beer.

“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.”