Nothing But the Truth

The truth, like love, can be elusive, unless you're willing to fight for it.

Sparks fly when two top notch attorneys battle each other in the high risk arena of the courtroom, but when a strange turn of events thrusts one of them from the role of advocate to witness, prosecutor Ryan Foster and defense attorney Brett Logan join forces in their search for the truth. Working together they quickly learn their attraction to each other is as strong as their commitment to justice, but courthouse romance is not without complications. Throw in a murder case with bizarre twists and turns, and even the strongest attraction will be put to the test.

Nothing But the Truth

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Nothing But the Truth

© 2011 By Carsen Taite. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-498-0

This Electronic Book is published by

Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 249

Valley Falls, New York 12185

First Edition: January 2011

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits

Editor: Cindy Cresap

Production Design: Susan Ramundo

Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

truelesbianlove.com

It Should Be a Crime

Do Not Disturb

Nothing But the Truth

In the ten years I’ve practiced criminal defense, I’ve learned nothing is ever as simple as it seems. In addition to being a love story, this story is about the art of seeing things from a different perspective.

As usual, I owe many people thanks:

Bill and Toby—thanks for all your advice from the prosecution perspective. You were both great in the law and order role, but I have to say it’s fun working on the same side now.

Christie and Tom—thanks for inviting me into the world of crime.

Sandy—thanks for your patience as I sent pages flying your way up until the very last second. Your insights, as always, were invaluable.

Cindy—I love working with you. You always manage to inject just the right amount of humor into your red ink. Thanks for challenging me to be a better writer.

Stacia—thanks for always making me look good with your superb attention to detail.

Sheri—every time I think “this cover is my favorite,” you totally outdo yourself on the next one. You’re amazing.

Rad—thanks for taking a chance on me. I love being part of your publishing family.

To all the other authors and behind the scenes folks at BSB- —you are the greatest. I can’t imagine a more nurturing family.

Lainey—thanks for all the times you’ve listened to my real and fictional courtroom war stories. My day job may inspire some plot points, but the romance inspiration is all you.

To my readers—as always, thanks for the constant stream of encouragement, praise, and shouts for more. I save every note, every e-mail and read them whenever I need a boost.

Lainey—I love you. And that’s the truth.

Other people’s emergencies were Brett Logan’s bread and butter. Her buzzing BlackBerry signaled business was booming.
I have a legal emergency. Can you call me? Now. 911.

“Ms. Logan, your case is next. Is your client on bond?”

Brett looked up from the tiny screen and stood. “No, Judge. He’s in the holdover.” She glanced once more at the e-mail message on her phone and then shoved the pesky device in her bag. Everyone who called her had an emergency. She’d return the call as soon as she finished with her current slate of crises.

Nodding to the bailiff, Brett set her bag and purse on a chair just inside the rail before making her way to stand in front of the bench. As she waited for her client to join her, she focused on drowning out the hum of activity around her. On a given morning, there were likely to be at least a dozen cases on the court’s plea docket, which meant at least a dozen attorneys and clients along with a random assortment of friends, family members, and witnesses lining the rows of the gallery. All these parties conferred with each other in their various interpretations of whispers. The result was controlled commotion that courtroom veterans had learned to ignore.

Once the bailiff positioned her client beside her, Brett placed her hand on his arm. Everett Marshall was a tall, lanky, young black man, charged with two counts of possession with intent to deliver a controlled substance, crack cocaine. As the judge reviewed the plea paperwork in the file, Brett leaned over and whispered in Everett’s ear. In response, he turned and gazed at the rows in the gallery, finally locking eyes with the members of his family who were there to support him.

“They’re all here. You told them?” he asked.

“Of course,” Brett replied. “They all wanted to be here to support you.”

He nodded. Brett recognized his appreciation even in the minimal response. Up until moments ago, Everett’s fate had been uncertain. He was charged with two second degree felony drug possession cases with a punishment range of two to twenty years each in the Texas Department of Corrections. Everett’s first brush with the law was significant, and the prosecutor had been unsympathetic to the fact he was a first time offender. In his view, based on the quantity of drugs at issue, Everett was a drug dealer, and the best disposition was to put him away where he could do no more harm. Brett had spent all her energy finding evidence to support her contention that Everett had been drawn into his situation out of a desperate need to make money to care for his sick mother and feed and clothe his children. Along the way, he had become addicted to the currency of his drug dealing occupation. The only chance he had of breaking free was rehabilitation, not punishment. Unable to convince the prosecutor to offer anything less than ten years in the state penitentiary, she had set the case for an open plea. Everett would plead guilty, and Brett would present evidence to convince the judge to take a chance on giving her client probation with drug treatment so he could get his life back.

When Brett showed up this morning with Everett’s family, friends, and employer in tow, she had a renewed discussion with the prosecutor. They reached a compromise. Everett would serve three months in the county jail and then be sent to a county-operated drug treatment facility. If he completed the drug treatment program successfully, he would be placed on probation for five years. She had explained the risk to Everett. If he messed up on even the smallest condition of his probation, he could be brought back to court and sentenced to serve anywhere up to the full twenty years. He said he understood. She hoped he did. She had long since given up trying to distinguish between clients who told her what she wanted to hear in order to move things along and those who were sincere about their commitments.

Since the terms of the plea were now agreed, the proceeding was practically rote. When the judge pronounced the sentence, Brett shook Everett’s hand and wished him good luck. She gathered all the family members in the hallway and gave them an overview of how the case would proceed from that point. They had a lot of questions, many of which Brett had to answer with maybes since Everett’s future was largely dependent on how he conducted himself once he got out. The Q and A ran long.

When she finally broke free, she remembered the message on her phone. She forwarded the e-mail to her assistant with a short note asking him to get whatever information he could. Crisis well in hand, she dashed off to another courtroom down the hall, completely focused on her next case of the morning.

*

“I hope you had a good reason for agreeing to probation for that guy.” Ryan Foster made a habit of challenging the prosecutors in her division. Her philosophy was simple. If they knew they would have to answer for their decisions, they were more likely to make good ones.

The young prosecutor shrugged. Ryan imagined he was suffering under the false impression that his recent promotion to chief prosecutor in the 319th District Court would eliminate the need to explain his every action. After all, he was in charge of managing two other prosecutors and a heavy court docket. He probably believed he should be accorded a little deference in the way he chose to dispose of cases. Ryan hoped her strong stare would dispel him of any notion he was no longer accountable to her.

“Yes, I did. It’s his first offense. He has lots of family support. His employer is holding his job, and he has a significant, but treatable drug problem.”

“So you slap him with candy-ass jail time and feel-good drug treatment. Wow, Bill, you really taught him a lesson.” Ryan paused, then swiftly changed her tone from sarcastic to sweet. “Maybe the defense attorney offered you a little something more than her persuasive legal arguments. Is that right?”

Ryan knew Bill hadn’t worked under her long enough to tell if she was ragging on him in earnest or just trying to get a rise out of him. His harsh stare told her she had really pissed him off.
Hell, admit it to yourself. You wouldn’t oppose an offer of special consideration from Ms. Logan
. Ryan struggled to control her features lest anything in her demeanor disclose she was projecting when she accused Bill of finding defense counsel particularly attractive. Brett Logan. Ryan knew who she was, but they had never directly crossed paths. Ryan only knew her name and her reputation as a fearless litigator. Prosecutors under Ryan’s command with shit cases to try regularly sought permission to cave to Ms. Logan’s mastery of the game of chicken. Brett had held out on this case, which would have been a total loser for her client, until she got a deal he could live with. Ryan was hard-pressed to admit it, but she admired Brett Logan’s steel resolve. She admired her legs and her ass too, but those details she would keep to herself. Bill’s voice cut into her thoughts.