Joe Dillard - 01 - An Innocent Client by Scott Pratt

Deacon was really saying was that we needed to make an arrest. Didn’t matter whether the girl was guilty, as long as somebody got locked up for the murder. No way it would go to trial before the election, and if it turned out she didn’t do it, so what? At least Deacon would be assured of eating at the taxpayers’ trough for another eight years. Fucking moron. Him and his goddamned tree.
    Landers finished his run and headed inside for a shower. He had a date at eight.

    April 30
    8:45 a.m.
    I smiled at Tammy Lewis, a pretty, green-eyed blonde with a sharp sense of humor and a sharper tongue. She’d worked for the circuit court clerk for twelve years. Her primary responsibility was to sit at Judge Leonard Green’s side during proceedings and ensure that his court ran smoothly. There were two criminal court judges that presided over the four-county circuit where I did most of my work: Ivan the Terrible and Leonard Green the dancing machine. I called Green that because he’d gotten drunk at a Christmas party a few years back and started dancing on a table. Cases were assigned by number.
    Odd numbers went to Glass; even numbers went to Green. Angel’s case was an even number.
    ”Good morning, Tammy,” I said. ”Ready for the circus?”
    ”Meaning?”
    ”I’m representing Angel Christian.”
    Tammy rolled her eyes. ”No kidding? Well, ain’t you just the lucky victim. I guess the question is, are you ready? His royal highness wants to deal with your client first thing. They brought her over from the jail about an hour ago; she’s in the holding cell.
    There are already three television cameras in the courtroom and at least five newspaper photographers. Reporters all over the place. At least you’ll get some free pub out of this.”
    I cringed at the thought of the media in the courtroom. Judge Green was always at his most belligerent in front of the television cameras. He’d often declared his belief that the voting public wanted judges who were tough on criminals, and when the media came to court, he made sure he didn’t disappoint his constituency.
    I walked through the clerk’s office and into the hallway that ran parallel to the courtroom. When I reached the door, I stopped and stuck my head inside. Judge Green was not yet on the bench. Green and I had a long history of bickering that sometimes turned downright nasty. I thought he was pompous and effeminate. He thought I was a belligerent Neanderthal. Both of us were probably a little bit right.
    The jury box was filled with television cameras, newspaper photographers, and reporters. I noticed they started huddling as soon as they saw me walk through the door and sit down at the defense table.
    Six uniformed Washington County sheriff’s deputies flanked the courtroom. Six was a number reserved for the most dangerous defendants, and I certainly didn’t think Angel qualified. The gallery on the civilian side of the bar was nearly full; there were close to a hundred people in the audience, most of them criminal defendants and their families. They would wait their turn without complaint, hoping to appear before the court in anonymity after the press had packed up and left.
    District Attorney Deacon Baker was talking to a television reporter from Bristol near the jury box.
    Baker rarely made court appearances and hardly ever participated in trials, but he never missed an opportunity to preach the virtues of justice and law enforcement in front of the media. Baker’s newest lead assistant, Frankie Martin, a bright but unseasoned youngster, sat at the prosecution table rummaging through a file.
    At precisely nine a.m., Wilkie Baines, one of the criminal court bailiffs, strode to the front of Judge Green’s bench and faced the crowd. The door to Green’s chambers opened and the judge seemed to glide through the door, his perfectly groomed silver hair freshly cut, his black robe flowing behind him.
    ”All rise,” Baines called in his best town-crier voice.