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Dan huddled around the kitchen table with Garrett and Jimmy. The mood was dark and their expressions were grim. Garrett was not noodling on his keyboard and Jimmy was not playing with his action figures, so he knew they felt the ominous mood just as profoundly as he did. “I don’t think I’ve ever gone into a trial feeling less sure of myself. Or of my case.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Garrett said. “I know the hours you’ve been pulling. You’ve left no stone unturned.”
“And yet, there are still so many unturned stones. I’ve been over all the evidence provided by the prosecution, but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more. Something important we don’t know.”
“The prosecution has to produce all exculpatory evidence,” Jimmy reminded him. “I’ve talked to Shawna and my other pals at the courthouse. She doesn’t think the DA is up to anything sneaky.”
“And yet we know he’s bringing in a ringer to prosecute. That’s another problem. I don’t even know who my opponent is yet.”
“The word on the street is that Belasco is tired of being beaten in the courtroom by you. I think there was some concern that...you and Jazlyn are getting too chummy. When the prosecutor and the defense counsel start attending the same birthday parties...”
“We don’t have to pretend to be hostile to do our jobs properly.”
Jimmy raised his hands defensively. “Hey, don’t kill the messenger. I’m just suggesting a possible reason for hiring an outside prosecutor. Belasco wants to win.”
“Have you had a chance to review my witness outlines?” Garrett asked.
“Repeatedly. You did the usual fantastic job I’ve come to depend upon.”
“I predict the prosecution will come on strong. They almost have to, given the circumstances. They don’t have a body. They’re only guessing about how the murder was committed.”
“When witnesses come on strong, when they stick to their guns despite all evidence to the contrary, jurors stop believing them.” A light bulb flashed in his brain. “Oh hell. Judge Smulders asked for trial briefs. Why would he do that?”
Jimmy shrugged. “Because he has no idea what he’s doing.”
“Probably heard the phrase ‘trial brief’ and thought it sounded cool. Has no idea what a waste of time they are.”
“Only a waste of time if you have to write them. In his case, anything might help.”
“That babe-in-the-woods is not remotely ready to preside over a death case.”
“Have you considered filing a complaint?” Garrett asked. “Ask the chief judge to appoint someone else?”
“And make an enemy for life? Possibly several?”
“Better than letting our client be executed because the judge is incompetent.”
“I think that’s a bad idea,” Jimmy said. “In the first place, I don’t think it would work. You’d just end up with a trial judge who thinks you don’t like him, so he constantly rules against you. In the second place, it looks like you’re running scared.”
“We are running scared.”
“But we don’t want it to show, right?”
He frowned but acquiesced. “I suppose I can carve out some time tonight to write the brief.”
Jimmy plopped a tall stack of papers in front of him. “Don’t bother. Already did it.”
“Why didn’t you—” His eyes widened. “Bless you. That is such a relief. One less thing to worry about.”
They heard a slamming door. Maria raced inside. “Sorry, everyone. Got tied up at the jailhouse.”
Jimmy arched an eyebrow. “I assume you mean that metaphorically.”
She dropped some notebooks on the table and collapsed into a chair. “I think that old guy at the front desk might enjoy tying me up. He seems the type.” She passed the notebooks around. “This is our final-draft trial strategy. I made a copy for everyone.”
Dan took his and opened it, scanning the first page. “You think the prosecution will say it’s all about the money.”
She nodded. “That does seem like the most persuasive path to take, doesn’t it? I know people who have been killed in a fight over fifty bucks. When there’s a billion dollars on the line—it would almost be more surprising if no one got murdered. But we can use that, too. After all, Ossie isn’t the only relative involved.”
“Are we naming an alternate suspect?”
“I don’t think we have to. Benny, Dolly, Phil, Sabrina. That obnoxious kid. Even Zachary isn’t above suspicion. I don’t think you even have to put them on the stand, and it might be better if you didn’t, given how much they despise Ossie. Just make sure the jury knows they’re out there lurking.”
“So our strategy is, Pin the Tail on the Relative.”
“No, that’s how we spin the prosecution strategy. Our strategy is, the police are in cahoots with powerful forces trying to frame our client.”
He rifled through the pages of the notebook. “You think this could work?”
Maria pulled some reports out of her briefcase. “We’ve tried it several different ways in our mock trials, and this seems to work best.”
“When you employed this strategy, Ossie was acquitted?”
Maria craned her neck. “Well...the mock jury thought about it longer, anyway.”
He gave her a stern look. “How often did this actually succeed?”
“Success is a relative term....’”
“How often did your mock juries acquit Ossie? Fifty percent? Forty?”
“Actually...” Her eyes wandered off. “None of them did.”
“None? Not one?”
“Sorry. It’s in the report. But there’s been so much pretrial publicity—”
“How many mock trials did you run?”
“Fourteen.”
“And not a single jury voted to acquit?” His eyes moved from one partner to the next. “We’re doomed.”
Jimmy sniffed. “I don’t put that much stock in mock juries.”
“Neither do I. But—none? Zero acquittals out of fourteen?”
“Bear in mind,” Garrett said, “there’s one very important difference between all those mock trials and the real deal.”
He tried not to look completely despondent. “And the difference is?”
“Those mock trials didn’t have you, Dan.”
He pressed his hand against his brow. He knew his teammates were trying to stay positive. But the future looked bleak. He’d never heard of a mock trial run that didn’t have at least one positive result.
“What about the jury consultant?” He still hadn’t met the man. And now he didn’t want to meet him. “Does he have any brilliant advice?”
“He thinks we have a tough job. The prosecution holds all the cards. We have lots of bad forensic evidence, plus a damning name written in steam on a mirror. And with so much money in the balance, it’s easy for people to become cynical.” Maria reached out and squeezed his wrist. “I’ve seen you produce miracles before, Dan.”
“Not like this.”
“I visited with Ossie at the jailhouse. That’s why I was late. He didn’t want me to leave. He’s so sad. But he hasn’t given up. He still has hope.” She leaned forward. “Because of you. He believes in you. Or more accurately—he thinks you believe in him.”
“I do believe in him. I’m convinced he did not commit this crime.” His voice broke. He felt despair welling up in his throat. “But I have no idea how to convince a jury.”
* * *
Dan walked down the lonely sidewalk that led to the marina where The Defender was docked. No one else was around, which tended to be the case well past midnight. He’d worked as long as he could keep his eyes open, trying to cover every contingency, every possible turn of events. He wasn’t sure he’d accomplished a thing. He just wanted to assure himself he’d done all he could—so he wouldn’t blame himself if it all went bad.
Except he knew he would.
Maria said as long as he was in the picture, Ossie still had a chance.
She believed it. He didn’t.
Camila was at her own place, wisely assuming he wouldn’t want company on the eve of trial. So he would be left alone with his thoughts—which wasn’t necessarily a great thing.
He walked down the lonely boardwalk and unlocked the gate leading to his beloved boat.
Three men waited for him on the other side of the gate.
The one in the middle was the tallest, half a head taller than Dan and a lot thicker. The one to the left had small dark eyes. The one on the right smiled.
He’d seen that man before. But on the previous occasion, he was wearing a UPS uniform.
“Did Sweeney send you?”
None of them answered. The man in the middle stepped forward silently.
“Is this supposed to intimidate me? It won’t work. I won’t betray my client.”
No response.
“You know, I have a lot of friends and—”
The tall man’s eyes shrunk. His lips contorted into a smirk, then a snarl.
The other two stood on either side, watching.
The man in the middle bent his knees and swung his fist around toward Dan’s face.
He didn’t wait for the punch to land. If he was going to survive this, he had to take the initiative. Last time, he’d been a punching bag. He wouldn’t be that helpless this time around. He led with his best right punch, fast as he could, right into the solar plexus. The man might outweigh him, but if he lost his breath he’d be incapacitated, at least for a moment or two.
The punch landed. The tall man staggered backward. His two companions looked surprised and not pleased.
Turning toward the man on the left, he threw a left uppercut into the smaller man’s ribs. He tried to put as much weight into it as he could. The man grunted and bent over, clutching his stomach.
He whirled around to face the third man, Mr. UPS—
But too late. The tire iron clubbed him on the side of his head. The dock rose up to greet his face. He attempted to break his fall, but he was too slow. Another blow to the head followed. Flashes of light erupted before his eyes.
He tried to roll over, but before he could, he felt a heavy boot in his ribs. Something broke, he was certain of it.
He needed to do something fast or he was dead. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t even roll over on his side. He should call out for help. But that seemed too hard, too impossible. If this were a movie, the cavalry would come running to his rescue about now.
But no one came.
Two more kicks followed, another to the ribs, then another between the legs. He cried out, high-pitched and tortured. He was completely paralyzed, helpless, unable to do anything but take the punishment.
The three men surrounded him, brutal, angry, raining their fists and boots down upon him, punching and kicking all at once. They were doing more than just completing an assignment. They were doing it with pleasure. They were angry. And they weren’t worried about leaving a mark.
Someone’s fist collided with his face. His lower lip split. He tasted blood.
He saw the tire iron coming down again. He could register it, but he couldn’t raise a hand to stop it. The last thing he remembered was the sight of that deadly metal baton headed for his brain.
And then, nothing at all.