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Monday morning, Dan limped into the courtroom, bracing himself with a cane in his right hand. He hated using a support prop, but he would hate falling on his face worse. It was a compromise. Maria wanted him to use something more reliable, like a walker, but every time he tried, he felt like the old guy in Up. The cane was a compromise.
He could tell every eye in the courtroom darted his way as he entered the room. They all knew who he was and what had happened to him. Did they admire him for showing up? Did they think he was a fool? Or did they worry that he might bring his problems their way?
He scanned the courtroom for Jazlyn—then stopped himself. She wasn’t going to be here. What was that man’s name? Something Irish with a lot of K sounds...
A tall man in a shiny blue suit strode up and thrust out his hand. “Paul Kilpatrick. Pleased to finally meet you, Mr. Pike.”
That was it. Kilpatrick. He was the hired gun. Tall, lean, a mouthful of teeth. Cheap suit, off-the-rack. About fifty. Full head of hair. Toupee? Southern accent. Alabama?
Jazlyn had told him all about this guy. He specialized in prosecuting murder cases. That was all he handled, and according to the word on the street, he was extremely good at it. Insanely good at it. Pundits said Dan had the best win-loss record in this courthouse—but not while this man was on the premises. Kilpatrick had a perfect record—he always won.
“Very glad to see you back on your feet. I was horrified when I heard what happened. Can I call you Dan?”
“Of course.”
“I want you to know the DA’s office is taking the assault on you seriously. They’ve got detectives rustling the bushes, trying to see if they can learn what happened. Shake enough snitches and eventually something’s going to fall out.”
“I appreciate that.” It was complete bull, but nice of the man to say. DA Belasco didn’t care what happened to him. For all he knew, Belasco was behind the attack. Even if he wasn’t, he’d be more likely to give the attackers a gold medal than a prison sentence. “I assume you’re ready to proceed?”
“That’s what I do. Life is much easier when you only have one case to manage.”
That was, of course, part of the point of bringing in a ringer. Normally, lawyers in the DA’s office had to juggle many cases at once, given the terrific overload of work and pitiful understaffing. Kilpatrick had been hired to handle a single case, so he could focus all his time and energy here and leave people like Jazlyn free to concentrate on their other, lower-profile but still important cases. It was much like the deal Mr. K offered him when he was recruited for the Last Chance Lawyers. One case at a time—the catch being that Mr. K would choose the case.
“You know,” Kilpatrick said, “no one would care if you wanted to wait a little longer before we start this trial.”
“No. My client is anxious to get it done.”
Kilpatrick tilted his head. “You know, this will be a long case.”
“No worries. I’m up to it.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Positive.” And stop with the professional courtesy overkill already. It only made him more suspicious. “Anything we need to discuss?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Are you licensed to practice in Florida? I’d consent to a pro hac vice motion if—”
Kilpatrick smiled. “I’m licensed to practice in every state.”
“That’s not possible.”
“You mean, that’s not easy. But it is possible and I’ve done it.”
“You’ve passed the bar in every single state.”
“I love taking those damn essay exams. Turns me on.”
“I pity your wife.”
“Some states practice comity so I don’t have to take the tests. Point is, I’m ready to go wherever the job takes me, and I don’t need a babysitter holding my hand during the trial. For me, it was worth the trouble.”
Probably true. Jazlyn didn’t know the specifics, but she thought Kilpatrick was getting paid an exorbitant amount of money to handle this case. “Do you have an offer?”
“Sorry. I have no authority to settle. The DA wants this to go to trial. He thinks the public would feel cheated if it didn’t receive a full and fair hearing.”
That didn’t make sense. Why would the DA turn down a chance to avoid trial with a no-risk settlement that might not give up much? “And you’re going for the death penalty. Despite my client’s youth?”
“Your client claims he’s Ossie Coleman, which means he’s eighteen, which means he can be tried as an adult.”
“Barely.”
He shrugged. “The DA insists.”
“Then I guess we have nothing more to say.” He nodded curtly and headed for the defendant’s table. Despite Kilpatrick’s effusive courtesy, he didn’t like or trust the man. And it was more than just that he was on the opposite side of a lawsuit.
Ossie waited for him decked out in a lovely charcoal suit Maria provided. The tension must be killing him. His life was on the line. His attorney had been attacked. But he seemed to be holding it together. At the far end of the table, keeping to himself, was Maria’s jury consultant, a man named Cooper Fisk.
One more courtroom professional to dislike.
“How you holding up?”
He raised a hand to give Ossie a high five, but to his surprise, Ossie rushed forward and embraced him. “Dan! It’s so good to see you!”
“Um...you too.”
“I was so worried about you. Maria told me what happened.”
“Well, I’m fine. And you’re looking good, too.”
“Like these fabulous threads Maria picked out for me?”
It was an excellent suit. Made him look respectable, but it wasn’t showy.
Wait—was that why Kilpatrick was wearing such an obviously ordinary suit? To create a contrast between the lawyers? Between the slick defense attorney in his expensive Italian threads, and the regular guy man-of-the-people?
He would have to watch Kilpatrick carefully. “Maria spent a lot of time picking out your suit.”
Ossie appeared flattered. “You did?”
She explained. “This isn’t a sexist women-fuss-over-clothes thing. It’s about making the right first impression with the jury. First impressions can be of critical importance in any arena, but with people who have the power to decide how you spend the rest of your life—you want to look your best.”
“And so,” he said, “the courtroom becomes, not a forum for finding the truth, but a fashion show.”
“It isn’t quite that bad,” Maria explained, “but clothes do matter. Especially in this social media era. You’ve seen the memes. A celeb shows up in court and people comment on their dress or accessories more than their guilt or innocence. It’s absurd, but it happens. That’s why I hired a courtroom image consultant. Hope that’s ok, Dan.”
His eyes bugged. “You did what?”
“Sorry. You were in the hospital. I ran it by Mr. K and he approved it. Studies have shown that juries are influenced by attire. It may all be subconscious, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t important.” She smiled at Ossie. “We dressed you in a suit that’s attractive, but conservative. No jewelry. No name-brand nonsense. That okay, Dan?”
He tucked in his chin. “Maybe you should dress me, too.”
“I have tried. You don’t listen.” She continued talking to Ossie. “I’ve got suits for you to wear the rest of the week. I don’t mind if you personalize them, but remember—no logos, no brash colors, no jewelry. No visible tattoos. Nothing that distracts from your message: I didn’t commit this crime. I dressed you like this is a job interview, because in a way, it is. The most important job interview of your life. Gray is safe. It may not be anyone’s favorite color, but no one actively dislikes it.”
The bailiff emerged from chambers and told everyone to rise. A few moments later, Judge Smulders stumbled into the courtroom, looking very much as if he wished he were anywhere but here. The judge took a look at the gallery—saw that the room was almost full—and blanched.
He took his seat at the bench. “So, I guess people want to see what happens next, huh?” He smiled lopsidedly, then erased it when he realized no one else was smiling. He straightened some papers, then tapped them against the bench. “So...how do we get this thing started?” He glanced at his clerk.
Bertha cleared her throat. “Would your honor like to call the case?”
“Oh right. You can do it.”
She looked mortified. “Well then. The Honorable Judge Smulders calls this court into session. The case on the docket today is the State of Florida vs John Doe, a.k.a. Ossie Coleman.”
“Waive the reading,” Dan said. “The defendant reiterates his plea of not guilty.”
Kilpatrick also rose. “No amendments, your honor. The State is ready to proceed.”
The judge cocked his head to one side. “Well then. I guess we should just...move along.” He glanced down. “I don’t see anything we have to handle first. No motions or any of that stuff. Maybe we should just...”
He decided to give Bertha a break. He could steer the marionette judge for a while. “Would your honor like to impanel a jury?”
He pointed at Dan. “Bingo. Yes. Let’s do that. How do we...”
“Perhaps the bailiff could draw eighteen names at random. And then we could start the voir dire process.”
“Fantastic. Great idea.” Smulders let out a high-pitch laugh, almost a giggle. “This should be interesting. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Ossie leaned close. “Why does our judge look...my age?”
“He’s just baby-faced. He has in fact been to law school, been to judge school, and has even spent a few years on the bench. You just...can’t tell.”
“He seems nervous.”
“This is his first death-penalty case.”
“Mine too,” Ossie replied.
He had to smile. “No worries. I’ll keep the judge on track. This might even work to our advantage.”
“How?”
The first phalanx of potential jurors entered the room. “I’m not sure. But I prefer to remain optimistic.”