Courting Disaster
Authors: Carol Stephenson
Courting Disaster
By Carol Stephenson
She’s Gone Too Far…
A year ago, criminal defense attorney Carling Dent woke up in a conference room with a bullet wound, a murdered client and no memory of what happened. Since then, she’s grown reckless. She’s gained a reputation for representing defendants no one else will, and her own partners are beginning to question her conduct.
Then a car accident triggers flashbacks, and Carling is driven by the need to find out what really happened that day. Her investigation begins to uncover a twisted web of secrets someone doesn’t want exposed. The threats against Carling escalate, and she turns to the one person she wants to trust—her former lover, prosecutor Jared Manning. The passion between them is as hot as ever, but when more memories start trickling back, Carling starts to wonder just whose side the man she loves is on…
58,850 words
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To the divine Wordy Wenches: Linda Anderson, Marcia King-Gamble, Vicky Koch, Sandra Madden and Debbie St. Amand. Your unwavering friendship, advice and support are priceless.
“Ms. Dent. Conference. Now.” Judge Brent Goldberg threw the mute switch on his microphone.
Those jurors who still gave some semblance of being awake looked irritated at the delay. The end of the trial was in sight and they were only a quick verdict away from being released. Even my client, Cilatoy Theophile, a hair’s breadth away from being convicted of aggravated robbery, wasn’t interested in the latest development. He continued to pick his nails. I just hoped his nose wasn’t next on the list.
His nonchalance was understandable since, at age nineteen, he was on his twentieth arrest. But I would have thought his first trial as an adult might generate some degree of involvement. Then again his cohort in crime, Milforte Desjarnes—who squealed on Cilatoy in order to avoid his own hefty sentence—also stared with hooded indifference from the witness stand.
Win or lose, the two would be back on the streets soon enough where they would either settle their differences with a gun or make up to rob again.
So why was I bothering?
Stop that, Carling,
I ordered myself. Cilatoy had a right to a fair trial. He claimed his friend was the one who pistol whipped the guard, sending the woman to intensive care. Her head injury was so severe she had no recollection of the assault and hadn’t been able to identify which man assaulted her.
The irony of taking on the defense of this case wasn’t lost on me. After all, a year ago I had been in the victim’s shoes, facing a long, torturous rehabilitation program to unscramble my own traumatized brain cells.
What would my former psychotherapist say if she could see me now? Would she label it another manifestation of my post-traumatic behavioral change? Or would she understand my need to face personal and professional demons?
Focus.
I repeated my now daily chant.
Focus.
I approached the bench. The state prosecutor, Rachel Sachs, could barely contain her smirk as she stood beside me.
Judge Goldberg’s eyes were steely through his horn-rimmed glasses. “Where do you think you’re going with that line of questioning, Ms. Dent? If your angle is a mistrial, think again. It’s not going to happen. The prosecution has already disclosed the terms of the witness’s plea deal.” The judge’s lips curled back in distaste on the last word.
Plea bargaining was one of the necessary evils of the American criminal system. Quite frankly, if Milforte’s attorney hadn’t been quicker on the draw, getting his client to turn on mine first, I would have done the same.
“You’re trying to introduce collateral crimes evidence, counselor, and I won’t have it,” admonished the judge.
Of course I was. This robbery wasn’t the first time my lovely client and the witness had victimized the Haitian community. But Cilatoy wasn’t the brains of the operation.
“Your Honor, I’m trying to establish course and pattern. Always before my client has been the lookout.”
“I’m not going to allow this line of questioning, Counselor. The prejudicial effect far outweighs any probative value. You’ll have to find another way to impeach the witness.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Damn. Screwed in the rulings again.
But to give Judge Goldberg his due, I didn’t think an appellate attorney would have a hope in hell to overturn the decisions made so far.
I took my sweet time dragging my feet back to the podium, adding a slight slump to my shoulders for good measure. Anytime a bench bar conference occurred during the trial, despite the judge’s instruction not to speculate, the jury would inevitably play guessing games in the deliberation room. I was playing to their human nature. It wouldn’t hurt for them to guess something bad just happened to the defense.
“Ms. Dent!” The judge snapped out my name.
“Yes, Your Honor.” I hotfooted it the rest of the way. However, I maintained the dejected routine while I shuffled through my notes, acting as if I needed to compose myself.
To my surprise, I did. Out of habit, I picked up a stray paperclip from the podium and slipped into my jacket pocket as I considered my options. I’d already accumulated quite a stash, a sign of a long day.
Okay, no prior crimes. How else could I shake this man’s testimony? Milforte was cagey. I knew that from my discovery deposition. Street smart from surviving first in Haiti and then here in West Palm Beach, Florida. He spoke little English. Flitted from one job to another, racking up injury claims and worker’s comp as often as he could. Throw in a few staged car accidents for insurance money and he made a nice living. He was suspicious, hostile.
Wait a minute.
“Mr. Desjarnes. You testified you were only the lookout at the Garden Market.”
The Haitian translator spoke to the witness and gave his answer. “Yes.”
“So Cilatoy tells you what to do and you do it in a robbery?”
Milforte stopped staring at his shoes and looked up. “What you mean?”
“Let me ask it this way. Is Cilatoy the boss?”
Stony silence, but if that hooded glance could kill…
“Your Honor—”
“Mr. Desjarnes, answer the question.”
He shrugged. “I don’t understand.”
I feigned surprise. “No? According to your testimony, Cilatoy planned the robbery, carried the gun and told you where to stand. That makes him the leader, the boss, the man in charge, the person of authority, right?”
“No one is boss of me.”
“Then Cilatoy didn’t tell you where to stand?”
Milforte drew back. “I stood where I stood.”
This examination was like pulling teeth. “So you did, at the doorway, never entering the room. Right?”
“Yes.”
“What a shame that the boss missed the locked safe behind the desk. How stupid.”
“I didn’t miss…” Milforte stopped and crossed his arms.
I closed my folder. “No, you didn’t miss that safe, did you, Mr. Desjarnes? That’s why you pistol whipped the guard until she was almost dead because she wouldn’t give you the combination, isn’t that right? No further questions.”
I walked back to the defense table. It didn’t matter if the witness answered or not. I had my reasonable doubt as to the aggravation charge.
I had done my job.
Hours later, I brought my lipstick-red Mustang to a roaring halt in the parking lot of the Law Offices of Dent, Rochelle and Sterling. I grabbed my briefcase and exited the car. The July afternoon air seethed with a pending thunder boomer, suiting my frame of mind.
As the jury deliberated, the prosecutor approached my client with a deal of a lesser charge and he took it. The state saved the cost of a possible appeal and Cilatoy shaved several years off his jail sentence—a good deal all around. So why wasn’t I feeling the buzz of victory?
Because all you did was negotiate a lesser sentence for a young man bent on a life of crime,
a voice whispered in my head. He was guilty as hell, only not of hurting the guard.
I wish I could silence my inner critic, which seemed to snipe at me more and more lately. But I could feel the tale-tell signs of a migraine squeezing like a vise around my head. I needed to drop off this file, pick up the cases for tomorrow’s proceedings and get home before the pain became crippling. I entered through the back door of the shell-pink stucco building.
I walked down the hallway, past the staff cubicles, to my office. I could hear my partners, Kate Rochelle and Nicole Sterling, in their offices, but I didn’t stop. I wasn’t in the mood for a chat.
“Hey, Maria,” I said to my secretary. “Any messages?”
The good-natured, middle-aged woman who ran herd over the younger office staff looked up from her computer. “Carling, how’d it go?”
“Plea deal during deliberations. Reduced charge.”
“That’s more than the bum deserved. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
She frowned. “You’re pale. Getting one of your headaches?”
“Yep.” I took the pink phone slips she handed me.
Maria opened her desk drawer and took out a bottle of aspirin. “Then I’ll tell the man waiting to see you he’ll have to schedule another appointment.”
“What man?” Accepting two pills, I crossed to the cooler and poured a paper cup of water.
“Another Rocket Fertilizer driver. Seems like we get one a month. Don’t they hire people who can drive?”
I swallowed the aspirin. “The company docks the drivers’ pay if they don’t meet their delivery deadlines.”
“Should I reschedule him?”
“No. Rocket pays me a hefty retainer to be available.” I gave her back the phone messages. “I’ll see him.”
However, I didn’t break any speed records walking to the reception area. I’d been all set to curl up in a ball at home and suffer. Now I had to do a “meet and listen.” My migraine would have to wait. Although the therapist and I disagreed on many issues, she had shown me various techniques to manage my headaches. When you’re your own boss, sometimes you need to power through minor obstacles such as crippling pain.
Nicole Sterling came out of her office. “Carling, how’d it go in court?”
“Score one for the defense. I maneuvered the state into bargaining.”
She gave me a thumbs up. “Kate and I were going to grab dinner. Care to join us and give us all the gory details?”
“Sorry, but I have a Rocket driver waiting to see me.”
Nicole frowned. “Carling, you really don’t need to handle that type of work.”
“Oh yes, I do.” Nicole, Kate and I had realized our law school dream of opening our own firm, which we fondly called “Debt, Default and Miscarriage.” The word
debt
was apropos. Start-up costs had been significant and the monthly overhead sucked up profits. Since I’d been a public defender, I got client referrals, but not near steadily enough for my comfort level or my pride of carrying my own in this partnership.
Kate emerged from her office, took one look at me and hurried over. “Carling, your skin’s pasty. You’re getting one of your migraines again. I’m taking you to see a doctor.”
“I’m fine. I’ve already seen a ton of doctors, remember? They all said headaches were to be expected.” I resisted the urge to touch my right temple where the bullet left a two-inch scar.
Nicole’s lips twitched. “Good thing you have such a hard head.”
“Funny.” At the moment, my skull felt like a cracked eggshell but I wasn’t about to own up to it.
Kate stood her ground. “I’m worried. It’s been a year since you were shot and the headaches are growing in frequency and, if your pallor is any indication, in intensity as well.”
Three hundred and eighty-three days—to be exact—since my life had been turned upside down. But who was counting?
I forced a smile. “Look, I’ve got a client waiting.”
“Carling, we need to talk,” Nicole said.
“Later, ladies.”
I opened the door to the front area. One of the hefty costs in setting up the office had been the secured waiting room. If you did criminal defense work, you learned to take precautions. Upset clients in this line of the law tend to have ready access to guns. Bulletproof glass separated the receptionist from everyone else in the room and entry into the interior offices required a code-encrypted card. These precautions wouldn’t prevent a shooter packing a concealed weapon from killing you, but it did weed out the “enter with a blaze of gunfire” type of wacko.
I plastered on a smile and greeted the man dressed in dirt-stained jeans and T-shirt and sporting a bandage on his left hand. Peeking over the edge of the dressing was a tattoo of a knife in a circle.
“Hi, I’m Carling Dent.” I extended a hand and was surprised by the tentativeness of his grip. Normally, even this civilized touch from a Rocket driver produced a creepy sensation for me.
“I’m Mike Staminski. My boss sent me.” He had a heavy Russian accent.
“Let’s go back to my office.” I led him to it and indicated he take a seat. I sat in the blue leather chair behind my desk and picked up a legal pad from the stack Maria always kept on the corner. We all had computers with a client program, but typing on a keyboard while someone spilled their guts always seemed impersonal to me.
“What’s the charge, Mr. Staminski?”
No sense beating around the bush. He was here because of a traffic violation. Within weeks of opening the law firm, a Rocket officer arrived with check in hand retaining me to defend the company’s drivers in traffic court. They needed their drivers on the road, not sidelined with suspended licenses. My job was to keep their points down as much as possible.
Garbage work? You bet. But that retainer paid the bills, and the offer had come at a time when even reading the latest case law had been an effort. It took months of rehab before I risked taking on more serious offenses. One talent I hadn’t lost was my knack for numbers, and maintaining the bottom-line necessary for running the office.
Mike barely glanced at me before staring at the floor. “Bad scar you have. I knew Borys. Good guy.”
While I had come away from the shooting at the Palm Beach County Criminal Detention Center with only a scar and migraine headaches, my former client, Borys Dolinski, a timid Rocket accountant in jail for money laundering, hadn’t been as fortunate. His head shot had been more permanent.
Mike cleared his throat. “They say you don’t remember anything.”
I sighed. Why that tidbit was so fascinating to the Rocket drivers was beyond me. It seemed like every one of them asked. Maybe they were running a betting pool as to the return of my memory. If so, I wanted part of the action. After all, I had inside information. The doctors said possibly never.
“That’s right.” I kept my voice cool, an audible “do not disturb” sign. What had been violently ripped from me that night went beyond the recall of who, what, why and how. But I wasn’t about to own up to anyone, and certainly not to some stranger.
He blinked but, unlike some of the other drivers, took the hint. “I had…” He paused, as if searching for the English word. “Accident with my truck.”
I wrote his name at the top of the page. “What’s the charge?”
“I killed someone.”
My pen froze midstroke. “What?”
He examined his bandaged hand. “Not my fault. I was on way back from taking load up to Palatka. It was raining. Hard. A small car cut in front of me. Traffic slowed for some reason, and I couldn’t stop in time. When I hit the car…boom.” He spread his hands. “She blew up like a bomb.”
