CHAPTER 8

Terry’s office door is closed, which offers another clue. “Spill it, lady,” I say to Brenda.

“He’s in there with his attorney.” She points toward Terry’s door.

I’m stunned. “Attorney at Law Terry the Fairy has an attorney?”

Her grin widens at the use of Terry’s nickname. She has worked for Terry for more than ten years. I like her, even though she carries true affection for Terry. In my opinion, he doesn’t deserve her. This, however, does not mean she lacks a sense of humor. “Apparently, he took the wrong woman for a ride and she’s filed a lawsuit and made a complaint to the state bar.”

I don’t like Terry, but I’ve never heard that he forces women. A lawsuit means she wants money. Now, I get the humor. Filing a lawsuit for something outrageous is something Terry would do. Today, he’s getting back some of his own medicine.

“I’m dying to ask what he did, but I’m almost afraid.”

She bites her lip before releasing it and replies, “I’m horrible for even smiling.” She laughs into her hand. “He dropped her.”

It takes a moment for her meaning to sink in. Terry’s thing is plowing women against an outside wall. “Come again.”

“He dropped her on her ass while doing the vertical.”

I’m only able to hold back my laughter because I hear Terry’s office door open. A professionally dressed woman enters the hallway.

“I’ll be in touch later this week,” she says as she walks into the lobby and turns her attention to me and Brenda. She simply nods and leaves the office. Brenda presses the phone system’s intercom and announces my presence. Terry sticks his head into the hallway three seconds later.

“And to what do we owe this great honor that you’ve graced us with your presence?” That’s Terry—a wiseass, a creep, and a great defense attorney who speaks his greeting to my tits.

“My cupboards are bare and I’m hungry.”

He doesn’t look up. “Good, because you won’t like the case I need you for. Step into my office and I’ll go over the details.” He turns to Brenda. “Bring the Connor file in, please.”

I follow Terry into his office and take a seat at his massive cherry oak desk. His office is large and showy. He has invested a great deal of money in the furniture alone. From the desk to the cherry oak bookcases that cover the walls, there’s obviously money in defending scumbags. And right now, I need some of that money.

Brenda walks in thirty seconds later and places the file on Terry’s desk. She leaves without looking at me and closes the door behind her. Strange. She’s never done that before.

Terry glances up and holds my gaze. He opens the file and hands me an eight-by-ten color photo. It’s a booking photo. The young man is badly bruised and chances are good he cleaned blood from his face before the photo was snapped. I can see a small cut above his eye, and I know those tend to bleed a lot.

“Dixon Connor, arrested last night for criminal damage. He had the misfortune to have a small amount of methamphetamine in his pocket when they searched him. He was tagged for one count of possession of a narcotic and three counts of drug paraphernalia, making it a felony arrest. His father is Don Connor, the main pastor at First Methodist in Paradise Valley, which also happens to be the church I attend. At Don’s request, I went down to see Dixon this morning. As you can imagine, he was jumpy. What surprised me the most is that he’s scared shitless.”

I try to absorb the story, but somewhere I get stuck on the fact that Terry attends church. Who knew? I feel no sympathy for a strung out, scared shitless junkie, nor do I find it odd. It makes even more sense given his father’s career. “So where do I come in?”

Terry lets out a small humph of breath. “When I said scared shitless, I mean exactly that. This kid whispered to me as soon as I got in the room with him that he’s one of Alonzo’s boys.”

“Wonderful,” I offer with clear sarcasm. Alonzo is a petty drug dealer and also fences stolen goods for the druggies in this area.

Terry’s eyes go hard, which is unusual. Even in a courtroom, he likes to come across as a nice guy, when in all actuality, he’s a shark. A bit of uneasiness travels up my spine.

“That’s not why he’s afraid.” Terry’s fist hits the desk, which makes me jump. “One of yours is taking payoffs and running Alonzo’s show now…”

I don’t let him finish. My chair flies back several inches when I stand. I point at Terry. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Just because you don’t like cops, it does not mean that they’re dirty. You’re an asshole,” I add.

Terry rolls his eyes. “And just because you think cops walk on water doesn’t mean they’re clean. You’re naïve, Mak. You have no idea what truly goes on. You weren’t on the streets long enough. In cop years you were just a baby when you left the force.”

My blood boils. Terry is always mouthing off about officers lying under oath. That’s his best tactic when it comes to getting his clients off. A cop’s word on the stand is what we live by. It’s our reputation. Sure, we make mistakes and when we do, defense attorneys are like flies on rancid meat.

The daily stress and lack of sleep from doing shift work don’t help. Add in the need to appear in court the morning after an all-night shift and mistakes happen in testimony. The defense attorney changes your words around to confuse you, asks a single question in several different ways, and basically tries his best to screw up your story. I know—I’ve been there. Now, Terry’s trying to say there’s a crooked cop at the Wendell Precinct. The men and women I worked with may no longer include me as family, but to me they are, and I’m no longer taking Terry’s shit. Eating is highly overrated; I’ll find another avenue to drum up cases. I’m unwilling to spend a minute more of my time with this jackass. I turn on my heels.

“Kennedy,” Terry huffs out.

I freeze for a moment before turning around and taking my chair again. “Fuck.”