Damn. She was right about that too. Working for the defense had its drawbacks.
“I will pass the information along to Ms. Dane.” Sharp opened the door, signaling that their discussion was over. He didn’t have time to waste. Morgan needed to know the truth, after he had verified that it was accurate. “Thank you, Ms. Cruz.”
“Olivia,” she corrected. The corner of her mouth curved. She pivoted on a skinny heel, stepped over the threshold, and turned toward a white Prius parked at the curb.
“Goodbye, Ms. Cruz.” Sharp closed the door on her low laugh.
He hurried into his office. Two phone calls and ten minutes later, he had verified that Roger McFarland did indeed have a felony battery conviction in Florida.
Morgan’s new client was a perjuring scumbag with a capital S.
Maybe she would fire him. The last thing Sharp wanted to do was play an active part in keeping McFarland out of jail. The dude deserved to be behind bars. But Sharp understood why Morgan had taken him on as a client. He’d produced a fat retainer. Her fledgling practice had already represented several charity cases. She had three kids to send to college. She both deserved and needed to be paid for her work. Why did it seem like only guilty people had enough money to pay for a good lawyer?
But then, in his five years as a private investigator, Sharp had worked more than a few distasteful cases. But somehow it seemed worse for Morgan to defend scumbags. She was too classy to deal with slime like McFarland. But now Sharp needed to pack away his judgy attitude and let her know that her case was in the crapper.
He dialed Morgan’s number. After she didn’t answer, he called Lance.
“Where are you?” he asked as soon as Lance answered.
“Outside the courthouse making some calls.”
“Where is Morgan?”
“Inside, talking to McFarland before the case is called. I passed the ADA in the hallway. He was headed toward Morgan. If they wheel and deal, we might be able to get out of here early. The sooner she finishes with McFarland, the better.”
“Agreed.” Sharp gave Lance a rundown on what the reporter had to say.
“I’ll go find her. Talk to you later, Sharp.” Lance ended the call.
Restless, Sharp paced his office. He had reports to type, invoices to send, and bills to pay. The sound of a car door closing caught his attention. He looked out the window.
A Mercedes sedan was parked in the driveway. A woman got out and walked toward the building. Her head was down as she looked at her phone, but something about her seemed vaguely familiar. He went to the foyer and opened the front door.
She slid her phone into her purse and looked up. Under short, spiky red hair, her face was pale and her mouth tight. Their eyes met, and recognition nearly tripped him.
It couldn’t be.
But he knew it was. After all these years . . .
“Hello, Lincoln,” she said.
Chapter Three
“I hired you to make this go away.”
In the corridor outside the courtroom, Morgan Dane stared at her client. Roger McFarland was the owner of McFarland Landscaping. Square from the flat buzz of his red hair to his fireplug body, he wasn’t a particularly big man, but he was solid in a way that suggested he’d moved plenty of earth in his thirty-five years.
She lowered her voice as three lawyers rushed past them. “I’ve told you that these charges are not going away.”
McFarland dismissed her comment with a wave of his meaty, calloused hand. “I’ll pay whatever fines are necessary. Just keep me out of jail.”
With a bank account that was nearly as inflated as his ego, McFarland was accustomed to buying his way out of trouble. When he’d first come to her office and she’d agreed to take his case, he’d seemed remorseful, almost ashamed of his behavior. In hindsight, she strongly suspected that had been an act.
“You are charged with attempted murder,” Morgan said. “We’re still in the discovery process, but the evidence I’ve seen so far is strong.”
How could she convince him that money wasn’t enough? He’d crossed a line.
“That’s why I wrote you such a big check.” McFarland folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. One thing was certain—McFarland would not be going on the stand. He didn’t have the sparkling personality to sway a jury. He looked like he broke knees for the mob.
And enjoyed it.
A former prosecutor turned defense attorney, Morgan had worked a couple of high-profile cases over the last six months, but she was still adjusting to working the other side of the courtroom.
“And it’s my job to tell you the truth,” she said.
“You got that kid off back in September.” McFarland shrugged. “Do the same for me.”
The kid had been innocent, while McFarland had been arrested standing over the unconscious body of his ex’s new boyfriend, whom he’d assaulted in full view of dozens of witnesses. With McFarland’s case, Morgan would be arguing admissibility of evidence and shades of guilt. She’d be examining every procedural element with a microscope to chisel away at the prosecutor’s case. Most of her clients swore they were innocent. McFarland hadn’t bothered. At least he’d known enough to clamp his mouth firmly shut when the police had attempted to question him.
“Your case is different.” Morgan shifted the wool coat folded over her arm to check the time. Nine thirty. McFarland’s case should be called within the next hour. She expected to be approached by the assistant district attorney before they went in front of the judge.
“Just do your fucking job,” McFarland snapped.
Morgan ignored his nastiness. She didn’t have to like McFarland to defend him. It was her job to make the ADA prove each charge. But it was a case like this that made her nostalgic for her time in the prosecutor’s office and the perception of moral high ground she’d once stood on.
However, she now recognized that concept had been an illusion. Working the defense side of the courtroom had taught her that the system was more flawed than she’d realized, and reinforced the basic tenant of American law: every person was innocent until proven guilty.
Movement at the end of the hall caught her attention. Private investigator Lance Kruger weaved his way toward her, his short blond hair a head above the crowd. He wore the dark-blue suit he usually reserved for court, and he wore it very well.
Despite her determination to keep their relationship strictly professional when they were working, she couldn’t help but marvel at what she felt for him after just six months. She’d never thought she’d find love again after her husband’s death. But her heart warmed as Lance walked closer.
“Excuse me for a minute.” She stepped away from McFarland to join Lance on the other side of the wide corridor. At nearly six feet tall in her heels, she was just a couple of inches shorter than him.
She leaned close to his ear. “Any luck with the witnesses?”
Several people had stated that McFarland had threatened to kill the victim. Morgan was hoping a few of them would backtrack on their statements.
“Not yet.” Lance’s blue eyes were grim. “They’re all sure he said he was going to kill the SOB.”
At the moment, her only line of defense was a clerical error on the search warrant affidavit. Police had found evidence that McFarland had fashioned his weapon, a homemade blackjack, in his garage, along with a cash receipt for the raw materials indicating he’d planned the attack several days before carrying it out. Premeditation was the key to the attempted murder charge. Without the evidence uncovered during the search, the case was less cut-and-dried.
A tiny worm of doubt wiggled in Morgan’s belly. Before he’d been killed in the line of duty, her father had been a cop. Her grandfather was a retired cop. Her brother was NYPD SWAT. One of her sisters was a Scarlet Falls police detective. The other was a forensic psychiatrist, and before her life had imploded with her husband’s death, Morgan had been a prosecutor in Albany. Generations of Danes had devoted—even sacrificed—their lives to put criminals behind bars. Her feelings on being a defense attorney were definitely mixed.
She shook it off. She’d incinerated her bridges with the prosecutor’s office last fall by defending her neighbor. This was the only career open to her now. She’d represent McFarland to the best of her ability and put her trust in the legal system. The courts would decide his guilt or innocence.