“Hot damn! Yes!” my client yells, his fists pummeling the air as if he’s hitting a heavy bag.
A refrigerator lands on my chest and I struggle to catch my breath. I pivot to the jury box. Maybe they filled in the form wrong? Maybe the clerk read it wrong? But not one of them flinches, every one of their faces marked with the satisfaction of one whose work is done.
Judge Grant stands, arms wide in benediction, face expressionless, in keeping with the black robe. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your service. You are hereby excused.” Before exiting through a door behind the bench, he stabs a finger at my client and says, “Sir, once you are booked out of the county jail, you are free to go. Good luck to you.”
Sir? Who’s he calling sir? This guy’s not a sir.
“Thank you,” my now-acquitted client mumbles. Before a sheriff’s deputy leads him away, he faces his victim and winks. A chill slithers down my spine. A feeling that my mother, Faith, would attribute to someone walking across your grave, an odd analogy given she’s still alive and kicking butt at bridge twice a week at the Palm Beach Country Club and pruning her beloved rose bushes herself despite a gaggle of gardeners at her beck and call.
I flop back into my chair, bile rising in my throat. An older woman I assume to be the victim’s mother, ushers her sobbing daughter from the courtroom, an arm shielding the desperate waif from behind. As if anything other than the eradication of my client from the face of the earth could do anything to protect her now.
My adversary, a baby-faced Assistant State’s Attorney, approaches, features twisted in confusion. “Aren’t you supposed to be happy when you win?” he asks, eyebrows hunched over clear eyes, eyes that that will grow dark when he understands bearing witness to human suffering is his chosen profession.
I plaster on a smile. I wish I could blame him, tell him he didn’t do his job, that it’s his fault a guilty man’s walking free. But I can’t. He did what he had to do We both did. It’s just that I, apparently, did it better. Without a doubt, the most unnerving thought I’ve had today.
“Have a good night,” he says, shambling off, dragging a wheelie file cart identical to the one I used to pull back when I believed getting justice and winning were the same thing.
My phone vibrates, skittering across the table like a roach on the run.
A text from Manny. “Our Starbucks. 9 a.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
“There is no more our,” I mutter, sweeping a stack of files into my tattered briefcase, a gift from my parents for my law school graduation.
I double check to make sure I’m alone, then retake my position in front of the empty jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen, you would have no way of knowing this, but less than a year ago, I would have been physiologically unable to convince you of anything other than the guilt of the man that sat beside me today. But now…”
I avert my gaze to a bronze statue of blindfolded Lady Justice behind the bench. “But now, please, forgive me. I had no idea I’d be good at this.”
Chapter 2
I get off the bus and walk across State Road A1A to The Hurricane Hotel, a two-story, L-shaped, 1950s structure, parking lot in front. The rusty catwalk fronting the upper floor looks to have been repurposed from a penitentiary. Some might call the architectural style mid-century modern. Others, no-tell motel. Me, I call it one storm away from condemned. But for now, I also call it home. It is what the broke and broken can afford within earshot of the ocean, my one true love.
No question about it, The Hurricane’s a far cry from the mansion I used to share with my soon to be ex-husband Manny on Idlewyld Isle, a peninsula that juts into the Intracoastal Waterway like a big middle finger to the have-nots, the types I used to prosecute. That was back when I believed in lily-white innocence, that black hats cover black souls, and that we all get what we deserve.
Truth is, life’s simple at The Hurricane and I like it that way. For now.
And then there is Vinnie, my landlord. Vinnie’s good at keeping secrets, and I’ve got plenty of those.
And there he is, Vinnie, manhandling two gigantic trash cans across the rutted asphalt, like a Greco-Roman wrestler fighting way above his weight class.
“You need some help?” I ask.
“Nah, I got it.”
Cans lined up on the curb, he wipes his hands on a pair of dungarees that make him look like a farmer, albeit a swarthy one with a long rap sheet and a last name ending in a vowel to complete the stereotype.
“Buonasera, signorina,” he says, with a deep bow.
I curtsy. “Good evening to you, Vincenzo.”
I point at two blue plastic bins overflowing with newspapers, liquor bottles, soda cans, and all manner of recyclable detritus. “Sure you don’t want help with those?”
“Them ones for recycling. Still gotta sort all that,” he says with a tortured scowl, which makes the task seem less desirable than an enema. “Separate the whatevers I’m supposed to separate from the other whatevers.” He raises his arms to the heavens. “Per l’amor di Dio. Don’t you remember when garbage was just garbage?”
“I might think about wearing gloves to do that if I were you. Might not be safe. You never know what your clientele might think is recyclable.”
“Yeah, yeah. Like you’re one to talk about clientele.”
“Girl’s gotta make a living,” I say, keeping my tone light, although his comment stings.
“Speaking of girls, the blonde on the news says a storm’s comin’ our way.”
My throat constricts. “Hopefully, it’s just another fire drill.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” he says, his
