“And tell her what? That I’m representing a killer that nobody -- including me -- thinks should get away with what he’s done, and I’m being demonized for it?”
. . .
But Lily mulled over her father’s suggestion. She wasn’t a quitter, and the last thing she wanted was to let these crackpots chase her off a case, even if it was a case she didn’t want and wasn’t going to win. But there were other considerations. Her livelihood, for one, and what any serious community protest could mean to her practice. She certainly didn’t need to lose any business over someone like Jason Lightfoot. In the end, she decided a conversation with Grace Pelletier couldn’t hurt.
“I know it’s been tough, and it’s likely to get tougher before this whole thing is over,” the judge told her frankly. “And I will take you off the case, if that’s what you want. But you know how would it look. It would look like you were weak and the hate-mongers were tough. Which would only embolden them to ratchet it up a notch or two against whatever hapless attorney I might appoint in your place. Not to mention what quitting the case might very well do to your reputation going forward.”
Lily sighed. Either way, she knew, she was screwed. “Well, just as long as I don’t end up dead before we get to trial,” she said, and it was only half in jest.
“If you’re that worried, the one thing I can do is arrange some protection for you,” Grace said immediately.
“And how would that look?” Lily countered.
“I don’t care one whit how it would look,” the judge declared. “Certainly not if you’re going to be looking over your shoulder every minute from now until October.”
But Lily tossed her head. All this nonsense was starting to get her dander up. “Never mind,” she said, preparing to leave. “I may not like the case, and I definitely don’t like the odds, but I’m not going to give anyone the satisfaction of making me quit.”
Grace Pelletier watched her go, with her eyes narrowed and her teeth clamped on her lower lip. After a moment, she picked up the Rolodex that sat on the side of her desk and flipped quickly through the cards until she found the one she was looking for, and reached for the telephone.
“The problem is you’re too damn good at what you do,” Joe told her. “And I think maybe there are some who are scared out of their minds you might actually find a way to get Lightfoot off.”
“Sure,” Lily said. “As if there’s a chance in hell of that happening.”
In the past five years, she had defended her share of unlikable clients. It went with the territory, so to speak, and in truth, she had even found an occasional loophole that either got charges reduced or altogether dismissed. But she sensed this case was very different. That it wasn’t any great love for the police that was motivating the people who were coming out of the woodwork here -- that it was about something else entirely.
Lily knew what prejudice was, she supposed she had grown up with it all around her, but it had always been something that had never really impacted her, until now. Of course, that may have been because she had never defended an Indian accused of murdering a police officer before.
In truth, other than Diana Hightower, she really didn’t know any Indians to speak of. They weren’t a significant part of the Port Hancock society that she traveled in. Oh, there had been a few of them back in high school, but they hadn’t been friends, they’d had nothing in common, and she had never visited their homes or invited them to hers. Only now, she was being painted with the same brush they had been, and it was coming a little too close to potentially putting her life in danger for comfort.
“Maybe you should take the judge up on her offer,” Joe suggested.
“Just what I need,” Lily said in distain. “To be escorted around by Port Hancock’s finest, so everyone will know I can’t protect myself. I can’t wait to see who among Dale’s co-workers would step up for that duty!”
“If you’re sure you want to look at it that way,” Joe said. “As for me, I wouldn’t care who it was, as long as I stayed in one piece.”
“I agree,” Wanda put in.
“But what if all this nonsense is about nothing more than a handful of disgruntled citizens blowing off steam, and I make a big fuss over it?” she argued. “Like the judge says, if we give them legitimacy, who knows what they might try next.”
Two days later, shortly after one o’clock, a tall, slender man who looked to be in his early forties entered the Broad Street Victorian. He was dressed in khakis, a T-shirt, and cowboy boots. He was clean-shaven and his long brown hair was neatly caught up in a rubber band at the nape of his neck.
“Hello, my name is John Dancer,” he said in a soft voice. “And I’d like to see Lily Burns.”
“I’m afraid she’s not in the office right now,” Wanda told him politely. “I don’t expect her back for at least another hour.”
“That’s okay,” he said pleasantly, taking one of the comfortable visitor’s chairs that were arranged around the reception area. “I don’t mind waiting.”
“Suit yourself,” the receptionist said, but she kept a careful, and somewhat curious, eye on him as he sat there calmly, quietly, with one leg balanced across the other knee.
. . .
Lily left the courthouse just before three o’clock and headed back toward the Victorian. She was in the middle of a sticky domestic abuse case that wasn’t going very well at the moment, it had started to rain -- for which she was unprepared, and she was not in a particularly good mood.
As a result, she hardly noticed the red pickup truck stopped at
