The youngest of three daughters, Lily went through the Port Hancock public school system, graduating near the top of her class, and then off to the University of Washington for a degree, with honors, in English. While her sisters opted for marriage and family -- one now lived in Oregon, the other in Colorado -- Lily was her father’s daughter, through and through, and there was never any question about what she would do after college.
She was accepted to half a dozen of the country’s top law schools, but because she had no particular desire to journey too far out of her comfort zone, she chose to go to Stanford, just down the road, so to speak, in California, to graduate third in her class, and then return to her hometown.
“You could make it big in any city of your choice,” several of her professors told her. And in fact, she had been heavily recruited by a number of law firms up and down the West Coast.
But Lily only smiled. “It isn’t about fame and fortune,” she told them. “It’s about doing what’s right.”
Althea Burns had died of breast cancer in the autumn of her youngest daughter’s final year in law school, and what was right for Lily was to go back to Port Hancock, to live with her father in the Morgan Hill home she had grown up in, and to go to work for him at the courthouse. She was good enough at her job that many believed she would one day be elected the county’s first female prosecutor. But a year after her father’s stroke -- and with his blessing, Lily had made the switch across the aisle to private practice.
There were two firms in town that tendered her excellent offers, partly because of her ability, mostly because of her name. But, in the end, Lily elected to hang out her own shingle, in front of an Old Town Victorian, a block and a half from the courthouse. In the five years that had passed since then, she had earned a reputation for being smart, honest, dedicated, and a tenacious adversary. Which was why she was fairly certain of the reason she had been summoned to the presiding judge’s office on this particular Friday morning. Port Hancock was, in many ways, a small town. And word had a way of getting around.
“With all due respect, Your Honor, I know why I’m here, and I don't want the case,” Lily declared before the judge could even get her mouth open.
“I know you don’t,” Judge Grace Pelletier acknowledged pleasantly. “But your number came up.” The county kept a list of private attorneys and, when necessary, rotated them through the system to offset a frequently overworked public defender’s office.
“I knew the victim,” Lily informed her. “I grew up next door to his wife. I was in their wedding.”
“I know that, too,” the judge responded. “But then, this is a small town, and I expect you’ll find you grew up knowing someone related to someone in just about every case you’ll ever handle here.”
“But I see no redeeming value in this defendant.” Lily declared, falling back on an old legal ploy.
“And do you honestly believe that would prevent you from protecting his rights to the fullest?” the judge inquired.
“Well, no,” Lily had to admit. “But as long as you’re asking, I’d prefer to be the one protecting the people’s rights -- by making sure the noose gets put around this guy’s neck.” Washington was one of only two states in the union that still used hanging as an official method of execution.
“One job at a time,” Grace Pelletier suggested.
“Oh come on, Your Honor, the bastard killed a police officer,” Lily exclaimed.
“All the more reason, then, why he deserves the best representation we can give him, wouldn’t you agree?”
“There are at least two other attorneys right here in town who don’t have the personal connection that I have with the victim’s family, and who I’m sure would be more than happy to give him far better representation than he deserves,” Lily argued.
“As it happens, I know all the attorneys in town,” the judge reminded her. “All fine, dedicated people. I also know that, considering the controversial nature of this case, it has to be tried with the utmost integrity.”
In other words, put an unimpeachable attorney on the case so that, when the defendant got buried, no one would be able to cry foul. There were times, she had learned, when being her father’s daughter could be a major drawback.
Lily sighed. “I’m not going to win this argument, am I?”
The judge shook her head. “If I thought you couldn’t be objective, we wouldn’t be here, having this conversation,” she said. “But I’ve known you since you were a baby, and like it or not, you’re the right attorney for this case.”
Grace Pelletier was sixty-three. She had been privileged to work for Carson Burns for ten years before being elected to the bench, the youngest jurist ever to serve conservative Jackson County, and the first woman.
“Only way to get you out of my hair,” the prosecutor had explained when she discovered that he had been the one to put forth her name. In return, she had spent the last twenty-three years making sure he would not regret it.
Now she picked up the Lightfoot file to give to his daughter. “It can’t be anyone but you,” she said.
“Why?” Lily asked in defeat.
“Because this is the first capital case Jackson County will be prosecuting during my tenure, and I need
