A Case of Hate Read online




  A CASE OF HATE

  REX DARBY

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 1

  Liliana Fairweather

  My assistant Marisol slaps down the arrest report on my desk with a grin. “He’s already been charged and Agnew’s on it.”

  “Oh goodie, another opportunity to slaughter her in court.” I flick through. “She’s not clinging desperately to all copies this time, I see.”

  “As soon as I got the call for the job I went down there and said I wouldn’t leave until I got it.”

  I grin. “You’re my little ferocious attack dog.” Still flicking, I see ‘interview’. “Please tell me he had an attorney during police questioning?”

  “Had one but his parents weren’t happy with him, so...”

  Oh, fuck yes.

  “The bank of Mom and Dad.”

  My favorite type of case.

  A naughty rich boy has landed himself in the shit. Mommy and Daddy take me on to make sure their poor little darling doesn’t land in jail with all the ‘real criminals’. I get a check that gives me a bounce in my step all the way to the bank. He walks free to continue being an asshole. The whole world makes sense.

  “Time to upgrade to that SUV, Lil?” she says, mischievous glee in her eyes.

  I’ve had my eye on a Mercedes monster of a vehicle, with a cream leather interior and pearlescent brown paint. My ocean blue Hyundai jeep is decent, but it doesn’t turn heads the way I want it to. Yes, I care what people think when I drive by. Yes, I like the attention. So sue me.

  I flick through the report while Marisol flops down in the chair opposite me, watching me closely, waiting for my reaction.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I say. “When a bitch breaks up with you, why don’t y’all just leave her ass alone? Instead of creeping up in her house and strangling her.”

  “I know, right?” Marisol says. “Fucking psycho.”

  I scan the text. “Says her roommate came back early from her job because she was sick, saw him leaving in his truck.”

  “Plan of action on that?”

  “Oh, it’s easy,” I say. “Not too bad, this one. His DNA all over the place is fine, they only recently broke up, so it would have been there anyways. So that’s not an issue. Could say he buzzed to get up to the apartment, no answer. I wonder how he got in anyways? Maybe he had a key?” I shrug and put my bare feet up on the desk. “Meh. It’ll be fine. It always is.”

  I’ve had my own firm for 18 months and so far all my clients have walked. The first time I walked into the courtroom, as an underpaid but extremely enthusiastic public defender, that bitch ADA Agnew in her black pantsuit had a condescending smirk on her face. She prejudged me. People tell me I remind them of an elf or pixie or somesuch. Small-boned, though tall, I look delicate and somewhat fragile. I like wispy dresses and pink and cream and beige and all the frills, and I have big brown eyes that people say look innocent.

  It’s not a strategy to make prosecutors underestimate me, but it worked that way a couple times. Until my reputation preceded me. I heard through the grapevine I now have a nickname at the DA’s office – Ruffles McSlaughter. I kinda like it, actually. It would be an awesome name for a cat.

  “Arraignment’s Monday morning,” Marisol says. “You ready to bust this bitch?”

  “With pleasure.”

  “Want me to come to jail?”

  “Nah, go check up on your lover boy.” I wink at her. “Probably needs a good seeing to with all that boring accountancy work, day in, day out. I’ll go alone.”

  “Thanks,” she says with a grin. “And I could use a good seeing to with all this boring legal assistant work, day in, day out.”

  “You’re fired,” I joke.

  “I’m suing,” she says, grabbing her leather jacket.

  Later that evening, I step into the San Cristobal County Jail, without my purse. I hate being searched and generally just bring along my laptop for recording and note-taking purposes, and my Bar Card and ID in my pocket, though they rarely ask for those anymore.

  My eye candy Sheriff’s deputy behind the desk looks me up and down and winks at me. “Hey, Lil.”

  “Ms. Fairweather to you,” I say with an amused smirk, grabbing the pen to sign in and complete the Inmate Interview Request Form, which I can now do with my eyes closed.

  “Aw, you gonna do me like that?”

  I chance a look up at him, though we’re heart-beatingly close, just the counter and its bullet proof glass separating us. He’s got a cheeky face and a dimple on one side that have featured in my fantasies more than a couple times. But I’ve never made the move. He’s still law enforcement. And a man. Wonderful at arm’s length, horrific up close, in my experience. Call me sexist, if you want. It won’t change my mind.

  I lean closer up to the glass. “I’ll do you however you want,” I say under my breath, looking right into his eyes.

  The look of shock on his face delights me as he presses the button to buzz me through to the back.

  After hanging around a bit, while my client is brought through, I’m soon ushered into the room used for consultations by a deputy I don’t know. He must be new.

  This jail house is old and full of worn metal. Jason Blachowicz is slumped over at the table, his eyes dead as he looks up at me. He’s 24, I know from the arrest file, but looks about 19. Though the dark blue jail attire spoils the look a little, he still strikes me as some jumped-up frat boy primed to take over his father’s business, and probably ruin it with his ineptitude. He has a baby face untouched by any trials in life. Probably got the crusts cut off his toast until he left home.

  “Don’t tell me if you did it or not,” I say, before he has the chance to confess. “I don’t want to know, hon.” He doesn’t look in the mood for a handshake, so I sit down.

  “I’m going to plead guilty,” he says, not meeting my eyes.

  “Like hell you are.”

  He looks up at me, shocked.

  “Play that card if you want,” I say, “but I won’t be at the table.” I’m not having some fallen frat-boy fuck with my track record. “Why do you want to anyways? And don’t say because you did it. That’s none of my business.”

  “I don’t know... well, they think I’m guilty, don’t they? And Kelly saw me leave, so they’re obviously just going to nail me.”

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I say. “You leave the lawyering to me, and start planning what you’re going to do when you get out. Might even be Monday, if we can swing bail. I’m gonna do my best.”

  He smirks, as if there’s no chance of such a thing happening.

  My blood rises. “Excuse me, is something funny?”

  He opens his mouth, then hesitates, wrong-footed.

  “I’m here to represent your slimy little butt, and get you back to your life. So have some damn respect and know that your parents picked the best criminal defense attorney in the entire state. If we weren’t in here, I’d slap that smirk right off your face.”

  That gets him angry. “I’ll sue.”

  I grin. “That’s the spirit. Time to get angry, hon. No more moping around looking like the grim reaper’s on his way to you, okay? The law is intimidating, yes. The judge, the jury, the courtroom, this hearing and that hearing and whatever else. To you. Because it’s not your arena. But it’s my playground, okay? I’ll eat those fuckers for breakfast
and you’ll be out in two shakes... You strike me as a guy who’s pretty well-educated. It didn’t say on the police report what you do for a living.”

  “I’m in med school,” he says. “I’m going to be a heart surgeon... well, I was going to be.”

  “Knew it. You are still going to be a heart surgeon. You’re probably used to being the smartest person in the room. But you’re not right now, okay? Who knows in terms of raw IQ, but this isn’t an intelligence test. This is a first-degree murder trial, and I’m the person who is going to get you out of this mess, okay, with the best applied intelligence money can buy. I promise.”

  “That’s a big promise to make.”

  I lean back in my chair. “Let’s put the laptop on and get to questions. I need to know the ins and outs of everything so we can cook up our story.”

  I set up the laptop and he bites his bottom lip. I get the distinct impression he’s never been spoken to the way I just laid into him, and he doesn’t know whether to get angry or respect me.

  I hit ‘record’.

  “Right, so... I delved into the report a lot today,” I say. “You had a loose necktie in your vehicle, and fibers from that necktie were found at the scene and on her neck... And the reason they’ve gone for first-degree is that you texted your friend saying, Today’s the day, about two hours before the murder.”

  He goes sheet-white. “See why I want to plead guilty now?”

  “Not at all. I hope you didn’t say any of that garbage to the cops. What did you tell them in your interview?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “No comment all the way through. That’s what he said to do, my previous attorney.”

  “Excellent. Now... you know I said I didn’t want to hear if you did it or not?”

  He nods.

  “I just didn’t want you crying all over me with your nose running. If when we get into the nitty gritty, you need to tell me something, then you go ahead and do it. But factually, please. When people cry, it turns my insides to mush. And the last thing you want is a mushy attorney, all right?”

  He nods again.

  “And you’ve gotta tell me absolutely everything, even if it makes you look bad. You know about client-attorney privilege, right? You can say anything to me, anything at all, and it doesn’t go outside the two of us. So you don’t have to pretend with me.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m serious. If anything comes up in court that you haven’t told me, I’ll be going up on a murder charge myself when I strangle you in the courtroom. The bitch bringing you up on arraignment has it in for me and you’re not going to embarrass me. Capiche?”

  He laughs. That’s what I wanted. “You’re nothing like I thought you’d be.”

  “Come on then, hon, spill. Everything. Right from the beginning, when you met this girl.”

  Chapter 2

  Lincoln Agnew

  “He’s only gone and hired Liliana Fairweather,” I tell my husband.

  He’s been off for the day golfing, and I’ve been running the DA’s office pretty much singlehandedly. I do enjoy these types of days. I know that if my husband wasn’t the DA, I’d run. But I don’t need to, since he’s so capable and upstanding. I do make sure I know as much as he does, though, in case he ever falls long-term sick, or he’s run over by a bus, or one of the family members of someone he’s prosecuted decides to come and punish him fatally.

  It’s my duty to the County.

  We did bring down some major drug operations together, run by powerful, violent people with all kinds of backdoor connections, and I do worry about it all from time to time. I insisted we install a new security system at home, and we switched out our regular windows for bullet-proof glass. We have a front and back door with a 19-lock system, the same kinds of doors they use in high-security workplaces. I do sleep a little better at night, but sometimes I do still have to reach for a sleeping pill.

  “Ah, the old Ruffles McSlaughter,” he says with a chuckle, obviously in a good mood. The very slight slur in his voice tells me he’s been at the golf club bar.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, checking around me as I walk through the darkening parking garage next to the courthouse. It’s summer, so sun sets around 8.30pm. I always check it on my phone, to be sure none of the evil forces we prosecute will catch up with me after dark. “I won’t disappoint you or the County. I’ll work my absolute hardest to bring her down and bring the defendant to justice.”

  “I know you will, darling.”

  He doesn’t believe I’ll manage it. I can hear it in his voice. “She’s just been a temporary thorn in our side, darling,” I reassure him. “I’ll handle her once and for all.” I’m going to push for the death penalty, but don’t want to tell him so. I can’t bear for him to say that I should ‘take any wins I can get’ with Ms. Fairweather, even if it means a shoddy plea deal that sees a killer walk out on parole in 5. That’s what he said after the time she cheated and lied and schemed her way into getting not-guilty for a drive-by shooting. She duped the judge and jury with chilling expertise and her big doe eyes. The victim’s parents blasted it all over the media. Brett tried to hide his disappointment in me, but it oozed out of his pores.

  And in blow after blow after blow, first at the public prosecutors, and then with her own firm, she’s decimated my record and knocked my confidence.

  I’m not a Christian per se, but I do believe in its principles. And as such, Liliana Fairweather is an agent of evil. Of course, I’d never say so in the office. It wouldn’t be appropriate. But it’s my firmly-held belief. How can she rejoice in a courtroom with murderers, while the families of victims sob and wail right behind her?

  While everyone has their own character flaws and foibles, the world is still firmly divided into Good People and Bad People. And Liliana Fairweather is, without a doubt, in the latter camp.

  Anyways, enough about her.

  “The case against him is very strong,” I tell my husband as I slide into my Volvo. “The forensics have got him backed into a corner. I’ve no doubt Ms. Fairweather will try to make the jury believe the sky is green, but I’ll hammer home the damning evidence again and again.”

  “You do that, darling,” Brett says.

  He sounds like he’s talking to a toddler who has just told him they’re running for office as soon as they’re done potty training. He never used to speak to me like that.

  “I’ll see you later,” I say. “What time do you think you’ll be home?”

  “I’m not sure,” he says.

  “10? 11?”

  “Something like that.”

  Wonderful. That usually means he’s going to be out until the golf club bar closes. I used to absolutely despise this empty time, but I’ve now come up with ways to make it pass more quickly.

  “Okay. See you later.”

  I drive home, thinking about the case.

  Ms. Fairweather has beaten the lesson into me – no matter how good the forensics are, no matter how much evidence there is against the defendant, I can never make any assumptions.

  She particularly enjoys cases where the defendant looks guilty as sin on the first reading of the evidence. Likely because not-guilty verdicts in these cases pull more press.

  She’s going to pull every trick in the book, some legal, some dubious. I’ve considered reporting her to the Bar Association, but Brett frowns on it. He says it makes us look weak unless we have a totally damning air-tight case, which we don’t. Of course, he’s the final decision maker in the department.

  So instead of reporting her, I turned my sights to beating her. This case will be my chance. I should be able to turn the narrative into the time-worn tale – boyfriend abuses girlfriend, thinks he owns her. She breaks up with him, gets a new boyfriend, he finds out and comes and kills her. Easy for the jury to understand, in story form. Of course, the evidence will back up the story.

  I’ll need to dig into their relationship. Texts, social media, accounts from friends and family. She hasn’t fi
led a report against him before, I checked that already. And, worst luck, he has no priors, not even so much as a darn parking ticket.

  I’ll also need to produce this ‘new boyfriend’. Or, if there’s not enough meat for that, it could just be a guy she flirted with, or someone he saw her with. I’m sure I can work something out.

  I also need to speak to our star witness, Kelly Acaster, the roommate. I need to get her firmed up on what she saw, and she’s the person who will know the most about Georgia Stafford, the victim. I thumbed through the police interview transcripts. As usual, they missed out a lot of pertinent questions.

  I smile as I pull into the driveway, although my stomach twists itself into knots with guilt.

  Lieutenant Detective Matthew Landers’ BMW is out front.

  There would be no reason for my neighbors to think that’s out of place. Everyone knows we’re the DA’s office, and why wouldn’t an Exec ADA be talking to a Lieutenant Detective?

  There’s a lot to talk about.

  But he’s not here to talk.

  I pull up, and he gets out of his car, unable to stop a grin spreading across his face. We give each other a handshake for the benefit of any curtain-twitchers, then I unlock the front door and we both go inside.

  No sooner has the front door closed, he’s pressing himself up against me. “How long do we have this time?” he breathes into my neck, and makes an attempt to pull out my chignon but it’s far too well-pinned.

  We both laugh, and I pull out the pins myself. “At least an hour. But savor it... because this is going to be the last time.” I shake my mouse-brown hair out, and it splays over my shoulders, crinkled by the chignon.

  “You said that last time,” he says, running his hand along the side of my neck. “And the time before.”

  I pull away. “I’m really serious now. It’s not right.”

  “To hell with right. In every other situation, you’re right. Straight as a line. But you have to be human, Lincoln. Life isn’t a performance. It’s an experience.”

  I love the way he talks to me. He sees me, in a way my husband can’t. I can be vulnerable, carefree, wild. I’m not the formidable Exec ADA in the chignon, I’m not the struggling Exec ADA reaching for anxiety meds, I’m not the capable organizer of all life’s admin and responsibilities. I’m just Lincoln, unbuttoned.