hadn’t won any popularity contests then, either, due to my prosecutorial zeal, and it appeared I wasn’t going to now.
Let them look and gossip.
But it wasn’t fair that my own integrity was getting maligned. A crook was a crook, right? So what if the criminal happened to be a fellow attorney? I was the one who had been wronged, not Harold. My only fault was once more having no—that’s nada, zilch, zero—judgment in men.
Absently I watched people fill the room. Why hadn’t I immediately seen through the charisma of my boss and lover to his rotten inner core? It wasn’t as if sex with him should have blinded me; that had been uninspiring and blessedly infrequent.
For whatever reason, I hadn’t suspected anything until I had found Harold’s little black book in between my sofa cushions and, after decoding it, realized it didn’t contain women’s phone numbers but illegal contributions for his campaign fund. I had been faced with only one option: I had gone straight to the federal authorities.
“All rise.” The bailiff adjusted his utility belt around his girth as he struggled to stand.
Tucking away the past, I stood with everyone else and watched the judge march to his bench. For one moment the seal of Florida hanging on the wall framed Judge Winewski’s head like a gold halo…or a crown of thorns some would mutter, given the judge’s use of his power.
Beneath white bushy brows his piercing regard swept the courtroom, a maneuver designed to keep the audience standing a moment longer. At once he honed in on me with a look of condescension and distaste, as if a disgusting bug had crawled into his domain. Even though we had never met in person, I knew he recognized me.
Sometimes bearing the Rochelle trademark looks of honey-blond hair, vivid blue eyes and tall, lithe build was a definite negative. I didn’t need to open the gold filigree locket I wore to realize that I was the spitting feminine version of my grandfather. The family had harped on that unfortunate fact my entire life as if they expected my soul to have been stamped with all his faults, as well, like a generational doppelgänger.
“I never expected to see a Rochelle dare to appear in my chambers again.” Winewski’s legendary sonorous voice boomed to the courtroom’s farthest corners.
What was this? Sweep-out-Katherine-Rochelle’s-dirty-linen-closet day? No doubt the family scandal was about to be rerun.
I straightened my shoulders and managed a cool smile. “Nice to meet you, Judge.”
“We’ll see about that, Ms. Rochelle.” The man who once had bounced my mother on his knee wagged his finger as if I was a recalcitrant child.
“Unlike your grandfather, I run a tight courtroom and tolerate no improprieties.”
His implication was clear. My grandfather had been a crooked judge. The cold flame of injustice replaced the nerves churning in my stomach. I had paid enough for my family’s sins and my own stupid mistakes. No one was going to make me turn tail.
“I don’t intend to commit any.” Keeping my eyes locked on the judge’s as he plopped into his seat, I experienced a small victory. The judge looked away first.
“Call the first case,” he ordered.
Everyone sat and the court fell into a rhythm of defendants and their lawyers presenting their cases.
I flipped opened the client’s folder and studied the charging affidavit. Simone Jean-Charles. A thirty-year-old Haitian immigrant with four children to support on her housekeeping earnings. The divorce settlement obligated her ex-husband to pay the car-insurance premiums for one year. Of course, he hadn’t and when Simone had been stopped for a busted taillight six months ago, she’d been ticketed for expired insurance. Then the ex had promised to take care of the ticket. Of course, he hadn’t and her license had been suspended.
Simone’s bad luck continued when she had been stopped by an Officer Pitt because her car resembled one involved in a jewelry store robbery. He had checked her license and charged her for driving with a suspended license. A misdemeanor but my client needed to drive to keep her job. Although I was working on straightening out the insurance mess, a conviction on the latest charge could be economically devastating.
I glanced at the police report and compared the entry to the arresting affidavit. I smiled. Glancing up, I spotted Simone entering the room. I gathered my briefcase, rose and crossed to the center aisle, preparing to take my place by her side when her name was called.
The current on-deck attorney was pleading his case. Judge Winewski rapped his gavel. “Denied. This man’s driving license is suspended.” The attorney shrugged and turned to his client.
“You can’t do this!” his client yelled. “I’ll lose my job.”
His counsel tried to calm him, but the man cursed a blue streak, drew back his arm and landed a direct blow to the attorney’s nose. Blood spurted as the lawyer fell backward.
“Bailiff,” the judge called out, but the guard, sitting in a chair too tight for his girth, could barely lumber to his feet.
As if on cue, everyone raced for the exits, including the judge.
Self-preservation warred with the ingrained Rochelle family code of conduct, but since the wounded lawyer kept yelling at the top of his lungs, I knelt beside the attorney trying to silence him.
Mistake. Berserko’s fingers gouged my shoulder. He locked his arm tight around my neck, dragging me to my feet. Not an easy task as I’m five-eight and had four-inch heels on.
“We’re going out that door, girlie.” Berserko’s breath stank of booze, garlic and desperation.
No, we weren’t. He had picked the wrong woman on the wrong day. I faked a stumble, twisted and whacked him over the head with my briefcase.
Berserko shrieked in pain but he wasn’t down.
Yet.
I spun and jammed my Jimmy Choo stiletto heel into the man’s groin. White-faced, the man dropped like a stone to the floor, writhing in agony.
“Would someone like to arrest this man?” I called out. “I’d like to get on with my hearing.”
The judge’s door cracked open. The bailiff scrambled up and rushed over to cuff the prisoner. Winewski ventured out, his incredulous gaze darting from the prisoner to me.
I tugged the corners of my fitted jacket. “Judge, I believe next on your docket is the case of the State versus Simone Jean-Charles. If the Assistant State Attorney can be located…” I lifted a brow.
“Feinstein, get in here!” the judge bellowed.
The hall door creaked and moments later Leo stood behind the opposite table, but he kept casting a nervous glance at Berserko being escorted outside.
“Mr. Feinstein, if you can quit worrying about your hide and focus on the matter of Simone Jean-Charles, we might finish before lunch.”
“Judge, I have an ore tenus motion to suppress,” I said.
“The excitement going to your head, Ms. Rochelle?”
“No,
