Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
“You’re going to move to dismiss, aren’t you?”
“What would you do, counselor?”
“Move to dismiss, but there’s pressure on the judge and cameras on the court. It will be declined. But I’d then quickly establish another suspect, point out that the lack of evidence just as easily points to that person, and then move to dismiss again and quickly.”
“Why aren’t you practicing?”
“I never wanted to practice. It was just what was expected.”
He studies me for several intense beats. “I have to get back to court, but I’ll call you for coffee and that kiss, sooner rather than later. For now.” He picks up my hand and kisses it. “I’ll settle for that.”
He stands up and leaves.
Hours later in court, the prosecution rests. There is a quick-held breath as everyone waits to hear what the defense will do next. Will they move to dismiss? And, of course, he does. But the judge declines his request. The court is adjourned, and it’s not long before there’s a press conference outside, put on by the prosecutor while the defense stays in hiding, most likely preparing for tomorrow.
I stand on the sidelines and listen to what amounts to more of the courtroom conversations. Hours of the blown-up nonsense, and I’m sad for one reason. Right now, there will be no justice for a dead woman and her unborn child.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in my favorite coffee shop, at my corner table, heading to the bar to collect my order. It’s then that I notice the prosecutor, a tall, lanky man in a basic blue suit and tie, sitting alone at a table and working on his MacBook. Seeing an opportunity, I walk up to his table.
He glances up at me. “Cat from Cat Does Crime,” he says. “I was a fan until you dogged my performance. I read your true crime on the Piaz murders. It was good, but I’ll write my own book on this. Move along. I’m busy.”
Okay.
Reese just lost his title. He’s no longer Mr. Arrogant Asshole. This guy stole it from him.
I walk back to my seat, sit down, and spend the next hour working on my column. My closing statement is this: When you charge a suspect without proof to satisfy the public, you disappoint that very public when you can’t deliver a conviction. But it’s not just the public you fail. It’s the charge when you have proof, and not sooner. And so, I’m going to challenge the defense to do more than protect their client. Give us the killer. Give that woman and child, and their family, justice. Until then, —Cat.
I look up to realize that some time along the way, the new Mr. Arrogant Asshole has left, and I grab my phone and dial Reese. His voice mail picks up and I leave a message.
“Hopefully that hotdog didn’t kill you and you get this message. Here is my closing statement, which I’m not changing, but I want you to know about it.” I read it to his voice mail and then add, “Good night, Reese.” I end the call and pack up, heading back to my apartment.
As I enter the building, I stare at the fancy tiled floors and glance up at the towering ceiling. I inherited my apartment when my mother died. It had been her getaway. Her escape from my father, and he knew about it. I was unsure what to do with that little piece of information when I found out about it, but I tucked it away and pretended it didn’t exist. Or I thought I did. Now, tonight, something about that encounter with Reese has stirred old feelings I don’t want to feel, back to life. I don’t even know what to call the feelings. Betrayal. I’d felt betrayed when I realized nothing about my life was exactly what I’d thought it to be. My parents were not happy.
And so I do what I do when I feel lost. I enter my luxury apartment, pour wine, and find my way to my favorite spot. A claw-foot tub hugged by windows, the moon and stars sparkling outside the window. I waste no time running a hot bubble bath, stripping down, and climbing inside. I’m halfway finished with my glass of wine when my phone rings. I glance at the number I now know to be Reese’s and, with wet, bubble-covered hands, answer on speaker.
“Hello, Reese,” I say.
“I’m going to tell you what I told Lauren, when I told her I was going to pursue you.”
“You told Lauren that you were—”
“Yes. I did. And she wished me luck. To which I replied: Challenge accepted. Which brings me to your closing statement: Challenge accepted, Cat. Good night.”
He hangs up.
I sit up and forget how wet I am, calling Lauren. “I wondered when you were going to call,” she says.