Winston Patrick Mystery 2-Book Bundle. David Russell W.
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smiled again at me in mock embarrassment, “are you flirting with me?”
“Would that be a good idea?” I smiled back coyly. At least, I was trying to be coy.
“Gosh,” she adopted a southern belle persona. “Why I’m old enough to be your mother.”
“No one would believe it for a moment. If anything, they’d accuse me of being your sugar-daddy.”
“Jesus Christ,” Furlo blurted out, “are you two finished fucking around here? I wouldn’t mind dumping the perv over there and going home. Some of us haven’t slept in a long time.”
“Well, at least you haven’t tired yourself out actually gathering sufficient evidence,” I retorted. It was embarrassing how quickly my resolve not to fight with Furlo had fizzled.
Furlo put his Styrofoam coffee cup down on a nearby table and walked towards me, slowly, menacingly. His lack of sleep and abundance of caffeine had heightened his already aggressive personality to the near breaking point. I wasn’t helping. Rationally, I recognized his approach for what it likely was: Furlo was drawing a line in the sand to see whether or not I would flinch. This was a good time to be the bigger man—at least in terms of maturity—and apologize for my snide comments and walk away. Secretly, I was starting to enjoy how quickly I could get under Furlo’s skin.
“Don’t kid yourself,” he hissed, pushing his considerably wide frame into my personal space. “This is the worst type of crime. No one wants to see a kid—a kid—murdered. But when you have a kid who was being abused by her teacher, a man who should have been a person she could turn to for help, someone she could trust, and he not only takes advantage of her so he can get his own rocks off, then whacks her when she’s no longer interesting to him or she threatens to expose him for the pig that he is, you can bet your ass that I’m going to work around the clock and do everything I can to put your piece of shit client in the shit can for as long as our pathetic Criminal Code will let me. Your client is the worst kind of asshole we deal with. And as a parent of a daughter especially, he makes me sick. So don’t you worry, Winnie, we have and will continue to gather all the evidence we need.”
He paused a moment to breathe his stale coffee breath directly into my nostrils. I felt like I was getting CPR at a Starbucks. Then he continued. “You’re in the big leagues now, teacher-boy. No more little Legal Aid penny-ante stuff. You’re just feeling like such a shit because you recognize what a lowlife you’re defending.”
Two choices again. Walk away. Or. I cocked my head slightly to the right. “Did you pick that up reading pop psychology books when you were supposed to be catching the real killer?”
My chest pounded as Furlo’s hand pushed me back against the wall behind me. “You listen to me, you little fuck . . .”
“Michael!” Smythe burst sharply, suddenly reminding us of her quiet presence throughout the exchange. “Step back, now!” she commanded. Amazingly, Furlo did exactly as he was told. It was as though acting tough with me was perfectly acceptable, but crossing his partner was not something that would even enter his mind. Immediately, he backed away, turned around and crossed the room, picking up his coffee cup and walking back towards Carl and the sheriff’s employee, who were watching the exchange in wide-eyed wonder.
Smythe turned her sharp glare to me, softening it ever so little. “Why?” was all she asked, with a deep sigh.
“I don’t know. I can’t help myself?” I tried.
She gave me a caring look. “He’s right, though, Winston. This is going to be a big, ugly case. From the point of view of your teaching career, which I respect greatly, by the way, think carefully about whether you want to continue representing your client. This might be a good juncture at which to pass this off to other counsel.”
“I can’t do that,” I replied. “That would not be right.”
Detective Smythe took my right hand in both of hers. “I know,” she said. “I thought I would try. Let’s try to be good, okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “Scout’s honour.”
“Good,” she said, releasing my hand and picking up her purse. “Goodnight, Winston.”
“Goodnight, Jasmine.” Then, because Jasmine had such a disarming way about her, I called across the room to her partner. “Goodnight, Detective Furlo. I apologize for upsetting you.” It was the best I could offer.
“Whatever,” he grumbled, not bothering to counter with an apology of his own for tossing me against the wall. He turned to leave, then paused and walked back over to me. I prepared for a firm handshake. Instead, he stopped to stare me down again. “One more thing. Stop flirting with my partner. You do it again, I’m going to give her husband your home address. That’s former B.C. Lions defensive tackle Warren Smythe, in case you’ve forgotten.” With that he turned and left, accurately tossing his coffee cup into the waste basket from a distance of nearly twenty feet. Impressive.
Catching my breath for a moment, I turned and walked over to where Carl was removing his belt and emptying his pockets. He watched me carefully as I sauntered over, trying to gauge my impression of the state of his situation.
“Jeez, Win,” Carl began shakily. “He seemed really pissed off at you.”
“Yeah,” I admitted a little sheepishly. “I have that ability to alienate people. My ex-wife would confirm that for you,” I added, trying to inject some much needed levity into the room. As is often the case, I recognized immediately my timing was ill-placed. Looking at Carl, I could see that the gravity of his situation had sunk in, and he looked more terrified than I had seen him to date.
“Look,” I continued gamely, “don’t worry about my relationship with the police. He’s pretty much not our concern any more. It is not at all uncommon for the police not to get along with defence lawyers. Cops like Furlo, if they had their way, would shoot first and ask questions later.” Of course that was an unfair characterization of Furlo. He was going to extraordinary lengths to ensure he had a rocksolid case against Carl. There was no way he wanted to see this case fail due to some minor procedural flaw. He was going to be doing this one by the book, but Carl didn’t need to hear that right now.
“Okay,” he said, a little dejectedly. He raised his lowered head to meet my eyes, like a beaten puppy, looking to his master for some kind of explanation for the torment he was going through. I wished I could tell him that everything would be fine, but I didn’t feel right making that assurance until I had more information to work with.
“Did you want to go into one of the conference rooms?” the helpful young sheriff’s officer asked. He looked about nineteen, much too young to have actually completed the Justice Institute training course now required for virtually all courthouse positions.
“Thank you,” I told him. “We’ll just take a few minutes.”
“That’s all right,” he replied. “Believe it or not, it’s actually a slow night.” He was right. For a Friday night, I would have expected to see all manner of minor arrests coming through central processing around this time. Thus far, we had been entirely alone.
The sheriff took us down yet another narrow hallway and ushered us through a plain door into a small room, holding only a cheap, standard, government-issue table with three stacking chairs around it. I pointed to a chair. As he lowered himself wearily into a chair, the sheriff closed the door and left us alone, though I knew he would be standing immediately outside the door. His guardianship in the hallway was pretty much a formality. The door could not be opened from the inside without a special key device inserted into a latch key slot where the doorknob would normally be.
After a silent time, during which I tried to think of comforting words for my client, Carl finally asked, “Is this it? Am I going to jail, Win?”
“Yes. You are. In a manner of speaking.”
“What manner of speaking? What does that mean?”
I