brother’s shoulder, as their mother led them out, flanked by the rest of the club.
Her eyes swept the emptying room and settled for a moment on those of the prosecuting attorney, Dan Harmon, who sneered. Damn, she thought. She hastily gathered up her papers and started to leave, but he caught her before she could exit the courtroom.
He smelled like he’d bathed in Aqua Velvet. He wore an obviously expensive suit—chosen because it was obviously expensive. His tie was a garish collage of aggressive colors that made her want to wince. He was one of those Ivy League types, born into privilege without ever having to fight for it. Angie’s blue collar roots balked at the sight of him.
“Good work today,” he said. She knew better than to trust his sincerity and waited for him to finish his thoughts. “You let a criminal walk free. Well done.”
“Maybe if you’d done a better job making a case against him, you could’ve shown that. However, your case was weak, and your evidence was weak. Maybe that’s because he didn’t do it.”
His eyes flashed. “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said. He leaned in so that the cologne smell was overpowering. “Everybody knows you’ve developed a close relationship with your client.”
Angie’s jaw dropped open—which only made Dan smile.
“Nice outfit,” he added. “You know, Judge Murphy is a leg man.”
She couldn’t help but look down at her skirt. It ended just at the knees, showing off her calves.
Dan put his finger to his cheek with a mock-thoughtful look. “I wonder if that had any influence on his decision.” His forced smile turned into an expression of feigned surprise, like that of a baby who’d just knocked over his bottle. “You have a good day.” She watched him walk out, as she stood there, quivering with rage in the emptying courtroom.
***
The bar was well-lit and not at all smoky. In fact, it was clean and cozy. Music played in the background, but not too loudly. Angie loved the idea of a romantic, smoky bar, but the reality was too unpleasant for real life. She hopped on a cushioned stool and ordered a shot of whiskey.
She slapped her cigarettes and lighter down on the bar, telling herself she was just carrying them to test her will. She threw back her drink and slammed the empty shot glass back onto the wood. She couldn’t stop thinking about what that asshole Dan had said.
The TV over the bar was on, and she watched it, trying to distract herself. The news came on, and she saw a picture of Rich. Someone yelled at the bartender to turn up the volume, but she still couldn’t really make out what was being said—though the pictures told enough of the story. It cut from a picture of him, grinning on his bike, to the garage, to an interview with the arresting officer. Then, just to hammer it home, it cut to a man-on-the-street interview with a local busybody in front of the garage, shaking her head a lot and looking over her shoulder in fear at the building. Angie was sure she was saying something along the lines of, Think of the children . Next, it cut to a shot of her leaving the courthouse a few hours ago—in the exact outfit she still wore.
“Shit,” Angie said.
The shot went back to the street in front of the garage. The busybody was gone, and the screen was now shared by the picture of Rich and the reporter soapboxing about diminishing community values or something of the sort.
There were cheers from deeper in the bar, but Angie was afraid to even look around, lest someone throw blood on her. She rubbed her eyes and dug a cigarette out and put it in her lips, clicked the lighter and was raising it to the white tube when the bartender knocked on the wood in front of her.
“No smoking, ma’am,” he said.
She held the flame almost to the cigarette for a moment, stunned more over what she’d seen on TV than this.
The annoyance grew on the
Her eyes swept the emptying room and settled for a moment on those of the prosecuting attorney, Dan Harmon, who sneered. Damn, she thought. She hastily gathered up her papers and started to leave, but he caught her before she could exit the courtroom.
He smelled like he’d bathed in Aqua Velvet. He wore an obviously expensive suit—chosen because it was obviously expensive. His tie was a garish collage of aggressive colors that made her want to wince. He was one of those Ivy League types, born into privilege without ever having to fight for it. Angie’s blue collar roots balked at the sight of him.
“Good work today,” he said. She knew better than to trust his sincerity and waited for him to finish his thoughts. “You let a criminal walk free. Well done.”
“Maybe if you’d done a better job making a case against him, you could’ve shown that. However, your case was weak, and your evidence was weak. Maybe that’s because he didn’t do it.”
His eyes flashed. “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said. He leaned in so that the cologne smell was overpowering. “Everybody knows you’ve developed a close relationship with your client.”
Angie’s jaw dropped open—which only made Dan smile.
“Nice outfit,” he added. “You know, Judge Murphy is a leg man.”
She couldn’t help but look down at her skirt. It ended just at the knees, showing off her calves.
Dan put his finger to his cheek with a mock-thoughtful look. “I wonder if that had any influence on his decision.” His forced smile turned into an expression of feigned surprise, like that of a baby who’d just knocked over his bottle. “You have a good day.” She watched him walk out, as she stood there, quivering with rage in the emptying courtroom.
***
The bar was well-lit and not at all smoky. In fact, it was clean and cozy. Music played in the background, but not too loudly. Angie loved the idea of a romantic, smoky bar, but the reality was too unpleasant for real life. She hopped on a cushioned stool and ordered a shot of whiskey.
She slapped her cigarettes and lighter down on the bar, telling herself she was just carrying them to test her will. She threw back her drink and slammed the empty shot glass back onto the wood. She couldn’t stop thinking about what that asshole Dan had said.
The TV over the bar was on, and she watched it, trying to distract herself. The news came on, and she saw a picture of Rich. Someone yelled at the bartender to turn up the volume, but she still couldn’t really make out what was being said—though the pictures told enough of the story. It cut from a picture of him, grinning on his bike, to the garage, to an interview with the arresting officer. Then, just to hammer it home, it cut to a man-on-the-street interview with a local busybody in front of the garage, shaking her head a lot and looking over her shoulder in fear at the building. Angie was sure she was saying something along the lines of, Think of the children . Next, it cut to a shot of her leaving the courthouse a few hours ago—in the exact outfit she still wore.
“Shit,” Angie said.
The shot went back to the street in front of the garage. The busybody was gone, and the screen was now shared by the picture of Rich and the reporter soapboxing about diminishing community values or something of the sort.
There were cheers from deeper in the bar, but Angie was afraid to even look around, lest someone throw blood on her. She rubbed her eyes and dug a cigarette out and put it in her lips, clicked the lighter and was raising it to the white tube when the bartender knocked on the wood in front of her.
“No smoking, ma’am,” he said.
She held the flame almost to the cigarette for a moment, stunned more over what she’d seen on TV than this.
The annoyance grew on the
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