Judge Me Not

3 Nora

3 NoraNora puffed out a sigh of relief. The six-block hike back from downtown to the blocky two-story building housing Spokane’s Legal Resource Center had taken too long.

She shoved open the metal front door and aimed herself at the exit in the rear wall. Her sneaker soles slapped on vinyl as she charged across the ground floor lobby.

After an hour talking numbers with Mindy, she craved nicotine.

The stale indoor air smelled of floor polish with a top note of cement from the concrete block walls.

Bursting out into the Center’s backyard, she headed for the cement slab that she treated as her personal smoking patio.

Lighting up, she paced to the patch of shaggy grass at the edge of the slab and stared at the six-foot-high buckthorn hedge forming the rear boundary of the yard.

A few tiny white star-shaped flowers peeked out from between glossy leaves.

Her heart lifted. Spring was her favorite season. Everything all fresh and shiny.

She glanced to her left. That shrub had leafed out, forming a bulky green mound. A few more hot days like this one and flowers would bloom on it, too.

She took a drag on her smoke and turned to face the weathered wood-slat bench at the center of the slab.

At the bench’s far end, blue and yellow primroses flourished in a clay pot. Brightly colored like her T-shirt. It smelled like tomato sauce. The primroses had no scent at all.

The matching pot at the near end was filled with sand. It sported only long-dead butts.

Less attractive but more functional. The odors of old and new tobacco were lost in the springtime smells of loam and new grass stems.

The building’s exit door swung open and the lawyer who coordinated Center activities emerged.

Quinn Isaacs was also prepping for court this Sunday afternoon. Like her, he had a Monday morning appearance.

Working harder than she was because he’d actually make legal arguments tomorrow.

Today, he’d topped his black jeans with an olive green long-sleeve T-shirt.

“I thought I heard you come in,” Quinn called to Nora.

“Channing’s on her way over for a quick conference,” he added. “Wanted to catch us before we disappear into courtrooms tomorrow. I told her to look for us outside.”

Nora pointed her smoke at the bench. “Pull up a chair.”

Settling on the bench, Quinn tilted his face toward the sun.

His eyes went shut as if he was speed-sucking in rays.

She stepped back to the slab and positioned herself to study him.

The silver spikes in his dark-brown buzz cut glinted in the sunshine. A month ago, he’d trimmed his shoulder-length hair to inch-long. He’d needed help to finish the job. She’d referred him to Winnie. Her ex-cellie had gone to beauty school in prison and worked for a top Spokane salon.

Quinn’s trademark go-to-court ponytail had been the last visible reminder of his free-spirited youth.

Nora figured Quinn had abandoned it because the yanked-back style revealed how far his hairline had receded.

No forty-three-year-old man wants to announce so baldly he’s losing his hair.

Tickled by her accidental word play, she chuckled.

Quinn’s eyes popped open. He raised his arms and rubbed the heels of his hands over the shorter hairs in the fade that began halfway down the sides of his head.

Nora narrowed her eyes and pretended to assess his changed appearance.

“You look as dangerous as a cage fighter,” she concluded. “You’ll scare the pants off the prosecution tomorrow.”

“I wish,” Quinn retorted. “You’re the scary one. The US Department of Justice won’t face you in court.”

Two-and-a-half years had passed since she’d shown up in federal court wearing her all-green outfit and won a new trial for her convicted client.

The Department of Justice prosecutors had spent those thirty months exhausting their appeal options.

With the trial set to start tomorrow, DOJ had thrown in the towel and offered her client an acceptable plea bargain.

In the morning, instead of selecting a jury, she’d watch as the judge unsealed the agreement reached last Wednesday.

Quinn was right.

The federal prosecutors were afraid they’d lose to her in court.

She patted her curls.

“Maybe you should color your hair to match mine,” she said to Quinn. “We redheads are frightening.”

He shook his head. “What’s frightening is the case you built while DOJ was appealing.”

She shrugged. “They gave me a ton of time to check the facts.”

“Your entire defense was laid out in the interview transcripts,” Quinn said. “DOJ realized no jury would find your client guilty of murder. They had to deal.”

He paused and his expression darkened. “Let’s hope riots don’t break out again.”

Nora shuddered. “I’m glad I’m done hanging out in Parma.”

From behind her, the exit door squeaked.

“Parma?” a female voice repeated. “Did I hear someone say she can’t wait to take on a juicy new case in Parma?”

Turning, Nora watched her friend and fellow attorney Channing Palmer step onto the slab.

A tall woman with pixie-cut blonde hair, Channing wore jeans leggings and a teal cotton T-shirt in the same style as Nora’s.

Cleaner though.

Channing’s twin daughters were two-and-a-half. Once again, everything Channing wore in public was spotless and wrinkle-free.

Today, her tote bag blended natural linen with white pebble leather and sported a fancy capital A on one side. Her open-toed espadrilles echoed the color choices.

Nora bet a capital A was hidden somewhere on the sandals, too.

Trying to downplay her Ivy League background, Channing had adopted a more casual Pacific Northwest look, but she couldn’t part with her designer accessories.

Nora rested the palm of one hand on her T-shirt hem, covering the tomato-sauce stain as if she was girding her loins for battle.

“You tricked me,” she accused Channing. “The word Parma was not on the potential client sheet you handed me.”

“You practically lived down there for the past two years.” Channing widened her eyes. “I was sure you were aware that Taft was in the same county. Only a few miles outside Parma city limits.”

“You liar. You knew the only part of the crime location I’d register were the last three words. Mobile Home Park. Trailer burned to the ground. I have to see those crime scene photos.”

Quinn’s face lit up like his lottery ticket was going to pay off.

Nora knew what that smug smile meant.

He and Channing had a side bet going and he’d won.

Channing pulled a five-dollar bill from her designer bag, pinched it between a thumb and forefinger, and extended her arm toward Quinn.

He pocketed the bill. “I told you she’d pick the trailer park mom.”