7 Channing PalmerWednesday noon, Channing hurried along city sidewalks to the historic Spokane County Courthouse. She had to talk with Quinn Isaacs face to face. He’d been tied up since Monday, arguing a case. He’d texted her when the judge called a thirty-minute lunch recess.
She found him under the maples shading the turreted building’s neon-green spring grass. Dressed in his go-to-court suit, black hair pulled into a ponytail, the ends tucked beneath his jacket.
Quinn had managed to claim one of the few picnic tables scattered across the courthouse’s front lawn.
The sandwich wrapper crumpled on the table in front of him told her he’d polished off a take-out lunch. He sucked up the last of his soda, rattling ice cubes with his straw.
Channing grabbed his napkin and wiped birdshit off
