Open the Door

1 Nora Dockson

1 Nora DocksonNora nudged the Jeep Grand Cherokee up to the curb, her rear wheels five inches from the glossy yellow no-parking zone.

An oversize plastic candy cane dangled from the signpost in front of her. Below the cane’s festive stripes, a white metal sign spelled out in clear black letters that the two-hour parking limit didn’t apply on holidays.

She grunted happily. Local meter maids couldn’t mess with her.

She was one hundred percent legal.

She was also the only driver on the broad avenue.

She and the lawyer she was meeting must be the only people in Sweet Home, Washington, who had to work on the Monday holiday after Christmas.

She turned off the ignition and let the morning quiet soothe her nerves.

Pale blue sky arching overhead made a nice contrast to the winter-brown grass stubble filling the strip between the curb and the concrete city sidewalk. Sunlight glinted off the frost-coated stems.

She fumbled for the sleeve of her red parka and dragged it from the passenger seat across the console vault. She’d borrowed the Jeep from her lover.

Washington State Trooper Kent Harper kept his service weapon handy when he was off-duty. If Kent had driven her here, he’d have locked his Smith & Wesson Military and Police semi-automatic pistol in the vault.

But she’d left him and his pistol an hour away at his parents’ wheat farm. The Harper family would still be celebrating Christmas.

She’d face her adversary alone and unarmed.

She imagined herself waving a gun at Attorney Frederick G. Rogers and chuckled.

Her brain had dressed him in a zip-front cardigan, white shirt, and tie because that’s what he’d worn to their two previous encounters—the first at a cemetery, the second at his office.

Fred’s interference at the cemetery had forced her to take legal action.

Pissed, she’d wanted only to serve him with the necessary papers and split from his town. She hadn’t registered how attractive his place of business was.

Slipping the parka on over her denim jeans and turquoise turtleneck, she studied the residential property that had been converted to a law office.

Beyond the sidewalk, a waist-high iron fence with spear-point pickets protected a withered lawn. The gate stood open.

A brick pathway beckoned her toward broad wooden stairs. They led up to the verandah wrapping around the sage-green two-and-a-half-story house.

The stair and porch railings were painted a gleaming white. They matched the trim around the windows and along the eaves.

She spotted a wreath of pine boughs threaded with red ribbon gracing the dark green front door.

She loved old Victorians and this one was a gem.

She liked how a windowed turret rose from one corner. The gray-shingled roof above it was shaped like a dunce cap.

She squinted, trying to see if Rapunzel was peering back at her from the tower cell in Rogers’s castle.

Snickering, she pushed the heavy SUV door open. She had enough real inmates begging her for help. She didn’t need to imagine more.

When Rogers had phoned on Friday to discuss a referral, she’d told him she had a full caseload. She wasn’t accepting new clients.

Rogers had recommended she hear all the facts before declining. He was certain the case would intrigue her.

However, he preferred to give her the details in person. He was willing to come to Spokane to do that. What time next week could she fit him in?

She could’ve told him not to make the trip. The cases she had lined up would keep her working fifty hours a week for the next year.

But instead of shutting him down, she volunteered that she’d be celebrating Christmas in Central Washington. Since she’d practically be in his neighborhood, she was happy to drop by his office this Monday and listen to what he had to say.

She didn’t add that he’d have to talk fast. She had tastier events on today’s agenda.

Hopping out of the high-riding Jeep, she hurried to the sidewalk and stretched her arms above her head. She hadn’t worn a cap over her ginger curls and the cold air made her scalp tingle.

Or maybe old memories were zapping her.

She’d first come to Sweet Home when she was in law school, working as a summer intern at Spokane’s Legal Resource Center.

The Center coordinator had sent her here to do the leg work for a death row appeal that had been dragging on for two decades.

She’d spent six weeks checking every fact introduced at two earlier trials. What she found convinced her that the elderly victim had not been raped and murdered by their client.

When she earned her law degree, she took charge of his appeal. And ran head-first into the Law Beast.

She’d given that code name to Marianne Freemantle, the lead attorney in the Washington attorney general’s capital litigation unit.

Marianne Freemantle handled appeals by convicted felons sentenced to death or life imprisonment. A die-hard supporter of capital punishment, she fought ferociously to maintain those convictions and sentences.

Of course, Freemantle had opposed Nora’s appeal on behalf of her Sweet Home client, using tactics that outraged her.

Nora couldn’t speak the woman’s name without cursing. She’d invented the nickname so she wouldn’t accidentally unleash a string of profanity at the wrong moment.

Thinking about Freemantle pissed her off all over again.

Right here in Sweet Home, the Law Beast had recruited her hometown law buddy, Attorney Frederick G. Rogers, to throw an obstacle in Nora’s path.

In the end, Nora outmaneuvered them and freed her innocent client from death row.

Still, her gut reminded her that this had once been a hostile environment.

And the Law Beast was a sore loser.

From the beginning, she’d had no respect for Nora.

By the end, Marianne Freemantle hated her.

Rogers was probably still buddies with the Law Beast.

So why would Rogers refer a case to her, a lawyer that the Law Beast despised?

Something fishy might be going on.

The leather soles on Nora’s brown loafers clicked on the pavement as she passed through the gate.

She didn’t care that Rogers might have evil intentions. She wasn’t going to accept the referral.

She’d set the meeting only because his call had given her a polite way to avoid an overdose of foreign Christmas cheer.

Last Christmas—and the fifteen before it—she’d spent the holiday with her grandmother. They had their own traditions. But those had died with Grandma ten months ago.

This year, Kent had invited her to celebrate with his family—two parents, two siblings plus spouses, five nieces and nephews.

She’d agreed to accompany him to the farm on one condition. She’d come only for two nights.

She missed her grandmother. She didn’t want to be the sad sack who spoiled the long holiday for everyone else.

Originally, she’d planned to arrive in her old Buick and make her getaway early this morning.

The excuse she gave Kent’s family was that the judge had ordered a new trial in her current case. Jury selection would start on Wednesday and she had to prepare.

In the middle of last week, her cover story disintegrated. The prosecution appealed the judge’s ruling. Her case was on hold and she had no reason to leave the party early.

When Rogers called, she’d seized the opportunity to schedule a side trip to his office.

She skipped up the porch steps, eager to get the meeting over with so she could enjoy her break from Harper-style eating.

Her face scrunched up as she recalled their traditional turkey stuffing. Strange rubbery black bits dotted the bread cubes. She hadn’t liked the taste or the texture.

Kent loved his mom’s oyster stuffing. He’d raved about the huge sandwich he’d construct from the leftovers.

With luck, the family would eat it all for lunch.

While she revisited her favorite Sweet Home eatery and pampered herself with an oyster-free meal.

She eyed the front door. The brass plaque beside it read, Rogers, Matheson, and Woodward, Attorneys at Law.

She breathed in the piney scent from the Christmas wreath, reached for the knob, and opened the door. The air in the spacious foyer was toasty warm and smelled of fresh coffee.

In front of her, a golden-oak staircase with a red carpet up the center climbed to the upper floor.

“Come on up,” a male voice invited.