Hear My Plea

1

1 Nora DocksonNora Dockson pressed her ear against the polished walnut door and picked up the faint drone of a male voice. Court was still in session. Good.

Relief gave way to annoyance and she stepped back, tapping her pump on the marble floor, rubbing her earlobe, glaring at the NO SMOKING sign posted on the beige wall.

She could have stolen five minutes outside on the sun-drenched lawn. But no, she’d rushed indoors without her nicotine hit. Instead of smoke, she was inhaling the scents of nervous perspiration and men’s cologne.

Odors left behind by this morning’s parade of people through the wooden doors lining the broad hallway. Lifting her arms above her head to stretch the tightness out of her back muscles, she got a whiff of herself.

She dropped her hands and chortled. She smelled more like a sweaty defendant than a hard-charging lawyer.

She’d spent a tense morning in an out-of-town court before racing home to Spokane. Her antiperspirant had failed the challenge.

Like she cared that she was a little ripe. She’d won!

As soon as the door in front of her opened, she’d sail over the threshold on a wave of victorious glee and lay out her latest brainwave for Quinn Isaacs.

She hadn’t been able to call him with her news. The Legal Resource Center coordinator was fighting his own battle on the other side of that door and he’d turned off his phone.

So, she’d skipped lunch and driven straight home. Munching on smoked almonds, she’d pushed her aging Buick ten miles-per-hour over the speed limit and covered the distance in one hundred and twenty minutes, a personal best. Intent on catching Quinn during the recess, she hadn’t lit up in the car. The salted-nut flavor lingered in her mouth—pleasant, but no substitute for tobacco.

She’d bask in Quinn’s praise soon enough. Get his take on the idea that had popped into her head while she was driving home. Hurry outdoors and suck in that celebratory smoke.

She ran a hand over her hair, smoothing carrot-colored curls. Her fingertips came away damp. Man, it was hot, with only the courthouse roof between her and a cloudless September sky. Adjusting her shoulder bag, she unbuttoned her light wool jacket, felt its silky lining slide down her elbows and wrists. Folding it over her arm, she stroked the smooth fabric.

The jacket’s suiting material and the matching sleeveless sheath beneath it were the same coal-black shade as a judge’s robe. Her flaming hair was enough color in the courtroom.

The outfit was new, down to her black shoes with the one-and-three-quarter inch heels.

Last spring when she’d been up before the same judge, she’d worn her pinstriped power suit. His Honor had grudgingly granted her motion. She’d wanted to look more formidable this time.

She wasn’t superstitious like Quinn. He stuck with whatever he’d had on when he got a favorable ruling. Over the last six months, he’d worn holes in the heels of all his lucky socks. She bet he was wearing them today.

She’d broken his personal rule and fortune had smiled on her anyway. The judge had beamed at her, too, a nice change. At their earlier encounter, he’d first-named the prosecuting attorney and stiffly called her “Ms. Dockson”, drawing out the first “s” like a string of zees. But on this return visit, she’d been “Nora” all the way through. As if she’d proven herself.

This Wednesday morning, she’d enjoyed herself in his courtroom.

She heard a gavel strike the sounding block, the blow so forceful the noise penetrated the thick door.

Her body jerked and her mouth filled with sour fluid. The same reaction she’d had fifteen years ago when she’d first heard a gavel bang down and discovered that lives are ruined in courtrooms.

She’d learned that a life could also be saved in one, but her gut hadn’t yet accepted the lesson. Swallowing bile, she leaned toward the door.

Muffled noises told her that people were rising to their feet. A minute later, the door swung open. She stepped aside to make way for the handful of men and women exiting. She recognized four of them, regular occupants of the spectator seats.

Bringing up the rear was the Spokane deputy prosecutor, a friendly guy whose shaggy hair needed trimming. Dressed in a rumpled suit, he grinned and raised a hand in greeting. She tossed him a wave in reply.

She paused in the doorway to take in the square, windowless room before her. It had been carved from the original majestic space, carpeted and “modernized” to meet current needs. One of the smaller rooms used by the Superior Court, it was reserved primarily for hearings. Fluorescent fixtures embedded in the lowered ceiling cast wintry light on the pale gray carpeting.

Goose bumps erupted on her arms and she felt a sudden chill.

Why?

She studied the room for an answer.

Facing her, an elevated extra-large desk enclosed by blond wood-veneer panels was centered in the back wall. It served as the official bench and the empty black leather swivel chair behind it was probably still warm from the judicial ass.

Two smaller desks with the same mock-oak veneer sat below it. Both were unmanned. The court clerk and reporter must have exited with the judge through the door in the back wall that led to his chambers.

An image of those chambers formed in her mind and she understood her body’s fearful reaction. In this courtroom last winter, the attorney handling the prosecution case on appeal had called Nora an habitual liar and moved to impeach her.

The ugly spin on her up-from-the-gutter life had been scathing. She’d thought her law career would tank.

But the presiding judge had called everyone into his sun-lit chambers and derailed the motion.

She lifted her chin and tried to revive her spirits. She’d had a string of successful appeals. Nobody was attacking her character now.

Her gaze moved to the two wood counsel tables at the room’s midpoint. Quinn sat at one. Head bent, he was scribbling on a yellow legal pad. He’d tied his dark hair into a ponytail and tucked it under his blue suit jacket. She could see the lump of hair resting between his shoulder blades.

Her chunky heels made no dents in the carpet as she stepped past the two rows of ordinary benches provided for spectators. A balustrade separated them from the rest of the courtroom. She went through the opening and claimed the wheeled office chair beside Quinn. Its upholstery was the same neutral gray shade as the carpet. When she sank into it, air puffed from the foam padding with a mournful wheeze.

Quinn looked up and smiled a welcome.

She smelled his hemp-scented bath soap and registered the dark pouches under his eyes.

She had matching bags under hers. Both she and Quinn had heavier-than-usual caseloads.

His skin had a grayish tinge and she spotted a grease stain on his lucky striped tie. Care of his go-to-court clothes was not a priority when he was pressed for time.

Still, he smelled nicer than she did. She reminded herself to send today’s outfit to the cleaners.

Quinn’s gaze flicked to his pad and back at her. He wasn’t packing up to leave the room.

“You skipping lunch?” she asked.

“Have to.” He tapped his pen on the pad. “This morning did not go well. I’m working out what I’ll do by way of damage control.”

“I could bring you a sandwich,” she offered.

He dropped his pen, reached inside his jacket, and pulled out an energy bar. “I’ll be fine. How’d you do?”

“Judge granted my motion. We won a new trial. I have an idea I want to run by you.”

“Congratulations on the win.” Quinn ripped the wrapper off his lunch. “But you’ll have to let someone else implement your idea. I have another job for you.”

“You’re not reassigning me?”

His shoulders tensed and he glanced away from her when he spoke. “I need you to handle a more urgent task.”

He wasn’t being fair. She had to protest. “I persuaded the judge that the original trial lawyer did a crappy job. I’m sure I can win a not-guilty verdict from a new jury.”

“Do you hear yourself? Because you think your client’s innocent, you’re hot to run his trial.”

Quinn slapped a hand on the table. “You and I are the most experienced lawyers at the Center. We have to take the toughest jobs.”

“And today, I completed a tough one. You know how difficult it is to prove ineffective assistance of counsel.”

“And I congratulated you. Look, Nora, I understand that you’d like to handle the trial. Get your client off and put another feather in your cap.”

He leaned toward her. “But with all those feathers, that cap is starting to look like a war bonnet. That could become a problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Center’s only goal is to expose and rectify unfair treatment of men and women accused of capital crimes. Whether a client committed the crime or not is irrelevant.”

Quinn settled back into his chair. “We can’t afford to give the impression that we work harder for clients we think are innocent than we do for those we believe to be guilty. We have a broader mission.”

“I don’t play favorites.”

“Impression was the word I used. Look at how you’re portrayed in the press. Like a crusader who won’t give up until her imprisoned client is freed.”

He sighed. “I have to address that problem in my allocation of Center resources. I can’t let it appear that one of our most experienced litigators is assigned only appeals based on claims of innocence.”

Quinn named his latest hire, a man two years out of law school. “He can step in for you at this point. By identifying the flaws in the original defense, you created a blueprint for the retrial.”

Her shoulders dropped. “Okay, maybe you’re right that he can take over. And maybe I do need to broaden my client base. But what’s behind this is Channing’s extended leave. That’s why you’re pulling me off my case.”

“You got it.” He broke off eye contact, looking down as if he needed to study his papers. “We’re shorthanded and I have no leeway in the budget to add staff.”

“So what’s this urgent task you have for me?”

He cleared his throat. “I want you to decide if we should accept Wesley Mitchell as a client.”

“Wesley Mitchell? You can’t be serious.”

He gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Good. You know who I mean.”

“You bet I do. I was a first-year law student when he killed those people in Parma. It took six years before he was convicted and sent to prison. You want to contest that verdict?”

“A potential funding source describes Mitchell’s case as one that could fall under the Center’s mission statement. They suggest we determine if he has grounds to appeal.”

“What, somebody thinks the Department of Justice violated the bastard’s constitutional rights?” She threw up her hands. “Mitchell isn’t some penniless guy off the street. He had the resources to hire a top defense team. Why isn’t he using them to appeal?”

“He’s out of money and without legal representation. I want you to dig into the record and tell me if we can offer him any help. You’re the only person I trust to do the job.”

She sniffed. “Despite being totally biased against him?”

“You’re a pro. I know you can approach this with an open mind.”

“You got me.” Her mind was usually so open to evidence of human frailty that wintry drafts stormed through with depressing regularity. But Mitchell bore no resemblance to her usual clients.

Thoughtful, she chewed her lip. “So what happens when I tell you he has no case?”

Quinn shrugged. “If you find he got the fair trial every accused person deserves, we won’t accept him as a client. But if he didn’t, I want you to go to work on his behalf.”

She groaned. “I thought if I took a job with the Center, I wouldn’t have to defend the Wesley Mitchells of this world.”

“You thought wrong. You’re the obvious choice to do the fact-checking. Nobody else can match you in that department. If we take him on, you’ll be able to hit the ground running. Plus, you’ve had two cases in Parma. You know the territory.”

“My Parma appeals were in state courts,” she reminded him. “I’ve never appeared in federal court.”

“Call it a learning experience. This assignment will be good for you and the Center. I’ll want your research plan by Friday afternoon.” He crumpled the empty wrapper, stuffed it into a pocket, and picked up his pen. “I have to get back to work.”

She wished him good luck and hurried from the room.

As the elevator carried her down, she struggled to understand Quinn’s reasoning. His arguments didn’t ring true.

By winning, she’d created a problem for the Center? He had to reallocate resources to solve it? This nasty case would be good for her, like a dose of foul-tasting medicine?

Too vague. Which potential funding source? How did Wesley Mitchell get their attention? What was their interest in the Center?

Why had Quinn left out the facts?

The elevator bell dinged, doors slid open, and she stepped into the ground floor lobby.

Pulling a cigarette pack from her purse, Nora grinned. She knew where to find current information on potential Center funding.

She put a smoke between her lips and stepped outdoors. Lighting up, she trotted toward the Buick, plotting how to talk her way past the gatekeeper controlling access to her source of information.