Hear My Plea

2

2 NoraThe newly enameled olive-green door cracked open six inches and Nora drew a breath, ready to make her pitch.

A slender platinum-haired woman in her fifties filled the crack. A finger rested on her lips. “Shhh,” the woman whispered without moving her lips or any other body part. “She’s asleep.”

Clad in sharply-creased purple linen slacks and a lavender cotton blouse, the elegant woman managed to give the impression she’d been carved from ironwood, as dense and heavy as someone five times her weight and as difficult to push aside.

The woman added softly, “She needs her rest, you know.”

An understatement. Channing Pew Palmer needed four months of bed rest.

Nora’s best friend was pregnant with twin girls. Six weeks ago, Channing’s worried obstetrician had ordered her to stay off her feet until the babies were born. The obstetrician hoped to postpone the twins’ birth date at least until Christmas, making them only one month premature.

Channing’s mother, Eleanor Pew, had flown to Spokane to guarantee Channing followed orders. Implacable, she’d confined her daughter to bed and forbidden entry by any visitor who might upset her.

Mrs. Pew had quickly determined that Channing’s colleagues fell into that category and banned discussion of the Center’s disreputable clientele. She deemed stories of s****l assault and DNA-testing of sperm cells highly inappropriate topics for an expectant mother.

Mrs. Pew ran her gaze over Nora’s all-black outfit. She sniffed and her eyes narrowed as if a bad smell had reached her nose. Her discreetly made-up face took on the same world-weary expression that judges turn on repeat offenders.

“I’ll tell her you stopped by,” Mrs. Pew said and began to ease the door shut.

Nora’s hand touched sun-warmed paint and she stopped the door from closing. Holding up her briefcase with her other hand, she said, “I’ve got an urgent message for Channing from one of the charitable foundations.”

Mrs. Pew’s mouth curved up in a lip-glossed smile. After vetoing any work-at-home project on behalf of convicted felons, she’d agreed that her daughter could deal with philanthropists. Much more in line with Channing’s educational trajectory through the Shipley School, Bryn Mawr College, and Princeton Law.

The door opened wide and Mrs. Pew glided out of Nora’s way. “You may check. But if she’s sleeping, don’t wake her. And don’t you dare speak of your day in court.”

“I won’t,” Nora lied. Arms clapped to her sides to trap unpleasant body odors, she leaned toward Mrs. Pew’s cheek to deliver the mandatory air kiss and caught a whiff of violets. Turning aside, she put a hand over her mouth to stop a giggle.

Channing’s well-bred mother was wearing an expensive version of the same scent that her own man-chasing mom splashed on. Not that any nose would confuse the two women. Mrs. Pew’s designer cologne lacked the tobacco and beer notes that her mom added to her knockoff fragrance.

Slipping past Mrs. Pew, Nora tiptoed up the uncarpeted staircase. The smell of violets gave way to the pungent odor of fresh varnish.

She peeked through the open door at the top of the stairs. Afternoon sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains and splashed across a potted bamboo plant so that it cast a leafy shadow onto the forest-green carpet. The shadow’s tip pointed at the white-canopied bed.

Channing sprawled in its center, her six-foot-long body draped over a set of wedge-shaped pillows that were likely the latest ergonomic approach to extended bed rest. Both ears were covered by a big wireless headset, black as the sleeves on her fuzzy wool sweater. A white sheet was taut over the beach-ball-size belly.

Smiling a welcome, Channing pulled off the headset.

“For a minute, I thought you were a giant stuffed Panda bear,” Nora said. “Black arms, black ears, white belly. All you lacked was a little black nose.”

“Very cruel, mocking my enormity.” Channing huffed her displeasure. “Some friend you are.”

Shutting the door, Nora dropped her briefcase beside it. She tromped across the thick carpet to hug Channing and inhaled the scent of sandalwood hair conditioner.

Nora sank down on the edge of the mattress and studied her friend. A cloud of short, fluffy blonde hair haloed Channing’s pale face, enhancing the Panda effect.

“I see our favorite hairdresser paid you a home visit,” Nora said.

Channing’s fingers went automatically to her hair. “She insisted I needed a fresh look. I’m not sure it was a good idea. Bad enough I’m gigantic. I’m moon-faced, too.”

Nora laughed. “Impossible with those cheekbones.” She ruffled Channing’s hair, enjoying the silky feel of newly washed strands. “I like it. Very cute.”

“I like your look, too.” Channing gestured at the sheath. “Downright scary. Much better than that suit. The sheath doesn’t cut your tiny little body in two.”

“Who’s the cruel one? All because you’ve got eight inches on me.” Nora waved a hand toward the closed door. “Coming up the stairs, I smelled varnish. Another home improvement project?”

“Refinishing the banister was long overdue, according to Mother.” Channing lowered her voice. “I’ve given up trying to stop her. Besides, she’ll go crazy with boredom if she has only me to care for.”

Nora grinned. “My mom would never be that bored. Emptying the ashtray is her idea of home improvement.”

“Having met my mother, you may grasp the advantages of maternal neglect.” Channing frowned. “You aren’t jumping all over the place and babbling. Did the judge deny your motion?”

“No, I won.” She made a face. “I was totally psyched until Quinn brought me down. He’s taking me off the case. He’s giving the retrial to the new guy.”

Channing’s eyes widened with surprise. “He promised you’d be in charge all the way to the finish line.”

She reached out to pat Channing’s belly. “Circumstances have changed. We’re shorthanded. Only he and I can handle the tough jobs. Blah blah blah.”

“I guess that’s reasonable,” Channing said slowly.

“It’s crap.” Nora slid off the bed and stomped across the room to the window.

“He wants me doing fact-checking,” she added. “Says that’s more urgent. After I review all the testimony and evidence, I’m supposed to decide if Wesley Mitchell has grounds to appeal his conviction. If he does, he’ll become my client.”

Turning, she threw up her hands. “Quinn knows I’m the wrong person to represent that man. I despise him.”

“Wesley Mitchell?” Channing’s forehead wrinkled. “Name doesn’t ring a bell with me.”

“He killed two unarmed civilians eight years ago in Parma. Both of Latino descent. The incident got a lot of press at the time.”

“That explains my ignorance,” Channing said. “We hadn’t moved to Washington yet.”

“Locals went round and round with it. Only intervention by the Justice Department produced an indictment that stuck long enough to go to trial.”

“You mean DOJ’s Civil Rights Division?” Channing registered her nod and asked, “What was their reason for stepping in? Did they call it a hate crime?”

The question made Nora grimace. “I can’t believe hate crime rolled off the tip of your tongue. You’ve never tried a federal case and you can still reel off the US Code.”

Channing shrugged. “If the state has jurisdiction over murder on its soil, the US government has to intervene because of a different crime.”

Nora snorted. “The nomenclature is way over my head. Two people dead and the feds call that a civil rights violation? A shotgun blast does play hell with a person’s civil rights, but that’s quite a euphemism.”

“So did they call it a hate crime?” Channing asked again.

“No. Official misconduct. Wesley Mitchell was an officer with the Parma Police Department. Two years ago, he was convicted of murder.”

She groaned and corrected herself. “In accordance with the US Code, he was convicted of civil rights violations committed while shooting at six Latinos. He deprived two of them of their right to life.”

Shaking her head, she added, “I can’t believe we’re considering representing a racist cop.”

Channing wrinkled her brow, absorbing the information. “Did Quinn explain why?”

“Not in a way I can understand. He said a potential funding source suggested we look into Wesley Mitchell’s conviction. Do you know why he’d let an outsider influence our client choice?”

“Maybe.” Channing pursed her lips. “He and I discussed this. Only a few foundations have goals that relate specifically to the criminal justice system. They’re inundated with proposals from nonprofits. Because of the rapid advances in DNA technology, many of the organizations competing with us for funding concentrate solely on exonerating convicted felons using new tests.”

Nora nodded. “We’ve had several clients like that.”

“Which means our proposal isn’t easily distinguished from other submissions,” Channing said. “We have to demonstrate our broader mission. This potential appeal on behalf of the cop is dramatically different from what others are doing. So it stands out.”

Nora made a face. “We take on this bastard so they’ll give us money?”

“We desperately need new funding,” Channing reminded her. “The sliding fee scale is producing zilch. A charitable grant is the quickest solution. We have to make a foundation eager to fund us.”

“Quinn also repeated his warning regarding my reputation as a crusader for the innocent. He added some stupid riff on allocation of resources.”

Channing laughed. “My fault. I told him that the foundations want to see him utilize our most effective litigators in ways that underscore our mission. His explanation is logical if you know the background.”

“I’m not so sure of that. You should have seen him, Channing. He got all distant and wouldn’t look at me. Like he didn’t feel good, saying what he was saying. When he started listing his reasons for assigning the case to me, I felt like he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t being unethical.”

“You think he was pressured into it?” Channing shook her head. “It’s unlikely that any foundation would dictate terms like that.”

Nora paced to the window and back again, swinging her arms, trying to jumpstart her brain. “He mentioned the press. Maybe someone at the foundation’s heard of me?”

“A remote possibility.” Channing pointed at her laptop. “Mother’s so desperate to stop me working, she keeps moving stuff out of reach. Pass me that and I’ll check our pending proposals.”

She booted up.

Nora crawled onto the bed beside her and watched the document open. Her eyes ran down the list. Clinton Foundation. Ford Foundation. MacArthur Foundation. Reached the name at the bottom and gasped.

“The Zachary Foundation? You sent a proposal to the Zachary Foundation?”

Channing tapped her finger on the screen. “They recently relocated their headquarters to Seattle. They contacted me because they’re interested in working with organizations based in Washington state. The fellow who called said they’d checked out our mission and found it compatible with new goals they’ve established in the human rights area.”

“New goals?” Nora jumped to her feet, fists clenched. “Bullshit.”

Channing’s pale cheeks reddened. “I know what you’re thinking. But my father swears he didn’t approach Bruce Zachary and trade on the fact that they have MBAs from the same school. This isn’t Daddy working the old boys club for his little girl. It’s not a backroom deal.”

“The hell it’s not.” Nora moaned. “The Law Beast is behind this. Her scheme to impeach me didn’t work. So what is Marianne Freemantle plotting this time?”