Hear My Plea

3

3 Marianne FreemantleMarianne Freemantle stepped inside the condo and basked in the golden glow cast by the sun descending toward Puget Sound. Leaving her wheeled carry-on by the door, she went straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows to drink in the view. She’d been living in this aerie for six and a half months and the vista still made her heart soar.

In the Central Washington county where she’d grown up, the tallest structure had been a grain silo. She’d never been to the top of it. Other kids had clambered up the metal rungs, but the daughter of the county prosecuting attorney couldn’t risk getting caught. Her father frowned on childish antics that might displease the voters.

She inhaled scentless air regularly refreshed by the residential tower’s “green” ventilation system and sighed happily. She adored living on the high-rise’s twenty-second floor. Beyond the colorful beacons topping shorter buildings, she could see the burnished waters of the sound and the peaks of the Olympic Range.

When she’d abruptly left her sprawling two-story house in the state capital, she feared the one-bedroom-plus-den rental would soon feel impossibly cramped.

But the condo had been move-in ready and its location in Seattle’s financial district was ideal. She’d decided to make do until she could buy something larger.

Within a week, she’d fallen in love with it. The compact, efficient space might have been designed for her, the perfect base camp from which to enjoy her new freedom.

Today, her flight from Dulles had landed only an hour ago. She’d taken light rail from the airport, bypassed the choked interstate, and arrived cool and unruffled at a stop only a short walk from her building’s front door.

The journey had been effortless, as had been most of the changes she’d made when she resigned from her state government job and became in-house counsel for a Seattle-based group of venture capitalists. Everything falling so neatly into place was proof she’d made good decisions.

Her new salary was four times what she’d earned as lawyer working for Washington’s attorney general. As soon as she got her share of the proceeds from the sale of the Olympia house, she’d make an offer for this condo.

Shedding her soon-to-be-ex-husband Nigel had gone as smoothly as finding a qualified buyer for the house. He was angry that she’d left him, but he’d signed off on a fair settlement agreement.

She smiled. Poor Nigel. He probably still cherished hopes that the man who’d hired her would invite him into the venture capital group.

If she was lucky, the divorce would be final before Nigel realized that the end of their marriage meant that only she would be running with the big dogs.

In forty-five minutes, she’d meet the pack’s alpha male for a drink. She fingered the maroon fabric of her one-piece dress. Should she change into something more casual?

No, this was her most flattering cool-weather outfit. The loose bodice draped fetchingly to her waist where it joined a fitted skirt that showed off glutes she kept well-toned in the building’s fitness center.

The appreciative gaze of the congressman with whom she’d breakfasted this morning had rewarded her for all those dumbbell squats.

She’d offered to help the congressman if he made a bid for the presidential nomination. He’d appreciated that, too. He’d heard Marianne Freemantle praised.

By her new boss, of course. Bruce Zachary was a major donor to the congressman’s campaign.

Her smile widened, remembering Bruce’s many compliments when he’d recruited her. He’d sweetened a stellar compensation package with other inducements.

Tearing herself away from the window, she strode briskly across the hardwood floor and into the interior alcove that served as a den. The heavy oak desk that had belonged to her grandfather during his thirty-year reign as a county sheriff fit neatly against the back wall.

Atop the desk blotter were notes of her last conversation with her contact at the Bruce and Sue Zachary Foundation.

She ran her finger down the notepad and confirmed that foundation staffer Dante Rodriguez should have met yesterday morning with the coordinator of Spokane’s Legal Resource Center. Dropping into the high-backed burgundy leather chair she’d inherited from her father, she pulled up Dante’s name on her smartphone and called him.

He picked up after the first ring. “Marianne,” he said. “Welcome home.”

The quick answer and personal greeting gave her a thrill. No one had been that delighted to hear from her when she was in charge of the attorney general’s capital litigation unit.

She purred her thanks. “It’s good to be back, Dante. How’d your meeting go in Spokane?”

“Very well. Mr. Isaacs is happy to oblige us. When I mentioned that the Center’s activities first came to our attention via media coverage of Nora Dockson’s courtroom success, he told me he planned to assign the preliminary investigation to her. As you predicted.”

She laughed. “That was a foregone conclusion. She does the fact-checking for most of their cases.”

“I told him that if Ms. Dockson finds Wesley Mitchell can benefit from legal assistance, we’d like her to represent him. That match would underscore the foundation’s emphasis on diversity and inclusion.”

Dante chuckled. “Mr. Isaacs retorted that he was surprised that his being Jewish wasn’t an equally good fit.”

She frowned. “You think he found our request out of line?”

“No. I smiled at his joke and went straight to the amount of money we can provide. He didn’t raise the issue again. He promised Ms. Dockson would clear her calendar by the end of the week and start digging into the trial record.”

“Excellent. I’m meeting Bruce in half an hour. I’ll let him know what you accomplished.”

“Anything else you need, tell me.”

She thanked him again and ended the call, marveling at the swift execution of her wishes. So different from Olympia where bureaucrats spent their time identifying restrictive regulations instead of telling her how to get around them.

Only one month ago, Bruce had introduced her to Dante Rodriguez, who monitored the foundation’s Requests for Proposals and vetted the submissions.

She’d told Dante what she wanted to happen. Smart and ambitious, he hadn’t dragged his heels.

Her fingers stretched out to touch the wood-framed photo sitting at the corner of the desk. It pictured her grandfather on horseback, the uniformed captain of the county’s mounted posse. It was how she remembered him, parading down Main Street on the Fourth of July like a conquering hero.

Only a ceremonial position, of course. He’d retired and he died the following year. But she’d heard all the stories from his glorious career.

Granddad was her connection to local law enforcement. Maybe that was why it had felt so personal a few years ago when the feds charged across her Washington legal turf in hot pursuit of a quartet of local police officers. What on earth were they thinking?

If a deputy had shot and killed an unarmed civilian in Granddad’s county, he’d have investigated thoroughly. If he’d ruled the killing was justified, no one would have doubted his decision.

Any federal agent who showed up later would have had found no new witness testimony or evidence to dispute it.

Yet, the FBI had muscled through the town of Parma three years after the shooting, determined to find reason to imprison the officers. The agents had been prodded by the local gang of Justice Department lawyers. DOJ had swiftly indicted, prosecuted, and convicted Wesley Mitchell and three co-defendants for civil rights violations.

She’d been aghast. How could the Justice Department’s Civil Rights Division possibly justify such activity in her state?

High-tech Washington bore no resemblance to Mississippi in 1964. No bodies were hanging like strange fruit from native Western Hemlocks.

Of course, the Civil Rights Division had mushroomed in size and scope since the sixties. And the current president had given them free rein. Federal litigators were running wild.

She’d ranted to Bruce. No fan of government interference in people’s lives, he encouraged her to take action.

She’d reexamined the Parma situation. Unfortunately, what she found was a corrupt police department and one officer with an unfortunate history

Dirty cops. An apparent liaison with Parma law enforcement would not look good in her dossier.

Irritating, because she’d spotted enough red flags to suggest that the feds had gotten their hands dirty, too.

Three of the defendants had made plea bargains. Only Wesley Mitchell had been found guilty by a jury and only he had been eligible to appeal. It was her bad luck that Mitchell wasn’t actively pursuing one. His pleadings would’ve detailed any alleged violations of his right to due process. But Mitchell couldn’t afford to mount a full-blown appeal. No outside group had materialized to raise funds on his behalf. A telling absence.

Frustrated, she took her problem to Bruce. She wanted the facts but a situation this messy would tarnish anyone who got near it. She wouldn’t wish it on her worst enemy.

Bruce had laughed at the cliché. Maybe she should reconsider. He’d pointed out that the ideal attorney to take the dirty job could well be the female lawyer with the criminal record who’d given her so much trouble last January.

If Marianne set things up through his foundation, she’d risk no splash-back from the Parma cesspool. It would join all the other dirt coating trailer-trashy Nora Dockson.

Now, it was set. Washington’s most dogged appeals lawyer would dig into the Parma case.

Nora Dockson would poke and pry. She’d grandstand to the press. Like the con artist she aspired to be, she’d trick witnesses into telling her more than they intended. Dockson’s methods were appallingly low-life, but she uncovered facts no one else noticed.

Soon, Marianne would know how far out of line the federal litigators had stepped.

Slipping her notes into a drawer, she slid it shut with a satisfying click.

She had ten minutes to freshen up before she went to meet Bruce. He’d probably left his office, heading for an upscale lounge neatly located halfway between their workplace and her condo.

A hip new watering hole, it promised “the right amount of edge” to high-flying denizens of the financial district. Perfect for her and Bruce.

One day soon, she’d invite him up to check out her view. Take their relationship to the next level. Discreetly. His wife wouldn’t hear a whisper of gossip.

Meeting in public had its charms. Bruce picked fun spots and he was a great conversationalist. At his best when she was the subject.

She’d never forget their second encounter, when he laid out the terms he could offer and she understood how badly he wanted her.

They’d met for lunch at a charming restaurant overlooking Lake Union. He’d arrived first. She could still picture how his welcoming smile broadened as he watched her stroll toward his table. She’d put a little extra swivel in her walk because she was wearing her favorite dress. The maroon with the ass-hugging skirt, of course.

She had to change.

Stepping out of her pumps, she headed for her walk-in closet, frantically reviewing her options. Sexy in a high-class way. The dress she had on was perfect but she couldn’t show up wearing the same old thing.

Bruce was waiting for her.

She had to set her hook good and deep before she tried to reel Bruce in.

Fresh bait was essential.