Page 1 of Passionate Defense

Chapter 1

AHUSH FELL OVER THEstanding room only crowd. Every eye turned toward the forty-something man with black horn-rimmed glasses clad in a disheveled, years-out-of-fashion tweed suit as he faced the judge. His posture appeared defeated, his voice ringing with palpable regret when he uttered the words few expected to hear. “Not guilty.”

Before the full verdict had passed his lips, anguished wails of distress and vehement curses erupted from the victim’s family. The long-awaited decision was not what they wanted to hear. For five long, grueling months, the murder trial had been a media circus. Now, right or wrong, with two small but very consequential words, the proceedings were over.

Weak-kneed and nauseated, defense attorney Melanie Fischer wanted to sink into her chair and cry with the victim’s family, but her steely disposition wouldn’t allow it. With practiced stoicism, she revealed neither the elation one would expect at her unexpected victory nor the horror she felt deep inside.

Dubbed the Ice Queen in Boston’s legal circles—the less than complimentary appellation whispered behind her back, of course—any reaction would have been out of character.

The proceedings had taken their toll on her physically and emotionally. She was exhausted but didn’t let that show, either. She’d worked her ass off for months before the case ever came to trial and had submitted no less than a dozen pretrial motions. All in all, it had consumed almost a full year of her life. But at long last, she was done with her disturbing client.

Melanie glanced at Morton Deevers and struggled to suppress a shudder of revulsion. The familiar smirk of confidence spread across his thin lips as he celebrated with his elderly mother and equally creepy friend, his only support in the courtroom that day, or any other during the lengthy trial.

What would it take for her to forget his squinty-eyed gaze or the greasy strands of hair he swept from just above his right ear, up and over his sparsely haired head, and swirled around his crown in a ridiculously pathetic comb-over? Would she forever see the buttons of his shirt straining to contain his protruding potbelly? And would the disgusting popping sound his knuckles made as he repeatedly cracked them forever haunt her dreams?

As bad as he looked, his personality was worse—snide, condescending, with a nasty snicker that made her skin crawl. He tried to hide this from the jury. Nothing but quiet and respectful in their presence, as she advised. He saved his ugliest disposition for when the cameras and court weren’t watching. It baffled her how a person with no redeeming qualities could possess such an exaggerated sense of superiority.

“How can you sleep at night, bitch?”

“You lawyers have no souls.”

Ignoring the vicious insults from the crowd, she gathered her notes and tucked them into her briefcase. She’d heard it before. The slurs and hurled invectives stung, but she didn’t let it show. Never in public did she allow her mask of detachment to slip. If she gave in to the emotion, she’d be done.

“Bloodsucking whore!”

Huh! That was a new one.

“Your blood money won’t help when you’re rotting in hell!”

Ah, yes. There it was, an oldie but a goodie she’d heard many times before.

Looking around for the security detail assigned to her, she spotted the sheriff’s deputies heading her way. As the uniformed men slowly made their way through the crowd, she wondered if they could have found two less-intimidating officers. In her four-inch heels, she stood taller than either of them, and her one-hundred-and-fifty-pound frame against either of theirs would tip the scale in her favor. Still, they were better than nothing. As they moved slowly toward her, more insults and curses spewed forth from the angry onlookers, a few extending them to her ancestors as well.

“If he does it again, you’re as guilty as he is, lawyer cunt.”

Lanie skillfully concealed her instinctive response while inside, her gut clenched. The c-word had a way of getting under her skin, but this time it struck a nerve. Did they really believe she was such a cold-hearted bitch that she hadn’t thought what a not guilty verdict meant every single day of the trial? She’d upheld her oath and represented her client to the best of her ability. But what if he had truly carried out any of the atrocious deeds for which he’d been charged?

He would stand trial out of state soon for the abduction and fatal torture of two other young women. The federal marshals were waiting to take him into custody as soon as he walked out of the courtroom. But what if he was acquitted again? With the pivotal role she played in securing his release back into society, how would she sleep at night? Or, if he murdered another innocent, how would she live with herself?

The evidence against him was damning and with any luck, law enforcement where he was headed was more skilled than those who investigated this case. Deevers’ new attorney had contacted her for case notes and told her he didn’t have a prayer for an acquittal. Barring another prosecutorial fuck-up, he’d be convicted and pay the ultimate price, because, as fate would have it, he was being extradited to Texas.

Finally, the deputies assigned to her security arrived. Flanking her, they escorted her out the rear doors of the courtroom, bypassing the judge’s chambers through a long maze of corridors and more security to the back of the courthouse. Dodging a barrage of questions from the few reporters who had found their way to the restricted rear entrance and parking lot, she rushed to the silver BMW sedan parked by the curb and the handsome man awaiting her.

On her approach, he opened the door. As she brushed past him, entered the vehicle, and pulled in her feet, he uttered quietly, “You look like someone just shot your dog, so I can’t be sure if you won or if justice did.”

“Please, Ethan. Can we do the postmortem later? I want to be long gone before the vultures figure out I gave them the slip.”

“Of course.”

In the quiet that encompassed her when he shut the door, she sucked in a deep gulp of air and sank into the plush leather seat. Closing her eyes, she counted to ten and collected herself. When she opened them again, she stared out the window at the swarm of the tireless press and greedy paparazzi rounding the corner of the building.

Hurry, Ethan,she silently urged as they drew closer.

They were upon them when the driver’s side door opened, and her beleaguered husband folded his six-feet-three-inch frame into his seat. Ignoring the persistent parasites with their clicking cameras and ridiculous questions, he slammed the door hard and locked it. Mercifully, Ethan’s car had tinted glass.

“Damn leeches!” he growled.

“Please, Ethan. Drive.”

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