Page 5 of The Wrong Side of the Law

Chapter Two

Gabriel

The courtroom is slowly clearing out. A pair of contracted private security guards flank the double doors at the back, waiting for everyone to vacate the premises.

Judge Merryweather is long gone, probably late for his 3:45 tee time, and the court reporter is busy packing away her equipment.

The defendant is already gone too, led away in shackles by a hulking deputy sheriff. But no: he’s not a defendant anymore, he’s Inmate 9917325 now, a convicted drug trafficker on his way to a long stay at Raiford.

As I gather up my notes and shove everything into my briefcase, I glance across the aisle. Mark Anderson took a beating in this trial, and it shows on his face. He and his intern haven’t even started to gather up their things yet, and I can’t help but grin a bit at their chagrin.

This makes ten convictions in a row. Ten consecutive times I’ve faced off in court against a scumbag and his defense attorney, and ten times I’ve won. Murderers. Rapists. Child molesters. Carjackers. Drug dealers. Human traffickers. There’s ten fewer of them out there on the streets.

I’m on a hot streak.

Winning never gets old.

The court reporter leaves, the door softly clicking shut behind her as Mark rises and walks the few steps over to my table.

“Congratulations, Gabriel,” he says, extending a hand toward me. “You got lucky this time. You got really, really, damned lucky.”

I shake his hand and nod at the young intern who’s been shadowing Mark all week.

“You keep bringing guilty defendants to trial, Mark, and I’ll keep beating you. You want to win?” I ask, “why don’t you try representing someone innocent, for a change.”

Mark barks a bitter laugh. “You could get a jury to convict Mother Theresa.”

“Maybe so,” I allow, “but so far as I know, nobody ever busted Mother Theresa with six kilos of cocaine before. Six kilos, Mark. Almost a quarter of a million dollars of the stuff.”

My erstwhile opponent and his young apprentice pack their bags and trudge toward the double doors at the back of the courtroom while I study the reflections on the toes of my shiny black Oxfords with a smile.

I didn’t win this case because I was lucky. I got the conviction because I was prepared.

There were at least three places where Mark should have raised objections, but didn’t. He should have been able to destroy one of my witnesses on cross-examination, but he didn’t even try. Of course, it wouldn’t have mattered in the end: I had backup plans within backup plans, and there’s no way that he could have made the mountain of physical evidence vanish.

It’s all about hard work and preparation. It also helps to be on the right side of the law.

I don’t say of that, though. Not to Mark. Not to anyone. Nobody likes a sanctimonious prick.

A defense attorney at some high-dollar law firm might be able to get by on cynicism and cry himself to sleep on a pillow stuffed with money, but you can’t do that as a public defender or a prosecutor. You gotta have faith to work these cases. You need passion, and fire. You need idealism. I think Mark lost all that stuff along the way, the poor bastard.

But I haven’t. And that’s why I’m batting a thousand on my last ten cases.

There’s a happy, tuneless whistle on my lips as I cross the street that separates the courthouse from the State Attorney’s office. It still hasn’t died yet when walk through the door and throw a jaunty wave at the pretty new receptionist.

But she’s not alone: John Whitehall, the State Attorney for our district, himself and in the flesh, is half-sitting on the corner of her desk. He’s pouring on the charm, and I can’t quite tell if the girl is genuinely interested in the flirting or if she’s just putting on a happy face for the boss.

He stands when he sees me, and the receptionist looks relieved that the boss has left her personal space. That’s one question answered, I suppose.

“Ah! Gabriel Cooper!” The SA turns that made-for-television smile on me, and stands. “The hero of the hour!”

I bow my head just a fraction, basking in the thousand-watt glow of approval from my lord and master.

“Hey, this one was easy,” I say. “I had all the evidence I needed, and a jury that was smart enough to follow the dotted lines.”

“Oh, certainly. Certainly.” The boss claps me solidly on the shoulder. “False modesty, of course. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how late your office lights are on, or how much the office budget for coffee has gone up since you came on board.”

I only shrug, and hope that I’m not starting to blush. While I might privately gloat over my achievements, I sometimes find it hard to take the praise from others.

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