Page 79 of The Wrong Side of the Law

Chapter Twenty-Five

Gabriel

Mark Anderson and his client are already waiting in the second-floor conference room when I get there. The public defender is face-down in his phone, tapping furiously on the screen with both thumbs; the defendant sits quietly, hands in his lap, staring blankly into the corner.

Francis Edwin Wilson, Junior, I presume.

I sit down across from them, studying the young man while I wait for Anderson to finish whatever he’s doing. I don’t see anything of his sister in his features. Well, maybe just the slightest hint around the cheekbones, but no more than that. Frank must take after his mother. Dark brown hair, almost black, rather than his sister’s red; a deep tan, where Emily’s paleness might burn to a crisp just by looking out a window.

Oh, hell. I can’t be thinking about Emily right now.

“Oh, hey, Gabriel,” Mark says, looking up from his phone as if surprised to see me there.

“Hello,” I say, reaching across the table to shake hands with my counterpart.

“Frank,” Mark says, turning to his client, “This is Gabriel Cooper. He’s the ASA that’s handling your case.”

Frank Wilson stands and starts to reach over the table, but hesitates, thinking better of it.

“Hi,” is all he says, so softly that I’d have missed it if I couldn’t see his lips moving. Frank retakes his seat, folding his hands together again into a nervous ball of energy in his lap.

“Alright, then.” I suppose I’d be nervous in his place, and unsure whether I should shake my hand, too. I drop back down into my chair and open up the case file in front of me. “Let’s talk,” I say.

“Good idea,” Anderson says, but then puts up one finger in a gesture ofwaitaminuteand pulls a very thin file of his own out of a battered briefcase and frowns down at it for a moment.

On the outside I wait patiently, but on the inside I’m raging at this goddamned tired, lazy public defender. Why in thehellcan’t the Wilsons,mere et fils, get past that idiotic dislike that Margaret has for Lisa? They could have a first-rate attorney sitting in front of me, throwing up so many roadblocks that I’d die of old age before the trial even started, but nope: instead, we’ve got this poor overworked slob half-assing it through the case.

Finally, Mark sighs, shaking his head.

“What do you have to offer?” he asks.

“What do- wait, me? An offer?” I ask, utterly shocked. Emily wants to buy time. You don’t buy time by pleading guilty. “Are you telling me that your client is ready to accept a plea bargain?”

The defense attorney leans over to his client, and the two of them whisper to each other behind their hands for a few seconds.

“Yeah,” Mark says. “What can you offer us?”

“Frank?” I ask, looking at the defendant. “Are yousureabout this?”

“Hey,” the attorney says, before Frank can answer. “I just told you-”

“Mark,” I interrupt, mildly. “I’m askinghim, not you.”

Frank is utterly dejected, staring hopelessly down at his hands.

“I guess so,” he says, shrugging.

“See?” Mark taps on the file. “I told you so. Now, what’s your offer?”

I sigh, leaning back in my chair and running a hand through my hair. This isnothow things are supposed to go in this case.

“Mark, please.” I shoot Anderson a glare, then turn back to Frank. “Did you talk to anyone about this? Did you get any advice from anyone? What do your mother and sister say?”

“He’s eighteen,” the defense attorney says, answering for his client. “He doesn’t need to get his family’s permission for anything.”

“Shut thehellup, Mark,” I say, harnessing every last scrap of my willpower to keep from screaming the words—and a lot more besides—at the lazy sonofabitch. Technically, the drone from the public defender’s office is right. Frank Wilson is an adult, and legally he can make all his decisions alone. But I’m starting to understand why Emily always talks about him as if he were far younger.

Mark Anderson shrugs.

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