Page 20 of Savage in the Streets
“Most men don’t want to know when they’re doing a poor job. You lean into it.”
Ignoring her, I say, “You’re going to have to get good at crocodile tears. Sob stories. Maybe you were under duress, forced into compliance.”
“And you think a jury will buy that?”
“After we cover up those tattoos, give you a new hairstyle, and put you in a cardigan…they might.”
Her eyes let me know that at this moment, she wants to dismember me.
“Look, I know you’re going for edgy badass, but in the courtroom, you need to look soft. Delicate. Easily manipulated. Sweet. Young. Innocent. We’re gonna have to see the make-up of the jury to really know which way to go, but with any luck, you’ll get some older men.”
“Understood.”
“Eventually, I’m going to have to tell the court where you actually live, but before then, I need you to tell me where you’ve hidden all the evidence against you.”
“There is no evidence.”
“Did you keep it somewhere else?”
“No. Believe it or not—I’m innocent.”
“I know you don’t want to trust me, but I am your lawyer—”
“The only one with trust issues here is you.”
This is going to be exhausting…
And yet, as I look at Bailey seated across from me, I’m not entirely dreading this.
One thing that makes this whole exchange somewhat tolerable is the fact that she’s averse to wearing a bra, and what looks like two perfect nipples are fighting for my attention.
And…they’re winning because I just lost my train of thought, and I have no idea what we were just talking about.
She cocks her head at me, and I dig into my brain, trying to remember where we left off.
Evidence, you idiot. You were talking about evidence.
I clear my throat. “Real talk—whether you did the crime or not, you could very well do the time. So tell me what you know about the charges brought against you.”
“They told me that I was swindling old people’s retirement. Something to the tune of five-hundred-thousand dollars. I guess there was a bank account opened in my name where the money was deposited, but most of it’s no longer there.”
“And you’re saying you did not do this?”
“Ah, you’re finally listening.”
“Who do you think did this?”
“It was my father.”
I thumb through a stack of papers and pull out portions pertaining to her history. Her mother died when she was nine, so there’s no point in bringing her up.
“Your grandpa founded Savage Angels, one of the most notorious biker gangs to ever hit the streets.”
“Correct.”
“My father once represented him, but that was decades ago.”
Her brow lifts in surprise.
