Текст книги "Defending Pacer"
Автор книги: T. J. Hamilton
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
CHAPTER THREE
“Your honour, my client has not had a charge against him since two thousand and ten, and he is the sole caregiver for his elderly mother. He has strict conditions on his release and a million dollars riding on his bail. Clearly, he is not a risk to the city.”
The judge is still not impressed; I can tell. His nostrils always flare when he’s pissed off. Damn it! He looks to the prosecutor on the bench next to me.
Jackson Reed, newly appointed member of the Queen’s Counsel, and all-round asshole. I had the unfortunate experience of graduating law school with him more than ten years ago. Dirty money has paid for his career. Guys his age don’t make QC. I’ve had to claw my way through courtroom battles with him my entire working career. We seem to have mirrored each other, but on two completely different paths. The difference is, I know there has been dodgy deals set up behind closed doors, and he still has never come out on top with me. The guy will never learn. Two weeks into Pacer’s studying investigation and I already feel like Jackson is too involved in this case when he shouldn’t be.
Jackson gets out of his seat and leans across the bench, arms out wide, fingertips spread with an air of arrogance. “What Miss Tanner has failed to mention during her well-trained speech is that her client is also wandering around our city with a charge of murder on him. This is not some minor matter; this is going to be a trial for someone’s intentional death—someone who is missed by his family because he is dead. Although I’d love to say this may be resolved quickly, and Paciano Fratelli will be sentenced to being behind bars where all murderers belong, we all know that won’t be the case. His trial is going to take some time. Time means he can, and most probably will, reoffend. His records show he has little regard for authority, and the only reason he’s been let out at all is because his criminal associates have posted the ridiculous asking price of a million dollars for his release. This is a high-profile case, your honour, and we are treating it as some joke. A man is dead because of Miss Tanner’s client.”
Jackson sits back in his seat as if he has won the debate, but I don’t let his ass hit the chair before I rebut.
“My esteemed colleague has forgotten that the trial is yet to be held, so all the allegations he mentioned are just that. None of the evidence has been tested, your honour. As far as our legislation suggests, my client is not guilty of any such accusation until your court has correctly established all the findings.” Judge Nolan’s eyes do not shift from me. Not even for a moment. “My client is taking this charge very seriously and will be fighting every allegation against him. A million dollars is not pocket change, your honour. Not to anyone. My client will be adhering to all the conditions set to him. If you ask me, Mr Reed seems to be acting as judge, jury and prosecution. Your honour, his tone seems far from impartial. Perhaps he has taken this case for personal reasons, not professional?”
I turn to face the cocky fuck and flash him a look of triumph. “Wasn’t it the Legano’s who were accused of planting a bomb in your car, Mr Reed? An allegation that was thrown out of this very court.” Jackson’s jaw clenches. Swallow that, asshole.
Judge Nolan’s eyes narrow in my direction. I know I’ve got Jackson on that technicality. I bite at the smirk within me as Judge Nolan looks down at his paperwork and scribes away. His expression is non-emotive.
“Bail remains granted, all conditions to continue as listed, with the addition of Mr Fratelli to report to police, daily. An ankle monitor is to be fitted within twenty-four hours. Hearing adjourned until July the twenty-fourth. A new QC is to be appointed to the prosecution for this case. That is all.”
Two loud thumps from the judge’s gavel sees the first hurdle over with. Pacer is still out of prison. I gather all the paperwork that’s spread across the bench in one swoop and shove it into my brown leather bag. I’m more excited than I should be about telling Pacer the good news. Both Jackson and I wait standing while Judge Nolan exits the courtroom. We both bow to the code of arms above the judge’s chair as he leaves.
The moment the magistrate’s little door is shut, I make a dash for the exit at the back of the room but am stopped when Jackson catches my arm. “What do you think you’re playing at, Chelsea?” His eyes are wide and wild. “You think you’re some hot shot now that you’ve got these pieces of shit bank-rolling your income? You are running with the wrong bulls, girl.” His grip slightly loosens and he shakes his head. “It’s a shame. I thought you were a good girl. Guess I was wrong.”
I pull my arm from his grip and stare into his brown eyes. He would be handsome, if I didn’t know him. His jaw is wide and sharp, and his features are similar to Matt Damon’s—all clean-cut and respectable looking. But he’s a dirty player, both in the courtroom and out.
“This is work, Jackson. Do I need to remind you of that again? You’re losing your grip. Ever since your car bomb scare, you’re hell-bent on putting the Legano’s and everyone associated with them behind bars.”
“Because they are all criminals, Chels.” He says my name through gritted teeth.
“Let’s leave that up to the courts to decide.” I continue towards the door without so much as a glance behind me.
“I really thought more of you. You had so much to offer back in university.” I hear him call just as the door swings shut.
I know you thought more of me, asshole. You told me every time you’ve been drunk, and tried hitting on me … since university.
Scratching at my hair through my barrister wig, I pull my phone from my purse and scroll through it to find Pacer’s newly added number. Stupid, itchy horse hair wig. The damn thing always itches the hell out of me. Our courts have such annoying traditions.
CHELSEA: Mr Fratelli, I have some good and bad news. Meet me at my office in half an hour? – Chelsea Tanner.
PACER: Busy with my ma until noon. How about I meet you at my Uncle’s restaurant on Stanley Street? We can eat some good Italian food while you give me the news.
I smile at the message. Why am I smiling? This is business. I write the reply and close my eyes while I press send.
CHELSEA: I know the place. See you there at noon. –Chelsea Tanner
PACER: You don’t need to keep reminding me who’s sending the message Chelsea
Still smiling, I put my phone in my bag as it buzzes again.
PACER: And please call me Pacer.
Stop smiling. You’re a professional barrister –Chelsea Tanner.
***
As I walk into the restaurant, a short, typically olive-skinned Italian man in a chef’s uniform comes out from behind the bar. His smile is both warm and welcoming; his arms open wider than the Christ the Redeemer statue in Brazil, ready to greet me.
He leans in and kisses me twice, once on each cheek. I always forget Italians do this, so the second kiss is awkwardly stuttered as usual.
“You must be young Pacer’s new lawyer, eh?”
I look around the empty restaurant and nod bashfully, the heat of my embarrassment about to take over my cheeks.
“He said a beautiful blonde would be coming in at noon to see him. You’re cosi bella and it’s noon on the dot.” He winks. “Bravo. Very efficient.”
The jovial presence of the tubby man quickly rubs off on me and my tense shoulders relax a little. The idea of seeing a client outside the office has me unusually wound up. It’s not the first time I’ve had a meeting with a client at a restaurant, but there’s never been the added feeling of God-knows-what that’s currently rolling around inside me. The amount of times I’ve masturbated over Pacer since our initial consult over two weeks ago is a new record for me. The images of his tattoo-covered body have been perfect for my spank-bank material. I try my hardest not to allow the heat of my silent obsession spill out over my cheeks. This is the first time I’ve seen him since then, so I don’t know how cool I can really play this.
Pacer has similar features to his high-profile Uncle, however unlike Pacer’s lack of care when it comes to his criminal vocation, his Uncle now claims to be out of the game, quietly running the restaurant.
“I’m Carlo, Pacer’s Uncle.” He smiles as he directs us out of the main room and down the stairs that lead to the cellar.
The restaurant is renowned for having part of its dining in the old cellar down below. Dust particles rest upon some of the older, more expensive wines within the extensive collection. The cellar is like a rabbit warren of rooms with white-clothed tables and walls of wine bottles.
“Okay. Set it up. I have to go.” I hear Pacer’s voice before I see him.
He throws his mobile phone on the table in front of him and grins wide when he sees me. He’s impeccably dressed. This I can work with in the courtroom—not that he wasn’t poorly dressed before, but ripped jeans are not a great look during a trial. Now this … this is exceptional. Shirt and tie, coat hung over one of the seats. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, enough for me to see the writing down one arm and a cross on the other. An image of a scorpion is tattooed on his right hand, the sight of it reminding me that I need to confirm the story why he has it. The rumours aren’t good. He needs to cover his tattoos in court, but right now I’m okay with this view. His hair is perfectly rolled to one side, as if he’s just stepped out of the barbershop.
The rolling thunder that’s replaced my heartbeat makes my head feel light. My fingertips tingle as I reach out to shake Pacer’s hand, pulling off professionalism as best as I can. Pacer, on the other hand, leans in and pulls me to him, kissing me on either cheek. The sensation of his rough, stubbled skin against me almost gives me cause to start panting like a bitch in heat.
“Well a warrant hasn’t been issued for my arrest, so I can only assume the hearing this morning was a success?”
His hot breath blows past my ear as he speaks. I straighten up and smile weakly, ignoring what that actually felt like. My ability to speak, however, still hasn’t connected my mouth with my brain.
“Zio Carlo, could you bring me out one of my special bottles of red from the back?”
“Sure thing. Here. Let me take your coat.” Carlo reaches out and I slide my thick woollen coat off. I smile and wonder why he didn’t take Pacer’s jacket like this. Must be because he’s family.
Pacer waves off Uncle Carlo and pulls out a seat for me to sit.
Old school chivalry.
I clear my throat. “I can’t drink anything. Sorry, Pacer. I have to get back to the office after this,” I smile politely. “But by all means, enjoy a glass for yourself. We have some changes to your bail restrictions to discuss.”
The usual hard stare has softened to disappointment. I feel a pinch of guilt. With any one else I would agree to a glass of wine, but with Pacer, I just don’t trust myself. Not with the unwanted God-knows-what feelings I have.
“I won’t take no for an answer, Chelsea. My freedom is something to be celebrated. I want to enjoy it while I still have it. So you’re having at least one drink with me.”
Nodding before I regret it altogether, I give in far more easily than I usually would. None of that was a question. It was a demand. And being ordered around by him is kind of hot.
“About that freedom … you have to get an ankle monitor fitted to you tomorrow. That’s bad news. I will be accompanying you to the police station where they’ll fit it. I don’t want those assholes from the DPP harassing you while my back is turned.”
The flush is rising up his neck, his expression changing dramatically from joy to something in between anger, rage and amusement. Well, that’s what it looks like to me. Whatever the hell it is, it’s not good. The lines across his forehead crease deep as his dark eyebrows cinch in. The air becoming drenched in fury. The heat from his body can be felt from here. Or is that me heating up? I can sense the tension.
“This is fucking bullshit!” he says with such frustration.
I need to put this into perspective for the ungrateful psycho. “Well it’s either that or you can be held in remand for the next few months while you await trial?” I watch his response, but he still looks furious. “Just behave how you are and it will buy me some time to have the ankle bracelet removed again. There’s been a change in the prosecution. It’s given me more to work with. I just need you to do the right thing. Okay?”
“Sure, of course. You’re right.” He wears a smile, but it’s far from sincere.
What’s going on behind that smile, Pacer? Do I really want to know?
“You also have to report to the city police daily. But that’s right near my office, so we’ll just tie it in with daily meetings together.” My heart stupidly flutters at the thought of seeing Pacer every day … for strictly professional reasons, of course.
His smile softens. “That’s a good idea. Is there any more bad news?”
I shake my head. “Nope. That’s it. We have until the twenty-fourth of July to break holes through all the police’s evidence against you.”
“Now that is something to celebrate.”
In perfect timing, Carlo returns with the bottle of wine and pulls the cork with a squeaking pop.
“This is a nice drop, from my private vineyard in the Hunter Valley. I’m going to order food for us too, if you don’t mind of course?” Pacer holds the glass of wine up, inspecting the red as it slides against the glass.
“Go ahead. I trust your choices.”
“That would be a first for me.” Pacer and his Uncle Carlo laugh loudly, and I can’t help but laugh at the dark undertow of the joke, too. Pacer is so blatantly overt about what he does. It frustrates me, yet he turns me on like no one ever has. No guys in my world are like Pacer. Jackson’s about the only bad guy I know, but he’s certainly not an open criminal as Pacer quite comfortably is.
Is this what I was destined to become? The person not only attracted to, but responsible for letting killers roam our city streets? Or is it a better society for letting criminals all keep their business to themselves? So what if they want to kill each other off?
And just like our Lady Justice represents, there must always be balance between all sides to the arguments. For every Jackson there must be someone like me to represent equilibrium, presenting the other side of the argument. Maybe Jackson the asshole is actually right—maybe I was always destined to head to this side, the offending side. The dark side.
Pacer orders dinner in Italian, waving his hand out whenever he’s really passionate about something. I can’t understand a word he’s saying, and by all accounts, he could be discussing business with his Uncle. But what I don’t know won’t hurt my case with Pacer … my client, my criminal, murdering, fucking-sexy-as-hell-when-he-laughs-like-that … client. I can’t take my eyes from him when he laughs.
Why can’t you just be an asshole like guys in my world are? You would be so much easier to deal with. I could win your case, and we could move on with life.
“Saluti.”
I raise my glass high and down a big swig of the red wine, trying my best not to make it look obvious that I really need to get drunk right now. Screw work. No, actually I shouldn’t screw work. Right now, Pacer is my work. I glance towards him again, and his dark eyes catch mine, so he gives my arm a squeeze.
I have no idea what that means.
“Sorry. I get carried away. I like to make sure Uncle Carlo cooks it just right. I always do it to him.”
“He does it when he wants to impress someone.” Carlo rolls his eyes.
Somehow I don’t buy the story, but the less I know the better. Carlo leaves the room, and once again we’re alone. I wish I could say this was unromantic, but the whole setting is actually quite lovely. The room is cosy and inviting, the cellar feel makes it really intimate.
“I’ve been coming here since I was a baby. It’s been in the family for forty years now.”
“Do you really think Carlo needs to be told how you like your meals if you’ve been coming here for at least thirty of those years?”
He smirks. “You have been reading up on me, haven’t you?”
“What? Your age? Pacer, it’s what you’re paying me for. It’s my job to know everything about you.” I take another gulp of wine, hoping to fuzz the hell out of this situation.
Client. Client. Client.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I’d prefer to make sure you get home safe. The city is full of crooks, you know.”
“I’m well aware of that.” Her words are slightly slurred.
Our afternoon meeting has turned into a late night session, polishing off three bottles of wine together. Heavy drinking is fairly normal practise within my family, but it seems like Chelsea has had more than her quota of alcohol. She is like putty in my hands today. Get some wine into her and she’s all doe-eyed at me. It makes me just want to throw her over my shoulder and take her straight to her bed and fuck her until she’s sober again. And right now, it’s taking every inch of my control not to do just that. She’s too drunk to try to reason with, so I take her hand and link it through my arm.
Strangely she was hotter when she was bitchy. I like when she snaps at me. That little defensive wall she puts up, when I know she really just wants to ride my cock.
This honeybee is not what I expected at all … she’s even better. Watching her for the past two weeks has been more than insightful. She fucks herself like a caged lab rat, stays up all night reading shit, eating shit, then she throws on a boring suit and looks like a librarian while she argues with assholes all day, to keep guys like me free. She’s a fucking dream come true.
“Okay. But I don’t know if I really want you knowing where I live, so you can walk me a few blocks and I can grab a cab the rest of the way.”
Too late. I know exactly where you live, and I know exactly how you masturbate.
“I can find out where you live quicker than you can find out my address, and you’re paid to know everything about me, remember? Now shut up and walk.”
She grins and her eyes bat as slow as her speech. “You,”—she points out at me—“think you’re pretty clever, huh?”
Yep, she definitely wants to fuck me.
I take a cigar from the leather holder in my pocket, and light it. “Just walk.” Cigar smoke bellows out around me as I talk.
She doesn’t argue with my demand. Just as I thought.
Her apartment is only four blocks from here. It’s the main reason why I took her to my Uncle Carlo’s place. I knew I could walk her home. I was right about her; she’s an eastern suburbs princess, except there’s something about her that’s different to all the other pompous bitches from this side of the city.
I listen to her talk about how she loves the wintertime in Sydney and laugh every time she mentions the places she likes to visit. On the outside, she’s very predictable. She goes to all the places that girls with her upbringing and career go. It’s what she does after dark behind closed doors that gets me the most excited.
We walk straight past her terrace and she doesn’t stop.
Predictable.
I follow in her little charade, and cross the street with her. I’m definitely watching her tonight. All my movements will be monitored from tomorrow so this is one of the last opportunities that I get to just see her, undetected. The rest of my work can wait until the morning.
“Well, this is me,” she says at the apartment block across the road from her terrace.
“See? It wasn’t that far to walk after all.” I smile.
She giggles. She must think I’m an idiot.
I lean in to kiss her on either cheek. Her nose collides awkwardly with mine as I kiss her on the other side.
Smiling, I let go of her arm and just watch, waiting for her to go inside. She stares back, but her drunken glaze looks straight past me.
She blows out a puff of air, “Okay. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Another moment passes as she waits for me to move. But I don’t.
“Alright, so I’m actually across the street. Just wanted to see if you knew.”
I puff on my cigar. She really didn’t think this through. I nod once.
She doesn’t need any more than that. A nod will do.
“Nice terrace. Is it yours?”
“Pffffft. No. It’s part of my family’s estate. I think my great-grandma owned it. I couldn’t afford a terrace like this here. I’d be struggling to own an apartment in that building across the road.” She laughs.
It’s such bullshit, but I like her attitude. She’s got old money, but she’s still down to earth. That’s a rare quality from someone who grew up around here.
“You must be on a pretty penny, doing what you do.”
She shrugs. “It’s all right. But why spend it if I don’t have to? Wasting a few million dollars on a terrace in the city is not on my list of priorities. Not when I can save it to buy what I really want later in life, once I’ve settled down.”
“Settled down?” I laugh, “Girls like you never settle down.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean girls with careers like yours. You’ll never walk away from it. You can’t. It’s in your blood.”
She stares into the distance again, but this time her cogs are ticking.
“Bit like being in a gang, really.”
Touché.
She smiles and opens the little iron gate to her terrace. Unlocking her front door, she turns. “Thanks for walking me home.”
“Anytime.” I stand on the footpath, continue smoking my cigar and watch her as she closes the door.
The lights flick on inside and I turn and walk back along from where I just came. I don’t want to turn back and look, but I know she’s checking to see where I go.
***
Two hours later, I make my way from Uncle Carlo’s to watch Chelsea for just a bit longer. I left through the hidden doorway that leads out of the back entrance of a restaurant, six doors up. We use it all the time if we think the dogs are on our tail again, and I’m still hot until I get this shit strapped to me tomorrow.
I get to her terrace and she’s left her curtains slightly open again. She should be more careful. You never know who’s out in the street, watching. My cousin’s BMW unlocks in front of me. I get into the backseat and get myself comfortable again. The binoculars are right where I left them in the pocket of the seat in front of me.
I’m going to have to think of another way to watch her. I’m not going to be able to park a different car here each week, like I had planned. She wondered why I got pissed off about having the fucking ankle bracelet. This is why. It fucks up something that was working just nicely.
I look over at the apartment block, and wonder if I should buy one of the apartments that face her terrace? She might not have the spare millions like she says, but I do. To me, this wouldn’t be a waste. This is definitely an investment—an investment in this interesting creature.
The problem is staying there. No matter how many of these buildings I buy, they will always know where I am.
There’s only one solution. She will just have to come to me.
