Pierce stepped aside to allow the officer to take Bernie out. “Just do your job, counselor, and I’ll do mine.” The scent of lavender body wash hinted from him.
“Nice body wash,” I said, stepping out of the apartment and locking it up.
“Smartass,” he muttered, following the officers.
I walked behind him, keeping an eye out for the red truck. Only cold snow and quiet, rundown houses met my gaze. “I’ll catch up with you later to talk about this case. You have the wrong guy.”
“Uh-huh.” Pierce followed me around my car and opened the front door. “Anything new on your case?”
“No. No flowers, phone calls, or painted messages,” I said. “Maybe the person gave up.”
Pierce waited until I’d snapped my seatbelt in place. “That’s unlikely. Keep an eye on your six, and if you want an officer around, I could make that happen for a short period of time.”
“I’m armed and set,” I said. “But thanks.”
Pierce nodded. “I have feelers out for Jareth Davey but haven’t had any more luck than Aiden or Basanelli. I’ll keep on it, though.”
“Thanks.” That Christmas card could be coming any day, which was another reason I was having panic attacks. “I’m off to court. See you later.”
He shut my door and moved toward the blue and white parked behind me. Bernie looked forlorn in the back seat.
Sighing, I yanked out my phone to call Florence. Hopefully she would bail him out.
Again.
Chapter 18
Isat in the far rear corner of misdemeanor court, where the salmon-colored bench was thick with padding, the overhead light burned out, and the heater vent blasting warmth across my legs. The docket was behind today, and several hearings took place up ahead while I rifled through the file folders Oliver had delivered to me. I’d given him cash to get himself lunch at the deli next door as a thank you for handling Jolene for me that morning.
Several people dotted the benches through this smaller courtroom, and I recognized a couple of clients up ahead. Today I had three status conferences on upcoming trials: a timber trespass case, a car wreck over a bridge case, and a minor in possession case. Nothing crucial and we were just checking in and setting trial dates. Judge Williams presided up above, and today a bright red blouse showed above the top of her robe. I couldn’t see her shoes but would definitely take a gander before I left.
She had some amazing shoes.
A bailiff stood by a door, his beard impressive. Now there was a guy who’d be able to play Santa in a few decades.
A man I didn’t recognize stood at the prosecuting attorney’s table. From the back, he seemed to be around my age. Maybe mid-twenties, blond hair, nice suit. Right now, he faced the judge and listed a series of offenses for an underaged defendant who’d apparently been caught with marijuana in Idaho. It was legal in Washington state but not in Idaho.
I sat up to watch, surprised he was pursuing the case.
From the back, the defendant looked like a kid. He wore a black suit with his blond head down, and he stared at the table. Next to him stood a mid-sized man in a power gray suit which was probably Armani. His hair was steel gray, his manner relaxed, and his posture confident. Right behind them sat a couple, the woman with a blonde bob and the man also in a suit, his dark hair groomed.
The prosecutor argued for a ridiculous bond, the smooth attorney I didn’t recognize argued back twice as well and then pretty much threw somebody named Violet under the bus. Violet must’ve been the defendant’s friend, and she had been the person actually in possession of the pot. The judge set the case for trial and moved quickly on.
The judge called the next case, and the defendant’s name had me perking up. Violet Maseretti. Aha. The girlfriend of the pot kid.
A girl of about fifteen or so shuffled to the center aisle, looked around, and then inched her way through the gate to where her boyfriend had been. She was thin with long black hair, and from what I could see, her eyes matched her name. For court, she wore clean jeans and a blue sweater that might be a size or two too big, with no coat. She pulled nervously on the edge of the sweater as she waited.
The prosecutor ran through the litany again, this time adding the fact that Timmy Stevens alleged that Violet had supplied the pot.
I angled my head to better see the judge.
Judge Williams’ expression didn’t change when she focused on the defendant. “You can have your own attorney.”
The girl looked around again, seeming like a fish flopping on a dock. “Yes, um, your Honor.” Her shaking voice was soft.
The judge ticked her head.
Violet shuffled her feet. “Um, I saw the forms, and I tried to fill them out, but they were complicated. I guess. I don’t know.” She pulled on the sweater again.
