Code of Justice Read online

  CODE OF

  JUSTICE

  A short story

  by

  J.J. MILLER

  © 2017 Innkeeper Publishing All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ✽✽✽

  Also by J.J. Miller

  Force of Justice (a Brad Madison novel)

  To the four amigos

  1

  The moment I see Claire I know she wants something. Normally, she never strays from being distinctly civil. Having her marriage fall apart was not what she ever wanted, but now that those cards have been dealt, she plays them admirably. Most times, when I see her, you could drive a truck through the emotional gap she keeps between us. Today, though, she looks anxious to talk, at least eager to burden me with whatever’s troubling her. Or she just plain wants something. As it turns out, I’m right on both counts.

  “Bella, head on inside, darling. I want a word with daddy.”

  Bella’s our five-year-old daughter. Saying goodbye to her after our weekends together kills me. For forty-eight hours, I’m her Facebook feed in the flesh, giving a validating thumbs up for her every gorgeous move, song and scribble. And for two whole days I get to feel special, adored. Then it all ends at this door, which will close in my face and shut me out of the home where I once belonged.

  Bella squeezes my thigh. I bend down and kiss the top of her head.

  “Bye, angel.”

  I watch Claire as Bella scoots inside.

  “Hey. What’s up?”

  “Bobby. Bobby Timmins. You know — Ellen’s boy. He’s in major trouble.”

  Ellen is Claire’s best friend. She’s now divorced but pulling huge alimony.

  “What’d he do? Trash another Merc?”

  Claire slaps me with a glare.

  “He’s been charged with murder.”

  “What?! You’re kidding me.”

  “A girl he dated was strangled, and the police think he did it. They’ve got him locked up. Ellen is beside herself.”

  I think of Bobby — a kid gifted with looks, money and brains — but, like many boys his age, lumped with a big dose of the stupid gene. I’ve come to his aid once before when he wrote off Ellen’s vintage Mercedes.

  “I know he’s had his moments, but this is a mistake,” Claire says. “It has to be. There’s no way Bobby could do such a thing. He’s not a murderer.”

  Now I know what’s coming.

  “Bradley, you have to get him out of there.”

  She doesn’t even think of phrasing it as a request.

  “Sure. I’ll look into it.”

  I can’t picture Bobby as a killer. But as a defense attorney, I know you can never underestimate the worst in people. So I’m not inclined to oversell what I can do.

  “No, Brad. You don’t get it. Bobby’s facing life. That can’t happen. You’ve got to make sure it doesn’t.”

  I wish I could be so sure without seeing any evidence, but I keep my mouth shut.

  I begin trying to manage Claire’s expectations, but she cuts me off.

  “You know, the way people talked about you not so long ago, I was beginning to think I was married to Atticus Finch. And what have you been telling me these past weeks? That you’re getting your shit together? Well then, here’s your chance to prove it.”

  She’s got her arms folded, a corner of her mouth raised. With her brown hair gathered high, she looks as beautiful as the day she said she’d marry me. The cute nose stud is gone, and her beauty has changed, deepened, thanks to the soulful bloom of motherhood. What hasn’t changed is her ability to make me lift my game.

  I smile at her, sensing the moment has softened. I take a half step towards her. She raises her hand.

  “Brad, get Bobby out of this mess,” she says. “Or you can forget about us being a family again.”

  She backs away and shuts the door. I’m standing there, head spinning, looking at the barrier between me and the life I want back. The life I managed to ruin when two Afghanistan tours worth of demons finally caught up with me. I thought I’d left the war behind, or at least shut down the worst of its memories, but it returned in force to all but destroy me.

  Post military, I thought I’d transitioned well back into civilian life, resuming my legal career. Sure, I loved the marines, but I always saw the law as my calling. After fighting for justice on the battlefield, I was happy to go back to serving its cause in court.

  But then Martin Petrovski happened. I got him off a serious assault charge, and then he turned around and killed his wife and their three kids. The horrific crime scene hit me like a speeding train. Major PTSD trigger. Reeling from both present and unearthed horrors, I hit peak levels of anxiety, fear and rage. I lost my grip on life and every good and decent thing it contained. Claire tried to stick with me despite all the damage my inner war wrought. But in the end it was too much, especially for Bella, and she told me to leave.

  To say I love her more than ever reeks of desperation, I suppose. But the fact that she hasn’t filed for divorce gives me a hope I can regain her trust and revive our love.

  Now, that hope rests on me proving a spoiled little brat by the name of Bobby Timmins did not commit murder.

  ✽✽✽

  The prison interview room is cold and soulless. But unlike the cells and the society of cons, crooks and animals that inhabit them, the interview room holds a whiff of humanity and hope. Bobby’s already seated at the table when I enter. He reminds me of a soldier after his first taste of battle. Nothing about life is flippant any more.

  “How you holding up, Bobby?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  He sits erect, his cuffed hands clasped in front. His desperate stare just about grabs me by the lapels.

  “I didn’t do this, Brad!”

  I believe him, and not just because I want to. I’ve seen quite a lot of Bobby over the years, and not just when he’s needed my help. His father was devoted only to himself, spending whatever free time he had at the country club or on women other than his wife. The only attention he ever gave Bobby, his only child, was an earful, and sometimes a fistful, of abuse. But while Bobby’s do-right radar may be a little off, his heart is in the right place. For years he’s been a volunteer baseball buddy, helping special needs kids enjoy the game he loves. It’s the sort of virtue you just can’t fake.

  But ultimately what I believe doesn’t count — it’s what the jury believes. And as it stands, we have Lindy Coleman, a beautiful twenty-one-year-old bartender-slash-actress strangled in her own apartment. We have a witness who reported hearing an argument coming from Lindy’s place just before seeing Bobby leave.

  “That’s good to know, Bobby. You need to fill me in. Every detail. Tell me exactly what happened.”

  It was a Tinder date, he says. He and Lindy met through what is basically a speed-dating app. Wherever you are, you can scan for available singles in your vicinity. If you find one you like and they like you back, bingo - you’re connected. Exchange a few text messages, meet up and you’ve pretty much landed a get-yourself-laid guarantee. No awkward first date spent feeling each other out. No wining and dining. Just no-strings-attached sex. A perfect playground for horny young dudes and chicks. Until some someone winds up dead, that is.

  Bobby tells me he and Lindy went to a bar briefly before she invited him back to her apartm
ent. There, they did tequila shots and started making out.

  “The sex was consensual, right?”

  “I barely touched her. We made out for a bit, but then she got weird on me. That’s when we started to fight. She just turned on me. Pushed me away, then slapped me.”

  “Did you deserve it?”

  “No. I didn’t come on too strong at all. I mean, I was drunk and so was she, but she was into it.”

  Bobby scratches his lightly stubbled chin with a thumb.

  “I wasn’t going to do anything stupid. Just after we got there, she told me she was going to record everything on her laptop, so…”

  “She told you that?”

  “Yeah, it was a security set-up. After she hit ‘record’ she was like, ‘You be a good boy now, momma's watching’.”

  “And you were okay with that?”

  Bobby shrugged.

  “What do I care? I was plastered and horny.”

  Like I said, the idiot gene.

  “What else did she say about the recording?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “Bobby, I need you to think hard. Did she say she had used it for other dates?”

  “No but, now you mention it, she did say something else a bit out there.”

  “What was that?”

  “She said Cameron might be watching.”

  “Cameron?”

  “Yeah, Cameron. I have no idea who that is. Maybe an ex or something.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “She said, ‘If he sees this, he’s going to lose his mind. He’ll beat the crap out of you. And he’ll probably kill me.’”

  “‘He’ll probably kill me’? Are you sure that’s what she said?”

  “Yeah, but she was laughing. So, you know. I thought she was just talking shit.”

  “What do you think now? Do you think she might have been serious?”

  “Maybe. She was acting like she wanted to rub his nose in it. To show she was over him, I guess.”

  “Even if it got her killed?”

  “Yeah, well I know that’s the way it sounds now, but I didn’t take it seriously at all. We were pretty messed up, and we’d both said some crazy stuff.”

  “Okay. The good thing here is that this will all be on the recording,” I say, feeling upbeat that we already have another suspect. You don’t get a much clearer motive for murder than jealousy.

  “No. This was all before she hit record.”

  Damn it! I try to hide my disappointment and move on.

  “So then things got out of hand?”

  “Well, later they did, yeah. I was pissed off. She was getting more and more worked up, and then she was screaming at me. So I gave her some back and left.”

  “What do you mean you gave her some back? Bobby, did you hit her?”

  “No, Brad. I swear I didn't. We wrestled a bit when she came at me a few times, but I was just trying to keep her off me. I didn’t touch her. At least not in the way I wanted to.”

  He allows himself to smirk. The idiot gene again.

  “Bobby. Let me tell you something. You show a hint of that kind of attitude on the stand and a jury won't hesitate to put you in a cell for the rest of your life.”

  The wind leaves him fast.

  “I didn't lay a hand on her, Brad. You’ve got to believe me.”

  ✽✽✽

  Assistant district attorney Lawrence Lewis is the image of a young lawyer on the up. He can wow a courtroom with his eloquence, lift it with his dress sense, excite it with his passion for justice.

  He’s come a long way since being raised by a single mom in south-east LA. If he were a rap singer he’d be up there with Kendrick Lamar as the pride of Compton. But Lawrence was a quiet achiever, and a phenomenal one. Blessed with both talent and drive, he defied stereotype and disadvantage to become one of Stanford’s top law students and one of LA’s most promising lawyers.

  But Lawrence Lewis won’t be defined by a job title. He’s going to make an impact, not just have a career. You just know it.

  I like the guy. We’ve traded blows a few times in court, but that’s where we leave it.

  I take a seat in front of his desk.

  “I hope you’ve come here to plea,” he says. “Because I can tell you right now that the best your client is going to get is twenty years. It’s that or life.”

  “What have you got exactly, Lawrence?”

  “For starters, we've got a laptop recording of your client engaged in a violent confrontation with Lindy Coleman. This video could not save Miss Coleman’s life, but it points straight to her killer. And your client has been positively identified as that killer.”

  “Who by?”

  “Next door neighbor. Cory Simpson. It took him a heartbeat to finger Timmins in a lineup.”

  “Can I see the tape?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Lawrence punches a few keys on his laptop then swings it around to face me.

  I watch as a series of men take it in turns to enter a corridor. They are asked to walk straight towards the witness standing behind a one-way mirror. Simpson dismisses the first three quickly. The fourth he takes a bit more time but also dismisses.

  Then Bobby walks in. He’s barely taken a step before Simpson cries, “That’s him!”

  “You sure?” says a voice.

  “That’s him. One hundred per cent. That’s the son-of-a-bitch who killed my Elsie.”

  I look up at Lawrence.

  “Elsie?”

  Lawrence shrugs. “Must be a nickname.”

  I can see why Lawrence is riding high. His goal is to get justice for that poor girl’s devastated family, and he feels certain he’ll get it.

  “Brad, if this case was any more black and white it’d be a herd of frickin’ zebras. Tell your client to take the plea. Twenty years.”

  I've got my head down. Texting.

  “Jack. Need your help. Big time.”

  I look back up at Lawrence blankly. The plea deal is Bobby’s decision, but I can’t give Lawrence any sign of hesitation, not at this early stage.

  “No deal.”

  2

  I know Jack Briggs has come into my office without even looking up. He doesn't so much open the door as take it out. Jack never quite got football out of his system. He was a star college quarterback before two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of defensive end crushed his throwing arm and broke it against the fold. NFL hopes over but not the love of sporting contact, my door can’t get out of his way quick enough.

  Through the glass my secretary Megan gives me that ‘What am I — a lamp?’ look. I smile and shrug.

  “Good to see you, Jack.”

  He's already seated, the air seeping from the leathered padding. He rests ankle on knee, checks his phone, then drops his right paw onto the arm of the chair with a thud.

  “You’ve lost weight,” I tell him. It’s a joke. Jack’s forty in age but an elite athlete in terms of BMI — you couldn’t fry an egg with his bodyfat.

  Jack’s face lights up with a smile that belongs on a billboard.

  “I skipped a breakfast.”

  Why Jack Briggs and his six-two frame and easy charm isn’t a jobbing actor beats me. I can only assume he’s just not interested in playing make believe.

  “Thanks for getting here so quick, Jack.”

  “Your message intrigued me, Mr. Madison. What have we got?”

  That’s one of the things I like about Jack — he’s a team player. He runs his own show, but when engaged on a case, it’s a co-mission. He’s an ace investigator — well connected, smart, super tech savvy and dogged. The only reason I can afford him is he bills me at a discount. He’s never explained why, but I’m guessing he likes the fact that I’ve served.

  “Bobby Timmins. Twenty-two. Homicide. A young woman was found strangled and he was the last to see her.”

  “Lindy Coleman?”

  “You've heard already?”

  “I hear everything. Besides, I'm
a bit of a fan. At least, I was.”

  Lindy had a minor role in a low-rating TV series about a bunch of vigilante vampires who only target bad guys, taking out LA’s trash. The public fell for them, and they became celebrities and ended up getting their own reality TV series. Blood Lustre, it was called. It lasted one season.

  “You watched that crap?”

  “What can I say? It kind of sucked me in.”

  Jack chuckles.

  “Right. Here's what I need you to do. Get down to the crime scene and see what you can find.”

  “Check.”

  “And pay that neighbor a visit. Unit twenty-two A. Cory Simpson. He's their key witness — picked out Bobby in a lineup.”

  “Okay, chief. I'm on it.”

  Jack gets to his feet and stands there, towering over my desk, stuck in thought.

  “What is it?”

  “You believe the kid?”

  Jack has no interest in helping the guilty get away with murder. He wants his pay checks to be underwritten by a clear conscience. The moment he’s convinced a client is guilty, he'll tie up loose ends and withdraw.

  “I do. Things are stacked against him, but he did not kill that girl.”

  “Right. I'll keep you posted.”

  He walks out of my office and stops to chat briefly with Megan, who wags a finger at him. Then he makes for the elevator.

  ✽✽✽

  Megan walks in and hands me an envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s from the ADA’s office. You want some coffee?”

  I nod.

  “Thanks Megan.”

  The envelope contains a thumb drive and a few photocopied pages — investigation notes and a layout of Lindy Coleman’s apartment. Lawrence has stuck a post-it note to the top.

  “Choose your battles, Brad,” it reads. He wants that plea deal.

  I read the observation notes. It includes a brief description of the apartment’s contents. Then there’s a note about the laptop: “Recording ended when power ran out.”

  The map shows the laptop placed on the kitchen bench. It is turned out towards the lounge room, but only just. I wonder how much of the drama that angle could actually capture.