The Good Daughter (The Good Daughter #1) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,108
you,’ when you meant, ‘you should.’”
Sam laughed, which seemed inappropriate given their destination was the city jail.
Representing Kelly Wilson was secondary to finding out what was wrong with Charlie both physically because of the bruises and emotionally because of everything else, but Sam did not take lightly the job of representing the school shooter. For the first time in many years, she was nervous about talking to a client, and worse, walking into an unfamiliar courtroom.
She told Charlie, “My Portland cases were in family court. I’ve never sat across from an accused murderer before.”
Charlie gave Sam a careful look, as if something might be wrong with her. “We both have, Sammy.”
Sam waved off the concern. She was unwilling to explain how she had always put her life into categories. The Sam who had sat across from the Culpepper brothers at the kitchen table was not the same Sam who had practiced law in Portland.
She said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve handled a criminal complaint.”
“It’s just an arraignment. It’ll come back to you.”
“I’ve never been on the other side.”
“Well, the first thing you’ll notice is the judge won’t be kissing your ass.”
“They didn’t in Portland. Even the cops had ‘fuck the man’ bumper stickers.”
Charlie shook her head. She had probably never been anywhere like it. “Usually, I have five minutes with my client before we’re in court. There’s not a lot to say. They generally did what they were charged with doing—buying drugs, selling drugs, using drugs, stealing shit or fencing shit so they can get more drugs. I look at their sheet and see if they qualify for rehab or some kind of diversion, and then I tell them what’s going to happen next. That’s what they usually want to know. Even if they’ve been in a courtroom a zillion times before, they want to know the sequence of events. What happens next? And then what happens? And then what? I tell them a hundred times, and each time they ask me again and again.”
Sam thought that sounded a hell of a lot like Charlie’s role during Sam’s early recovery. “Isn’t that tedious?”
“I always remind myself that they’re freaked the hell out, and knowing what comes next gives them some sense of control.” Charlie asked, “Why are you licensed in Georgia?”
Sam had wondered when this question would arise. “My firm has offices in Atlanta.”
“Come on. There’s a guy down here who handles the local stuff. You’re the micromanaging asshole partner who flies down every few months and looks over his shoulder.”
Sam laughed again. Charlie had more or less framed the dynamic. Laurens Van Loon was technically their point man in Atlanta, but Sam liked having the option to take over if needed. And she also liked walking into the bar exam and leaving with the certainty that she had passed without opening a book to study.
Charlie said, “The Georgia Bar Association has an online directory. I’m right above Rusty and he’s right above you.”
Sam thought about the three of their names appearing together. “Does Ben work with Daddy, too?”
“It’s not ‘too,’ because I don’t work with Dad, and no, he’s an ADA under Ken Coin.”
Sam ignored the inimical tone. “Doesn’t that cause conflicts?”
“There are enough criminals to go around.” Charlie pointed out the window. “They have good fish tacos here.”
Sam felt an arch in her eyebrow. There was a taco truck on the side of the road, the same sort of thing she’d see in New York or Los Angeles. The line stretched at least twenty people deep. Other trucks had even longer lines—Korean barbecue, Peri-Peri chicken, and something called the Fusion Obtrusion.
She asked, “Where are we?”
“We passed the line into Pikeville about a minute ago.”
Sam’s hand reflexively went to her heart. She hadn’t noticed the demarcation. She hadn’t felt the expected shift in her body, the dread, the feeling of despondency, that she had assumed would announce her homecoming.
“Ben loves that place, but I can’t stand it.” Charlie pointed to a building with a distinct Alpine design to match the restaurant’s name: the Biergarten.
The chalet was not the only new addition. Downtown was unrecognizable. Two- and three-story brick buildings had loft apartments upstairs and downstairs shops selling clothing, antiques, olive oils and artisanal cheeses.
Sam asked, “Who in Pikeville would pay that much for cheese?”
“Weekenders, at first. Then people started moving up here from Atlanta. Retired baby boomers. Wealthy tech types. A handful of gay people. We’re not a dry county anymore. They passed a liquor ordinance five