Save Your Breath (Morgan Dane #6) - Melinda Leigh Page 0,36

on TV a while back, about the same time Erik was first arrested. She wanted to hire you to represent him then.” He shifted his weight. “But our funds were limited. I wanted someone with more experience in criminal defense. Your practice had just opened.”

Morgan had additional experience as a prosecutor, but now was not the time to mention it. She wasn’t selling her services. She’d already refused the case.

Mr. Olander set his mug on the desk. “Here’s the thing. The damned prosecutor was such an arrogant prick in the courtroom. It wouldn’t surprise me if he knew all about the juror and picked her on purpose.”

ADA Anthony Esposito had prosecuted Erik’s case. Morgan had a sometimes adversarial, sometimes cordial relationship with Esposito. His moral code seemed as gray as the charcoal suits he favored. He could be arrogant, and he liked to win. But Morgan couldn’t see him committing an ethical violation and jeopardizing his career by withholding critical information from the defense, especially not in a case where he already had a clear advantage.

Morgan said, “In most cases, neither the prosecutor nor the defense counsel would know about an event from a juror’s distant past.”

“Well, he treated Erik like dirt.”

Of course he had. Esposito had wanted the jury to feel his certainty that Erik was guilty. He had wanted them to feel—and share—his disgust. Much of what happened in the courtroom was theatrics. The truth was irrelevant if an attorney could not convince the jury.

Olander’s fist suddenly slammed down on her desk, rattling it—and surprising Morgan with the rapid shift in his demeanor.

“Erik’s trial was a farce.” Olander’s face twisted until he barely resembled the man she’d let into her office. “I paid a lot of money for a good lawyer, and the first thing he did was suggest Erik plead guilty.”

The firm the Olanders had hired was based in Albany. Morgan was familiar with their attorney’s reputation. He was experienced and seemed competent.

The skin of Mr. Olander’s already-lean face had tightened with anger. Maybe Erik had inherited his father’s volatile temper. She considered Olander’s behavior on the doorstep. He’d lost his entire life. Some emotional instability should be expected, but Morgan had interviewed hundreds of suspects, victims, and witnesses. Mr. Olander set off her well-honed bullshit detector.

Was he truly volatile, or had his depression been an act? Had he been trying to manipulate Morgan’s sympathy and cooperation? Which one was the real Mr. Olander?

Morgan remembered Mrs. Olander’s statement when she’d first entered Morgan’s office: Kennett doesn’t know I’m here. He wouldn’t approve. At the time, Morgan hadn’t thought much of the comment, but now she wondered if Mrs. Olander had been afraid of her husband.

Erik’s wife had been researching domestic violence shelters on the sly. Maybe wife beating and being a control freak ran in the family.

“Our fucking lawyer should have found out about the juror’s partiality,” Mr. Olander said. “We shouldn’t have learned about it from a reporter.”

“As I explained to your wife, being a domestic violence victim more than twenty years ago would not automatically disqualify her from serving on the jury.”

“That’s bullshit!” Mr. Olander spat out the words. “I hate lawyers.” His voice rose, and he banged a fist on his thigh. “Can’t I get a fucking straight answer from you either?”

“Mr. Olander, it isn’t that simple.”

“No shit. I’m not stupid,” he snapped. “I’m pissed off. I sold my farm, and I’ve nothing to show for it.”

Had he thought with enough money he could buy his son’s freedom?

“The past few years have been tough. I have nothing left. The fucking lawyers took what was left, and then Lena comes to me saying we need to hire another one. I told her”—his voice dropped off abruptly and his gaze shifted, as if he had barely stopped himself from saying something he knew he shouldn’t—“I told her, ‘No. We already have a lawyer. I’m not throwing more money at a different one.’ I need you to give me whatever money my wife gave you as a retainer.”

“She didn’t give me any money. I turned her down. As I told your wife, you need an appellate lawyer—”

“Fuck you!” He leaped to his feet. “I know she gave you money. She took a check, and it wasn’t in her purse.”

Morgan had a brief but vivid flashback to the last time she’d dealt with an impulsive, violent client. He’d punched her in the face in the middle of the courthouse corridor. She’d suffered a concussion. Her face had healed,