Bad Behavior(58)

I picked up the file, wondering what someone named Clarence Sherman had to do with anything.

I flipped open the front flap, humoring Jonesy, or so I told myself. Clarence Sherman's mug shot was enough to make me want to end him. The creep's face leered up at me from the glossy sheet, death to bitches tattooed on his neck.

Page after page detailed his depravity. He was one of DiSalvo's most vicious enforcers. I continued flipping, his rap sheet like the diary of a madman. I stopped when I came to his last arrest record for murder, no surprise there. Then I saw the notation at the bottom of his arraignment sheet. Evangeline Pallida was appointed as his public defender. This had been years ago, when she'd first started out. I smirked-when she'd wanted to "help people." What a load of horseshit.

I kept flipping, faster now, looking at the plea deals offered by the prosecutor, each one refused by Evan. Then came the trial transcript. I skimmed past the prosecution's case and slowed to pore over Evan's arguments. She did well for her client, far better than that piece of shit deserved. Her words were persuasive, solid. I shook my head. She put her credibility and her bar license on the line for a man who was no better than an animal, worse even. She truly had no remorse, no decency in her anywhere. After seeing her closing arguments about how Sherman's charges were a "miscarriage of justice," I'd had enough and slammed the file closed.

A sheet of paper flew out, disturbed by the rush of air. I picked it up, preparing to cram it back into the file before throwing the whole thing in Jonesy's face. 

The paper caught my eye. It was newsprint, a story on the trial's outcome. There was an inset photo of the courthouse steps, bathed in late-afternoon light. Evan was in motion when the picture was snapped, her foot hovering over the next step in her descent away from the courthouse. But her movement wasn't what caught my attention.

It was her face, almost unrecognizable. She was haggard, haunted. Hollows resided where her cheeks should have been, and the dark circles under her eyes rivaled some nasty shiners. Her eyes-Jesus Christ, the fear that lived in them in that photo tore at my guts. She was terrified.

I glanced farther up the picture. There, in the shade of the stone overhang, stood DiSalvo. He haunted the top of the steps, Sherman at his elbow, both men watching Evan's retreat.

It was then I realized how DiSalvo had caught her in his trap. He'd no doubt seen what she could do in Sherman's trial, how she was a diamond in the rough. If it came through easily on the black-and-white transcript, it had to have been stunning to watch her work in person. With her particular skill set, she was a major asset.

I could see in my mind how it all must have played out. A wealthy benefactor offering to put Evan back on her feet after she'd gone through hell? Of course she'd agreed to it; she would have been a fool not to. And from the looks of her in the photograph, she was not in the right headspace to make such a momentous decision. I'd been there. I knew what could happen when a person ran on pure emotion and little else.

Jonesy had done me a solid that day, made everything clear. No wonder she'd chosen the nuclear option. She had nowhere else to turn.

That day I refocused my energy, no longer directing my rage toward Evan. I knew it had been DiSalvo all along, crushing Evan into a corner, giving her no chance of escape. I wanted my hands around DiSalvo's throat. Choking the life out of that piece of shit would be a public service.

Wood's door opened, bringing me back to the present as a deep burst of several voices rising in laughter echoed out into the waiting room. In its wake came Wood, shaking hands with each of the black-suited brass from D.C. in turn. "I'll meet you for lunch at one, let's say?" he asked.

The three from the attorney general's office agreed and left. I gave them a curt nod as they passed.

"I need to speak with you. Now." I tried to keep my voice even.

Wood lifted his gray eyebrows. "Well, I need to take a piss, so walk with me."

I fell into step behind him, following him down the long hall toward the restrooms.

"For someone who needs to talk, you sure are silent."

"This needs to be for your ears only."

"Step into my office," Wood said and swung open the door to the men's room.

I followed and did a quick sweep of the stalls to make sure we were alone. He took position at the urinal and gave an immediate meaning to the term "pissing and moaning."

"I thought they would never leave. Jesus. People from D.C. talk just to hear themselves. Pompous assholes."

"Wood, Evan's in trouble." My voice bounced off the white tiles.

"You two talking again? After what she pulled with your brother?"

"That's not important."