“Go. You’re going to be late.”
As she rushed out, she yelled over her shoulder, “Wish me luck!”
“Good luck, Cara. Show them they can’t mess with you.”
Cara disappeared down the hallway.
* * *
Hawk, leaning over and talking to the giggling court clerk, saw Cara enter the courtroom from the corner of his eye. He purposely kept flashing his dimpled smile as he inched closer toward the clerk to hear what she was saying.
“Hey, Casanova, can you come over here?” Cara pointed at the table furthest away from the jury box.
“I’ve been summoned,” Hawk said to the clerk, making her laugh. He sauntered over to the table.
“Hi, babe,” he said.
“Sorry to break up your cozy klatch, but we have a few things to go over before the hearing starts.”
As Cara talked, Hawk checked her out. He saw her mouth twitch and her tone was stern; she was irked. Satisfaction coursed through his body. He’d played up his conversation with the clerk just to piss Cara off, and it worked.
As the deputy district attorney came into the courtroom, Hawk noticed he ran his eyes over Cara’s amazing rack, and that pissed him off. Hawk wished he could take him in an alley and punch the shit out of his round, chubby face.
Hawk focused back on Cara—specifically, her tight black skirt and purple satin top. He loved the way she wore clothes. He didn’t know how she did it, but she revealed more in clothes than all the women at the club did in their skimpy outfits. He could look at her all day, and the fact that she was doing and saying all this lawyer shit blew his mind. Her sass and confidence gave her a sexy softness, and he wanted to fuck her on the table in front of everyone with her law books around her. She blew his mind.
“Did you hear what I said, Hawk?”
“No.”
“You need to pay attention because I may need you to be a witness if the court wants additional information. I can’t have you zone out on me, understood?”
“You don’t need to patronize me, babe. I know what’s up.” He reached out and touched her hand. She jerked it away from him.
“Are you crazy? Don’t do that again. I don’t need this case compromised because you can’t keep your hands to yourself,” she gritted.
Hawk glared at her. He should grab her and kiss her hard enough to show her and every other damned ass in the courtroom that he didn’t give a shit about their rules. That was the trouble with citizens—they were so caught up in what people thought or said, making their insecurities their chains. He hated spending so much time in the citizens’ world. Fuck.
The judge took the bench, and the Motion to Dismiss hearing began. Cara fought hard on Hawk’s behalf. She produced the pre-raid photographs and authenticated them with a deputy sheriff who testified he’d received the photos from the lead investigator the morning of the search, and he’d marked and placed them in the evidence box. The deputy stated his surprise when the photos went missing. He swore he had no idea who took them out of the evidence box, but the photos Cara showed him in court were the same ones he’d handled that morning.
The deputy district attorney tried to punch holes in the deputy sheriff’s testimony, but the witness was firm and unyielding.
After an hour of testimony, both sides rested. Cara made a compelling argument to the judge that the prosecution had no proof the .22-caliber ammo box belonged to Hawk.
“Your Honor, the only proof in this case is that my client, Mr. Benally, is the victim of a setup. From the pre-raid photos, we can see that the ammo box was not on the table, and yet, the ammo box magically appeared after the photos were taken. There were no guns, not even a .22 revolver, found on the premises. My client was not even in his home when the ‘search’ was conducted. This whole case reeks, and it would be a miscarriage of justice to allow it to proceed.”
Hawk wanted to stand up, applaud her, then kiss her soft lips. She was so passionate in her arguments and had so much fire; he wanted to fuck her so bad. Damn!
The judge, looking at the prosecutor, asked, “Is that all that was found in the house? Is it true no guns were in the home?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“The photos here don’t show the ammo box on the table. Can you explain that?”
“No, Your Honor, I can’t.”
“Ms. Minelli, is your client in a biker gang?”
“No, Your Honor. My client is a member of a motorcycle club. The club is not a gang,” Cara explained.
The prosecutor interjected, “Club, gang, what’s the difference? The point is that he is vice president of the Insurgents—an outlaw biker gang.”