“That’s what I thought. Now, if I remember correctly, I tried that case alone, didn’t I? No co-counsel?”
“I don’t remember.” I squirmed at the lie.
“Come now, Ms. Montreat. Surely you can remember the case that you say is the very reason you took a job at my firm.” He had me. His tone, silky and oh-so-reasonable, told me he knew he had me. I knew that tone, remembered it from the very trial we were discussing. It had hypnotized me, put me under Washington Granade’s spell.
Now I wanted him under mine. I tried a new tactic. Offense. I shifted back toward him and pretended to have noticed some lint on my top. I slid my lapel back and brushed my hand over the swell of my breast while letting my legs open the slightest bit because I was distracted.
“Lint everywhere. I swear my dry cleaners are out to get me.” I looked up, and he faced forward, eyes on the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.
I took the chance to finish my interrogation the way I wanted. “But yes, I enjoyed the trial. I thought the State’s attorney, Matt Turnbull, wasn’t that his name? Anyway, I thought he really did a great job with the State’s case. Even though he lost, I think he was just so eloquent and prepared. Really a great attorney. I was so impressed that I wanted to do criminal work.”
“Yeah, Matt.” A muscle ticked in his jaw.
I wanted him to call me out on the lie, maybe pull over and spank me—if I was going to dream, I was going to dream big. Instead, he turned the radio up a few clicks and schooled his features. He was the Hardass again. At least I’d rattled him a bit and gotten him to stop cross-examining me. He was tenacious, but I didn’t want to show all my cards, and did I mention I was competitive?
We rode the rest of the way in silence. I had a million more questions, but I tried to channel Terrell and keep them to myself.
When we finally arrived at the front gate of the prison, the sun was high. Guard towers flanked the entrance, though I didn’t see anyone inside them. We pulled to a stop under an awning, and Mr. Granade rolled down his window to speak to the guard at what looked like a tollbooth.
Once assured we were legit attorneys, not ex-cons with their hearts set on a prison break, the guard waved us through to the main building.
“Stay close to me. Don’t wander off. Don’t speak to any of the inmates. Can you do that?” Mr. Granade stowed his glasses in the console.
“Yes.”
He turned to me, sternness and something else—worry?—written on his face. “Just keep your eyes open. These guys are contained, but it’s still a complex filled with violent people, okay? So stay close. Promise me you will.”
“Okay. I promise.” I was at one and the same time thrilled that he cared but worried that I would get jumped Shawshank style.
I got out, and he joined me as we walked up to the building. He kept his hand at my lower back as we went inside. It wasn’t exactly professional, but I wasn’t about to complain. His warning had gotten my radar pinging like crazy. I kept looking for shivs made from toothbrushes—and that was just on the guards. I had no idea what I’d do when I saw the actual inmates.
We checked in at the desk and then prepared to go through the metal detector. Mr. Granade went ahead of me and dropped his keys, wallet, and a few other items in the bin. Then I heard the jingle of a belt buckle. Is he taking off his b—? Yes, he whipped his belt off and dropped it into the bin along with everything else and stepped through. No beeping; he was clear.
I dropped my bag into a bin and walked through. Beeping. The guard came around and waved the wand all over me. The beeping happened whenever it went over my chest. The girls needed more than a regular underwire, as the metal detector could attest.
“Put your arms out.” The guard kept waving his wand like he was directing airport traffic.
I did as instructed. He kept beeping it over my chest. Heat rushed into my cheeks. Mr. Granade put his belt back on and stared as the guard kept up the TSA routine. At least he wasn’t laughing at me.
“You got anything in your bra?”
“Just my tits.” My face grew redder, and I wished, for just once in my life, I could think before I spoke.
“I’m going to have to pat you down.” The guard grinned and dropped the wand onto the conveyor belt. He stepped toward me.
Hell no.
“No. You aren’t touching her.” Mr. Granade’s voice held a warning.
“I have to search her. Can’t be letting people bring contraband into the prison.” The guard kept his eyes on me, or rather on my tits, until Mr. Granade walked between us.
“I said you aren’t touching her. She’s an officer of the court, and she’s with me. If you lay a finger on her, I’ll file a civil suit for section 1983 violations so fast it’ll make your hillbilly head spin.”