States of Grace Mandy Miller (top business books of all time txt) 📖

I pat my laptop. “The discovery on Zoe Slim’s case that needs reviewing. I needed a homey place to face the brutal facts and not make me wanna drown my sorrows.”

“So, you chose a bar? My bar?”

I shrug.

“Should I be worried?” he says, which I take as a reference to my frequently patronizing a bar.

“You’re the one barkeep in this town who won’t serve me. Besides, it would take more than a few months in the pokey and a trashed career to take me down again. Just too damn stubborn to crawl into a hole and die. So, here I am. In a bar. Your bar. Where the company’s good, even if the case sucks.”

Unconsciously, I rub the hot spot on my right thigh where the shrapnel is buried.

“You doing okay?” he asks, his warm smile replaced by concern.

“Yep, all good,” I say, although my mind is full of my old boss, State Attorney Britt, and the havoc he could wreak for me if he had any inkling about how I maneuvered my way onto Zoe’s case.

Jake leans against the back bar, his broad shoulders reflected in the mirror behind the rows of liquor bottles and waits until I look up from the screen.

“I’m good. I am,” I say, conscious that my tone rings less confident than intended. “I’ve been going to meetings every day, got me a sponsor, and—”

“The case, I mean.” He snaps the towel at me. “Are you doing okay with your new case?”

“Since you asked…” I jab at the power button on my laptop, imagining it as Britt’s eye. “The cops found the murder weapon in Zoe’s locker with her prints on it. And it turns out the gun is registered to her father.”

His face contorts into a scowl. “Not good at all.”

“You’re the master of the obvious, Jacko. But since you’re so nosy, another reason I’m up here is to do a meet and greet across the street with two new court-appointed clients. Figured I wouldn’t have to waste my very valuable time waiting to get in.”

“Yeah, what idiot has nothing better to do than to shoot the shit with a couple of criminals the morning after a storm?”

“Just me, I guess, but I need the chump change.” I poke my tongue in my cheek. “And they are accused, Jake, accused.”

“Now you think they’re all innocent.”

I bark out a laugh. “Shoe on the other foot is what I’ve been told.”

“And how does it fit?”

I tip my head from side to side. “Jury’s still out.”

“I’ll leave you to get on with it. I’ve got paperwork to do in the back. If you need me, holler. Or if some unrepentant drunk, other than Moose, wanders in here looking for his next drink, holler louder.”

“Roger that.”

***

Serial killer or petty thief, the format of the State’s discovery packet never varies, but given how big this computer file is, Hightower appears to be covering all the bases and then some.

The first page is the case identifier: State of Florida v. Zoe S. Slim, case number 09-007878CF10A, Division FB/Judge Twietmeyer. Next, the bones of the State’s case―a list of witnesses, along with physical and other evidence, including exculpatory evidence, if any exists, but I can’t remember even one time I handed over anything that might have let a criminal walk. I’m sure Hightower has also left a few things out accidentally on purpose.

Law enforcement witnesses: Detectives Sorenson and Reilly, Officers Lynch and Bond, and a long list of uniforms on scene at St. Paul’s. Next: Wendy Struppe and Jason Oliver, crime scene technicians; Vincent Owen, M.D., the medical examiner; Albert Simpson, fingerprint technician. Civilians: Elaine Bannister and Serena Price. No alibi witness. No surprises.

“She’s screwed.”

“What?” Jake yells from the back.

I ignore him and get back to reading.

A big fat blank space under the heading Williams Rule/Exculpatory Evidence.

“No surprise there, I guess.”

As much as it used to pain me, the prosecution is required by law to turn over anything that might suggest the defendant might not have done what he or she is charged with. But no such luck for Zoe, the omission of any good news further cementing the hopelessness of my first big case back.

Dr. Owen’s grisly autopsy report follows: “Conclusion—cause of death was two gunshot wounds, one to each of the head and groin. Manner of death—homicide.” To the point. No need to say more.

The crime scene photos, some of which I saw at the bail hearing, are horrific to the point of being pornographic. Sinclair’s body sprawled back in his chair, knees wide. Sinclair’s exploded head, clumps of brain tissue on the chair and splattered on the bookshelf. His once white button-down saturated with so much blood that the polo man on the chest is now a gruesome shadow. Sinclair’s pants bunched around his ankles, the white rubber toes of his Converse high tops frosted with crimson, topped off with boxers, a repeating pattern of cupid and his bow. I’ll say they’re too prejudicial, but that won’t fly with Twietmeyer. He’ll admit them into evidence.

I expel a sigh strong enough to blow several cocktail napkins off a pile and along the bar.

“What’s wrong?” Jake says, between swipes at the array of bottles with his squirrel-like feather duster.

I turn the laptop around.

“Nice skivvies,” he says.

“You guys always go for the low hanging fruit first,” I say, the pun sending Jake into paroxysms of laughter.

“Hey, pay attention here. This is important. What else do you see in the picture?”

He leans in. After a few seconds his eyes widen. “What a creep! The way the papers talk about him, he was the next coming of Jesus Christ.”

I turn the computer back around and hone in on the simple gold wedding band on Sinclair’s left ring finger. “Exactly. Maybe our Mr. Sinclair was a regular guy after all, just one who got caught with his pants down.”

“So to speak.”

“Could be I’ve got something to work with there,” I mumble to myself as I click through the pictures of