Jury of One by David Ellis Read Free Book Online Page B

mansion to continue the G.O.P. domination of that office.
    Paul Riley, who represented everything she disliked aboutthe law, had beaten her butt in the sexual harassment case, a jury verdict for the defense. An arrogant man who had the jury eating out of his hand, who developed a folksy style, a humble-country-lawyer thing that made him look reasonable when he suggested that the school could not possibly have known that one of its teachers would undergo such a transformation from respected language arts teacher to sexually ravenous predator.
    Your problem was the boy,
Paul had informed Shelly after the verdict, in a phone call to congratulate her on a well-fought trial.
Harder to accept that a woman can rape a boy, especially a big, strong kid like that.
    He was being kind, in her estimation. The truth was that Paul Riley had simply whipped her butt. And now she needed the best. She needed to do whatever she could for Alex. She knew Alex had money, but not the kind of money Riley would command. On the other hand, this was a hot case, a cop killing, heavily covered in the press. That might be payment enough for someone like Riley.
    “Michelle!” Paul said, as his assistant led Shelly into his office. The firm was located in a lakefront building, with a lobby spacious enough to land a plane, state-of-the-art architecture, a faux waterfall, modern furniture. Walking through it, Shelly momentarily paid respect to something she would never know: the billable hour.
    His office fit the bill, in the corner facing north and east, capturing the lake and the developments along it in floor-to-ceiling windows. There was little in the way of cabinets—presumably the assistants and paralegals held on to the files. One long shelf ran along the east wall to hold Paul’s awards and memorabilia, some of it impressive, some of it morbid. A knife was laminated to a plaque with the inscription,
People v. Burgos.
Presumably the knife used to slit the throat of one of the many victims. Pictures on the walls featuring Riley with various officials, including one with the current governor, Langdon Trotter. Behind his desk, on the wall, was an artist’s sketch of Paul Riley questioning a witness in the prosecution of Terry Burgos, with the subtitle “The Alibi.” She remembered the issue in general terms. Burgos had apparently tried to create an alibi for the murders of the young women and used his boss, a university professor whoowned a printing company, as corroboration. But Burgos’s plan was foiled when his alibi was exposed, when it was revealed that he had doctored the time sheets. The prosecution—Paul Riley, that is—had used the aborted alibi as proof of Burgos’s consciousness of guilt, which meant he did not fit the state’s legal definition of insanity.
    Paul came from around his desk and showed her to the beautiful wine-colored couch against the south wall. This office was big enough for casual furniture. This office was, in fact, approximately half the size of Shelly’s studio apartment.
    “Good to see you,” he said. “How’s my favorite public-interest lawyer?”
    The question annoyed her about ten different ways, including the condescension she imagined, the fact that they hadn’t gotten along at all during the trial, and the fact that he was greeting her so casually when she’d scheduled an urgent appointment. He was showing her his cool even in an emergency.
    “You’ve grown your hair out,” he observed. “It looks very nice.”
    “I think I need your help, Paul,” she managed.
    Paul, sitting next to her on the couch, nodded, pursed his lips, kept them from a smile. He was physically fit for an older man, looked comfortable in an expensive suit. His face was long and lined, well-proportioned, deep smile lines around his mouth and eyes. His hair was expensively coiffed and sprayed into place. “I imagine it must be important, if you’re asking me.”
    Shelly did not conceal her reaction but kept silent.
    Paul