Honey

"Franklin file .... Franklin file ... where on earth are you hiding?" Honey muttered as she dug through a stack of files on her desk. "There you are, you little fink!" She chortled as she uncovered the file she'd been in search of for the last five minutes. "You can run, but you can't hide!" Clutching the file folder briefly to her chest she allowed herself a sigh of relief before glancing at her watch.

That's when she realized her hectic morning had pushed her into speaking not to a colleague or the department paralegal, but to a file folder.

The morning had gotten off to a terrible start: Two pair of ruined stockings, a change of blouse after a coffee splash, and the worst—a dropped cell phone. The nasty cracked screen was more terrifying than a spider and looked way too much like a spider’s web in her mind. The expensive device managed to work well enough for her to answer calls she'd received, but she couldn't make any outgoing calls. It was the last thing she'd wanted to deal with on a Friday morning and the last thing she needed this particular Friday morning, but she refused to believe it had anything to day with the date on the calendar – Friday the thirteenth.

The misplaced file was another aberration. Usually she was organized to the hilt, but the cold she’d suffered last week had knocked her down and left her with a hoarse and crackling voice and lingering cough. The open email program on her computer, coupled with a telephone that never seemed to stop ringing, oppressed her with a sense of impending doom. She would’ve sworn she’d just cleared a dozen or more emails but the count displayed in the lower left corner was higher than when she’d started. At this time, it didn’t matter—court took precedence over email. It had only taken her two days into her job to understand that court took precedence over everything.

Working as a public defender had been her career choice, at least until she was ready to consider opening a private detective agency with Trixie. She'd known it was the right career choice before the end of her first year of law school. But to satisfy herself, and in large part to satisfy her father, she'd spent the summer after that first year working as a volunteer for the U.S. Department of Justice. That work only served to reinforce her conviction that work as a public defender was the experience she wanted. She smiled now, remembering the arguments with her father. Matthew Wheeler loved his daughter, but he was even more stubborn than her full-blooded adopted brother. Since he’d refused to support her work as a volunteer in the public defender's office after her second year of law school, she'd applied for, and successfully earned, a paid internship working in Nashville, Tennessee. During that summer she supported herself financially, with no assistance from her father. Soon after relocating to the Deep South, she realized she'd never be able to go by the name of Honey if she stayed. Everyone from judges to district attorneys to plaintiffs and defendants referred to females as Honey. Even other females called each other Honey. That summer in Nashville she retired, at least professionally, the nickname Honey and became known as Madeleine—no nickname was necessary or desired.

It hadn’t come easy, convincing her father that this was what she wanted to do. The struggle to win his approval and stand up for her career had caused the longest, most explosive argument in their relationship. Even Jim had taken cover, but she won her point and Matthew conceded, with obvious admiration for his daughter.

Now, looking at her growing case load, the pressures of the job, a boss who presented his own set of problems, and following the loss of two of her most recent cases, she couldn't help wondering if she really was making a difference in the system at all. In the back of her mind, she knew it was time to move on but she hadn’t been able to pull that trigger just yet.

A sharp knock on the open office door jerked her back from the misty reminiscence of her arrival in Davidson County, Tennessee and forced her to focus on the demands of the day. The first demand was court. She hated having to work the day she planned to leave for Sleepyside and the Bob-White reunion, but the court schedule and associated demands of a host of defendants required her to work. At least she had the luxury of her father’s corporate jet. There would be no last minute, late Friday afternoon rush for a commercial air flight to La Guardia. She’d never have to worry about the pilot, Bob Murphy, leaving her for running late.

"Aren't you supposed to be in court this morning?" the department paralegal asked, her voice full of concern. If there was anyone in the Public Defender’s office more overworked than the attorneys, it was the paralegal.

"Yes,in—" she stopped as her voice thickened, and cleared her throat, uttering a mild swear under her breath at the fickleness of being able to talk. "Fifteen minutes. I've gotta run. Sharon, do you need anything?" Shoving the file folder into an already bulging briefcase, she spared her paralegal a glance.

"There's a stack of messages for you, in your box, but I guess they can wait."

"They'll have to wait," Honey informed her, holding up her phone to show Sharon the cracked screen. "I can't make any outgoing calls." With that parting comment, she hurried out the door, leaving the messages in her box to await her return after court.

Honey hurried to court, knowing the only day worse than Friday was Monday. As her heels clicked a tattoo on the worn linoleum of the hallway, she was almost knocked down when she barreled into her colleague, Greg.

“Whoa!” He reached out and grabbed her arm to steady her. “Where’s the fire?” he asked pleasantly, making sure she was okay.

She smiled at him and shook her head. “The morning got off to a bad start,” she explained as they walked together towards the courtroom. “It didn’t help when I dropped my phone.”

“Bummer,” Greg answered as he reached up and straightened his tie. “Looks like we’ll have a full morning. Are you ready?”

“Ready to make a deal,” she grinned. Friday was known to all the public defenders in the office as ‘Let's Make a Deal’ day. This one would be no different. Besides the known cases she’d pushed into her brief case, she was sure to be handed her share of the unassigned cases of the day. Those would be the biggest challenge for the team. “Is Kim here?”

“Just waiting on you, honey.”

She managed to hide her grin, knowing it wasn’t her name he was using, but that oh so very sweet and Southern nomenclature that Greg used to address every female over the age of eighteen. Those younger than eighteen were called Sweetie instead of Honey. “Then let’s get to it,” she answered.

They would start in a small conference room next to the court room. In addition to the cases already on the docket, they would receive new ones today. It would be a hectic morning of back and forth between the conference room and the court room, depending on which defendant the judge called. The first order was to look at the docket.

“How many are on the schedule?” Honey asked as she slid her briefcase onto the table.

“Sixty,” Kim replied. “You’re up first this morning with Antonius Rollins. Are you ready?”

“Yep, Tony got a good deal,” Honey reached into her briefcase for his file. She had prepared well for Tony and his full-time employment as a roofer had helped her secure him an excellent bargain for his parole violation. “His employer even agreed to testify if we needed him, but once the DA saw the chance for some restitution, we had it made.”

Kim and Greg nodded knowingly. The District Attorney loved defendants who were gainfully employed. The deal normally meant a portion of their salary could be set aside to the victim’s restitution and in this case, Tony’s parole violation had been the result of a bad break-up with his girl-friend that a six-pack of beer served to make worse instead of better.

“After Rollins you have a break. You can go in and resolve that case and then meet with your clients upstairs.”

Upstairs was their office jargon for the county jail. The municipal lock-up was on the top floor of the courthouse and this made it easy for them to handle new cases quickly. Honey nodded in agreement and they began to divide the cases. They barely managed to parcel them out before the Bailiff announced court would be called to order.

Even after a summer working with the office and over a year on the job, the pace of court still amazed Honey. The first case usually set the tone for the day, and Judge Willard was clearly in the mood to solve problems. Her defendant was charged with a minor parole violation, the restitution plan agreed to by both sides, and Antonio Jamal Rollins walked out of the courtroom before 9:00 a.m., ready to go to work. She hoped it was a sign the day had turned around as she left the table and returned to the conference room. It was time to meet her new clients. Greg would have the next nine cases on the docket, and then Kim would have a turn.

She pulled the list of names she’d made as they worked through the assigned cases, then made her way to the hallway outside the courtroom, searching out her new clients. Of the twenty, three were upstairs in jail and three were no-shows. That meant sometime that morning, in addition to her cases already on the docket, she’d be talking to and making deals for the remaining thirteen. Thirteen again! she thought as she trudged upstairs to the jail, I can’t escape it!

Her first client was Virginia. She knew Ginny because she’d represented her before, not to mention her mother had also been a client. Ginny was in jail for failing her drug test. Actually, she didn’t fail it. She’d just substituted apple juice in the cup.

“Ginny,” she chided. “What were you thinking? You promised me once you were out you were going to stay out of trouble.”

“I tried,” she protested. “It wasn’t my fault. I’d only smoked a part of a joint. Two puffs, that’s it, when I remembered I had to test. Two puffs, Madeleine! I can’t go to jail over two puffs.”

“Yes, you can,” Honey informed her, a bit more tartly than she intended. She actually liked Virginia Thigpen and her crazy mother, Carolina. They were mostly harmless, not in the least serious criminals. Their family motto—“Don’t come knocking if the trailer’s rocking”— had already been shared with Trixie and Diana. But the two women, 19 and 38, somehow always managed to stumble just over the line with local law enforcement. The mandated drug test had been Ginny’s last plea bargain to stay clean. “Look Ginny, I know you and your mother don’t think there’s anything wrong with a little weed, but unless you want to move to Colorado, you’re going to have to pass this drug test or pay the fine.”

“But I don’t have five hundred dollars,” Ginny wailed like a six-year-old. “And jail is horrible. The beds have crawly things.

It took every bit of self control Honey possessed not to scratch her head at the mention of the crawly things. But somehow, she managed it. “If you really only took two puffs, then take the test. You should pass, but if it was more …” she didn’t need to finish. Ginny knew the consequences.

“I’ll take the test.” Honey nodded and quickly made arrangements for the jail to administer the test. Hopefully, enough time had elapsed, and if Ginny passed the test she could convince the prosecutor the apple juice was just a prank.

She moved on to meet quickly with her next two cases, who both agreed to deals to serve out the weekend, return to their jobs, and to make restitution on stolen gasoline and cigarettes.

Honey barely made it downstairs before she was called to represent Amelia, a thirty-something year-old maid who worked for several local minor celebrities and one fairly well-known celebrity. She was accused of shoplifting, when in fact she’d been returning a dress for her employer. Honey had total faith in Amelia’s innocence. The local upscale boutique had treated the young Hispanic woman shamefully, and Honey fully intended to fight the case. Amelia’s well-known employer was more than willing to testify—something she knew would scare both the prosecutor and the boutique’s owner.

“State vs. Esparza,” the bailiff called.

“We’ve been unable to reach a settlement,” Honey announced. “The defense requests the case be set for trial.”

When the prosecutor smugly agreed, Honey managed not to smile. It would be a slam dunk and she had little doubt that trial would end favorably. Unfortunately, the snobbish young district attorney had been lured by the wealthy proprietor of the dress shop and failed to fully review the facts.

They moved on to the next case, and one by one, Honey’s clients were handled. Bench warrants were issued for the no-shows, pleas were made for the others, and concurrent jail was approved for her clients currently upstairs. Even Virginia Thigpen received the deal they’d been seeking. It was well after noon when the morning court docket had been dealt with and Honey had her first break to check in with the office. Quickly, she located a phone in one of the clerk’s office and was permitted to use it.

“Sharon, its Madeleine Wheeler. We have a quick break here at court. I was hoping you might have time to tell me who’s called? I can’t access messages on my phone right now; I dropped it and cracked the screen.”

“Hang on, Wheeler,” she said. “You have quite a few. She accessed the department share and in a few seconds was reading off the messages left in Honey’s inbox. “A call from your dentist confirming your next appointment, three from Howard asking you to call him about the Jefferson case—"

"Can you leave him a message for me and tell him the Jefferson case won't start for another hour," Honey interrupted. Howard Rice was the Public Defender, the head of their office, and a thorn in her side. He'd made it clear he'd like to see her on a social basis. She'd made it clear she didn't mix work with personal relationships. He'd been careful to only call her about work related matters, but he called her more than any other staff attorney or the deputy P.D.. If the situation didn't resolve itself soon, she'd look for a job somewhere else. She'd already been asked to come and talk to the public defender in Atlanta, but she liked Nashville. The metropolitan government suited her as well as the cases. Atlanta's office was ten times the size of Nashville and she knew the caseload would be worse. If she took the position in Atlanta, she might as well just return to New York and work there.

Sharon knew from firsthand experience the rock and hard place Honey was in with the boss. It was how she'd ended up in Nashville, relocating from 100 miles south in Alabama. Readily, she agreed to leave the message. “There’s this one from Bob Murphy, something about a part and not being able to take off in the jet. He needs to talk to you about alternate travel plans,”

“What did you say?”

“Bob said the jet has a failed part and he’s trying to track down a spare. In the meantime, he needs to talk to you about alternate travel plans.”

“Oh,hell’s bells!”

“What?” Sharon was shocked. Madeleine Wheeler almost never cursed and when she did it was over something noteworthy.

“My vacation,” Honey explained. “My Dad …. Never mind, Sharon.” Honey did not discuss her family or her father with her colleagues. There was no point. Wheeler was a common enough name; she wasn’t automatically linked with one of the wealthiest families in the country and she’d prided herself on keeping her family’s wealth and connections out of the workplace. “By any chance could you call Mr. Murphy and explain to him that I can only receive calls on my cell phone, I can’t make them. It would be a big help if he could call me. In the meantime, what’s the number?”

Sharon agreed to explain the situation to Bob, and Honey jotted down the number he had left. When she had time, she could use a pay phone if necessary to try and call, but there were only a scant fifteen minutes before her first trial of the afternoon would start. She still had to squeeze in locating a bottle of water and a bio break before making her way back to yet another courtroom for the trial. Getting out of Nashville on time hinged on finishing her two afternoon trials early. Provided Bob can find that part! This is a terrible time for me to be without my phone!

What on earth possessed me to agree to schedule trials on Friday the thirteenth?line-height: 115%'> she wondered fleetingly, when she was finally seated at the defendant’s table. Of course, she didn’t schedule them, the court did, and she was at their mercy. She popped a throat lozenge in her mouth and gulped water, hoping her voice would make it.

When her client, Lamont Jefferson, joined her at the table, she breathed a sigh of relief. She needed to try—one more time—to get him to offer an explanation, any explanation, for why his fingerprints were on the evidence. It didn’t help matters that the evidence in question was a sack full of stolen guns recovered from the water hazard of a nearby country club. Lamont Jefferson Richards was charged with receiving stolen property and he worked as a part-time groundskeeper at the club. While his boss agreed to be a character witness, Lamont had not given a reason for the presence of his fingerprint on one of the guns.

"What did you decide?" she said quietly. "We only have a minute or two before this starts.”

"What's the worst thing that can happen to me?" he asked.

"We've been over this, Lamont. If you plead guilty, the DA's office agreed to recommend three years of supervised probation. Your record's not exactly squeaky clean, but this is your first felony charge. If you take this to trial, and they find you guilty, you get three years combined jail and prison."

"But I didn't do it!" he protested.

"Then tell me why your fingerprint is on the gun," she hissed back. Unfortunately, the judge’s arrival precluded further conversation.

"Good morning, counsel. We have a busy morning and I'm not in the mood for whining. I assume by everyone’s presence we have not been able to reach a deal on this case?"

She glanced at Lamont, who shook his head. He was going to take his chances with a trial. "Your honor, we've been unable to reach an agreement," Honey answered, her voice cracking slightly on the last word.

"Then let’s get going,” he barked.

The prosecution began. Soon, they mounted a case of damning circumstantial evidence against Lamont. While Honey’s gut told her that her client was innocent, he still refused to help her with his case. He had a strong alibi for the time of the robbery; in fact, it was unimpeachable, since he’d been in jail on the weekend in question serving time for a DUI. However, actually breaking into a pawn shop and stealing the guns wasn’t the only crime that had been committed. The location where the guns were found and Lamont’s fingerprint were enough for the current charge against him. The prosecution maintained he’d received the stolen property for one of his many friends and that the plan was to retrieve and fence the guns at a later time. If it hadn’t been for an unfortunate accident with a golf-cart, they likely would not have been discovered.

When the district attorney’s office rested their case, Honey was dismayed. She’d found no holes to poke in the case. Her only choice was to put Lamont on the stand and have him state his innocence. She could call his boss to the stand for a character reference, and to testify exactly how many people would have had access to the water hazard on the golf course. As a desperate measure, she asked for a short recess to discuss the prosecutor’s evidence with Lamont.

“Lamont,” she said in a low tone, to avoid the tipping off the prosecutor that she had nothing. “Take a look at this list of guns, only one of the six pistols recovered has your fingerprint.” She pointed with a well-manicured nail at the fourth one on the list. “The Ruger LCP 38, does it ring any bells?”

“Look, I’m not trying to make you think that I ain’t ever touched a pistol or a gun,” he said to her. “I have, but I ain’t ever used one to commit no crime, not even to fence them. If they want to hang me for the stuff I did with electronics and drive-offs, that’s fine. But I ain’t never messed with guns.”

“Okay, fine, but fingerprints don’t lie, and yours are all over this gun. They’re the only fingerprints on there that shouldn’t be on there. Everyone else has been cleared: the pawn shop owners, customers, previous owners. Did you ever visit this pawn shop and look at guns?”

He shook his head adamantly. “Pawn shops are off limits. I’m telling you, I don’t know how it got on there.”

For whatever reason, Honey believed him. The problem with fingerprints, they did place the gun in Lamont’s hands, but they didn’t tell when the gun may have been in his hand. It could have been when he was twelve for all she knew. She flipped the evidence list and then got an idea. “Say, Lamont – you mentioned you’ve touched guns before. Did you ever touch a .38 pistol?”

“Sure, all kinds,” he shrugged. “Back when we was kids, my Daddy would take us to the range to shoot. He had a couple of pistols we would plink with, but mostly it was rifles. My uncle had a gun or two, then later, after they was gone when I was messed up …” he looked at her meaningfully and she knew he meant the time after his father and uncle had died in a horrific car crash and he’d fallen in with the wrong crowd. “There was lots of guns then. But I never took one and never used one. Look at my record, you’ll see. No weapons.”

“But if you knew who owned this gun, before it was pawned, do you think you might recognize the name?”

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “I dunno.”

It was the only chance she had; the bailiff gave her the signal that her time was up. “Okay, Lamont – I’m going to call the pawn shop owner to the stand and ask him who pawned this gun. When the name comes out, you either nod or shake your head to let me know if you know the person, okay?”

Once the judge and jury had returned, Honey called the police department’s fingerprint expert to ask him when the fingerprint had been made. The point was just to highlight that no one could tell when a fingerprint was created. Next she called the pawn shop owner, who admitted he had the records of who he’d purchased each gun from and as much of the gun’s history as could be ascertained.

“Why do you keep this information?” she asked.

“It’s a requirement of our business,” he replied.

“Can you tell me who you purchased the Ruger LCP 38 from?”

“Yes, if I can refer to my notes?” He looked at the judge, who granted permission.

Rustling the papers, he declared that the gun had been purchased from one George Matheson. Honey glanced toward her client, who gave a small shake of his head. Her heart sank.

“Was Mr. Matheson the only owner of that weapon?” she asked.

“No, the records indicate he purchased it from Ricardo Quezada,” he answered. “Mr. Quezada purchased it from a local gun shop.”

A small smile broke out on Lamont’s face as he gave the briefest of nods. Honey could have broken out in song. “That’s all, sir.”

The prosecution had no questions and the witness was dismissed. Honey returned to the table and whispered. “You know Ricardo Quezada?”

“Yeah, Ricky Q. He’s a veteran. He’s one of the guys that came into our group and talked to us. He helped me get things turned around. One of our teambuilding exercises he had a gun that he passed around.”

“When you get on the stand, just answer the question I ask you, don’t embellish,” she cautioned. Honey called her witness and in a quiet voice that was still threatening to betray her at any moment, she managed to introduce the key piece of evidence she was now certain would clear her client. Even the judge and the district attorney were impressed, to the point that the D.A. interrupted.

“Your honor, if the court will issue a request for Ricardo Quezada to appear and corroborate the defendant’s story, the district attorney’s office is willing to consider dropping the charges.”

And so it was. A small victory in a day of what now seemed to be minor inconveniences. Friday the thirteenth is my lucky day! She thought as she tossed the file into her case. She officially had some time to make calls and try and reach Bob Murphy as well as her boss. She told Lamont what to expect while waiting for court to resume, and hurried to find a phone.

An hour later her victory seemed small. Her boss was angry with her over some trumped-up minor inconsistencies in her afternoon trial case. Even the news that Lamont was innocent didn’t change his attitude. He threatened to come and sit in on her second trial. Honey realized the time to find another job was closer than she’d thought. During her vacation time, she vowed not only to visit with her best friends, but to make the calls to her contacts in the public defenders offices in Memphis, Atlanta, New Orleans, and heck, maybe even Dallas. Her days working in Nashville were done. She was to the point of detesting Howard Rice, despite his popularity with judges and most of her fellow attorneys. But now that she’d had success with Lamont, she was determined to have another success with her most colorful defendant, Jelly Jordan Jefferson.

It was much more common for Public Defenders to make deals than to try a case. But this particular defendant refused to make a deal, with a passion that she rarely saw in her job. Jelly Jordan Jefferson, sometimes called Jelly and sometimes called JJ, was one of the most colorful defendants she’d ever represented. It was more than the bright orange jumpsuit and vivid orange hair that almost seemed to match it. Jelly had more tattoos than anyone she’d ever met. They were practically works of art and the large one across his neck constantly drew her attention as she studied it. She knew, just knew it was a jar of crabapple jelly. It had to be.

The prosecutor’s case was full of reasonable doubt. Jelly was accused of running from the cops, possession of narcotics with intent to sell, and resisting arrest. During a chase, the police had briefly lost sight of the suspect; once he was tackled and arrested, there were no drugs. The police claimed he dumped the drugs—which were never found—in the brief time he'd eluded them. There were enough problems and changes with the arrest record that Honey was confident she could support reasonable doubt. For one thing, the description of what the suspect was wearing didn’t match what Jelly had been wearing when he was arrested. She had silently practiced her questions all weekend, since not having much of a voice left her with little choice. But this was the trial. This was one of the cases that had confirmed her decision to work as a public defender. This was one she planned to win. Her last case had been luck. This one would be won on her skill: everything she’d learned her summer working in the office and since she’d graduated law school.

As the trial progressed, she reminded herself of that fact. However, it didn’t change the feeling that she was losing the jury. Her evidence certainly supported the concept of reasonable doubt, but she’d been rattled early in the trial by her boss’ entry into the courtroom. That, combined with her shaky voice, convinced her the jury wasn’t with her. She needed something.

“Jelly,” she conferred quietly. “They’re not buying it,” she said. “There has to be something you can tell me that will help. Anything.”

“Miss Wheeler,” his voice was full of sorrow. “I didn’t do it. I’m clean and I’ve been clean since I got out. Don’t you think the clothes are enough?”

She shook her head. “I’ve been doing this a while. Judging by the expression on their faces, no, it’s not.”

Howard had sat quietly for the most part but now he leaned over and sneered. “Is that all you’ve got, Wheeler?”

She ignored him and gave Jelly a questioning look. “Anything, Jelly?”

“Can’t they see that there wasn’t enough time to change clothes?” he bemoaned his bad luck. “They even said that they only lost sight of the guy for less than a minute. Not to mention, I was wearing boots, not these sneaker loafer piece of—“

She grabbed his arm. “What did you say?”

“I said these sneakers are –“

“No! Before that. Wait a moment.” She flipped the pages of the folder in front of her and found it. The suspect had been wearing large steel toed work boots when arrested and the police only lost sight of him for less than a minute, both officers had testified to that. While a person could potentially change clothes in less than a minute, there was no way they could remove jeans over heavy, lace-up work boots and get them back on and retied. All while running for two blocks. She smiled and turned back to her client. “What are you wearing under that jumpsuit,” she asked.

“Underpants and a tee-shirt,” he said looking down. “Why?”

“Would you mind if I asked you take them off in front of the court?”

“Wheeler!” Howard interrupted. “You can’t do that; you’ll make a mockery of the court. The judge will throw you in jail for contempt.”

Honey could see her friends’ faces now as she attempted to explain. “Sorry I couldn’t make the reunion, I was in jail.” That would probably take the cake, not to mention what her father would say about it.

Honey decided to ignore Howard and focused on her client. “Would you do it?”

“Uh,” he’d looked embarrassed but nodded. “I guess so, they’re clean. I wouldn’t have to leave them off, would I?”

She shook her head and grabbed her phone. Testing the timer, she smiled. Cracked screen or not, it still worked. “I’m going to time you taking off your jumpsuit and putting it back on. Be sure and take of your shoes as well and put them back on.”

Howard leaned across the defendant and grabbed her arm. “You’re on your own with this, Wheeler. If she throws you in jail for contempt, I’m going to let you sit there all weekend. Do you understand?”

“And if I agreed to go out with you tomorrow night like you’d asked, then I guess those tickets you’ve been flaunting would just go to waste, wouldn’t they?”

Howard was taken aback. He leaned back in his chair and straightened his tie. “That’s a different matter all together.” He cleared his throat and actually puffed out his chest with self-importance. “Are you saying you’ll go?”

Honey started to reply with a comment that was totally unprofessional and remembered just in time that her client was sitting between them, fascinated by the exchange. He didn’t want his attorney thrown in jail and stepped in to save her.

“Do you think she’ll go for it?” Jelly nodded toward the bench. “She sounds like a stickler to me.”

“Leave that to me!” The bailiff called for the court to return to session and the entrance of Judge Nancy Nickerson. “Ms. Wheeler,” she said as soon as the jury was seated. “Are you ready to close?”

“Not quite, your honor. If you don’t mind, I’d like for the court to permit a brief demonstration.”

“What sort of demonstration?”

“The officers have testified that in less than one minute, my client changed his clothes and ran two blocks before they found him and arrested him. They also testified that both times he was seen, before the disappearance and after, he was wearing steel toed, lace up work boots.”

“Your honor.” The assistant district attorney stood up. “This is already on the record. If Ms. Wheeler wants to stipulate that is what was testified, then we so stipulate, but it sounds like she’s making her closing argument.”

“Thank you.” She nodded toward the district attorney. “But I’d like to introduce into evidence how this isn’t possible.”

“Very well,” the judge ruled. “Introduce your evidence.”

Honey turned and asked her defendant to take the stand and be sworn in. He did so and she asked him only two questions.

“Mr. Jefferson, did you run from police and ditch narcotics that you intended to sell on the day you were arrested.”

“No, ma’am, I did not,” he replied.

“Please describe the footwear you had on at the time of your arrest.”

“Brown, Timberland, steel-toed work boots.”

“And these boots lace up?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very well, Mr. Jefferson, if you don’t mind moving around and standing in front of the bench.”

Jelly did as he was told and as she motioned he turned around.

“Your honor, Mr. Jefferson is wearing an orange jumpsuit, issued by the local jail. He’s wearing slip-on canvas, rubber soled shoes. If it pleases the court,” she paused and held up her cell phone. “We would like to time how long it takes Mr. Jefferson to remove his shoes, the jumpsuit, and put both back on.”

The district attorney sprang to his feet. “Your honor, this is unthinkable. None of us wish to see the defendant wearing nothing but …” he sputtered unable to finish.

Honey turned and looked at the judge who had a thoughtful look on her face. “Your honor, the defendant assures me he is wearing suitable undergarments that provide sufficient coverage to avoid embarrassment for himself and for the jury.”

“Your honor, I object!” the district attorney yelped.

The judge looked at the defendant. “Young man, if you are playing a trick on this court and you appear indecently after removing your jump suit, I will find you in contempt, do you understand?”

“Yes, your honor,” he gulped.

“Objection overruled,” she snapped at the district attorney. “The bailiff will stand next to the court reporter and time the event.” She paused and looked again at the defendant. “Mr. Jefferson, I am instructing you to removed your shoes, disrobe down to your, uh, skivvies, and then to redress, as quickly as you can. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” He was flustered enough to forget to address her appropriately, but she wisely overlooked his error.

“There is to be no dawdling, during this event. If I believe you are taking too long, then I’ll stop the process and throw out this evidence for the jury to consider. Do you still wish to proceed under those conditions, Ms. Wheeler?”

“Yes, your honor,” she replied.

“Very well, is the bailiff ready with a timer?”

“Yes, your honor,” he replied.

“Mr. Jefferson, are you ready?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Begin.”

Honey surreptitiously used her phone to time the event as well. She hated that the jumpsuit was one piece, as she imagined pulling it over his head would’ve taken longer, but he quickly removed his shoes, unbuttoned the top and removed the jumpsuit. Honey breathed a sigh of relief, that his undergarments were indeed modest. He paused only to take a deep breath, before reversing the process and throwing up his arms and stating “Done!” in a clear tone.

“Deputy Dennis, if you’ll show me the timer,” the judge requested. He brought his phone to the judge and she peered through her glasses to get a clear reading. “The court reporter is instructed to enter a time of forty-two seconds into the court record.

Honey nodded with a smile. Forty-two seconds to remove clothes simpler than those wearing when he was arrested, while standing still. He’d also have been required to lace up shoes and run or walk two blocks during the time.

Jelly Jefferson returned to the stand.

“Your honor, the defense has no more questions.”

The prosecutor stood up and straightened his tie. Based on his own reasonable doubt, he wasn’t sure at all how to proceed. Honey had him doubting his own witnesses. He could finish this fiasco of a trial, or he could drop the charges. He decided he had nothing to lose by finishing.

“Mr. Jefferson, at the time of your arrest, were you wearing a shirt with buttons?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you certain?” he pushed. He could’ve sworn the arrest record read a tee-shirt.

“Yes, sir.”

He returned to the desk and pulled out a police report and quickly scanned. Damn, he was wearing a four button shirt, light blue. He looked up at the defendant. “How many buttons are on your prison jumpsuit,” he asked.

“Uh, eight or nine, I think.”

“If it pleases the court,” Honey interrupted. “Mr. Jefferson unbuttoned eight buttons during his previous demonstration. The jumpsuit has nine, but he didn’t unbutton the last one.” She’d counted and watched expecting this very question.

“Hardly as many as on the shirt you were wearing at the time of your arrest,” the district attorney sneered.

“Objection,” Honey said mildly. “The district attorney is making a statement, not asking a question.”

“No more questions!” he blustered and returned to his seat.

“Redirect?”

“Mr. Jefferson, do you agree that your jumpsuit has more buttons than the shirt you were wearing when arrested?”

“Yes, ma’am. But this jumpsuit doesn’t have a zipper or button like my jeans did.”

She refrained from laughing and looked at the judge. “No more questions, your honor.”

“Mr. Jefferson, you may sit down,” she instructed and looked at Honey.

“The defense rests, your honor.”

She breezed through her closing arguments and the judge sent the jury out with instructions that she hoped would make it easy for them to return to court with a not guilty verdict. Fortunately, Howard had slipped out, probably to take care of one of his own cases. She decided to find a phone to reach Bob. Hopefully, he’d found a part. Otherwise …. She grimaced as she looked at her watch. Otherwise I guess I’m going to be totally screwed.

 

Honey walked out of the Davidson County Courthouse with a spring in her step. She’d had two major wins in her belt for both Jelly and Lamont. The assistant district attorney had praised her work in both cases and hinted she should consider working for him. While there was a certain temptation in that, she knew their jobs were as demanding as her own. She felt like the victims she represented needed her. Not that she’d ever rule it out.

She waited around, looking at her watch. She’d promised Jelly a ride home and Bob had assured her that if was only a two-hour flight to Nashville from Westchester County. If he couldn’t make it, he’d arrange her flight with another company using a flight sharing program. Despite the time of three p.m., she could still hope to be arriving at Manor House no later than nine, after allowing for the time difference.

She was deep in thought about her plans when she turned around to find her boss staring at her. “I understand congratulations are in order for that last hoodlum you managed to get off.”

Honey held her temper. She had no idea why Howard continued to work as a public defender with the attitude toward their clients he displayed to her privately. But she made a decision to ignore it again. “Yes, sir. One dismissal and one not-guilty.”

“You decided you’d go with me to the concert tomorrow night?”

Honey shook her head. “No sir, I’m leaving this evening for a trip home. Remember, I’m on vacation next week.” She knew he’d remember because she’d gone back to him three times asking for the day off and he’d refused, blaming the court schedule and cases on the docket.

“I see. Leaving kind of late, aren’t you?”

She didn’t answer. Really, what was there to say?

“You could’ve gotten yourself in a lot of trouble in there with that disgusting display,” he reprimanded her. “When you get back from vacation we should discuss proper courtroom decorum. Our office has a certain standard to uphold. One I’m sure you understand, Miss Wheeler.”

It hit her then. The subtle emphasis on her name. He knew. He knew who her father was. That explained the shift in his attitude and his constant picking at her. He knew her father was Matthew Wheeler and it bothered him.

“All I understand,” she spoke clearly for the first time that day, her voice not cracking for an instant. “All I understand it that our clients deserve the best representation we can give them with the time and resources we are allotted. Today, my clients got my best—just like they do every time I show up for work. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m meeting Mr. Jefferson. I’ve promised him a lift.”

“Always the public servant,” he sneered. “Well I guess you can afford to be with all of Daddy’s money to buy your Manolo Blahnik shoes and Prada suits. I guess Daddy is sending his private jet to pick you up for your vacation.”

Honey bit back a retort. Howard was picking at her, not knowing that he’d hit on the exact truth about the jet. But she just smiled. “Goodness, Howard! I had no idea you knew so much about designer clothing. That just goes to show that the stereotype about gay men being the only ones to recognize designer shoes is a myth.”

Howard’s jaw dropped. Had his employee just indicated he was gay? He blustered for a few seconds, unsure how to respond. Finally regaining his composure, he cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. “Ms. Wheeler, I don’t know what game you’ve been playing this past year pretending that you’re someone else –“

“Excuse me, Mr. Rice. But I’ve never misled anyone about who I am or what I do. I just don’t talk about it because I prefer for people to make their own impressions about me, not who my father is. Although when you get right down to it,” she paused and tilted her head to the left, studying him for a moment. “If you really understood who I am, you’d understand that my mother has infinitely more money than my father.” With that crack she noticed Jelly approaching and turned to leave.

“Perhaps we should discuss your continued employment as a public defender,” he roared at her retreating back. She stopped and turned, giving him the benefit of a full wattage smile.

“Perhaps you should plan that my vacation is the first week of my two-week notice,” she answered. “Thanks for the opportunity Mr. Rice, but it’s time to move on.”

She turned to meet Jelly Jefferson and never looked back.

Honey's fingers drummed an erratic beat on the steering wheel as she drove towards the local airport. It had been an easy matter drop Jelly off at his home and then head to airport. She'd flown on her father's jet enough to know that it was easier to drive directly to the private Signature Flight Support Terminal than the Nashville Airport. For one thing, they had a customer lounge that was fully equipped with computers, telephones, and large screen television sets. She remembered more than one adventure traveling back and forth to Nashville on various trips over the past few years. There was no telling what the hurricane that threatened parts of the east coast was doing to those commercial flight schedules. She glanced at the clock on the dash of her stylish champagne-colored Toyota Prius and decided she had time for one more stop.

She pulled into the crowded parking lot of the local discount chain, intent on purchasing a new phone. Every crummy little rotten thing that had happened to her, she'd managed to overcome. Now there was no way she was leaving town for a week without a working phone.

Cellular phones and their associated technology were vital to Honey in her current job. Even with her pending job change, she knew access to a phone, email and the internet would be necessary. She’d often wondered what she and Trixie might have done differently if they’d had such technology available to them when they were running around solving cases as young teens. Certainly it would have helped them out of more than one scrape.

She approached the phone kiosk and waited a little impatiently while the customer ahead of her finished their transaction. She didn't think the giggling teenager would ever make up her mind about choosing between the pink camouflage case or the bright Hello Kitty. She started looking through the wide variety of cases wondering just what case she and Trixie would have selected for their phone. Certainly not the pink zebra pattern or the leopard print and there was no way anything like a Justin Beiber case would ever have crossed their minds. The panda case was cute, as was the giraffe and the bejeweled cases. But surely Trixie would've picked the ---

"May I help you?" a young man asked. He had a hint of a mustache and a soul patch beard. She gave him a brilliant smile and explained her situation. Unfortunately, replacing her phone was expensive and took more time than she'd expected, but she was able to leave the discount store with a working cell phone. She'd managed to save fifty dollars by trading in her old phone and he threw in a free protective case. She selected a basic solid color and then waited while he answered the phone four times before completing her order. Now she was in a hurry and left the store in a rush.

By the time she arrived at the terminal she was worried Bob would be waiting. She almost jumped when her new phone rang and she breathlessly answered it, hoping it was Bob calling.

"Is this Madeleine G. Wheeler?" He pronounced her first name with a long i sound, so she knew it was someone who didn't know her very well.

"Yes it is," she confirmed.

"This is Tim. Tim Fowler from the phone store. You were in here not long ago buying a new phone."

"Yes, Tim, I remember you," she said pleasantly. "Is there a problem?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so,” he replied. "You see the phone you left with me, it keeps ringing and it shouldn't ring at all. Instead of transferring your number I kinda messed up and gave you a new number."

"A new number?" she echoed not comprehending. “But you just called me.”

“Yeah, that’s ‘cause I know the new number. It was on the box. I forgot to transfer your SIM card over and this phone that I have of yours, well … uh…. You get a lot of calls, don’t you?”

Honey pulled the phone away from her ear and stared. It looked just like her phone. She put it back to her ear. “Can you tell me what number this is?”

“Uh, yeah, just a sec.”

She heard him rustling and background conversation before he came back on and rattled off the number. “You see the thing is, I really need you to come back to the store and let me swap the SIM cards, or I’ll have to charge you for a new line and a new phone.”

“I can come back in a week,” she answered automatically. “I’m on my way out of town. In fact, I’m at the airport now.”

“Yeah, like, uh … you’re going to have to come back now or I’ll have to charge you for two lines. Or else I can just deactivate that phone. Do you want me to deactivate that phone?”

“No!” she practically screamed into the phone and felt her vocal cords give way. Clearing her throat, she croaked out, “I’m on travel and I need my phone. Can’t you just wait until I get back to town?”

“Oh! Yeah. I forgot to tell you, this dude called and said to tell you that he was delayed due to some weather stuff and it would be another twenty minutes or so before he could take off and then it would take him like he said hours and hours to get to the airport. So maybe like while you’re waiting you could just come back and change out the phone? Uh, please?”

Honey didn’t know if she should go home and crawl under the covers and forget about her vacation or just go back to the phone store as the salesman was asking. She glanced at her watch and realized she didn’t have anything better to do in the next two hours. “Yeah, I’ll be right there,” she replied automatically, her voice cracking.

“Great!” he replied enthusiastically. “Say, I’ll be getting off work about the time you get here. Would you like to go out for coffee?”

 

“Miss Honey!” Bob spoke jovially as he reached to take her computer bag with one hand and extended his other arm around her shoulder. “Thanks for being so patient. It was touch-and-go for a while there this morning, but I still think we’ll end up back in New York quicker than you could have made a commercial flight.”

Honey nodded in reply.

“Are you okay?” he asked, peering at her face for a closer look.

She nodded again and pointed at her throat. “Lost my voice,” she managed to croak. “Long story.”

He smiled and nodded. “Okay, well you know there are plenty of writing supplies on the plane. What do you say we get your bags stowed and this bird in the air?”

Once more she beamed at him and nodded.

Bob nodded towards the porter who was standing to one side with her luggage and in minutes she was safely ensconced in the luxurious leather captain’s chair on board the Wheeler International jet. She smiled when she noticed that Bob had stocked her favorite tea and soda in the tiny kitchenette along with a couple of bottles of wine.

Bob shut the cabin door and turned towards her. “Just the usual,” he said. “Keep your seat belt fastened. I’ll come back when we’re at our cruising altitude to check on you. The co-pilot is up front and we should have clearance to take off as soon as I get buckled in and radio the tower we’re ready. Do you need anything?”

She shook her head and smiled. “Ready to be home,” she managed to barely croak out.

He held up a hand. “Quit talking. You’re going to want to save that voice for your family and friends. Now if you really need anything you can always send me a text. You did get your phone working, didn’t you?”

Honey smiled and nodded. Her phone was finally working and she was going home. What more could a girl want? Oh yeah, she thought as she heard the engines start up their familiar high-pitched wind. When I interview for my next job it's going to be a requirement that I never work on Friday the thirteenth!