Page 3 of Crash Course
He stood tall, staring down at Cruz, which was somehow worse than facing that poking finger. The poking finger he could swat at. Get all indignant and tell his brother where to shove it. Considering Cruz could barely move,thatwas fruitless.
Plus, big brother was right. Cruz had let the team down.
The weak link.
Dad had called that one, hadn’t he?
Zeke turned and his booted feet squeaked against the wood, the sound shattering Cruz’s battered skull.
"I’m sorry," Cruz said to his brother’s back.
"You should be."
Cilla boardedher father’s Gulfstream at 8:15 on Friday morning. This little impromptu Nashville trip, at Dad’s urgent request, put a major kink in her prep time for an upcoming murder trial and none of it sat well.
Her client claimed innocence.
Cilla wasn’t too sure.
It wasn’t her business.Herjob was to make sure the prosecution didtheirjob. All while not violating her client’s constitutional rights.
Thinking too hard about guilt or innocence was a rabbit hole she avoided. Otherwise, she’d get caught up in moral judgments that might sway her performance.
She’d learned to focus on the intellectual battle, something she’d craved since her prelaw classes. As for justice, if it didn’t play out in court, the universe would balance the scales.
All she needed now was some extra prep time. None of which she had a lot of on a normal day. Throw in Dad and his never-ending requests and her career as a criminal defense attorney came second to all things Darren Randolph related.
So what that she’d just made the cover ofCharlotte Lawyermagazine for the fourth time? Who cared that she was the local legal it-girl?
Despite her father constantly boasting of her success to anyone who would listen, ifheneeded legal advice, her paying clients didn’t matter.
That was Dad. Always persistent. Never patient. And heaven forbid someone should say no.
As the CEO of the nation’s largest manufacturer of firefighting gear, he'd earned power and influence and wielded both with expert precision.
In short, her father was a bastard.
And she loved him.
Go figure.
At least this trip had been postponed a day, giving her all day Thursday to grind through paperwork. Before Cilla landed in her seat, the one by the galley so she could quickly grab a beverage or snack during flights, her phone rang. She set her briefcase on the small table and eased into her favorite seat—she was nothing if not routine oriented—while she checked her phone.
Layla. Her assistant.
Not the expected call. She let it go. They had a wheels-up time of 8:30 and the prosecutor on one of her cases had promised to call beforehand about her professional football player client accused of insurance fraud. At least it wasn’t rape or some other crime against women. Give her murders, robberies, and financial crimes all day long. Rape and assault against women? Not so much. Thankfully, after nearly ten years of hard work, she’d put herself in a position to be selective about which cases she took on.
Her phone rang again. Blair Overton. Bingo. She’d get this squared away before they took off and cross a task off her growing list.Check, check.
She picked up the call. "Hey, Blair."
"Cilla, hey."
They may have been opposing warriors in court, but Cilla respected the woman’s work ethic and lack of tricks to win a case. Tricks led to appeals and Cilla, being the bulldog she was, never minded that process, but prosecutorial misconduct pissed her off. If they wanted to withhold evidence, maybe casually lose the DNA that would exonerate her client, Cilla thrived on busting them. When it came to the law, for Cilla, there were no gray areas.
Right versus wrong. Done.
Still, all this keeping the prosecution on their toes took time and Cilla wouldn’t mind having a life every once in a while.
