"Mr. Scott... I'd like for you to--"
"It's just Evan," I say with a sigh, her rigid professionalism starting to grate on my nerves from the start. It makes me nervous to be honest.
She blinks a few times, seems at a loss, but eventually nods in acquiescence. "Okay... Evan... I'd like for you to tell me everything that happened this morning when the detectives showed up at your house."
I drum my fingers on the tabletop, playing a beat. I do this when I'm nervous. "They showed up and told me my former bandmate, Keith Carina, was dead. Asked me where I'd been last night, then asked me to come in and give a statement. That's pretty much it."
Emma scribbles some quick notes before looking back up at me and asking, "You said Keith Carina was a former bandmate? Was that when you were with the band Kickback?"
So my attorney knows my music.
Interesting.
"Yes," I tell her, and then add on in case she doesn't know all the facts. "We broke up about a year and a half ago, and I went solo."
"Was there bad blood between you and the other band members?" she asks, her head now bowed over the yellow pad as she scribbles.
This question irritates me because she's focusing on a potential motive I might have to kill Keith. I try to maintain my calm though and tell her vaguely, "They weren't happy I went solo."
She nods in understanding but doesn't look at me, still writing her notes. "Did the detectives give you any details at all as to what happened? Like what time? Where?"
I shake my head. "Only that Keith was shot in the head and they asked me where I was between midnight and four AM?"
Emma's head bobs up and down. She jots some words on the yellow-lined paper and asks, "Who were you with last night? He or she's a potential alibi."
"It was a she. And I have no clue who she is."
Emma's head snaps up, and she looks at me with her mouth parted in surprise. "You don't know who she is?"
I smirk at her, because it's fucking adorable this buttoned-up little attorney doesn't understand the concept of an anonymous one-night stand. "Absolutely no clue. Don't even remember her first name. She had red hair and fantastic tits though, so I'm sure I could identify her from a lineup, although she'd have to be naked for me to be absolutely sure."
She makes a noise deep in her throat... possibly disgust, not sure, but her nose also wrinkles up in distaste. Makes me stare at her freckles there a little harder, as they lend a youthful, carefree sort of look about her. That's clearly not the case though as she looks down that little judgmental nose at me.
"This isn't a game, Mr. Scott," she says primly.
"It's Evan," I growl at her as I lean forward in my chair, slapping my palms on the table. "And I don't need your holier-than-thou attitude. I'm a little stressed over what's going on here."
Her lips press together and she swallows hard. Inclining her head, she looks at me with apology. "I'm sorry... Evan. You're right, and I know this is difficult for you. But I'm here to help, I promise."
She seems sincere and the supercilious look is gone, so I nod in acceptance although I still feel totally guarded with her.
"How about you walk me through the entire evening, giving me time frames? It will help for you to be able to account for all of your time and if you were with anyone who can be a potential witness, as well as if there were periods of time you were alone."
"Aren't you going to ask me if I did it?"
"No, I'm not," she says firmly. "It doesn't matter to me if you did or didn't. My job is to ensure you get fair treatment through this process."
"Well, I didn't," I snap at her, her rigid adherence to the law and fundamental principles of representation pissing me the fuck off.
"If you say so," she says, smoothing her fingers along the top bound edge of the yellow pad without meeting my gaze.
"Get out," I say in a low voice, which rumbles with barely contained fury.
Her eyes snap up, round with surprise. "Excuse me?"
"Get. Out," I repeat each word succinctly.
"But I'm your attorney--"
"No, you are not," I cut her off. "Now get the fuck out and send Midge over, or hell... send anyone else in your firm. I'd be happy with the janitor, but you are not representing me."
"I don't understand," she says. For the first time since she walked in that door, gone is the cool, collected voice of a professional. Instead, she sounds hesitant... almost childlike.
I lean forward across the table, clasp my hands together, and rest my elbows there. I gain a little measure of control now that I see her knocked off her pedestal a bit, and then I proceed to enlighten her about everything I find to be egregiously wrong with her as an attorney.
"I have no clue why you decided to become a criminal defense attorney, but I can assure you, in the five minutes since I've met you, you don't have what it takes. You certainly don't have what it takes to be working in a firm like Knight & Payne, who employs only the brightest, most passionate lawyers in this state. Now, you may be intelligent, but you don't have an ounce of fucking compassion in your prim little body. An attorney should have understanding and empathy, particularly when their client stands wrongfully accused of one of the most heinous acts there are, and you can't even fucking meet my eyes when I'm telling you I'm innocent? So, I'll say this one more time... Get. The. Fuck. Out."
I'm generally an easy-going kind of dude. It takes a lot to get me mad, but right now, I'm so furious I'm afraid I might stroke out. The only thing that I think will ease my distress is if I can make this girl cry. I need her to feel bad so I feel good, which is fucked up for sure, and--
Hey... that would actually be a great song lyric.
I commit it to memory.
I need her to feel bad so I feel good.
"Mr. Scott," the goody-goody woman on the other side of the table snaps at me with narrowed eyes. "I would ask that you treat me with a little more respect and not cuss at me as I'm the only one who can help you--"
I smirk at her at her prissy little attitude. "Fuck. Off."
And wow... her brown eyes darken so deeply, they appear to be black. "I had no idea what a conceited, egotistical jerk you are--"
"Better than a prissy, straight-laced wanna-be lawyer--"
She screeches as she shoots out of the chair and stands there glaring at me with her tiny hands curled into fists. "You asshole."
I'm fascinated by the transformation. Gone is the prim, cool professional who, while extremely pretty, was about as appealing as a piece of dry toast. Instead, I find myself looking at a woman just brimming with fiery passion. Her sleek hair that she has tucked behind her ears has fallen loose and frames her face. Cheeks are tinged bright pink and her chest is rising and falling deeply.
And those eyes... now still dark as sin but I swear I can see flames dancing in them.
She's magnificent, and it makes me wonder what else she's hiding under that little shell of goody-two-shoes armor she wears. And for some fucking weird reason, I like the fact I'm the one who's got her panties in a twist.
"Sweetheart," I murmur, more with condescension than any endearment, but my mouth snaps shut when she grabs her yellow pad from the desk. I had intended to try to rile her up some more, just to see how fired up I could get her, but I'm stunned when she leans over, grabs her briefcase, and shoves the pad inside.
"I don't need a job at Knight & Payne," she mutters. "No job is worth this."
There's something in her voice that strikes a chord within me... perhaps resonance of the same exact feeling I've had on occasion as I struggled to determine if I was supposed to be a musician or not. Emma turns quickly away from her chair and cracks her knee against the leg, but barely winces before she lurches to the side of the table with her briefcase in hand.
"I'm sorry," she mutters again, her voice cracking this time. Her head down, she practically stumbles past me as she rounds the table and before I even know what I'm doing, my hand shoots out and locks around her wrist.
/> "Wait," I say softly.
She stops dead in her tracks, but doesn't look at me, instead resolutely staring at the floor. Her wrist is so small in my grasp, and I can feel the mad fluttering of her pulse there.
"Emma," I say firmly as I tug on her, forcing her to turn.
She does, and her eyes lift slowly. There are no tears, which I half expected since she had pointedly lowered her face, but they are filled with confusion coupled with a low-boiling anger.
I feel sorry for her.
Still pissed at her, for sure, and I'm completely baffled as to why Midge sent her here--or shit... why she even employs her at all--but I can't seem to stop myself when I say, "Sit down. I'll tell you everything I can remember about last night and then you can tell me whether to give a statement or not."
Her eyes flick back and forth between my own, trying to ascertain how much I really mean with this sudden change of heart and confidence in her abilities. I look at her without flinching, because I totally don't have any confidence in her, but for some reason, I don't want her to go running out this door because I pretty much said she sucked at her job.
I nod at the other chair and release her wrist. "Sit. Get your notepad out."
Emma takes a deep breath and gives me a curt nod. The hand I just released drops down and she nervously swipes her hand against the black material of her demure skirt. Her spine is stiff as she walks back to the chair and gets her materials out again.
Gone is the woman that just had fire in her eyes. Now I have back the prim, uber professional attorney.
When she's ready, I start from when the first partier arrived at my house and talk for a solid twenty minutes, going through all the details as best I can remember them. For the most part, I was with someone all evening who could account for my actions. Even though I had quite a bit to drink, I can remember everything, which means I also clearly remembered about thirty minutes where I was utterly alone. I went into my music room, which is basically a large, empty room that has a piano, my guitars and a desk with a laptop. It's where I write my lyrics and bang out the initial chords. I went in there because as I was talking to some friends I went to high school with and who have suddenly become very "close" friends since I became famous--and yes, that's sarcasm--I was struck with inspiration for a new song idea about how to tell the fake from the true. And anytime inspiration hits me, I have to get it down before I forget it.
"So for about thirty minutes between roughly quarter after eleven and quarter 'til twelve, you were alone," Emma asks me.
"Yeah... roughly that time period," I confirm with a nod. "When I came out of the music room, the um... red head chick was there waiting for me. Was with her the rest of the time."
I'm relieved that I don't see that same judgment on her face that was there before, and it seems the conversation flows without any unease between us.
"And you don't know who she is?" Emma asks again. "Remember anything that could help us find her?"
"Sorry," I mutter, and I truly am sorry. Turns out this anonymous fuck could be my saving grace, and I feel like I'm learning a very valuable lesson here.
"We'll get our investigator on interviewing all the witnesses you can identify," she says encouragingly. "I'm sure we can find her."
Emma caps her pen and lays it on the tablet. She folds her hands and looks at me with unwavering intensity. "I'm sorry. For earlier. This is my first criminal case, and I have no clue why Midge asked me to handle this. I was nervous and falling back on my law school training, which is all about the book sense and not about common sense. For what it's worth... I do believe you didn't do it and I'll do whatever I can to help you."
I'm not sure why, but for the first time since those cops showed up this morning, the knot of fear in my stomach eases up a tiny bit. The first person who's heard my story believes me.
"Okay. Thanks," I say softly. "Now what do we do?"
"Well... I don't think there's any harm in you giving a statement with me by your side. I might not let you answer everything, but we can at least help to establish your alibi with them. Then you can get out of here."
I sigh in relief. For the first time since she walked in this room, I actually have a small measure of confidence in her. So I nod my head and agree to give a statement, then mentally calculate how much shit I'm going to give Midge for sending this woman over in the first place.
Knowing Midge... I'm sure she had a very good reason.
CHAPTER 4
Emma
Five weeks later...
I enter The Pit and the sound of all those voices jabbering at once grates on my nerves.
Same as it does every day.
And just like I do every day I walk into work, I look across The Pit to my dad's office, where he's been since probably seven AM. My dad, the lawyer, who I'm nothing like. A man who relishes in the fact he can wear jeans to work and engage in almost a bare-knuckle brawling type of legal theatrics. He'd much rather be in a courtroom and go toe to toe with scrappy lawyers, and for cases that really don't matter that much in the grand scheme of how the world works. I mean, they're important to the people he's representing, but his work doesn't shape and mold the course of the law. It's more about individual justice versus a service to the sanctity of the law as a whole.
Lowering my gaze, I look down at my sensible shoes with a low block heel--brown today to match my taupe suit--and make my way to my desk.
To another day grinding away at a job I just feel no affinity for. My entire legal career--that has only been in existence for less than a year now--has been nothing but one long, boring grind.
Unless you count that day many weeks ago when I got Evan Scott out of jail.
Well, I didn't get him out of jail-jail, but I did an adequate job of walking out with him. I sat with him through a brief interrogation by the police, even managing to lodge some well-placed objections to some of their questions. They didn't seem too bent out of shape about it, especially when they realized Evan could account for his whereabouts for the most part. And that brief period of time in my legal career was exciting and invigorating, even as much as it was terrifying.
Thinking back on that day, I can't really say it was the case itself that got me fired up. I still want nothing more than to work in a nice, quiet office researching the law, reviewing contracts where no one bothers me or crafting appellate arguments. I want that so much that I've got job applications out all over Raleigh and even some of the surrounding cities. I'm not built for the stress of criminal practice or civil litigation, and nothing about what I did as a lawyer that day is what got my blood pumping.
No, it was the man Evan Scott who got me so riled up. I lost control of all my senses. He pissed me off so badly, I shrieked at him like a banshee and actually cursed at him. I was so worked up, I made to leave my client behind to rot in jail, a move that would have surely gotten me fired the minute I walked back into Knight & Payne, and that isn't something I can afford right now. I have bills and law school debt, and as much as I loathe my current job, I need it until I can find something better.
So yes... he got me fired up in a way I've never been before. I won't admit it to anyone, much less myself, that when Evan grabbed my wrist... when he halted my rapid exit, it was the touch of his hand on me that really caused my blood pressure to spike.
It was Evan Scott that made that day memorable, and I'm ashamed to say I think about it more often than not.
My most exciting moment as an attorney, and it had everything to do with the hot mega-star musician who was a douche to me, but ultimately saved my hide by insisting I stay in that room and do my job.
When I reach my desk, I sit down in my swivel chair and tuck my purse into the empty bottom drawer. I boot my computer up and immediately log onto my personal email account to see if I've gotten any responses to my job applications.
Sadly, my inbox is empty.
Just like my legal career.
Taking a deep breath, I let it out and try to thi
nk pleasant thoughts. I mean... Leary did just assign a huge research project to me rather than one of the paralegals, and that is the type of work that definitely is more my speed.
I busy myself with pulling up the email Leary had sent to me with the assignment and start to review her instructions. But annoyingly, and as happens at least a gazillion times a day, the conversations around me start to interfere with my concentration.
"I swear to God it was him," Krystal says in an excited voice from her desk to the right of me. I glance at her and see she's talking to another female attorney named Liz. She's one of the more "sedately" dressed folks in The Pit, preferring to wear chic casual attire. Today's ensemble includes a pair of navy wide-legged pants with four-inch heels, and a form-fitting crepe blouse in a pattern of red, blue, and gold chain links.
"How long has he been in there?" Liz asks, and I note she glances at Midge's office across The Pit.
"About half an hour," Krystal says.
I immediately tune them back out again, because I don't give a fig who's in Midge's office. She's had a slew of high-profile clients in and out over the months I've been here, and it doesn't impress me.
After I read over Leary's instructions, I log onto Lexis-Nexis, the legal research library the firm subscribes too. I'd much rather go over to one of the local law schools in the area and do my research the old-fashioned way, but Knight & Payne is all about convenience and expediency, so online research it is.
I punch in some search terms, review the synopses that appear on my screen, and start making note of the cases that interest me. Then I pull the first one up and start to read.
I'm about halfway through the third paragraph when I suddenly become aware that The Pit has gone almost silent. This is unheard of and is so startling to my senses that I raise my head up to make sure I haven't lost track of time and perhaps everyone left for lunch or something.
Nope... everyone is still here, but no one seems to be speaking a word.
Instead, all faces are turned toward Midge's office and the minute I look that way, my stomach pitches as I recognize Evan Scott standing there talking to his aunt.
And good gracious... no man should ever be that good looking. I mean, the threat to women's ovaries exploding just by looking at him is a real and serious threat to the human race.