I did not believe I could help Emmie. “The best we’d do is a plea bargain. Maybe ten years in jail, five with good behavior?”
“Don’t you phone it in.” She wagged her finger at me. “That poor girl needs a good lawyer. Now, her grandmother sleeps around—that’s true—and her husband was stepping out on her. But the girl can cook, and she has a nice rack.”
“Can she really cook if her food killed someone?” I squinted.
The police station was packed when we arrived. The officers were running around like that chicken Aunt Frances’s old next-door neighbor used to have.
“Where’s the murder box?” the police yelled.
This is not New York City,I reminded myself.Shit, I might be able to get Emmie off just on the fact that no one here is following any sort of procedure.
Aunt Frances bypassed the waiting room, scolded one cop when he meekly asked her to please not go into a restricted area, then marched right into the police chief’s office.
I let her.
Emmie was huddled in a holding cell, one that looked like it was out of the 1920s, with bars and everything. Weepy, she sat across from a drunken man who was half falling off of the bench.
As much as I didn’t want to help her,couldn’treally, my brain was already cranking up, analyzing the facts of the case.
It’s always the spouse,I reminded myself.Always.
Emmie was sobbing hysterically now.
Her grandmother clung to me.
“Help her. You have to help my granddaughter. She’s soft and weak. She’s not like me. She can’t survive prison. I did it!” the old woman yelled. “I killed Brooks! My granddaughter had nothing to do with it. Arrest me!”
The police ignored her.
“Ma’am…”
“Don’t ma’am me, young man. I’m not that old.”
“And furthermore…” Aunt Frances was lecturing the police chief, who looked like he was one irate senior citizen away from a heart attack for Christmas.
The older man strode over to the holding cell, coffee mug in hand, teeth gritted. “I believe it’s absurd how much of my tax dollars were spent on the new motorcycles. I saw Winston here crash his into a snowdrift, and I use the wordcrashliberally. It’s more like he slowly drifted off course, and the bike fell.”
The chief sucked in a breath and bellowed, “All of you need to get the fuck out of here!”
The rest of the townspeople scattered.
I narrowed my eyes. “Where is the district attorney? Are you pressing charges?”
The chief looked around and sighed. “We can keep her here, by law, for twenty-four hours.”
“No, you’re not keeping my client here for twenty-four hours!” I barked. “This jail does not meet the minimum standards for a holding cell under the new law passed this legislative session. You need to bring it up to compliance if you’re keeping anyone here.”
The drunk across from Emmie heaved himself up. “S’tha means I c’leave?”
“No,” the chief snapped. “Your sister said to leave you here to sober up.” He turned on me. “I don’t need some big shot city lawyer coming into my town, telling me how to run my precinct. This is the way we’ve done things for a hundred years. I ain’t changing now.” The chief paused, pushed up his glasses, and peered at me. Then he made a noise of disgust. “Oh, you’re Randall’s boy. Shoulda known.”
It didn’t matter that I was in my thirties—I’d always live in my father’s shadow here, it seemed.
“So is the DA pressing charges or not?” I asked.
“The DA’s having a working lunch.”
“Translation, the DA is out drinking on the city’s dime. Fantastic. I will be taking my client, then, since no charges are being filed.”
