Sedona Law 4 by Dave Daren (ready to read books TXT) 📕

I ended the call and sighed.

“What was that?” Landon asked from behind the camera.

“It’s our plea bargain,” I told him. “We’ve been waiting for it. They’re going to offer her ten years to plead guilty to second degree murder, and him three for aiding and abetting.”

“That’s a shitty deal,” he said.

“It actually wouldn’t be,” I started, “if they were guilty. You can’t just go around stabbing people in the stomach and get away with it.”

“Right,” he said. “But they’re not.”

“Well,” I explained, “that’s the position we’re taking anyway.”

“You think they might be?” he said.

I eyed the camera, and he shut it off, and I continued.

“In every criminal case,” I said, “there’s always a point where you start to doubt. But, you take a side, and you stick with it until the end.”

“That’s your old friend,” he said. “You think she killed the guy?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t. But, I don’t get to make that call, the jury does. My job is to present the best evidence possible to make my point, and to trust the justice system to do the rest.”

“So what’s next?” he asked.

“Now they set an arraignment,” I said. “That’s where we’ll officially enter our plea, and we’ll ask them to turn over whatever evidence we need. Then, they’ll set a trial date, and we’ll have until then to get our proof together.”

I called Vicki. “Hey, I heard from the prosecutor.”

“You did?” she said. “Hold on, let me put you on speaker.”

I heard her muffled voice say something to AJ, and then she came back.

“Okay,” Vicki said. “We’re both here. What have we got?”

“It’s pretty much what we expected,” I said. “Second degree murder for Julianna. He’s offering ten years, parole at eight.”

“That’s standard,” Vicki said. “He’s not doing us any favors, is he?”

“No,” I said. “But it wouldn’t matter anyway. We’re not going to take it. He’s offering the typical three for aiding and abetting.”

“Has he not learned anything?” Vicki asked. “This is the third time we’ve defended one of his botched murder charges, and we’ve beat him every time.”

“Yeah,” I said. “He told me it’s beginner’s luck.”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s rich.”

“Yeah,” I said as I pulled up to Mooreland House. “Call the clients and tell them what’s going on. We’re at Mooreland House, and I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

“Will do,” Vicki said. “See ya.”

“See ya,” I said.

Mooreland House was a brownstone condo about a mile from our office and was legendary for being the coolest of Bohemian indie cool. I parked curbside and looked the place over.

On one side was Java Loft, a trendy, overpriced cafe with bland coffee patronized largely by tourists who want to think they are getting authentic Sedona. On the other side were three more brownstones, and then directly across the street, was a gourmet grocery store, and then a sushi restaurant next to a wine bar.

Jogging trails ran in front of the house and circled through most of the downtown area, and a bike rack sat squarely in front of the place. Vehicle use was discouraged in these parts, I gathered.

Two hipsters with man buns sat on the steps and smoked pipes Sherlock Holmes style. One strummed the guitar and the other laid on the railing and stared into the sky that begged the question of what was in the pipe.

Landon and I entered the front yard which was about the size of an average house bathroom. However, there were still two bistro tables and a well-kept flower bed to add ambiance.

We approached the smoking hipsters, and the guitarist looked up quizzically.

“Sup,” he greeted us.

“We’re here to see Olivia, is she here?” I asked.

“The dancer chick?” he asked. “Yeah, I think she’s in there. She might be out. I don’t know. Check around.”

He nodded in the direction of the ornate wooden front door, but didn’t move and then went back to his guitar. Landon and I went inside and found something between a dorm and a living room.

The first third of the room was occupied by a full size pool table, followed by a seating area of mismatched second hand couches. There was a coffee table littered with old Chinese takeout containers and empty beer bottles. A massive bookcase filled the back wall full of sophisticated looking volumes I would wager had never once been read, and the floorboards beneath us vibrated, and I looked at Landon.

“Cool. There’s a band in the basement,” he gathered. “That’s probably where everyone is. We should check it out.”

We clanked our way through the bottles covering the living room floor and followed the noise down a set of steep wooden stairs and into the basement. Landon was right, that was where they were.

I coughed my way down through the hazy stairwell and blinked as smoke burned my throat. Loud, experimental art rock that reminded me of a Sigur Ros imitation, took over the basement. People were everywhere, some dancing to the slow, rising rhythm, while others listened or stared off. There must have been over a hundred people crammed into that basement.

I found a young woman with a red plastic cup belly dancing to the music. I had to yell to be heard, “Where is Olivia?”

“Wha?” she yelled back.

“Olivia,” I shouted, “the dancer?”

She looked at me glassy eyed for a moment and then pointed. I looked, and there she was. Olivia was a tall, slender waif of a young woman that looked to be a year or so out of high school. She had pale ivory skin, and blonde hair worn slicked into a tiny bun at the back of her neck. She was barefoot and danced in a gauzy pink gypsy costume. A crowd gathered around her and stared at her like she must have been a