The Advocate's Ex Parte (The Advocate Series Book 5) (28 page)

“Do you remember a case from a little over ten years ago with a kid named Isaiah Banks?”

“Sounds familiar, but I can’t be certain. What court?”

“Delinquency.”

“Let me pull the file. I’ll be right back.”

Sabre turned onto Interstate 15 and headed north toward Mira Mesa. She drove about five miles before Jerry came back on the line.

“Yeah…I remember this case: a carjacking with a firearm. We used the ‘It-was-the-other-dude’ defense because Isaiah claimed it wasn’t him. He swore he was somewhere else, but we couldn’t substantiate his alibi. He was only fourteen and had just joined the Piru gang. Unfortunately, he was a little too proud of his affiliation and a bit cocky. That hurt him. The two eyewitnesses in the car didn’t help, either. They swore it was him. He swore it wasn’t. I believed him. The judge believed the witnesses. I really liked the kid, though. If he hadn't hooked up with the Skyline Pirus, he might have made it. Why do you ask?”

“I have his son on a dependency case and the judge was Mitchell. I just discovered that Mitchell was also the judge on his juvenile case eleven years ago.”

“Yes, it was Scary Larry alright. He was on a crusade to crack down on gang crime. It was the kid’s first offense, but his grades had dropped, he was missing school, and because of his gang membership the judge gave him a pretty harsh sentence: California Youth Authority. Five years, I believe. Anyone else would’ve likely given him camp time, not CYA.” Jerry paused. “Are they looking at him for Mitchell’s murder?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s too bad. I really thought that kid had a chance.”

“Thanks, Jerry.” Sabre hung up the phone and called JP. She reached his voice mail. “The list of Judge Mitchell’s cases has Isaiah Banks on it. He was the judge on Isaiah Banks’ first offense. He found him guilty of carjacking with a firearm and gave him a pretty harsh sentence. You may want to pass this on to Klakken if they haven’t discovered it already.” She hung up just as she pulled into the BevMo! parking lot.

Chapter 47

Tyson Doyle Cooper aka Clint Buchanon

When the doorbell rang Sabre glanced at the clock and realized it was way too early for Clint. He surely wouldn't arrive forty-five minutes early. She was dressed but her hair was still wet from the shower. She dashed downstairs and peeked out her front door’s peephole. It was Bob Clark.

"Hi. What are you doing here?" Sabre said, as she opened the door.

"I was in the neighborhood and my phone is dead," Bob said. "I need to use your computer for a second."

"Come on in." She stepped back and Bob followed her inside. "Would you like a Shiner Bock beer?"

"I've never heard of it. Is it good?"

"I don't know. I don't like beer." They stepped into the kitchen.

"So why do you have it?"

Sabre opened the refrigerator, removed a bottle of the beer, and handed it to Bob. "I have company coming and that's what he drinks."

"He? Who is he? Do you have a date?"

"Sort of."

"How do you have a 'sort of’ date? Is he taking you out or not?" Bob pulled his glasses down on his nose and looked over the top of them to examine the label.

"He's coming here to fix dinner for me."

"Who is this guy?"

"None of your business."

Bob held the bottle out in front of him, then smiled and nodded his head. "It's that cowboy you met in the bar, isn't it?" he asked smugly.

"If you must know, yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Before Sabre could respond, he added, "I told you he wanted you."

"That's exactly why I didn't tell you. I didn't want to hear you gloat."

“Okay, no gloating. Let me use your computer and I’ll get out of here.”

***

Clint arrived on time and carrying two bags of groceries. Sabre led him to the kitchen, where he set them down on the island. He glanced around the kitchen. “Nice set-up,” he said.

“It’s small, but I don’t spend a lot of time in here. The truth is I don’t cook unless I have to.”

With a slight nod and a wink, he said, “Stick with me and you won’t ever have to.”

“Would you like something to drink?”

Clint reached inside one of the bags on the counter and pulled out a bottle of wine. It had an ivory label with a triangle cut out at the top containing a raised floral pattern. In gold letters it read: “LINDAFLOR” with a fancy swirl leading off from the “a.” Underneath it said “Valle de UCO—Mendoza, Argentina 2005.” Sabre knew very little about wines, but the bottle was impressive.

“It’s a Malbec wine,” Clint said. When Sabre didn’t respond right away, he added “Unless you have something better.” His voice sounded a little harsh. Sabre couldn’t tell if he was hurt because she didn’t have a full appreciation for the wine or if he was irritated.

She quickly said, “Maybe.” She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer. “Will this do?”

“Shiner Bock! Oh my God, I think I love you.”

Sabre laughed and handed him the beer. “If that’s all it takes.”

“I haven’t had one of these since I left Texas. I don’t drink much, but if I’m going to have a beer, I prefer this one.” He lifted the bottle and held it for a second in front of him. “I didn’t know they even carried it in California. I haven’t been able to find it anywhere. Where’d you find it?”

“I had to search a bit. I found it at BevMo! In Mira Mesa.”

“BevMo!? I don’t think we have those in Texas.” He stepped closer to her and touched her gently on her cheek. He leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips, lasting for just a second. “Thank you. That was very thoughtful.”

“It’s the least I could do. After all, you’re making the dinner.”

Sabre walked over to the cupboard and removed a wine glass. “I’ll have a glass of that wine, if you don’t mind.”

Clint opened the wine and poured it into her glass, opened his bottle, and clinked her glass with his bottle. “To getting what you want out of life.”

Sabre found the toast interesting and a little curious, but she didn’t want to ruin the mood by questioning him. She assumed it was his way of saying he was glad to be there. They chatted while Clint removed the groceries from the bags. Sabre folded the bags and put them away.

“Cutting board?” he asked.

Sabre removed it from a cupboard and set it on the island counter. Then she carried the block of knives from the counter near the stove to the island.

“Clint picked up a long, sharp knife and examined it. “Nice, sharp Cutco knives. They’re the best.”

“It was a gift. And they’re still sharp because I seldom use them. I’m not allowed to cook without adult supervision.”

He chuckled at her comment.

“What can I do to help?”

He moved one of the nearby barstools to one end of the counter. “You just sit here and look beautiful.” He positioned himself so he could look at her while he worked.

Sabre sat on the stool. “This is sweet. Let me know if you need anything.”

Clint proceeded to slice the tomatoes and the onions. He minced some garlic and chopped the parsley, taking an occasional sip of beer as he worked. “Do you have a grater?”

“Just the old-fashioned kind,” Sabre said.

“That’ll do. And a small bowl, if you will.”

Sabre brought him the grater and bowl. Clint grated the lemon rind until the yellow disappeared. Then he cut the lemon in half and set it aside. After rinsing the grater, he put it in the dishwasher. Sabre was fascinated as she watched. He obviously enjoyed this art form. He moved through the process like a painter creating a masterpiece, yet taking care to clean his tools as he went. When Sabre cooked, she threw some meat or fish along with a vegetable on the George Foreman, sprinkled some seasonings on it, and closed the lid.

“Are you sure I can’t help? I could clean up after you. I’m great at that.”

“I’ve got this. You can turn the oven on to 450 degrees for me.” He held up his nearly empty bottle of beer. “And you can grab me another one of these.”

Sabre did as he asked and then sat back down to watch the artist in action, sipping slowly on her glass of wine. Clint cleaned the salmon and removed the skin. He washed the asparagus, popping off the woody ends. He rubbed extra virgin olive oil around a glass baking pan that Sabre couldn’t recall ever having used. Then he poured some dry, white wine in the pan; placed the salmon in it; sprinkled the fish with oregano, garlic, salt, and pepper; and topped it evenly with the sliced tomatoes, onions, and parsley. He finished by pouring the breadcrumb and olive oil mixture he had created earlier over the veggie-topped salmon fillets.

He put the asparagus in another pan and tossed it with olive oil and salt. After setting both pans in the oven Clint proceeded to make a mixture of parsley, garlic, lemon zest, and almonds in another bowl.

“Is that going on the asparagus?” Sabre asked.

“Yes. It’s called Gremolata. It’s an Italian seasoning.”

Sabre had never heard of it, but it looked inviting.

***

When they sat down to eat, Clint took a photo of her with his cell phone. “Who knows?” he said. “Someday we may wish we’d captured our first home-cooked meal in a picture.”

The dinner tasted superb. Sabre loved fish, but salmon was her least favorite until she tasted the dish Clint had created. She didn’t have the heart to tell him earlier that she wasn’t a salmon fan. In retrospect, she was glad she hadn’t.

About halfway through the meal, Sabre’s cell phone rang. She stood up, walked to the coffee table where it sat, and picked it up. JP’s picture and name flashed across the screen. She hesitated, then shut the ringer off and returned to the table.

“Answer that if you need to.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s just work.”

They continued their conversation over the rest of the meal, each enjoying a glass of wine. Sabre felt a little light headed. She was such a lightweight when it came to alcohol. Clint didn’t seem fazed at all from the four beers he’d consumed while cooking as well as the glass of wine he was now enjoying.

They went out on the patio and gazed at the evening sky. Clint put his arm around Sabre, placing his hand gently on her shoulder. It felt good.

“Your weather here is exceptional,” he said. “I bet you really enjoy the beach.”

“I do, but I don’t get there as often as I’d like.”

“Okay then, let’s go,” Clint suggested.

“Now?”

“Sure, I’ve never seen it at night.”

She looked at him. He looked like a little kid asking to go to Disneyland. “Just let me grab a jacket. It might be a little chilly there.” As she ran up the stairs she said, “Everyone should see the beach at night.”

When Sabre disappeared from view, Tyson Doyle Cooper checked her cell phone and retrieved JP’s phone number.

Chapter 48

The Durham Case

Child: Matt Durham, Defendant

Type: Delinquency case

Charges: Two counts of First Degree Murder

Victims: Hannah Rawlins & Mason Usher

Facts: Double homicide. Two teenagers bludgeoned to death with a baseball bat.

The Handle Bar smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke. The odor surprised JP because it had been years since the law in California had passed prohibiting smoking in bars. The small room had eight wooden, square tables, each with three chairs; a bar with twelve stools; a jukebox; and two video game machines. Four patrons sat on the stools and six more were seated at three of the tables.

JP walked up to the bartender just as he yelled, “Tony, put that cigarette out. You know you can’t smoke in here.”

A man with a scruffy beard and smoke billowing around his face stood up from one of the tables and stumbled out the door.

The bartender, a man in his late thirties, turned to JP. “We go through this every day.” He shook his head. “What can I get you?”

JP raised his hand in a gesture that indicated he didn’t want anything to drink. “Nothing at the moment.” Then he introduced himself and showed the bartender a photo of Ralph. “Have you ever seen this guy?”

“You bet. That’s Ralph. He’s a regular. He started coming in here about three months ago. Comes in every day about five-thirty and stays until around midnight.”

JP showed him a photo of Matt Durham. “Has he ever been in here?”

He sneered. ”That’s the kid who killed his classmates, isn’t it?”

“He’s been accused of it. I work for his attorney. We’re just trying to verify a few things.”

“He tried to come in once with Ralph a month or so ago, but I chased him right out. He had an ID, but it was obviously fake. I chewed Ralph out for bringing him in here.”

“I don’t suppose that was the same night of the murders?”

“No, it was weeks before that.”

“Do you know if Ralph was here the night of the murders?”

The bartender didn’t hesitate. “Yes, he was.”

JP looked skeptical. “How would you remember that?”

“Because Ralph is a top-notch gamer and that was the first night we played ‘Dishonored’ with each other. He came in at five-thirty just like always and he was here when word of the murders came on the news. That was a little after nine and they had just found the bodies. I remember they rushed the boy to the hospital, but he died on the way. The girl was already dead.”

“Did he come in any days after that?”

“He has been in here every night since then with the exception of the two nights he missed when he was sick.”

“When was that?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Do you remember the dates?”

“Just a second; I can tell you exactly.” The bartender walked over to a video game and looked at something on the screen. When he returned he said, “It was Tuesday and Wednesday, the third and fourth.”

“You can tell that by the machine?”

“Yes. We play it every night.”

“And what about the nights when you aren’t working?”

“I’m here at the bar on my nights off. I recently went through a divorce and I have no life. He spread his arms wide. This is my version of Cheers. The truth is I hung out here way too much when I was married. Now I hang out here with the same people I wait on all day long. I drink with them and I play video games with them. Ralph is the only real challenger I’ve got, though. He’s good. I mean really good.”