Contempt: A Legal Thriller Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Michael Cordell

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, titles, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  To Kate,

  My love, my life, my light.

  I can’t see my reflection in the water

  I can’t speak the sounds that show no pain

  I can’t hear the echo of my footsteps

  Or remember the sounds of my own name

  Bob Dylan

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  Five years had passed since the two lawyers last faced each other in a court of law. Five years—or a lifetime, depending on which lawyer you asked.

  Thane Banning was struck by how cavernous the L.A. courtroom felt with only four people present. At the original trial, a crush of spectators had overwhelmed the space; each morning when the building opened, the mob would scramble forward, fighting their way inside as if it were a lifeboat on the side of a sinking ship.

  But today, Thane’s voice echoed off the marble walls.

  Five years ago, the press had laid siege not only to the courtroom and the adjacent hallway, but also to the front steps of the courthouse and down each sidewalk. TV news vans parked bumper-to-bumper for five blocks. It had been dubbed the trial of the year, the decade, and even the century, depending on which cable news pundit was talking. But today there were no members of the press, no microphones, no cameras, no news vans puttering outside. Judge Bennett Williams was conducting today’s hearing as surreptitiously as possible.

  Judge Williams, who had served on the bench for thirty-eight years, hadn’t presided over the original trial, but it was his unfortunate lot to draw today’s arguments. The uniformed guard posted next to the locked door was also absent last time, but his presence today wasn’t just for show. Today his leather holster was unsnapped, providing easy access to his service revolver.

  Of the four men in the courtroom, only the two lawyers were back in their original places. Bradford Stone once again assumed charge of the prosecution, although this time he did so as the District Attorney for Los Angeles. At forty-seven, Stone’s features, like his designer suits, were a collection of sharp angles. Thane figured the courtroom artists would have to fish for their finest-tipped pencils to draw his face. His dark eyes were those of a hawk on a wire, surveying the landscape, scanning for prey.

  Thane once again stood at the defense table across the aisle from Stone. The DA hadn’t changed over the years, but Thane knew the same couldn’t be said for himself. Instead of an Armani suit, today’s thread-worn jacket was three sizes too small, too tight to fasten the buttons. His black hair was as thick as ever, but he had seen tendrils of white worming their way to the surface over the past few months—not a distinguished gray like the judge’s, but white, the kind of shock-white most men would dye away.

  He was only thirty-six years old.

  But it was on the inside that Thane had changed the most. There had been a time when he might have felt overwhelmed by what was happening to him, but today he felt nothing at all. Nothing but contempt.

  “Your Honor,” Thane said, “I contend that Defense was denied an opportunity to pursue a reasonable line of cross-examination. The fact that the witness and detective knew each other prior to the incident was not disclosed by the prosecution.” He spit out the last two words as if he’d bitten into something sour.

  Bradford Stone sprang from his chair before Thane even finished his sentence. “Detective Gruber encountered hundreds of people in his work. For him not to remember one witness is understandable.”

  Thane turned from the judge and faced Stone directly. “But it has come to light that you learned of this during the trial and said nothing.”

  “Because it was irrelevant.”

  “Not to me,” Thane shot back.

  Judge Williams banged his gavel. “Gentlemen,” the judge said, “if you could at least pretend to address your arguments to me, I would appreciate it.”

  “I apologize, Your Honor,” Stone said, “but I vehemently disagree with what the Defense believes is important. A thirty-three-year-old woman was knocked unconscious by ether and dragged down a dark alley where the killer stabbed her seventeen times as she regained consciousness. Those are the facts. That’s what’s important.”

  Thane turned once again toward Stone, not to respond, but to fully absorb the prosecutor’s words. He held his tongue, though it took tremendous effort.

  “I understand the gravity of the crime, Mr. Stone,” Judge Williams said.

  Thane wondered if Williams was working solely off the transcripts, or if he had also examined the photos from the original trial. It was one thing to read that a young woman’s life had been ripped away in such a heinous manner; it was quite another to see the horror printed on her face as she lay sprawled on her back, her right cheek pressed against the pavement at an impossible angle. Yet despite all the blood, what had stunned Thane most was the close-up of her eyes: vacant, glassy, and wide open, as if frantically searching for God.

  “In addition,” Stone continued, “Ms. McCoy was not only a public servant, but an important member of the District Attorney’s office. I had the honor of working with her on many cases prior to becoming DA, and her memory deserves better than to see her killer set free. Requesting that the court throw out the witness’s testimony would be tantamount to dismissing the case altogether. It’s been five years, Your Honor, and the key witness passed away three years ago.”

  “What about the arresting officer?”

  “H
e didn’t see the defendant attack the victim. The witness in question provided the foundation of our case. Without him . . ." Stone stopped, a note of frustration starting to push his tone off-key.

  Thane took this opportunity to jump in. “Your Honor, I have provided numerous precedents. ‘Sheffield versus Michigan Court of Appeals’, ‘Spearman versus the State of Colorado’, ‘Goldman versus—’”

  “Yes, Counselor, I have reviewed them,” the judge said. “I understand your arguments.”

  “Your Honor,” Stone said, “overturning this verdict and releasing a depraved murderer would be an outrage. A complete and moral outrage.”

  “I agree, Mr. Stone,” the judge said after a moment’s consideration. “It would, indeed, be an outrage.” A look of relief flashed across Stone’s face. “But I’m afraid that just might be what the law demands.”

  Stone blanched and Thane stood motionless as they each absorbed the weight of the judge’s words. Not wanting to leave anything to chance, Thane said, “Your Honor, I’d also like to reference three other court decisions—”

  Judge Williams raised one finger, stopping Thane in mid-sentence. “If I were you, Mr. Banning, I would quit while I was ahead.”

  When Thane hesitated, the judge leaned forward, the rusty squeak of his leather chair prefacing his final words. “And you are ahead.”

  He rose and strode from the courtroom.

  Stone remained seated for a moment, lips pursed. Slowly he rose, bullied a stack of papers into his leather briefcase, and thrust his way toward the door. The guard stuck his key in the lock, turned it, and stepped aside, allowing the DA to march out of the room. The guard then shut and relocked the door, keeping his attention on Thane.

  Thane remained standing at his table, staring at the papers scattered in front of him, miles away in his mind. Years away. Finally, he collected the documents, sliding them into a brown paper bag and placing them under his arm.

  “Leave the bag on the table,” the guard intoned. “I’ll gather everything for you.”

  Thane obeyed. Then, upon hearing the familiar jangle of the handcuffs, he shuffled to the narrow end of the table, turned his back to the guard and leaned forward slightly, placing his hands behind him. The inch-thick metal shackles around each ankle, and the six-inch chain between them, made walking even a short distance a humiliating ordeal. Or at least it had the first few times. He was long past feeling humiliated these days.

  The past five years had broken him of that.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  Hannah Banning swam upstream against the lunchtime crowd that filled the sidewalk on Grant Avenue. The restaurant was two blocks away, and she was already half an hour late. Bad enough asking Paul to meet her so they could talk about the break-up in person: making him wait felt like an insult.

  When she’d gotten out of bed that morning, it was simply Wednesday. Two hours later, though, it had become the last full day that Thane would spend in prison. Everyone around her was going about their business as if nothing extraordinary had taken place, but she knew the world had shifted. The projects she had been working on, the ever-growing tasks on her to-do list, the upcoming appointments on her calendar—none of it mattered now.

  She finally reached the restaurant and entered. As she maneuvered her way toward the table, Paul stared, his face missing the usual half-smile and raised eyebrow, the one he lifted like a tiny boomerang to welcome her into a room. The best Hannah could offer was a meek wave and the nervous smile of a fourteen-year-old, but Paul’s frown never wavered.

  “I’m sorry. I hope you haven’t been here long,” she said as she sat down, unable to think of anything else to say.

  Paul looked at her incredulously. “That’s pretty much the least of my concerns right now, wouldn’t you say?”

  His six-foot-five frame, most of it muscle from working construction, was rigid and pitched forward. His usually friendly smile, like a German Shepherd wagging its tail, was gone. Today he looked as though he could bite. His work attire—torn flannel shirt and dirty blue jeans—stood in contrast to the dark. clean suits huddled around the nearby tables.

  Hannah reached up to pull at her hair, a nervous habit she thought she’d broken years ago, but her fingers brushed against her shoulder instead. Her face suddenly felt as red as her shortened locks as she realized one more thing Paul might seize on: she had just come from cutting six inches off her hair.

  “Is that how you wore it back then?” Paul muttered. “Trying to make it look like old times?” Even before he finished his sentence he had turned his fiery eyes away from her, directing them toward the table.

  A waiter heading toward them abruptly stopped in his tracks and beat a hasty retreat, acting as though he had forgotten something.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” Hannah replied, ignoring the question. “I just didn’t feel this was a discussion we should finish over the phone.”

  “Doesn’t a discussion imply two people working through something? I was under the impression you’d made up your mind—and to hell with what I want.”

  Hannah felt like she’d swallowed a mouthful of ashes. Figuring it might be a while before the waiter ventured a return, she reached for Paul’s glass of water, leaving him with the gin and tonic already in front of him. But when she began speaking, she wished she’d taken the cocktail instead.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “For everything. I know this is hard for you, but you know what? It’s even harder for me.”

  “I don’t see how,” Paul said. “I’m the one who’s going to be alone.”

  She looked at him, her eyes welling up with the tears she thought she could hold in check. It had been two years since she’d allowed herself to cry. Tears never changed a damn thing, and anyway, she figured there were no tears left inside of her. Wrong again. She grabbed her napkin and unfolded it, methodically placing it on her lap; there was no food on the table, but it gave her something to do and provided an excuse, however feeble, to look away from Paul.

  As she stroked the linen, Paul’s tone softened. “Baby, look,” he said, “I didn’t mean that. Well, yeah, I did, but I know this isn’t easy for you. But damn it, you think I’m just going to step aside quietly? You may not know everything about me, but you oughta know I’m not someone who just gives up. I fight for what’s important.”

  “I’m not looking for you to fight. And it’s not a matter of giving up. I’m doing what I have to do.”

  “Bullshit. You don’t have to—”

  “Paul, I do. He’s my husband. And yes, maybe you’re right that I don’t have to do it, but I’m choosing to do it.” She threw her napkin on the table, no longer needing its comfort. “Don’t you realize this is a shock for me? Do you have any idea how scared I am?”

  “Well, I’m scared for you. That son of a bitch liberal judge, what the hell was he thinking? I’ve read about your husband. I know what he did, and I can’t—”

  “No.” Hannah narrowed her eyes and aimed her index finger at him. “Don’t you dare go there. I’m not scared for my safety. Thane did not murder that woman. I don’t give a damn what you’ve read. I’m scared because . . .”

  She paused, catching her breath. She understood what Paul felt, but if she was honest, her relationship with Thane was none of his business. Not anymore. “I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I really am. I wish I could tell you what’s going to happen, but I honestly don’t know. I haven’t even spoken to Thane in over three years. For all I know, I’ll be on your front step tomorrow, begging you to let me in.”

  Paul shook his head. “You won’t have to beg. Ever.”

  He pulled out his wallet, threw a twenty on the table, and downed the rest of his drink with one swig. Then he rose and walked away without saying goodbye—although by then, goodbye was the only thing left to say.

  Hannah opened the door to her books
tore, hoping to slip in unnoticed, even though she knew the bell would announce her arrival. It was a compact space, smaller than the fiction section of an average Barnes & Noble. She instinctively checked for any customers. None. Her only employee was a twenty-one-year-old college student named Caitlin, whose round face and round wire-rimmed glasses made her look like one of those cartoon owls holding a book. She sat reading in one of the side chairs near the register.

  “If you worked at one of those big chain bookstores, you’d never have time to read,” Hannah said.

  “You’re telling me,” Caitlin responded without looking up. “I worked at a Books-a-Million for a month. It almost killed me.”

  “Spoken like a woman who doesn’t have to pay rent.” Hannah walked to the counter and picked up a smattering of mail, glancing through the pieces but not seeing anything worth opening.

  Caitlin set the book on her lap and looked up at Hannah, eyes wide. “How’d it go?”

  “It was great. We laughed and laughed, then left with a big ol’ hug.”

  “Was he pissed?” Caitlin asked, not even trying to hide her eagerness.

  “Let’s just say he started off pissed. It went downhill from there.”

  Caitlin bounced on the chair cushion in an effort to sit up straight. “I just want you to know I think all of this is so cool. I’ve never met anyone who has had anything this romantic happen to them.”

  “Kiddo, you and I obviously have different notions of romance.”

  “You know what I mean. But tell me the important stuff. What are you going to wear tomorrow?”

  Hannah thought for a moment. “I don’t know. What does a woman wear for something like this?”

  Caitlin leapt from her chair like a cat who heard food rattling into its dish. “I saw this movie once. I think it was from the sixties or something because the color was all faded, you know? And there was this girl, and she was going through what you’re going through. Kind of? Well, maybe not exactly, but you know. Anyway, she wore this real pretty sundress. It was all bright and cheery and the dress just swayed around when she moved, and her boyfriend threw his arms around her and wouldn’t let go.”