The Last Chance Lawyer Read online

  The Last Chance Lawyer

  Daniel Pike Series, Volume 1

  WILLIAM BERNHARDT

  Published by Babylon Books, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE LAST CHANCE LAWYER

  First edition. March 19, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 WILLIAM BERNHARDT.

  ISBN: 978-1948263351

  Written by WILLIAM BERNHARDT.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Praise for The Last Chance Lawyer and William Bernhardt

  The Hand of the Wicked

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  The Weak and the Needy

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  The Meaning of Justice

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Afterword

  Sneak Preview of Court of Killers (Book 2 of the Daniel Pike Series)

  About the Author

  Also by William Bernhardt

  Sign up for WILLIAM BERNHARDT's Mailing List

  For everyone yearning to breathe free

  Praise for The Last Chance Lawyer and William Bernhardt

  “The Last Chance Lawyer is the kind of book you want to read in one sitting and then read again to savor the deeper meaning. I look forward to watching this series develop....”

  Rick Ludwig, author of Mirrored

  "A brisk tale with a surprisingly sympathetic protagonist who should be able to sustain another winning series.”

  Kirkus Reviews

  “If you're a fan of courtroom drama, plot twists and rebel attorneys with a heart of gold, then The Last Chance Lawyer is for you.”

  RJ Johnson, author of A Wilderness of Mirrors

  “William Bernhardt is a born stylist, and his writing through the years has aged like a fine wine....”

  Steve Berry, bestselling author of The Bishop’s Pawn

  "Bernhardt is the undisputed master of the courtroom drama."

  Library Journal

  Copyright © 2019 by William Bernhardt

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-948263-35-1

  Print edition ISBN: 978-1-948263-36-8

  For everyone yearning to breathe free

  Give justice to the weak and the fatherless; maintain the right of the afflicted and the destitute. Rescue the weak and the needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked.

  Psalm 82: 3-4 (ESV)

  The Hand of the Wicked

  Chapter 1

  “What’s my name?”

  “I do not know.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I never know. Never.”

  “You’re lying. I’m going to put you back in the box.”

  “Please!”

  “I’ll turn up the music. Bring back the needle.”

  “Por favor! No!”

  “I want to hear my name. Tell me my name!”

  “I do not know!”

  LUCIANA RACED ACROSS the four-lane highway, oblivious to the oncoming traffic. Even this late at night, cars buzzed over the hill at eye-blurring speed, unrelenting.

  Her eyes were wet and unfocused. She could barely see anything. The roads felt slick and her feet were bare. Her gown was torn and filthy.

  Didn’t matter. She had to keep moving. They were coming for her. ¡Correr!

  A car slammed on its brakes, skidding to a stop only a few feet from her. It spun sideways, screeching and infusing the air with burnt rubber. She froze.

  She could barely make out the headlights of another oncoming car. She stumbled backward just in time to avoid a tailspin, falling to her knees, skinning the palms of her hands.

  She rose again and rushed forward, only to see another pair of headlights careening toward her. She increased her speed, rolling forward, diving. She tripped and fell, scraping her knees, but the car skidded past, missing her by inches.

  Her knees bled badly, but she scrambled back to her feet and ran. She hit the lawn and kept moving. Something sharp dug into one of her feet. She ignored it. She had to keep moving. She wasn’t going back. She would never return to him, to that life, what they had forced her to do. How long had she been a slave? How long had she been powerless? Her mind raced, trying to put it all in order, trying to make sense of what was happening, what she was doing. The needle made it harder. Everything did.

  Don’t give in, she told herself, but the fog would not subside.

  She had to escape, had to find her way south. The only thing worse than what had happened to her was the knowledge that it would soon happen to somebody else.

  She glanced over her shoulder, still running as fast as she could. She was miles from the box now, or so it seemed to her muddled brain. Was someone back there? She thought she heard something, but she couldn’t be sure. What did it matter? She knew they would come for her. Soon.

  Her only hope was to find her sister, but she wasn’t sure where to look. Somewhere. Near here. She raced down the sidewalk, passing the coast and brilliant neon signs. Where was she? She tried to remember, but it was so hard. Everything was so hard. Her mind was disintegrating and she knew it. If she didn’t escape this time, she never would.

  The bright lights blinded her. Her mind was flooded with a series of disconnected images. It was almost as if her whole life passed before her eyes. But she wasn’t dying—was she? She remembered her mother, so long ago, back in the old country, cradling her. Her mother told her to be strong. Her mother told her to fight. But she hadn’t fought. She had conceded. And she was destroyed.

  She was alone now. And no one should be alone. No one. Never.

  She saw a bright fountain in front of a big hotel with water dancing above it. She was suddenly overcome with thirst. But the grass was wet and her bare feet slipped. She tumbled forward, falling on the stone ring encircling the fountain. Her head made a sickening cracking sound.

  Lights ignited behind her eyes. Blood dripped down the side of her face. She lay on the grass, stunned, barely able to think. ¿Qué he hecho?

  She d
idn’t know how much time passed before the people arrived. The one who had tormented her so long, and the new one, the friend. She feared him most of all.

  “See what happens?” one shadowed figure said. “You’re only making this worse on yourself.”

  “Kill me,” she whimpered. “Please. Show mercy.”

  “Wish it were that simple. But it’s not. You’re on the books. Too many people watching.”

  “Just make sure she doesn’t talk,” the other figure said, in a slow flat voice.

  “In time.” The needle appeared. “Don’t move.” She tapped all the strength she could muster, squirming from side to side. Her head was still swimming, like she had severed a vital connection in her brain.

  “You move, it’s only going to hurt more.” A hand clamped down on her mouth. “Do you need to be unconscious? Because I can arrange that.”

  She stopped squirming. The needle entered her arm. She felt a hot liquid coursing through her veins, radiating throughout her entire body. It hurt.

  “You have become far too dangerous. I hope you weren’t stupid enough to talk to anyone. Not that anyone would believe you if you did.”

  She felt darkness creeping across her like a spider. Was this the end? Finally? Her mind was bruised, ruined. She should just bash her brains against the wall and end this torture. She raised her head—

  And a strong pair of hands grabbed her, immobilizing her.

  “Back to the box for you.”

  “WHAT’S MY NAME?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Please stop this. I cannot bear it. I want to die.”

  “If you die, you know what will happen to the girl.”

  “No!”

  “What’s my name?”

  “No sé!”

  Chapter 2

  Dan scrutinized the man in the witness stand, Michael Herrin. Herrin’s testimony could convict his client and send him to prison for eight years—depending upon what happened in the next five minutes.

  His favorite law school professor told him that if you observed a person carefully, you could learn everything you needed to know. So that’s what he did, every time he met someone new. He took photos with his eyes and filed them away, then used them later to make connections. Connections that led to greater conclusions.

  He scanned Herrin top to bottom. Comb-over. Crow’s feet. Crooked tie, didn’t match. Leaning forward.

  As it turned out, Professor Tepker was right.

  “Mr. Herrin, do I understand that you were seated at your desk, staring out the window, around eleven p.m. on the night of October twenty-third?”

  “That was my testimony.” The man straightened slightly. He was obviously apprehensive. Which meant nothing. Everyone was apprehensive on the witness stand, and especially during cross-examination.

  “Awfully late to be working, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s why I’m the second associate vice-president,” Herrin said, with more than a hint of pride.

  “But despite how late it was, you could still see outside clearly?”

  “The streetlamp illuminated the sidewalk.”

  Herrin had testified that he’d seen a drug deal go down across the street, and that the dealer in question, the man later arrested with over ten thousand in cash in his pockets, was his client, Emilio Lòpez. The prosecution’s case hinged on this ID. All the other evidence was circumstantial at best. In fact, the prosecutor, Jazlyn Prentice, a generally savvy lawyer, would not have bothered bringing charges but for this one eyewitness. Destroy the eyewitness, destroy the case.

  He pulled a document out of his backpack. He preferred backpack to briefcase—easier to carry, didn’t slow you down when you needed to move fast. “Mr. Herrin, would you please look at defense exhibit number fourteen?”

  Herrin thumbed through the heavy evidence notebook till he reached tab fourteen. “This is the statement I gave the police just after I contacted them.” He raised his chin slightly. “That’s my signature at the bottom.”

  “You’re sure that’s your signature?”

  “Of course I am. I can see it plainly with my own eyes.”

  He smiled. “Yes, that’s the crux of this whole case. What you saw, or could see, with your own eyes.”

  He felt a stir in the courtroom, some of it from the prosecutor’s table, some of it from the bench. His reputation preceded him, it seemed. They all knew something was about to happen. They just didn’t know what it was.

  “I notice, sir, that you have more pronounced crow’s feet, and a deeper line between your brows, than I would expect from a man in his thirties.”

  The witness appeared thrown. “Is that a question?”

  “Each time you focus on a document, you raise your chin slightly, but look downward. You did it just now, and I noticed it before when you examined the prosecution’s exhibits.”

  More silence. He could tell the prosecutor—Jazlyn to him, outside of court—wanted to object, but wasn’t even sure what he was saying, much less what she should say in response.

  Jazlyn slowly pushed herself to her feet. “I’m sorry, your honor. Is Mr. Herrin’s chin... relevant for some reason?”

  Judge Zimmerman arched an eyebrow. “Is that an objection?”

  “Sure. That’s an objection. On grounds of relevance.”

  “I will admit to sharing the distinguished prosecutor’s mystification, Mr. Pike.”

  He nodded. “I can make it all clear in about three questions. May I?”

  “I’ll hold the objection in abeyance. For a little while.”

  “Thank you.” He pivoted away from the defense table, then sprang forward. He loved his Air Jordans. They matched his tie and pocket square, didn’t violate the court rules, and always put a bounce in his step. “Mr. Herrin, are you wearing contact lenses?”

  The question startled him. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”

  “Are those, by any chance, bifocal contacts?”

  “Ye-es...”

  “If I understand correctly, the top half of the lens enhances far vision, while the lower half is for near vision. So when you’re looking far away, you look upward. And when you’re looking at things that are nearby, like the document you’re holding, you look through the bottom part of the lens. And here’s a human quirk—we tend to raise our chin before we look downward.”

  He almost felt sorry for the witness. Herrin still wasn’t getting it. But a glance at Jazlyn told him that she did. She was three steps ahead of the witness. But he was about ten steps ahead of them both.

  “Mr. Herrin, when you spotted someone allegedly making a drug deal outside your window, how far away was he from you?”

  “I’m not sure. I’d guess somewhere around thirty feet.”

  “Would you be surprised to hear that it is in fact exactly forty-six feet from your desk to the place where the incident allegedly took place? I measured it myself.”

  “Okay. Forty-six feet.”

  “Would it be safe to say, given your extreme nearsightedness, that you wouldn’t be able to see forty-six feet away clearly unless you used optical aids?”

  “If you mean these contacts, forget it. I just got these a week ago. I wasn’t wearing them last October. I had normal glasses then. To correct my nearsightedness. So I could see from a distance.”

  “Were you wearing those glasses when you gazed out the window that night?”

  “Yes, of course. I mean, I assume.... I mean...” His voice trailed.

  He could spend the next ten minutes establishing Herrin’s complete lack of certainty, but Herrin had already done that adequately himself. “Sir, I’d like to show you a still photograph taken from the surveillance camera operating inside your bank. Unfortunately, the camera wasn’t focused on the street outside, so it doesn’t help us identify who was involved in the alleged sale. But it gives us a great photo of you. Your honor, may I approach?”

  The judge nodded.

  He h
anded the photo to the bailiff, who passed it to the witness. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

  Herrin didn’t want to answer. He’d already seen his mistake. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “But you’re not wearing your so-called normal glasses, are you?”

  “I... am wearing glasses....”

  “You’re wearing reading glasses, right? Cheaters. Granny glasses, the kids call them. Which makes sense, since you’re sitting at your desk, reading documents.” He stopped, just to make sure the jury was with him. “But those reading glasses wouldn’t help you a bit when you needed to see something forty-six feet away, would they?”

  Jazlyn rose to her feet. “Your honor, I must object.”

  Well, you must try, anyway.

  “The witness has already given his statement,” she continued. “He identified the defendant. He picked the man out of a lineup.”

  “Which only suggests that my client looked more like what Mr. Herrin thought he saw that night than the other four people in the lineup. It is not proof that my client is the man Mr. Herrin saw on the street. In fact, my client was the only person in that lineup who even came close to the description Mr. Herrin had already given the police. My client was the only possible selection—even if his original view was extremely fuzzy.”

  The judge understood. He probably didn’t like where this was going, but he knew what he had to do. “The objection is overruled.”

  He could’ve quit there. He had already impeached the witness’ testimony. But why not remove all doubt? “Mr. Herrin, do you by chance have your reading glasses with you?”

  “Yes. In my coat pocket.”

  “I’m going to ask you to participate in a little demonstration.”

  Again, Jazlyn rose to her feet. “Now I seriously object, your honor. In-court demonstrations are supposed to be approved in advance. We all know how much potential there is for manipulation and stagecraft. This case should be decided based upon the evidence, not theatrics.”

  “Your honor,” he replied, “since the witness misled us regarding his visual acuity and I only now discovered it, how could I have given the prosecutor advance notice?”