Final Verdict Read online

  Final Verdict

  Daniel Pike Legal Thriller Series

  WILLIAM BERNHARDT

  Published by Babylon Books, 2021.

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

  FINAL VERDICT

  First edition. January 19, 2021.

  Copyright © 2021 WILLIAM BERNHARDT.

  ISBN: 978-1948263870

  Written by WILLIAM BERNHARDT.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Praise for William Bernhardt and the Daniel Pike Legal Thriller Series

  Joy to the Righteous

  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

  The Color of Justice is Gray

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  The Good Fight

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Afterword

  Sneak Preview of Splitsville

  Dan’s Recipes

  About the Author

  Also by William Bernhardt

  Sign up for WILLIAM BERNHARDT's Mailing List

  For Harry, Alice, and Ralph—

  My final verdict on joy

  Praise for William Bernhardt and the Daniel Pike Legal Thriller Series

  “Final Verdict is a must read with a brilliant main character and surprises and twists that keep you turning pages. One of the best novels I’ve read in a while.”

  Alicia Dean, award-winning author of The Northland Crime Chronicales

  “Judge and Jury is a fast-paced, well-crafted story that challenges each major character to adapt to escalating attacks that threaten the very existence of their unique law firm.”

  Rick Ludwig, author of Pele’s Fire

  “I could not put Trial by Blood down. The plot is riveting....This book is special.”

  Nikki Hanna, author of Capture Life

  “Once started, it is hard to let [The Last Chance Lawyer] go, since the characters are inviting, engaging and complicated....You will enjoy it.”

  Chicago Daily Law Bulletin

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

  Library Journal

  Copyright © 2021 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.

  For Harry, Alice, and Ralph—

  My final verdict on joy

  I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.

  2 Timothy 4:7

  Joy to the Righteous

  Chapter 1

  Tulip awoke to the sound of a gun clicking in her ear.

  At first, all she could see was a penetrating bright light, so strong it washed everything else from her field of vision. All she could feel was an intense heat. A fiery heat. So severe she felt as if her skin were cooking.

  She couldn’t see the gun. But she knew it was there.

  She closed her eyes to protect them from the searing whiteness.

  What happened? Last thing she remembered, she was in St. Petersburg. Then she left the meeting at the bar and that hideous man grabbed her and she knew she was in danger...but it was all cloudy after that. Indistinct. Like the hazy fuzz following an all-night binge, but she hadn’t had anything to drink and she hadn’t taken any drugs.

  She seemed to be reclining, lying down on something soft. It didn’t make sense, nothing made sense, but she couldn’t straighten her head out—

  The gun. Forget about retracing her steps. She needed to worry about the gun.

  Cold steel pressed against her left temple, which somehow managed to burn at the same time that it chilled her to the core.

  “Where... am I?” Her voice sounded like the front door of a haunted house, creaky and broken, as if long disused and in desperate need of oil.

  She heard a chuckling from somewhere above her. “Your gravesite.”

  The gun pressed harder into her temple, shoving the side of her face into the...sand?

  She had grown up around beaches and knew what sand felt like. But this was not beach sand. This was hotter and coarser. More like...desert sand. Which would explain why she felt as if she were baking. But there were no deserts near St. Pete...

  “Got any final words, Krakowski?” The man spoke with a thick Central American accent. “Parting requests?”

  “Yeah.” She licked her dry lips. “Let me go.”

  He laughed. “That is the one request I cannot grant.”

  She opened her eyes again, and this time she kept them open, though they watered and the intense light gave her an even more intense headache. She had to pull it together before it was too late. She stretched out her arm, traveling along the length of her body, making sure she was still intact.

  Her arms were there, but her t-shirt was torn at the neck. Her slacks were ripped. Her legs were still intact, but exposed from the knees down. Her pockets were empty.

  Her brain must be reconnecting, because all at once she felt a powerful surge of hunger. And thirst. Her mouth was parched and dry.

  What had happened to her?

  She twisted her head around. More cold steel. Another gun? A two-fisted assassin?

  Wait a minute. That wasn’t a gun.

  She squinted, trying to focus.

  It was a hammer. He held a gun in one hand and a hammer in the other.

  She drew in a deep breath and tried to stifle her mounting fear. “Hot day...for carpentry work.”

  The man smirked. “The gun is for killing you. The hammer is for making sure that if your body is found, no one recognizes your face.”

  He moved between her and the glaring sun, a welcome respite. He was only a shadow now, a towering silhouette.

  “Can’t you...tell me what this is about?”

  “Sorry. No.”

  “You don’t have to kill me.”

  “Not my decision. I have my orders.”

  “What did you...do to me? My head feels like a steamroller drove over it.”

  “That’s the drugs. So you would sleep. Didn’t want any trouble during the trip to Nevada.”

  Nevada? What the hell was going on? “Long way to travel. Just to get to this garden spot.”

  “This is no man’s land. North of Vegas, south of nothing. A reliable place to dispose of a body. Part of an established pipeline
. It has never failed us.” He moved in closer. “I do not think anyone will find your shriveled-up carcass. But if they do, it will be unidentifiable. I will hammer out all the recognizable features. I will remove your hands and bash your teeth. Your flesh will boil. Scavengers will pick the meat from your bones.”

  “You don’t have to kill me,” she repeated. She could probably think faster if her head weren’t throbbing, and she could probably negotiate better if her heart weren't hammering. She was sweating profusely, and not just because of the heat. “I can keep my mouth shut.”

  “That is not a chance we are willing to take.”

  “I could be useful to you.”

  “I have not been asked to extract information. My boss wants you punished and eliminated.”

  She reached out blindly and found his arm. “I could...be good to you.”

  He shoved her arm away. “Do not sicken me. You think I want your favors? In Vegas, I can get better than you simply by opening my wallet.”

  She could feel some of her strength, her muscular coordination, returning. It was just possible she could move, maybe even get to her feet, given half a chance. But he did not appear likely to give her half a chance.

  “I have been watching you since we left Florida,” the man continued. “Watching you drool and snore and wet yourself. This did not excite me. I drove you from our private airport and dragged your body through the hot sand while you slept. All I want now is to be rid of you.”

  “Please don’t.” She tensed her muscles, testing. She felt stiff, broken, as if somehow her brain was disconnected from the limbs it was supposed to control. She needed more time.

  She allowed a pleading note to enter into her voice. “Please help me. I’ll do anything. Anything you want.”

  He made a disgusted snorting noise. “So weak. Like all American women. Pampered and useless. You should prepare to die.”

  “Please!” She screamed, and her voice echoed as if she were at the bottom of a canyon. An abysmal void in the pit of hell. “I’ll do anything. Please don’t hurt me.”

  “The first bullet goes to your feet, so you don’t run. Then your hands. Your legs. Your arms. Perhaps more...intimate locations. And eventually your head, but only hours later, after the pain has become so excruciating that you cannot feel anything any longer.” He smiled. “Then I’ll start taking you apart with the hammer.”

  “I...don’t want to die.”

  “I cannot spare you. But if you do not struggle, I will show mercy. You will die quickly, with one bullet. Rather than slowly. With many.”

  “I’m a real person. Not just a...disposable body. I’ve got a name.”

  “I know your name. Tulip Krakowski. What of it?”

  “I mean, I’ve got a name your boss wants. The one he’s been looking for.”

  The man hesitated. “I do not understand.”

  “Come close. I...I can barely speak.”

  He leaned in lower, closer to her...

  Her knee jutted upward like a cobra, smashing between his legs. He winced and cried out. At almost the same time, she brought her right arm around and pushed the gun aside. He fired, but the bullet soared over her head. The sound was ear-splitting, but her head already hurt so badly she could barely tell the difference.

  The man toppled over. “You...bitch,” he grunted. He swung the hammer in the air, barely missing her head. He pushed against the sand, trying to right himself, but she was already on top of him.

  She shoved him down hard, then grabbed the gun arm. He fired again but the shot went wild. She pinned down his arms.

  He fought hard, trying to regain control. She had leverage for now, but he was stronger than she was. Her hands were slick with sweat. She strained to maintain her grip, her neck tightening. They were locked in a lethal arm-wrestling contest, one she was bound to lose.

  His left arm broke free and he brought the hammer around, pounding her in the center of her back. She yelled and growled and drove her knee into his chest. The gun flew off into the sand. He tried to bring the hammer around again, but she grabbed his wrist and twisted his skin in opposite directions.

  He screamed and dropped the hammer. She sat up, hoping to find the gun. He grabbed a fistful of sand and threw it in her face, blinding her. She sputtered and shook her head back and forth, trying to wipe the sand from her eyes and mouth.

  He found the gun first—and fired. It missed her, but only by inches. She had to do something fast.

  She bent down and bit his hand, driving her teeth into the fleshy part of the palm as if she intended to take a bite. She felt his skin tear. She heard him scream.

  He writhed furiously, still holding the gun. His car keys tumbled out of his pants pocket.

  He pointed the gun at her head.

  She grabbed his car keys and rammed the largest key into his right eye.

  Blood and viscous matter spurted everywhere. He shrieked, a high-pitched keening. She wiped the blood away with her elbow. He thrashed on the sand, bellowing, incoherent.

  She used the flat of her hand to ram the key in even farther.

  His screams reached a fevered pitch. He waved his hands in the air, thrashing at nothing, trying to make the pain go away.

  He relaxed his grip for only an instant, but it was an instant that cost him his life. She yanked the gun out of his hand, whirled it around, and pulled the trigger.

  He fell backward into the sand, gurgling, blood spewing from his neck.

  She stood up and wiped the sand and blood from her face. He appeared to be dead. But could she be sure?

  She shot him three more times in the head, just to be certain.

  You wanted to kill me, you filthy son-of-a-bitch? You thought you could hurt me because I’m a woman?

  Your mistake. It’s true what the kids say. Girls get the job done. And she just proved it.

  He wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  But where was she going?

  She stretched to her full height, feeling her bones creaking and popping.

  She was in the middle of the desert. She could see a few rock formations, but no signs, no roads, no indications of life.

  Where was she? And how would she get back to civilization?

  He couldn’t have dragged her far. There must be a car somewhere near. But where? How could she find it?

  She searched his pockets. Nothing. No map. No identification. She found an iPhone, which might have led her to the car. But it required a passcode.

  She pressed the keyless lock button on the keychain, but heard nothing.

  The sun beat down on her relentlessly. She was already parched. She would not last long out here. She couldn’t assume help would find her.

  She would have to find help.

  She brushed herself off, then started walking. She kept the gun and the keys and the phone, just in case they proved useful later.

  How long could she survive out here? No way of knowing. The man had mentioned Vegas. Surely if she kept moving, eventually she would find some trace of humanity.

  Walking was her only hope. A slender hope, but all she had. So she put one foot in front of the other. And walked.

  Chapter 2

  Dan positioned himself in front of the policeman on the witness stand, Patrol Officer Thomas Banner. He was a short man, mid-thirties, carrying more weight than he should, which at his height was probably easy to do. Dan had read that the Napoleonic complex was a myth, basically just an excuse to stereotype short people and accuse them of arrogance or overcompensation. But if ever there was an argument to be made for the complex, it was sitting before him at this very moment.

  This case was a showdown between two witnesses who told starkly different versions of what happened. According to Banner, the vicious behavior of the defendant’s dog required him to seize control of it, and eventually, the defendant. He said the dog was a public health hazard and he wanted it put down, and he charged the defendant with disorderly conduct. But Dan’s client,
Mandy McKenzie, said the cop was a bully who attacked her dog when she refused to move out of the underground storm tunnels. Because she lived there.

  Dan scrutinized Officer Banner carefully. Long ago, Dan’s favorite law professor taught him the importance of paying attention, watching people, collecting small bits of information that might later add up to something important. His eyes scanned Banner, collecting everything of interest. Buzzcut, slightly uneven sideburns. Immaculately polished shoes. Dirt under the nail on his right forefinger. Clear blue eyes.

  “Could you explain what you were doing in the storm tunnels on the day in question?” Dan asked.

  Banner cleared his throat, a solemn expression on his face. “It’s part of my regular beat. Lots of homeless people down there, unfortunately. So lots of crime.”

  “Crime by the homeless? Or crime perpetrated against the homeless?”

  “Both. It’s a bad situation all around.”

  “And you’ve tried to address the problem by clearing out all the homeless people, right?”

  “No one has a constitutional right to live in the tunnels.”

  “It’s public property, isn’t it?”

  “Doesn’t mean people have a right to squat there.”

  “Do they have anywhere else to go?”

  “That’s not the issue.”

  Of course it was, but he would never get this officer to see it. Homelessness was on the rise in St. Petersburg, as it was in many other parts of the country. The city had run out of space in the shelters, so the police usually looked the other way. But not this guy. There’s always one...

  Dan’s last case had taken him into the tunnels and introduced him to the so-called “Mole People” who lived there. That was when he met Mandy, a tunnel resident for more than five years. He gave her a dog, a little chihuahua mix to replace the one she lost. So in a sense, he was responsible for her being dragged into court today.

  “You’ve spoken with my client, Amanda McKenzie, on many occasions, correct?”

  “True.”

  “What was the reason for the conversation on the day in question?”