Cold City Streets Read Online Free Page B

guy.”
    “He’d approached us when Paul was arrested and offered to represent Paul pro bono. The police seized all of our assets as the ‘proceeds of crime’.”
    “And Croce figured he’d get some good exposure while fulfilling his pro bono obligations for this year. What happened?”
    “He told the court that he was unaware at the time that he offered free service that his firm was also representing PetroMas in another matter. You know, the company Mr. Featherstone… well… you know…”
    “The victim’s employer.”
    “Uh huh.”
    That would raise a few eyebrows at the Law Society, Jessie thought, although he’d probably argue scope if there was an investigation. Croce Barr Douglas had twenty-two lawyers on staff, one of the bigger firms in the west. And he recused himself before the case went to trial.
    “So why come to me? We’re not really positioned to handle a murder case…”
    “We knew this was coming last week, so I’ve been phoning every lawyer in Edmonton,” Andrea explained. “To be honest, we haven’t found anyone who will take the case and who we can afford.”
    “You can petition the court for assistance…”
    Andrea cut her off, her voice inquisitive. “Last year… you’re the lawyer who got the Sawyer boy off on trying to kill his uncle, right?”
    “We were very lucky to get last minute evidence…”
    “I heard you did that case for free.”
    “We get a small grant to help us each year from local community agencies, but I do charge a fee,” Jessie corrected. “It’s greatly reduced.”
    “Would it be possible to do, you know… a payment plan kind of thing? Or maybe I could work off some hours in your office here? I have good secretarial and Word and stuff.” Then she meekly added, “I haven’t had to work much since high school on account of my husband paying the bills.”
    “What does he do?”
    “Oh. He’s a drug dealer. I thought you knew.?” She said it matter-of-factly, the way others might say “He’s a carpenter,” or “He installs drywall.”
    “No, I mean… he doesn’t have a regular day job of any sort?”
    Andrea looked apprehensive and her gaze flitted around the room. “No. He never needed one. Paul’s been selling weed since we were kids. He’s real good at it, too. And he hardly smokes any himself.”
    Wonderful. An exemplary drug dealer. That’ll really help .
    Jessie had come to believe she already dealt with biases and a strike against her clients every time she represented them. Judges, Crown attorneys, defense lawyers; they’d remain stoic while dealing with the marginalized on the stand. But the undercurrent was sometimes there, whispered gallows humor in the hallways between sessions: the built-in motive, the fact that, to the powerful and successful, their lives were seen as so sad and empty and desperate that almost anything gave a reason to break the law.
    “I’m going to record all of this with my little hand-held, okay? The stuff on the recorder is privileged, so you don’t have to worry about it ever being repeated or used for anything but your defense.”
    “Okay.”
    “Tell me what happened the night Mr. Featherstone died.”
    “Look… I know what you’re probably thinking about my husband’s job and what they said he did and all, but he’s a good guy, okay? He always did right by me and our little girl… Like, we got enough people looking down their noses at us already. So I don’t need that.”
    “My job’s to help, not to judge,” Jessie assured.For every crook she saw who acted unrelenting, there were four or five who’d made one big mistake and regretted every second of it. “Unless they make me a judge,” she said to ease the tension, “and that’s not going to happen any time soon.”
    “Because you’re an Indian?”
    Ouch. “Because I’m thirty.” Jessie said it patiently. None of her clients, typically, needed to be talked down to; she’d learned early that not having an education