2 Sisters Detective Agency(2)

There was a cough at the back of the crowded room. The only sound. Young Reece Donovan chewed his fingernails and looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him.

“Hear me out,” I said. “I’m just getting momentum.”

“From the brief of evidence I have here,” the judge said, lifting a page from those spread before him, “I’m to understand that Mr. Donovan was so upset by his mom’s plan to marry her boyfriend that he filled the sprinkler system at the Colorado National Golf Club with red paint and rigged it to go off in the middle of their ceremony on the ninth green. Is that right?”

“That’s correct, Your Honor,” I said.

“I see.” He nodded. “And his ingenious plan worked, it says here. He bathed the entire wedding party in paint, turning the ceremony into what visually resembled a violent bloodbath.”

The judge held a picture of the dripping, mortified wedding party, snapped by the photographer moments after the sprinkler system launched. It looked like a scene from a horror film.

“It’s a striking image, Judge,” I said. “Some would say bold. Some would say inspired.”

“He also managed to douse seventeen golfers standing at various stations on the course.”

“Mr. Donovan didn’t realize the whole sprinkler system was connected,” I said. “He thought he’d isolated the ninth green and the wedding party.”

The entire courtroom looked at my young client, who was wringing his long, slender fingers. In the front row of the audience, his mother and new stepfather looked exhausted. They’d forgiven him, but it had been hard work. I’d seen that expression on countless sets of parents over the course of my career.

“You know I support artistic expression in all its forms, Rhonda.” Mackavin looked pointedly at my flamingo-pink hair and Metallica shirt. “But you’re right out on the ledge here.”

“The kid was angry,” I said. “He wanted to make a statement. Yes, a lot of people got painted, but they were painted red, Your Honor. The color of passion. Of love! Of lifeblood, desire, longevity. An informed choice, I’m sure you’ll agree, and a visually spectacular execution. And, Judge, where would modern expressionism be without Jackson Pollock’s reckless determination to splash everything within ten feet of him with paint?”

The judge stifled a laugh, shook his head.

“Damages to the golf course, the sprinkler system, and the other golfers in attendance are into the tens of thousands of dollars,” the judge said, regaining his frown.

“We’re aware, Your Honor, and my client is very remorseful.”

The judge looked at me, thought for a moment. A small smile played about his lips.

“I’m willing to reward your creativity, Rhonda, in trying to pass Mr. Donovan’s actions off as anything more than pure idiocy here today,” Mackavin said, writing up his decision in the big book before him. “You’ve amused me, which is not an easy feat. Four hundred hours of community service.” The judge waved me away. “And tell the artist to keep it in the studio next time.”

I turned and smiled at my client, but like the judge’s, my humor was short-lived. Across the room I spied my next client, a handsome young man in an expensive blue suit, being led out from the holding rooms. Unlike the slouching, fidgeting juvenile offenders lined up on the bench behind the rail, Thad Forrester was cuffed. The bailiff escorted Thad Forrester to the end of the row and uncuffed him, and I felt the dread manifest at the center of my stomach as I headed over to greet the most dangerous kid on my list.





Chapter 2



Thad looked me over from head to foot as I approached, obviously skeptical, on the edge of disbelieving laughter. I get that look a lot, and not only from entitled frat boys up on rape charges. Thad would be just one in a crowd of people who’d underestimated me based on my appearance that morning.

“Mr. Forrester.” I offered my hand, injected as little warmth into my words as possible. “I’m Rhonda Bird, your public defender.”

“You can’t be serious.” He snorted. “Is this what passes for legal aid these days?”

“This is exactly what passes for legal aid these days,” I said. “Passes with summa cum laude and a fifty-thousand-dollar research grant.”

I hadn’t actually taken the research grant, or the PhD offer. I’d wanted to get out there, into the courtroom, among the young and vulnerable people who I felt so deserved my service. People like Reece Donovan. Not people like Thad Forrester.

He smirked. “You should have spent the grant money on a personal trainer. And what the hell are you wearing? You look like you just stepped out of some lame-ass rock concert.”

“You shouldn’t judge people by their appearance, Mr. Forrester,” I said. “The Metallica shirt doesn’t make me any less of a lawyer, just like your Hugo Boss one doesn’t make you any less of a rapist.” Thad shook his head ruefully. I checked off his attendance on my clipboard. “I assume, because you’re on my list, your expensive lawyer from New York hasn’t arrived yet.”

“That’s right,” he said. “So you need to get this thing canceled.”

“It’s an advisement hearing,” I said. “The judge is just going to tell you what you’re charged with.”