SMALL TOWN LAWYER

  Defending Innocence

  Influencing Justice

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  RELAY PUBLISHING EDITION, MAY 2022

  Copyright © 2022 Relay Publishing Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United Kingdom by Relay Publishing. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Peter Kirkland is a pen name created by Relay Publishing for co-authored Legal Thriller projects. Relay Publishing works with incredible teams of writers and editors to collaboratively create the very best stories for our readers.

  www.relaypub.com

  BLURB

  A small-town murder hides a dark secret.

  When social media influencer Simone Baker asks Leland Munroe to defend her on charges stemming from another influencer’s death, the former prosecutor initially says no. He wants a quiet life practicing business law and continuing to rebuild his relationship with his son, Noah. But with bills to pay and no other clients coming through his door, Leland takes the case.

  At first, he figures the prosecution’s weak evidence should make for a simple defense. But Simone’s situation isn’t as straightforward as it seems, and she weaves a tale of evidence tampering by local police, missing young women, and online manipulation.

  As Leland and his PI friend Terri Washington investigate, they realize the case goes far beyond a single murder. Innocent women may be entangled in a criminal organization Leland hoped was gone from Basking Rock for good. And as the jury’s verdict looms closer, it’s not just Simone’s freedom that hangs in the balance…

  Leland’s and Noah’s lives are on the line as well.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1. Tuesday, April 21, 2020

  2. Thursday, April 23, 2020

  3. Tuesday, April 28, 2020

  4. Tuesday, April 28, 2020

  5. Monday, May 4, 2020

  6. Monday, May 11, 2020

  7. Tuesday, May 12, 2020

  8. Tuesday, May 12, 2020

  9. Wednesday, May 13, 2020

  10. Tuesday, May 19, 2020

  11. Saturday, May 23, 2020

  12. Saturday, May 30, 2020

  13. Monday, June 1, 2020

  14. Monday, June 1, 2020

  15. Friday, June 5, 2020

  16. Sunday, June 7, 2020

  17. Friday, June 12, 2020

  18. Monday, June 15, 2020

  19. Tuesday, June 16, 2020

  20. Thursday, June 25, 2020

  21. Wednesday, July 1, 2020

  22. Friday, July 3, 2020

  23. Saturday, July 18, 2020

  24. Friday, July 31, 2020

  25. Monday, August 10, 2020

  26. Wednesday, August 19, 2020

  27. Saturday, September 12, 2020

  28. Friday, September 18, 2020

  29. Monday, September 21, 2020

  30. Monday, September 21, 2020

  31. Monday, September 21, 2020

  32. Tuesday, September 22, 2020

  33. Tuesday, September 22, 2020

  34. Wednesday, September 23, 2020

  35. Wednesday, September 23, 2020

  36. Sunday, October 18, 2020

  End of Influencing Justice

  About Peter Kirkland

  Make an Author’s Day

  Also by Peter

  PROLOGUE

  EASTER SUNDAY, APRIL 12, 2020

  I’d come up to Charleston alone, to the graveyard, to talk to my wife. I parked around the corner, grabbed the little box I’d brought off the passenger seat, and walked to the entrance on the old side of the cemetery, because it had always been her favorite part. The trees were draped with Spanish moss, and the gravestones tilted at weird angles, with moss and lichen growing over the names and dates. Weeds grew between the broken flagstones I walked along. Even in the bright sunlight of Easter morning, the place was spooky, but Elise thought it was romantic. We never thought she’d end up here so soon.

  It took a few minutes to get to her spot, in the new part. The stones here were upright and shiny. Pink granite, white marble. But there was nothing on her grave yet besides grass—a little overgrown—and a flat plaque with her name. They’d advised me to wait six months or a year for the earth to settle before placing a stone. Fifteen months had come and gone, and I still couldn’t afford what she deserved.

  Nobody was around. It was time for folks to be in church. I looked down at the ground she was under and tried to say, “Happy Easter.” The words stuck in my throat, so I tried again.

  A breeze made the grass flutter.

  “Brought you a piece of king cake,” I said, opening the box. Elise was born in New Orleans, and her traditions had become mine and Noah’s. I hadn’t made it up to Charleston for the Feast of the Epiphany, so this cake was the Easter version, frosted pink. I took it out and set it on the grass.

  “I hope you’re watching,” I said. “I hope you can, because you’d see Noah’s doing better.” I smiled and shook my head. “Those binoculars you gave him when he was, what, seven years old? That he used to spy on the old man across the street? I think you were on to something. If you were here, you’d see—he actually wants to go to school now, because it has a purpose. Says he wants to be a detective, and I think he means it.”

  She’d understand why I was spending what little I had on his physical therapy and his community college tuition. She’d say that’s exactly what I should do, not put that money into some hunk of stone for a woman who wasn’t here anymore. But the fact I couldn’t do both made me feel lower than dirt.

  “Not detective,” I said, correcting myself. “He says ‘private eye’ instead. I guess it’s more romantic. He got that from you.”

  No breeze came. The grass didn’t flutter.

  I dropped my head. I didn’t know why part of me still expected a response.

  1

  TUESDAY, APRIL 21, 2020

  On the way to work, I stopped at Basking Rock’s only bakery to get donuts. I’d gotten in the habit of bringing half a dozen to the law firm once a week—enough for me, Roy, his secretary, and whichever clients or FedEx guys happened by—but world events had cut down my regular purchase considerably. Over the past few weeks, the governor had issued some executive orders, trying to keep the pandemic that had clobbered Italy and New York from hitting us too hard. It looked like Roy and I would be mostly working from home for the next little while. His secretary, Laura, was still coming into the office every day to take calls, check the mail, and drive the checks that came in down to the bank. I’d been dropping by every few days to get my mail and bring her favorite donut for her troubles.

  The owner, Hank, came out from the back, wiping his hands on his apron, and said, “Morning, Leland. Just two today?”

  I nodded and said, “Wish I needed more. But I’m glad you’re still open.”

  “Yeah, food’s an essential business. Even donuts, I guess. How’s that little dog of yours doing? He stuck at home too?”

  He meant my ancient Yorkshire terrier, Squatter. I chuckled. “Well, governor’s orders are governor’s orders. I’ve set up the dog’s office on the couch.” I pulled out my wallet. I’d been back in town for not quite a year, since losing just about everything and leaving Charleston. Friendly chitchat and being a regular with an order that the guy always remembered wasn’t half bad. I was starting to think I might fit in here.

  Hank handed over my donuts and said, “That king cake meet expectations?”

  “Yes indeed.” I’d found a recipe online and brought it in for a custom order. I’d never seen a proper New Orleans king cake in South Carolina, except the ones Elise used to make.

  “Yeah, it was damn good,” he said. “I made two so I could see for myself what you liked about it. My boy ate half of it in about ten minutes.”

  I laughed and said, “Mine too. I think that’s what teenage boys are for.”

  We wished each other a good day, and the bell jangled as I headed out the door. It was another sunny morning. Small-town life had a lot to recommend it.

  As I got back to my car, the downside of small towns came into view. The old guy who ran the antique store I’d parked near was sweeping his porch—his shop was in a little Victorian house—but when he saw me, he scowled and went inside.

  In the murder case I’d won a few months earlier, some of the evidence I’d unearthed to help get my client off had also ended up bringing the feds down hard on two local businesses. The larger one, Blue Seas Yacht Charter, had been seized by the feds and auctioned off. That did a number on the tourist trade—no charters meant fewer rich folks ready to drop a grand on a fancy chair or an old mirror—and the governor’s orders hadn’t improved the situation. I guessed the antiques guy blamed me, for the first part anyway.

  And maybe he was right to. I wasn’t sure there was a way to practice criminal law that didn’t upset somebody, and understandably so. Whether committing it, prosecuting it, or defending someone charged with it, crime wasn’t anyone’s happy place. It sure as hell wasn’t mine.

  Roy’s office was a genteel
gray bungalow near the causeway. Palm trees edged the parking lot, and after I slammed my car door and headed up the walk, I heard a seagull squawking not far off. When I got inside, Laura smiled—not so much at me as at the donut bag.

  “I swear, Leland,” she said, “you are trying to weaken my resolve.”

  She was an older lady, the kind who gets leaner with age instead of rounder. I thought she could probably eat six donuts a day and still be as skinny as a blade of grass, but she liked to chide me for bringing them.

  “Just making people happy,” I said.

  “Well, maybe this’ll make you happy: I just took a call from a young lady who’s in need of criminal defense counsel. She asked for you by name.”

  “That so?” I kept my smile where it was, but it was no longer sincere. I was tired of reading autopsy reports, and beyond tired of fearing that criminals might come after me or my son. I wanted to reinvent myself as a business lawyer, helping local enterprises do what they do and getting paid twice as much as I’d ever earned for dealing with the worst that humanity had to offer.

  “It’s not often a caller asks for you instead of Roy.” Laura tore the top page off her pink message pad and held it out.

  I traded her donut for the message. It was just a phone number and a name I didn’t recognize. “She say what the charges were?”

  With a smile, she said, “Manslaughter!”

  I chuckled. “You’re pretty cheerful for someone talking about homicide.”

  “Well, it’s your bread and butter,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

  “I’m a little tired of bread and butter.”

  “Oh, she also mentioned drug charges. Heroin? Could that be it?”

  “I expect it could be. That’s a drug people go to jail for, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Leland,” she said, sounding excited, “I am going to have to learn a whole new vocabulary if you’d like me to help you with your clients! My favorite TV show is Murder, She Wrote, but they never talk about drugs on that.”

  “Or we could just stick with the kind of business Roy’s used to,” I said, thinking of all the local suits he wined and dined. “Although I’d have to learn to play golf. You know I only took that murder case because the kid was my friend’s son.”

  “Oh, and the whole town was sure he did it. I heard stories like you would not believe down at the hair salon. Wasn’t it something, though, to get him off? Do you truly not want to keep helping folks like that? This young lady sounded very nice.”

  “The killers who sound nice,” I said, “are usually psychopaths.” I shook my head. “And, see, that’s the prosecutor in me talking. I’m not cut out to be a criminal defense guy. Which is why I signed up for that business law CLE. It’s online, but I’m stuck in it all day tomorrow and the day after too—so if anyone needs to reach me, it’ll have to be on the lunch break.”

  “Well, if anybody else calls, I’ll let them know.”

  We exchanged looks. We both knew clients didn’t call for me. What money I made was from Roy asking me to do the work he didn’t like. Research, writing—the quiet side of being a lawyer. Roy was the glad-hander, backslapper, and expert golfer. I was none of those things.

  As I walked back to my car, I couldn’t help but think of the advice Roy had given me when I told him about my upcoming CLE. His white hair and fatherly manner added gravitas to whatever advice he gave, so it was a gut punch to hear him say, “You know, Leland, it’s a whole lot easier to build on a reputation you already have than to make a new one from scratch. Seventeen years as a prosecutor, plus defending a murder case that everybody and his cat were talking about, counts for a lot more than a two-day CLE.”

  On top of that, Roy didn’t have as much work for me as he used to, since I’d inadvertently helped the feds destroy the yacht-charter company, one of his biggest clients. I was lucky he still let me have an office in his firm.

  Still, I knew what I wanted and what I didn’t. When I got in the car, I crumpled up the message Laura had given me and tossed it in the shopping bag I used for trash.

  2

  THURSDAY, APRIL 23, 2020

  It was dinnertime, and since I’d been in my CLE for two days straight, Noah had brought home some take-out shrimp with rice and fried okra. We were eating it with the TV news on, though we were talking instead of paying attention to happenings in the world.

  “So right when I start learning about criminal justice, you’re going to bail on me?” It seemed Noah, like everyone else in my life, was less than impressed with my desire to focus on business law.

  I took a bite of shrimp and said, “I still got eighteen years of it under my belt. That’s not going anywhere. You got a question, you just ask.”

  “Naw, but I mean, it’s weird, changing gears like that. Is it even interesting? I don’t get how, like, real estate could be more interesting than fraud and murder and… y’know, right and wrong.”

  On TV, a worried-looking blonde newscaster was talking about how the pandemic was hitting retailers. Would they survive? Was the economy going into free fall?

  I gestured to her with my fork. “See what she’s talking about? All of that falls apart without the law. The whole economy. I mean, say you want to go into business as a private eye after school. You need an office, right? Would you give a landlord a grand or whatever in rent every month and spend more getting your office equipped how you want if you thought he was going to change the locks one day and take your computer for himself?”

  “Course not.”

  “Right. And the reason you know he’s not going to do that is, you got a contract. You got a lease, and there’s rules about that, and if he breaks them, you can take him to court and win.”

  “Well… but most people wouldn’t do that anyway, so…” He shrugged.

  I looked at him. I sometimes forgot how clean the world could look to people who hadn’t spent nearly two decades working in criminal law. I wondered, not for the first time, if I’d sheltered him too much.

  “There’s no shortage of people who’d do that,” I said. “But most of them aren’t in the office-landlord business because they know the law makes it hard to get away with. If that’s how they want to operate, any normal business is not a good proposition. And at the same time, the law’s set up to make it a pretty good proposition for people who want to run their business more or less the right way. I mean, you know that when you go to the bank, the money you had in there yesterday is still going to be there, right? Nobody ran off with it. Or if they did, the bank’s insured, and you’ll get it back.”

  “Yeah. Oh.” He was starting to get my point.

  I nodded. “The law makes things predictable and… I’m not going to say fair, but more fair. You can make plans, invest in your business, and so forth, because you can mostly count on banks and landlords to run pretty much how they should. Nobody ever thinks about the law until things go wrong and somebody gets arrested or sued, but it’s there all along. It’s the reason things mostly work.”

  “Huh,” he said. “I guess I never thought of it that way because—I don’t know. Most of the people I’ve ever met were pretty much okay. But then, I guess—” He laughed. “I guess there’s a lot of circles I don’t run in.”