Page 8 of Bitter Truth
The man stops and turns around. His polite smile turns genuine when he sees us.
“Well look what the cat dragged in. Jake Walker. How are things over at Myers and Kleinman? The dark side been keeping you busy?”
“You know evil—it never rests.”
I force a smile onto my face as the men share a laugh. I wasn’t aware that Jake knew the DA. Given that they’re both big lawyers in a small pond, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. What does surprise me, though, is that Jake never mentioned it.
Dennis Farber’s attention shifts to me. “And, Agent Knox. It’s nice to see you. I appreciate you coming out today to show your support. You two know each other?”
“We’re together,” Jake says.
“I wasn’t aware. How long have—”
“Any idea what just happened in there?” Jake interrupts, too impatient to keep engaging in small talk.
“You mean the Walker—” The man’s expression clouds over with confusion. His brows knit together. “Wait.” His eyes dart between me and Jake. “Are you related to the defendant?”
“She’s my mother,” Jake admits in a tight voice.
The man clears his throat. Lasers a steely look at me as he says, “And you’re my star witness. Is this going to be an issue?”
“Only if you let it be,” Jake answers rather brusquely. “We’re all on the same page here, Dennis. Mymother is a dangerous person. She needs to spend the rest of her life in prison.”
“Actually, we’ve decided to go for the death penalty.”
A muscle in Jake’s jaw tics. “Since when?”
“We just made the decision this morning.”
“Is that what the delay is about?”
“No. Your guess is as good as mine about that. It’s probably a move made by Bianchi’s defense team, but I wouldn’t worry about it. They can’t change the facts. We definitely have enough evidence to prove probable cause and go to trial.”
If you believe what’s been reported in the local papers, Tony Bianchi’s lawyers have done their best to turn Janine into their sacrificial lamb. And given that he has a legal dream team that’s somehow managed to delay his trial and all related proceedings until after hers is complete, and that she’s being represented by a public defender, I’m willing to buy it. Still, I fail to see what they stand to gain by pulling a last-minute move like this.
The mystery behind the delay, all the unknowns, this entire conversation is making me anxious. Just the idea that the people who murdered my parents might somehow finagle their way out of paying for their crimes makes it feel like an invisible vise has clamped around my chest, tightening until I can barely breathe.
I need to get out of here before I do something stupid. Or worse, something to embarrass Jake. Blessedly, my cell rings, sparing my addled brain from having to think of an excuse. Catching Jake’s eye, I hold up my phone and gesture that I’m going to step away before leaving the two men to their discussion.
“Hello?”
“Cassidy, it’s Donna.”
The last time the owner of the small feed store in my tiny hometown of Gator Glade called me, I ended up with a giant rooster and an enraged cockfighter on my hands. Which means this will either be exactly what I need, or the last thing I need right now. Either way, I’m grateful for the diversion.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“I just had someone call to report an animal in need of rescue out on the Indigo Hammock trail. I was hoping maybe you’d be able to go check it out.”
I open my mouth to respond, then clamp it shut so hard that my molars clip the edge of my tongue. Indigo Hammock is miles off the beaten path. Even farther from help, should someone out there need it. My heart races as the memory of the sniper’s red dot on my T-shirt yesterday fills my mind. I quickly push it away.
Taking a deep breath, I cup my free hand over the pulse throbbing in my neck as I say, “Sure. What am I looking for?”
“She said it was a raccoon. Poor thing has its head stuck in something metal. About two and a half, maybe three miles in.”
Three miles. Most hikers don’t make it that far into the trails around here in the heat, not unless they’re local, which I’m sure Donna would have mentioned if this woman was. My throat tightens, making it difficult to swallow. What if it’s a trap? Then again, what if it’s not?
Sweat pricks at my skin as I argue with myself. I refuse to live in fear. Whoever’s after me would know I have more sense than to hike out into the middle of the woods alone—even if I actually don’t.
