“Yes. It was.” Mrs. Olander’s frown nearly met her jawline, and her swollen eyes were bleak. “And business hasn’t been good for years. Small farms like ours are being squeezed out of the market. Only the big operations can survive.”
“You sold the farm.”
Mrs. Olander nodded. “We took out a mortgage to pay for Erik’s initial defense, but it wasn’t enough. We couldn’t keep up with the new attorney bills and make the mortgage payments. We’re behind on everything. We’ve lived in that house for twenty-five years, but the truth is the cows barely earned enough to feed themselves. We have to move out soon. I thought I’d care, but I don’t.”
“Appeals involve large amounts of legal research and the writing of long, intricate briefs, which translates to many billable hours. An appeal would be expensive.”
Mrs. Olander’s eyes were desperate. “My son is sitting in a prison cell, and he will remain there for the rest of his life unless we do something.”
As much as Morgan sympathized, mother to mother, the case wasn’t right for her. She opened her desk drawer and withdrew a small notepad. On it, she wrote the name of a larger legal firm in the area. They occasionally referred clients back and forth, depending on the circumstances. Some clients were better served by a one-lawyer shop, like Morgan’s. Others—like Erik Olander’s appeal—required a full staff of clerks.
Also, Mrs. Olander’s seeming lack of grief for her daughter-in-law seemed off to Morgan. Everything about the woman felt wrong. Morgan’s instincts said Erik Olander had killed his wife in a fit of rage, exactly as the prosecutor—and the evidence—had described.
She tore the paper from the pad and offered it to Mrs. Olander. “Appeals aren’t the sort of cases I usually handle. I’m a trial lawyer. You need an appellate lawyer. It’s a different process that requires a different skill set. You will get the most for your money if you hire an attorney who specializes in appeals.”
“You’re turning me down?” Mrs. Olander stared at the slip of paper as if it would bite her.
“Yes. You really need a bigger firm.”
Mrs. Olander took the paper, held it at arm’s length, and squinted. Her face fell. “They already said no.”
No doubt they hadn’t seen legs on the appeal either.
“I’m sorry.” Morgan empathized, but she couldn’t change reality for Mrs. Olander.
Mrs. Olander set the paper on Morgan’s desk. “You were my last hope. I’ve seen you on TV. You always seem so . . . righteous.” Her gaze rose, meeting Morgan’s. Mrs. Olander’s eyes were filled with disappointment, sorrow, and pain deep enough to scar the soul.
Yet she had spoken of her dead daughter-in-law almost with disdain. Had her maternal instincts blocked out her feelings for Natalie? Or had her son’s case drained Mrs. Olander to a point where she had no remaining emotional reserves?
Mrs. Olander studied Morgan for a few heartbeats; then her mouth pressed into a bloodless line. “What do I owe you for your time today?”
“Today’s meeting was a free consultation.” Morgan wanted nothing from the poor woman.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Olander rose and tucked her purse under one arm. “You could have taken the case and run up a huge bill, but you were honest with me. I do appreciate that.”
She turned and walked out of Morgan’s office with the stiff, painful gait of a beaten woman. Needing air, Morgan escorted her into the hall.
The door to the next office was open. Lance sat behind his desk. He took in Morgan’s face and the client’s in one glance, no doubt also reading the hopelessness in Mrs. Olander’s body language.
Morgan saw the woman out. When she closed the door and turned around, Lance was leaning in his doorway. Six two, blond, and buff, he wore tactical cargos, a snug black T-shirt, and a Glock. He looked more like a SWAT team member than a PI. Despite his badass appearance, his blue eyes were soft and concerned as they met hers.
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
Morgan nodded. She rented office space from Sharp Investigations. Since her cases often required the services of an investigator, the arrangement was convenient. The PI firm occupied the bottom half of the duplex. The firm’s founder, Lincoln Sharp, lived upstairs.
Morgan headed for the kitchen at the rear of the building. She poured a glass of filtered water from the pitcher in the fridge. She turned and leaned against the counter. The window that overlooked the backyard was open, and cool air wafted into the room, bringing with it the scents of falling leaves and woodsmoke.
“You look like you need something stronger than water.” Lance turned and leaned next to her. Their arms touched, his contact grounding her as always.
Morgan’s husband had been killed in Iraq a few years before. She’d spent two years burrowed under depression and grief. Last year, she’d reconnected with Lance, whom she’d dated briefly in high school. Their reconnection had blossomed into a relationship filled with love and respect. He’d asked her to marry him last spring. She was grateful every single day that she’d been given a second chance at love.
Morgan sighed. “That was a rough one.”
“What did she want?”
Morgan summed up the meeting in a few sentences. “I could have taken the case. It would have required a marathon of overtime, but I’m capable of filing an appeal. I would have charged her a fraction of what an appellate lawyer at a big firm would cost.” Doubt crept into Morgan’s chest.
As a former prosecutor, she was still adjusting to being on the defense side of the courtroom. When she’d first opened her practice, she’d been skeptical. Her years as a prosecutor had convinced her that almost all suspects were guilty. But her attitude had shifted. She’d proven a number of people innocent who had been charged with serious crimes. She could think of few things worse than going to prison for life for a murder one didn’t commit.
“We both know it’s unlikely that prejudice from one juror could cause an innocent man to be found guilty,” Lance said. “It takes all twelve jurors to convict. They have to reach a unanimous decision.”
“This is true,” Morgan agreed. “I felt terrible for Mrs. Olander, but I didn’t see an appeal going anywhere.”
“You were honest with her. You are a trial lawyer—and a damned good one at that. You don’t need to take every case you’re offered. You have other clients.”
“None of those are very challenging at the moment.”
“Every case doesn’t have to make headlines. That high school senior facing a month in jail for vandalism needs your help too. You need to listen to your instincts. If the case doesn’t feel right, there’s probably a reason.”
“You’re right.” Morgan finished her water and set the cup on the counter. “I have total control over which clients I accept, and routine cases are wonderful. I have no desire to work a hundred hours a week.”
“Damn right.” Lance turned to face her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “That’s the best part of being self-employed. I like being home for dinner with the kids.”
“So do I. Family dinners are important.”
Lance’s house had burned down six months before. He’d moved in with Morgan’s family and had bonded with her three young daughters. The girls had embraced him as their soon-to-be stepfather. Lance had even become the preferred bedtime story reader. He put serious effort into voice-acting every character, sometimes sending the girls into giggling fits that didn’t exactly encourage sleep.