Kara Lennox - Outside the Law

His gaze lingered on her trim calves and thighs. “To free those unjustly imprisoned for crimes they did not commit.” Every employee was required to memorize that statement and be able to quote it backward and forward.

“And how many people in this country are sitting in prison, right now, for crimes they didn’t commit?”

“You’re sounding a lot like Raleigh.” And he didn’t mean that as a compliment.

“Just answer.”

“The answer is unknown.”

“True. But it’s in the hundreds, possibly the thousands. How many people has Project Justice exonerated?”

The total was always posted in the lobby, but he hadn’t looked at it lately. “Sixty-three?”

“Seventy-two,” she corrected him.

“Look,” he said sensibly. “The police are on a fishing expedition. They couldn’t possibly have any evidence against me.”

Suddenly Beth sat down next to him, her face inches from his. “Mitch, listen to yourself. Do you have any idea how many of our clients were convicted on really bad evidence? Circumstantial evidence? Or no evidence? I’ll answer for you. A lot. And do you know what a lot of them say?”

Mitch could only shake his head. He’d never seen Beth grandstand like this. She could speak eloquently when called for, if it was about DNA or fibers or soil samples. But she never made impassioned speeches. Not around him, anyway.

Impatient, she answered the question for him. “They say, ‘If I’d known this could happen, I would have taken it more seriously.’” She skewered him so effectively with those big baby-blue eyes that he was afraid she’d soon push him out onto the patio and pop him onto his gas grill. “They say, ‘I would have hired a lawyer from the very beginning.’ Do you want to be one of those people? Do you want to hide your head in the sand until the cops show up with a warrant and handcuffs?”

The room went deathly quiet. Not even the air-conditioning fan whirred to break the silence. He couldn’t hear a bird outside or a passing car. Just the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

Beth, all rosy-cheeked with her passion, was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

Clearly she was waiting for him to say something.

“You think I should go to Coot’s Bayou and answer their questions?”

Beth seemed to remember herself. She scooted a few inches away from him, looked down and cleared her throat. “Yes.”

“And you think I need to hire a lawyer?”

Beth, looking a bit shell-shocked by her own outburst, squeaked out an answer. “Don’t you dare let the police question you without one. Raleigh will go. Eventually you might have to hire someone from the area who knows the local justice system, but she said she can handle the preliminary questioning.”

“Won’t hiring a lawyer just make it look like I have something to hide?” He couldn’t believe he was actually considering taking Beth’s advice. But she had made several good points.

“You know what cops do when a suspect agrees to be questioned without a lawyer, right? They stand up and cheer. You used to work for a police department.”

“Just computer stuff,” he said with a shrug. “I wasn’t anywhere near where they questioned suspects.”

“Well, know this. A good interrogator can trip you up six ways to Sunday, and every word you say can come back to haunt you during a trial. Let Raleigh be there for you.”

“Raleigh has her own cases to manage,” he argued, even though arguing was the first step toward defeat. He should have refused to even discuss this with Beth. But he couldn’t bring himself to fling any more harsh words at her. “Traveling to Louisiana to answer ridiculous accusations flung at a coworker falls way outside her job description.”

“Daniel made it clear,” Beth said quietly. “You are his—everyone’s—priority right now.”

“I appreciate this unnecessary outpouring of concern,” he tried again. “But as I’ve said before—”

“He’s going to fire you, Mitch!” Beth said suddenly.

“What?”

“Or suspend you or put you on paid leave or something,” she amended. “But he said he can’t have a murder suspect working at Project Justice. It could jeopardize everything he’s worked for.”

“Ah. So the concern isn’t really for me.”

“You’re being deliberately obtuse. Would you please just get your ass over to Louisiana to answer the damn charges?”

“Do I have a choice?” He was getting pissed off all over again, though he knew Beth was only the messenger. A suddenly sexy messenger. Every time her passion rose, so did his. Sure, he’d thought about what it would be like to go to bed with her. She was more than average pretty with a curvy little body that begged for a man’s most lavish attention. But he’d always dismissed the notion as ridiculous—first because they were coworkers, second because they were friends, and third…well, third, she needed a nice boyfriend. She’d gone to a private Catholic girls’ school, for cryin’ out loud. And he was a Cajun street punk. He didn’t know the first thing about how to treat a sweet, classy woman like Beth.

“Just give the word,” she said, unaware of where his thoughts had skipped, “and Raleigh will arrange for a meeting tomorrow morning. The two of you will drive down first thing.”

Dammit all to hell. This wasn’t going to go away. “Fine. I’ll go. But I want you there, too.”

“M-me? Why?”

“Because you know physical evidence better than anybody. If they have anything—anything at all—I want your take on it. Because if they claim they found something, it’s bogus.” He didn’t add that he wanted a friendly face in the room while those asses in Coot’s Bayou grilled him. Raleigh was a formidable ally, but she was not exactly warm and fuzzy.

“I’ll clear it with Daniel,” Beth said.

“Then I’ll go. But only so I can prove y’all wrong.” It galled Mitch to give in to his brother’s manipulations. But if that was what it took to make this problem go away, he’d do it.

“And ditch the attitude.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“This isn’t funny!”

He actually smiled. “I’m not used to seeing you all bossy. It’s kind of a turn-on.”

She didn’t respond to his flirting. Not at all. Instead she stood stiffly and grabbed her purse. “We’ll meet at the office at eight tomorrow morning. And would it hurt you to maybe wear something besides holey jeans and a T-shirt?” With that parting shot, she whooshed out of his living room, out the front door, leaving Mitch to stare at the little hitch in her hips, completely flummoxed.

He’d thought he had a pretty good handle on Beth McClelland, but her behavior was odd to say the least. Well, what could he expect? Before today, she hadn’t known anything of his sordid past. Now she knew he’d been a car thief. And that he had a half brother he’d never mentioned.

He was afraid she would know a whole lot more about him that he didn’t want her to know before this ordeal was finished. And their easy friendship might be over.

CHAPTER THREE

THE COOT’S BAYOUpolice headquarters hadn’t changed a bit in the past ten years. Oh, the interrogation room where they brought Mitch might have received a fresh coat of paint to cover graffiti left there by suspects, going from gray to a sickly green, but new graffiti had replaced the old. Likewise, the furniture was new, but the table’s veneer was already peeling up, and the cheap metal chairs were bent out of shape, wobbling uncomfortably.

But the smell—a nauseating mixture of burned coffee, stale cigarettes, sweat and fear—was exactly the same.

Sitting here made Mitch feel seventeen years old again. But this time, they weren’t questioning him about a missing car.