Free Motion to Suppress by Perri O'Shaughnessy Page A

Nina advised, passing them on her way to the county clerk’s office. First-timers. It was not what most people expected when they went to visit a jail. She walked on, hearing behind her some argument over the intercom.
    "Tengstedt," the man at the door said, and began to spell the name.
    "No visitors until five o’clock, sir."
    "But my daughter—"
    "The hours are posted on the door," said the voice on the intercom firmly. The man stared fixedly at the grille, as if considering ways to damage the speaker. His wife took his arm, leading him to a concrete bench in the shadows.
    Nina walked back and introduced herself. "You must be Misty Patterson’s parents." Nina held out her hand and Misty’s father, after an initial hesitation, clasped it in a crushing handshake. Nina had forgotten to squeeze hard and was sure she had lost a few points already in the appraisal that was being made.
    "We can’t see Michelle until five," Carl Tengstedt said.
    "They have visiting hours only twice a week," Nina said. "Since you drove all the way from Fresno, it’s fortunate you picked one of the two days. At least you’ll get a chance to see her today."
    "Our daughter is in jail," Tengstedt said. "Of course we got here as soon as we could."
    A short man, uncomfortable in a pin-striped suit, he looked as though he missed his uniform. "You say you are her attorney?"
    "I do represent Misty, in another legal matter. I just learned about her arrest, and I talked to her a few minutes ago. She asked me then to represent her in the criminal proceeding," Nina said. She suggested they reconvene in her office. They walked out to the cars in strained silence.
    "Misty. I guess Anthony Patterson gave Michelle that nickname. Young lady," Carl Tengstedt said a half hour later from the tapestry chair facing Nina’s desk, "just what kind of law do you practice?" He looked at the certificates on the wall, showing she had graduated from the Monterey School of Law five years before, showing she had been admitted to the California Supreme Court the next year, and the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals about then. Suddenly the prized certificates seemed a little skimpy.
    Tengstedt continued looking around the room, his unfriendly gaze lighting upon the stacks of paperwork on the floor she kept meaning to pick up, photos pinned up and not yet framed, the rug that needed vacuuming because people had tracked in mud from the parking lot. He was about sixty, but his hair was still reddish, what you could still see of it. His left hand, on her desk, made a fist as though he still had some use in mind for it.
    "I didn’t say I have agreed to represent your daughter on the charge against her," Nina said. "Up here, like most of the attorneys, I practice whatever law is required by the client. Everything but tax and workers’ compensation."
    "You handle divorces," Tengstedt said.
    "Those too."
    Tengstedt leaned forward, while his wife sat still beside him, her shoulders curved in toward her body. Nina had a sense of déjà vu. Misty had sat just like that before Nina had stopped listening to Tom Clarke and forced her to tell her story. Barbara Tengstedt wore her blond hair in a smooth chin-length pageboy. She wore a beige wool skirt and sweater. She had Misty’s pale skin and slimness, but hollow eyes and thin lips aged her.
    "What I’m trying to figure out is why you think you can take this case," Tengstedt said. "No offense."
    "None taken. I understand you want your daughter to be well represented. There are several other attorneys in town she could retain. The most experienced one is Jeffrey Riesner at Caplan, Stamp, Powell, and Riesner, and I’ll have Sandy give you his phone number so you can talk to him. I don’t know him personally, because I am new here, but if Misty wishes, I can refer you to San Francisco counsel." She heard a sniff from the outer office, and got up to shut the office door firmly.
    "As it happens, I do have some experience in this area. For