Free Jury of One by David Ellis Page A

mean?”
    “It means, drive the speed limit in the city, okay?”
    She shuddered. The same thought had occurred to her—retaliation from the local force. “I always obey the laws.”
    “I put in a call to Fran Macey.”
    “Who?”
    “Francis Macey. Superintendent of the city police.”
    “Did you now?” Her blood was boiling. “So now he knows to call off his goons?”
    “Shelly, cops wake up every day not knowing if it’s their last. They approach every pulled-over vehicle wondering if there’s a shotgun waiting for them. We do the shit work so everyone can sleep safely at night. So when one of their own—”
    “Edgar, I know what cops do. Lawyers defend people accused of crimes. That’s what I’m doing.” She left out her best line, the one about Edgar never spending a single day in uniform himself. “I won’t give the police any excuse to harass me. I will drive the speed limit and I will only cross at crosswalks when it says ‘Walk.’ If the light changes and tells me to dance on one foot, I’ll do it. Okay?”
    “Jeez, Shel.”
    “And thank you, once again, for assuming I can’t take care of myself.”
    A small chuckle from her oldest brother. He mumbled something off the record. “At least call Dad tomorrow, would you?”
    “I’ll try,” she said. She hung up the phone.
    On the taped address on television, Governor Langdon Trotter was calling for stricter terrorism laws, for an expansion of the death penalty to include those who sell drugs to our children. She placed the portable phone on the bed and watched the governor complete his short speech, then wave to the crowd. His family gathered around him. His wife, Abigail, kissed him lightly on the mouth. His two sons patted his shoulders and hugged him when it was their turn.
    The screen cut back to the anchor desk at Newscenter Four, to Allison Henry. “An interesting side note,” she said, “on this celebratory evening for our governor, is that Governor Trotter’s only daughter, Shelly, is the lawyer for the young man charged with the murder of Police Officer Raymond Miroballi two weeks—”
    Shelly turned off the television and closed her eyes a moment. Then she returned her focus to the outlines for tomorrow’s depositions.

13
Company
    S HE FELL ASLEEP that night sitting up with work on her lap. She popped awake when she heard the noise. The buzzer to Shelly’s apartment resembled the plaintive squeal of a wounded animal. Shelly had grown used to it, though she rarely had visitors.
    She turned to look at the clock on her nightstand and felt a pain in her neck from having fallen asleep sitting up. It was just past three in the morning.
    The buzzer squealed again. She gathered herself a moment as her heartbeat raced. She reached under her bed for the billy club her brother Edgar had given her, a cop’s club, heavy as a baseball bat but more painful on contact. She went to the intercom in her hallway and pressed the “Talk” button.
    “Who is it?”
    She pressed the “Listen” button.
    “Are you Mrs. Trotter? Alex’s lawyer?”
    “Who is this? I’m calling the police right now.” She was holding the portable phone in her hand.
    “Manuel,” he answered. “My name’s Manuel. Alex told me to talk to you.”
    She paused. There was a sense of urgency to his voice. She held the “Listen” button down for a moment and considered her thoughts.
    “Don’t—don’t call the police,” he said.
    “Why are you here?” Shelly demanded.
    “Man, listen. I’m here to help you. But I can’t be around here. They’s looking for me.”
    “Who is looking for you?”
    “The
policía.
You can’t call ’em.”
    “The police are looking for you?”
    “Yeah. That’s what I said. ’Cause of Alex.”
    “Walk down the stairs,” Shelly said.
    “What? Lady, I’m telling you—”
    “Listen to me. Walk down the stairs, out to the gate. So I can see you.” The entrance to the walk-up brownstone had an awning, so Shelly’s view