Free 1 Motor City Shakedown by Jonathan Watkins Page A

doubted herself. But she prided herself on being pragmatic and self-aware. The truth was she had never tried a felony case. She knew she had the brains, the knowledge and the skills to succeed at any criminal case thrown her way. But he didn’t know that. Couldn’t know that.
    “O h, right,” he said. “Not so complicated, really. There were only two lawyers in Wayne County who showed up and barged into Vernon Pullins’ hospital room. I was one. And you, kiddo, were the other.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “I’m not.”
    “You’re taking me on because I just happened to be around? That’s the most reck less thing I’ve ever heard.”
    “You’re right. It was because you’re lovely and I like how you smell like soap.”
    “You’re not serious.”
    “Of course not. Look, any answer won’t be good enough for you, because none of my reasons are that I know of your long and storied career as a criminal lawyer. Because, ah, you don’t have one. I think it starts here. With me and this case. So just accept that I saw something in you that told me you were the person to partner up with on this case and leave it at that, alright?”
    Issabella relaxed. He was right. She would let it go and be content that he had picked the right lawyer.
    “Alright.”
    “Great. So here’s how I think we should divide the labor…”
    He started laying out the ir priorities. She listened and took notes and made suggestions of her own. He took them in stride, considered them, and they came to agreements on particulars. It was a professional conversation between two people who seemed to mesh together well when talking strategy. Issabella was thrilled to be engaged in that way and she was proud of the things she pointed out that he had never considered-- seemingly small things that, if ever brought to court, would become big things. He smiled and nodded along and the two of them could have been mistaken for long-time colleagues.
    Yet, all the while an ember of nervous warmth refused to cool inside her stomach. He had looked at her with such an honest expression, really looked at her, and told her she was beautiful (no, lovely , he had said, which was even nicer than beautiful, really) and that…that hadn’t been a lie for her benefit, she knew.
    She wasn’t sure how that made her feel, yet. But the little warm ember inside didn’t go away, so she chose to let it be and continued talking with him.
     
    *
     
    He came in the dark, scaling the eight-foot fence and avoiding the snare of barbed wire atop it with a nimble grace. Thick shadows pooled all about the storage yard, and he disappeared into them.
    In time, he came to a stop in front of one storage unit. His thick fingers worked the combination lock.
    Moonlight poured into the stor age unit as Malcolm heaved its metal door up on its track. He stood there, silhouetted in the entranceway, and listened. He could hear the insect-hum of an electrical transformer somewhere nearby in the maze of units. Beyond that, fainter, the cough of traffic along Mack Avenue.
    It was very late, and he had seen no other living souls since arriving at the unstaffed Save n’ Store. Still, he listened. Far away, a car’s horn blurted. A dog barked.
    Eventually, he was satisfied. He produced a small, black Maglite and depressed its rubber-sheathed button, bringing it to life. The storage unit was full of neatly stacked cardboard boxes. None of them were labeled. It didn’t matter. Malcolm new exactly what he needed, and where it was.
    The flashlight guided him to the back of the unit, throwing leaping shadows across the walls as he moved. He stopped and put the flashlight in his mouth, holding it between his teeth.
    The box he opened was full of bottles, no one of them identical to another. They were salvage. Everything in the locker was salvage, gathered over the years by Malcolm from the abandoned and forgotten corners of the city.
    He picked through them, passing over orange plastic prescription