Dr. Ian West

There’s nothing romantic about the justice system. It’s a slow-moving organism with a callus shell formed by years of unwavering burden.

And it’s expensive.

The process to get Shaver a new trial is a slow crawl with many lashings. Eddie takes a beating—but not as bad as the one taken by the defense. After today, I think Porter may be plotting my demise.

And even though I’m not technically on any one side as a trial consultant, I’ve caught Judge Mathers giving me the stink-eye during court today.

Hey, what can I say? I bring out the best in everyone.

The evidence remains the same. But everything else changes. The players switch positions like a game of musical chairs. Eddie is no longer trying to prove Shaver’s guilt, rather he’s now—with my team’s help—building a case to convict on a state of advanced inebriation, and to disprove the defense’s claim of temporary insanity.

Porter’s had her wrist slapped by her firm and has been benched for two weeks. I’m not sure what this means for her promotion as a partner, or what it means for us… But I’d like to think—even if she loathes me for it—that she’s being protected.

She’s far enough out of harm’s way that I can almost reason clearly again.

Almost.

Porter did a number on my head. But I can’t think about that right now.

The pews are filled with my favorite kind of people.

Potential jurors.

I recline back and sprawl my arms along the backing of the pew. The woman next to me coughs loud enough to indicate I’m invading her precious, personal space.

“Sorry,” I whisper, as I tuck my limbs back in.

It’s time for voir dire—where I shine. For me, this is where the case is either won or lost.

Jury selection is a science. Yet it’s not so much selecting jurors as it is eliminating them. Before the first trial, we made a composite of what our ideal juror would look like. Not physically, but personality wise.

This person would have no reservation in convicting Quentin Shaver.

The biggest prerequisite: They must have no bias against the death penalty.

But Shaver isn’t being tried for the death penalty, you say. The concept is the same. A person who has strong convictions about theories like “an eye for an eye” are the people we want. They have zero tolerance for injustice.

And if we can find those twelve people… (oh, in a perfect trial!), then we’re halfway there. Since Shaver’s trial is based around his admission of guilt, these people would have a difficult time believing in his demon delusion and insanity defense.

But these same people would totally get behind a drug lord’s drug-induced mania where he stalks Tillman to a motel and proceeds to torture, bind, and stab her eight times, then slice up her corpse and remove her heart.

The details are gory. But those details are significant to the trial. Our ideal jurors will revolt against a system that lets an animal like that walk around free.

I sent my updated specs on the ideal juror to Mia and Charlie this morning through secure email. Charlie is waiting in the wings for the first name to investigate.

Since we don’t have access to the jury list (that would be illegal) to investigate potentials beforehand, we have just minutes to investigate a juror and make the call whether to keep or cut them.

It’s exhilarating.

While Mia and Eddie and I are working the voir dire angle, I need someone working the narrative angle. This person needs to buddy up to the case detective…and man, that’s not going to be an easy alliance. For either party.

Defense attorney and Major Crimes? Working together?

Doesn’t happen. Detectives work with prosecutors.

But I have to have Porter on my side. No matter where we stand personally, she belongs on the team. And I need her.

Which is why I’ve sneakily sicced Mia on Porter to convince her it’s time to return to the fold.

Don’t judge. I already admitted what a wuss I am when it comes to Porter. And that kiss… I might as well revoke my Man Card. It sent me right into hiding behind my work where it’s safe.

The judge calls the court’s attention to the first potential juror to begin voir dire. “Thank God,” I breathe. One more minute stuck in this thought pattern and I’d ram my head against the front pew.

“You called…” Mia says in my earpiece.

“Funny.” I give the woman next to me a smile, and she inches farther away.

“Clarisse is up first,” I whisper, and think better about making a Hannibal joke.

“I know it’s killing you not to go there,” Mia remarks. “Okay, we’re on it.”

My foot taps anxiously as I wait.

“Clarisse Boyer.” Mia’s back. “Charlie didn’t dig too deep into her. At thirty-three, she’s an insurance broker. Single. No children. Hobbies include movies and reading. But her biggest hobby is participating in the local correctional facility's pen pal program.”

I scrub a hand down my face. I know why Charlie didn’t dig any further after that. “Let me guess. Obsessive savior complex.”

“That. Or she’s just obsessed with criminals in general. I think it’s more of a danger element. Get close to the fire type deal.”

When it comes to the behavioral side of things, I trust Mia’s insight. A woman infatuated with criminals and danger doesn’t belong on this jury. And a Clarice joke is just way too easy now. Shame.

Smigel asks the potential a few key questions, getting a beat on her, then looks at the judge. “The defense accepts this juror, Your Honor.”

Yeah, of course you do. She’d serve you up a hot dish of innocent verdict soup.

Eddie glances back at me, and I rub my nose. Our code for: cut the juror. Eddie stands. “I move to strike this juror, Your Honor.”

Now, a peremptory challenge or strike is the right for both the prosecution and defense to reject a juror without a reason. Each side gets to challenge ten jurors, as this is a first degree murder case, just FYI.

That may seem like a lot, but those strikes go quicker than you’d think.

Smigel moves to question the next potential. “Next up is Andrew Smith.”

The line stays quiet for so long, I get nervous. “Mia?”

“Sorry. I’m here. Okay, Andrew Smith. Charlie says everything checks out. History teacher at the local high school. Not a lot of online activity, though. That’s where we got held up. His social media accounts are dormant. He doesn’t spend a lot of time online. Probably to avoid his students.”

“Ten/four.” I think as I study the man sitting in the gallery. Think. Think. With no online imprint, I’m not sure which way he’s swaying. Every juror comes into court with a predisposition, an opinion. Having a background on their political views and bias helps us discover this before trial.

I motion at Eddie to ask Smith our death penalty question.

Smith’s reply: “If a person is proven guilty of an atrocious crime, having taken a life…then the punishment should fit the crime. I’m for it.”

Damn. So perfect. Still, I hesitate. Eddie glances at me, eyebrows raised in question. A teacher would make an ideal foreman, and with an opinion like that…

I nod once.

“This juror is acceptable to the prosecution, Your Honor.”

Off to a good start. I get comfortable. We still have a ways to go, and the next potential proves that with her disdain for everything on this planet.

“Tell me the rest of the pool doesn’t look this bleak,” I whisper.

* * *

By the recess, I’m camped out on the courthouse steps. Shoulders slouched, head hung in defeat. At least it feels like a minor defeat at the midway stage. Four jurors. That’s how many we have so far that I can reasonably say won’t let Shaver off on an insanity defense.

With five potentials to question, one strike left, and two seats to fill, our odds are dwindling.

I feel her presence before she says anything. Porter takes up the seat beside me, her lavender scent invading my senses and making my heart beat faster.

“It would’ve been easier to take him down with a guilty verdict during the first trial,” I admit out loud.

“Wow. Thanks,” she says. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel about my skills.”

“That’s not what I meant.” I release a sigh. “I was worried about going up against you. Again.” I peek at her. “You’re tough to beat. Damn near impossible these days.”

“You’ve done a damn good job of it.”

That stings. It may be true that I’ve helped my clients win against Porter over the past few years, and I may have even done so a bit more personally than professionally—but I always kept the reason I’m doing this front and center.

“It’s not about the win, Porter,” I say, regardless of what I lead the world to believe. “It’s about justice.” It’s about Mel, and her murderer—the scum hit-and-run driver that I will never be able to punish. When I look into the eyes of a defendant and I see their guilt..

They become that person. They’re all that person. And I make damn sure they don’t go free.

She nods solemnly. “I know, West. But there’s a balance to keep. Just like Shaver. He can’t be convicted on one opinion. That’s why there are twelve people to debate their opinions. Not just yours.”

“People are predictable. You can paint the picture in black and white, and they’ll still see gray.”

She shakes her head. “No one wants to think that they could wake up one day and just suddenly mutilate a person. They believe they would have to be crazy, temporary or otherwise, in order to do something so heinous.”

She’s a smart cookie. “Even with Shaver’s not so innocuous media presence, he’s built a reputation around drugs, not murder. Which is quite brilliant, to be honest. A jury would be ready to convict on a drug charge.”

Which is why we have the backup drug angle.

“I have faith in you.” Porter nudges my arm. “I wasn’t looking forward to battling you in court either, by the way.”

More bold than I feel at the moment, I look into her eyes. “You don’t have to.” The meaning of my statement lingers in the crisp fall air between us.

“Mia called me.” She straightens her back, angling her knees toward me. I have the urge to reach over and lay my hand on her thigh. It’s such a natural reaction, it scares me.

“She misses you,” I say.

“If I consider this…” Braver than me, she does reach over. She takes my hand and places it right on her knee, lacing her fingers over mine. “I need to know where we stand, West. Not now. Not even this week. But soon. I’m not giving my notice at the firm and walking into a virtual emotional landmine that’s going to explode in both our faces.” She tilts her head, gaze intent. “Can you handle that?”

Damn. One kiss and I’m a dead man.

“Three years,” I hear myself say. “That’s a long time, Porter.”

She shrugs. “Don’t get your super ego going. It’s not like I waited around, staring out my window all forlorn and shit.” I laugh, and she graces me with one of her rare smiles. “I dated. I moved on. But it just so happens that I’m sick of trying to get over the one that got away.”

I open my mouth to say something, but she holds up a finger.

“Wait. Let me get this out.” Deep breath. “If we don’t talk about it, we’ll always have the elephant in the room. We both love Mel. And we both want to honor her memory, and that means this—” she motions between us “—has to be said out loud.”

A sick pang fires through my stomach. But I know the truth. I know what Mel would say; I know that she would give her blessing to the two people she loved, but that doesn’t mean it makes me feel any less guilty.

“She would want you to be happy, West.” She sneaks a glance at me. “I can feel guilty, you can feel guilty…we can both feel like guilty assholes, but that would be us and our issues. Not her. Never from her.”

I nod, even though I can’t look at her. Admitting something out loud is different than facing it.

Porter squeezes my hand. “I’m ready, West. I’m ready to try, no matter what we risk if we fail. It has to be better than being your enemy.”

I could make a case that we’d risk our friendship, but the pathetic truth is we haven’t been friends since Mel died. I let the pain set the course for us, and I did make her the enemy.

“I kind of like getting you fired up in court, though,” I say. “I think it helps you win cases.”

Shock crosses her face. “Unbelievable. You take credit for everything.”

“Only the good stuff.”

Her gaze lingers on our hands. “Then I’ll try not to hold the past three years against you.”

Right in the gut. She knows where to hit. I not only kept her at arm’s length, I pushed her off the side of my planet. I let her decision to go to the dark side (the defense’s side – ha!) become an excuse to stay angry with her. It’s so much easier to feel that anger than it is to feel that hurt.

Hey, I am a psychologist. I can be self-aware when I need to.

“I don’t want to break your heart.” It just comes out. I hate myself for voicing it, but she has to know the truth. That I’m still a bitter, resentful asshole, and chances are, I’d fuck this up.

“Let me worry about my heart. You worry about the case. Now, I can’t technically work with you on anything that was in discovery in the previous case, but I can look for new evidence. Do I have an assignment yet?”

“Whiplash?” I try to laugh it off, but I’m caught. She won’t let me wriggle out of this. “I need someone to work with Major Crimes.”

She nods knowingly. “Detective Renner is the case detective.” She gives a light whistle. “I can’t say that she likes me much.”

“But you’d be gathering facts for the prosecution. She might dislike Shaver even more, don’t you think?”

“Good point.” She checks her phone, then stands. “I’ll work on Renner during my probation period at the firm. Two weeks. That should give you time to think it through.”

Watching her walk away is the highlight of my day. That damn pencil skirt does a number on my arteries. I palm my chest, feeling the thump speed. Porter commands respect with an equal measure of feminine sensuality.

And she drives me crazy.

God, Mel—please don’t let me fuck this up.