Shame on Him

While the judge makes a few notes on the court documents in front of him, I open up the file I got from Judge Anderson’s paralegal on the way in.

“Seriously? Seventy-five in a twenty-five?” I scold Dallas in a whisper as I look over the ticket he got eight months ago.

“Some of us have important jobs where we need to rush to catch bad people,” he whispers back sarcastically.

It takes everything in me not to stand up, waltz right out of the courtroom, and let them throw him in jail.

“Counselor, how does your client plead?” Judge Anderson asks.

Dallas starts to speak and I reach over and clutch his arm to get him to shut up.

I stand. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

Judge Anderson looks out over the top of his glasses at me. “Counselor, you do realize your client was going fifty miles an hour over the speed limit and never appeared in court to pay his fine, correct?”

“I should have just locked myself up,” Dallas mutters to himself.

Kicking his ankle under the table, I address the judge. “Yes, Your Honor. I’m perfectly aware of the charges being brought against my client. What the court fails to understand though is that my client works closely with the South Bend police force to help them solve cases. He also owns an extremely busy private investigation firm on the side. One, if not both, of these jobs requires him to rush to crime scenes to get crucial evidence to put murderers, kidnappers, and other extremely harmful individuals in this county behind bars. If I’m not mistaken, Your Honor, you yourself have recommended Osborne Investigations to several of your coworkers and other government employees because you were aware my client would do whatever it took to find justice. I realize, though, this doesn’t excuse his failure to pay the fines, Your Honor. My client takes these charges very seriously and would be happy to pay those fines today to avoid jail time.”

Judge Anderson taps his pen against the legal pad in front of him for several long minutes before he finally speaks. “Counselor, please approach the bench.”

“Son of a bitch. Thanks for nothing,” Dallas whispers angrily.

I ignore him, walking out from behind the table and up to the front of the courtroom. Judge Anderson and I debate for several minutes and finally come to a conclusion. He writes a few notes down on the papers in front of him, signs them, and hands them off to the paralegal sitting next to him.

I make my way back to the table and flip my legal pad closed, paying no attention to the imploring look Dallas is giving me that I see out of the corner of my eye.

“Mr. Osborne, please stand. In the case of the State versus Dallas Osborne, you have been found not guilty. You can pay your fines with the cashier on the way out. Case dismissed.”

Sliding my legal pad and pen into my bag, I turn and begin walking down the aisle of the courtroom.

“Lorelei, wait!”

I wipe the smile off of my face and turn to Dallas.

He stands there looking at me for several long minutes as defendants for the next case start filing in around us.

Really, is it that hard for him to say thank you?

“I just . . . um, well . . .”

Rolling my eyes at him, I start to turn around and walk away again, but he stops me with a hand on my arm.

“Look, I just . . . what’s with the outfit?”

He nods at my black Armani pencil skirt and white button-down.

“Seriously? I just prevented you from spending time in jail and you’re asking me about my clothing?”

He runs his hand through his hair and shrugs. “I thought maybe with that sexy getup the other night you were turning over a new leaf. Trying to break out of the boring lawyer mold.”

I swear to God this man’s mood swings are going to be the death of me.

“This boring lawyer just saved your rear end,” I remind him.

He laughs and shakes his head at me. “You know, you can actually say the word ‘ass’ out loud. You had no problem telling me—what was it again? That I’d be sitting there with my dick in my hand?”

My cheeks flush in embarrassment. I still can’t believe I actually said that to him.

“So what did you say to the officer who gave you the ticket that made him so angry?” I ask, moving the talk away from his nether regions.

Dallas laughs and the corner of his mouth curves up, showcasing a dimple. “He was taking his sweet-ass time walking back and forth between his car and mine while he checked my background. I may or may not have told him that if he laid off the doughnuts he’d be able to move faster.”

I shake my head at him in disapproval.

“Hey, you can’t fault me for being honest,” he says.

“Well, as thrilling as this was, I have a meeting in five minutes. Oh, and don’t worry about thanking me or paying me for the time I just wasted bailing you out. I’ve already decided how you’ll pay me back.”

This time, I turn and walk away quickly before he can stop me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he yells to my back.

Without turning around, I raise my hand in the air and give him a finger wave.

“We’ll be in touch soon, Mr. Osborne.”

As I push through the courtroom doors, I hear Dallas shout my name, but I ignore him and continue walking.

I made a deal with the judge that Dallas would do twenty hours of community service by giving talks to a few of the local high schools on the dangers of speeding. I think for now, I’ll keep that little tidbit to myself. First, I plan on making Dallas pay me back by forcing him to work with me on this murder investigation . . .