Page 56 of The 1 Lawyer

“You can catch up. Porter!” I pounded the bar with my fist. “We need some service over here!”

The barman walked over to us. “What can I get for you, Mason?”

“I’d like a cold beer. Get me a Modelo.”

After Porter set the beer bottle down, Mason turned to me. “Sorry to hear about the verdict. I thought you had a good shot. The homeless gal looked pretty pitiful in those pictures you took of the injuries.”

“Yeah, well, nobody cared.”

“When the public defender in Gulfport had a conflict of interest, I told the judge that if anyone can win it, it’s Stafford Lee Penney. That’s a direct quote.”

“Thanks.” I was starting to resent Mason’s repeated reminders of the assistance he’d given me. If he expected my undying gratitude, he was bound for disappointment. My voice cool, I said, “The pay is shit. Maybe you weren’t aware.”

He avoided my eye. Lifting his shoulder in a shrug, he said, “I thought you might want the business.”

I felt my neck heat up like the summer sun was shining on it. I wrapped my hands around my glass. “Damn, that was an ignorant jury. The all-time worst. They couldn’t comprehend a legal argument.”

“Right.”

“And the judge wasn’t much better. He’s too young for the job—I said so when he was elected. Jesus, Mason, Eckhardt doesn’t know how to run a trial.”

Mason twisted around on the stool to see if anyone was within earshot.

His caution irritated me. “Don’t act like you don’t get what I’m talking about. He never practiced criminal law!”

“That’s true, he had a civil practice. But he’s no stranger to jury trials, Stafford Lee.”

I didn’t want to hear my friend defend the judge, so I changed the subject. “Sometimes you get saddled with a loser. Good Lord, Mason, you should’ve seen my client in court today. She looked like a damn clown. And the way she acted? She’s a nut, almost got cited for contempt.”

“Yeah, you told me over the phone.”

I knocked back the bourbon. “The contempt finding wouldn’t have made much difference for her. She’s not walking free anytime soon.” My glass was empty again. I leaned over the bar and called, “Porter! Need another round over here.”

Mason took a sip of beer. Looked like he was rationing it, he was drinking so slow. He said, “At least that woman’s got a roof over her head. Three hots and a cot, right?”

What Mason said made sense. But in our brief acquaintance, Della had made it clear that she valued her independence and longed for freedom. She’d kept badgering me to find out what the police had done with her tent and her collection of personal belongings and whether her property would be returned to her after she was acquitted.

Well. She didn’t need to be concerned about that anymore.

Porter finally appeared with my fresh drink. His face wore a humorless expression. “You’re not driving tonight, right, Stafford Lee?”

Affronted, I straightened my back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“C’mon, don’t play dumb—you know the law. We got a dram-shop statute in Mississippi. I don’t want to get sued if you leave here and have a wreck.”

Mason said, “He’s not driving, Porter. Guaranteed.”

“Okay, then. I’m counting on you, Mason,” he said, and he walked off.

I caught Mason glancing down at my glass of bourbon. The guy was definitely not as fun as he used to be.

As if he could read my mind, he said, “You want to check out the menu, Stafford Lee? Let’s order some food. I could go for that fried oyster basket. They got good shrimp po’boys too. You’re a fan of their po’boys, right?”

“No, thanks.” I slugged back another swallow of Jim Beam. Mason was frowning at me. He looked like he wanted an explanation, so I gave him one.

“I’m not blowing a fifty-dollar drunk on a five-dollar sandwich.”

CHAPTER 44

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