Page 1 of Coming Home

CHAPTER1

FEBRUARY—LOS ANGELES

Jackson Martin parked his sedan in the parking garage and grabbed his briefcase before locking his car. His gut churned. A general uneasiness filled him. Today, the jury would hand down the verdict in the Gerard McGreer trial.

And for the first time since he began practicing law, Jackson wanted his client locked up.

He had served for three years in the DA’s office before making the switch to the other side of the table. Criminal law could be quite lucrative. It also could be incredibly expensive putting on a defense case, especially one in which their client had been indicted for rape and murder. Hours of manpower went into pre-trial preparations, including hiring private investigators to comb through their client’s background—and that of the prosecution’s many witnesses. Pre-trial motions had to be carefully written and filed. Strategy sessions with his law partner and their paralegal, lasting late into the night, where they crafted questions for each witness.

The culmination of all those months’ work would be seen today. He’d given his closing argument at the end of Tuesday, as had the prosecution. The jury had deliberated all day Wednesday and Thursday, calling for various pages of transcript from the court reporter and a few key pieces of evidence. It wasn’t unusual for a jury to take this long to determine guilt or innocence of a defendant when murder was on the table. The bailiff had called Jackson an hour ago, telling him it looked as if the jury might be wrapping up their deliberations this Friday afternoon. That’s when he’d headed to the courthouse.

Dread filled him, knowing he would be expected to wait with the accused, Gerard McGreer. McGreer would be brought to the courthouse and allowed to change from his jail jumpsuit into street clothes. His client had been very specific about the combinations of clothes he had worn during the lengthy trial, even keeping a record of the outfit he wore each day. Before the trial, McGreer had been in IT—information technology—and was meticulous. Based upon McGreer’s employment records and the things their private investigators had found, McGreer had worked with both software applications and computer hardware. Where most IT workers specialized and became either computer scientists, engineers, programmers, or systems analysts, McGreer had been involved in all four areas since his graduation from college a dozen years ago.

Jackson reached the entrance used by attorneys and other court personnel and went through the metal detectors, making small talk with the security guards on duty, whom he saw frequently since he was a trial lawyer. With the McGreer case, he had been at the courthouse every day for weeks, the only break coming when his client had developed a bacterial infection that was going around the jailhouse. The trial had been postponed for a week, allowing McGreer time to recover. Jackson should have pursued other cases during that time. Instead, he had been paralyzed, not wanting to move forward.

It was during that week that he made his final decision.

He was leaving LA and his law practice—and heading to the Cove.

Maple Cove had become his home when his parents had died in a freak avalanche while skiing. Jackson had been six, while his sister Willow was only three. Boo, their paternal grandmother and a renowned sculptor, had taken in the pair, raising them with plenty of love and an emphasis on education. Growing up in a small, coastal town in Oregon had made for an idyllic childhood, but Jackson had wanted to stretch his wings. After graduating from the University of Southern California in an accelerated Bachelor/J.D. program, he had accepted a job in the L.A. County District Attorney’s office.

Over time, though, he had begun to miss the quiet life of the Cove, even more so after he left the DA’s office, which had sucked the life out of him for very little compensation. The move to criminal law had been more glamorous at first, but the hours were brutal, especially during a case such as McGreer’s. The stakes were high. The pressure tremendous.

Worse, for the first time in his career, he believed his client should be found guilty of the charges. Though he suspected previous clients had been guilty, McGreer was different. The man was beyond cold and calculated. Jackson was actually afraid of McGreer. He had never let his fear show, but he suspected his client knew of his attorney’s feelings and was amused by them.

He entered the small room where McGreer would be brought and took out a legal pad, scribbling a few notes on it that had nothing to do with the case. Instead, it was a series of questions to ask Clancy Nelson, the retiring attorney who had offered to sell his practice to Jackson when he’d returned to the Cove for Boo’s funeral. Clancy was still sharp at eighty-five and had practiced law for six decades, serving all of Barton County. His practice was located in the Cove, where Jackson’s sister now lived with her new husband, the local sheriff. Willow had chosen to move into Boo’s house after their grandmother’s death and had reconnected with her high school sweetheart. She and Dylan Taylor had admitted they never stopped loving one another, despite being separated during the last dozen years, both living in various countries across the world. They had married before Christmas, and he suspected they would soon start a family.

Clancy’s offer had been interesting to Jackson, and he had begun to seriously consider it during this current trial. Suddenly, the sordid nature of this case—as well as dozens of others he had taken on over the last few years—caught up to him. While Jackson believed he had put on the defense of his life, he worried he had been too good—and that the jury would find enough reasonable doubt to let Gerard McGreer go.

His heart told him it would only be a matter of time before McGreer raped and killed again.

The door opened, and a deputy escorted his client into the room.

“Gerard,” Jackson said crisply, nodding his head and then going back to his legal pad, not wanting to engage in conversation with his client.

“They tell me the verdict is imminent,” McGreer said as he began shedding the prison jumpsuit.

“I believe so,” Jackson said, keeping his eyes on the page before him because he did not want to look into the cold stare of the man he was defending.

“You did an outstanding job. You know I’ll be found innocent.”

Jackson stopped writing, forcing himself to make eye contact with McGreer, who donned a white dress shirt. “The verdict is either guilty or not guilty. Innocence doesn’t come into play legally.” He went back to writing.

“You know what I mean, Jackson. But I like how precise you are. I’m that very way. We are a lot alike.”

He swallowed, tamping down the words he wished to shout. That he was nothing like the man sitting across the table from him.

“I think the navy blazer was a good choice, don’t you? And I always think a red tie makes a strong statement. I can’t wait to talk to the reporters.” McGreer began tying the tie, forming a perfect Windsor knot.

“I’d advise against that, Gerard.”

“Why shouldn’t I proclaim my innocence? I’ve been caged like an animal for almost a year now. No bail. Living for months in a dirty cell with inferior scum.”

“If you are found not guilty, the best thing to do is take the high road and refrain from commenting. Remember, the victim’s family is still out there. And hurting.”

McGreer snorted. “Well, I’m hurting, too. Living in cramped conditions with common criminals. Having my freedom curtailed.” He let out a long breath. “I cannot wait to sink my teeth into a rare steak and wash it down with a cold beer.”

Jackson put down his pen. He had tried to prepare McGreer for the jury returning a guilty verdict. Yes, he had done an excellent job, tearing witnesses apart and creating doubt regarding the evidence. But juries were made up of humans. They mostly thought with their hearts and not their heads, especially when a violent murder had occurred. Most jurors saw the bloody photographs submitted into evidence and instinctively linked them to the person sitting at the defense counsel’s table. He knew most jurors subconsciously thought there had to be a reason the accused was already sitting in court.

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