He had always found it odd how much economic development seemed to spring up around prisons, the thriving little microeconomies correctional facilities fostered.
Taylor arrived just as the hostess was finding a booth for them. “Sorry,” she said, somewhat breathlessly. “I wasn’t paying attention and drove right past the place.”
“No problem. You’re here now.”
They slid into opposite sides of the brown vinyl booth with the awkwardness of near-strangers suddenly finding themselves in close quarters. After a few moments of perusing the menu, Taylor ordered a chicken taco salad and a diet cola while he settled for coffee and a slice of Dewey’s famous boysenberry pie.
“I didn’t have time for lunch today,” Taylor explained after the waitress walked away to give their order to the kitchen, “and my study group will probably go long past dinnertime. This might be my only chance to eat until midnight.”
“What class is your study group for?”
She made a face. “Constitutional law. My least favorite class. I need all the help I can get in there.”
“Why would a medical student need to study constitutional law?” he asked, genuinely baffled.
“A medical student wouldn’t. It’s a requirement for second-year law students, though.”
He stared at her. “When did that happen? During the trial I could swear I heard you were attending the U. medical school, that you were close to graduation. I thought somebody told me you intended to specialize in pediatrics.”
If he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he might have missed the quick spasm of misery that crossed her features before they became impassive again.
“Things change.”
“Wow. I’ll say. Law school now? That’s a major career shift.”
She absently fiddled with a sugar packet from the wire rack on the table. “Sometimes you think you have your life all nicely mapped out. Then fate picks you up, shakes you around until your teeth rattle, and plops you down on a completely different path.”
Try as he might, he couldn’t picture her as an attorney, starchy suit and case files and law books. The whole white coat–stethoscope thing seemed a much better fit.
He wasn’t sure why, he only knew that Dr. Taylor Bradshaw sounded much more natural to his ear than Taylor Bradshaw, Esquire.
“Why law?” he asked.
She paused for several seconds, her brow creased as if struggling to formulate an answer. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak, the waitress arrived their order.
“Here you go, doll,” the cheerful waitress said as she set Taylor’s taco salad in front of her with a flourish.
In all the times he had been here, Wyatt had never seen the woman with anything but a smile on her face.
“Let me tell you, that chicken is delish today. It’s always good but today the cook outdid himself. I had it for my own lunch and just about licked the plate clean.”
She handed Wyatt his pie with a wink. “And I don’t have to tell you how good the boysenberry pie is, since you order it just about every time you come in. Enjoy.”
She had just left when a group of three men walked past. One of them paused and did a double take at their booth as Wyatt was enjoying his first sweet taste of berries.
“Taylor? What are you doing here?”
Wyatt chewed and swallowed while he tried to suppress his irritation at recognizing the balding man in the high-dollar suit. At first glance, Martin James looked mild-mannered and unprepossessing. He was about the same height as Taylor, slightly pudgy, with smooth, pleasant features and warm brown eyes.
First impressions could be deceiving, though. In this case, the man was a shark in the courtroom, one of the most sought-after defense attorneys in the state. But even James’s reputation for dogged determination and creative representation hadn’t been enough to acquit at least one of his infamous clients—Hunter Bradshaw.
Taylor apparently didn’t hold a grudge at the man who had been unable to see her brother acquitted. She rose with delight on her features and kissed Martin James on his round cheek. “It’s Tuesday. I always visit on Tuesday, remember? What about you? Have you been to see Hunter?”
“No. I had an appointment with one of my other clients,” the attorney said. “If I had remembered Tuesdays were your day to visit, my dear, we could have driven out together.”
She smiled at the man with a familiarity that surprised Wyatt, until he remembered hearing during the trial that Martin James and Taylor’s late father, William Bradshaw, had been friends outside the courtroom.
“Thanks,” she answered, “but I didn’t feel much like being in a NASCAR time trial today.”
“Are you insinuating I drive too fast?” Martin asked her with mock offense.
“Not at all. I think the fingernail gouges in my thighs have almost healed from the last time I rode somewhere with you.”
Martin laughed and squeezed her hand.
As Wyatt watched, Taylor suddenly seemed to remember his presence.
“I’m sorry. Martin, this is Wyatt McKinnon.”
“We’ve met,” James said, all warmth gone from his voice and his features like a January cold snap. “McKinnon.”
He nodded with the same coolness. Hunter Bradshaw wasn’t the first client of Martin James whose story he had written. Wyatt’s second book, Eye of the Storm, had chronicled the kidnap and murder of Rebecca Jordan. Martin James had represented Rebecca’s husband, convicted of paying two teenagers to kill his wife. The attorney hadn’t been at all thrilled to show up in Eye of the Storm, especially as Wyatt had chronicled some of the backdoor wrangling that had gone on between attorneys involved in the case.
James had threatened to sue him for defamation of character, but the threats never went anywhere, since Wyatt had documentation that every word in his book had been true.
Taylor looked from one to the other as if trying to figure out what had sparked the sudden tension. “Wyatt is writing a book about Hunter’s case,” she told the attorney. who looked not at all surprised—or pleased—by the information.
“I know. Your brother told me he was talking to him.”
“Martin was a good friend of our father’s and represented Hunter at trial,” she explained to Wyatt, then winced. “I guess you would know that about the trial anyway. I forgot you were there. You would have seen him in the courtroom.”
“Right. How are you, Martin?” Wyatt asked.
“Fine. Busy. I’m up to my ears in cases.”
The affection on Taylor’s features hardened a little and she sent the attorney a pointed look. “That must be why you haven’t returned any of my calls or e-mails for the past two weeks.”
A trapped light entered Martin’s eyes and he suddenly looked as if he wanted to be somewhere else, somewhere far away. “I was out of town last week at a conference in Santa Barbara.”
“What about this week?”
Though the cornered look was still there in his eyes, Martin’s sigh was heavy and heartfelt. “I wish I had all the time in the world to devote to Hunter’s appeal, but I don’t. Your brother is not my only client, Taylor. You know that.”
She