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  “I never expected to see a Rochelle dare appear in my chambers again,”

  Winewski’s legendary sonorous voice boomed.

  No doubt the family scandal was about to be rerun.

  I straightened my shoulders and managed a cool smile. “Nice to meet you, Judge.”

  “We’ll see about that, Ms. Rochelle. Unlike your grandfather, I run a tight courtroom and tolerate no improprieties.”

  His implication was clear. My grandfather had become a crooked judge. I had paid enough for my family’s sins. No one was going to make me turn tail.

  “I don’t intend to make any.” Keeping my gaze locked on the judge’s I experienced a small victory. He looked away first.

  COURTING DANGER

  CAROL STEPHENSON

  Books by Carol Stephenson

  Silhouette Bombshell

  *Courting Danger #51

  Silhouette Special Edition

  Nora’s Pride #1470

  CAROL STEPHENSON

  credits her mother for her love of books and her father for her love of travel, but when she gripped a camera and pen for the first time, she found her two greatest loves—photography and writing.

  An attorney in South Florida, she constantly juggles the demands of law with those of writing. I-95 traffic jams are the perfect time oases for dictating tales of hard-fought love. You can drop Carol a note at P.O. Box 1176, Boynton Beach, FL 33425-1176.

  To my agent, Roberta Brown, for your unwavering belief and support; you are a writer’s dream guiding light.

  My deepest gratitude goes to Judith Arco for patiently answering my questions about the criminal law process. Any errors are mine or artistic license.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 1

  I’m a hired gun.

  Not the blazing bullets kind…the legal kind.

  After all, attorneys are the only publicly sanctioned form of revenge and payback our society allows. If someone damages your car or hikes your rent, instead of stringing him or her from the nearest tree, you go to court and duke it out.

  However, if you do decide to take matters into your own hands or otherwise flaunt the laws of our country, you’ll still need someone like me: Katherine Rochelle, criminal defense attorney, the ultimate in legal weapons.

  We can be found in the yellow pages; you can’t miss the ads with the pictures and bold assurances of our qualifications to defend you. If we appear to be larger than life, we have to be, for you are placing your life in our hands.

  What you don’t realize is that behind our serious demeanors, diplomas and certifications are individuals as flawed as you are. My brethren drink, gamble, lie, cheat and steal. They fight with their spouses and raise kids who land in trouble.

  For some that’s a dollar sign above their heads, not a halo, having sold out their ethics for the almighty buck or other glory.

  For others, like me, the struggle to keep our principles and honor intact as we fight for justice leaves our armor dented and tarnished. Sometimes we needed crutches, like the kind I had now.

  I paused before the double wood doors and fumbled in the pocket of my ivory silk jacket for the ever-present roll of antacid tablets. A little stomach insurance wouldn’t hurt before I entered the chambers. Even this early in the morning, a cacophony of sound filled the Palm Beach courthouse hallway: heels clicking on the marble floor, briefcase locks snapping, voices echoing—questioning voices, irritated voices, hurried voices. I tuned it all out to focus on the challenge before me.

  A familiar burn began in the pit of my stomach so I took a few deep breaths. Here in the alcove, ammonia and orange furniture polish from last night’s cleaning warred with attorneys’ colognes. Inside a new scent would be added: fear. Fear of the accused, fear of the judge, fear of failure.

  Anticipation stirred to life, kick-starting my pulse. It had been six long months since I’d had been in a courtroom. What did it matter that this was only a county court misdemeanor hearing where the main thing heard was criminal traffic offenses?

  It was action. Soon enough I would work my way into circuit court where weightier crimes, such as battery, armed robbery and murder, were tried.

  Granted, the hiatus I’d taken to work with my two girlfriends, Carling Dent and Nicole Sterling, in setting up our own criminal defense firm certainly had been fulfilling. Our law school dream—the Law Offices of Dent, Rochelle and Sterling—was now a reality.

  However, it still bit that I had been a casualty in a scandal at the U.S. Attorney’s office. Losing my job hadn’t sat well. Neither had waiting for our offices to be finished.

  Practicing law was like falling off the horse; if you waited too long to get back on, you wouldn’t.

  I was more than ready to get back in the legal saddle. I reached for the door handle, but the overweight bailiff standing to the side shook his head. “You can’t go in yet, miss. The judge don’t let anyone inside until ten minutes to court time.”

  The docket was scheduled to start at 9:30. I glanced at the slender Chopard watch on my wrist: nine-sixteen. I cocked an eyebrow at the bailiff, but he merely folded his arms across his stomach in an “I won’t be budged on this” manner. The way he kept looking around indicated tension.

  In a low tone I asked, “Is there a problem?” X-ray machines and guards at every entrance were a way of life at the courthouse, but you never knew.

  “No, but we had an incident last week.”

  A male attorney, checking the docket sheet, glanced up. “The judge pissed someone else off?”

  The bailiff’s lips quirked but he managed to keep a straight face. “The judge was just doing his job.”

  The attorney grimaced. “Great. Can’t wait for today’s performance.” He moved away and I crossed the hallway to wait.

  “Well, look who’s here.” A man’s loud nasal voice scraped my eardrum. “If it isn’t Katherine Rochelle.”

  After I could get past the vision of six wiry hairs combed across the gleaming pale skin of the man’s head, I locked gazes with Leo Feinstein. Age wasn’t being kind to my former law school classmate. In fact, it was gouging his face with a steel brush.

  “How nice that the state attorney let you out of your cubicle, Leo.”

  His flush did nothing for his massive bald spot. “You were a nice woman, Katherine, until you hooked up with those two pals of yours.”

  He meant that I had been an amenable debutante, in danger of fading into nonexistence as a human being, until Carling and Nicole had rescued me. A man like Leo didn’t care for strong women attorneys like Carling or Nicole who ran circles around him every day in court.

  “Hey, someone left today’s paper.” Always the cheap-skate, Leo bent over, his faded navy-blue polyester tie dangling forward.

  The bold headline of an article on the front page caught my attention: Is The Courthouse Restoration Jinxed?

  The answer? Absolutely.

  Unable to stop myself, I gazed through the wide bank of tinted windows that lined the main corridor. Across the street shimmering under the bright Florida sunlight was the old courthouse. Black skeletal fingers of scaffolding encased it much like the frustration that gripped me whenever I looked at the 1916 structure.

  Would it never release its secre
ts?

  When the 1970s brick wraparound was first stripped away, revealing the building’s facade as it had existed thirty-five years ago, I had haunted the construction perimeter. Had I half expected to see my grandparents walk down those steps as they had when they had disappeared all those years ago? Had I hoped their unknown killer would experience contrition at the déjà vu of seeing the original courthouse and confess?

  How much death had those halls witnessed?

  So lost was I in my contemplation of the past that I jolted when Leo spoke. “Isn’t it something that a woman was killed there the other night?”

  The woman had a name and a life she hadn’t deserved to lose in that tomb of horrors.

  “Her name was Grace Roberts,” I stated.

  “Hey, that’s right. Your family’s a big supporter of the restoration. Did you know her?” Leo’s greed for gossip hadn’t lessened in the years since graduation.

  I shifted my briefcase from one hand to the other. “Love to chat, but I’m due in court.”

  Leo jerked his head, dislodging one precious hair so that it spiraled straight up. “Are you here for Winewski?”

  My stomach did a perfect flip. “Yes.”

  “God, how the mighty have fallen.” His smile reminded me of a vampire all set for the final love bite. “Katherine Rochelle attending a lowly misdemeanor hearing rather than gracing the lofty halls of federal court. Not to worry. I’m the prosecutor today, and I’ll keep in mind that you won’t know your ass from your head in there. I’ll try to go easy on your poor sucker of a client.”

  Terrific. It appeared the rumor mill that was the West Palm Beach legal community had generated a nasty spin on my leaving the U.S. Attorney’s office. Either Harold Lowell, my former lover, or the female U.S. attorney who had replaced him, had been bad-mouthing me.

  “Don’t do me any favors, Leo. I can handle myself.”

  He sneered. “Yeah, I heard plenty about how you handle yourself outside the job.” His attention zeroed in on my chest. That ruled out the U.S. attorney even though she had fired me for “incompetence.”

  To my chagrin, I had learned a hard lesson about being a whistle-blower: your co-workers avoid you like the plague. After all, you’ve brought disruption in their jobs and gotten a popular man into hot water. When they had looked at me, I had seen their speculation—had I turned him in merely because of a lover’s quarrel?

  Yet underneath the speculation I knew their real fear was they would lose their jobs because they had illegally contributed to Harold’s campaign fund for attorney general.

  However, I knew the current chief attorney was smart enough not to risk a lawsuit by maligning my reputation.

  Since Harold was already on the slow road to disbarment and conviction for all sorts of federal crimes and had nothing to lose, my money was on him. The bastard.

  In times of trouble, though, adages are wonderful crutches, especially ones drummed into the very pores of your being. If my great-aunt Hilary had said it once, she had said it a thousand times, “Rochelles never sweat in public.”

  I arched a brow, giving my aristocratic freeze-in-hell look. “Gee, Leo, I’m quaking in my shoes. Don’t tell me that you actually manage to stay awake for a whole hearing nowadays?”

  Law school classmates have long memories and one of mine was that of Leo snoozing through nine a.m. Criminal Law.

  Leo’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for breath. He stormed across the hall into the courtroom, sending the doors swinging so wildly that the bailiff rushed to steady them.

  Was my petty moment of besting Leo worth a guaranteed payback from hell? My lips twitched.

  Definitely.

  I strolled across to the chamber and nodded to the still-huffing bailiff as I entered. I made a beeline to the opposite side, away from where Leo stood, and sat at the end of the bench seat. Letting him cool down wouldn’t be a bad idea.

  Studiously ignoring Leo’s glare, I read the graffiti etched on the back of the wood bench before me. Although cameras and microphones had been installed in the rooms when the current courthouse had been built ten years ago, technology hadn’t defeated the artistic endeavors of the accused and defiant.

  The newest artist had definite opinions on Judge Kurt Winewski’s anatomy. I chuckled, but the laugh died in my throat as I glanced up. A group of attorneys had gathered around Leo, who was talking a mile a minute. A few gawked at me, their expressions ranging from curious to baleful. The latter belonged to those lawyers whose clients I’d prosecuted during my days as an assistant U.S. attorney. I hadn’t won any popularity contests then, either, due to my prosecutorial zeal, and it appeared I wasn’t going to now.

  Let them look and gossip.

  But it wasn’t fair that my own integrity was getting maligned. A crook was a crook, right? So what if the criminal happened to be a fellow attorney? I was the one who had been wronged, not Harold. My only fault was once more having no—that’s nada, zilch, zero—judgment in men.

  Absently I watched people fill the room. Why hadn’t I immediately seen through the charisma of my boss and lover to his rotten inner core? It wasn’t as if sex with him should have blinded me; that had been uninspiring and blessedly infrequent.

  For whatever reason, I hadn’t suspected anything until I had found Harold’s little black book in between my sofa cushions and, after decoding it, realized it didn’t contain women’s phone numbers but illegal contributions for his campaign fund. I had been faced with only one option: I had gone straight to the federal authorities.

  “All rise.” The bailiff adjusted his utility belt around his girth as he struggled to stand.

  Tucking away the past, I stood with everyone else and watched the judge march to his bench. For one moment the seal of Florida hanging on the wall framed Judge Winewski’s head like a gold halo…or a crown of thorns some would mutter, given the judge’s use of his power.

  Beneath white bushy brows his piercing regard swept the courtroom, a maneuver designed to keep the audience standing a moment longer. At once he honed in on me with a look of condescension and distaste, as if a disgusting bug had crawled into his domain. Even though we had never met in person, I knew he recognized me.

  Sometimes bearing the Rochelle trademark looks of honey-blond hair, vivid blue eyes and tall, lithe build was a definite negative. I didn’t need to open the gold filigree locket I wore to realize that I was the spitting feminine version of my grandfather. The family had harped on that unfortunate fact my entire life as if they expected my soul to have been stamped with all his faults, as well, like a generational doppelgänger.

  “I never expected to see a Rochelle dare to appear in my chambers again.” Winewski’s legendary sonorous voice boomed to the courtroom’s farthest corners.

  What was this? Sweep-out-Katherine-Rochelle’s-dirty-linen-closet day? No doubt the family scandal was about to be rerun.

  I straightened my shoulders and managed a cool smile. “Nice to meet you, Judge.”

  “We’ll see about that, Ms. Rochelle.” The man who once had bounced my mother on his knee wagged his finger as if I was a recalcitrant child.

  “Unlike your grandfather, I run a tight courtroom and tolerate no improprieties.”

  His implication was clear. My grandfather had been a crooked judge. The cold flame of injustice replaced the nerves churning in my stomach. I had paid enough for my family’s sins and my own stupid mistakes. No one was going to make me turn tail.

  “I don’t intend to commit any.” Keeping my eyes locked on the judge’s as he plopped into his seat, I experienced a small victory. The judge looked away first.

  “Call the first case,” he ordered.

  Everyone sat and the court fell into a rhythm of defendants and their lawyers presenting their cases.

  I flipped opened the client’s folder and studied the charging affidavit. Simone Jean-Charles. A thirty-year-old Haitian immigrant with four children to support on her housekeeping earnings. The div
orce settlement obligated her ex-husband to pay the car-insurance premiums for one year. Of course, he hadn’t and when Simone had been stopped for a busted taillight six months ago, she’d been ticketed for expired insurance. Then the ex had promised to take care of the ticket. Of course, he hadn’t and her license had been suspended.

  Simone’s bad luck continued when she had been stopped by an Officer Pitt because her car resembled one involved in a jewelry store robbery. He had checked her license and charged her for driving with a suspended license. A misdemeanor but my client needed to drive to keep her job. Although I was working on straightening out the insurance mess, a conviction on the latest charge could be economically devastating.

  I glanced at the police report and compared the entry to the arresting affidavit. I smiled. Glancing up, I spotted Simone entering the room. I gathered my briefcase, rose and crossed to the center aisle, preparing to take my place by her side when her name was called.

  The current on-deck attorney was pleading his case. Judge Winewski rapped his gavel. “Denied. This man’s driving license is suspended.” The attorney shrugged and turned to his client.

  “You can’t do this!” his client yelled. “I’ll lose my job.”

  His counsel tried to calm him, but the man cursed a blue streak, drew back his arm and landed a direct blow to the attorney’s nose. Blood spurted as the lawyer fell backward.

  “Bailiff,” the judge called out, but the guard, sitting in a chair too tight for his girth, could barely lumber to his feet.

  As if on cue, everyone raced for the exits, including the judge.

  Self-preservation warred with the ingrained Rochelle family code of conduct, but since the wounded lawyer kept yelling at the top of his lungs, I knelt beside the attorney trying to silence him.

  Mistake. Berserko’s fingers gouged my shoulder. He locked his arm tight around my neck, dragging me to my feet. Not an easy task as I’m five-eight and had four-inch heels on.

  “We’re going out that door, girlie.” Berserko’s breath stank of booze, garlic and desperation.