If honor and principles weren't already keeping lawyer Dallas Williams on the
straight and narrow, the thought of spending more than ten minutes in the Haines
Street lockup certainly would.
It had to be one of the most depressing places on earth. Fluorescent overheads
buzzed and flickered against faded, gray ceilings. Prisoners shouted profanity
from the long, lockup hallway behind the desk sergeant's counter. And the smell
of mildew permeated the punky, dark walnut paneling, cira 1930.
"Got that arrest report ready for Dallas Williams?" the desk sergeant
called to the officer behind him as two uniforms brought a man and a woman to
the desk for processing.
Dallas automatically shifted away from the handcuffed, female. He was here to
get background information on witness in an embezzlement hearing, and then he
was out of here.
"Be about two minutes," the sergeant called to Dallas. He gestured to
the royal blue, molded plastic chairs that lined the opposite side of the hallway.
"Want to have a seat?"
Dallas shook his head. "No thanks."
Rule number one in the Haines Street lockup was to stay well away from both the
furniture and the clientele. He didn't need gum stuck to the backside of his Armanis.
And he had no desire to chat with the colorful south-side characters camped out,
waiting for friends and relatives to post bail.
He felt the female prisoner staring up at him, and glanced down to meet green
eyes that were surprisingly clear and lucid.
"Are you Dallas Williams?" she asked.
She was five-foot-six, with wavy, auburn hair that just brushed her tanned shoulders.
She was too fresh-faced to be a Lakeshore Drive hooker, but that black tank top
and the tight mini skirt gave him pause. She was willowy thin, and he was sure
she wasn't nearly dangerous enough to warrant the cuffs.
"Of Turnball, Williams and Smith?" she continued when he didn't answer.
"I am," he acknowledged with a cautious nod.
She smiled, tipping her head to one side, revealing white teeth that had probably
cost her parents a fortune. She looked instantly relieved, as if he'd just admitted
to being her guardian angel. "Thank goodness. I was going to try calling
Greg, but this is even better."
The desk sergeant pushed a manila envelope across the scarred countertop. "Here's
your report, Mr. Williams."
"Thanks." Dallas picked up the police report and started past her for
the door. Last thing he needed was to let this woman pour out her soul.
"Wait," angel-eyes called out, lurching toward him before the arresting
officer grabbed her firmly by the elbow and yanked her back.
Focusing on her hairline, and ignoring a jolt of hostility toward the officer,
Dallas gave her a polite nod of goodbye and kept moving.
"You have to help me," she cried.
Dallas shook his head, still focused firmly on the exit door. Fresh-faced or not,
he didn't represent hookers, drug addicts and petty south side criminals. Not
now, not ever.
"Please," she implored, even louder.
Dallas stopped, gritted his teeth and pivoted to face her. "I charge three-hundred
dollars an hour."
She drew back in surprise, her eyes widening their color seeming to lighten. Tank
top and skirt not withstanding, she suddenly looked out of place in the harsh
grunge of stained walls, scarred furnishings and world-weary cops. "Really?"
"Really," he answered. Not that her looks made one iota of difference.
World-weary or not, the Haines Street squad wasn't in the habit of bringing in
innocent people.
They didn't need to. They had plenty of criminals to choose from.
"How fast do you think you could get me out of here? Ten? Fifteen minutes?"
"I have an eight hour minimum on new cases," he lied.
She blinked, and this time her eyes looked turquoise.
"That can't be legal," she said.
"I assure you, it's perfectly legal. They make you study that sort of thing
for the bar exam."
"Well it's definitely not moral."
"You want to debate morality? You're the criminal. I'm a law abiding businessman."
"I'm not a criminal."
Dallas couldn't even believe he was having this conversation. Couldn't believe
she had the audacity to take him on. Couldn't believe she was standing there in
handcuffs, eyes shooting sapphire sparks at him for absolutely no reason.
"Pirated software and illegal firearms," said the arresting officer
to the desk sergeant.
Dallas cocked his head sideways, raising his eyebrows at her. Part of him couldn't
wait to see what she had to say about that.
"I was in the wrong job at the wrong time."
The uniformed cop beside her chuckled and shook his head. Like Dallas, he'd heard
every excuse in the book. This one wasn't even particularly creative.
The woman shot the cop an annoyed glare before turning her attention back to Dallas.
She squared her shoulders. "I'm innocent. And I'm Allison Kempler's roommate.
If you won't help me, perhaps you'd be good enough to let Greg know I'm here."
At the mention of Allison's name, Dallas groaned inwardly. Leaving the woman here
to be booked and locked up suddenly ceased to be an option. Greg was batty about
his new fiancée. If Dallas upset Allison, there'd be hell to pay.
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