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“I’ve been here for almost twenty years now. I can’t imagine working anywhere else. It’s so rewarding to go home knowing that what I do helps people.”
“So is that why you do it?” I ask, wide eyed and innocent. “To help people?”
He stands up and walks around his desk, leaning on the edge right in front of me. “I think you've nailed it, young lady. So many people come through this system without anyone to support them. They have no money, no support network, may struggle with their mental health or addictions of some sort. They need someone who will stand for them and with them. Someone who can help prove their innocence, or at least ensure their rights are observed and the system treats them fairly. The system is too complicated for lay people to navigate on their own. I’m proud to stand as their guardian.”
What a wonderful speech. I wonder if he wrote it for me, or if I do an internet search, will it show up as a quote in another article? He’s fed me so much line I feel like a fish, but this time I’m the one that will be reeling in.
“That’s a lot of responsibility on your shoulders. Their destiny is in your hands and you’re the only one they can trust. If you make a mistake, it can cost someone their future.”
“Oh, you have no idea. Sometimes I feel like a father to these poor people and it breaks my heart.” He reaches out and puts his hand on my knee. “I take my job very seriously, I assure you. Perhaps you’d be interested in an internship? What year are you? Junior?”
“Senior. I’m sorry, that sounds very interesting but I did my internship with Channel 7 last year. This will be part of my final project before I graduate.” I force a smile.
His eyes harden a touch. “Wonderful. I’m sure that was a great experience for you. Well, I'm proud to be able to figure in your project. There are so many things we could talk about, so once we're done here, I'd be happy to schedule more?—”
“Maybe,” I lie. “But I just have a few more questions for you if that’s all right.”
“Of course.”
“Why do you think it might be that the people you defend, on average, are sentenced to twice the regional average?”
He blinks in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“The people you defend. Statistically, they serve twice as much time in jail. Although, that isn’t an entirely accurate picture. Your record shows that it’s actually a small percentage of your clients who receive extraordinarily long sentences compared to the average.” I lean a bit in. Even shocked, his eyes drop to where the neck of my blouse falls forward just a little. “Does that bother you?”
His tone turns sharp. “If you have questions about that, perhaps you should be asking a judge. Variations in sentencing happen to everyone, especially for those of us that serve the lowest types of offenders.”
I nod, feigning understanding. “You’re right. Absolutely. But the thing is, for the past eight years, your number of outliers has remained consistently high. Enough that I’ve heard it commented on and was curious to see if you had any insight.”
“Who?” he snaps before he catches himself. “I don't know who you think you are, coming in here, playing on my goodwill before you start throwing around accusations. My job is to protect these people, not throw them in jail.”
He actually sounds so indignant that I start to wonder if my desperation to free my brother is making me see shadows where there are none. But then I remember how easily and quickly Danny was judged, sentenced and shipped off. And his fancy house? I have the numbers to back up my suspicions, even if I might be pushing how solid my evidence is. I have to trust my gut on this, and it’s saying that there’s something here.
“No need to get emotional, Mr. Mullerby. I’ll move on. I see you have a house in Blackworth. That’s a very impressive address for a public defendant. What advice would you give to a new attorney to achieve so much financial success while working in a traditionally undervalued sector? Is it just hard work and dropping the avocado toast? Maybe you’re the guy to go to for investment advice?” I’m definitely reaching, but I want him so mad that he forgets the recorder. Truth be told, I’m just as interested in how he reacts as what he says.
“This interview is over. I see my good will has been grossly misplaced. I will not sit here and be accused of malpractice in my own office.” He points at the door. “The door is there. You may see yourself out.”
“Not even a comment? No rebuttal? No excuses? If I go searching, am I going to find evidence of payments that shouldn’t be there?”
“You have nothing.”
I stand, looking him nearly in the eyes thanks to my heels. “For a man who is so interested in the weak and downtrodden, you don’t seem very interested in actually helping them. Maybe you’re doing your best in a corrupt system. If you helped me, you could be a hero. There’s something going on. I’m going to figure out what it is, and when I do, I’m going to blow the lid right off it.”
His face hardens and his eyes narrow into angry slits. Definitely not going to be a second interview, no matter how much skin I flash. Did I make a mistake pushing him? Maybe I should have played it cool this time and stroked his ego, then gone in for the kill when he trusted me more. My stomach flips at the idea of having to fawn all over him. No, this was fine. I’ve shaken him up, now I have to watch and see what falls out.
“Get. Out. I give you one more chance before I call security. You're skirting the lines of libel. You’ve done one internship and you think you’re hot shit, but you have nothing on me. You’re a kid who wants to play in the grown up league.” He's obviously furious, but there's something else there too. A quaver in his voice like he's… nervous? Afraid? Did I hit close to home? He points. “The door, Ms. Cole. And give me that recorder.”
I swipe it off the table and drop it into my purse. “I'm sorry, Mr. Mullerby, but even a kid like me knows better than that. Have a nice afternoon, and you know how to reach me if you change your mind and want to be on the right side of history.”
“Out!” He slams the door shut behind me.
I power walk as fast as I can without looking like I’m running from something. He probably won’t call security, but just in case, I’d rather be gone before I find out. Once I’m out of sight of City Hall, I lean against a building for support as my knees go wobbly. Crap, that was actually kind of scary. I got to sit in on a few interviews when I did my internship, but I was never alone for anything more interesting than interviewing a farmer at the local market.
When I pull out my phone, there are several new messages from the FixerUppers, which immediately distract me from my lack of progress with Mullerby. It looks like Mack and Reaper felt the need to prove that Scrapper didn’t have a significant advantage.
It feels strange to do the flirting part of the relationship after the sex, but it’s kind of fun, too.
Do you guys take requests?
