Page 34 of The Guilty Trial

Before he left, Gerald had mentioned Calder's former business partner in passing. Michael Brennan had taken a plea deal and was working at a car dealership somewhere in the area. Gerald had said it without malice, just a fact, the way people mentioned weather or traffic.

Jason left with a knot in his chest that still hadn't loosened. Now, pulling into Foster's Auto Sales, he scanned the lot. The dealership sprawled across a quarter-acre of asphalt, rows of late-model sedans and SUVs gleaming under overcast skies. Colorful pennant flags snapped in the wind above the office.

The lot was busy for a Monday afternoon. A young couple circled a blue Civic, the woman pointing at something under the hood while the man nodded. Near the back, a salesman in a cheap suit gestured enthusiastically at a black Explorer. His voice carried across the asphalt in a practiced pitch about safety ratings and cargo space.

The wind caught the fabric of Jason’s jacket, tugging at the hem. A man in his early forties stood near the showroom door with his arms crossed, watching a couple inspect a silver Accord. He wore a navy polo with the dealership's logo stitched over the chest—white script that read Foster's in a jaunty font surely meant to inspire trust. His stance was casual, but his eyes tracked the couple with focus.

Jason approached. “I’m looking for Michael Brennan?”

“That’s me. What can I help you with?” His expression shifted from neutral to wary in the span of a heartbeat as Jason badged him. Recognition flickered behind his eyes—not of Jason specifically, but of what the badge meant. His face went pale. For a second, Jason thought Brennan might bolt. He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to give chase. Then the moment passed, and Brennan's shoulders sagged.

“Yeah.” Brennan's voice came out strained. He glanced toward the couple by the Accord, then back at Jason. His jaw worked, grinding something invisible. “Can we—can we talk inside? Away from customers?”

Jason nodded. “Lead the way.”

Brennan moved quickly. His shoulders were hunched now, as though he were trying to make himself smaller. He led Jason through the showroom and into a small office at the back. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the ambient noise of the dealership. Through the window, Jason could see the showroom floor and salespeople circulating like sharks in a tank.

The office was cluttered in a way that suggested constant activity without much organization. Papers stacked on a metal desk in uneven piles, coffee-stained mugs crowding the corner, and a calendar from two years ago still pinned to the wall above a filing cabinet. A framed photo sat on the desk of Brennan with a woman and two kids, all of them smiling on a beach somewhere. The glass was smudged with fingerprints. It was the only personal item in the room. Everything else belonged to the dealership.

Brennan circled behind the desk and dropped into the chair like his legs had given out. The springs groaned under his weight. Jason remained standing, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. He let the silence stretch, watching Brennan's hands move restlessly across the desk, picking up a pen, setting it down, adjusting the photo frame.

Brennan picked up the pen again and fidgeted with it, clicking the mechanism in a nervous rhythm. Click. Click. Click. “I don't want any trouble.”

“I'm not here to cause any,” Jason said evenly. “I just need to ask you a few questions about the Calder case.”

Brennan's shoulders sagged again. He set the pen down and gave a shaky exhale. “Look, I cooperated fully five years ago. I testified against Richard. They gave me a deal because of it. I put all that behind me. Why can’t the FBI?”

Jason nodded. “Yes. Three years at a minimum-security facility. You've been out for over a year now.” He shifted his weight, keeping his tone conversational. Non-threatening. “How are things going?”

“Better than they were.” Brennan gestured vaguely at the dealership outside the glass. I'm trying to rebuild. Pay my debts. Stay clean. The owner here gave me a chance when nobody else would. He knew about my record and hired me anyway.”

“That's good,” Jason said. He let the words settle, watching Brennan's face. The man was scared, but he didn't seem to be acting guilty. Not hiding anything beyond the standard anxiety of someone who'd already done time and didn't want to go back. “Must've been hard, starting over.”

“You have no idea.” Brennan's voice dropped, almost a whisper. “Prison's one thing, man. Getting out and trying to convince people you're not the same person you were—that's something else. My wife stuck with me though. The kids were young enough they don't really remember.”

He glanced at the photo on his desk, and something softened in his expression. Love, or fear perhaps. The desperate need to protect what he'd almost lost.

Jason let the moment pass before continuing. “I'm here because Thomas Sterling and Judge Vance were recently murdered. I'm looking into anyone connected to the cases they worked.”

Brennan's face went pale again, but this time shock replaced the earlier wariness. “I heard about them on the news, but I didn't—” He stopped. His Adam's apple bobbed. “You think it's connected to Calder?”

“That's what I'm trying to figure out,” Jason said. “Did you have any grudges against Sterling or Vance?”

“Grudges?” Brennan shook his head emphatically, the motion almost violent. “No. God, no. They gave me a second chance. Sterling could've buried me, could've pushed for the maximum. But he offered the deal because I gave him what he needed to take down Calder. And Judge Vance was fair during sentencing. He acknowledged my cooperation, said it showed I was willing to take responsibility. My god, you don’t think I killed them?”

Jason watched him carefully, cataloging his micro-expressions and body language: the way Brennan's hands moved when he talked about Sterling—open and grateful; the slight tremor when he mentioned Vance. Brennan's distress seemed genuine. His hands trembled as he picked up the pen again, clicking it faster now.

“I feel terrible about what happened to them,” Brennan continued in a thick voice. “Sterling was decent to me. Professional, you know? He didn't treat me like garbage, even though he could have. And Vance—he listened during my allocution. Really listened. You could see it in his face. I can't imagine who would want them dead.”

“What about Calder? Any family or close associates who might have blamed them.”

Brennan considered the question. He stared at the desk with his brow furrowed, as though sifting through memories he wanted to leave behind. The silence stretched long enough that Jason almost prompted him again, but then Brennan spoke.

“Richard had a younger brother,” he said finally. “Eric. He was vocal during the trial. Really vocal. Kept saying Richard was a scapegoat, that the real criminals got away. He was angry and confrontational.” Brennan's voice took on a distant quality, as if he were replaying scenes in his mind. “He showed up at the courthouse most every day, glaring at Sterling and the jury like they'd personally wronged him. He would sit in the gallery with his arms crossed, just radiating hostility. A couple times the marshals had to tell him to calm down.”

“Did he ever make any specific threats?”

“Not that I heard. But the vibe was there, you know? Like he was barely holding it together.” Brennan shook his head. “I haven't spoken to him in years, but I remember thinking he was dangerous. Not physically, maybe, but emotionally. Unstable.”