Bull's Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #3

Chapter 3

"It's lawyer time," the guard says as Zandra's visitor appears next to the bars.

Lawyer? I never got the chance to call for one.

Zandra hobbles to her feet, leaving the cigarette on her pillow. Her left ankle, still recovering from the mangling it suffered by her own hands, doesn't want to support much weight. Its protests remain ignored. The pain reminds her of her mortal presence in the cell. It'd be too easy to float away otherwise.

"Zandra, I'm Darryl Flint, and I'm your public defender. That's Darryl with two Rs," a young man in an oversized suit says to Zandra from the bars. He attempts to slip a hand through to offer an introduction, but it nearly sends the file folders cradled in his arms to the floor.

Zandra glances at the clock on the wall. It's 6:04 p.m.

Do public defenders always work this late?

"Did you borrow that suit from your dad?" she says.

"What? The suit? Oh, yeah, I...well, it's a suit I wear," Darryl says as he uses a file folder to push his glasses up from the tip of his nose.

"I take it you're here to go over the charges and tell me about the bail hearing?" Zandra says, watching Darryl's paperwork slip free from the folders and glide to the floor.

"Well, sort of," Darryl says. He turns to the guard. "Is there somewhere we can talk in private?"

"Why would me and you need to talk in private?" the guard says.

Idiot. He was talking about me.

The guard gets the gist after an awkward moment and opens Zandra's cell door. She catches a glimpse of herself in the plastic of the clock on the wall. Her flowing purple gown went off to an evidence locker upon her arrival at the jail. Now she wears what could generously be called pajama pants and a long-sleeve T-shirt. Both feel tighter against her skin than a week ago, but not on account of the jail food. The grease of a week free from showering holds the fabric tight to her body.

They never even gave me a toothbrush.

The guard leaves them to a spare office room down the hall from the cell. It's little more than a desk with two chairs. Zandra notices the security camera perched in the ceiling, as well as the absence of footsteps leading away from the room on the other side of the closed door.

The guard is listening outside.

"Well, I've got good news and I've got bad news. Which do you want to hear first?" Darryl says after they take a seat.

"I've been sitting in a jail cell for a week, and I've not been charged with anything or been before a judge. There is only bad news," Zandra says.

Darryl flips open a folder and shuffles the papers inside until he finds a stack of stapled printouts with Zandra's name on it. He adjusts his glasses and reads it over to himself.

"You find something interesting in there?" Zandra says.

"Yeah, it's a list of your charges," Darryl says. He looks up from the papers. "Do you want to see it?"

Did this guy get his law degree off of TV?

"For shits and giggles, why not?" Zandra says and grabs the papers from Darryl's hands.

The charges are so numerous and detailed, they read like a play-by-play of the previous week's showdown. She skims through most of the 27 felonies, but pauses on the word "homicide."

Dvorak died after all.

Numerous harassment charges related to individuals she exposed during the final moments of the showdown also catch her interest.

This city doesn't like getting its dirt shoveled.

"If this is the good news, then the bad news must be that you're going to be my lawyer through all this," Zandra says after finishing reading.

Darryl shrugs and says, "I can't help that you feel that way, but I can help you understand what's happening."

Zandra watches him run his hands through the paperwork like someone searching for a missing TV remote in a couch cushion. She reaches a hand across the desk and slides his glasses back up the slurry of grease and ink on his nose.

"Darryl? Darryl? Stop what you're doing and listen to me," Zandra says, breaking the public defender out of his bizarre fixation on the paperwork. "You're not going to be my lawyer. You shouldn't be anyone's lawyer. I never asked for a public defender."

Darryl moves out of Zandra's reach and adjusts his glasses once again. He gives her a puzzled look. "That's not what the DA said."

"What?" Zandra says. "What did the district attorney say?"

"He said you requested one, and that you wanted me to represent you at your bail hearing," Darryl says. "Why is this a surprise to you?"

Unbelievable. Even the fucking county prosecutor is in on it. Always knew Gene ran Stevens Point, but I didn't think it went this far. No wonder they wanted Herman out of commission. He could've sounded the alarm.

"It's a surprise that you took the DA's word about that. Although, after meeting you, I don't know why I should be, you horseshit excuse for a lawyer," Zandra says. Her pulse quickens, but it has nothing to do with precognition this time.

"Calm down, Zandra. The district attorney's been in office for almost 20 years. He's very reputable. Why wouldn't I take him at his word?" Darryl says.

"Because he's the attorney you're supposed to be defending me against," Zandra says. She hacks something red into her sleeve.

"With all of the other cases on my plate, I just don't have the time. I'm sorry, but I'm sure you're aware of the staffing changes at the public defenders office," Darryl says. He reaches into a folder and slides a sheet of paper to Zandra. "You didn't let me get to the good news."

"How could there possibly be good news?" Zandra says.

"I got your bail cut in half," Darryl says, beaming at his accomplishment.

"In half?" Zandra says and picks up the sheet of paper. "What was it before?"

"Twenty million dollars."

Looks like I'm not going anywhere any time soon.

Zandra crumples up the piece of paper and squeezes the wad until the ink prints letters into her palm. "I need to make a phone call."

"Sorry, phones are down in the jail. I can make a call for you, if you'd like. I am your attorney, after all," Darryl says.

"Then I'd like to go back to my cell," Zandra says.

The guard is back in the room before Darryl can get up from his chair. They see Zandra back to the cell, but not before pausing to talk about their fantasy football leagues. It seems the two know each other well.

Darryl leaves as the guard prepares to clock off from his shift. Leaning against the sink in her cell, Zandra can't help but get the final word in.

"You remember how I told you you were going to let me out of this cell?" she says behind the cigarette's damp filter.

The guard rubs his eyes. "Yeah. So?"

"My prediction came true. You let me out after the lawyer showed up," Zandra says. She rubs her palms together. "I wonder what else I'm right about."