Premeditated Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

Cottonwood had only been working in the western part of Massachusetts for the last eight years, but his anti-defendant reputation in criminal trials over the past three decades throughout the state was legendary. Getting a favorable ruling on something as small as an evidentiary issue was rare. But getting a favorable ruling on something big—like overruling a jury's guilty verdict—was as likely as getting hit by a bus and then struck by lightning.
    While walking your dog on the moon.
    And the only not-guilty verdict anyone could remember ever coming out of Cottonwood's courtroom was followed by his now-famous post-verdict freak-out, during which the judge bawled out the defendant, the lawyers, and, just for good measure, the jury, too. At least one juror left sobbing. Way to go, Dick, you asshole.
    “This is going to be bad, Zack,” Terry said. “That judge blows.”
    The doorbell rang. “That's the babysitter,” Zack said, shrugging on his tired-looking jacket, which, with the shaggy hair, loosened tie, jeans, and boots, completed the I-don't-give-a-shit-what-I-look-like look.
    “Are you ever going to buy some real lawyer clothes?” Terry asked as they moved toward the front door. “And by the way, you think you're ready for a haircut?”
    Zack didn't even bother answering. “You think you're ready to go talk to our guy?”
    “Our kill-six-people-with-a-machine-gun guy?” Terry said, following Zack out of the house. “I was born ready.”
     

    NORMALLY, TERRY HATED VISITING HOSPITALS, but the fact that Cal Thompkins's doctor was a green-eyed hottie more than made up for it. He and Zack met with the doctor before seeing Thompkins, and she told them that he had suffered two bullet wounds—one to his forearm, which had broken a bone, and one to his thigh. Both were painful, Cal had lost a good deal of blood, and the leg wound had required surgery. The extent of the nerve damage was not yet fully assessed. But there was a reasonable chance that he was going to recover fully.
    Which was good news, because nobody likes to execute a defendant who isn't in tiptop shape.
    Room 304 was guarded by two young state troopers who were both trying hard to look menacing. Somehow, Zack and Terry made it past them without confessing to something, and opened the door.
    Calvin Thompkins wasn't just black—he was huge. The news just kept getting better.
    For a guy who at one time might have been able to bench-press three hundred pounds, the man looked like shit. His dark eyes were bloodshot. He hadn't shaved in a while, and although his face looked fairly young—he was probably in his thirties or early forties—the stubble on his chin had some gray in it.
    He was propped up in bed by a pile of pillows and was hooked up to a full console of machinery, including a beeping heart monitor and an IV which was dripping at least two different liquids into his right arm. His left arm was in a cast and sling. He looked like he was tilting to one side—probably trying not to put too much weight on the leg with the bullet wound. He was manacled to the bed at the ankle.
    Zack walked over to introduce himself, but Thompkins spoke first.
    “I'm sorry I can't stand up, or even shake your hands,” the prisoner said, closing his eyes and shaking his head ruefully. “I'm Calvin Thompkins. You must be the lawyers.”
    Terry had expected the man's voice to be deep. Instead, it was soft and hoarse.
    “That's right,” Zack said. “I'm Zack Wilson, and this is Terry Tallach. The court has asked us to represent you.”
    “And you're here to see if you want the case, right?”
    “More or less,” Zack replied. “We need to find out what's involved in defending you and decide whether we can do the job. But before we start, we need to get a couple of ground rules out of the way.”
    “Good,” Thompkins said.
    “First of all,” Zack began,