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Simon parked in a far corner of the designated lot, paid for the full day, and was waiting at the light to cross a very busy avenue to the courthouse when he noticed a bank was on the corner diagonal to him. And it had an exterior ATM. So he crossed to that, instead.
It warned him there would be a five-dollar service charge for his withdrawal, but he just sighed, accepted it, and took three-hundred dollars from his savings. He wanted cash on hand in case the clerk refused to let him use his Visa or debit card to pay the fine. If applied. He knew it was a pessimistic assessment, but he could not shake the sense that those little shits with the DA's office would be better at presenting lies than he would be at defending the truth.
He slipped the money into his wallet, slipped his wallet into his backpack, then deliberately waited at the corner for the walk sign before he crossed to the courthouse. He wanted no one to have any excuse to go after him, right now. Not even for a jaywalking ticket.
Security was straightforward. The two sets of doors opened into a foyer where there was an x-ray scanner next to a table. He had to put his backpack on it and push it along to be inspected by an already very bored guard. Another motioned him through the scanner.
He’d added his keys, glasses and everything else that might set off the alarms to the outside pockets of the backpack, so no problem arose there. Nor was anything found within the backpack that might be dangerous. His name and case number were on a list of people attending court proceedings, so he was allowed to continue.
Dillon Walstead and Elissa Manville were already standing in the corridor outside the courtroom, both crisp and fresh in appropriately tailored suits. While hers was navy-blue-neat jacket and skirt, probably straight off the rack at Macy’s, his was seriously sleek and stylish. And perfectly fitted, almost as if it were bespoke. Made him look even more like a male model.
In addition? While she held the typical briefcase that was slightly worn with hints of the faux-leather peeling away, his was finely crafted and well cared for. Not something an assistant District Attorney could usually afford, so apparently his parents were helping him, financially.
Or grandparents. One never really knew.
But that made it was fairly obvious that Elissa was totally on her own.
They were talking to that son-of-a-bitch, Paley, who was wearing the sharpest cop’s uniform Simon had ever seen. Shirt that still looked starched and pressed. Pants that were almost too tight, but not quite. Black belt and shoes polished to gleaming. And a full array of pistol, handcuffs, taser, pepper spray, body mike and camera, all polished as much as his badge. He was really emphasizing the stereotype of a police officer whose only interest is to serve and protect.
He had also shaved close and tight, and his hair had been recently cut into what Simon’s father had referred to as whitewalls. Meaning next to nothing visible above his ears or on the nape of his neck.
When had he heard the man call it that? Wasn’t there a more precise designation? Marine cut? Military? Jarhead? Something along those lines. He’d been very disdainful of anyone who wore it without also having the stick-up-your-ass gait of a true Marine.
“Buncha pussies actin’ like they’re real men,” he’d snarl under his breath. Usually with some sour beer on it as he rubbed the stubble on his head.
Before he’d died, he’d almost seemed to prefer men have the long hair he’d so disparaged during Vietnam. It was more honest, in his opinion. Now the quasi-military style was making yet another resurgence in fashion, exacerbated by the police joining with ICE to become part of America’s gestapo.
So predictable.
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