Small Town Conviction: A Legal Thriller filled with Gripping Courtroom Drama (Spencer Dunn Legal Thrillers Book 3), page 1
SPENCER DUNN LEGAL THRILLERS
Small Town Trial
Small Town Judgment
Small Town Conviction
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
RELAY PUBLISHING EDITION, FEBRUARY 2026
Copyright © 2026 Relay Publishing Ltd.
All rights reserved. Published in the United Kingdom by Relay Publishing. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Peter Kirkland is a pen name created by Relay Publishing for co-authored Legal Thriller projects. Relay Publishing works with incredible teams of writers and editors to collaboratively create the very best stories for our readers.
Cover Design by Deranged Doctor.
www.relaypub.com
BLURB
One small town. One deadly weekend. Three shocking crimes…
A local business owner is shot and disappears under mysterious circumstances. Another man goes on a hit-and-run rampage. And a horrifying day care incident sends innocent children to the ER. At first glance, the events appear unrelated. But as he investigates, local attorney Spencer Dunn begins to think otherwise.
When Spencer digs beneath Autumn Harbor’s idyllic surface, he uncovers a dark thread weaving the cases together—a thread that leads straight to Jack Butcher, the flashy civic leader whose shiny public persona masks a rotten core. For years, Butcher has operated from the shadows, untouchable… and Spencer is determined to change that.
With pressure mounting and his own family under threat, Spencer races to connect the dots before his innocent clients are convicted. But the truth is more twisted than he ever imagined—and Butcher will do anything to keep it buried.
Now, with the impact of past and current cases coming to a head, Spencer must put more than his legal skill to work—or he may become the next casualty.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
End of Small Town Conviction
About Peter Kirkland
Make an Author’s Day
Sneak Peek: The Wrong Victim
Also by Peter Kirkland
1
“It’s a miracle those kids didn’t die.” Alastair shook his head in grateful disbelief.
“They would have, if your client hadn’t had that Narcan ready and waiting,” I said. “Pretty reckless, keeping heroin in the house where you operate a day care.”
“She says the drugs weren’t hers, that she didn’t know anything about them.”
“If that’s true, why did she have the Narcan?”
It was Monday, and I was eating an early lunch near the courthouse with my boss, who was also my father-in-law. He’d been in court that morning, representing Cathy Silver. Children at her day care center had found packages of heroin in a playroom cupboard and torn them open, ingested some of the powder, and had to be rushed to the hospital after she gave them a dose of Narcan.
It would have been an upsetting story in any case, but my wife and I had a new little girl at home, a four-year-old we were hoping to adopt. To put it bluntly, Alastair’s case freaked me out.
“I don’t know,” Alastair said. “Cathy hasn’t told me much, other than to deny any knowledge of the drugs. Even though she’s lived in Autumn Harbor her whole life, the judge denied bail on the grounds that she presented a threat to the safety of the community.”
I nodded and looked down at the Reuben I’d ordered. I loved sauerkraut. Whenever I was in New York, I’d get a hot dog slathered in it from a street vendor. Thinking about those kids in the hospital, however, made its tangy aroma smell more like rotten eggs. I pushed my plate away.
“I don’t know what’s going on in our little town,” Alastair continued. “Had you heard about Joe Murrell, who runs We Love Your Junk?”
“We Love Your Junk?” I asked. “Please tell me that’s a secondhand store and not some sort of adult business.”
Alastair gave me the side-eye. “It’s the local waste haulage company. Anyhow, the owner’s gone missing. Didn’t show up for work on Friday or Saturday. Then there’s your new client.”
Roy Pelletier, an accountant, had been driving through town Saturday night and hit a pedestrian. Rather than stopping, he’d fled the scene and led the police on a high-speed chase before finally slamming into another car. Accountants could be reckless just like anyone else, of course, but Alastair was right—that was a lot of weird incidents in a short period.
“I guess it’s all good for us criminal defense lawyers,” I said, though my stomach was still uneasy. “I’d better get going,” I added. “I need to talk to Roy before the hearing.” I didn’t know Pelletier well, but I’d been introduced to him at Whiskey Business, my wife’s bar and restaurant, and we’d exchanged pleasantries a time or two.
I met him in the lockup next to the courtroom where he was due to be arraigned at two. No other prisoners were present, so we could talk privately through the bars of the cell. He appeared to be wearing the clothes he’d been arrested in. They were filthy.
“Before we go in front of the judge, I need you to tell me what happened Saturday night,” I said. “Anything you say while we’re talking about your case is covered by the attorney-client privilege.” A friend of his had dropped off a check for the retainer at my office that morning. “That means I can’t repeat it without your permission, except to others in my firm and anyone else we might hire to work on this with us. You do need to know, however, that if you tell me you did the things you’re charged with, I can’t put you on the stand to deny them.”
He nodded and said he understood.
“I’m jumping ahead a bit, but I can’t help wondering,” I said, “how’d you get so dirty?”
“I guess I was dizzy after I hit the other car. I opened my door to get out, but I stumbled and fell on the ground. I tried to get up, but I kept falling. Finally, I decided to sit where I was until help came.”
“How long did you feel dizzy?”
“A couple of minutes. The cop helped me to my feet after he took care of the other driver, and by then I felt better.”
“What did you tell the officer?”
“Nothing. He took a good look at the situation and then read me my rights. I thought the smart thing to do would be to keep my mouth shut.”
“Good call. Okay, let’s back up to how this all started—before the first collision. Can you walk me through the whole thing?”
Roy wiped sweat from his forehead. “I was out for a drive, and I must have hit something … someone … at the corner of Myrtle and Main. It was dark, and the streetlight was out. I didn’t see anyone, but I heard a loud thump on the passenger side. I panicked and hit the gas.”
“Why didn’t you stop to see what had happened?”
Roy was a few inches shorter than I was and had to look up to meet my eyes. “I know I should have. I can’t tell you why I didn’t. Maybe it was, like, adrenaline? I wasn’t thinking. My foot just stomped on the gas, and I shot out of there.”
“Where had you been going before the collision happened?”
He shook his head. “Nowhere. I was just driving around to pass the time.”
“Do you have any outstanding tickets or criminal charges that you were afraid would come to light?”
“No.”
“Had you been drinking? Was your auto insurance in effect?”
“Of course I have insurance, and no, I hadn’t been drinking. There’s no question about that. You don’t have to take my word for it—the breath test they gave me at the station came back negative.”
Many hit-and-run drivers left the scene because they knew things would get worse if they stopped, whether due to preexisting legal issues or their impaired status at the time of the incident. It seemed that Roy simply fell into the category of people for whom shock triggered fli
“Anyway,” Roy said, “right after that, I mean, like, a couple of seconds, I noticed a car coming up fast behind me.”
“Did it have lights and a siren on?”
“No. I had no idea it was a cop. It scared the you-know-what out of me, and I kept accelerating, trying to get away. I was flying. It couldn’t have been even a minute before I smashed into another car that was pulling out of a parking space. That’s when I realized I couldn’t just keep going.”
“What happened then?”
“Like I said, I fell getting out of my car. The guy who’d been chasing me flashed a badge, told me to stay where I was, and headed over to the other car to check on the driver. I guess he, the driver, was hurt, because after a little while an ambulance arrived, and they put him on a stretcher and took him away. Then the cop came back to me and got me on my feet, read my rights, and arrested me.”
Roy told me he was an accountant who worked for a number of people and businesses in town, that he’d lived in Autumn Harbor ever since he’d graduated from college, and that he’d never been arrested or even gotten a parking ticket. That was all good from the standpoint of bail, but it made me wonder if there was more to the accidents and high-speed chase than met the eye. I didn’t want to get surprised by whatever that might be in the courtroom, so I made him go through everything one more time, giving me every detail he could. He insisted there was nothing else to the incident and said he had just panicked.
I left Roy in the lockup and waited in the courtroom for his case to be called. After the judge disposed of a few minor matters, the clerk called my case, and the bailiff brought Roy before the bench and released his handcuffs.
“Roy Pelletier,” the clerk called out, “charged with violations of Section 2252, hit-and-run, Class C; Section 2413, driving to endanger, Class C; Section 2414, refusing to stop for a law enforcement officer; and Section 751-B, refusing to submit to arrest.”
Judge Barbara Robinson was on the bench, wearing her trademark purple rhinestone glasses. She was known for her independence and unpredictability. I’d appeared in front of her several times, usually with decent results but sometimes with a very bad outcome. “Is your client prepared to enter a plea, Mr. Dunn?” she asked.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The clerk read out the charges again, one at a time, and Roy pleaded not guilty to each one.
“I’ll hear you on bail,” the judge said.
John Stanford, the prosecuting attorney, stood. “We’re asking you to set bail in the amount of $100,000, Your Honor. The defendant is charged with a hit-and-run accident that caused injuries, then leading the police on a high-speed chase in an attempt to escape, resisting arrest, and finally a second collision causing a concussion and several broken bones. He poses a flight risk and is a danger to the community, and a significant bail is required.”
Roy was as pale as a ghost, and I winced. A hundred thousand was probably quite a bit more than he could raise. I’d had other cases against Stanford. He was a young lawyer with little understanding of human failures. I hoped the judge could see that.
“Mr. Dunn,” the judge said.
“Your Honor, I know it’s unusual to call a witness at an arraignment, but I notice that Officer McElroy, who arrested my client, is in the courtroom this afternoon, and with the court’s indulgence, I’d like to ask him a few questions before you set bail.”
“Very well,” the judge said, “but keep it brief, Counselor.”
The officer took the stand and was sworn in, and I moved to stand in front of him in the witness box. “Officer McElroy, I just have a few questions for you. First, the car in which you chased my client wasn’t a police car, was it?”
McElroy looked briefly at the prosecutor, then back to me. “No, it was my private car.”
“So it wasn’t equipped with lights and a siren or any police department markings, was it?”
“No, sir.”
“Where did you find Mr. Pelletier after the second accident?”
“He was sitting on the street next to his vehicle.”
I nodded. “Did you give him any instructions?”
“Yes, I told him to remain where he was.”
“And he did, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“When you returned to him, you placed him under arrest?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He didn’t resist in any way, struggle with you, or attempt to flee, did he?”
“Not at that point, sir.”
“No further questions.”
Stanford stood. “Officer, what car were you in that evening?”
“Like I said, my personal car. It’s a bright yellow vintage Ford Mustang. Very distinctive.”
“To your knowledge, had Mr. Pelletier ever seen that vehicle?”
“Many times. We know each other. He does my taxes, and he’s often complimented me on my car. He knew who was chasing him.”
That came as a surprise to me, and I stifled a burst of irritation at my client. Why hadn’t he told me that when we spoke before the hearing? I got quickly to my feet. “Objection, Your Honor. The witness can’t know what was in someone else’s mind.”
“Sustained,” the judge ruled.
“Nothing further,” Stanford said.
I got up again. “Just one or two questions on redirect, if the court please.”
The judge looked unhappy about the time this was taking. “Proceed. But just one or two.”
“Officer, it was nighttime when this incident occurred, was it not, and the streets were dark?”
“Not completely dark.”
“You had your headlights on?”
“Yes.”
“So someone in the car ahead of you, looking at your vehicle in his rearview mirror, would mostly just see your headlights? It would’ve been very difficult, maybe impossible, to see the vehicle itself, wouldn’t it?”
McElroy smirked. “As you said, Counselor, I couldn’t know what someone else could see.”
What they could see wasn’t exactly the same thing as what they knew or had been thinking, but I didn’t want to test Judge Robinson’s patience by pressing the issue. I was confident she had gotten the point, and, grudgingly, I had to admire the officer’s wit in trying to turn the tables on me. “No further questions.”
“You’re excused,” the judge told McElroy.
“Your Honor,” I said, “before addressing the question of bail, I’ll move to dismiss the charges of refusing to stop for a law enforcement officer and resisting arrest, the former on the ground of lack of scienter—the defendant had no reason to know it was a police officer chasing him—and the latter on the basis of the officer’s testimony. Once my client knew that McElroy was a law enforcement officer, there was no resistance.”
One of Judge Robinson’s pet peeves was overcharging by police and prosecutors. She liked to get directly to the nub of the issue. She looked at Stanford. “I think it will sufficiently serve the interests of justice for us to try the defendant for the hit-and-run and driving-to-endanger charges.”
Stanford looked like he had something to say about that, but given Judge Robinson’s demeanor, he swallowed it. “No objection, Your Honor.”
“Very well,” the judge said, “the counts for refusing to stop and resisting arrest are dismissed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said. “Given that, I suggest that bail in the amount of $5,000 would be sufficient. Mr. Pelletier has lived in this community ever since he finished school. He has no prior record and is well known here. He has an accounting practice and does the taxes of many local citizens. Given his ties to the community, he cannot be considered a flight risk, and given that we’re essentially dealing with automobile accidents, I don’t think it would be fair to consider him a risk to the community.”
Judge Robinson didn’t hesitate before saying, “Bail is set in the amount of $10,000, and the defendant is ordered to surrender his driver’s license to the clerk’s office and to refrain from operating a motor vehicle until this matter is resolved.” She set a date for Roy’s next court appearance, and the clerk called the next case.
The guard took Roy back to the lockup, and I followed.
“Can you post that?” I asked.
“No problem. Can you call my friend for me? He’ll bring cash to the jail.”
Roy gave me the friend’s name and number, and I agreed to call him.
