by Angela Hunt
She halts on the sidewalk and considers what she’ll need for her jail visit: pen, paper, a recorder. Fortunately, she carries a digital recorder in her purse and she can get paper at the security desk.
“Can I borrow your pen?” She squints up at Timothy. “I need to take it to the jail.”
“You’re going now?”
“Franklin wants me to get there ASAP, so I might as well catch a cab here.”
He pulls the pen from his pocket and drops it into her purse. “So you’re off to save the world?”
“Not the world, just one woman. And I’m not going to save her. I’m only pinch-hitting.”
“Can you say more?”
She rises on tiptoe and presses a kiss to his cold cheek. “I don’t know any more. Besides, I’m sure this is a one-shot deal. This trial’s going to be major league, and I’m still in the minors.”
Timothy steps to the curb and lifts his hand, signaling to a cab in the right lane. When the cabbie stops, he opens the door and catches Briley’s hand. “Off you go.” He squeezes her fingers. “Be careful down there.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Briley says, sliding into the backseat. “No one wants to kill the defense attorney until after the trial.”
As the taxi growls through the traffic on Michigan Avenue, Briley stares out the window and tries to corral her galloping thoughts. This case will undoubtedly end up with John Morton, the firm’s most experienced criminal litigant. Last year he handled three high-profile murders and won an acquittal in each case. The man’s closing arguments were pure poetry, and rumor had it that he could strike a jury better than anyone in the state. Because he had a knack for ferreting out the hard-liners, his juries were soft enough to eat with a spoon.
If Briley handles this interview well, she might be allowed to sit as second or third chair during the trial. She’ll gain valuable experience, and an acquittal would be a feather in her cap, no matter how small her role. If she’s going to move up the ladder in this firm, she needs to be involved in more serious cases.
She smiles at the memory of her favorite movie. She’s been fascinated by the role of defense attorney ever since watching Atticus Finch defend Tom Robinson in To Kill a Mockingbird, but she’s never had to defend a client against a murder charge. How will the prosecution play this one? Will they be going for first-degree?
An unexpected gust of trepidation blows down the back of her neck. A first-degree murder conviction could result in the death penalty. Capital punishment in Illinois is reserved for situations with at least one aggravating circumstance, but some of those circumstances might apply in this situation. Briley mentally runs down the list—as a state senator, the victim could be considered a government employee, but that wouldn’t count as an aggravating circumstance unless he was killed in the course of his duties. Murder for pecuniary gain is a special circumstance, so if the wife killed her husband to inherit his trust fund, Erin Tomassi’s life could be ended by lethal injection.
Briley braces herself as the cab rattles and bounces over a stretch of potholed asphalt. Maybe she shouldn’t ask to be a part of this woman’s defense team. Tom Robinson’s trial devoured Atticus Finch’s life and profoundly affected his family. And after all that, plus a guilty verdict, Tom Robinson ended up with a bullet in his back.
When she’s finished with this interview, she will be happy to hand the case to John Morton.
The accused killer sparkled the first time Briley saw her, but nothing about Erin Tomassi glitters now.
In a pale green interview room at the Division Four building, part of the sprawling Cook County Jail, Briley comes face-to-face with the firm’s latest client. In her V-neck top and elastic-waist pants, the standard jail uniform, Jeffrey Tomassi’s young widow huddles in a plastic chair and rubs her bare arms. Since Cook County uniforms are color-coded by security level, Erin is wearing orange—not a good color for blue-eyed blondes.
Briley has never interviewed a prisoner in orange before.
She waits until the armed escort removes the prisoner’s handcuffs, then she sets her purse on the table and extends her hand. “Mrs. Tomassi? I’m Briley Lester from Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton. I’ll be representing you before the judge.”
For an alleged murderer, Erin has a surprisingly uncertain look in her eyes. “I—I didn’t think I could afford an attorney.”
Is she kidding, or is this some kind of act? “I doubt you would qualify for representation by a public defender. Clients above a certain income—”
“The money’s not mine.” Erin lowers her gaze. “And I don’t know why they’re saying I killed Jeffrey. I didn’t kill him, I wouldn’t kill him, and I don’t want his money. I never did. That’s why I signed a prenup before we got married.”
Briley waits until the guard leaves and closes the door, then she slips into the chair on the other side of the table, pulls her digital recorder out of her purse, and clicks it on. “Before we begin, I need to warn you—watch what you say here in the jail. Don’t talk with the guards, the police, or another inmate about anything even remotely related to your husband’s death. Don’t doubt that some snitch will rat you out in a minute. Unless you’re talking about the weather, the food, or what’s on TV, keep your lips zipped.”
The woman nods, her eyes reminding Briley of a terrified rabbit’s. “How long will they keep me locked up in this place? I don’t think I could bear being in here at Christmas.”
“Depends upon what the judge sets for bail.” Briley slides a borrowed notepad onto the table. “Now—don’t tell me what happened. Tell me what they say happened. What have you heard from the state’s attorney or the police?”
Erin’s eyes fill with tears. “They say I killed Jeffrey,” she says. “They say I gave him an overdose of insulin while he was asleep. I guess…that’d be first-degree murder, wouldn’t it?”
Briley jots on her notepad. “Was your husband diabetic?”
“Yes.”
“He took daily insulin shots?”
“He injected himself three or four times a day. He always acted like it was no big deal.”
Briley frowns. “How long has it been since your husband died?”
The woman’s lower lip quivers. “He died on December 3. The morning after his big fundraiser at the Conrad.”
Briley does the subtraction in her head. “Only nine days ago. Toxicology reports usually take a good six weeks to come back from the lab.”
The slender woman rubs her arms again. “I don’t know anything about that, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Antonio pulled a few strings. The Tomassis always get what they want.”
Studying her client, Briley lets the comment slide. “Do you know anyone who would want your husband dead?”
Her shock appears genuine. “No.”
“Was your husband suicidal?”
She shakes her head.
“Did the police mention why they think you killed him?”
Erin wipes tears from her lower lashes. “All I know is they say he died from an insulin overdose, then this morning they showed up at my father-in-law’s house with my name on an arrest warrant. And my juice glass. They kept asking if the fingerprints on the juice glass were mine.”
Briley clicks her pen and draws a deep breath. To make such a quick arrest, they must have fingerprints on something more incriminating than a glass. “That’s all they asked?”
“They asked if I ever gave Jeffrey his injections. I said no, of course, because I never did.”
Fingerprints confirmed on a juice glass. Insulin overdose…They have her prints on a syringe. As far as the cops are concerned, this case has been investigated, wrapped, and handed to the state’s attorney with a shiny bow on top.
Briley wouldn’t be surprised to learn that people are pressuring the state’s attorney for a quick conviction. The Tomassis are big names in Chicago, and the senator’s fundraising event attracted a lot of media attention. Everyone knew Jeffrey Tomassi was launching his campaign f
or Congress that night. But if someone wanted to prevent that launch, why wouldn’t they kill him the night before?
She exhales in a rush. “Hard to believe that banquet was only nine days ago.”
When a question slips into Erin’s eyes, Briley smiles. “I was there—I saw you. When you were dancing with your husband, I thought you looked like the perfect pair.”
The widow averts her gaze. “You must have been sitting in the back,” she says, her voice strangled. “Appearances can be deceiving.”
“So I’ve learned.” Briley notices the gooseflesh on the woman’s lower arms. “If I were you, I’d buy a long-sleeved T-shirt at the commissary. They don’t spend a lot to heat this building.”
Erin rubs her arms again. “I’ve been warned about that, but I don’t have any money. They wouldn’t let me bring anything from the house.”
Briley pulls out her wallet and slides twenty dollars from the cash compartment. “I’ll deposit this in your account before I leave. We don’t want you getting sick.”
A flush brightens Erin’s cheek. “I’ll pay you back.”
“Don’t worry about it. Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton wants to take care of its clients.”
The woman rubs her nose, then glances toward the painted door. “What happens next?”
“I leave here to go before the judge and inquire about bail. First thing Monday morning, we go to court for your arraignment, where you’ll make your plea.”
“I didn’t do it.” Erin’s chin quivers as her gaze moves into Briley’s. “I’d stand in the middle of Michigan Avenue and shout it at the top of my lungs if I thought it would do any good.”
If that statement is meant to impress Briley, it falls far short. “Unfortunately, this building is crammed with women who’d be willing to do the same thing.”
“I’m not a murderer. If you could look into my soul, you’d see that.” A fresh wave of misery darkens Erin’s oval face. “Our marriage may not have been the best, but I’d never hurt Jeffrey. I couldn’t.”
Briley lifts a warning finger. “We can talk about your marriage later, but don’t breathe a word about it outside this room. As for your representation, you can relax. Your father-in-law called our firm, confident that they’d put the best possible lawyer on the job. You’ll be working with one of the premier defense attorneys in Chicago.”
A worry line appears between the woman’s brows. “You’re either really overconfident or you think someone else is going to be my lawyer.”
Briley smiles as she clicks off her recorder. “I’m only one attorney among many at Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton. I go where I’m told, and an hour ago I was told to come down here.”
“Are you saying my case looks so hopeless you wouldn’t want to represent me?”
“You shouldn’t want me to be your attorney,” Briley answers, pulling her purse onto her lap. “I usually handle lower-profile trials—kids in trouble for shoplifting, assault, vandalism, that sort of thing. I’ve never defended anyone against a murder charge.”
A shadow enters the woman’s blue eyes. “So my case will be up for grabs.” She drops her head into her hands. “I might as well give up. No one will want to defend me. And no one’s going to believe I didn’t kill their beloved state senator.”
“Don’t say that.” Briley glances toward the door. Erin Tomassi’s helpless act seems sincere, but it’s completely unnecessary. Why doesn’t she save her theatrics for the judge and jury?
She lifts her purse and stands. “I’m sure my firm’s partners will select the attorney best equipped to handle your situation,” she says, firming her voice. “Until they do, I’ll do my best for you.”
She moves to the door and raps on the window, ready to move on.
Chapter Twelve
“Papa? Are you listening?”
Antonio turns from the window and looks at his only surviving son. Jason sits on the other side of the car, in Jeffrey’s form, with Jeffrey’s eyes. “What did you say?”
Jason covers the mouthpiece of the cell phone. “It’s a lawyer from the firm. She wants to know if you’re willing to put up bail for Erin.”
Antonio shifts his gaze back to the window, watching as the driver steers around a creeping city bus.
Put up money for the woman who killed the light of his life? He’d sooner cut off his right hand. Erin can rot in jail, for all he cares. Better yet, she can die on a gurney. Or even in the electric chair, if Illinois officials can be convinced to use it again.
Jason murmurs a response into the phone, but Antonio turns his thoughts inward. These days, he’s finding it hard to care about anything—his work, his daughters, even his remaining son. Jason is a good man, dependable and solid, but he will always be a beta animal. He lacks Jeffrey’s intelligence and strength of will. He lacks charisma.
He smiles, remembering the dark-headed twosome who shared a bedroom until they left home for college. As babies, the twins were as alike as two halves of an apple, a perfect binary star, but Jeffrey walked first, establishing himself as the controlling body in their small system. Brighter than Jason, and more naturally inquisitive, Jeffrey delighted his nannies, his teachers, and his girlfriends with his cheerful demeanor and classic good looks. Jason was a pleasant lad, but when standing next to Jeffrey, he always seemed like a faded copy of the original: attractive enough at first glance, but definitely less sharp.
Before the boys turned sixteen, Antonio knew Jeffrey would be the one to lead the family to greatness. Jason would always be a reliable assistant for his brother, an RFK to a future JFK. One brother destined to forge a path, the other to follow and reinforce it. And that’s what they did, rising to positions of leadership in student government, college athletics, and the property development business. Three years ago, Jeffrey ran for a senate seat in the Illinois General Assembly and Jason served as his campaign manager. They held their linked hands high at the victory party, two men closer to each other than either could ever be to a wife…for nothing could compete with the intimacy of twins. Antonio understood their relationship and respected it. He often thought his boys could read each other’s mind. If that kind of closeness gave them an advantage, so be it.
Outside the car, a cacophony yammers for Antonio’s attention—a jackhammer shredding a sidewalk, a traffic cop blowing his whistle, the whine of an approaching ambulance—but none of those things interest him. He lets his head fall back as his concentration dissipates in a wave of fatigue. A cocoon of anguish has enveloped him ever since hearing the awful news, and this morning’s announcement has only deepened his grief. Erin’s fingerprints were on the insulin bottle, the police said, and also on the syringe.
The sweet, helpless girl he welcomed into his family has murdered his beautiful boy.
He closes his eyes and studies the memory of the last night he spent with his son. He had gone upstairs to see if Jeffrey and Erin were ready to come down, but after letting himself into the hotel suite he heard angry voices. The two of them stood in the living room, both of them dressed in formal wear, but tears streaked a flaming handprint on Erin’s cheek. Jeffrey wore a hard look of frustration, an expression Antonio had seen many times.
“What’s going on here?” Antonio glanced from his son to his daughter-in-law, waiting for an answer. “Jeffrey?”
“It’s a private matter.” Jeff tore his gaze from his wife’s stricken face. “Is everything ready downstairs?”
Antonio looked at Erin, silently inviting her to give her side of the story, but she lowered her head and refused to meet his gaze. “Everything’s ready,” he finally answered, slipping his hands into his pockets. He moved toward the sofa table as Erin swiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. He offered a handkerchief. “You okay?”
She sniffed and waved away his help.
“Why don’t you go fix your face.” He jerked his thumb toward the bedroom. “I need to talk to our boy.”
His daughter-in-law bowed her head and moved to the other r
oom, her long skirt swishing in the silence. When the door clicked behind her, Antonio rounded on his son. “What are you doing?”
Jeffrey’s brows slanted in a frown. “What?”
“You are ten minutes from one of the most important nights of your life, and you’ve made your wife cry.”
A wall appeared behind Jeff’s eyes. “Leave it alone, Papa.”
“How can I? Someone has to correct you.”
Jeffrey moved to the mirror and adjusted his tie. “She’s my wife,” he said, his voice as cool as an assassin’s. “A man’s allowed to control his wife.”
“In private, sure. But in public, you watch yourself, because people notice every little thing. Everyone knows politics is a dirty business and couples have disagreements during a campaign. But when you are minutes away from a public appearance, you control yourself. You tamp down your irritation, you wait to put your wife back in line. When you’re in front of strangers, you treat that girl like a priceless porcelain doll.”
Jeff smoothed the pleats on his starched shirt. “You don’t have any idea what it’s like to be married to a spineless woman.”
“Erin may not be as weak as you think. And yes, your mama was strong, but only after I taught her what strength is.”
Jeffrey turned away from the mirror. “Erin’s about as strong as tissue paper. If I don’t keep her on a tight leash, she’s going to do something to bring our entire operation crashing down.”
Antonio stared, tongue-tied, as the bedroom door opened. Erin appeared in the doorway, her face clean and powdered, her hair shining, her eyes modestly cast down. She looked like a princess—or, better yet, a future First Lady.
“That’s more like it.” He beamed at his daughter-in-law and hurried to draw her into his arms. After giving her a hug and planting a kiss on her velvet cheek, he stepped back. “You look perfect, my dear, and tonight people are going to stand in line to shake your hand. And Jeffrey is going to treat you with kindness and respect, aren’t you, son?”