Let Darkness Come

by Angela Hunt

  She caught her breath when she heard footsteps approaching through the open doorway. She turned to walk down the hall.

  “Erin?”

  She glanced over her shoulder when she recognized the voice. Her father-in-law stood behind her, a look of compassionate concern on his face. “Are you feeling all right?”

  She forced a smile. “I’m fine. Just…breathless.”

  “It was warm in there, especially under the lights. Would you like me to take you outside for some fresh air? I could give you my coat—”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m feeling better already.”

  “Then let me escort you back inside.” He offered his arm, jutting it toward her like the sturdy iron hasp on a length of chain. Reluctantly, she slipped her arm through his, pasted on a smile, and inhaled the refined scent of his cologne.

  “What’s this?”

  She glanced at Antonio’s face and saw that he was staring at her upper arm, which bore the marks of Jeffrey’s hard grip. “Oh, that.” She forced a laugh. “I tripped over the hem of my gown and Jeffrey had to catch me.” She smiled, waiting for him to respond, but he stared at her with deadly concentration.

  “Maybe you should be careful not to…trip in the days ahead. We have a lot riding on that young man.”

  Erin lowered her gaze. If she told Antonio the truth, he would correct his son, and later the son would correct his wife. With as much force as necessary to convince her never to speak up again.

  “Your son—” she chose her words with care “—is quite forceful about his opinions.”

  “All great men are forceful.” Antonio’s dark eyes pinned her in a long and silent scrutiny, then he patted her hand and gestured toward the doorway. “Shall we rejoin the others?”

  Still at the lectern, Jeffrey didn’t miss a beat of his speech. She sank into her seat and settled her hands in her lap, hoping he hadn’t noticed her abrupt disappearance.

  But during an applause break, he turned, looked at her, and flashed a knowing smile that made her blood run cold.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In an office muffled with after-hours quiet, Briley holds a roast beef sandwich in her left hand and makes a list with her right. She’s usually home at this hour, watching the news while she eats a prepackaged dinner hot from the microwave, but Timothy’s little pep talk has inspired her to begin working on the Tomassi file. Tomorrow she’ll check into shifting her current cases to other associates, but now she needs to focus on doing what needs to be done for Erin Tomassi.

  That woman, at least, should be relieved to learn that she now has a lawyer. Though she probably won’t be thrilled by the firm’s choice.

  Briley takes another bite of roast beef and considers the first steps she needs to take. Almost immediately, she’ll need to assemble a defense team. Current ABA guidelines for death penalty cases suggest that no fewer than two attorneys, an investigator, and a mitigation specialist work concurrently on the case. Not only must they prepare for the guilt-or-innocence phase of the trial, they must be ready for the possibility of a conviction. If the penalty phase of the trial is necessary, the defense team will attempt to mitigate the crime by presenting the defendant’s past, social upbringing, good deeds, character witnesses—anything that might persuade a jury to spare her life.

  For the first phase, Briley will need copies of the autopsy and police reports, along with an inventory of all items seized when the police searched the crime scene. She’ll need to discover what witnesses might be able to shed light on the events of Jeffrey Tomassi’s final days, and she’ll have to learn what motive the police are ascribing to Tomassi’s wife. Why would an openly adoring woman want to kill her husband? As the spouse of a state senator, Erin enjoyed power and prestige. She shared her husband’s wealth, which included two homes, one in Springfield and one in tony Lincoln Park. The couple had no children, but Jeffrey Tomassi was close to his father, brother, and four sisters. Presumably the large family had embraced Erin and made her feel at home.

  So why would she risk all that by murdering her husband?

  Briley draws a question mark in the margin of her legal pad and takes another bite of her sandwich. She’ll need to conduct an in-depth interview with her client, which means a trip down to the jail next week. After learning more about the case, she may need to hire a private investigator to track down reasons why other people may have wanted Jeffrey Tomassi out of the way. Joe Franklin is fond of saying that investigators should follow the money trail, so if Erin doesn’t inherit her husband’s fortune, who does? That person certainly needs to be questioned.

  On the other hand—she flips a page—perhaps the medical examiner misinterpreted the evidence and Jeffrey Tomassi suffered an accidental death. She might need a medical expert to testify about insulin injection. Maybe the man overdosed. The family may not want to believe that their rising star could make such an elementary blunder, but stranger things have happened. All Briley needs is the element of doubt. Unless all twelve jurors vote “guilty,” her client walks free.

  But the state’s attorney knows this…and wouldn’t have charged Erin with first-degree murder without incontrovertible evidence. Which, presumably, involves a set of incriminating fingerprints on a syringe, and who knows what else?

  Briley pulls out the firm’s phone directory and looks over the employee roster. She’s going to need help on this case, though Franklin hasn’t said anything about providing it.

  She turns to her computer and types out a quick e-mail, asking Franklin for the full-time assistance of one paralegal, one private investigator, a mitigation specialist and another associate. Given the potential for media interest in this matter, she finishes, I’m sure you can see why I’d feel more adequately prepared with additional staff on the team. With one click, she sends the e-mail, then she telephones the Cook County prosecutor’s office to ask for the case file to be sent over. Because the office is closed, her call goes straight to voice mail, but crime—and prosecutors—operate twenty-four hours a day. She might get an answer tonight.

  This call will establish the beginning of a long trail of paperwork. As pretrial discovery commences, she will have to provide the prosecuting attorney with the names and addresses of any potential witnesses, copies of witness depositions, any psychologist’s or physician’s reports she intends to introduce, and a list of evidence she plans to present at trial. The prosecution should provide the same for her, as well as copies of all statements made by the defendant and in the prosecution’s possession.

  Before she hangs up the phone, she has an e-mail answer from Joe Franklin: Client should be responsible for cost of investigator and any other consultants. Unable to provide full-time assistance for your case at present. Suggest you use staff as they become available.

  Briley’s stomach lurches. Is the firm trying to sabotage her case? The associates and paralegals on this floor are already overworked; none of them will be “available” anytime in the near future. And if Erin can’t afford a T-shirt at the jail, how can she pay for an investigator?

  Briley chews on her thumbnail, then flips the cover of her address book. Criminal justice standards require jurisdictions to ensure that if a defendant doesn’t have money, the court will provide funds for the payment of investigators and experts, as a matter of the defendant’s constitutional right to present an effective defense. The court is especially willing to provide funds for persons facing the death penalty.

  Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton rarely represents indigent clients, but under Illinois’s slayer statute, no person convicted of a murder charge can financially benefit from the victim’s death. Since the state has filed charges against Erin Tomassi, the banks have undoubtedly frozen Jeffrey Tomassi’s estate, including any accounts jointly owned with his wife. The estate will not go through probate until after the murder trial, so for the moment, Erin is essentially penniless. If she’s convicted, she’ll remain destitute.

  Either way, she qualifies for financial help from
the state of Illinois. Joseph Franklin may not be wild about the idea of Briley’s petitioning the state for a handout, but if he won’t provide the funds she needs to investigate this case, he’s leaving her with no other choice.

  Once again, Briley picks up the phone.

  The next morning, Briley pads down the stairs in sock-clad feet and peeks through a decorative windowpane in the front door. Her newspaper sits on the frost-covered lawn, barely twenty feet away.

  Does she dare run out in her robe and socks, or should she wait until she’s dressed?

  She peers through the glass again, and tries to judge the traffic. She hears no sounds of approaching cars, and nine o’clock is still early, especially for a Saturday.

  She flips the dead bolt on the door and pulls on the handle, allowing a stream of frigid air into the foyer. Like a swimmer about to plunge into icy water, she tucks her chin, grips the edges of her robe, and runs across the porch. She scoops up the paper and pivots on the ball of her foot, ready to sprint back inside.

  “Hello!” Mrs. Ivins, the older woman who lives next door, lifts her head above the jagged edge of the picket fence and calls out a cheery greeting. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

  Briley glances up at the sky. “Yes,” she calls, walking back to the porch as quickly as she can without appearing rude. “Beautiful morning. Going to be a pretty day.”

  “It’s supposed to snow on Sunday.” Mrs. Ivins gazes at the winter-dead canes of her rosebushes. “I don’t care for the snow, but your father loved it. I’ve always thought winter was cruel, but your dad used to say it was a promise of better things to come.” She blinks and shifts her gaze to Briley. “That reminds me—Are you doing anything special for Christmas? I’m having my open house on Christmas Eve.”

  Briley shivers and hesitates on the sidewalk. “Um…I haven’t decided about Christmas Eve yet. But if I’m here, I’ll be sure to stop over.”

  “By the way,” Mrs. Ivins says, “nice picture of you in the paper.”

  Frowning, Briley twiddles her fingers in a quick wave, then crosses the porch and closes the front door. Mrs. Ivins has to be mistaken about seeing her picture. The woman is eighty if she’s a day, and sometimes she talks about Briley’s dad as if he were still living in the house….

  On her way to the coffeepot, she unwraps the paper. A bold headline dispels every hope of a leisurely morning: Senator’s Wife Arrested for Murder.

  Forgetting her coffee, Briley slips into a chair at the table and skims the article. The front-page piece centers on the facts of the case, providing details of Jeffrey Tomassi’s death and Erin’s arrest. But the reporters have been busy. Inside the paper, on pages six and seven, are several affiliated articles. One features the Tomassi family and details the close relationship between the six siblings and their devoted father. Another article records Jeffrey Tomassi’s rise to prominence and includes several quotes from political experts who are convinced he was destined for national office, probably “as high as he wanted to go.” A shorter article tells the story of Erin Tomassi, a Chicago girl who met Jeffrey at a party and married him not long after. The writer does a good job of implying that Erin married Jeffrey for money, power, or both.

  Briley studies a photo of the couple and recognizes the dress Erin wore to the banquet the night Jeffrey died. Jeffrey is flashing a confident grin in that picture; Erin wears a decidedly smaller and more self-contained smile.

  She catches her breath as a frisson of recognition climbs her spine. As she’d expected, her picture is featured in the lower half of the page, but it’s the small photo that hangs in the foyer at Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton. It’s a serious-lawyer shot in which she appears unsmiling and severe—completely unlike her glamorous client. A caption beneath the photo announces that Briley Lester will be representing Erin Tomassi in the upcoming trial.

  Briley drops the paper to the table and scrapes her hand through her hair. A reporter must have contacted Mr. Franklin late last night, because no one called her for a quote or permission to use her picture.

  But they’ll be calling soon. And this time around, she’d better handle the media carefully.

  This time, the stakes are higher.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ten days before Christmas, Briley sits in the high-ceilinged courtroom beside her client, who is shackled hand and foot. Erin Tomassi is still wearing her orange jail uniform, and her long hair appears tangled and unkempt. An ugly purple bruise mars her cheek, a dark oval Briley doesn’t remember seeing the last time they met.

  Judge Hollister, an older woman wearing rhinestone-studded glasses, motions to her bailiff, then engages the man in a private conversation. She’s fast-tracking, trying to clear her call sheet and empty the bullpen before the start of whatever trial is scheduled to begin at nine-thirty. The gallery behind Briley is filled with anxious lawyers, most of whom are checking their watches or reading police reports.

  Briley turns to her client and keeps her voice low. “How are you doing at the jail?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You sure?”

  Erin gives her a brittle smile. “I’m tougher than I look.”

  “If you’re having trouble over there…”

  Erin glances at the jury box to her left, where a half-dozen other female prisoners await their turn before the judge. “I don’t want to make waves.”

  Across the room, Travis Bystrowski, one of Cook County’s leading prosecutors, saunters over with a file, which he drops onto the defense table. “Morning, Ms. Lester. I got your message. I think you’ll find everything you need in here.”

  Briley opens the folder and scans the contents: copies of the police report, the toxicology and autopsy reports, the inventory, and the indictment. “Thank you—and since we’ll be working together, why don’t you call me Briley.” She offers him a polite smile. “Anything you need from us at this point?”

  Bystrowski grins and slips his hands into his pockets. “A confession would be nice. Save a lot of taxpayer dollars.”

  “Why would an innocent woman give you a confession?”

  Bystrowski grins and backs away, offering a little wave as he goes.

  “Thank you,” Erin murmurs, “for taking my case, and believing in me. I’m glad someone does.”

  Briley gives her client a sidelong glance of astonished disbelief. Could this woman really be so naive?

  When the court clerk calls her case, Briley draws a deep breath and stands with her client. The judge looks up when the clerk finishes reading the charge. “Erin Wilson Tomassi,” Hollister says, her nasal voice piercing the shuffling from the jury box, “you have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you.”

  “Your Honor, I’m Briley Lester, an associate with Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton. I will be representing Mrs. Tomassi.”

  The judge makes a note and continues: “Mrs. Tomassi, you, or your attorney, have the right to confront and cross-examine witnesses against you. You have the right to a jury trial. You have the right not to incriminate yourself. You have the right to a speedy trial. If you plead guilty, you could be sentenced to death or life in prison without possibility of parole. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?”

  Erin glances at Briley, then lowers her head in an abrupt nod. “I do.”

  “Very good.” For the first time, the judge looks squarely at the accused woman. “To the charge of murder in the first-degree, how do you plead?”

  Briley clears her throat. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

  The judge glances down at her paperwork and lifts a page. “Preliminary trial set for next Monday—”

  “We’ll waive the preliminary trial, Your Honor,” Briley says.

  “Then we’ll hear pretrial motions in six weeks, on January 26. Any objections?” The judge glances from the prosecutor to Briley, who shakes her head. “Thank you, Counselors, you are dismissed.”

  Briley gathers the prosecution’s c
ase file and her laptop, then stops to address her shackled client. “I’m coming to see you this afternoon,” she says, noticing what could be a flicker of relief in the woman’s eyes. “Can I bring you anything?”

  Erin glances toward the other prisoners in the jury box and shakes her head. “I’d love something to read. Maybe certain paranoid people wouldn’t think I was staring at them if I could bury my nose in a book.”

  Briley grimaces. “I’m sorry, but books are considered contraband. Aren’t there any books in the dayroom?”

  “A few battered paperbacks.” Erin stands as the bailiff beckons to her. “But I’m not sure I dare cross the room to check them out.”

  “Listen, if someone’s bothering you in there—”

  “Bothering me?” Erin laughs, but a wild light shines in her eyes as the bailiff approaches to take her away. “I’ll see you this afternoon, Ms. Lester. I’ll be waiting.”

  After exiting the elevator, Briley catches the eye of a courthouse security guard and nods toward the daylight beyond the glass doors. “Has it warmed up any outside?”

  The guard laughs. “It’s colder than a judge’s heart out there. But you didn’t hear me say so.”

  She smiles, fastens the top button of her coat, and steps through the tall doors leading to the courthouse steps. She’s parked in the garage across the street, so with any luck she’ll be able to get to her car before frostbite claims the tip of her nose—

  “Miss Lester!”

  “Briley!”

  She halts, blinking in consternation, as a horde of reporters surges into her path, carrying cameras, recorders, and boom microphones.

  Briley glances to her left and right, hoping for a means of escape, but she can see no other way to reach her car. She can see several white news vans parked at the curb south of the courthouse, their satellite dishes extended.

  Within a moment, she is surrounded and peering into a sea of wind-chapped faces. The mob thrusts dozens of gadgets in her direction, their motions accompanied by a chorus of insectile clicks.