Let Darkness Come

by Angela Hunt

  “But it’s not the truth.” Erin drops her hands and looks across the table, her eyes gleaming with determination. “I’m telling you the God’s honest truth, because I want to be completely transparent with you. I don’t know anything about defending someone in court, but I want you to know what actually happened. Whether or not you believe me, the truth is that I didn’t know what happened until last night.”

  “Until Lisa Marie told you. In a dream.”

  Erin nods.

  Briley squeezes the bridge of her nose. She should have listened to her college adviser and minored in psychology. Right now, she could use a crash course in delusions and body language…or maybe an expert opinion on why a client would invent an implausible story when a believable defense could be stitched together using most of the available evidence.

  “We’re going to bring in an expert.” Briley looks into the woman’s resolute blue eyes. “I want you to talk to a psychologist. But if we bring someone in, the prosecution is going to counter with a psychologist of their own. Say whatever you like to the examining doctors, but know this—if you’re lying, they’re likely to see right through you. I’d advise you to tell them the truth, in the simplest terms possible.”

  “I’m not a liar.” Erin speaks with quiet firmness. “I may be weak and cowardly, but I never even lied to Jeff, and telling him the truth got me into more trouble than you can know.”

  “You lied to the prison matron.” Briley tilts her head. “And to your father-in-law’s housekeeper. You told them that you fell going up the stairs.”

  A flush rises from Erin’s neckline, blotching her pale complexion. “I—I forgot about that.”

  “Every word you say matters.” Briley picks up her pen again. “Let’s talk about your relationship with your husband. What convinced you to marry Jeffrey Tomassi?”

  Erin shifts her gaze to the wall. “Jeffrey was working for his father when we met. I was a senior in college, but he seemed so polished. Mature. I couldn’t believe he was interested in me.”

  “In college, did you date many other men?”

  “I hardly dated at all. I wanted to concentrate on my studies. But once I started dating Jeffrey, I was doing something with him almost every night. I finally had to tell him I couldn’t see him on weeknights because I had to study. That only seemed to make him more persistent. Before I knew it, he proposed.”

  “And you accepted?”

  “Not right away. I adored him, but I wanted to be independent for a while, so I turned him down. After graduation, I started an event-planning business, and Jeffrey was my first client. I arranged a birthday party for his father, and at the event Antonio welcomed me like I was already one of the family. Jason seemed to like me, too, as well as the girls. They were all so warm and friendly, so Italian—they showed me everything a family could be. So when Jeffrey proposed again, I accepted.”

  “When did you marry him?”

  “Five years ago, in September. If I’d been wiser, I might have realized that every time I refused him, he became more determined to have me—not in a romantic sense, but like a possession. We hadn’t been married a week when he asked me to quit my job. I didn’t want to, but he bought the brownstone in Lincoln Park and said taking care of the house would take up all my time. I wanted to please him, so I disbanded my little company and dedicated myself to making Jeffrey happy.”

  “What did he do to make you happy?”

  Erin blinks. “Well…he’d say he did a lot. He gave me a beautiful home, hired a housekeeper and a gardener. When we entertained, I was supposed to bring in a cook and a decorator and a party planner—and that irritated me, because I am good at that sort of thing. It didn’t take me long to realize he didn’t trust me to handle the smallest detail.”

  “Was he attentive? When you were alone together, did he behave as though he loved you?”

  Erin manages a tremulous smile. “Jeffrey loved me…like he loved his Bentley. He loved owning me. If I complained about us not spending meaningful time together—time where we talked or did something I wanted to do—he would say that I had everything a woman could want, so what right did I have to complain?” Her gaze drops to the scarred tabletop. “After a couple of years, he began hitting me to reinforce whatever lesson he wanted to teach. And I learned. I learned to keep quiet and do what I was told.”

  Briley bites her lower lip, barely managing to quell the anger thrumming beneath her breastbone. Men like Jeffrey Tomassi shouldn’t be allowed to marry. If they managed to get to the altar before revealing their true colors, they should be incarcerated after the first blow.

  She’d join Bystrowski’s team if it meant she could lock men like Jeffrey Tomassi away.

  “It’s a good thing—” she clicks her pen in a flurry of frustration “—you didn’t have children. Imagine how frightened you’d be for them.” When Erin’s chin quivers, Briley knows she’s hit a sensitive spot. “During the marriage…were you ever pregnant?”

  Erin presses her hand to her face, her eyes bright with repressed tears. “I wanted a baby more than anything,” she whispers in a ragged voice. “I knew I’d have to be careful to make sure he didn’t hurt our child, but I was sure he wouldn’t. After all, Antonio adored his children—he revered them, gave them everything they asked for. And he desperately wanted a grandson. He dropped hints every time we were together.”

  Briley pulls a tissue from her purse and hands it to her client. “So…?”

  Erin takes the tissue and sniffs. “I have a brother. He’s thirty-two, he has Down syndrome, and he lives in an adult group home. I don’t see Roger often, but I’d never do anything to hurt him.”

  Briley lifts her chin. Erin has mentioned the brother before, but only in passing. She nods as the pieces fall into place. “Let me guess—Jeffrey wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear about your brother.”

  Erin snorts. “He was furious. If I’d told him about Roger before the wedding, I think he would have called the entire thing off. Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell him until our first Christmas, when I was making out our shopping list.”

  “That’s a shame. Other politicians have been up front about relatives with disabilities. No one would have criticized Jeffrey. They might have actually praised him for caring about people with special challenges.”

  “That’s what I thought, but Jeffrey wasn’t about to care for Roger until I convinced him that it’d be better for us to place Roger in a private group home than have his story leaked to the press. I hated the thought of hiding my brother away, but Jeffrey was terrified by the idea that we—that I—might have a baby with a genetic problem. After he found out about my brother, he convinced himself that my genes were defective. He wanted a child—he thought it’d be a plus to have a son on the campaign trail—but he forced me to go to a geneticist before he’d even consider the idea. He told me that if the tests proved my DNA was free from genetic diseases, we could have a baby.” She shakes her head. “He had it all planned. If everything worked out, our baby would be six or seven by the time Jeffrey was ready to run for president. I knew he could imagine himself standing before a crowd with a child on his hip, promising to put new blood in the White House.”

  “Where did you fit in that picture?”

  Erin’s mouth twists. “I suppose he either saw me standing beside him, waving like the perfect little wife…or dead.” She pillows her head on her arms and wearily closes her eyes. “That’s why your suicide theory won’t ring true to anyone who knew Jeffrey. His father, his siblings, his closest advisers—they all know how determined he was to win a congressional seat and then tackle the White House. Some people joke about such things, but Jeffrey was dead serious. He wanted to win. He did not want to die.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Antonio slows his step as he comes down the winding staircase, his eyes gravitating to the twenty-foot spruce in the foyer. The decorators have done exceptional work: the tree shines and sparkles with hundreds of lights, dozens of bl
own-glass bulbs, and a boxful of traditional Tomassi Christmas ornaments. Next to the tree stands the ceppo, a wooden pyramid with shelves.

  He pauses on the bottom step to scan the battered “tree of light,” one of the family’s few remaining Old Country traditions. A nativity set rests at the bottom, and a star hangs from the uppermost point. When his children were small, small gifts of fruit, candy, and glitter-encrusted pinecones crowded the interior shelves. He mounted candles at the ends of each shelf, and tiny pennants fluttered in the candles’ warm breath.

  No one rolls pinecones in glitter anymore; none of his children would appreciate an apple or orange for Christmas. But they have continued one Italian tradition, a ritual that far surpasses anything the Americans have invented. Instead of writing selfish letters to Santa, Antonio’s children write letters to their papa to tell him how much they love him. These letters are placed under his plate before Christmas dinner, and during the meal Antonio pretends that he’s unaware of the missives hidden under his meal. Then, just after the serving of the panettone, he discovers the letters—aha!—and reads them aloud so that everyone can share in the joy.

  Jeffrey always wrote the best letters. Jason is an adequate writer, at best, and the girls are sweet and grateful, but Jeffrey had a way of making Antonio feel young and hopeful. Every year his letters grew richer, while Antonio’s hopes for his favorite son grew brighter—

  He steps off the lowest stair and approaches the ceppo, then fingers the silver star dangling from a ribbon. Grief strikes like a blow to his stomach, forcing him to drop the ornament and step back while he gasps for breath.

  This Christmas will not be like any other. Despite tradition and his five remaining children, brooding sorrow will saturate this holiday. As painful as grief is, the most horrible aspect of this tragedy is feeling impotent in the face of intolerable injustice. Antonio is used to being obeyed; he orders and people run to do his bidding. Yet the American system crawls toward judgment, careful to give killers the protection and consideration they did not offer their victims.

  But he will not sit idly by. He will let the American court proceed with its plans, but he will work behind the scenes. He will do whatever he must to be certain Jeffrey’s death is avenged.

  Flushed with the prospect of action, Antonio strides into his study, closes the door, and picks up the phone.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  How can a perfectly rational twenty-eight-year-old woman believe in a murderous phantasm?

  The question hounds Briley, even popping into her brain when she wakes on Wednesday morning. When no obvious answer springs to mind, she knows she’s in for hours of reading and research.

  When she slides behind her desk at the office, she finds an urgent e-mail from her boss: Need you to meet with us on the Majestic Elevator matter. How’s 9:00 a.m.?

  She glances at the computer clock. She’s already late. She should have checked her e-mail before leaving the house.

  Five minutes later she’s in Franklin’s office, listening to Jim Myers recap a recent deposition of an elevator mechanic. She glances from Myers to Franklin, not sure why she’s been summoned when a far more pressing case waits on her desk.

  When Myers finishes his report, she waves for Franklin’s attention. “I’m not exactly sure why I’m here.” She smiles at Myers, not wanting him to think that she’s complaining about him.

  “I want you to assist Myers on this one,” Franklin says, peering over the top of his reading glasses. “We need to depose the plaintiff’s coworker, because he witnessed the accident. I’ll be sending you to do that.”

  “Me?”

  “The guy’s a hardnose. I think he’ll tone down the machismo if we send a woman to take the deposition.”

  Briley looks from Franklin to Myers. Have any of the other female associates had to face this kind of subtle sexism? On a purely practical note, however, the man might have a point. “I’d be happy to help,” she says. “But this is the first I’ve heard of the matter.”

  Franklin looks at Myers and jerks his thumb in her direction. “Fill her in, will you?”

  Myers crosses his leg at the ankle. “We’re defending the Majestic Elevator Company in a lawsuit filed over a year ago. The plaintiff is a twenty-four-year-old guy who slammed into a pair of elevator doors while horsing around with his buddies on the sixth floor of his apartment building. He popped the doors off their tracks and fell down the shaft, breaking both legs and an arm.”

  “Ouch.” Briley grimaces. “That can’t be his interpretation of the event.”

  Myers grins. “Of course not. He would have us believe that he barely touched the doors and they flew open, forcing him to be sucked in by the evil elevator monster that lives in the shaft.”

  “Sarcasm—” she struggles to hide a smile “—can hurt you.”

  “Not in here, it can’t.” He punches her shoulder. “Lighten up, Lester. You know some of these cases are ridiculous. Since when are companies supposed to protect people from that kind of stupidity?”

  “Are you sure the guy’s pals didn’t pry open the doors and throw him down the shaft?” She frowns. “If that’s what happened, maybe pals isn’t the right word.”

  “I’m arguing that he was negligent because he and his friends were drunk and they were playing tackle football in the sixth-floor lobby.” Myers jiggles his bent knee, a testament to the uncontrolled energy of young men. “He’s lucky he survived.”

  “I still don’t see how the elevator company had anything to do with his injuries. Is he saying there’s a problem with the design, the maintenance, or both?”

  “So far they’re beating around the bush on that, but the plaintiff’s attorney claims Majestic was negligent because the doors shouldn’t give way when a klutz like his client tries to plow through them. But any hard blow can knock the sliding doors off their track. What is Majestic supposed to do, surround the elevator with a vault?”

  Briley shakes her head. “Seems to me he should be suing the building owners. Don’t they maintain the doors?”

  “The owners, a mom-and-pop landlord, are codefendants. They say, of course, we’re the ones with the maintenance contract, so it’s our problem. And the plaintiff’s lawyer probably figures Majestic has deeper pockets. They install most of the elevators in the Midwest.”

  Franklin gives Myers a satisfied smile and turns to Briley. “Got that?”

  She nods.

  “Give Nancy your avoid dates so we can coordinate with the plaintiff’s attorney.” Franklin taps the arm of his chair, then lifts his hand. “By the way, Ms. Lester—how are you coming with the Tomassi case?”

  Briley clears her throat, surprised by his reference to her case. “Erin Tomassi’s arraignment took place Monday morning,” she says. “She pleaded not guilty. I kicked off informal discovery by interviewing her at the jail, and met with her again yesterday. I’m beginning to wonder if I ought to consider an insanity defense.”

  Her boss’s mouth takes on an unpleasant twist. “Do you think she might not be competent to stand trial?”

  “She certainly seems competent. But I’m going to have her evaluated by a forensic psychologist. We’ll see what the shrink says before formulating a case theory.”

  She waits, braced for an objection—the approach is too expensive, too time-consuming, or too complicated—but Franklin says nothing else. Nor does he thank her for her efforts and state that he’d better assign the case to someone more experienced.

  Instead, he reaches for the coffee decanter and pours himself another cup. “Thanks, everyone.” He nods at them above the rim of his mug. “Good work all around.”

  Myers falls into step with Briley as she leaves the boss’s office. “Sorry about all this. I told Franklin I’d be happy to take the elevator guy’s deposition, but he wants you to do it.”

  “I don’t mind, but I hope it doesn’t interfere with my current case. Franklin seems to think I can handle it alone, but I’m not so sure. I need to do a
lot of research, and there are people to interview—”

  Myers stops and lowers his voice. “Is your client really crazy?”

  Briley shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I get this feeling that she watched an episode of Law & Order and decided to use one of the plots for her defense. She has developed…a delusion.”

  Myers gapes in pleased surprise. “What kind of delusion are we talking about?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” She gives him a rueful smile. “I was half hoping Franklin would transfer the case to someone else. I’d be a little disappointed, but in the long run it’d be a relief to walk away from this one.”

  Myers grins. “I could tell you were ticked when he said he wanted you to take our witness’s deposition.”

  She shrugs. “I’ll fit it in, if you can get me a summation and a list of questions. How long will it take, a couple of hours? A full morning?”

  “In a perfect world, sure. But the guy lives in Washington State, so you’ll lose at least two days in travel time.”

  Two days of travel and a day for the deposition means three days away from home, her murder case, and Timothy. “That’s three days.” She meets Myers’s gaze. “I can’t be gone three days.”

  “Why not? You like Starbucks. I hear Seattle has one on every corner.”

  “Can’t we do the deposition by phone or video link? It’d be a lot less expensive for our client, plus we’ve got the holidays to consider—”

  “They don’t mind paying for the advantage of face-to-face. They want your reading of the witness and his credibility, plus you’ve got that female thing going for you. When you smile, Lester, you can be quite disarming.” Myers grins. “Want me to book your flight?”

  She exhales through clenched teeth. “Thanks, but I’ll do it myself.”