Let Darkness Come

by Angela Hunt

  Briley leans over to pat her hand. “I understand. But your house is a crime scene, and it won’t be cleared until after the trial. Let’s see how things progress. If all goes well, you should be wearing your own clothes in a week.”

  When a murmur moves through the gallery, Briley turns to see Travis Bystrowski and his assistant approaching. “Buckle your seat belt,” she says, keeping her voice low, “here comes the opposing team.”

  After Bystrowski settles at the prosecution’s table, Briley walks over and extends her hand. “Good morning, Counselor,” she says, her voice artificially bright. “Ready to go another round?”

  “Always ready for you.” The prosecutor smiles as he takes her hand, but Briley can’t shake the feeling that his remark is an intentional insult. He’s reminding her that she’s in the big leagues now, and sorely inexperienced.

  She tilts her head toward the doorway that leads to the judge’s chambers. “Shall we go in and greet Judge Trask? I’m ready to get this show on the road.”

  He extends his hand in a gallant gesture. “Ladies first.”

  She strides forward with a confidence she doesn’t feel, then raps on the door to the judge’s office. A hearty “Come in” gives her permission to proceed.

  Judge Trask, already wearing his robe, is downing a bottle of water when Briley and Bystrowski enter. He keeps swallowing until the container is empty, then he wipes droplets from his lips. “Good morning, Counselors.” He tosses the plastic bottle into the trash. “Anything I need to know before we begin?”

  The judge looks at the prosecutor. “Mr. Bystrowski?”

  “The state is prepared,” he says. “We’re ready to commence with voir dire.”

  The judge glances in Briley’s direction. “Ms. Lester, did you receive everything you needed in discovery?”

  She struggles to find her voice. “As far as I know, Your Honor.”

  “Good. Anything else, then?”

  “Yes, sir,” Briley says.

  When both men look at her, she steels herself to roll the dice again. “In light of your recent ruling,” she says, knowing she’s taking a risk, “the defense would like to move that a particular piece of evidence be excluded. A syringe was taken from my client’s bathroom without a warrant. In this situation she had a reasonable expectation of privacy—”

  The judge lifts his hand. “Didn’t we cover this at the pretrial hearing?”

  “No, sir. The motion I made at that hearing had to do with whether or not my client gave her consent for a search. My present motion is based on the fact that the home wasn’t a crime scene until the medical examiner declared Jeffrey Tomassi’s death suspicious—an event that occurred several days after the search on December 3. On that day, my client cooperated fully, calling 911 for her husband and giving police permission to search the bedroom where the victim’s body was found.”

  “The people object, Your Honor.” Bystrowski gives Briley a You’re kidding glance. “The police don’t need a warrant to search if consent has been given.”

  “But the police had no reason to search the master bathroom,” Briley argues. “The victim was discovered in the adjacent bedroom, where he expired. Given that citizens have a reasonable expectation of privacy in the most protected areas of their homes—”

  “Preposterous, Your Honor. The police had a right to search any room in the house.”

  Judge Trask fixes Briley in a steely-eyed gaze. “Interesting gambit, but you’re assuming the crime occurred in the bedroom, and we don’t know where the man was attacked. I will not grant your motion on the basis of assumption, therefore anything found in the house is admissible if permission to search has been granted. Your motion to exclude is denied.”

  Briley sighs. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “All right, then.” The judge picks up a copy of the prosecution’s witness list and compares it to Briley’s. “Any idea how long this trial should take?”

  “We’ll need three days,” Bystrowski says. “Our case is simple and straightforward.”

  Briley nods. “We’ll need a day or two. Our defense is equally simple. But if my client is convicted, we’ll need several days for the penalty phase of the trial.”

  “Understood.” The judge waves the papers in his hands. “And is this the proper order?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then let the games begin.”

  When the judge grabs another bottle of water from a minifridge behind his desk, Briley realizes they’ve been dismissed. She and Bystrowski exit the judge’s chambers and take their seats at their respective tables.

  A moment later, the bailiff calls for order.

  “All rise.”

  Briley stands with the crowd as the bailiff announces, “This honorable court is now in session, the Honorable Milton Trask, Judge, presiding. Be seated, please, and come to order.”

  As the judge enters and takes care of a few housekeeping matters, Briley studies the faces of the men and women in the jury pool and wishes she had more time to consider them. From the fifty people filing in through a front door, she and Bystrowski must choose twelve jurors and two alternates. Because this is a death penalty case, she and the prosecutor are both allowed twenty peremptory challenges.

  Beside her, Erin seems listless and anxious. Knowing that such behavior can influence jurors’ opinions, Briley takes a legal pad and a pen from her briefcase and slides them to her client. “By the way,” she whispers while the jurors are listening to the judge, “because jurors get suspicious when we put our heads together, write any comments you’d like to tell me on this paper. It’s less distracting.”

  Briley listens to the judge’s instructions and makes a note on her legal pad when one of the jurors looks confused. She needs intelligent jurors, people who can follow a line of reasoning and come to the correct conclusions.

  Voir dire will continue for a couple of hours, and before they actually strike the jury she and Bystrowski will be given the opportunity to repeat the judge’s questions and ask follow-up questions of their own. She will not emphasize the possibility of capital punishment; instead, she’ll stress that not every guilty verdict deserves a death sentence. She might ask whether or not these jurors have faith in something that contradicts the laws of science and reason….

  She’ll have to be careful with that last query, but she really wants to know.

  She needs jurors who can believe in phantoms.

  When the judge dismisses the court for lunch, Briley reaches for her briefcase, then halts in midgesture. She usually spends the midday recess in a nearby restaurant, preoccupied with the trial, but Timothy’s words keep haunting her: You care about people. You care about your client.

  Does she? In three years of practicing law, Briley has never given a thought to where her clients eat lunch. She looks up and sees a deputy approaching to escort Erin to wherever the “custodies” are fed. “I’d like to have lunch with my client today,” she says, using her firmest voice. “Maybe you could find us an empty interview room?”

  The man stammers in surprise, but Briley proceeds as though she does this every day. “Wills,” she says, pulling two tens from her wallet, “will you run out and grab us some burgers? We’re going to eat with Erin today.”

  “I’ll have to talk to the judge,” the deputy says. “This is highly irregular.”

  “Please check with him, then.” Briley folds her arms on the table. “We’ll wait right here.”

  Five minutes later, the deputy returns with an answer. “Judge Trask says you can eat here, in the courtroom, or in the bullpen. But if you eat there, you’ll be on one side of the bars and your client on the other.”

  “What an appealing option.” Briley rests her chin in her hand and smiles. “I guess we’ll have a picnic here. Deputy, would you like to join us for a burger?”

  The invitation flusters the man. He backs away, both hands raised, and gestures to indicate the doorway. “I’ll just stand there and wait.”

&nbs
p; “Suit yourself.”

  Once the man is back in his usual spot, Briley shakes her head. “He has to be starving.”

  “He looks nervous,” Erin adds. “Maybe he’s afraid I’m going to run away.”

  “You wouldn’t get far. There are more cops per square foot downstairs than at any place in the city.”

  Erin glances at her hands, then gives Briley a sidelong look. “Are things not going well? Is that why you wanted to talk to me?”

  Briley winces in regret. Has she kept herself so aloof that Erin can’t believe she might simply want to talk? “Things are fine,” she says. “I just thought it’d be nicer for you to eat in here than in the holding cell.”

  Erin smiles. “You’re right about that.”

  “And I knew I’d enjoy your company.” Briley keeps her voice light, but the deeply appreciative look in Erin’s eye shames her.

  While she is searching for a safe topic of conversation, Briley remembers the message in her briefcase. “I keep forgetting—” she pulls the slip of paper from beneath her laptop “—despite your housekeeper’s best efforts to remind me. Apparently this doctor called your house and left a message. Mrs. Walker pulled it off the machine.”

  After taking the paper, Erin reads the name. “Dr. Phillips?”

  “Doesn’t the name ring a bell?”

  She nods in delayed recognition. “Of course. With everything that’s happened, I forgot about going to see him.”

  Briley stands when William enters with their lunch. “I was about to send out a search party.”

  “I had to run up the back stairs,” William says, panting. “The reporters are everywhere. They’re not getting much, but they’re sure doing a lot of fishing.”

  “The Tomassis,” Erin says, nodding. “I’m sure they’ll be speaking to the press—when the time is right, that is.”

  William halts before the gate in the bar and lifts his gaze to the high ceiling. “Wait—we’re eating in here?”

  “The judge said we could,” Erin answers, grinning. “Pretty fancy, huh?”

  William shakes his head. “Just don’t drop any crumbs on the table. I’ll get rid of the trash before people start coming back in.” He sinks to the first pew and stares at Briley. “What will people think when they smell onion and bacon burgers?”

  “Maybe they won’t notice.” Briley accepts a burger from William, then looks back at Erin. “This doctor who called—I hope you weren’t seeing him for anything serious.”

  “Dr. Phillips is the geneticist Jeffrey asked me to see…you know, before he’d consider having a baby.” Erin’s eyes glitter with unshed tears as she unwraps her hamburger. “I can’t believe I’m hearing from him now. I gave him a DNA sample eight—no, ten weeks before Jeffrey died. I remember noticing that the leaves had just begun to change when I went to his office.”

  Briley glances at William. “Doesn’t exactly want to make you nominate Jeffrey Tomassi for father of the year, does it?”

  “I can’t blame Jeff for being cautious.” Erin’s voice dissolves in a rough whisper. “After all, if my genes were defective, I wouldn’t want to pass them on to an innocent child. I’m flawed in so many ways—”

  Briley slams her hand onto the table. “Good grief, Erin, stop it. You’re not flawed, but your husband was a jerk.” She takes a ragged breath, barely managing to tamp the irritation rising within her. “From this moment on, I don’t want to hear you put yourself down. Your husband was wrong to make you doubt yourself. Your mother was wrong to ridicule you. You’re not stupid, you’re not crazy. You’re an intelligent woman, and it’s time you stood up for yourself.”

  Erin presses her hand over her mouth as her eyes fill with tears. Briley is afraid she’s gone too far until William waves a snack bag toward their client and breaks the awkward silence. “Would you like some…chips?”

  The question is so ordinary and innocuous that Erin laughs and Briley manages a wavering smile.

  “Thank you.” Erin accepts the bag and looks at Briley. “What you just said…it’s almost as if you believe I’m going to make it out of here.”

  “You are going to make it.” Briley speaks with a confidence she’s far from feeling, but what did Timothy say? Faith is believing when everyone else has doubts. So she’ll believe. For Timothy. For Erin.

  She turns sideways in her chair. “When I entered law school, I saw things as black or white, right or wrong, fair or unjust. I believed in lining up the facts and assembling a case theory from what I could see, hear, and authenticate. But if you say you didn’t kill your husband, I’m going to fight to prove you didn’t. And I won’t quit until you walk out of this courthouse a free woman.”

  Erin doesn’t answer, but a glint of wonder fills her eyes.

  And that glint speaks volumes.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Briley settles back in her chair and tries to keep her face composed in pleasant lines as the state’s attorney stands to give his opening statement. Fourteen carefully selected jurors have been seated in the box, and Briley takes comfort in knowing that Bystrowski is about as pleased as she is with the result.

  Behind the counsel tables, dozens of observers, reporters, and members of the Tomassi family have jammed the gallery. Most of the Tomassis, like guests at a wedding, have chosen to sit on one side of the courtroom—the prosecution’s.

  Briley’s gaze roves over the men and women who are part of the extended Tomassi family. Did they show this kind of loyalty to Jeffrey during his marriage? Erin says she tried to confide in her sisters-in-law about the abuse, but they wouldn’t listen. Were they convinced Jeffrey could do no wrong?

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the prosecutor says, unbuttoning the top button on his coat, “my name is Travis Bystrowski, and I’m presenting this case on behalf of the citizens of Illinois. An opening statement—what I’m delivering now—is like the photo on a jigsaw puzzle box. It gives you an idea of what you’re going to see once we put all the jumbled pieces of a case together. Some of the pieces may seem confusing, but if you’ll be patient and bear with me, in time you’ll see the big picture.

  “What is the big picture in this case? It’s simple. The state will prove that the woman seated at the defense table, Erin Tomassi, purposely murdered her husband with premeditation and malice. Why? Because her husband, Jeffrey Tomassi, had a problem with his temper. Because he loved his wife and didn’t want a divorce. And because he wanted to run for a seat in the U.S. Congress. Erin Tomassi wanted no part of her husband’s future life, and staging his death to look like an accident or suicide was the only way she could end the marriage and maintain her claim on Jeffrey’s fortune.”

  He rests his elbow on the lectern, undoubtedly attempting to appear relaxed and charming. “Ladies and gentlemen, over the course of this trial you will hear testimony that might lead a reasonable person to believe the Tomassi marriage endured a fair amount of domestic discord. We are willing to grant that the marriage was unhappy, but unhappiness is never an excuse for murder. The law provides women with several means of escape from an unsatisfactory marriage—divorce, separation, even legal protection. If the defendant truly felt threatened, she could have sought marriage counseling, but she did not. Erin Tomassi could have moved out of the family home. She could have filed for divorce and a restraining order. But she did none of those things.

  “Instead, with malice and cunning, she attacked her husband while he slept. While he lay helpless in their marriage bed, she injected him with a massive overdose of his own medication, knowing that within moments he would be unable to respond or call for help.”

  Bystrowski steps to the side of the counsel table, casually resting his hand on its surface. “Unfortunately, her plan succeeded. When she woke the next morning, Erin Tomassi did all the right things—she called 911, she wept, she claimed she had no idea what had happened to her husband. But the evidence demonstrates another reality, an inescapable truth. Erin Tomassi knew what an insulin overdose wo
uld do, and she knew it would be hard to detect. If not for the toxicology reports, if not for a vigilant father and a diligent medical examiner, she might be sitting on a beach right now, soaking up the sun and spending her husband’s fortune. But medical reports do not lie, science does not mislead, and we have apprehended the killer. After you hear the presentation of the evidence, you will understand why the state has charged Erin Tomassi with first-degree murder. It is your duty, ladies and gentlemen, to ensure that justice is enacted in this courtroom.”

  In a silence that is the holding of breaths, Briley waits until Bystrowski takes his seat, then she stands and walks toward the lectern. “The prosecution,” she begins, “has told you a story and described it as the picture on a puzzle box, but I’d like to tell you a story that results in a far different picture. It’s the story of a young girl from a rough part of town, a young woman who was swept off her feet by a handsome and charismatic young man. That girl is the defendant in this case, Erin Wilson Tomassi. All she ever wanted out of life was a happy home, children, and an opportunity to help other people. With Jeffrey Tomassi, she thought she had found someone who wanted the same things.

  “Erin hadn’t been married long before she discovered that Jeffrey Tomassi was not quite a knight in shining armor. His words became sharp, his glance hard. He began to grip her arm more tightly than was necessary, and even to push her when she didn’t move quickly enough.

  “Then he began to hit her.” Briley pauses, waiting for her words to sink in. “Jeffrey Tomassi was careful never to injure his wife where others might see. He learned to aim for the thighs, the soft part of the belly, the ribs. Erin learned to stifle her cries in order to protect her husband’s reputation. She kept silent, because she had no one to intervene on her behalf—her father was dead, her brother mentally challenged, her mother an alcoholic. The Tomassis—a large, warm family who had welcomed Erin with open arms—turned a deaf ear when she tried to tell them about the violent abuse that had invaded her marriage.