by Angela Hunt
He walks through the swinging gate and grins at her. “Come on, Briley, ’fess up. I know what you’re feeling—I felt wrung out at the end of day one of my first capital case, too. I wanted to crawl into a hole and not come out.”
She tilts her head, amazed by his honesty. “You mean the great Bystrowski gets beat up, too?”
“I mean, you win some, you lose some…and some days you should’ve stayed in bed.” He picks up a folder someone has dropped on the floor by his table, then taps it against his palm. “Gotta study for tomorrow. You should go home and get some rest.”
“Maybe I need to study, too.”
“You’re doing fine.” He heads toward the door, waving the folder at her as he goes. “The press is still pretty thick out front, if that’s what you’re worried about. You could go out the side entrance if you want to avoid them.”
The man has read her mind. Briley exhales a deep breath, slips her trial notebook into her briefcase, and stands to put on her coat. The courtroom, always impressive, is even more intimidating in the silence. She turns from the carved wood of the ornate judge’s bench and trudges toward the double doors, dwarfed by the soaring ceiling and ornate pilasters.
In the wide hallway, she looks left and right. A couple of men in trench coats stand at the end of the space, and a woman is coming up the wide stairs. Since those stairs and the elevator will take Briley to the public lobby on the first floor, she turns left and walks to a narrow staircase that leads to an unimposing side entrance most often used by lawyers in a hurry.
She opens the fire door and enters the stairwell, her thoughts as heavy as her steps. Not only did she make several stupid mistakes today, but she’s begun to believe that Judge Trask is deliberately favoring Bystrowski. He’s an experienced jurist, so he’ll be careful not to do anything too obvious, but she’s going to have to make sure all her objections remain on the record. If they lose and this case goes before an appellate court, other judges will be weighing in on her objections and Trask’s rulings….
She slows on the sixth-floor landing when she hears a door close overhead. Someone else has entered the stairwell…probably another weary lawyer who’s eager to avoid the reporters out front. Or maybe it’s Bystrowski, looking for her. She stops, expecting to hear someone call her name, but the person above her halts in midstep…as if listening.
Why would anyone do that? She’s imagining things.
Briley shakes her head and continues down the stairs. She ought to scan the newspaper to see what other trials are being held here this week. She’s been positively myopic since beginning this case, with no time for anything but reading and thinking—
Her heart begins to pound when she hears the footsteps again. What are the odds that some other lawyer waited so late to leave the building? The other person could be a judge or a clerk, but why are his or her steps keeping time with Briley’s?
She quickens her pace and continues down the staircase, passing the fifth-floor landing. The air here is heavy, cold, and still, filled with a hushed malevolence that chills her to the marrow.
On a whim, she exits at the fourth-floor landing and hurries into the hallway. She passes several doors and breathes a sigh of relief when she spies the ladies’ room.
Briley darts into the restroom and hurries through the small lounge. Her pumps clunk against the tile floor, an ordinary, comforting sound. She slips into one of the stalls and latches the door, then stands in the silence, her hands pressed to the painted surface. Every muscle tenses when she hears the door open, followed by the comforting splash of running water.
She takes a deep breath and forbids herself to tremble. Some secretary is rinsing out a coffeepot or washing her hands, that’s all. No one is pursuing her, nothing has gone wrong.
Still, she waits until the water stops running and the door opens again. Then she exhales a deep breath and unlatches the door, knowing that William and Kate will hoot when they hear how thoroughly she’s managed to spook herself.
She steps out of the stall and flinches when she sees herself reflected in the restroom mirrors. Her face is as pale as Erin’s, her eyes are as wide, her makeup is long gone. She steps forward and lowers her head to search for a lipstick at the bottom of her purse.
Without warning, someone rushes at her from the next stall. Briley squeaks out a gasp, but a hand claps over her mouth, a hand clad in leather.
A masculine form wrapped in a trench coat shoves her against the tile wall. A red ski mask covers the facial features, but the words are clear as the intruder spills vile breath into her face. “She’s not worth it,” he growls, flinty eyes burning through slits in the knitted fabric. “So let the slut die.”
Briley’s thoughts skitter in panic as the gloved hand lifts, leaving the taste of leather on her lips. She is easing toward the safety of the nearest toilet stall when a fist rockets from out of nowhere and slams against her temple. The blow sends a flurry of white dots into her field of vision and knocks her off her feet. She blinks, and finds herself staring at a pipe attached to the bottom of a sink. She reaches for something solid, feels a crumpled paper towel beneath her fingers, and tastes blood on her tongue. A distant radiator begins to clank and hiss, and one thought runs through her mind before the room goes black. Is this what Erin experienced every day?
“Ouch.” Briley grimaces as a uniformed security guard hands her an ice pack for the lump at the back of her head.
The EMT kneeling by her side holds up two fingers. “How many?”
“Two,” she says. “And I’ve already named the president and the mayor of Chicago. I’m fine, I just want to go home.”
“Not so fast.”
The security guard steps aside as a man in a trench coat approaches. Briley blinks up at him and sighs when she recognizes the face. “Detective Malone. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Twice in one day, even.” As the EMTs pack up their gear, the cop sinks to a chair and pulls his tablet from his coat pocket. “First off, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Briley lifts the ice pack and smiles with a bravado she doesn’t quite feel. “I bit my tongue and got a bump on the head. That’s it.”
Malone clicks his pen. “Want to tell me what happened?”
She shrugs as she looks around the hallway, searching for signs of a red ski cap. “I was in the side stairwell and thought I heard someone following me. I ducked into the restroom on the fourth floor and waited until the coast was clear. Apparently I’m not so smart. The guy just opened the door so I’d think he was gone, then he hid in the next stall. He caught me when I came out. He knocked me on the head and I passed out. Next thing I know, a cleaning lady is slapping my wrist and waving smelling salts under my nose.”
“Did you get a look at your assailant?”
Briley leans forward and lowers her voice. “If I did, do you think I’d tell you? I don’t think the guy would want me to rat him out.”
Malone leans forward, too. “If you don’t give me a few details, how are we supposed to catch the bad guy?”
She leans back in her chair. “It was a warning. Pretty scary, but that’s all. He didn’t even take my purse.”
“But he threatened you.” The detective’s squint tightens. “Want to tell me what he said?”
She hesitates. “It was a warning…about my client. Apparently I’m supposed to take a dive on this one.”
“Really.” Malone pockets his notebook. “I have to tell you, Counselor, usually it’s the prosecutor who gets threatened. Why do you think the shoe’s on the other foot this time?”
“Not my job, Detective.” Briley lifts the ice pack from her head and drops it onto Malone’s knee. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have homework to do.”
“You’re not driving, are you?”
Briley stands and takes a step, then hesitates as the room sways around her. She reaches for the closest solid object—Malone’s shoulder—to steady herself.
“Come on,” he says, taking her arm.
“Let me drive you home.”
They are halfway to the elevator when Briley looks up at him. “Rancid breath,” she says. “Red knitted ski cap. Brown trench coat. Male, maybe five-eleven or six foot. And honestly, that’s all I can tell you, except…”
“Except what?”
“Except maybe you should check out the Tomassis.”
Malone rewards her with a quick smile. “Good enough, Ms. Lester. That’s a start.”
Chapter Forty-Three
When the prison van rumbles to a halt on the second morning of Erin’s trial, she leans forward and tries to peer out the narrow window in the back door. Yesterday she had to walk past a crowd of reporters and photographers, but today the driver has parked closer to the side door of the courthouse building. Yesterday this spot must have been occupied…either that, or the driver took a bribe and fully intended to parade his passengers in front of the waiting paparazzi.
When a guard unlocks the door at the back of the van, she shuffles forward, the links in her shackles clinking as she awkwardly manages the step down to the asphalt. Blinking in the sting of the frigid lake wind, she breathes out a breath and hurries through the ensuing frosty cloud. Prisoners are not given coats for this brief transfer, and the jail uniform provides little protection from a Chicago winter. Following her escort, Erin tries not to think about the many coats waiting in her closet at home—the red wool trench, the brown mink, the green stadium jacket. Right now, she’d give her right arm for any of them.
Half a block away, a handful of reporters are waiting behind a security fence, cameras in one hand, Starbucks cups in the other. She looks away, but one of them has recognized her. “Hey. That’s Erin Tomassi! Hey, Erin, look over here!”
She lowers her head and concentrates on her shuffle until she is safely inside the courthouse, where a pair of uniformed deputies waits in the hallway. They greet her escort and joke about the weather, paying her no more attention than if she were an inanimate object. Without a word or even a glance at her face, one of them takes her arm and leads her to the elevator.
She leans against the back wall and closes her eyes for the duration of the ride upstairs. The elevator stops on the seventh floor. The deputy steps off, tugging at Erin as if she were a dog on a leash. She tries to walk at his side, but the shackles around her ankles will not let her keep pace with the man.
Finally they reach the holding area connected to Judge Trask’s courtroom. Erin steps over the threshold and inhales the aromas of warm food and fresh coffee. Her defense team has gathered around a table against the wall: Briley; William, the man who works at Briley’s firm; and a middle-aged blonde Erin has never met.
Briley, who is eating a breakfast burrito, looks up, sees Erin, and nearly chokes on her food. With an effort, she swallows. “What happened to you?”
The deputy turns to Erin, looking at her face for the first time. A flicker of compassion moves in his eyes, then he moves aside so she can enter the iron cage that takes up half the room. Once she steps over the threshold, he kneels to remove her shackles and handcuffs.
While he works, Erin meets Briley’s gaze. “I tried to use the phone last night. I needed to call my doctor, remember?”
The unfamiliar woman’s face is blank with shock, while William’s mustache twitches above the newspaper he’s reading.
When she is free, Erin moves to a bench and looks pointedly at the newcomer, who is holding an outfit swathed in dry cleaner’s plastic. “I’m Erin Tomassi. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“S-sorry,” the woman stammers, a blush brightening her face. “Kate Barnhill. I’m a paralegal at the firm. I’ve brought you some clothes.”
“Kate’s been helping me.” Briley drops her unfinished breakfast on the table and peers at Erin. “Are you okay? We could get an extension if you need to see a doctor.”
Erin shakes her head. “It’s only a few scratches.”
“And the mother of all bruises,” Kate adds. “Looks like someone took a baseball bat to your cheek.”
“It was a fist,” Erin says. “I waited over an hour in line for the phone. I was nearly there when Big Shirley cut in front of me. I gave her a dirty look—or so she says. Next thing I know, she’s pounding on me and all her friends jump in to help her out.”
Briley stares at Erin for a long moment, then looks at Kate and William. “What do you think? Do we cover that bruise with makeup?”
Kate studies Erin, her eyes alive with speculation. “If you hide that bruise, you might miss a great opportunity to win the jury’s sympathy.”
“On the other hand,” William says, “leave it, and some of the jurors might think she’s strutting around the jailhouse picking fights. Is that the image you want to project?”
“I don’t think,” Briley says, speaking slowly, “that Erin looks like she struts anywhere.”
“What about you?” William asks. “If that lump on your head weren’t covered by hair, would you want the jury to see it?”
Erin frowns when Briley shoots him a warning glance. “What lump?”
“It’s nothing,” Briley says, shrugging. “I fell.” She peers at Erin again, then winces. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” Erin flashes a smile, though the effort makes her face ache. “The one thing I don’t want is an extension. I don’t want to spend a single extra day in that place.”
“So we leave it,” Briley says, though her voice is a long way from confident. “Did you ever make that phone call?”
Erin rolls her eyes. “What do you think?”
“You want me to call the doctor for you? Maybe he could explain what he wanted.”
Erin studies her hands, which are scraped and bruised from last night’s brawl. “You can try. With those new privacy laws, I don’t know if he’ll tell you anything.”
“I’m a lawyer.” A teasing smile flickers across Briley’s face. “I have ways of making people talk.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Shirley Walker, Erin and Jeffrey Tomassi’s housekeeper, appears even smaller and older behind the oak railing of the witness box. In comparison, Travis Bystrowski looks like a giant as he reinforces the fact that Erin was an unhappy wife by quizzing the housekeeper about the Tomassi marriage.
“All that poor girl wanted was a baby,” Shirley says, touching a tissue to the corners of her eyes. “And he didn’t want one.”
Briley studies the jury. Four of the women visibly soften at this remark, but most of the men sit with blank and unreadable faces. She’s been watching the jury all morning, trying to discern how they’re feeling about her client. What are they thinking about Erin’s scratched and bruised features? Do they see her as a victim, or some kind of hellcat?
When Bystrowski concludes his examination, Briley approaches the lectern with a smile. “Mrs. Walker, how many years have you worked for Jeffrey and Erin Tomassi?”
“I’ve been with them since they first married.” Shirley settles her hands in her lap. “They’ve never had any housekeeper but me.”
“You worked at their house, what…once a week?”
“That’s right. I cleaned every Tuesday.”
“Did you know them well?”
“I knew Erin real well,” Shirley says, her eyes bright behind her glasses. “Him, not so well. But she confided in me quite a bit. I got the feeling she didn’t have anyone else to talk to.”
“Did you like her?”
“Yes, I still do.” As if to prove her point, Shirley leans forward and sends a smile winging toward the defense table.
“Tell me, Mrs. Walker—in all the time you spent with Erin, did you ever see her do anything intended to hurt someone else?”
“Heavens, no.” Shirley’s lower lip trembles. “That girl wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Well, once we found this kitten in the gutter in front of their brownstone. I brought it inside, thinking I’d take it to the humane society as soon as I fin
ished cleaning, but Erin picked it up and started lovin’ on it. Next thing I know, she’s feeding it milk and tuna and calling it Tinker Bell. I thought maybe she’d finally found something to help her feel a little less lonely, but the kitten was gone when I came back the next week. Erin said Jeffrey wouldn’t let her keep it.” The woman frowns. “I only hope he took it to the humane society instead of dropping it in a Dumpster. I wondered about that, but didn’t have the heart to check.”
Concerned that Shirley may have given the jury another reason to believe Erin killed her husband, Briley moves on. “That’s an interesting anecdote, but it doesn’t really establish Erin Tomassi’s character. After all, people can love animals and resent other human beings, can’t they?”
The housekeeper blinks behind her glasses. “I suppose so.”
“Did Erin ever say anything about resenting her husband? Or anyone else in particular?”
Shirley hesitates, then shakes her head. “I don’t think so. That girl was more sad than hateful. But I never heard her say a bad word about her husband or anyone else, and generally people who resent other people talk bad about ’em. But Erin isn’t the gossipy type.”
“You testified that Erin was unhappy in her marriage and that Jeffrey often raised his voice to his wife. Did you ever hear Erin yell back at him?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see her strike out at him, even in jest?”
“Heavens, no. Erin isn’t the type.”
“Not a fighter, then? Not a brawler?”
“No.” Shirley’s forehead crinkles as she glances toward the battered woman at the defense table. “I don’t know what happened to her, but I know she’s not the sort to pick fights. Especially not with her husband. He was so much bigger than her.”
“Thank you.” Briley glances at her notes. “What sorts of things did you do at the Tomassi home?”
“You mean…what did I clean?”