by J W Becton
Well, I couldn’t argue with that, so I said, “Done.”
Ted would freak out.
“It’s a deal then,” Sydney said, shaking my hand and grinning madly.
After he and Vincent shook, Sydney left his hand extended, palm up.
“Cash first,” Sydney said affably.
Vincent ponied up the dough, keeping a tight grip on the bills while he added, “We’ll let you know when to expect us.”
“Sure, sure,” Sydney said, plucking the cash from Vincent’s fingers, folding it carefully, and tucking it into his pocket. “Now get this old hag out of here. My shows are on, and she doesn’t stop her running commentary even for commercials.”
With that, Sydney took our unfinished beverages and herded Vincent, Mrs. Twilley, and me into the hallway before slamming the door shut behind us.
“Boy,” Mrs. Twilley said as we headed toward the dreaded elevator. “He really took you two for a ride.”
Vincent and I exchanged a glance, and I shrugged. Even if Sydney had fleeced us out of more money than the room warranted, I was thoroughly pleased with our day’s work. After all, we had managed to do something previous investigators had not. We had found a vantage point into the suspect’s yard, and that was the first step in proving that the man was faking his injuries. Now, all we had to do was watch and wait in the relative comforts of Sydney’s temperature-controlled, albeit costly, apartment.
Ten
With the surveillance location secured, Vincent and I returned to the DOI, and I made a valiant attempt at doing some pertinent research on the Blissett case.
At least, that’s what I’d intended to do, but distractions swelled against me. My stubborn brain refused to consider anything but my upcoming dinner with Helena. So after glancing at the clock approximately once every second, I admitted defeat. I would get no more work done that day.
With a groan, I pushed away from the desk, grabbing my workbag as I went, and headed for the ladies’ room to check my appearance.
I didn’t keep a lot of beauty paraphernalia around the office, or my house for that matter, but I’d begun stashing a few necessities in my bag.
Alone in the small bathroom, I indulged in a dramatic sigh and pressed my palms into the cold, porcelain sink. Leaning close to the mirror, I stared at my reflection. A stranger gazed back.
The woman in the mirror looked like me physically, but her expression was utterly foreign. Her hollow eyes held wariness, and worry lines framed her lips. She looked exhausted and old, as if she were ready to adopt ten or twenty cats and call it a day.
Was that me?
I leaned even closer.
When did I start looking so…hopeless?
I brushed a hand over my skin, trying to smooth away the worry lines, to push away the evidence of my uncertainty. Still, the stranger stared back at me.
This was not me!
I didn’t let the world boss me around. I didn’t knuckle under at the first sign of adversity. I had a quest to complete, and I would do it successfully, no matter what.
That raping asshole was going to prison even if it meant I went right alongside him.
Convicting him was my life’s quest, and I refused to fail.
If I were going to make it happen, I had to push aside every fear—for my family, my job, life as I knew it—and keep moving forward. Keep making the best decisions I could.
Because sometimes life doesn’t give you an easy way out. Sometimes, you have to go day by day, minute by minute, just doing the best you can with what you’ve got.
If I allowed my fears to take over, then I wouldn’t be able to do anything. Fear would paralyze me, and I couldn’t allow that to happen.
Life is about overcoming. And if you don’t believe me, consult every story ever written. Read any history or biography, and you’ll find that every single soul on this earth faces obstacles—some great and world-changing and some small and personal, but obstacles nonetheless.
Each person defines herself by how she deals with adversity. Tragedies recount the tales of those who gave up, who allowed their mistakes and flaws to ruin their lives.
I refused to be a tragedy. I would not allow myself to be the person who almost attained their dream, who nearly did the right thing, who gave up when reality got a little too real.
No matter what came, I would continue fighting until there was no fight left in me. And damn it, I would win.
I flicked on the tap, cupped my hands, and splashed cold water on my face. I blotted with a paper towel that felt like it was made out of sandpaper, and reassessed myself in the mirror.
My skin flushed pink with cold, and my eyes sparkled and snapped with energy.
That was more like it.
I quickly checked my clothing, ran a brush through my hair, and applied some lip gloss.
My shiny-faced look wouldn’t hold a candle to Helena’s, but I had bigger concerns than my appearance.
Determined not to allow time for my bravado to wane, I bid farewell to Vincent, sped across town, and found Hels lingering ever so stylishly in the bar at Bleu, the one and only swanky restaurant in downtown Mercer.
And even “swanky” was a term to be taken with a liberal dash of salt.
Middle Georgia has very low swank standards.
My best friend would have out-swanked every other patron in the classiest New York City bistro. Short and fine-boned, Helena reclined on the low-backed leather stool with a glass of red wine in her hand, legs crossed. Her intelligent eyes danced beneath her pixie cut, and her latte-colored skin was luminous in the dim room.
I smiled as I approached her.
“Very posh,” I said, sitting a bit less gracefully on another bar stool.
Far from the white tablecloths and stilted symphonic music I’d expected, the decor of this place defined minimalist and modern. Silver orbs with downlights hung above the clean-lined, simply laid tables, and the seating looked like reproductions of plastic Eames chairs—the kind you saw in a public school, but much more comfortable and stylish. Smooth jazz eased out of hidden speakers, completing the polished, understated ambiance.
I ordered my drink—sparkling water in deference to Tricia’s newfound sobriety—and soon, a black-clad host led us to our table in the center of the dining area. The room hummed with the energy of the other diners, and bits of conversation floated to my ears.
Everyone around me appeared comfortable, happy, at ease. They weren’t here to start the fight of their lives.
That was reserved for me.
Determined not to lose my will, I turned to Helena.
“Would you look at these prices,” she said, gazing at me over the menu, her eyes full of mischief. “I’m glad you’re paying.”
Right. Pay attention to the here and now. First, dinner with a friend. Then fight.
I looked at the aforementioned prices and gave an exaggerated gasp of shock.
“You’d better fill up on appetizers, then,” I said, plucking a piece of flatbread from its square white plate and dipping it into the accompanying bowl of hummus. “I work to catch the fraudsters, not commit the crimes myself. I don’t have treasure buried in my backyard, you know.”
Helena giggled and helped herself to an appetizer. Soon, the waiter returned, and we placed our orders.
“So how’s your boyfriend?” she asked as the server walked away.
She referred to Vincent, of course, but I hadn’t quite adjusted to calling him my “boyfriend.” And it wasn’t only because the term didn’t suit a six-foot-plus military man whose hobbies included force protection and gunplay.
“Good,” I hedged, busying myself with another piece of flatbread.
Helena watched me, one eyebrow raised, obviously wanting all the details, but I didn’t have many to provide. I could outline the finer points of my relationship with Vincent on a cocktail napkin.
If I were honest with myself, I did want to talk about Vincent. I was a bit confused about our lack of forward progress. I put down t
he bread without taking a bite and played idly with a corner of my plate, spinning it slowly on the tabletop. “Good, but slow,” I finally said.
“Uh-huh,” Helena said thoughtfully. “What does that mean exactly?”
“Well, I thought things were starting up. I did kiss him.” I flushed just thinking about that moment when I’d launched myself at him. “And he definitely responded. But then….”
I shrugged.
“What? Did you lose interest?” she asked. “Did he?”
“No,” I said with certainty. “That’s not what happened to either of us. There’s still heat. It’s just that, all of a sudden, we were both totally inundated with work and family issues. It’s like we’re in a holding pattern or something.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Helena said.
I almost laughed. “This is coming from the woman who recently counseled me to seize the day, to seize Vincent.”
Helena shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “Oh, I still think you need to seize that man, but I didn’t really take into account the fact that you’re a long haul type of woman. You’re not the kind of gal to have a fling.”
I shook my head. “So not interested in that.”
“See,” Helena said, “I don’t want the smoke to clear from your lives only to have you realize Vincent’s not the man you want or need.”
I honestly didn’t think that was a possibility, but I also couldn’t claim to be employing a lot of detached, logical thought at the moment.
“I thought you said Ted was assigning you all the dull cases lately. Other than the loose ends of our fraud ring case, of course.”
Glad that she was veering away from the boyfriend topic, I picked up my bread again.
“Yeah,” I said after swallowing a bite. I thought back to Blissett’s impregnable fortress of a backyard. “But even the paltry cases Ted assigns us seem to be fraught with unexpected pitfalls. And I’m a little preoccupied at the moment.”
“How’s the Slidell case going?” Helena asked, knowing exactly what bothered me. “Has Tricia changed her mind about testifying?”
“No.” I shook my head. “But that’s the least of my problems right now, unfortunately.”
“What do you mean?” My friend leaned forward, her almond eyes concerned.
Without revealing my hand in it, I explained about the chain of evidence problem.
“I hoped you might be able to give me some legal advice.”
There. I said it. Next step taken.
“Chain of evidence problem? That’s not insurmountable,” Helena assured me with a wave of her fork. Sometime in the middle of my sad tale, the waiter had delivered our meals. I picked up my fork too, but once again, I couldn’t bring myself to eat.
“Courts have relaxed a bit on that since the 1970s,” Helena continued. “Back then, they threw cases out left and right when the evidence was questionable. These days, it really depends on the judge.”
“Relaxed doesn’t mean they’d admit any old evidence,” I said, stirring my pasta distractedly. “Especially if they’re already talking tampering.”
“Tampering?” Helena asked, her voice sharp. “Who said anything about tampering?”
“They suspect that someone tampered with the DNA evidence,” I said, taking a deep breath. “And I know without a doubt that it was.”
Helena lowered her eyebrows and studied me. “How can you possibly know that?”
“Because I’m the one who tampered with it,” I admitted.
Helena sat back and stared at me as comprehension moved over her features. She regarded me in silence for a disconcertingly long time, and I watched emotions dart across her eyes.
Confusion, anger, sorrow, disappointment, understanding.
“Hels?” I asked, pulling her from her silent contemplation. “I don’t know what to do. If I don’t admit what I did, the evidence will be thrown out, but telling the truth might not make a difference at all. And I might end up in big trouble.”
“Tell me everything,” she said, leaning closer again and lowering her voice. “Oh, God, you didn’t frame Slidell, did you? No, of course, you didn’t. You wouldn’t do that. Why would you?”
The lawyer was babbling. That couldn’t be a good sign.
“No,” I said firmly, putting my fork aside. Eating was a pointless endeavor now. “I did not frame anyone.”
“What did you do?”
“I just took a little piece in case I needed it to identify Tricia’s attacker and bring him to justice. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” she repeated. “That’s all? You make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal.”
“It wasn’t.”
“How did you get past the tamper-proofing?” She held up a hand. “Wait. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Didn’t you realize the risks involved?”
“Of course I did.” I shrugged. “Well, I understood most of them, anyway. I had to do it. You know how these things work in the real world, Hels. You know how cases go cold. You know what a disaster that evidence lockup used to be. Key pieces of evidence got lost or destroyed. What if the same thing had happened to the evidence in Tricia’s case? I decided to keep up with it myself.”
“But you committed a felony….”
I winced at the word.
“And now the case hinges on the very evidence that you thought you were preserving,” Helena summed up.
I nodded sadly.
“What do I do?” I asked, desperate for her to have the magical legal bullet that would make everything right.
Helena studied her hands for a long time.
“The prosecutor is investigating?” she asked. “Kay Lanyon?”
“Yes, the GBI has been called in. Tripp is thrilled, by the way.”
“Tripp knows?”
“Yes, but I only told him this morning,” I said. “Before that, he didn’t have a clue. He’s the one who advised me to talk to the judge.”
“He’s a smart man,” she said. “It’s good advice.”
My hopes fell. Helena was supposed to have a better answer, the solution that would end this nightmare without requiring a dramatic legal scene.
“So that’s what I should do?” I asked a little desperately. “Talk to the judge? Is that the best way to handle this?”
Helena paused and studied me.
“Look, I can tell you with almost perfect certainty that the judge won’t admit evidence that is suspected of being altered or tampered with. If you explain what you did and why, there is a slim—very slim—chance that the evidence might still be admitted.”
“Then, there’s a chance…. Tripp is right. I should talk to the judge.”
She nodded. “But you’re not in the clear. After you admit your wrongdoing, any number of things could happen, depending on how lenient the GBI and DA are feeling that day. Not to mention Ted and the DOI. The bad news is that you’re looking down the barrel of a possible felony charge and mandatory suspension at the very least. So, worst-case scenario: federal prison and unemployment.”
“Is there a best-case scenario?” I asked, hoping to hear one in which my future didn’t depend on whether or not a third party had eaten a healthy breakfast and had a positive outlook on the day they decided my fate.
“There is always the potential for a favorable outcome,” Helena said, although she didn’t sound terribly positive to me. “The authorities may go easy on you. They may decide not to press charges at all. No matter what, you’ll likely end up being suspended from the DOI during the investigation, but you may not lose your job.”
Realizing I’d crumpled my napkin into a ball, I tossed it on top of my uneaten pasta and mulled over Helena’s words until she interrupted my thoughts.
“You’ll need a good lawyer,” she said. “You need Henry Martling III. Uber-pretentious name, I know, but he’s the best defense attorney in town. He’ll give you good advice.”
I blinked. I’d heard of Martling, and sure, he had a gr
eat reputation, but…
“I don’t want Henry Martling’s advice. I want yours,” I said, my voice sounding small. “I mean, I know you’re a prosecutor and not a defense attorney, but can’t you help me? I trust you.”
Helena cocked her head sideways, and a wave of sadness swept across her face.
“I’m afraid I can’t help, not in this situation,” she said, touching my hand gently. “I don’t want you to think this has anything to do with our friendship. We’re still good. Always will be….”
I gave her a grateful smile, though I wasn’t sure if I believed her.
“I’m helping to prosecute the fraud ring case that you and Vincent investigated and are still involved in,” she reminded me. “I’m going to have to give you a wide berth for a while, both personally and professionally.”
“Why?” I squeaked, feeling even more confused and overwhelmed than before my pre-dinner pep talk.
“Too much potential for a conflict of interest,” Helena explained, looking down at the table.
My eyebrows drew together in contemplation. I knew I was headed for troubled waters and that my career would probably sink, but I wasn’t sure how I could represent a conflict of interest for Helena. Wouldn’t she have a vested interest in making sure my side of the tampering story was heard and understood? In making sure I wasn’t written off as a corrupt police officer? Wouldn’t she want to be certain I came away from this unscathed so that her case could proceed without delay?
“I’m not sure I understand,” I confessed. “Wouldn’t helping me only help your prosecution of the fraud ring case?”
“Exactly the problem,” she said. “Helping you would help me, and it just looks funny for me to have my finger in so many pies. I may be too close to you on this already, and I’d hate to be removed from my first big case. Especially not when I can do so much good.”
Helena gave my hand another squeeze before releasing it completely, but I didn’t feel reassured. I sat frozen, realizing for the first time that I’d underestimated the scope of my problem. A minefield of moral hazards loomed before me. And I didn’t have time for dithering and pep talks and second guesses. I had to act now. Yesterday would have been better. Any delay meant more risk, and I already stood to lose a hell of a lot: my job, freedom, family, friends.