Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
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Epilogue
Back Page
The Other Side of Darkness
Linda Wood Rondeau
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Other Side of Darkness
COPYRIGHT 2011 by Linda Wood Rondeau
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Contact Information: [email protected]
All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version(R), NIV(R), Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Cover Art by Nicola Martinez
Harbourlight Books, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC
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Harbourlight Books sail and mast logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC
Publishing History
First Harbourlight Edition, 2011
Print Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-138-0
Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-137-3
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Steve: Thank you for your years of understanding and making life anything but boring.
The road we've traveled has rarely been smooth. Yet, you have stayed beside me through every twist and bend, even a few detours. Thank you for being my friend and constant companion.
Prologue
He stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed…and He guided them to their desired haven.
Psalm 107:29-30
Spaghetti legs, Daddy called them, spindly appendages that kinked when stressed—like now.
Samantha Knowles leaned against the table for support as Bailiff Don Hunter came to the front of the courtroom. “All rise.” Judge Normandy entered, his limp necessitating a much longer plod from his chamber to the bench. Soon, the wait would end—three years of sleepless nights, endless days of preparation, postponements, and courtroom theatrics by defense attorneys. After three interminable years, Justice would now show its face.
As the judge took his bench, the crowd silenced to await his summation. Sam glanced at the defendant’s table where a calm Harlan Styles sat, a wart on the cheek of humanity, an insulated icicle against the rising heat, tried and convicted—the rest up to Normandy’s guillotine.
She fingered her notes, though she didn’t need to see them—the image of Kiley’s tiny, battered body tattooed on Sam’s brain, a brazen scar, indelibly etched on her heart.
Judge Normandy spewed his rhetoric—penal codes entwined with case facts, cold, distanced from the victim, yet succulent to Sam’s ears. In spite of their dry, unflavored essence, she feasted on his words—each pursuant finding heaped upon the other and topped with the last morsel, “The court can find no other just rendering than life imprisonment.”
Victory should taste better, like syrup over pancakes—not this metallic aftertaste.
A woman’s scream silenced the murmurings, and Sam turned with the rest of the throng toward the source. Kiley’s mother, Brenda Smith, had leaned over the rail and grabbed Styles’s sleeve while Don Hunter ordered her to step back.
Brenda was weak—just like Mama was weak. Brenda Smith deserved the same fate as Styles. Too bad stupidity wasn’t a felony.
The DA stood in the back of the courtroom. Without a word, Abe Hilderman, her boss and second chair, abandoned Sam to shake the DA’s hand. A simple, “Good job, Counselor,” would have been nice, even a slap on the back. Nice, but not necessary. Abe often said that Justice was its own reward.
Emboldened, Sam stepped closer as the deputy handcuffed Styles. He saw her, pulled free, put his shackled hands on the prosecutor’s table and leaned into Sam’s face, his cologne lethal… a designer blend—suede, water, and moss—like Daddy’s. Sam fixed her stare into steel-gray eyes, magnets that drew her headlong toward a spinning saw—Styles’s demeanor, a calloused calm…except for his lips… parched, purple–tinged lips that formed his threat. “Keep your light on, Miss Knowles.”
Her spaghetti legs wobbled. Three years of lamp-lit nights had failed to chase away the recurring dreams—dreams Sam kept secreted from everyone, especially Justine, Sam’s best friend. How, then, did Styles know she kept a light on all night?
1
Three Months Later
Sam searched Bob’s Bistro for Justine. A short ball of fire like her shouldn’t be that hard to find in an empty diner. Sam spotted Justine’s wave from the back of the restaurant, her perky demeanor hardly indicative of her frenzied call, begging Sam to meet for lunch.
Justine shoved the basket of greasy fries in Sam’s direction. “Sit down long enough to eat and hear me out.”
Sam’s stomach flip-flopped. “I’m not hungry.”
“You’re never hungry. Don’t argue. I thought we could split the fries, but I ordered you a hamburger…no bread and Swiss cheese. Good grief, Sam, you need to eat more or you’ll waste away to a vapor. I thought after the Styles case—”
Everyone thought Sam would return to normal after the sentencing. Normal, by whose standard? Normal was a word prosecutors found hard to describe. “This case will never go away, Justine. Scum always rises to the surface.” Sam grabbed a fry, took one bite and put it down on a napkin.
“You have to let go, Sam.”
“Are you talking as my friend or as Abe Hildernan’s new paralegal?”
“Both.”
“Which one first?”
“Friend—look, Abe’s had some private conversations with the DA, lots of them. That’s all I know.”
Abe’s chats with the DA were nothing new, only their frequency caused alarm. “What did I tell you? Sometimes I wish I could curl up on my bed and sleep into next week—that I’ll wake up and this whole ugly mess will be over.”
“That’s the other thing I have to talk to you about.”
“This is Abe’s assistant talking now?”
“Have you looked in a mirror lately? When’s the last time you had a day off?”
“College, maybe? So what? Vacations are overrated. For a friend, you sound a lot like Abe.”
Justine chomped on a handful of fr
ies, took a sip of her root beer, then swallowed. “Abe has arranged for you to take a three week vacation—his orders…his treat…his itinerary.”
“You have got to be kidding. Not now—not when Styles has filed another appeal.”
“Abe’s worried about you, and he thought maybe you’d listen to me better than you listen to him. You haven’t slept in weeks.”
True enough…sleep was a rare luxury over the past three years. Might as well let Justine think Sam’s sleeplessness had been caused by case worries. If Justine knew about the nightmares, she’d tell Abe, and he’d drag a shrink into the whole mess.
Justine leaned in like a period at the end of the sentence. “Besides, you know how slow Justice is. Chances are nothing will happen for months.”
“Yeah. Slow, all right…in Kiley Smith’s case it crawls. She would have been five years old today.” Rest in peace little girl.
“Abe thinks you’ve become obsessed, and frankly, I agree. You need to take a break.”
“I don’t—”
Justine glowered, and when she glowered, it meant only one thing—the fat lady had sung her last aria.
“Fine. I can’t fight both you and Abe. So where am I going?”
“Vermont. It’s all arranged.”
Vermont? The other ADAs described the state like a wilderness ready to be discovered. Not for Sam. Vermont meant nature, and the closest to nature she ever came was a walk in Central Park to mull over her latest strategy against Styles’s petitions. “What am I supposed to do in Vermont?”
“Ski. Your instructor will be Alonzo Altamont. Handsome and available, I expect.”
“With my luck, gay or married. Besides, I don’t have time for romance. I’d prefer to catch up on my reading.”
“Read or ski. Whatever.”
Skiing…not a chance, not even if Mr. America waited for her at the end of the trail. “What if I refuse?”
“You can’t.”
Abe wasn’t God, he was only her boss. “What does that mean?”
“It means you either go on this vacation, or Abe’s writing you up for insubordination. He thinks you need perspective. You could pack your whole wardrobe in those bags under your eyes.”
“That obvious?”
“Makeup stopped covering them about two years ago. Three weeks of fresh air will do wonders for your complexion, too. You’re looking more like my great-grandmother every week.”
Sam searched Justine’s face for a hint of a smile or a flicker of amusement in her blue eyes. Nothing. Maybe she meant it, that Sam’s face pickled in a brine of zealousness. Oh, well, Justice demanded its ounce of flesh, and if Sam wasted her bloom on its pursuit, so be it. “Thanks for the morale booster.”
“I’m serious, Sam.”
“Vermont, eh? Where?”
“Three weeks at the Top Notch hotel.”
“The Top Notch? Isn’t that the Niagara Falls of Vermont? Sounds like a place for couples, not a hot spot for single, available men.”
“And skiers, don’t forget.”
A cruise would have been more opportunistic, restful and would have been cheaper, too.
“If everyone thinks I need rest, why can’t I stay home in bed?”
Justine pushed the fries back in Sam’s direction. “You shouldn’t be so unappreciative. Abe went to a lot of trouble to arrange this for you. Sounds to me like you need a lesson in gratitude.”
“I don’t need a sermon.”
“Wouldn’t hurt for you to go to church while you’re on vacation, either.”
Sam sighed again, this time with resignation. “If you weren’t my dearest friend in the whole world, I’d walk out right now.”
“Well?”
“Well, I haven’t been to church because I’ve been busy with the Styles case.”
“See? You are obsessed.”
Sam stood. “I’m not obsessed—I’m merely doing my job. Special Victims prosecutors speak for those who can’t speak for themselves, like Kiley Smith.”
Justine leaned back in her chair, her posture like a tsk. “You’re as noble as they come, Sam, but if you’re not careful, nobility will hang you.”
“Abe said that, didn’t he?”
“Not in so many words—”
Sam laughed. She couldn’t be angry at Justine any more than a buzzing fly. They both did what they had to do—flies annoyed and Justine preached. “If it means I won’t have to listen to your sermons for three weeks, then I guess I’ll accept Abe’s offer and go. When am I supposed to leave?”
“Saturday morning.”
“What about Styles’s latest appeal?”
“Already done. Abe and I worked on the brief last night. Sam, you have to step down on this case, let Abe handle things for a while.”
Justine called Sam obsessed. Maybe she was, but not over one case. She couldn’t let go, not while children still suffered at the hands of abusers, and perpetrators went free. Like the rocks in a riverbed, every time she removed one, a dozen more fell in. “I can’t promise I will, I can only promise to try.”
“Call me when you get there. And tell me all about Alonzo.”
“You’ve got no business tracking any man, no matter how good looking. Your wedding’s in six weeks, or did you forget?”
Justine fondled her engagement ring. “I haven’t forgotten my wonderful Robert Ferrari.”
“I know… every bit as wonderful as the car.”
“I’m not looking. You’re the one who needs to ogle once in a while.”
Sam Knowles didn’t ogle. Men were a distraction she could not afford. “I’ll go on this stupid vacation, but that doesn’t mean I have to be on the lookout for Alonzo the Beautiful, or anyone else for that matter.”
“Methinks you need a new life, Miss Knowles—one where you curl up with a living, breathing male-type person—not the latest bestseller. I hardly need a calculator to add the number of dates you’ve had since you broke up with Johnny Miller after high school.”
All were the crowning arguments of why Sam should never date again. Like Eric who was a cross-dresser, or Phil who forgot to mention his wife. Wild-eyed Jason rode a motorcycle into a department store window after downing a bottle of whiskey. Steve preferred his women in threes. And Tom…well, Tom seemed nice, but had an operation and became Teresa. Romance no longer rode the crests of Samantha Knowles’s future—that ship had sailed right past the port of opportunity.
The hamburgers arrived, and Sam took three bites before setting it next to her half-eaten French fry. She pondered as she chewed. Maybe a vacation wouldn’t be so bad. Only three weeks. The world wouldn’t change in that short a time.
****
Harlan Styles paced his dormitory room while his cellmate met with a therapist. Three months in this hole, and still no word from Brenda. This prison scene unwound like a bad dream, one where he never woke up. When they brought him here, he thought he could manage a month or two on a misdemeanor, for Brenda’s sake, but not life, not for her, not for anyone.
Prison pummeled a man’s spirit to a frothing blob. Promises…that’s all his lawyers gave him—promises that stung as much as his foster mother’s belt while she spouted scripture with every lash, promises as useful as meatless bones tossed to a starving dog. First, they said he’d get out on a technicality, something about a mistake on the ME’s autopsy report, a typo, wrong time of death.
Darnell Washington promised he’d figure out an alibi for the both of them at the corrected TOD. Whatever that over-paid excuse for a lawyer manufactured had to work soon so he and Brenda could go on with their childless lives. Too bad about the kid, but that brat should have known the difference between his coke and sugar for her tea party.
Brenda understood Harlan’s rage when he found Kiley serving his stash to her stuffed animals. At least Brenda said she understood, and promised to stand by her man. More promises, three years and three months of hot air, full of sound and fury that signified nothing, Brenda’s words as rehearsed as
a grade-school poem.
The guard rapped on his cell. “Styles, you got company. Follow me.”
Couldn’t be Brenda…not regular visitation hours. Though he hoped against hope, even if her visit meant listening to her nasally whining. He’d shut out her unpleasant rasps and leer at what he most enjoyed about her. He’d been crazy to tell her to stay away until this mess straightened out. Three months without so much as a whiff of her White Jasmine perfume, which he bought at a hundred dollars a pop.
His face drooped as the officer opened the door to the private visitation room. Not Brenda…only Washington, who lifted his head toward the guard in a yank of authority. “I’ll need ten minutes with my client.”
The guard stepped outside.
Harlan blinked away his hatred for all things legal, even this mound of flesh disguised as a friend, the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing and Harlan’s only hope. “What’s up? I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”
“I had an inspiration, Harlan. The private eye we hired handed me our best out, yet. I’m filing a motion for mistrial, maybe even a civil suit against the city.”
“Don’t mess with me, Darnell.” Harlan put his hands on his head, squeezing until he winced from the pain. “If you don’t get me out of here, I swear, I’ll kill myself. What have you got?”
“The ME angle isn’t going to fly. Judge Normandy hasn’t budged one iota, and the cops have punctured every alibi I’ve been able to come up with. I could go to appeals court, but I don’t know if I can prove harmful error.” Washington held up a folder. “But, this… this is a gem. How does prosecutorial prejudice sound?”
“Prejudice? Is Knowles a racist?”
“Not racism, Harlan. Gender.”
“She some kind of man-hater or something?”
“It’s a stretch, but eventually I could prove her psychologically unfit to try your case.”
Harlan cringed at the word, eventually, a word that smacked of more stalls, more hearings, more thin promises. He swiped a trembling hand over his brow. “Do whatever you gotta do, Darnell. Just get me out of here.”
The Other Side of Darkness Page 1