Mitigating Circumstances

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  The traffic was thinning and she was making good time now. She picked up the car phone and called Shana at the house. “It’s me, baby. You doing your homework or talking on the phone?” Some things didn’t change. Teenagers were teenagers.

  “Homework’s all done, and Dad and I are going to a movie. He’s on the way to pick me up now.”

  “A movie on a weeknight? Hey, kid, since when did the rules include a movie on a school night? Your dad knows that.”

  “Mom,” she said, “this is a special occasion. All my homework is done and we’ll be home by ten o’clock. Besides, an old friend of yours is coming over for dinner.”

  The traffic suddenly slowed and Lily hit the brakes. “Who? My God, Shana, I won’t even be home for another hour. I didn’t invite anyone to dinner. I don’t even have anything in the house to cook.”

  “It’s a surprise, okay? Don’t worry about anything. Karen next door gave me a ride to the store. I’ve got some pasta and sauce, a salad, some bread and a cake. Sounds pretty good, huh?”

  Lily had no idea what she was talking about. “Shana, I’m not up for surprises, particularly after I’ve worked all day and driven for hours in the traffic. Tell me who this person is this minute.”

  “You’re breaking, Mom. Must have a bad connection. See you later.” The line went dead.

  Lily held the phone in her hand, staring at the road ahead of her, baffled. It was a perfectly good connection. She could hear Shana fine. She was up to something, and with all the subterfuge, it could only involve one person: Richard. Shana had done something. She’d called him and told him Lily wanted to see him. Lily felt tension gripping her neck and rolled her head around. Snatching the car phone, she dialed Shana back. “Listen,” she said when the girl picked up the phone, “if you don’t tell me what you’re up to this minute, I’m going to ground you.”

  “Can’t hear you, Mom. Connection’s still bad.” Click.

  Lily was both annoyed and amused at the same time. It was obvious what Shana was trying to accomplish. This was nothing new. She’d been pushing Lily to date, get out of the house, join clubs, do anything to put herself back in the mainstream of life. She’d become Lily’s personal social director. She had to admit, Shana had chosen a tough job for herself. Lily hadn’t felt too sociable in the past eight months. The only thing she attended without fail was the incest survivors group that met on Thursday evenings at a local elementary school.

  She passed Camarillo as she did every day heading home, and every single day her foot let up on the gas as she passed the church with the avocado trees where she’d tossed her father’s gun down the hill that awful morning. In her bed, in the dark, the horror still haunted her. She had slowly learned to live with it like a person learns to live with a serious illness, an amputated limb, a disfiguring scar. Even if she was free to go on with her life, she knew all too well what she had done. She would always know. In that, there was no escape and no one could free her. That knowledge she would carry to her grave.

  She saw the white BMW the moment she turned onto her street. Her heart started pounding and her face flushed. They’d seen each other on several occasions at the supermarket—random meetings, usually with Shana present—and he’d called, but Lily had refused to speak with him any longer than it took to tell him what was going on in her life and inquire about his own. Now he was here. Shana had somehow manipulated this reunion into reality. Lily had told her the truth about her relationship with Richard. She had told her just about everything in the long hours they’d spent together talking in front of the fireplace or outside in the hot tub—everything except what happened the night and morning of the rape. Shana had finally asked. Lily had lied and sworn that nothing had happened. It had to be that way.

  Richard was getting out of his car when she pulled into the driveway and hit the garage door opener. “Hi, stranger,” he said, walking into the garage as she got out of her car, a tentative smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I thought you’d never call. Pleasant surprise.”

  Lily didn’t know what to say. Just his presence made her feel flustered and clumsy. They started walking toward the house and she almost tripped on the step and fell. “Shana called you, right?”

  “No,” he said, puzzled. “Your secretary called my office and said you wanted me to come for dinner tonight.” He looked at her face and could see there was something wrong. “Is this the wrong night or something? Did I get the time wrong?”

  Lily smiled. He was so handsome, more so than ever. When they had worked together, he had had a few strands of gray in his thick, dark hair, but now he had them sprinkled throughout his whole head and he was tan and distinguished-looking. “No,” she finally said, “everything’s fine. Anyway, let’s go inside.”

  Lily went into the kitchen and found the items Shana had purchased, and tossed the pasta in a pan to cook. Then she found the salads already made in the refrigerator and brought them to the table. “Do you want something to drink? I don’t keep a lot of alcohol, but…”

  “Got any tequila?” he said, moving closer to Lily in the small kitchen, a sly smile on his face.

  “Oh, Richard,” she said, feeling warmth course through her veins with the memory of that first night. “Those were the days, as they say. Guess there just weren’t enough of them, you know?” She had to turn away. He was standing far too close. “I have a beer. That’s all I have. Beer or iced tea. Take your pick.”

  “Beer. And, Lily…”

  “Yes?” she said, still with her back to him. “Just give me a minute and we’ll sit down at the table and talk. I want to put the sauce on.”

  He was behind her, his arms around her, his warm breath on her neck. “I think about you all the time.

  I can’t get you out of my mind. I date, you know, but…”

  Lily pushed her elbows out, breaking his grip. She turned and faced him. “I don’t date, Richard. It hasn’t been easy. What I did…”

  The color drained from his face. He leaned against the kitchen counter and sighed. “Let’s not talk about it, okay? It’s over. It’s far in the past. I want to see you again.”

  “I can’t, Richard. I just can’t. My God, you’re up for a judgeship. You don’t want to get involved with me again. Think about what you’re even saying.”

  He stared at her. “You mean you’re never going to see me again?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then what did you say?”

  Lily brushed the bangs of her new short haircut off her face. Richard hadn’t even noticed. “Like my hair?”

  “Your hair looks great. I liked it better long, though.” He paused, his eyes probing hers. “Are you going to see me again?”

  The atmosphere was heavy with words she couldn’t say. She longed for him to hold her, take his arms and wrap them around her, but she couldn’t. “I’m seeing you now. I’m glad to see you. I’ve missed you.”

  The pot was boiling, and Lily rushed to the stove and turned down the heat. She grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and handed it to him, their fingers touching briefly. His shoulders dropped and he walked away, heading to the dining room.

  The meal was a tense affair.

  “How’s Greg?” she asked.

  “He’s fine. He likes his school in San Diego. He comes home on weekends. He sees Shana, you know.”

  “I know. They’re friends. At first it concerned me, but it seems to be platonic, so…”

  “How is she?”

  “She’s Shana…good—you know, better than I ever expected.”

  “And you?”

  Lily dropped her fork on her plate and sucked in air. “Me, well, I’m getting by. The work is challenging. I hate the drive, but I like the job.”

  After the salad and pasta, Lily cleared the table, without mentioning the cake. Richard stood to leave and Lily walked him to the door.

  “Can I call you, talk to you? Can we at least be friends? Somewhere down the line, in years to come, we co
uld—”

  Lily couldn’t contain herself any longer. She only had to think it and look into his eyes and he was there, in her arms. They held each other and then she gently pushed herself away. “Call me,” she whispered, closing the door. She stood there long after he’d left, leaning back against the door, dreaming of how it could have been between them.

  It was a beginning.

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  a Gripping Excerpt from

  INTEREST OF JUSTICE

  Nancy Taylor Rosenberg’s hot, new, edge-of-the-seat thriller of murder and revenge on both sides of the law.

  Judge Lara Sanderstone had a ritual. When she was pondering a complex legal matter or was about to make a judicial ruling, she would spin her high-backed leather chair toward the American flag on the left side of her mahogany desk. It seemed to give her inspiration. As for the California flag right next to it, well, she didn’t put much stock in its ability to inspire her—or anyone else, for that matter, although she certainly wouldn’t voice this opinion publicly.

  Many of the judges didn’t have flags in their chambers. She had inherited the flags, the furniture, her chambers, even her secretary from the judge she had replaced when she was appointed to the superior court bench two years prior after eleven years as a prosecutor. The weekend before her swearing-in ceremony, she had driven to the courthouse in her jeans and lovingly sanded down and refinished the marred surface of the once magnificent desk. There wasn’t much she could do about the chair, however. The judge she had replaced was a heavy man, and the inner springs had collapsed with his weight. They had promised her a new chair, but it had never appeared. It was like sitting in a bucket.

  She glanced at the clock. It was almost time to return to the courtroom. The matter on the afternoon calendar was a pretrial motion. These were generally routine and uneventful, carried out in an almost empty courtroom. But unfortunately, this particular motion could destroy the people’s case completely, and it had carried over to a second day. The motion should have been heard at the preliminary hearing, but then the defendant had been represented by the public defender, a man sympathetic to the prosecution and buried in cases. Now the suit had been taken over by Benjamin England, a Rhodes scholar, a man established enough to devote himself full-time to this case and none other.

  The case involved the rape and murder of twenty-year-old Jessica Van Horn. She had left her home in Mission Viejo after a weekend visit en route to the UCLA campus in her 1989 Toyota Camry. The car was later found abandoned alongside the freeway with a flat tire. An exhaustive two-month search for the pretty blonde had culminated in tragedy. Her defiled and decomposed body had been found in a field near Oceanside, about forty miles from where her car was discovered. All those involved had hoped against reason that she was still alive. By the time the body was discovered, the officers, reporters, the entire community, had Jessica’s image firmly implanted in their minds: the curly blond hair, the shy smile, the big blue eyes, even the white blouse trimmed in lace that she was wearing in the thousands and thousands of flyers they had distributed.

  Judge Sanderstone was no longer facing the flag. She had her chair turned to the right side of her desk, where she had a large framed portrait of her great-grandfather, a tribal chief of the Cherokee nation. She took in the proud posture, the sculpted cheekbones, the penetrating eyes, the wisdom. This was where her eyes rested when she was looking for strength.

  The courtroom was packed and noisy. Almost every seat was taken, and several reporters had been forced to bend on one knee in the aisles with their notebooks and pens ready. At least a dozen police officers were present, some in uniform, some plainclothes.

  One of the clerks whispered something to the bailiff. The judge was on the way. Two additional bailiffs entered, escorting the defendant, a small, thin man in his thirties, to the counsel table. He kept his head down, holding his cuffed wrists to his face, actually sucking on one finger. He took small steps, the shackles around his ankles jangling like an enormous charm bracelet. On the top of his head was a shiny bald spot glistening with perspiration from the overhead lights. His bright yellow jumpsuit had the words ORANGE COUNTY JAIL on the back.

  “All rise,” the bailiff said, stepping to the front of the bench once the defendant was deposited next to his attorney. “Remain standing. Superior court of Orange County, Department Twenty-five, is now in session, the Honorable Lara Sanders tone presiding.”

  Lara entered the courtroom through the small door behind the bench and ascended the stairs in a swirl of black robes. People told her there was a deceptive delicacy to her face: pale, soft, unblemished skin, the kew-pie doll mouth, the high protruding cheekbones, the long eyelashes that fluttered behind her glasses. Her hair was held back in a fancy gold clip, her one attempt at femininity in what was traditionally a masculine role.

  Young for the bench at thirty-eight, she had to work to appear authoritative. Not too long ago, someone had commented that she looked like a member of a church choir instead of a judge.

  The ADA, Russ Mitchell, bolted through the double doors. He was late and had jogged from another courtroom and another matter. Slightly out of breath, he rushed to the counsel table and slapped a thick file down, adjusting his tie and glancing up at the bench.

  Lara’s gaze was firm and her voice laced with annoyance as she reprimanded him. “I’m pleased that you were able to join us today, Mr. Mitchell, but we are already in session and you are late as usual. I’ll give you a few minutes to collect yourself, and then we’ll begin.”

  Her eyes found the victim’s parents while Mitchell frantically shuffled papers. They were seated in the first row, side by side like two parrots on a perch, their faces somber. They held each other’s hand, the man and woman, both in their early fifties. Whatever was going on around them they didn’t see or hear. They stared straight ahead, waiting. What they were waiting for now was justice.

  Seated next to them was a dark haired twenty-year-old boy, the victim’s boyfriend. Lara recalled his face from the newspaper articles. He was wearing a black suit, probably the one he had worn to her funeral. He had dated the victim for the past three years. This was their first year at UCLA, and they had been living together in a small apartment near the campus. He’d told reporters he had been saving to buy her an engagement ring.

  Finally the district attorney looked up. He was ready.

  “People versus Henderson,” Lara said, immediately calling the case, accepting the file from the clerks hand as the courtroom fell into silence, all eyes on the bench. “We will be continuing with the defense’s motion to suppress evidence. Specifically, the defendant’s confession. Mr. England, I understand you have another witness.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” England said, already on his feet. His dark hair was laced with gray, but at forty-three he was still a youthful, handsome man.

  Once the witness was sworn in, he stepped up to the stand. He was in uniform. Yesterday they’d heard testimony from the arresting officers. Lara felt certain they’d perjured themselves. Today she could hear more of the same—more concocted lies. After the officer stated his name for the record and his position as a correctional officer assigned to the Orange County Jail, England stepped from behind the table and approached the witness box.

  “Officer White, when did you first see the defendant on the night of June fifteenth?”

  “I believe it was about three o’clock in the morning. I was due to get off at three. He was in a holding cell, on a bench.”

  “I see,” England said slowly. “Was he alone in the cell?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “And what was the defendant doing when you entered the holding cell?”

  “He was sleeping.”

  “Sleeping?” England said, cocking his head. Turning to face the spectators, he walked to the table and picked up something.

  “IT thought he was sleeping,” the officer answered.

  “Is it possible he was unconscious?” Engla
nd’s eyebrows went up. The witness’s eyes were locked on the items in his hands, tracking them as England waved them around as he spoke.

  “Probably,” the officer replied. Then he scooted closer to the microphone. “I thought he was drunk.”

  “I see,” England said. “So, you tried to rouse him?”

  “Yes. When he didn’t respond, I got another officer and we moved him to the cell.”

  “How did you move him?”

  “We carried him under his arms.”

  “Did you look at his face during the time you were carrying him or dragging him to his cell?”

  “Of course.” The man scanned the faces in the audience, trying to find the arresting officers and possibly some of the correctional officers he worked with, grab some moral support.

  “And you didn’t notice the bruises on his face, his right eye swollen shut?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  The DA was squirming in his seat, tapping his pen annoyingly on the table.

  England’s momentum was building up like steam inside him. With the next question, Lara could almost hear the hiss. “You didn’t possibly notice that his left arm was broken, did you?”

  “No,” the officer said, perspiration across his brow.

  “Officer White, did you think for even one moment that the defendant was in urgent need of medical treatment, that he was in fact unconscious, that his arm was severely broken, so severely broken that it was flopping back and forth like a piece of rubber? Surely that’s something you would notice?”