THE PROSECUTOR

by Adrienne Giordano

  As if a casual friend would risk a perjury charge. Whatever.

  Emma didn’t want to revisit her frustrations with Bri’s public defender. Unless she could prove his incompetence, it was best left alone. Instead, she’d remind herself that she now had Hennings and Solomon on her side.

  “Melody? It’s Emma Sinclair.”

  “Hi, Emma. Thanks for calling me back.”

  “Sure. What can I help you with?”

  “How’s Brian?”

  He’s in prison. “He’s holding up.”

  “I saw the article in the paper.”

  “They did a nice job.” She wasn’t about to give an outsider too much information.

  “Is there anything I can do to help? I told the prosecution and the defense lawyer that I’d testify. They never contacted me, even after I gave the detectives the receipt from the parking garage.”

  Suddenly, all movement around Emma ceased—a huge, jarring halt that caused her body to stiffen. “There was a receipt?”

  Breathe. Get loose. Too many hopes had been bludgeoned by the cruelty of injustice and she’d learned to temper her optimism. Whatever this receipt was, it couldn’t have been anything stunning or the public defender—she’d hope—would have uncovered it.

  “Yes,” Melody said. “I used a credit card to pay for the garage. It was one of those machines. You stick the ticket in, put your credit card in the slot and you get another ticket that lets you out of the garage. Brian was with me.”

  Emma paused a second, let the cold air wash over her while she mentally played find-the-missing-receipt. She’d amassed boxes and boxes of notes on the case and had never heard about a parking receipt. Didn’t mean the thing wasn’t sitting around somewhere, but she would have remembered seeing it. If she’d seen it.

  Oh, and she could just hear the prosecutors moaning about how it wouldn’t prove that Brian had been with Melody and unless they had solid proof, Melody could be protecting her lover.

  “Unfortunately, none of this proves where Brian was at the time. I’ve hired a new lawyer, though. Can I have her contact you?”

  “Yes. I mean, he shouldn’t be in jail. He didn’t do it.”

  “I know. I’m not giving up.” She gripped the phone tighter. “Thank you for calling, Melody. I appreciate it. I know Brian will, too.”

  Emma hung up and stared at the phone. Now she had a receipt to chase down, another lead to work with. People continued to file out of the building, their voices and footsteps clicking against the cement.

  4:40.

  By the look of the mountain of files in his office, Zac Hennings would probably still be at his desk. He struck her as the diligent type—a man who’d sit and study his notes, losing all track of time. Maybe she’d march up and demand—no—ask about the receipt. Playing nice with the new prosecutor might get her a little cooperation.

  If not, too bad. She wanted answers.

  * * *

  ALREADY, ZAC HAD DETERMINED one thing. The video had to be deep-sixed. On a decent day, a detective’s deathbed confession was a nightmare scenario. Couple that with Zac’s rabid sister and the persistent Emma Sinclair and he had one hell of a problem. Emma didn’t have his sister’s flashy clothes and sarcastic manner, but she obviously had a quick mind and adjusted to conflict easily. With these two, he’d have his hands full.

  First thing was to obtain copies of all the case files and interview the detectives.

  Still at his desk, he tapped the screen again and the dying detective’s face appeared. Damn, he looked bad. It could be a major problem in court. Who wouldn’t be sympathetic to someone dying of cancer?

  He set the phone down and jotted notes as the now-deceased detective spoke. Witness unsure. Alley dark. Couldn’t positively ID. Showed a six-pack—the old photo lineup where the witness was given photographs of possible suspects and asked if he could identify any of them. In this case, according to the dying detective, the witness thought that maybe Brian Sinclair could be the guy.

  All of it should be documented in the case files.

  Zac shook his head as the detective confessed to coaxing the witness with leading questions. He had dark hair, right? And a white shirt, correct?

  Zac studied the detective’s sallow face, seeking anything that might indicate that brain cancer had caused mental impairment. Outside of the papery, sagging skin that came with chemo treatments, his speech was clear and he seemed rational. Zac checked the date on the bottom of the screen. Six weeks ago. He’d have to research the effects of brain cancer in the weeks prior to death. To refute this evidence, he’d simply need to prove that the man had lost cognitive brain function. In which case, everything on the video would be thrown out.

  Problem solved.

  Next. Identification of the white shirt worn by the accused might be something for Penny to run with. The murder happened in March. It could have been cold. Did the assailant wear a jacket? That had to have come up in court.

  Again, all this information should be in the case files, which Zac didn’t have. He scooped up his desk phone and dialed his office assistant. “Hey, Beth. Have you seen the files from the Sinclair case yet?”

  “I put them in your office. They’re in a box by the corner window.”

  On the floor sat one square file box, maybe eleven by thirteen inches. A corner of the lid was torn, as if someone had tried to lift it and it ripped. “That’s it?”

  “That’s all that was delivered.”

  One box. On a six-month investigation. There should have been stacks and stacks of reports particularly General Progress Reports—GPRs—where detectives recorded notes. Those GPRs were what he needed. Typically handwritten by the detectives, the reports told the story of who said what. Anything on the investigation’s progress should have been documented for use in trial.

  So why did Zac only have one small box?

  He’d have to track down the old prosecutor—the one who’d been fired by the new State’s Attorney—to see what happened to the rest of the documentation. Yeah, he’ll be more than willing to talk.

  Zac stood, grabbed the box and set it on his desk. At least it had some weight to it. Inside he found a few supplementary reports, along with a lineup report. He perused one of the pages for any mention of a white shirt. Nothing. He checked the next page. Nothing.

  Not off to a good start. He continued flipping through the files. Nothing about a white shirt. He dropped the stack of papers back in the box and propped his hands on his hips. He’d have to read through every document and study it.

  Someone told the detectives that Brian Sinclair was wearing a white shirt that night and it wasn’t their star witness. That guy had only confirmed the shirt’s color. Zac considered the guy’s statement, rolled it around in his mind. Massaged it. What he came up with was that the detectives, in a typically aggressive move, had convinced the witness they had Brian Sinclair dead to rights and all they needed was corroboration on the white shirt.

  Which they got. Hello, video. If he couldn’t discredit this sucker, Penny would argue that Sinclair’s constitutional rights under Giglio v. the United States had been violated. In Giglio the Supreme Court ruled that the prosecution had to disclose all information related to the credibility of a prosecution witness, including law enforcement officials.

  Bottom line, if the cops had pressured the witness into falsely identifying Brian Sinclair, his testimony could be thrown out.

  And then they’d be screwed.

  * * *

  EMMA FOUGHT THE STAMPEDE of people exiting the building and rode the elevator to the eighth floor. As suspected, Zac was still at his desk, his big shoulders hunched over a legal pad as he took notes. A fierce longing—that black emptiness—tore at her. She’d always been drawn to men with big shoulders and the way her smaller body folded into the war
mth and security of being held. Pfft. Right now she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone out with a man, never mind been held.

  Dwelling on it wouldn’t help her. She’d have to do what she always did and keep her focus on Brian. Then she’d pick up the pieces of her life.

  She knocked on the open door.

  “Enter,” Zac said, his gaze glued to his notes.

  “Hello again.”

  His head snapped up and a bit of his short blond hair flopped to his forehead. A sudden urge to fix the disturbed strands twitched in her fingers. Wow. Clearly she’d been without male companionship for too long. Even so, this was the man who wanted to keep her brother in prison. She had no business thinking about her hands on him.

  “Ms. Sinclair?”

  She stepped into the office, keeping back a couple of feet from the desk. “Hi, Zac. And it’s Emma.”

  He dropped his pen and reclined in his squeaky chair. “Can I help you with something?”

  You sure can. She waggled her phone. “I just took a call from a friend of Brian’s.”

  The idea that she should have checked with Penny before talking to the prosecutor flashed through her mind. Maybe she’d been too hasty, but that had never stopped her before. Her brain functioned better this way, always moving and jumping from assignment to assignment. Fighting her brother’s legal battle, until now, had been a solitary endeavor, and she had simply not considered that she had an ally. Next time, she’d consult with Penny. Next time.

  She stepped closer to the desk and met Zac’s questioning gaze. “Melody was with my brother around the time of the murder.”

  Zac opened his mouth and Emma held up her hand. “Let me finish. I know what Melody says doesn’t prove anything, heard it a hundred times. However, she told me she turned over a receipt from the parking garage near the club.”

  “And?”

  So smug. “I have boxes and boxes of information regarding my brother’s case. Eighteen to be exact. They’re stacked in my mother’s basement. Three high, six across. I guess you could say I’ve amassed one box for every month since his conviction.”

  “Really,” Zac said, his voice rising in a mix of wonder and maybe, just maybe, respect.

  Not so smug anymore, huh? “I’ve never seen a receipt from a parking garage.”

  “With eighteen boxes, you don’t think you could have missed it? And I’m sure you realize that a receipt won’t prove his whereabouts.”

  There went the respect. Lawyers. Always vying for the mental edge.

  “I do realize that. My concern is why I didn’t know about this receipt and what other information I might not know about. I’d like a copy of the receipt.”

  He remained silent, his gaze on hers, measuring, waiting for her to cower.

  “Zac, I’m happy to call Penny and make her aware of it. I’m sure you realize that all evidence must be shared with the defense.” For kicks, she grinned at him.

  He sat forward, his elbows propped on the desk, all Mr. I-won’t-be-taken-down-by-a-law-student. “You and my sister will get along great.”

  “Excellent. I’d like the receipt, please.”

  “Sure.” He pointed at the open box on his desk. “It’s probably in here.”

  Slowly, she turned toward a brown banker’s box sitting on the desk. The lid was off, but nowhere in sight.

  One box.

  A small box at that.

  “Those are my brother’s files?” She surveyed the office. “Where are the rest of them?”

  Zac stood, his tall frame looming over the desk, his focus on the files. “We’ll start with this one.”

  A niggling panic curled in Emma’s stomach. “Tell me there’s more than this. Tell me my brother wasn’t convicted of murder based on half a box of files.”

  The prosecutor wouldn’t look at her. Not even a glance. He busied himself sifting through the box. Her brother’s freedom rested on the contents of one minuscule box. How dare they. Eighteen months of keeping Brian from descending into emotional hell, eighteen months of her digging in, eighteen months of begging anyone who’d listen for help—it all bubbled inside. Emma locked her jaw and gutted her way through an explosion of anger that singed her. Just burned her alive from inside. These people were so callous.

  She grasped the upper part of the box and yanked it toward her. Finally, he looked at her and if his eyes were a bit hard and unyielding, well, too bad. “Tell me there’s more.” But darn it, her voice cracked. Emma Sinclair wasn’t so tough.

  He continued to stare, but something flicked in his blue eyes and softened them. “Right now, this is all I have. There’s more. On a six-month investigation, there has to be more.”

  “Where is it?”

  He propped his hands on his hips and shook his head. Emma folded her arms and waited. She wanted to know where those files were.

  “Emma, I’m not about to go into court without every scrap of evidence from the first trial. A young woman is dead and I want her killer locked up, but if your brother is innocent, I’ll be the first one to say so.”

  Brief silence filled the room. He hadn’t answered her question about the whereabouts of the rest of the files. She could argue, kick up a fuss about the injustice of it all, but what was the point? All she’d do was alienate the man responsible for keeping her brother in prison. That didn’t seem like a class-A plan.

  Plus, for some reason, she believed him. Maybe it was his eyes and the way they snapped from hard to sparkly or the way his confidence displayed strength and a willingness to fight, but above all, Zac Hennings screamed of honor and truth.

  Emma imagined that not much rattled him and she suddenly had a keen desire to see him in action, in front of a judge and jury, arguing his cases. Maybe she’d make a research trip to the courthouse and size up the enemy. She’d always believed there were multiple ways to win any brawl. Pinpointing her opponent’s strengths—and weaknesses—was one of them.

  Yes, a trip to the courthouse was definitely in her near future.

  She shoved the box back at him. “I still want a copy of that receipt. If you don’t have it, I’ll have Melody call her credit card company. Either way, I’m getting that receipt.”

  After a long stare, one where the side of his mouth tugged into a brief smile, he dug through the box and pulled out a thick manila envelope. “I should advise you that I’ll have everything copied and sent to Penny’s office. That’s what I should do.”

  “But you’re not going to?”

  “No. And it’s highly improper. The receipt you want is probably in this envelope. I’ll go through it with you. Document everything. That’s the best I can do.”

  * * *

  THERE WAS NO DAMN RECEIPT. Zac sat back and watched cute, pain-in-the-butt Emma Sinclair sift through the last stack of papers from the banker’s box. They’d gone through the whole box—not that there was much of it—and nothing.

  What was it with this case? He’d barely started and already everything felt...off.

  Emma restacked the pages she’d just gone through and shoved them back into the envelope. “No receipt.”

  “I’ll look into it. Right now, in fact.” He picked up his phone and dialed Area 2 headquarters to speak with John Cutler, one of the detectives who had investigated the case. This guy was legendary in Cook County. The cops often joked that he could squeeze a confession out of a brick. Problem was, some of those confessions got recanted. In this particular case, Brian Sinclair had never confessed. Detectives had kept him in an interview room—some would call it an interrogation room, but cops didn’t like to use that term—and questioned him for more than a day, never letting him rest, never letting him eat and never hearing a confession.

  Then the first of his four public defenders showed up. From what Zac remembered, one PD died—died
for God’s sake—one got fired, the third quit and finally, Brian Sinclair wound up with Alex Belson, an attorney Zac had faced in court many times and had no problems with. Some of the PDs were tough, never willing to stipulate to anything. Belson, though, was reasonable. Zac could call him up, talk about a case and they’d hammer out a deal to take to the judge. He never minded calls with Alex.

  Zac was not a fan of Detective Cutler, however. His tactics were too rogue. Any confession pried free by Cutler always received extra scrutiny. Zac wasn’t about to head into court and have the confession thrown out because the suspect’s rights had been violated. No. Chance.

  He waited on hold for Cutler. Emma sat across from him, her back straight and her dark eyes focused. Maybe her shoulder-length brown hair was rumpled from her fingers rifling through it, but otherwise, she was all business, and he pretty much assumed she wouldn’t leave until he gave her something. And a dinner invitation probably wouldn’t do it.

  As a man who liked a challenge, he appreciated her ferocity. Her determination to find justice in a case that had more turns than a scenic drive. It didn’t hurt that he found her easy on the eyes. Not in a flashy, made-up way, like a lot of the women he’d dated. Why he went for those women was no mystery and it was definitely nothing deep. Guys were guys and Zac supposed most enjoyed the company, among other things, of a beautiful woman.

  Emma was different. She had a no-frills, natural beauty that left his chest a little tight and if she’d been anyone else, just an average woman he’d met, he’d have asked her out. Plain and simple.

  Judging by the intensity of her beautiful brown eyes, she wanted to skin him.

  The receptionist came back on the line and informed him that the detective was out. Of course he was.

  “Thanks,” Zac said. “Have him call me ASAP.” He rattled off his work cell phone number and disconnected the call. “He’s on a case,” Zac told Emma.

  She nodded then stood. “Obviously, Penny will need a copy of everything in this box.”