Dark Valentine (16 page)

“I’ve lived with several women.” Jules stared up at the ceiling, surprised that they were having this conversation and that she was the one who had started it. “I don’t know what I was thinking, really. We were never on the same page.”

“You didn’t notice that before you moved in with them?” A hint of mischief seeped into Kate’s tone. “I hadn’t picked you for the impulsive type.”

“I’m not,” Jules said.
Except where you’re concerned.

“What type are you?”

“No one’s ever asked me that.”

“Well, that certainly sheds some light on the whole ‘not-on-the-same-page’ issue,” Kate murmured. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“My type,” Jules mused. “Responsible. Logical. I’m driven and goal-oriented. I want what I want. I’m very determined.”

“No? Really?”

Jules laughed. “Since we’re doing personality tests, how about you?”

After a long pause, Kate said, “I’m the caring type. I don’t like pretension or phoniness. It’s funny how some things change. I used to be more of an extrovert, but now I value my privacy.”

“You forgot to mention how you drive women mad with lust,” Jules said. “Me in particular.”

“And you forgot to mention how gifted you are in bed.”

“You find me pleasing?” Jules let her hand drift down Kate’s torso.

“I do.”

“Does that mean you’ll date me?”

“Let’s see what happens,” Kate replied in a noncommittal tone.

“You could try to sound more enthusiastic.” Jules attempted a teasing note, but something went wrong and she could hear her own anxiety.

“Jules.” Kate rolled toward her and nuzzled into her neck. “Relax. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes.” Jules cradled her, breathing in the scent of sex and warm body.

She wasn’t sure why she was in turmoil when she should be falling into a sated sleep. She kissed Kate’s hair and forced herself to think rationally. They had another night. Kate seemed receptive to the idea that they would keep seeing each other. They didn’t have to settle their entire future now. She held Kate more tightly.

“I don’t think it was an accident that we met in Palm Springs,” she whispered. “I think it was meant.”

“So, you’re a fatalist, too?”

Jules met Kate’s dreamy amber-green stare. “I never thought I was until you.”

Chapter Nine

Rhianna looked straight ahead as she made her way to the witness box. The courtroom seemed smaller than she remembered from her walk-through with Norman Clay the previous Friday. It had been empty and she had been able to fully appreciate the innate dignity of the high plaster ceilings, cherrywood panels, and orderly straight-backed pews. A sense of awe had driven her worst fears away. She was to have her day in court, to tell her story and accuse her attacker in the hallowed halls of justice.

Even now, with people milling around and a drone of noise gathering as she approached the front of the room, Rhianna still felt safe in this physical symbol of civilization. The rule of law was the glue that enabled communities to function. The right of an individual to be heard was nowhere more fundamental than in a courtroom.
Everything will be all right,
she thought as she climbed the steps to the stand and the bailiff closed the gate after her.

She stared up at the American flag and the man sitting at the bench below it. According to the prosecutor, Judge Oscar P. Tuttle III was a levelheaded magistrate who had no time for fools. He was a big man with a domed head and chins that overlapped. Rhianna met his eyes briefly just before the clerk told her to raise her right hand and swear to tell the truth. After the oath, she had to state her name and spell it. She could feel so many eyes on her that she could not quite stop her voice from shaking. She wanted to look directly at Werner Brigham, to show she was not intimidated, but she wasn’t ready. Instead she allowed herself the comfort of a quick glance at her parents, who were to her left, sitting a couple of rows behind the prosecutor’s table. Her mom gave her a discreet wave and her dad looked teary eyed, but they both had an air of stoic determination about them.

Just as she’d been told during the trial preparation, the prosecutor got up and walked to a spot near the jury and started asking her questions about herself. These were intended to introduce her to the jury. Norman Clay’s calm, supportive expression helped settle her nerves, and Rhianna remembered to look at the jury as she spoke. She knew they’d been instructed not to show emotion. All the same, she caught some tiny encouraging nods, enough to suggest she’d made a good first impression. Relieved, she took the victim advocate’s advice and found the friendliest face among the twelve so she could keep coming back to that juror.

Eventually she would have to look over to the other side of the room, at her attacker, but for the moment she enjoyed the petty satisfaction of ignoring him. He was hating it, she imagined. Already she had caught a hum of noise from the table where he and his high-priced defense team were sitting. Resisting the urge to snatch a look in their direction, she focused on each of the prosecutor’s questions, carefully listening, then waiting for a couple of seconds before she answered.

Finally, Mr. Clay worked his way around to the one that signaled her testimony was beginning. “Ms. Lamb, you have alleged that on the evening of Saturday, July 30, 2006, you were the victim of a sexual assault. In a statement given to Denver police about the attack, you identified the man who attacked you as Werner Elbert Brigham. Do you see Mr. Brigham in this courtroom?”

Bracing herself, Rhianna looked to her right. He was there; her brain registered his disturbing presence. But her eyes refused to budge from the woman sitting next to him. Her heart plunged and her lungs froze on the sharp breath she drew.
No!
She started to tremble and she could feel the blood leaving her face. Panic clamped her jaws. Her temples started to pound. She blinked in disbelief. Jules Valiant was sitting next to the man who had destroyed her life. Impossible. She stared harder.

Jules stared back, her eyes flinty.

“Ms. Lamb?” Norman Clay sounded alarmed.

Rhianna knew what was expected. They had rehearsed this moment. Shaking uncontrollably, she forced her arm up and pointed. The accusation was a croak. “That’s him.”

“Ms. Lamb?” This time the voice came from behind her and Rhianna realized the judge was leaning in her direction. Covering his microphone, he asked, “Do you need a moment to compose yourself?”

To Rhianna’s horror the only sound she could expel was a sob, and she realized tears were streaming down her face.

The judge promptly ordered the jurors to leave the court, then said something to Mr. Clay. Rhianna stood, along with everyone else, but the entire room lurched and the wood-paneled walls seemed to melt. A sea of noise swept over her, and she was vaguely aware of an arm around her waist as her legs buckled under her.

“Get a medic in here!” Norman Clay yelled.

Rhianna closed her eyes as her head spun out of control. She was aware of being lowered to the floor. She could hear her mother arguing with someone. Fuzzily, she turned her head and tried to speak above the clamor of voices. Before she could form a sentence a male voice ordered, “Step back,” and someone gently slapped her cheek. “Ma’am, look at me.”

Rhianna blinked up at a man in a paramedic outfit. He asked if he could examine her.

She agreed and said, “I’m okay. I nearly fainted, that’s all.”

As he listened to her heart and took her blood pressure, she stared past him. A bailiff was leading Werner Brigham out of the room. A group of people stood in a huddle at the defense table, Jules among them. Her face was drained of color. She must have felt Rhianna’s gaze, because she looked directly at her. For several bleak, painful seconds their eyes locked, then Jules turned away.

*

“I heard about the swoon,” Carl said. “Didn’t think Clay had it in him to stage something like that. Jury ate it up, huh.”

“Carl, I’m not calling about that.” Jules spoke rapidly into her cell phone. “I can’t try this case. I need to excuse myself.”

“On what basis?”

“Conflict of interest.”

“What, you’re covertly working for the DA?”

“Carl,” Jules paused to steady herself, “the plaintiff spent a couple of nights at the apartment last week.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I had no idea who she was. She’s been going by another name.”

“You slept with her? In the firm’s apartment!”

“Like I’m the only one doing that,” Jules retorted. “At least I’m not married and cheating on my wife.”

She didn’t need to name names. Sagelblum attorneys had been using the penthouse as an extramarital love nest ever since the firm bought the place. Carl gave the culprits a halfhearted rap on the knuckles if he heard rumors.

“So, what are you saying?” he asked. “You’ve got something serious with this woman?”

Highly unlikely now, Jules thought.
“I’m saying we don’t need Brigham coming after us claiming misconduct.”

“So get him acquitted. There’s no basis for a complaint unless he’s convicted.”

“Sid is up to speed,” Jules said. “He can try the case. I’ll work with him every step of the way.”

“Forget it. Audrey Brigham bought
you
.”

“Tell her Judge Tuttle has a problem with me and it’s in her son’s interests to remove me.”

Carl snorted. “Get serious. She’s not that stupid.”

“You think it’s a better idea for everyone to find out that I slept with the plaintiff in a rape trial? Norman Clay is going to be all over this.”

Carl was silent for a few seconds and Jules knew exactly what he was doing—devouring a Junior Mint. Slowly, thoughtfully, he said, “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, please. I’m a Salazar, Hagel & Goldblum superlawyer. Ask any prosecutor in the country if he’d take me down. You know the answer.”

“Hear me out.” Her boss sounded remarkably calm for a man whose firm was about to become a laughingstock. “This is a he-said-she-said rape trial. It’s all about the plaintiff’s credibility. Clay thinks he’s batting a thousand because he’s got the fucking Virgin Mary on the stand. Not anymore.”

Jules caught her breath, filled with unease. “You actually want us to use this?”

“Sure I do. Go talk to our learned friend. Tell him we’re going to come clean, and they can’t hide behind the rape-shield law because we won’t be approaching this as evidence of sexual history. By the time you’re through, his poor little victim is going to look like a sex-crazed dyke who led a rich, gullible man down the garden path.”

Jules said what she thought. “Huh?”

“Rhianna Lamb is not the girl next door. She’s a cunning con artist with a plan to extort money via an out-of-court settlement. She wanted Brigham to attack her.”

“There’s something I’m not seeing. How does her being a lesbian furnish us with this compelling new argument?”

“We’re already saying he misunderstood her rejection because he’s a fifties throwback. What if there’s more to it than that? What if she was intentionally sending mixed messages? Is a virgin bride going to come up with a plan like that—no. But a woman leading a double life? Pay dirt!”

Jules followed this magical thinking. “Her lesbianism tanks her credibility, and the fact that she concealed it from him proves she had an agenda?”

“It’s a slam dunk.” Carl chortled. He liked to toss around infamous phrases from the War on Terror playbook.