Let Darkness Come (20 page)

The invitation flusters the man. He backs away, both hands raised, and gestures to indicate the doorway. “I'll just stand there and wait.”

“Suit yourself.”

Once the man is back in his usual spot, Briley shakes her head. “He has to be starving.”

“He looks nervous,” Erin adds. “Maybe he's afraid I'm going to run away.”

“You wouldn't get far. There are more cops per square foot downstairs than at any place in the city.”

Erin glances at her hands, then gives Briley a sidelong look. “Are things not going well? Is that why you wanted to talk to me?”

Briley winces in regret. Has she kept herself so aloof that Erin can't believe she might simply want to talk? “Things are fine,” she says. “I just thought it'd be nicer for you to eat in here than in the holding cell.”

Erin smiles. “You're right about that.”

“And I knew I'd enjoy your company.” Briley keeps her voice light, but the deeply appreciative look in Erin's eye shames her.

While she is searching for a safe topic of conversation, Briley remembers the message in her briefcase. “I keep forgetting—” she pulls the slip of paper from beneath her laptop “—despite your housekeeper's best efforts to remind me. Apparently this doctor called your house and left a message. Mrs. Walker pulled it off the machine.”

After taking the paper, Erin reads the name. “Dr. Phillips?”

“Doesn't the name ring a bell?”

She nods in delayed recognition. “Of course. With everything that's happened, I forgot about going to see him.”

Briley stands when William enters with their lunch. “I was about to send out a search party.”

“I had to run up the back stairs,” William says, panting. “The reporters are everywhere. They're not getting much, but they're sure doing a lot of fishing.”

“The Tomassis,” Erin says, nodding. “I'm sure they'll be speaking to the press—when the time is right, that is.”

William halts before the gate in the bar and lifts his gaze to the high ceiling. “Wait—we're eating in
here?
”

“The judge said we could,” Erin answers, grinning. “Pretty fancy, huh?”

William shakes his head. “Just don't drop any crumbs on the table. I'll get rid of the trash before people start coming back in.” He sinks to the first pew and stares at Briley. “What will people think when they smell onion and bacon burgers?”

“Maybe they won't notice.” Briley accepts a burger from William, then looks back at Erin. “This doctor who called—I hope you weren't seeing him for anything serious.”

“Dr. Phillips is the geneticist Jeffrey asked me to see…you know, before he'd consider having a baby.” Erin's eyes glitter with unshed tears as she unwraps her hamburger. “I can't believe I'm hearing from him now. I gave him a DNA sample eight—no, ten weeks before Jeffrey died. I remember noticing that the leaves had just begun to change when I went to his office.”

Briley glances at William. “Doesn't exactly want to make you nominate Jeffrey Tomassi for father of the year, does it?”

“I can't blame Jeff for being cautious.” Erin's voice dissolves in a rough whisper. “After all, if my genes
were
defective, I wouldn't want to pass them on to an innocent child. I'm flawed in so many ways—”

Briley slams her hand onto the table. “Good grief, Erin, stop it. You're not flawed, but your husband was a jerk.” She takes a ragged breath, barely managing to tamp the irritation rising within her. “From this moment on, I don't want to hear you put yourself down. Your husband was wrong to
make you doubt yourself. Your mother was wrong to ridicule you. You're not stupid, you're not crazy. You're an intelligent woman, and it's time you stood up for yourself.”

Erin presses her hand over her mouth as her eyes fill with tears. Briley is afraid she's gone too far until William waves a snack bag toward their client and breaks the awkward silence. “Would you like some…chips?”

The question is so ordinary and innocuous that Erin laughs and Briley manages a wavering smile.

“Thank you.” Erin accepts the bag and looks at Briley. “What you just said…it's almost as if you believe I'm going to make it out of here.”

“You are going to make it.” Briley speaks with a confidence she's far from feeling, but what did Timothy say?
Faith is believing when everyone else has doubts
. So she'll believe. For Timothy. For Erin.

She turns sideways in her chair. “When I entered law school, I saw things as black or white, right or wrong, fair or unjust. I believed in lining up the facts and assembling a case theory from what I could see, hear, and authenticate. But if you say you didn't kill your husband, I'm going to fight to prove you didn't. And I won't quit until you walk out of this courthouse a free woman.”

Erin doesn't answer, but a glint of wonder fills her eyes.

And that glint speaks volumes.

B
riley settles back in her chair and tries to keep her face composed in pleasant lines as the state's attorney stands to give his opening statement. Fourteen carefully selected jurors have been seated in the box, and Briley takes comfort in knowing that Bystrowski is about as pleased as she is with the result.

Behind the counsel tables, dozens of observers, reporters, and members of the Tomassi family have jammed the gallery. Most of the Tomassis, like guests at a wedding, have chosen to sit on one side of the courtroom—the prosecution's.

Briley's gaze roves over the men and women who are part of the extended Tomassi family. Did they show this kind of loyalty to Jeffrey during his marriage? Erin says she tried to confide in her sisters-in-law about the abuse, but they wouldn't listen. Were they convinced Jeffrey could do no wrong?

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the prosecutor says, unbuttoning the top button on his coat, “my name is Travis Bystrowski, and I'm presenting this case on behalf of the citizens of Illinois. An opening statement—what I'm delivering now—is like the photo on a jigsaw puzzle box. It gives you an idea of what you're going to see once we put all the jumbled pieces of a case together. Some of the pieces may seem confusing, but if you'll be patient and bear with me, in time you'll see the big picture.

“What is the big picture in this case? It's simple. The state will prove that the woman seated at the defense table, Erin Tomassi, purposely murdered her husband with premedita
tion and malice. Why? Because her husband, Jeffrey Tomassi, had a problem with his temper. Because he loved his wife and didn't want a divorce. And because he wanted to run for a seat in the U.S. Congress. Erin Tomassi wanted no part of her husband's future life, and staging his death to look like an accident or suicide was the only way she could end the marriage and maintain her claim on Jeffrey's fortune.”

He rests his elbow on the lectern, undoubtedly attempting to appear relaxed and charming. “Ladies and gentlemen, over the course of this trial you will hear testimony that might lead a reasonable person to believe the Tomassi marriage endured a fair amount of domestic discord. We are willing to grant that the marriage was unhappy, but unhappiness is never an excuse for murder. The law provides women with several means of escape from an unsatisfactory marriage—divorce, separation, even legal protection. If the defendant truly felt threatened, she could have sought marriage counseling, but she did not. Erin Tomassi could have moved out of the family home. She could have filed for divorce and a restraining order. But she did none of those things.

“Instead, with malice and cunning, she attacked her husband while he slept. While he lay helpless in their marriage bed, she injected him with a massive overdose of his own medication, knowing that within moments he would be unable to respond or call for help.”

Bystrowski steps to the side of the counsel table, casually resting his hand on its surface. “Unfortunately, her plan succeeded. When she woke the next morning, Erin Tomassi did all the right things—she called 911, she wept, she claimed she had no idea what had happened to her husband. But the evidence demonstrates another reality, an inescapable truth. Erin Tomassi knew what an insulin overdose would do, and she knew it would be hard to detect. If not for the toxicology reports, if not for a vigilant father and a diligent medical examiner, she might be sitting on a beach right now, soaking up the sun and spending her husband's fortune.
But medical reports do not lie, science does not mislead, and we have apprehended the killer. After you hear the presentation of the evidence, you will understand why the state has charged Erin Tomassi with first-degree murder. It is your duty, ladies and gentlemen, to ensure that justice is enacted in this courtroom.”

In a silence that is the holding of breaths, Briley waits until Bystrowski takes his seat, then she stands and walks toward the lectern. “The prosecution,” she begins, “has told you a story and described it as the picture on a puzzle box, but I'd like to tell you a story that results in a far different picture. It's the story of a young girl from a rough part of town, a young woman who was swept off her feet by a handsome and charismatic young man. That girl is the defendant in this case, Erin Wilson Tomassi. All she ever wanted out of life was a happy home, children, and an opportunity to help other people. With Jeffrey Tomassi, she thought she had found someone who wanted the same things.

“Erin hadn't been married long before she discovered that Jeffrey Tomassi was not quite a knight in shining armor. His words became sharp, his glance hard. He began to grip her arm more tightly than was necessary, and even to push her when she didn't move quickly enough.

“Then he began to hit her.” Briley pauses, waiting for her words to sink in. “Jeffrey Tomassi was careful never to injure his wife where others might see. He learned to aim for the thighs, the soft part of the belly, the ribs. Erin learned to stifle her cries in order to protect her husband's reputation. She kept silent, because she had no one to intervene on her behalf—her father was dead, her brother mentally challenged, her mother an alcoholic. The Tomassis—a large, warm family who had welcomed Erin with open arms—turned a deaf ear when she tried to tell them about the violent abuse that had invaded her marriage.

“So she learned to suffer in silence. And one morning, after a particularly bad beating, Erin woke early, tiptoed out
of bed, and crept into the kitchen. When Jeffrey didn't appear to demand his breakfast, she went to check on him…and found him dead. She called 911 in a panic, she tried to administer CPR, she rode with the ambulance to the hospital. She sat in the morgue, shocked into grief, waiting for someone to explain why her strong and healthy husband stopped breathing in the middle of the night.

“Erin Wilson Tomassi did not murder her husband.” Briley looks down the first row of jurors, meeting the gaze of each somber individual before shifting to the next person. “The prosecution says they can prove Erin is a killer. They say she killed him because murder was her only way out of an unhappy marriage. But we will demonstrate that Erin
couldn't
kill him. On the night in question, she had been badly beaten. She was in so much pain that she went into her bathroom and took a double dose of sleeping pills. She went to bed and didn't wake until morning. She did not murder him. Why do I say that? Because no matter how many times Jeffrey hit her, she still loved him.”

Briley pauses beside the lectern, knowing that the jurors are looking in Erin's direction when they look at her. “Erin Tomassi did not commit murder. Perhaps the victim injected himself, perhaps an intruder entered the house. Jeffrey Tomassi's death may have been a suicide, a murder, or an accident. We don't know, because we don't have all the facts. We may never have all the facts. But our duty in this courtroom is to tell Erin's story. After hearing it, you'll understand that my client did not, could not, kill anyone.”

 

The prosecutor calls his first witness.

Briley opens her trial notebook and picks up a pen as Detective Mark Malone steps out of the gallery and takes the stand. Bystrowski begins his examination, first laying a foundation to establish the cop's expertise and experience,
then he begins to question him about the morning he examined Jeffrey Tomassi's body. The detective testifies that rigor mortis had set in by the time he arrived, so the man obviously died sometime during the night. He also testifies about the alarm system, the security cameras, and the videotapes that did not reveal any intruder. When Bystrowski asks, Malone tells the jury that the police took several hair samples from the crime scene and the crime lab later reported that DNA from the samples matched Jeffrey Tomassi and his wife. Finally, Bystrowski asks about the syringe discovered in the bathroom trash—a syringe marked with a partial print from Erin Tomassi's thumb.

While Bystrowski goes through the routine of having the evidence marked for identification and entered into evidence, Briley looks at her client. Erin has been mostly silent during the trial, her eyes centered either in her lap or on the witness box. She does not, Briley notices, look at the jury, as if she's afraid of what she might see in their eyes.

Briley needs to tell Erin to keep her chin up and look more confident. She makes a note on her legal pad:
Fake it till you feel it
.

Bystrowski leaves his latest evidence bags with the clerk, then steps back to the lectern. “Detective, in your examination of the many objects gathered at the crime scene, did you find anything to indicate that anyone other than the victim and the defendant were present at the scene?”

“We found a few other latent fingerprints, which were subsequently identified as the housekeeper's. Nothing else.”

“Thank you, Detective.” The prosecutor nods at the jury, then moves back to his counsel table.

Briley's pulse quickens when the judge looks her way. “Ms. Lester, you may cross-examine the witness.”

Conscious of the pressure of dozens of curious eyes, she stands and moves to the lectern. “Thank you, Detective Malone, for your fine work on this case. In your examination of the Tomassi home's exterior, you testified that you
saw no footprints in the flower beds. Do you recall if those areas were covered with mulch?”

The policeman tugs on his shirt collar. “I'm not sure.”

“Let me show you this photo. Perhaps I can refresh your memory.” She pulls a photograph from her folio and glances at the judge. “May I approach?”

“You may.”

“Now, Detective—” Briley shows the photo to the man in the witness box “—do you recognize this property?”

“Yes, it's the crime scene.”

“I should remind you, sir, that we haven't established that a crime has been committed. Can you identify this property by address?”

The detective checks his notes. “It's 944 Montana Street in Lincoln Park. Home of Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrey Tomassi.”

“Thank you. Now, if you will, please examine the leafless shrubbery next to the front door. Isn't that mulch on the ground?”

The detective props his reading glasses on the end of his nose, sucks at the inside of his cheek, and grunts. “Looks like it.”

“It is, isn't it? And isn't it true that pine bark mulch wouldn't reveal an intruder's footprint if one existed?”

The cop scowls at her. “We checked the ground-floor windows. No one forced an entry.”

“You didn't answer my question. If an intruder entered that house through an unlocked window, he wouldn't leave any footprints, would he?”

“He might not have left a footprint, but if he'd been in that bedroom, he would have touched something. He would have left some trace of his presence. Fingerprints, at least.”

“Unless he was wearing gloves.”

The detective's scowl deepens as Bystrowski stands. “Objection, Your Honor. Where's the question?”

The judge gives Briley a warning look. “Objection sustained.”

“Thank you, Your Honor, I do have a question. In your examination of the windows, Detective, do you recall noticing if any of them were unlocked?”

Malone's face goes blank for an instant. “I don't recall.”

“Did you check the windows?”

“We looked for signs of a break-in. We found no evidence of forced entry.”

“So you never actually tested the windows, correct? To see if any of them were unlocked?”

“No, we didn't test the windows.”

“Did you spend much time examining the kitchen?”

Malone yanks on his tie. “No, ma'am. We found the victim in the bedroom, so we designated that as the crime scene. Nothing in the kitchen appeared out of place. Ditto for the guest room and the living room.”

“Did you empty the trash cans throughout the home? Did you go through the trash compactor?”

“We saw no need to turn the house upside down.”

“Later, when you read the autopsy report—a document stipulated to be admissible by me and the prosecutor—did you find yourself wishing you had checked the kitchen compactor? Or the trash cans outside?”

“Lady,” the detective drawls, “I don't know what you mean.”

Briley forces a smile. “Have you read the autopsy report?”

“Yes. So?”

“According to the medical examiner's report, what was Jeffrey Tomassi's cause of death?”

The cop drapes both arms over the chair's armrests. “Insulin overdose.”

“So don't you wish you'd checked those other waste receptacles? Isn't it possible that you left the house without discovering the actual murder weapon?”

The cop eases back in his chair, his irritated expression shifting into one of bored tolerance. “What if Santa Claus did it? That'd be mighty convenient, but highly unlikely.”

Briley ignores a wave of twittering from the jury box. “Detective Malone, you testified that you found a sharps disposal unit. Where did you find it?”

“Under the bathroom sink.”

“And in it you found how many syringes?”

“Twenty-two.”