Let Darkness Come (22 page)

“What do you know of the conversation between your assistant and Antonio Tomassi?”

“Objection!” Bystrowski is on his feet again. “This is still hearsay, Your Honor.”

The judge looks at Briley as if he would read her mind if he could…and she wishes she could let him. William spoke to the M.E.'s assistant; she knows what transpired after Jeffrey died. She wants Dr. Drew to admit that Antonio Tomassi went to the morgue and made veiled threats. She wants the jury to see what the Tomassis are really like.

“I'll allow it,” Trask says, nodding in Briley's direction. “But the jury needs to understand that this testimony is not offered as proof of the matters asserted.”

Briley turns to the man in the witness chair. “What can you tell us about the conversation between Antonio Tomassi and your assistant?”

The medical examiner's lips thin with irritation. “As best I can recall, Mr. Tomassi wanted to know the autopsy findings as soon as possible. My assistant assured him we would handle the case in an expeditious manner and asked if his son had any medical conditions that could have been life-threatening. At that point, Mr. Tomassi said his son had been a diabetic.”

Briley blinks, distracted by the answer. “So—so that's how you knew to check the insulin levels?”

“Correct. If we hadn't known—” He lifts his hands. “Someone might have gotten away with—”

“That's all I have for this witness.” Briley turns on the ball of her foot. “Thank you.”

The judge nods at the prosecutor. “Any redirect, Mr. Bystrowski?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Dr. Drew—” Bystrowski steps in front of his counsel table, in full view of the jury “—do you or the police have any medical proof that the defendant took two Ambien as she claimed?”

“To my knowledge, Mrs. Tomassi was never tested for the presence of drugs in her system.”

“So you have only her word to support this statement?”

The medical examiner smiles at the jury. “That's my understanding.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The judge looks at Briley, silently asking if she has anything further. When she shakes her head, he folds his hands. “The witness may step down.”

 

The trial progresses throughout the afternoon, and Briley rides an emotional roller coaster as Bystrowski calls witness after witness. Jeffrey Tomassi's doctor testifies that the decedent had managed his diabetes successfully for more than twenty years, undercutting her theory of accidental death. Allegra Tomassi, a cousin of the deceased, testifies that a jubilant Jeffrey called her after asking Erin to marry him, and that he had been “deeply, passionately in love with the woman.” A priest at the family's church testifies that Jeffrey would never have divorced his wife because he believed marriage was a divine institution intended to last a lifetime. And since the church considered suicide a mortal sin, Jeffrey would
never
have considered taking his own life.

When it's time to cross-examine the priest, Briley is tempted to ask if the man knew about Jeffrey's affairs or his insistence that Erin use birth control. But the prosecutor hasn't raised those issues, and she doesn't want to offend any Catholics who might be sitting in the jury box. So the priest gets a free pass, though she may want to recall him later.

Terry Rhodes, Jeffrey Tomassi's campaign manager, tes
tifies that on the night of December 2, Jeffrey had been upbeat and optimistic about the future.

“Did you ever know the victim to be depressed?” Bystrowski asks.

“No,” Rhodes answers. “I've never met a more determined man than Jeffrey Tomassi. He was planning to win the coming election, and he had dreams far beyond the U.S. Congress. He would have fulfilled those dreams, too. He was that kind of man—he reached out and took what he wanted.”

Briley crosses her arms and struggles to keep her disappointment from showing in her face. She had hoped the possibility of suicide might provide the jury with reasonable doubt, but after this testimony they may not even consider the idea. Bystrowski is methodically eliminating all possible answers for Tomassi's unexplained death—except premeditated murder.

Still, she has to take a chance.

“Your witness.” Bystrowski nods at Briley as he returns from examining Terry Rhodes. His head is angled away from the jury, so they can't see the smug expression on his face.

Briley hesitates, then stands. “Mr. Rhodes, how would you describe the state of the Tomassis' marriage?”

A flicker of uncertainty moves across the man's features. “They appeared happy.”

“Really?” Briley looks at Bystrowski, knowing that eventually he will try to establish abuse as Erin's motive for murder. Erin has mentioned Terry Rhodes; he has seen Jeffrey's brutality. Will he bear witness to it?

Briley steps out from behind the defense table and turns to survey the gallery. On the left side of the room, behind the prosecution's table, rows and rows of well-heeled Tomassis watch the proceedings with tight expressions. On the other side, dozens of reporters take notes and mind their digital recorders. Where are the people who will speak for Erin?

She lifts her chin and walks to the lectern. “Mr. Rhodes, did you spend much time with Jeffrey and Erin Tomassi together? As a couple?”

Rhodes glances at the men and women in the jury box. “Yes, I did. Like I said, they seemed happy enough.”

“Would you characterize your relationship with Jeffrey as close?”

“Sure.” Rhodes crosses one leg. “We were good friends.”

“Did he confide in you?”

Rhodes adopts a thoughtful look. “He did. Probably more than anyone else, except perhaps his brother.”

Briley smiles. “Since you were so close, were you aware that Jeffrey had a habit of beating his wife?”

She holds her breath, waiting for the objection. The domestic violence hasn't been established, so Bystrowski ought to be on his feet…unless he is planning to introduce the abuse later.

Rhodes draws in his chin and glances at Bystrowski. A buzz rises from the gallery on the prosecution's side, while delighted gasps rise from the reporters behind Erin.

The judge calls for order. When the courtroom has quieted, Briley relaxes and repeats her question. The prosecutor was probably planning to save this revelation, preferring to use Rhodes to reinforce his contention that Jeffrey couldn't have committed suicide. But while Bystrowski may want to portray the victim as an innocent choirboy, Briley wants the jury to know the truth. If Rhodes denies the abuse, anything he says can be called into question.

Rhodes glances at the floor, then lifts his head and looks Briley in the eye. “I never saw any evidence of violence.”

Her jaw drops in pretended surprise. “Really? Did you never see Jeffrey strike Erin?”

Rhodes looks at Bystrowski again, but Briley steps in front of the prosecutor's table, blocking the witness's line of vision. “Mr. Rhodes? Did you ever see Jeffrey Tomassi hit his wife?”

Rhodes leans forward as a dusky flush rises from his collar. “I saw something once. It certainly didn't happen often.”

“How do you know? Were you with the couple twenty-four hours a day?”

“I was with them a lot.” He glances from Briley to Bystrowski, then sighs. “Look, I know he beat on her, okay? I even tried to comfort her once, but she blew me off. I figured she had learned to live with it because, like I said, it didn't happen often. Jeff had a quick temper, that's all. A lot of powerful people do.”

Satisfied, Briley turns toward the defense table. “I have no additional questions for this witness.”

B
riley glances at her watch, alarmed by signs of fidgeting among the jurors. The day has been long and the jurors are restless, but Judge Trask seems intent to get this trial finished as quickly as possible. Bystrowski has called almost every witness on the list he sent over for discovery, but the hour is so late—

“Your Honor,” Bystrowski says, standing, “the prosecution would like to call Douglas Haddock to the stand.”

Briley turns as the man comes through the double doors at the back of the courtroom. He does not glance at the defense table as he strides forward.

Erin grips Briley's wrist. “Who is that?” she asks, hissing through clenched teeth.

In order to keep the jury from being distracted by whispering, Briley writes her answer on her legal pad and slides it toward her client:
You don't know him?

Erin shakes her head.

Briley leans back in her chair. She can understand why Bystrowski might call the man to testify, but why would Haddock agree unless compelled by subpoena? She glances around the courtroom, seeking some clue, but every eye is fixed on the shaggy-haired man who doesn't seem at all reluctant to enter the witness box.

Haddock takes the oath and blinks beneath ragged bangs as the prosecutor rises. “Mr. Haddock,” Bystrowski begins, “do you know a woman named Erin Tomassi?”

The witness leans forward and bumps the microphone with his chin. “Um, I used to. In college she was Erin Wilson.”

“How well did you know Ms. Wilson?”

“Not well, actually. But one night she sent me to the emergency room for stitches.”

The jurors gasp, and several look at Erin with accusation in their eyes.

Briley stands to object. “Your Honor, this testimony is irrelevant and prejudicial. One isolated incident does not, cannot, establish character or habit.”

The judge tents his hands in a moment of consideration, then he nods. “I hear what you're saying, but I believe the testimony has probative value. I'll allow it.”

Travis Bystrowski can't resist shooting Briley a triumphant look. He locks his hands behind his back and gives his witness an approving smile. “What happened that night?”

Haddock folds his hands like a proper schoolboy. “We met at a bar. She was drinking—she was drunk, actually—and we were hitting it off. So I took her back to my dorm room and hung a tie on the door, if you know what I mean. Everything was fine, but then she hauls off and hits me in the head with a lamp. I backed away, seeing stars, and she ran out of the room. My roommate had to take me to the hospital for stitches.”

Bystrowski gapes as if astounded by this bit of news. “Later, did the defendant offer any sort of explanation?”

“I never saw her again. Never wanted to. That was one freaky girl.”

“Your Honor!” Briley is on her feet again. “I must protest this characterization of my client!”

“Objection sustained.” The judge looks at Doug Haddock. “The witness should confine himself to relating facts.”

Bystrowski doesn't miss a beat. “Did you do anything to the defendant—anything that might provoke such a reaction?”

“No way. I thought she was into me. I thought we were going to have a good time and then, blam!”

Bystrowski casts a look of well-mannered dislike in
Erin's direction, then returns his attention to his witness. “Would you say Erin Wilson Tomassi possesses an explosive temper?”

“Objection!” Briley stands, exhaling in frustration. “Counsel is leading the witness.”

“Objection overruled.”

She watches in disbelief as Haddock wags his shaggy head. “That's a good way to describe it. Explosive.”

Briley's had unfair judges before, but Trask is railroading her client. Is he on Tomassi's payroll, too?

“Were you surprised,” Bystrowski continues, “to learn that Erin Wilson Tomassi had been charged with the murder of her husband?”

Haddock chuffs. “I wasn't surprised at all. After what I went through, I felt sorry for the guy who married her.”

“Thank you, Mr. Haddock. I have no further questions for this witness.”

Briley springs to her feet. “Mr. Haddock—” her heels click over the hard floor as she barrels toward him “—do you recall the occasion when you first learned that Erin Tomassi had been charged with murder?”

His forehead crinkles. “Um…maybe it was on the news?”

“All right, perhaps it was.” She crosses her arms and draws a quivering breath, barely mastering the anger threatening to rattle her. “Do you recall a conversation you and I had a few weeks ago, when I visited you at your place of employment?”

The man tilts his head as if struggling to remember. “I remember.”

“We talked about this incident with the lamp, didn't we?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember taking an oath a moment ago? A vow to tell the
whole
truth?”

He squints. “I do.”

“Then let's continue the story of the girl and the lamp. This time, let's share the whole truth with the jury.”

He screws his face into a question mark. “What truth are you talking about?”

Briley draws a quick breath. How should she handle this? Doug Haddock never gave her the entire story; she needed John Savage to fill in the blanks about the roofie and how Erin acted in self-defense. But Savage isn't here, and he's not on the witness list. She could call him to testify, but she'll need time to reach him.

The odds of getting Doug Haddock to disclose his crime are about a million to one. Perry Mason had no problem getting criminals to confess in the courtroom, but she's not Perry Mason.

“Mr. Haddock,” she continues, speaking more slowly now, “isn't it true that Erin Wilson Tomassi was
not
‘into you'? And she wasn't drunk that night, yet she was under the influence of a drug because you slipped a roofie—otherwise known as Rohypnol, or the date rape drug—into her drink when she went to the ladies' room. Isn't that true?”

Haddock's expression shifts to one of aggrieved horror. “I would never do a thing like that.”

Briley pins him with a sharp look. “You testified that Erin Wilson assaulted you without cause. Did you report this assault?”

“I did. I reported it to campus security.”

“What was the result of your report? Was Erin expelled from school? Reprimanded in some way?”

Haddock lifts one burly shoulder in a shrug. “I doubt it. The next morning, I'd cooled off and figured she wasn't worth the hassle. I called the security office and had them drop my complaint.”

“Isn't it true that you dropped your complaint because you didn't want to be accused of taking a barely conscious woman back to your room with the intention of raping her?”

“That's not true. Who's saying that it is?”

Briley grits her teeth, fighting the urge to fling her answer in this man's face. She cannot lose control, nor can she
respond to this witness by telling him to shut up because she's the lawyer and she gets to ask the questions.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Haddock—” she lifts her chin “—but the rules of evidence do not permit me to answer your question. If they did, I'd be happy to explain.”

As Bystrowski roars out another objection, Briley wraps herself in the rags of her dignity and retreats to the defense table.

 

Briley sits at the defense table, hunched over her trial notebook. The day has been long and emotional, leaving her mind thick with fatigue. She has experienced a few victories, but they seem small and inconsequential when compared with her many blunders.

She rests her chin on her hand and stares at the door through which Erin and the bailiff disappeared at the end of the day. Erin actually thanked her before leaving, which only proves that the woman has no idea how much trouble she's in.

“You still here?”

She glances over her shoulder to see who's spoken. The room has finally emptied, but here comes Bystrowski, probably eager for a chance to gloat.

“I'm here,” she says, closing her notebook so he won't be tempted to read over her shoulder. “I thought I'd go over my notes for tomorrow.”

He walks through the swinging gate and grins at her. “Come on, Briley, 'fess up. I know what you're feeling—I felt wrung out at the end of day one of my first capital case, too. I wanted to crawl into a hole and not come out.”

She tilts her head, amazed by his honesty. “You mean the great Bystrowski gets beat up, too?”

“I mean, you win some, you lose some…and some days you should've stayed in bed.” He picks up a folder someone has dropped on the floor by his table, then taps it against his palm. “Gotta study for tomorrow. You should go home and get some rest.”

“Maybe I need to study, too.”

“You're doing fine.” He heads toward the door, waving the folder at her as he goes. “The press is still pretty thick out front, if that's what you're worried about. You could go out the side entrance if you want to avoid them.”

The man has read her mind. Briley exhales a deep breath, slips her trial notebook into her briefcase, and stands to put on her coat. The courtroom, always impressive, is even more intimidating in the silence. She turns from the carved wood of the ornate judge's bench and trudges toward the double doors, dwarfed by the soaring ceiling and ornate pilasters.

In the wide hallway, she looks left and right. A couple of men in trench coats stand at the end of the space, and a woman is coming up the wide stairs. Since those stairs and the elevator will take Briley to the public lobby on the first floor, she turns left and walks to a narrow staircase that leads to an unimposing side entrance most often used by lawyers in a hurry.

She opens the fire door and enters the stairwell, her thoughts as heavy as her steps. Not only did she make several stupid mistakes today, but she's begun to believe that Judge Trask is deliberately favoring Bystrowski. He's an experienced jurist, so he'll be careful not to do anything too obvious, but she's going to have to make sure all her objections remain on the record. If they lose and this case goes before an appellate court, other judges will be weighing in on her objections and Trask's rulings….

She slows on the sixth-floor landing when she hears a door close overhead. Someone else has entered the stairwell…probably another weary lawyer who's eager to avoid the reporters out front. Or maybe it's Bystrowski, looking for her. She stops, expecting to hear someone call her name, but the person above her halts in midstep…as if listening.

Why would anyone do that? She's imagining things.

Briley shakes her head and continues down the stairs. She ought to scan the newspaper to see what other trials are
being held here this week. She's been positively myopic since beginning this case, with no time for anything but reading and thinking—

Her heart begins to pound when she hears the footsteps again. What are the odds that some other lawyer waited so late to leave the building? The other person could be a judge or a clerk, but why are his or her steps keeping time with Briley's?

She quickens her pace and continues down the staircase, passing the fifth-floor landing. The air here is heavy, cold, and still, filled with a hushed malevolence that chills her to the marrow.

On a whim, she exits at the fourth-floor landing and hurries into the hallway. She passes several doors and breathes a sigh of relief when she spies the ladies' room.

Briley darts into the restroom and hurries through the small lounge. Her pumps clunk against the tile floor, an ordinary, comforting sound. She slips into one of the stalls and latches the door, then stands in the silence, her hands pressed to the painted surface. Every muscle tenses when she hears the door open, followed by the comforting splash of running water.

She takes a deep breath and forbids herself to tremble. Some secretary is rinsing out a coffeepot or washing her hands, that's all. No one is pursuing her, nothing has gone wrong.

Still, she waits until the water stops running and the door opens again. Then she exhales a deep breath and unlatches the door, knowing that William and Kate will hoot when they hear how thoroughly she's managed to spook herself.

She steps out of the stall and flinches when she sees herself reflected in the restroom mirrors. Her face is as pale as Erin's, her eyes are as wide, her makeup is long gone. She steps forward and lowers her head to search for a lipstick at the bottom of her purse.

Without warning, someone rushes at her from the next stall. Briley squeaks out a gasp, but a hand claps over her mouth, a hand clad in leather.

A masculine form wrapped in a trench coat shoves her against the tile wall. A red ski mask covers the facial features, but the words are clear as the intruder spills vile breath into her face. “She's not worth it,” he growls, flinty eyes burning through slits in the knitted fabric. “So let the slut die.”