Let Darkness Come (5 page)

She exhales in a rush. “Hard to believe that banquet was only nine days ago.”

When a question slips into Erin's eyes, Briley smiles. “I
was there—I saw you. When you were dancing with your husband, I thought you looked like the perfect pair.”

The widow averts her gaze. “You must have been sitting in the back,” she says, her voice strangled. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

“So I've learned.” Briley notices the gooseflesh on the woman's lower arms. “If I were you, I'd buy a long-sleeved T-shirt at the commissary. They don't spend a lot to heat this building.”

Erin rubs her arms again. “I've been warned about that, but I don't have any money. They wouldn't let me bring anything from the house.”

Briley pulls out her wallet and slides twenty dollars from the cash compartment. “I'll deposit this in your account before I leave. We don't want you getting sick.”

A flush brightens Erin's cheek. “I'll pay you back.”

“Don't worry about it. Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton wants to take care of its clients.”

The woman rubs her nose, then glances toward the painted door. “What happens next?”

“I leave here to go before the judge and inquire about bail. First thing Monday morning, we go to court for your arraignment, where you'll make your plea.”

“I didn't do it.” Erin's chin quivers as her gaze moves into Briley's. “I'd stand in the middle of Michigan Avenue and shout it at the top of my lungs if I thought it would do any good.”

If that statement is meant to impress Briley, it falls far short. “Unfortunately, this building is crammed with women who'd be willing to do the same thing.”

“I'm not a murderer. If you could look into my soul, you'd see that.” A fresh wave of misery darkens Erin's oval face. “Our marriage may not have been the best, but I'd never hurt Jeffrey. I couldn't.”

Briley lifts a warning finger. “We can talk about your marriage later, but don't breathe a word about it outside this
room. As for your representation, you can relax. Your father-in-law called our firm, confident that they'd put the best possible lawyer on the job. You'll be working with one of the premier defense attorneys in Chicago.”

A worry line appears between the woman's brows. “You're either really overconfident or you think someone else is going to be my lawyer.”

Briley smiles as she clicks off her recorder. “I'm only one attorney among many at Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton. I go where I'm told, and an hour ago I was told to come down here.”

“Are you saying my case looks so hopeless you wouldn't
want
to represent me?”

“You shouldn't want me to be your attorney,” Briley answers, pulling her purse onto her lap. “I usually handle lower-profile trials—kids in trouble for shoplifting, assault, vandalism, that sort of thing. I've never defended anyone against a murder charge.”

A shadow enters the woman's blue eyes. “So my case will be up for grabs.” She drops her head into her hands. “I might as well give up. No one will want to defend me. And no one's going to believe I didn't kill their beloved state senator.”

“Don't say that.” Briley glances toward the door. Erin Tomassi's helpless act seems sincere, but it's completely unnecessary. Why doesn't she save her theatrics for the judge and jury?

She lifts her purse and stands. “I'm sure my firm's partners will select the attorney best equipped to handle your situation,” she says, firming her voice. “Until they do, I'll do my best for you.”

She moves to the door and raps on the window, ready to move on.

“P
apa? Are you listening?”

Antonio turns from the window and looks at his only surviving son. Jason sits on the other side of the car, in Jeffrey's form, with Jeffrey's eyes. “What did you say?”

Jason covers the mouthpiece of the cell phone. “It's a lawyer from the firm. She wants to know if you're willing to put up bail for Erin.”

Antonio shifts his gaze back to the window, watching as the driver steers around a creeping city bus.

Put up money for the woman who killed the light of his life? He'd sooner cut off his right hand. Erin can rot in jail, for all he cares. Better yet, she can die on a gurney. Or even in the electric chair, if Illinois officials can be convinced to use it again.

Jason murmurs a response into the phone, but Antonio turns his thoughts inward. These days, he's finding it hard to care about anything—his work, his daughters, even his remaining son. Jason is a good man, dependable and solid, but he will always be a beta animal. He lacks Jeffrey's intelligence and strength of will. He lacks charisma.

He smiles, remembering the dark-headed twosome who shared a bedroom until they left home for college. As babies, the twins were as alike as two halves of an apple, a perfect binary star, but Jeffrey walked first, establishing himself as the controlling body in their small system. Brighter than Jason, and more naturally inquisitive, Jeffrey delighted his nannies, his teachers, and his girlfriends with his cheerful
demeanor and classic good looks. Jason was a pleasant lad, but when standing next to Jeffrey, he always seemed like a faded copy of the original: attractive enough at first glance, but definitely less sharp.

Before the boys turned sixteen, Antonio knew Jeffrey would be the one to lead the family to greatness. Jason would always be a reliable assistant for his brother, an RFK to a future JFK. One brother destined to forge a path, the other to follow and reinforce it. And that's what they did, rising to positions of leadership in student government, college athletics, and the property development business. Three years ago, Jeffrey ran for a senate seat in the Illinois General Assembly and Jason served as his campaign manager. They held their linked hands high at the victory party, two men closer to each other than either could ever be to a wife…for nothing could compete with the intimacy of twins. Antonio understood their relationship and respected it. He often thought his boys could read each other's mind. If that kind of closeness gave them an advantage, so be it.

Outside the car, a cacophony yammers for Antonio's attention—a jackhammer shredding a sidewalk, a traffic cop blowing his whistle, the whine of an approaching ambulance—but none of those things interest him. He lets his head fall back as his concentration dissipates in a wave of fatigue. A cocoon of anguish has enveloped him ever since hearing the awful news, and this morning's announcement has only deepened his grief. Erin's fingerprints were on the insulin bottle, the police said, and also on the syringe.

The sweet, helpless girl he welcomed into his family has murdered his beautiful boy.

He closes his eyes and studies the memory of the last night he spent with his son. He had gone upstairs to see if Jeffrey and Erin were ready to come down, but after letting himself into the hotel suite he heard angry voices. The two of them stood in the living room, both of them dressed in formal wear, but tears streaked a flaming handprint on Erin's
cheek. Jeffrey wore a hard look of frustration, an expression Antonio had seen many times.

“What's going on here?” Antonio glanced from his son to his daughter-in-law, waiting for an answer. “Jeffrey?”

“It's a private matter.” Jeff tore his gaze from his wife's stricken face. “Is everything ready downstairs?”

Antonio looked at Erin, silently inviting her to give her side of the story, but she lowered her head and refused to meet his gaze. “Everything's ready,” he finally answered, slipping his hands into his pockets. He moved toward the sofa table as Erin swiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. He offered a handkerchief. “You okay?”

She sniffed and waved away his help.

“Why don't you go fix your face.” He jerked his thumb toward the bedroom. “I need to talk to our boy.”

His daughter-in-law bowed her head and moved to the other room, her long skirt swishing in the silence. When the door clicked behind her, Antonio rounded on his son. “What are you doing?”

Jeffrey's brows slanted in a frown. “What?”

“You are ten minutes from one of the most important nights of your life, and you've made your wife cry.”

A wall appeared behind Jeff's eyes. “Leave it alone, Papa.”

“How can I? Someone has to correct you.”

Jeffrey moved to the mirror and adjusted his tie. “She's my wife,” he said, his voice as cool as an assassin's. “A man's allowed to control his wife.”

“In private, sure. But in public, you watch yourself, because people notice every little thing. Everyone knows politics is a dirty business and couples have disagreements during a campaign. But when you are minutes away from a public appearance, you control
yourself
. You tamp down your irritation, you wait to put your wife back in line. When you're in front of strangers, you treat that girl like a priceless porcelain doll.”

Jeff smoothed the pleats on his starched shirt. “You
don't have any idea what it's like to be married to a spineless woman.”

“Erin may not be as weak as you think. And yes, your mama was strong, but only after I taught her what strength is.”

Jeffrey turned away from the mirror. “Erin's about as strong as tissue paper. If I don't keep her on a tight leash, she's going to do something to bring our entire operation crashing down.”

Antonio stared, tongue-tied, as the bedroom door opened. Erin appeared in the doorway, her face clean and powdered, her hair shining, her eyes modestly cast down. She looked like a princess—or, better yet, a future First Lady.

“That's more like it.” He beamed at his daughter-in-law and hurried to draw her into his arms. After giving her a hug and planting a kiss on her velvet cheek, he stepped back. “You look perfect, my dear, and tonight people are going to stand in line to shake your hand. And Jeffrey is going to treat you with kindness and respect, aren't you, son?”

Beside him, Jeffrey rolled his eyes in bored acquiescence. “You don't have to worry.” He flicked a piece of lint from the shoulder of his tuxedo, then stepped around to grip Erin's free hand. “I'm sure we'll look like the perfect couple.”

“Yes,” Erin added, her voice oddly flat. “We have to knock them dead.”

A shiver spreads over Antonio as the memory edges his teeth. Had her words been a warning he'd been too blind to see?

J
oseph Franklin looks up from the open book on his desk when Briley raps on his door. “Miss Lester! How'd it go with Erin Tomassi?”

“Fine…but Mrs. Tomassi was pretty shaken up when we couldn't meet bail. She's dreading the idea of spending Christmas in jail.” Briley steps into the office and wanders to the empty space between the guest chair and the doorway. She's been invited to sit before Franklin's desk exactly three times, and she's not likely to extend her record today.

“What was the bail amount?”

“A million even.”

Franklin taps the tips of his fingers together. “She couldn't handle a hundred grand?”

“No, sir. The estate's been frozen, so she can't access the joint accounts. I thought her father-in-law might want to help her out—”

“I wouldn't count on any help from Antonio. He called us to represent her, but we may not hear from him again. If the state's attorney assembles a solid case, Antonio isn't likely to continue supporting the woman who murdered his son.”

Briley swallows hard. “I—I didn't know he'd had a change of heart. Anyway, Mrs. Tomassi insists she's innocent. I compiled my notes into a case file if you want to take a look.”

She holds her breath, waiting for him to say he's assigning the case to one of the partners. If he gives the case to John Morton, she might plead for a spot on the team, even
accepting third chair. She won't have much experience to offer, but she could learn a lot while watching a master defend a capital case….

Franklin stares mindlessly at the file folder in her grip, then he lifts his hand in an abrupt wave. “The case is yours, Lester. Give it your best shot.”

Briley blinks. “You mean…I'm on the team. Who's first chair?”

“You are.”

“But I'm not qualified.”

“You're an excellent attorney, you'll provide high-quality legal representation, and you have to start somewhere.”

“But my schedule is crammed. The average attorney working on a death penalty case invests nearly nineteen hundred hours before proceeding to trial—”

“We'll clear your other cases.” Franklin smiles a grim little grin and returns his gaze to his book. “Keep me informed as to your progress.”

Briley back-steps toward the door as a tremor of mingled fear and anticipation rattles her bones. He really means to assign her to this case?

“Mr. Franklin?” She halts, her voice wavering in the spacious room. “You do realize I've never handled a murder trial?”

Franklin has the audacity—or the confidence—to grin at her again. “I'm not worried about you. Female defendant, female lawyer, both about the same age…It's a good fit. So get busy.”

“But—” She hesitates, remembering the strobic play of flashing cameras at the senator's fundraiser. The Tomassis are political royalty in Chicago, and the sight of their princess in handcuffs and shackles will draw the paparazzi like Paris Hilton at the Los Angeles county jail. Briley is willing to tackle a death penalty case, but this one will include so many distractions….

“Listen,” Franklin says, a muscle flicking at his jaw, “do you remember when you interviewed for this firm?”

She stares, caught off guard by the unexpected warmth in his voice. Why is he suddenly waxing nostalgic?

“I remember—” he points toward the conference table at the side of his cavernous office “—you sitting over there and telling the partners you only had one hero growing up…your father. Do you remember saying you wanted to be like him?”

Still mystified by his motive, she nods.

“I've never forgotten that interview. You set quite a challenging example when you told us your father sacrificed his life on a mission to help someone else. That's why we're here, Briley. That's why we defend our clients. Because we want to make sure every individual who needs a defender gets one.” He folds his hands over his book. “Now—do you really want me to give the Tomassi case to Jim Myers?”

Ah…he's baiting her with guilt. Testing her fighting spirit. And he's bluffing, because Myers has even less courtroom experience than she does.

But she can rise to the challenge. With a good support team behind her, she ought to be able to see it through. She is, after all, her father's daughter, and she meant every word she said in that interview.

Briley lifts her chin. “I think I can handle this case.”

“Then get busy. And close the door on your way out, will you?”

Briley grips the file, shuts the door, and strides toward the elevator. Her pulse pounds with the knowledge that finally, after three years in this firm, Joe Franklin has noticed her mostly successful record of defending car thieves and child abusers, school bullies and drug users. Maybe he took special note of her only celebrity case, in which she successfully defended a rap star against charges of sexual assault. The client's raunchy video had soured her stomach, but the alleged victim recanted under cross-examination, forcing the judge to dismiss the complaint and free her client.

That afternoon, she'd felt like Ben Matlock's heir apparent.

Maybe she has finally begun to climb the ladder of success. And if it takes the uncomplaining representation of Erin Tomassi to move Briley's office from the second floor to the third, then the partners of Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton are about to see the formation of a spectacular defense.

 

Briley's blood is still swimming in adrenaline when she returns to her desk, but her enthusiasm flickers once she sinks into her chair and gazes at the files stacked pell-mell on her bookshelves. If Joseph Franklin intends to trust her with a high-profile capital case, it can't be because he's been impressed with her record of defending teenage joyriders and drunk-driving businessmen. So why has he assigned her to this trial?

She swivels toward the window and stares at a bland apartment building as her brain arrives at one inescapable conclusion: Her weepy client was right. No defense attorney in her right mind would want this case, because no one will believe Erin Tomassi didn't kill her husband. But lawyers aren't allowed to give up, and associates aren't supposed to complain.

Franklin must not believe the case can be won, so he's allowing Briley to go through the motions of presenting an adequate defense for a political princess. If she makes a mistake, he'll simply assign a more experienced lawyer for the appeal, citing Briley's errors as justification for a new trial. Those errors, if they're flagrant, might be enough to earn her walking papers. By the end of this case, she might be defeated
and
unemployed. And unpopular.

She reaches for the telephone and punches in Timothy's number. He answers on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Remember the Tomassi murder?”

“Of course.”

“Guess who's defending the widow.”

She hears his quick intake of breath. “No kidding. You got the case?”

“I shouldn't have. No managing partner in his right mind would hand the case to a neophyte, but Franklin gave it to me. That can only mean one thing.”

“You're the best woman for the job?”

“Erin Tomassi is guilty and the state's attorney has an airtight case. I haven't seen the police report, but I'm betting Franklin is right.”

“You don't know that, Bri. Unless the woman confessed—”

“She says she's innocent. But so does everyone else at the jail.”

“Come on, now.” A smile slips into his voice. “Don't assume the worst before you even start to work. Give the woman the benefit of the doubt, and give yourself a break. Maybe she's telling the truth.”

Briley remains silent, wishing she could believe him. Trouble is, Timothy isn't an attorney. He's a sneakers-wearing Boy Scout with an irresistible grin and an undying belief that some trace of goodness lies in everyone, including his clients. And she'd give up chocolate for a year if he'd forget about his addicts and take a job selling shoes.

“You still there?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Then find out what happened to Jeffrey Tomassi and do your best to defend his wife. Because the alternative is unthinkable.”

“I'll do everything I can…but it'd take a miracle to get Erin Tomassi acquitted.”

Briley closes her eyes as a memory floats up, a vision of a couple waltzing, swirling through a ballroom in perfect unison. They were smiling at each other, and Jeffrey's arm gripped Erin so tightly…Did something go wrong in their marriage? Something horrible enough to drive one of them to a desperate act?

“This case is going to be huge,” she says. “I'll need to hire an investigator and rope in some help around here. Capital cases require a defense team.”

“I'm sure the firm will give you whatever you need. They're supportive, aren't they?”

“So far.” She swallows hard, reluctant to admit what she needs to say next. “I'll be working a lot. I'll try not to let this case take over my life, but I might have to work a few nights and weekends.”

Timothy laughs. “Babe, don't feel like you have to explain yourself to me. Take all the time you need to do your job.”

“But I might not be available when you have time off. Unless Dax is able to stand on his own—”

“He's not,” Timothy interrupts. “He's doing better, but the boy still gets jumpy when he's around others who are using.”

“I thought you were keeping him away from those people.”

“I try, but he's in show business, you know? I'd keep him away from booze altogether if I could, but when he goes to parties, every girl who comes up has a drink in her hand.”

“Oh.” Briley stares at the ceiling, her mind filling with images of parties where dozens of beautiful girls drape themselves over any man in Dax Lightner's reflected glow.

“Hey.” Timothy's voice softens. “Don't you worry about a thing.”

“I'm not worried.”

“You are. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Okay.” She smiles into the phone. “Maybe I'm a little worried. About you, and about this trial.”

“You don't need to fret, kiddo. Jump in with both feet and abandon yourself to the cause. Make your boss and Erin Tomassi grateful that you were bold enough to take the case.”

Smiling, she drops her head onto her hand. Timothy has a tendency to turn conversations into pep talks, but he always makes her feel better.

“Stand back and prepare to be amazed,” she says. “I'm going to do my best.”

 

Briley hadn't wanted to go to the fundraiser, but Timothy had insisted. “It'll be fun,” he'd said, his eyes sparkling, “and I want to wear my tux. I want to impress you.”

So on the second of December she left work early, slipped into a sleeveless gown she'd bought on sale years before, and pulled out a pair of chandelier earrings. She found herself wishing for hair long enough to twist into a glamorous chignon, but the practical chin-length cut that went so well with a suit would have to work with formal wear, too.

Just after dark, a black limo pulled up outside her town house and Timothy stepped out to greet her. Flashing cameras and exclamations from excited onlookers punctuated their arrival at the Conrad, one of Chicago's most luxurious hotels. Briley and Timothy slipped away from the crowd and checked their coats. After entering the ballroom, they found their table, number sixty-seven, located in a quiet corner.

Throughout dinner, she and Timothy made small talk with the other guests: the police commissioner and his wife, the owners of a local drug store chain, a reporter and photographer from the
Chicago Tribune
. Briley enjoyed talking to the reporter until the woman revealed that she was covering the event for the Style section. “I'm here to check out the senator's wife,” she said, twisting in her seat as she scanned the front of the room. “They think she's going to be quite the trendsetter in D.C.”

“I hadn't heard that,” Briley answered, but the woman had stopped paying attention.

Waiters in white jackets whisked the empty dessert plates away as a local politico welcomed the guests and made a series of optimistic predictions about Jeffrey Tomassi's future in politics. While the crowd cheered and clapped, Briley found herself searching the head table for a woman who might be a suitable candidate for national trendsetter.

Only one possibility, really. The matron seated at Jeff Tomassi's left appeared too old to be his wife, but the woman
at his right fit the job description. Young enough to inspire women of all ages, she glowed with a rare combination of beauty and approachability. The blonde smiled throughout the long introduction and was one of the first to stand and applaud when Tomassi rose to take the lectern.

During Jeffrey Tomassi's speech, Briley propped her chin on her hand and studied the aspiring candidate. Tomassi repeated all the promises parroted by most politicians, but he was strikingly handsome and tall, at least six-two. Maybe as tall as Timothy.