Let Darkness Come (8 page)

B
riley steps through the gates of the Oak Woods Cemetery and strides down the paved road that leads to her father's resting place. She breathes in the woodsy scent of the evergreen wreath in her arms, then shifts her gaze to study a group of tourists gathered around the red granite tombstone of Jesse Owens.

No crowds will ever gather around her father's memorial; his circle of influence did not extend far beyond Chicago's West Side. But he was everything to her—mother, father, pastor, teacher, adviser. She couldn't follow him into the ministry—she could never submit to a God who abandoned his servants at their most vulnerable—nor could she ever give herself as completely as he did. But there's no denying she is who she is because of what happened to him.

Her father's cemetery plot rests under an aging red cedar, its branches dusted with snow. She bends to brush a layer of powder from the top of the simple gravestone, then props her wreath against the granite face. After glancing around to be sure she won't be disturbing any other mourners, she steps back and takes a deep breath. “Hey, Dad. Sorry it's been a while.”

In the distance, she hears the roar of passing traffic on East Sixty-seventh Street. No one will bother her, though. No one ever does.

“I have a new case—a murder trial. I wouldn't be surprised if one of the partners swooped in and took it from me, but so far they've left me alone. I'm a little nervous. The
victim was high profile and the evidence against my client is pretty daunting. But there are extenuating circumstances…and you always told me never to judge a woman until I've walked a mile in her stilettos.”

She smiles as the cedar rustles in evergreen applause. “I've got to put together a theory of the case, something I can believe well enough to sell to the jury. Trouble is, I'm not sure what I believe. My client seems sincere, but fingerprints don't lie. And the state's attorney has video proof that the husband and wife were alone that night. One of them had to do it, right? Either the husband or the wife?”

Beside the pathway, a streetlamp begins to glow, activated by the gloom seeping from a bruised and swollen sky. They should have snow tonight, a deep blanket of it.

“I know I'll figure something out,” Briley tells her father. “Sure wish you were here. Timothy's not around much these days. We're still together, but he's taken on a new client, a movie star who's really messed up. He's not only an addict, he's also spoiled rotten. Apparently he needs Tim's approval to go to the bathroom.”

Voices rise from somewhere beyond the crest of a hill, probably a tourist group making their way back to the main gate. They are cold, night is approaching, and this is no place for an unarmed woman to be alone after dark.

“I love you, Dad.” She reaches out to adjust a drooping poinsettia petal in the wreath. “I miss you. And I'll be thinking of you at Christmas.”

B
riley walks to her car with a more determined step on Tuesday morning. Since Timothy was unavailable last night, she spent the hours before bed doing online research. She learned that while the battered-woman's-syndrome defense is not often effective in getting women acquitted, in several cases it has been used to win a verdict of manslaughter instead of first-degree murder.

She unlocks her car and slides into the driver's seat. The problem with her situation is that Erin Tomassi says she did not kill her husband. If she continues to insist that she didn't administer the fatal injection, Briley may not be able to place the fateful syringe in her client's hand without impeaching Erin's testimony. And if Erin is proved to be a liar, the jury won't believe a thing she says.

She is three blocks from the jail when her cell phone rings. Without reading the caller ID, she hits the hands-free answer button on her steering wheel. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Ms. Lester.”

For a moment, she can't place the voice. Then she groans. Travis Bystrowski. Who else would sound so confident and chipper at this hour?

“What can I do for you, Mr. Bystrowski?”

“Just thought you'd want to know that yesterday we interviewed a housekeeper who works for Antonio Tomassi. The woman reported seeing bruises on your client's back and ribs.”

“So?” Briley turns at an intersection. “The matrons at the jail saw the bruises, too.”

“Ah, but the housekeeper told our interviewer that Mrs. Tomassi claimed to receive those bruises in a fall on the stairs—but the stairs in Mrs. Tomassi's house are covered in very expensive, very plush carpeting. The housekeeper did a little snooping and asked her boss to confirm that fact.”

Briley sighs. “Sounds like hearsay to me.”

“The housekeeper came to us because she's convinced your client got tired of being beat up. Seems the woman really liked Jeffrey Tomassi.”

“So did most of Chicago. And your point is…?”

Bystrowski laughs. “I'm trying to give you a break, Briley. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this your first capital case?”

She scowls as she steers around a slow-moving pickup. “I'm not as green as you think.”

“Just wanted to welcome you to the big leagues. By the way—” he pauses, his voice shifting to a more somber note “—I thought your name seemed familiar, so I looked you up. Wasn't your father Daniel Lester?”

Despite the steady blast from her car's heater, a chill travels down her spine. “You always do research on your opponents?”

“I was in law school when your dad was killed. Our criminal law professor asked us to follow the trial.”

Briley bites the inside of her lip, unnerved by the thought of her father's case being used as part of a law curriculum.

“Anyway, I wasn't surprised to hear that Daniel Lester's daughter had become a lawyer. I am surprised to find you working as a defense attorney. I would have bet that you'd opt for the truth-and-justice side of the courtroom.”

“Life is anything but predictable, Mr. Bystrowski.”

“Would you relax? We're not sitting across the aisle from each other yet. I'm trying to help you out.”

She brakes at an intersection and glances in the rearview mirror, half expecting to see Bystrowski smirking in the backseat. The car behind her honks when the light changes. “Maybe I opted for defense because of the bigger paycheck,”
she says, proceeding through the slush-covered crosswalk. “Or maybe I like trouncing overconfident prosecutors who overstep their bounds.”

“Now I've offended you.” A conciliatory note fills Bystrowski's voice. “And I'd better let you get busy. If you need anything from my office, you let me know, okay?”

She hesitates. “Will do.”

“But be careful with that abused-wife defense. The American Psychiatric Association doesn't recognize it. I don't know if you want to take the risk.”

She pulls into the parking lot across the street from Division Four of the Cook County Jail. “Thanks, Counselor. I'll be sure to keep that in mind.”

 

Which is more sympathetic—an abused woman who suffers in silence, or one who rises up to defend herself?

Briley drops her purse and briefcase onto the conveyor belt at the jail's security station and considers various angles of the battered-woman defense. Bystrowski's mention of the APA's not accepting battered woman's syndrome means nothing. The jury box won't be filled with members of the APA. But if she makes Erin's status as a battered wife a vital part of her case theory, the prosecutor could bring in an expert witness to debunk anything she says about battered women. If she's successful in convincing the jury that Erin ultimately acted in self-defense, the odds are good that they'll still convict her of manslaughter, which translates into years of prison time.

So maybe she shouldn't use the abuse to mitigate Erin's alleged actions. Perhaps the domestic violence could be portrayed as a symptom of Jeffrey Tomassi's disturbed mental state, a state that ultimately led him to take his own life through an insulin overdose. The scenario is plausible, but how does she reconcile Erin's fingerprints on the syringe with her statement to the police? She told a detective she never gave her husband insulin injections.

Briley signs in at the visitor's center, walks through the air puffer, and makes banal conversation about the weather as the guard leads her to the chilly interview room. She keeps her coat on as she pulls a notepad, recorder, and pen from her briefcase, then she rubs her bare hands together. The state of Illinois must be doing its part to save energy by keeping the jail thermostat set at sixty.

The door opens, and a guard leads her client into the room. Erin stands motionless as the guard removes her handcuffs and shackles, then she pushes her hair away from her face and sits across from Briley. She looks better this morning, less wan and washed out, but she doesn't return Briley's smile. Instead, she props her elbows on the table and drops her head into her hands.

Briley glances toward the door. “What's wrong? Are you having trouble with one of the other inmates? With a guard?”

Erin's shoulders rise and fall. “I need to tell you something,” she says, not meeting Briley's gaze. “And you're going to think I'm crazy. But I'm not, honestly I'm not—unless all crazy people go through what I'm experiencing.” She releases a hollow laugh. “Sometimes I think I must be insane—otherwise, why would I have married Jeffrey? I loved him, but it takes more than love to make a marriage work.”

Briley settles back in her chair, quietly wishing she had invited one of the more experienced associates along for this interview. Maybe all murder defendants declare themselves to be insane during the third interview. Maybe tomorrow Erin will claim to have found Jesus. Maybe these dramatics are nothing unusual, and Briley should prepare for even more outlandish claims in the days ahead.

She pulls her notepad and pen closer. “Why don't you begin at the beginning?” she says, smoothing the skepticism from her voice. “I'm here to listen, and I want to understand you. Only by knowing your entire story will I be able to put the pieces together and present the best possible defense.”

Erin shakes her head. “I'm not sure where to begin.”

“Well, what kind of family did you have? Where did you grow up? What were your goals and aspirations?”

“My family? I'm not even sure the word applies.” Erin folds her arms across her chest and draws a deep breath. “My father died when I was young. I had an older brother, but he didn't live with us, so I barely knew him. The neighborhood was quiet, run-down.”

Briley struggles to hide her surprise. The newspaper article was right about Erin's working-class origins. Somehow she'd pictured this woman growing up in a fully staffed white colonial surrounded by manicured green lawns. “Sounds lonely.”

“It was. I would have gone crazy if not for my invisible friend. My mom used to tease me about her, but Lisa Marie was around when my mom was indisposed, so I guess it's only natural that I came to depend on her.”

Briley jots the name on her legal pad. “Lisa Marie is what you called your invisible friend?”

“Yes.”

“What did you mean by ‘indisposed'? Was your mother an invalid?”

Erin chuffs softly. “She was a drunk. We lived on food stamps and welfare, which probably explains why I was attracted to Jeffrey. I never knew any luxury growing up, and Jeff and his family offered the kind of stability I'd always dreamed of.”

“Where'd you meet him?”

“Chicago State. One night after class, I went to a party with some friends. Jeffrey was there. We met, we talked. After that, we were almost always together.”

Briley makes a note and glances at her client. Erin is wearing an inward look of deep abstraction; wherever she's gone, she doesn't want to leave. “What are you thinking?”

The woman shudders slightly and rubs her arms. “I was thinking about Lisa Marie. I remember being surprised when I realized Mom couldn't hear her—after all, I heard her
voice in my head all the time. But as I got older, Mom told me I was stupid to keep pretending. So I stopped talking to Lisa Marie, but she didn't stop talking to me.”

Briley's pen halts on the legal pad. Is this woman trying to make a case for schizophrenia? “Are you saying—” she proceeds with caution “—that your invisible friend
still
talks to you?”

Erin rakes her hand through her hair. “I told you it sounds crazy.”

“That's reassuring. I'm no psychiatrist, but I've heard that crazy people think they're perfectly sane.”

Erin stares at her, then manages a brief smile. “Okay—yes, I still hear her, but only in my dreams. Sometimes I'll go to sleep and she'll be waiting to talk to me about something. When I was a teenager, she knew all about Mom and how things were at home. When I'd want to run away, Lisa Marie would calm me down and tell me that things would be worse on the street. I learned to listen to her. Her advice was always better than my mother's.”

Briley presses her lips together. She can't remember much from her college psychology classes, but surely there's some part of the human mind that reasons with the other parts when they're under stress. This is probably a normal function, like the conscience reminding us of the consequences of unlawful behavior….

Still, an interview with a forensic psychologist is definitely in order. The firm keeps a file of experts in the field, but if Briley calls a shrink to testify, the prosecution will call an expert of their own. Net result: zero gain.

She clicks the end of her pen in a burst of nervous energy. “Do you know what Lisa Marie looks like?”

Erin frowns. “In my dream, she looks like me. That probably means something, but I've never seen her any other way. She doesn't morph into anything, if that's what you mean.”

“I don't mean anything. I'm only trying to understand.”
Briley snaps the end of her pen again. “Did Lisa Marie speak to you the night Jeffrey died?”

“I told you, I was out cold from the sleeping pills.”

Briley smiles. “So if you're not still dreaming of her…”

“That's just it, I am. Weeks go by and I don't see her, but I dreamed of her last night. She told me something, then she said I should tell you. You're going to think I'm making this up, but I'm not, I swear I'm not.”

Briley braces herself. “And what are you supposed to tell me?”

The corners of Erin's mouth tighten. “She did it. After I went to sleep that night, Lisa Marie killed Jeffrey.”