by CJ Lyons
Not the victims’ pain. I think I could have handled that, or at least comprehended it. But these were Leo’s memories, so what I felt wasn’t pain but…glee was the best word to describe it. The glee of a child pulling wings off a butterfly coupled with an insatiable thirst for more, more, more…
I fought to banish Leo and his horrors. Desperate to escape, I turned to my own life, to the people and times when I’d felt comfort: my dad launching me into the air before catching me in his arms; practicing my fiddle with him, my fingers so small they fumbled across the strings; playing in the band with Jacob, the music filling me with confidence; being in Ryder’s arms, so warm, so strong…
All of it ammunition against a madman’s memories.
Finally, I was able to break free of the fugue, my body slowly returning to my control. I wiped my mouth, tasting bile and wishing I could vomit, simply to purge myself of what I’d just lived through.
Because that was the thing. When I touch the mind of someone not-quite-dead, I don’t simply visit and have a chat like in real life. Rather, I experience what they experience. Everything. A lifetime’s worth of memories, dumped into my mind.
Every time I’ve done it, the person died soon after. They were all dying anyway, but I couldn’t help but wonder if my touching their minds hastened their deaths.
Not to mention the healthy dose of fear for my own sanity. How many memories could I hold in my own brain without losing myself?
I wrapped my arms around the swing’s chains, embracing the bite of the cold metal. Shoving my emotions behind sealed mental doors, I focused on the sunbeams glinting across the snow, the bruised shadows stretching out from the buildings surrounding me. I’d failed Tymara. I couldn’t change that. But could I still see Eugene Littleton brought to justice?
“Hear you’ve had a rough morning,” a friendly voice called from the sidewalk. Ryder. My knight in tarnished armor. As usual, his timing was impeccable.
He was tall enough that he could have easily stepped over the snow bank. Instead, he tramped down a path anyone could follow, ignoring the snow gathering in his pant cuffs. He joined me on the swings. I’d chosen to sit with my back to St. Tim’s, facing the Tower. Ryder sat so he faced the church.
Of course he did. He still believed, had faith. Not me. I’d left the church and the capricious God who ruled it after my father died. Turned my back on it, just as I had so many things during that time. As painful as it was to have my family treat me as a scapegoat for their grief—after all, they couldn’t blame God, right?—I’d accepted the role with the sullen fury of a twelve-year-old.
“I’m sorry about Tymara,” Ryder said, his voice so gentle it made me blink. Thankfully, it was too cold for tears. Unlike Devon, he didn’t twist and spin or play on the swings. Instead, he closed the space between us and took my hand in his.
“Are you okay?” he asked. The question had many layers, like the man himself. He’d been a detective with the Major Case squad before being demoted to work Advocacy Center cases. Only, Ryder didn’t consider it a demotion.
“I need—” I broke off, no words to encompass all I needed.
He filled the void my silence left in its wake. “How about if I drive you home?”
Without me answering, Ryder guided me to my feet and helped me into my coat. Good thing, because now that my fugue had passed, I was suddenly shivering.
“Not home,” I said as we walked toward his car, a city-owned gray Taurus parked in front of St. Timothy’s, where it wouldn’t block the official vehicles clustered at the opposite end of the block around the Tower. I stared at the Tower, counting down from the rooftop where I’d killed Leo last month, to the floor where Tymara lived. My insides twisted, and my mouth went dry. Where Tymara died. “To court.”
“Court? The case is over without your witness.”
“Maybe not. I need to talk to Manny Cruz. He’s the assistant district attorney prosecuting the case.” I could have called Manny, but I had a feeling he wouldn’t approve of the faint inkling of a plan that I was formulating. Maybe I should go straight to the judge? I wasn’t sure if that was against the rules or not; honestly I didn’t have enough energy to care.
We arrived at Ryder’s car. He opened the door for me. For a moment as I settled into the seat, I was looking up at his face, his eyes a shade darker than the sky behind him, his expression one of warm concern. “Sure you’re okay?”
My jaw clenched, and I couldn’t answer. Everything hit me at once. Louise’s diagnosis; seeing Tymara, so young, her life full of promise, turned into a thing, an object, something less than human. Anger shook through me, an invisible earthquake, fierce and hot, unstable.
Ryder surprised me. I thought I was so good at containing my emotions, locking them into invisible Pandora’s boxes, showing the world only what I wanted it to see. But I couldn’t hide from Ryder. He crouched inside the open car door and bundled me into his arms, holding me so tightly that the strangled feeling in my chest finally eased and I could breathe again.
He knew better than to offer empty platitudes or promises destined to be broken. Instead, he simply held me, shielding me from any prying eyes, giving me time to glue together the pieces of my shattered facade.
“I’m here,” he whispered. “Just tell me what you need.”
I needed him. A desperate need that shamed me with its intensity. But as my plan crystallized, I pulled away, took a deep breath to prove to myself that I could, that I was in control. Of something. Anything.
“I need to see Eugene Littleton and his partners fry in Hell,” I told him.
Ryder squinted at me, assessing more than my words, then nodded. “Okay, then. Let’s see what we can do about that.”
Chapter Seven
Jacob Voorsanger glanced at his watch. Ten thirteen. Something was wrong.
He and his client, Eugene Littleton, waited at the defense table in Judge Shaw’s courtroom. The courtroom, with its high-arched ceiling crisscrossed by thick wooden beams, lit from overhead by a century-old, cobwebbed chandelier and from the sides by stained-glass windows depicting Justice in all her glory, reminded him of a European cathedral.
Cathedral of justice. Jacob liked that. Liked the way the air, despite the many drafts, felt different inside the courtroom. Not just this courtroom, any courtroom. Heavier, filled with gravitas. Life-and-death decisions weighed in the balance.
Sometimes, when the reality of the law with its wheeling and dealing and hairsplitting grew too stressful, Jacob liked to come into an empty courtroom like this one and simply sit in silence, breathe the air, and watch the dust motes glint as they settled to the ground. Justice was blind, but she also carried a sword, skewering deceit as she fought for truth.
Jacob glanced at his client. Little chance for any truth from him.
Eugene Littleton was relaxed, lounging in his seat, fiddling with his ill-fitting suit as he ogled the others in the courtroom: a bailiff standing in front of the door to the judge’s chambers; the court stenographer; and the judge’s clerk, a woman in her thirties upon whom Eugene fixed his gaze.
Jacob nudged his client and shook his head. Eugene rolled his eyes and pouted. Jacob glanced over at the empty prosecution table, the table that had been his until last month. That was when he’d been transferred to the public defender’s office after crying foul about corruption in the DA’s office.
Justice was justice, Jacob told himself. The system worked only if both sides fought with vigor and might. Anything less, and they’d have chaos.
Ten fourteen. For Judge Shaw, being fourteen minutes late was the equivalent of chaos. While she prided herself on being a legal maverick, someone who loved teasing out new interpretations of the law and finding its edges, she also was a martinet when it came to her schedule. Her court began on time, did not run late, and God help the lawyer who dawdled in presenting their case.
Where was Manny? Jacob wondered, staring at the door to the judge’s chambers. Judge Shaw would never condon
e any ex parte communication.
As if on cue, the door opened. The bailiff listened to something, then nodded and jerked his chin at Jacob. “They need you in chambers, Mr. Voorsanger.”
Jacob was surprised to see Eugene grinning. He didn’t seem at all curious about what had stalled his trial. Instead, he seemed…satisfied. Like opening a present and getting exactly what he’d wanted.
Inside the judge’s chambers, prosecutor Manny Cruz waited in front of Judge Shaw.
It was the other person standing before the judge who surprised Jacob. “Angie, what are you doing here?”
She wasn’t scheduled to testify until this afternoon, after the victim, Tymara Nelson. She looked exhausted, worn thin, yet was flushed as if a fever burned within her. For weeks she’d been avoiding Jacob, and now he wondered what was wrong. Her uncle and mother whispered theories—drinking, drugs—but he’d dismissed them all. Until now. “Is everything all right?”
“We have a problem.” Judge Shaw leaned forward.
“Tymara’s dead,” Angie said. Her tone was flat, divorced from the emotion that crossed her face. More than emotion, he noted. Pain. “I found her this morning when I went to pick her up. She was murdered.”
Shock froze Jacob where he stood. His first thought was, Eugene knew. No wonder his client had been so relaxed. He never expected the trial to continue.
Then a second thought collided with his first. Angie. She’d found the body. He turned to her, torn between wanting to offer her comfort, and needing to regroup and press his client’s new advantage.
She made it easy, averting her gaze from his and stepping away from his outstretched hand. Barely holding it together, he saw. Compartmentalizing was Angie’s gift, even if it made things difficult at times like this.
He used the hand instead to make an emphatic motion, drawing the judge’s attention. “I don’t see any problem. Dismiss the charges and release my client.”
“Hold on now,” Manny protested. “We have a jury empaneled. Judge, if you dismiss now—”
“My client has already served six months in jail awaiting his day in court,” Jacob interrupted. “You cannot in good conscience keep him locked up indefinitely while the prosecution tries to rebuild its case without a victim. It’s a violation of his Sixth Amendment rights.”
The judge held her hands up. “We have an alternative I think is acceptable, although unconventional. It’s never been tried in this jurisdiction.”
So of course Judge Shaw was all for it. Jacob saw the judge give Angie a tiny nod of acknowledgment and realized where this was heading. “A victimless prosecution?”
“There was a case I read about,” Angie said. “Giles—”
“Verses California. Right. But—”
“Your Honor,” Manny chimed in, “we’d still need more time to prepare. A victimless prosecution creates an entirely new strategy. There’s no way—”
“Why not?” the judge asked, folding her hands together like Solomon. “My understanding is that you were going to have the victim testify next, followed by Dr. Rossi, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then it seems to me that you lose nothing by proceeding. Dr. Rossi can testify to the victim’s statements she recorded as part of her medical history. She can also testify to her forensic findings, but solely in regard to Mr. Littleton as previously discussed.”
It had been a hard-fought ruling that Jacob had won earlier, that the other men who had brutalized Tymara Nelson could not be mentioned, nor evidence of their attack included in the case against his client. At the time he’d doubted the ruling would be much help. As prejudicial as the evidence of the second attack against Tymara was, it was nowhere near as damning as the victim herself testifying to what Eugene Littleton had done to her.
Jacob glanced back toward the door he’d just come through. Without Tymara’s testimony or the evidence of the second attack, there was a very good chance Eugene would leave a free man.
“Your Honor,” Angie said. “There’s another complication. I’m leaving on a sabbatical. I’ll be out of the country and unable to testify in any future trial if we don’t move forward today.”
Jacob stared at her. Leaving? The country? When had this happened? He knew she was taking a break from the ER, but leaving Cambria City? Something was definitely wrong. She’d been acting strange. And her playing was off, as if her music, always her refuge, had suddenly abandoned her.
He brought his focus back to his client. “Your Honor, if word of Ms. Nelson’s demise reaches the jury, it will prejudice them against my client. They could falsely assume he had something to do with orchestrating her death.”
“Which he did,” Manny countered. “Dr. Rossi and I both have documented multiple occasions during which the victim was the subject of intimidation—”
The judge waved a hand for silence. “The jury is already here, shielded from any news. If we proceed now and finish today, I’ll order them sequestered during their deliberations. It’s the best way to ensure a fair trial for your client. I’m sure you’ll agree, Mr. Voorsanger.”
Which meant he had no choice but to agree. Better than facing a judge’s wrath. “That’s acceptable with the defense, Your Honor.”
She glanced at Manny. “What say you, Mr. Cruz?”
Manny stared at Angie as if this was all her fault. “The prosecution agrees with moving forward, Your Honor,” he replied in a grudging tone. “If I could just have a word with Dr. Rossi before we begin?”
The judge nodded, and Manny hustled Angie out the door to the hallway beyond the judge’s chambers. Jacob saw Angie’s glare as Manny grabbed her by the elbow and was glad he wasn’t on the receiving end. He felt a gleam of pride—she’d actually been listening when he’d expounded on the possibilities of a victimless prosecution. Of course, that had been back when he was working for the DA’s office instead of the public defender’s, but still.
The concept was intriguing. He could have pushed for a dismissal, but if the judge refused, his client would be facing more jail time or be forced to accept a plea bargain. This was the best chance Eugene Littleton would ever have for a fair trial.
Jacob pushed through the door into the courtroom. Eugene was bent over the desk, head resting on his folded arms, asleep. Sure sign of guilt, the psychologists would say. Or maybe just sleep deprivation from after six months in the county jail.
He frowned and glanced back over his shoulder at the judge’s chambers once again. Rumor had it that if Eugene walked, Devon Price would try to exact street justice, make an example out of him. Rumor also had it that Eugene’s partners in crime might silence Eugene as well.
Seemed like everyone wanted a piece of Eugene Littleton. Even the DA was hoping that if this trial went his way, Eugene would turn on his accomplices, provide their names, and testify against them.
Jacob sighed. He half-wondered if maybe the safest place for his client would be to remain behind bars.
Chapter Eight
“What the hell was that?” Manny whirled on me as soon as we were in the hallway, out of the judge’s earshot, the door to her chambers closed behind us. A clerk signing people in for jury duty the next courtroom over glowered at him. He pulled me across to the high-arched windows facing the street, narrowing his eyes at me.
He had chiseled South American good looks that drew the attention of most women, but I’d never been interested in him. His machismo attitude, always focused on the win, the conquest, left me cold. Tymara had liked him, as did many of the victims he worked with. They mistook his passion for their cases as passion for justice, but I knew better. It was passion for winning. Period.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone in that attitude over at the DA’s office. Jacob was the exception—at least among the prosecutors I’d worked with. Of course, Jacob now worked for the other side. It had been so infuriating, watching him coolly calculate how best to push the new advantage Tymara’s death had given him and his client.
&nb
sp; Manny continued, “I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing—”
“Game?” Fury strangled my words. My breath came in shuddering waves. “You think this is a game? Did you see what those animals did to her?” I stalked closer to him, backing him up against the windows. “Because I did. They butchered her.”
“Calm down,” Manny told me, his eyes as cold as the glass behind him. “Getting emotional isn’t going to help us win this case.”
The marble hallway outside the courtroom turned the footsteps of all the people rushing in one direction or the other into a percussion melody. My finger tapped out the rhythm as I forced myself to stand still, to listen, to focus on the world beyond the hurricane of emotions that roared inside me. Manny wasn’t the real target of my anger, just an easy one, I reminded myself. Making Littleton and his partners pay, that was the best justice for Tymara.
“Who told you to use Giles? Your ex? No way did Judge Shaw come up with it on her own.”
“Jacob knew nothing about it.” Although I’d asked him about the court case that had set the precedent. Months ago, long before I ever dreamed I’d need to use it.
Manny scowled, obviously not believing me. “Sure about that? Sounds like the kind of last-ditch strategy he’d use.”
“He’d never compromise his own case, no matter how guilty his client is.”
“A few more defendants like Littleton and he’ll soon be sacrificing those sacred lambs of his, making deals to put his clients away just to dig out from under the caseload.”
“I can give you references from the advocacy journals. In Ohio, they—”
“I know how to do my job.” He brushed my offer aside. “Any other judge but Hippie-Dippie Shaw, and you wouldn’t have even been in chambers.”
“She’s giving us a chance. Don’t you want justice for Tymara?”
“You’re missing the point. In there, I call the plays. When you’re up on that witness stand, you follow my lead, understand?”
