by CJ Lyons
“If it nails Littleton and you convince him to roll on his partners, I’ll play any game you want.”
The bailiff opened the door and called out to us. “The judge is ready to proceed.”
Manny straightened, plastered on a smile that would have raised millions for any politician, and gave me a nod. “Let the games begin.”
* * *
Ryder entered the courtroom and slid into the pew farthest from the jury. It had been over two decades since he’d served as an altar boy, yet he still had to fight the impulse to cross himself and genuflect. Except this was no church. He knew all too well the foibles and follies that often corrupted the profane proceedings of the criminal justice system.
The benches weren’t built for a man as tall as he was. Sinking back against the polished oak, inhaling the familiar incense of lemon oil, sweat, fear, stale paper, and mildew, he stretched his legs into the aisle and crossed his ankles. His side ached a bit with the movement, but it was a good kind of ache. The I’m alive despite being gut shot kind of ache.
The jury was already seated, and Rossi was on the witness stand. After he’d dropped her off, he’d headed over to the jail annex in the hopes of learning something helpful from the corrections officers. It’d been a waste of time. Littleton had left little to no impression on anyone. Not affiliated with any gangs, he’d bided his time in the overcrowded facility without disturbing the equilibrium of his fellow inmates or the overworked, underpaid staff.
Ryder watched Manny Cruz efficiently walk Rossi through the medical testimony. She was lucky the judge and Manny had gone for her idea; he’d never heard of any prosecutor trying a sexual-assault case without the victim testifying. Manny tried to put a good spin on her exam findings and the history Tymara had given her, but Rossi had to tiptoe through a minefield to avoid mentioning the true causes of Tymara’s brutal injuries: the men Littleton had invited to join him in Tymara’s apartment after his initial attack.
Manny finished and sat, giving Ryder a few moments to observe Rossi. Despite the way her day had begun, she didn’t allow her emotions to crack her professionalism. Sitting up there, waiting for her ex to begin his cross-examination, she looked damned good. Brunette hair tinted red and gold by the stained glass, a touch of color in her lips and cheeks. Her chin jutted forward, revealing the taut muscles in her neck.
No one would ever suspect she was facing a death sentence. At least, that was what his research on fatal insomnia had told him—every new report he found revealed an enemy worse than any he’d faced in Afghanistan. He wished she’d talk to him about it or let Louise, her doctor, give him details. That’d be better than the crazy shit he’d found online.
Had Rossi even told Louise about her and Ryder? He had, his one breach of Rossi’s request for privacy, but he’d been going crazy with only the words “fatal insomnia” and endless, harrowing online searches. At least Louise had been able to direct him to legitimate research, scant as it was.
Ryder didn’t understand Rossi’s need for secrecy, but she insisted on it, and he didn’t mind the mystique it added to their relationship. Hell, she wouldn’t even let him call her by her first name, much less any nickname. How afraid of intimacy did a woman have to be to refuse to allow her lover to call her by her first name? His stomach clenched, and he glared across the courtroom at Jacob Voorsanger, assigning blame to the ex.
Voorsanger rose, taking his place at the podium between the prosecutor and defense tables. He stood, silent, assessing Rossi as if she were a particularly dangerous specimen trapped inside the cage that was the witness stand. Ryder looked past the defense attorney to his client, Eugene Littleton. The man was squirming, his belligerent stare vanquished by a single glance Rossi sent in his direction.
“Thank you, Dr. Rossi,” Voorsanger began in the tone of a gracious host, “for taking the time to talk us through your medical findings in such precise detail.”
Rossi didn’t take the bait and offer any sarcasm or snark. Instead, she replied, “It’s part of my job. Advocating for victims.”
Voorsanger nodded, turned to his notes, but then swiveled back abruptly as if caught by her final word. “But have we established that Ms. Nelson was a victim of a crime? Much less one committed by my client?”
Manny looked up. “Objection.”
“Sustained,” the judge said. “The jury will disregard defense counsel’s editorial opinions.”
Voorsanger ignored the interruption and focused on Rossi. “Dr. Rossi, to the best of your knowledge, will Ms. Nelson be making an appearance here today to give us her account of what happened seven months ago?”
Ryder sat up straight. Asshole. Voorsanger made it sound like Tymara was too busy shopping for shoes to testify. From the stricken look that crossed Rossi’s face as she glanced at Manny for guidance, he guessed the judge had ruled that no mention of the reason why Tymara wouldn’t be testifying could be given. Prejudicial or some such legal bullshit.
Rossi looked up, and he locked his gaze with hers, certain she was reliving the horror of finding Tymara’s body that morning. She swallowed hard, gave him a small nod, her features easing back into a mask of professionalism. Then she leaned forward to adjust her own microphone, eyeing each of the jurors in turn. “To my knowledge, Ms. Nelson is unable to testify, leaving it to me to report on the facts of her trauma.”
“The medical facts?”
“Yes.”
“And do your medical facts provide any physical evidence that the sexual intimacy between my client and Ms. Nelson was nonconsensual?”
“In the vast majority of sexual assaults, there is no physical evidence.”
“Did your detailed medical examination reveal any evidence that my client assaulted Ms. Nelson?”
Rossi didn’t hesitate, her voice remaining calm, confident. “Yes. My medical history indicated that Mr. Littleton sexually assaulted Tymara Nelson.”
Ryder glanced at the jury. This would be the stumbling point of the case against Littleton. They had plenty of evidence showing that Littleton and Tymara had sex, but nothing except Tymara’s disclosures to Rossi during her rape exam to prove it was nonconsensual. The jury was definitely paying attention, but without Tymara to tell her own story, would they buy it?
Chapter Nine
“History taken from Ms. Nelson?” Jacob asked me.
“Yes.”
“So basically we’re talking about she said/he said. A difference of opinion.” Jacob turned to the jury, his skepticism over my painstakingly recorded medical history palpable. Despite my anger at his trivialization of Tymara’s assault, I marveled at the way he’d captured the jury so quickly. I’d forgotten how good an actor he was, the power of his voice, his body language. “Let’s go through things from the start. See exactly how your medical history somehow proves my client assaulted Ms. Nelson in any way.”
Clearing my throat, I began in a professional cadence “On May twenty-first, Tymara Nelson had a knock on her apartment door. It was the defendant, there to spray for bugs.” Littleton was an exterminator whose company held the contract for the Kingston Tower.
“Ms. Nelson invited him in?” Jacob interrupted, deliberately breaking my rhythm.
“Yes. She—”
“Yes. Ms. Nelson invited him inside her apartment.”
I kept my face composed, refusing to show any emotion at his cheap and all-too-common tactic. I had expected more of him.
Focus, I told myself. Tymara’s last chance at justice is riding on you. Although, sitting there, buffeted by lawyers and their rules, I wondered why I’d been so adamant with Devon that courtroom justice was better than his street justice.
I glanced at Littleton, a totally unremarkable man if you believed his mask of normalcy. Wondered what it would take to make him feel the same terror and anguish that Tymara had at his hands and the hands of his partners. Wouldn’t that be true justice?
Jacob startled me, abandoning his notes and shuffling to stand beside the podium. It w
as against the rules for him to approach me, but by coming out from behind the podium, it left him exposed, vulnerable.
The jury also took note. They would place added weight on the next few moments—a weight that might add up to reasonable doubt during deliberations if I wasn’t careful.
I sat up straighter, the edge of the worn, wooden chair digging into my thighs, and anticipated the sparring match to come. The rest of the room faded into shimmering echoes of color accompanied by the gentle tinkle of chimes.
Not now. I couldn’t risk a fugue episode now.
I forced my attention to center on Jacob as I massaged the pressure point between the thumb and index finger of my left hand, trying to eke additional energy and alertness from my body’s diminished reserves.
Jacob took a step toward me, his stance aggressive. So unlike his usual style. A thrill vibrated through me. If only he’d been this aggressive about saving our marriage. Understated, subtle, always playing by the rules, that was Jacob.
An opposites-attract sort of thing, the rebel ER doctor and the by-the-book attorney.
But now, it was Jacob breaking the rules. My pulse revved up, buzzing beneath my skin. Something was going on here. This wasn’t the way Jacob worked. What was wrong with him?
Idiot. Jacob was fine—the problem was with me. Hopped up on the stimulants Louise had prescribed.
Jacob squared his shoulders, facing the jury more than me.
The jurors leaned forward, entranced, waiting to see what was coming. If he disappointed them after this buildup, his client was sure to suffer the consequences. Which was exactly why Jacob seldom resorted to melodrama.
I had to work to swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. Tymara’s death was my responsibility. I was the one who had persuaded her to go to the police. I was the one who had bolstered her courage, promised her that confronting her attackers was the right thing to do.
And Tymara, fool that she was, had placed her trust in me. Anger seared through me. The entire room simmered with the strength of my fury. I blinked against the image that violated my vision, more than blood, the terror on her face…
“Then Ms. Nelson led Mr. Littleton into her bedroom, correct?” Jacob said, jarring me from my morbid visions.
“She went to turn on the lights so he could see as he sprayed for roaches.”
“She willingly led him to her bedroom.”
I stared at him, refusing to confirm his rewording of my testimony, waiting for a question. Sweat pooled at the base of my spine, and my hands trembled. I tightened them into fists, drumming against my thighs, out of sight from the jury.
Jacob’s dramatic pauses were killing me. Why didn’t he just get on with it? His eyes seemed filled with sorrow and remorse. As if I was leading him somewhere he didn’t want to go. Wait. Could he know? That I was sick? Once upon a time, he could read me that well.
“And then Ms. Nelson undressed for Mr. Littleton,” he said.
“He was holding a knife on her.”
“Did Ms. Nelson sustain any knife wounds?” Jacob countered. He rustled a stack of papers, reminding me Big Brother was watching if I detoured from the medical record.
“No.” I spit out the word as if it was a spoiled piece of meat. The single syllable lingered in the air as the jury watched, mesmerized. The tension coiling between us was palpable, electricity before a lightning strike.
As if this trial needed any more drama.
Jacob consulted his notes as I waited for his next question. I risked a glance at the prosecution table and saw Manny frowning, shaking his head at me in warning.
“According to the medical history you collected from Ms. Nelson,” Jacob finally said. “What happened next?”
I took a breath, trying to rein in my anger and frustration. But one glance in the direction of the defendant eroded my control. “Mr. Littleton raped her.”
The jurors gaped at me. I didn’t have to see Manny’s scowl to know it was a mistake as soon as the words left my mouth.
Jacob took a step back behind the podium, his eyes wide at my use of the offensive verb. He glanced at his client, gave a small, regretful shrug of his shoulders. “Your Honor, permission to treat this witness as hostile?”
The judge pursed her lips, her eyes creasing, and nodded. “Granted.”
Manny glared at me, half-rising from his chair before slumping back into it, resigned. By having me declared hostile, Jacob had greater latitude in his questioning, could approach me, even try to manipulate my testimony.
I’d played right into his plans. There was a good reason why this was my last case.
Below the railing, out of sight of the jury and Jacob, I shook the blood into my hands, forcing myself to concentrate, to brick up my emotions. Manny was right about one thing: If we wanted to win, I needed to get the jury to trust me as a professional, keep my emotions out of it. After all, this whole psychodrama they called a trial wasn’t about me, it was about getting justice for Tymara.
Jacob wasn’t making things any easier. He needed the jury to see me as flawed, emotive, weak—and therefore, not to be believed.
“You testified that Ms. Nelson told you she faked an orgasm while engaged in sexual relations with my client,” Jacob said, facing me squarely. “Since she’s not here for me to question her motives, I’d like your expert opinion, Dr. Rossi.”
Jacob was pushing things. And getting away with it, because the jury was eating it up, leaving Manny no way to object without making things worse.
“Why? Why did Ms. Nelson do it?” he drawled, spinning to face the jury, impervious to my anger. “After all, according to your well-documented notes, she told my client she liked what he was doing to her, so much so that, and I’m quoting verbatim what Ms. Nelson told you during your medical history, she asked for ‘more, please, more.’ Enlighten us. If she lied to my client about how she felt in that moment of intimacy, is it possible that it could have been because she cared enough about him that she didn’t want to hurt Mr. Littleton’s feelings?”
Littleton had scripted her words at knifepoint. Tymara had been begging for it to stop. But I hadn’t recorded her reasons for faking an orgasm verbatim as part of the medical record, so I couldn’t testify to it. Which Jacob damn well knew.
If you can simmer with anger, can you boil over? I was about to. The courtroom was sweltering. If I took my jacket off, the jury would think I was shaken. They’d realize we were losing.
Manny reached for his microphone. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”
Jacob dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Withdrawn, Your Honor. I think we all know the answer without Dr. Rossi’s interpretation of what a woman told her seven months ago.” He pivoted to face me again. “Dr. Rossi, did you find any evidence that the sex between my client and Ms. Nelson was not consensual?”
“Ms. Nelson told me—”
“I’m not interested in hearsay, Dr. Rossi. I’m interested in the medical facts. Physical findings. Did your forensic examination reveal any physical evidence that my client used force?”
Damn him, damn him to hell. Jacob was the last person I’d expected to resort to tactics like this. But he always played by the rules—and the rules stating his client deserved the best defense he could offer trumped the simple fact that Littleton was a rapist.
I slanted a glance over at Manny, but all he could offer was a glare and a tiny shake of his head, reminding me this whole thing was my fault. The movement echoed through the air around him, shimmering in the red-gold light shining through the stained-glass windows.
Shit, not now. I pinched the flesh at the base of my thumb, hard. The pain focused my vision, and the echoes of color faded, although the chimes persisted, an aural shadow at the edge of my awareness. The echoes were a prelude to my fugues and threatened to mesmerize me, pulling me into a vortex where time stopped and I could lose myself if I wasn’t careful. That’s all this case needed, its star witness falling into a catatonic state, complete with drooling, right there i
n front of the jury.
“You seem to be having difficulty hearing me,” Jacob said, marching back to the podium and the microphone there.
He left a trail of colorful ripples in his wake. I edged forward, digging my nails into my palms, and the echoes were banished. For now.
“Dr. Rossi, did your examination reveal any physical evidence that my client forced Ms. Nelson to have sex with him?”
I took a quick inventory of the jury. The only one who would meet my gaze was an older man who seemed more interested in looking down my shirt than what I had to say. No doubt about it, I’d lost them. Best to get it over with quickly.
“No.”
“No what?” Jacob was relentless.
“I found no physical evidence that Mr. Littleton used force when he raped Ms. Nelson.”
“Dr. Rossi,” Judge Shaw said, further making Jacob’s case for him, “confine your remarks to the facts presented.”
“Yes, ma’am.” My tone could have been more contrite, but I was having a hard time maintaining a professional facade.
“Anything else, Mr. Voorsanger?” the judge asked, glancing at her watch. We were ahead of schedule, and she liked that.
“I just have one last confirmatory question, Your Honor.” Jacob glanced back over his shoulder to the spectators, then shuffled his notes as if ticking off a checklist. “Dr. Rossi, one last time for the jury. You found no evidence that Ms. Nelson was raped, correct?”
I blinked, at first certain I hadn’t heard him correctly. Manny sat up so fast he knocked a pencil off his table. It hit the ground with a crack that echoed through the suddenly silent room. In the rear of the galley, Ryder straightened as well.
Jacob had his head buried in his notes. The jury had relaxed. They’d heard him ask the same question twice before already. They knew my answer.
Except they were wrong. It wasn’t the same question, not the same question at all.
I glanced at the judge, who inclined her head in a small nod, giving me permission to answer the question Jacob had asked.
