by Angela Hunt
Erin blinks. “Why would he? I suppose he might keep a bottle in his car or at his office, but I don’t know that for certain. At home he kept all his supplies in the bathroom.”
“Did your husband administer his own injections?”
Erin glances from the woman to the man, whose features have hardened in a disapproving stare. “Yes. Needles make me queasy.”
“Did he ever ask you to inject him?”
“No. He wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Erin spreads her hands, unable to explain. “I don’t know. I don’t think he trusted me to do it right.”
The male detective reaches inside his coat pocket and pulls out a zippered storage bag. “Mrs. Tomassi, do you recognize this item?”
“I don’t know—May I see it?” The cop stands and walks forward, dangling the clear bag in front of Erin’s eyes. She reaches for it and feels a pang of panic when she realizes he is not going to let her hold it. Why doesn’t he trust her?
The bag contains a drinking glass, the small size typically used for juice. She turns the plastic until she can see the T etched in the glass. “This looks like one of our juice glasses.”
“This was taken from your bathroom,” he says, indicating a frosted panel where someone has written Master Bath on the plastic. “Do you recall who last used this glass?”
“Me, I suppose. Jeffrey didn’t use a glass in the bathroom, because he was always dropping things.”
“So the fingerprints on this glass—they’re yours?”
“Unless someone else touched it.”
The two cops exchange looks, then the woman pulls a folded paper from her jacket and holds it aloft. “Erin Tomassi,” she says, “we have a warrant for your arrest. You have the right to remain silent—”
Erin scrambles to her feet. “There’s been some kind of mistake.”
“Ma’am?” The housekeeper moves into the arched doorway, her eyes dark and narrow. “Why are the reporters outside again?”
“—and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
Erin steps toward the housekeeper. “Call Antonio,” she says, horror snaking down her spine as the man pulls handcuffs from his belt. “Tell him everything that’s happened. Tell him I did not kill Jeffrey.”
“You have the right to an attorney during questioning—” the woman continues.
Erin winces as the man slaps the cuffs on her wrists. “I don’t know why you’re doing this. Didn’t you hear me? I didn’t kill my husband.”
“—and if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided without cost.”
When the male detective takes hold of Erin’s arm, she leans in the opposite direction. “I’m not dressed to go out. I’m not even wearing shoes!”
“You won’t need ’em,” the woman answers, taking Erin’s other elbow. “The jail issues footwear to all incoming prisoners.”
Erin takes a deep, quivering breath to calm the panicked pulse beneath her ribs. “Hurry,” she calls to the housekeeper as the cops lead her toward the front door. “Please have Antonio call someone. I need a lawyer.”
Chapter Nine
Briley has just stepped out of the pink-marble ladies’ room at Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton when another associate nearly runs her over in the hallway. Jim Myers is carrying a stack of files under one arm and focused on the paper clutched in his free hand.
“Hey!” After stepping out of Jim’s way, she peers over his shoulder and spies the Chicago Tribune’s online masthead on a printout. “What’s so interesting?”
He looks up, his eyes flashing when he recognizes her. “Did you hear the latest about the Tomassi case?”
“What?”
“They just arrested the wife.”
“Wow.” She crosses her arms and leans one shoulder against the wall. “Any word on the cause of death?”
“Nothing in this update, but we’ll probably be among the first to hear.”
“How’s that?”
“Didn’t you know? Tomassi keeps a couple of our real estate attorneys on retainer, and the firm represented the family in a civil suit back in ’96. They won three-point-something million in damages.”
Briley whistles. “What kind of case was it?”
“Libel, I think. Anyway, the Chicago papers learned not to publish rumors about the Tomassis.”
She laughs. “You make them sound like the Mafia.”
Jim glances right and left, then leans closer. “I wouldn’t say that too loudly, if you know what I mean. The family business is respectable, but I wouldn’t want to dig into their books. What we don’t know can’t hurt us.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Watch what you say. And by the way, these files are for you.”
Briley stares, dumbfounded, as he dumps his burden into her arms.
“The case involves three teenage girls charged with battering a classmate over tickets to an Oprah taping. Franklin thinks you should be first chair on this one.”
“Why, because I have breasts?”
“Maybe because you used to be a teenage girl. All I know is, he wants you to look over the files and talk to the state’s attorney. See if you can plead them out as a group.”
She makes a moue. “What if I don’t want to deal with an overblown catfight?”
He grins. “Come on, Counselor, remember your oath to help the defenseless and oppressed.”
With that sorry jibe ringing in her ears, Briley carries the files to her office and dumps them on her desk. Three years of practicing law in a respected firm has brought her—what? A good income, sure. Steady work. Approving smiles from the woman next door. But what good has she actually accomplished?
She used to dream about making a difference in the world, but three years of dealing with criminal defendants has taught her that the practice of law would be far more enjoyable if she didn’t have to deal with so many guilty people.
Her father dealt with people every day, and he loved his work until the day he died. She’d thought she could honor his altruistic example by practicing law, but the unending parade of remorseless clients has dulled her idealism.
Serving others is a noble goal, but a lawyer who hopes to make a real difference is doomed to eternal frustration.
Because Dax Lightner is having lunch with a producer, Timothy is free for a couple of hours. Delighted by this unexpected opportunity, Briley slips into a restaurant booth and smiles across the table. “It’s so good to see you in daylight,” she says, reaching out to catch Timothy’s hands. “I can’t believe I have you all to myself for an entire meal.”
“Or at least until Dax and his producer have a falling-out,” Timothy says, grinning. “My man’s been a bit touchy the past few days.”
“Is he really as bad as all that?” Briley struggles to keep any trace of annoyance from her voice. “I mean, he’s been out of rehab for what, three weeks now?”
“Which only means the confidence rush is over.” Timothy’s eyes darken as they search her face. “And you know addicts. It only takes an instant for someone to slip.”
“You’ve never slipped.”
“I have a good support system. But even here in Chicago, Dax is surrounded by people who’d do anything he asks, including getting him another fix.” Timothy shakes his head, sending a sheaf of dark blond hair into his eyes. “I seem to be the only person willing to tell him no.”
“You’re paid to tell him no. And I wish the man would develop a little backbone, because it’s awful not being able to see you as much as I want to.”
“Come on, give the guy a break.” Timothy squeezes her fingers, then releases her hands. “You should meet him sometime. I think you’d like him.”
Briley snorts. “Like I’d have anything to say to a British movie star. I don’t hang out with people who grace the cover of…well, People.”
“Not everyone in rehab is an A-lister. Most are just like me and you.” His mouth twists in a crooked sm
ile. “You know what they say—if you want to bake a cake, you have to crack a few eggs.”
“Who on earth says that?”
“I do. I made it up. I’m trying to say that if you want to make a difference, sometimes you have to make a mess.” When she doesn’t respond, he smiles and spreads his hands. “You know—when you crack the egg, the runny part and the yolk splash all over the counter.”
Briley shakes her head. “Remind me never to bake a cake with you.”
Timothy picks up the menu and scans the front cover. As the waitress at the next table scrapes food from a plate, he lifts his gaze: “What’s good at this place?”
Ignoring his obvious attempt to change the subject, Briley lowers her voice. “I know you want to help your client. I love that you’re the kind of man who wants to help others. But honestly, Tim, how long are you going to take these gigs? When you’re working, we can only see each other in bits and snatches.”
He drops his menu. “I thought you’d understand. You work long hours.”
“But they’re dependable.”
“Surely you have legal emergencies.”
“A well-run case never results in dire situations. One thing I learned from my father’s example is that you can’t let people eat you alive. You have to set boundaries. You have to compartmentalize. Otherwise people will take and take until you have nothing else to give.”
Compassion struggles with humor on his strong face as he studies her. “Do you remember the first time we met?”
“Of course.”
“If I’d been mingling at that benefit on the front side of rehab, I don’t think you’d have looked at me twice. I wasn’t worth much when I was using, and I didn’t believe in anything but my next fix. But once I got clean, I was able to find myself again. And then I found you…and you’re one of the reasons I’ve been able to stay clean.”
Briley blinks away a sudden rush of tears. Timothy is always waylaying her with some sweet declaration when she has something important to discuss.
“You’re not clean because of me,” she insists. “You’re clean because you’re a strong person. You have character.”
“So do you.” He picks up his menu again. “So does Dax, though he doesn’t realize it yet. The man needs someone in his life who cares more about his future than his next movie.”
Briley props her elbow on the table and drops her chin into her hand, realizing that the conversation has hit a dead end. Timothy is determined to save the addicts of Chicago, one soul at a time, and there’s nothing she can do about it. At least not during lunch.
She scans her menu. “I was going to suggest we have a picnic this weekend, but I might have to interview a witness on Saturday.”
“See? You work as much as I do.”
“But I’m doing it under protest. You seem to enjoy spending time away from me.”
“I’ve heard enough.” He shoves the menu aside as he leans toward her, his eyes bright with frustrated affection. “I adore you, Briley Lester, but sometimes I wonder if we’re going to make it. You’re brilliant and you’re beautiful, but you’re also infuriating.”
She leans forward until her lips are almost touching his. “I’m not beautiful, but thank you. And we are going to make it, because in at least one way we’re very much alike—neither of us likes to quit.”
Chapter Ten
In the back of his limo, Antonio pulls out his cell phone and dials his lawyer’s private number. Though Joseph Franklin is sure to be either at lunch or in a meeting, the managing partner at Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton answers almost immediately. “Antonio?”
“Joe. I suppose you’ve heard about my son.”
“Of course, I was so sorry to hear the news. I trust you received the flowers we sent.”
“I’m sure we did. Listen, I’m calling about a matter relating to Jeffrey’s death…but this must be handled, you know, carefully.”
In the background Antonio can hear the hum of conversation and the clinking sounds of restaurant service, but Joseph’s voice carries clearly: “I’m listening.”
Antonio stares out the window, where the stately brownstones and wrought-iron fences of Lincoln Park are sliding by. “The police have made an arrest. I can’t believe it, but late this morning they took my daughter-in-law into custody. Erin will be needing a lawyer.”
The thick silence of concentration rolls over the line. When Joe speaks again, his voice is guarded. “You want us to defend her?”
“I do. People will expect the family to support her, and you are the family’s firm. But I talked to the medical examiner and the chief detective, and the case against her is rock solid. So I want her punished to the fullest extent of the law.”
“So you’re saying—”
“The fullest extent, you understand? Assign someone to her case, make sure everything’s done by the book. But don’t allow her to walk free of that courtroom with my son’s blood on her hands.”
Antonio can almost see the heavy lines of concentration that must be creasing the attorney’s forehead. “We’ll have to be careful to avoid the appearance of impropriety. Even a guilty client is entitled to an adequate defense.”
“I don’t think the Constitution says anything about a stone-cold killer being entitled to the best defense, does it? So do whatever you have to, but don’t let the woman who killed my son walk out of that courtroom without paying for what she did.”
The sweet sound of tinkling ice cubes rattles over the line, followed by Joseph’s assuring voice. “Don’t worry, my friend. As always, we will do everything we can to merit your confidence and trust.”
Antonio nods at his grim reflection in the darkened window. “I know you will.”
Chapter Eleven
Briley giggles as Timothy’s lips, cooled by the ice cream he’s just finished, nuzzle the side of her neck.
“That tickles,” she says, sliding out of his embrace. “You should warm up those lips before you start breathing down my throat.”
His smile widens in approval. “Got any ideas about how I could do that?”
Briley laughs. They are standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk on Chicago’s “Magnificent Mile,” surrounded by shoppers and employees who, like her, really should get back to work.
She wags a gloved finger at him. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”
“Sounds promising.”
“Come on, walk me back to the office.”
Timothy sighs and grabs her hand as they begin to walk. “Thanks for making time for lunch. And for ice cream.”
“You’re welcome. Maybe we could do it again sometime.”
“If we’re lucky.”
She’s about to suggest that they make it a regular date when the tinkle of a cell phone spoils the silence. She groans. “Yours or mine?”
“Not my ring tone. And Dax shouldn’t be calling for at least another half hour.”
“Ohmygoodness.” Briley stops walking and yanks her purse from her shoulder. “My boss. I programmed that ring tone for Mr. Franklin, never dreaming he’d actually call me.” She finds the phone at the bottom of her bag and presses it to her ear. “Hello?”
She listens, hears her boss’s voice, and strides to a granite planter edging the sidewalk. After dropping her purse on the rim of the planter, she slides the phone between her shoulder and her ear, then rummages for a grocery list at the bottom of her bag. She looks at Timothy, frantically pretending to write on the air.
“No, sir,” she tells her boss. “You didn’t catch me at a bad time.”
Timothy hands her a pen, which she clicks. With his shoulder as a support, she’s jotting a client’s name on the back of the grocery list when a chill strikes the marrow of her bones.
“Did you say Erin Tomassi?” She grips the phone. “The state senator’s wife?”
“The state senator’s widow,” her boss answers. “And, according to the state’s attorney, his killer. She was arrested this morning, so you’ll need
to get over to the jail ASAP.”
Briley winces, not sure she’s heard correctly above the sound of tires hissing on the wet asphalt. “You want me to go to the jail? Am I filling in for Morton or Hubbard?”
“What’s the problem? Aren’t alleged killers entitled to your representation?”
“That’s not what I meant. Of course I’ll go. But I’ve never handled a murder case. And this trial—”
“We need you to get over there and give us a full report as soon as you can. The Tomassis are highly valued clients, so we need to know what the state’s attorney knows. See if you can get a summary of the case and a copy of the police report.”
“Right. Okay.” Briley disconnects the call and drops the phone back into her purse. She looks at Timothy, aware that most of the sunshine has just gone out of the day.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“A client,” she says, a sense of unease settling over her like a dark cloud. “A murder charge.”
He whistles. “That’s not your usual gig, is it?”
“No.” She frowns at the name on the paper in her hand. “It involves the Tomassi family. This trial is going to be huge, so why did he call—”
“Because you’re good.” Timothy takes his pen from her grip and puts it back in his pocket, then laces his fingers with hers. “Come on, let’s get you back to the office.”
Briley walks beside him, her thoughts as clogged as the traffic on the congested street. Something doesn’t fit. Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton has represented the Tomassi family for years, but never in a criminal case. Antonio Tomassi, the family patriarch, must have been astounded when the state’s attorney charged his daughter-in-law with the murder of his son, so he immediately called the family’s firm.
But why did Franklin call her? She has no experience with murder trials and little experience with the press. And the press will be all over this trial.
Franklin certainly won’t keep her on the case. Maybe he needs someone to run to the jail and she’s the only associate not tied up in a meeting. Or maybe he’s thinking that photos of a female attorney leaving the jail will elicit public sympathy for the defendant. Juxtaposing photos of Briley’s solid, unglamorous face with pictures of the elegant Erin Tomassi will make an impression on readers of the morning news.
