by Angela Hunt
Chapter Twenty
Briley 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.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Antonio Tomassi steps off the elevator and into a branch of the Cook County State’s Attorney’s Office, a space crowded with L-shaped desks, steel-and-vinyl chairs, and myriad human bodies. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead while the air vibrates with the hum of fax machines and computers. Tired-looking men and women work behind desks, either tapping on keyboards or squinting at papers as they tilt their heads to hold telephones against their shoulders. Every one of them looks like central casting sent them to play the role of anonymous civil servant.
Without glancing behind him, Antonio gestures to Jason.
“Yes, Papa?”
“Who is the man we need to see?”
Jason steps forward and pulls a slip of paper from his pocket. “Travis Bystrowski.”
Antonio steps into the room, narrowing his gaze as he scans the nameplates on several doors opening off the main area. He knows better than to expect the state’s top dog to try his son’s case, but he hopes the man has assigned the trial to someone with experience and a hunger for justice—
He points to a door in the far corner of the room. “There. Bystrowski.”
“A Polack.” Jason shakes his head. “Wouldn’t you know we’d draw a Polack?”
“Shut up.” Antonio lifts a warning finger. “You don’t say a word in that room, understand? You listen and let me talk.”
Without waiting for his son’s response, Antonio shoulders his way through the sea of government workers and cheap furniture. The door to Bystrowski’s office is closed, but through the frosted glass he glimpses a human form behind a desk. He raps on the door.
“Come in.”
Bystrowski—a young man with short hair and a lean look—glances up from his reading when Antonio steps through the doorway. “Can I help you?”
Antonio removes his hat. “My name is Antonio Tomassi, and this is my son, Jason. I understand you are the prosecutor assigned to my son’s case.”
Bystrowski’s brow furrows until the name registers. “Tomassi—Jeffrey Tomassi.” He stands and offers his hand. “May I extend my sympathies to you both? And yes, I’ll be prosecuting the case.”
Antonio shakes the man’s hand, then gestures to the chairs crowded against the wall. “May we?”
“Certainly.” Bystrowski waits until Antonio has been seated before he settles back in his seat. “How can I help you, gentlemen?”
Antonio looks around, taking in the diplomas on the back wall, the newspapers piled in the corner, the nameplate proclaiming Travis Bystrowski an assistant state’s attorney, the cigarette stubs in the ashtray. A half smile tugs at his mouth as he points to a length of curled ashes. “Are state’s attorneys allowed to smoke in public buildings?”
“Um, no.” Bystrowski has the decency to flush as he dumps the ashtray into the trash. “I often work late, and if I’m alone up here—”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Bystrowski, your secret is safe with me.” Antonio smiles, without humor. “We want to support you in any way possible. We want justice for Jeffrey.”
Bystrowski glances from Antonio to Jason, as if he doubts the sincerity of their stated intention. “That’s what the state wants, as well. How much do you know about our progress with the case?”
“We know Erin has been arrested.”
The attorney nods. “That’s correct. She was arraigned yesterday, and pleaded not guilty.”
Antonio barely resists the urge to spit. “She killed him, of course. Who else could have?”
“The evidence certainly points to her,” Bystrowski says. “The police found no indication of a break-in. And her fingerprints were on the murder weapon.”
“The trial will be concluded quickly, then? No surprises from the defense?”
“Well—” Bystrowski spreads his hands “—the defense can try to sell any cock-and-bull theory to win sympathy for the defendant. Sometimes, particularly if the defendant has money, they can hire expert witnesses that can convince a jury of almost anything.”
“You need not worry about the defense attorney,” Antonio says, satisfaction warming his face. “The woman is inexperienced in these matters.”
Bystrowski gives him an uncertain smile. “You know Briley Lester?”
Antonio shrugs. “I know she is no threat. Not only is she unskilled, but Erin has no money for experts and such. Jeffrey gave
her everything, and she killed him for more.”
Interest flickers in Bystrowski’s eyes. “We’ve been unable to confirm details of your son’s will.”
“I’ll be sure my lawyer gives you a copy.” Antonio gestures to Jason. “See that it’s done, will you? But though Erin stood to inherit their considerable joint assets, she cannot inherit if she killed him, right? Such injustice should not be allowed.”
“The Illinois slayer statute prohibits a murderer from profiting from the crime,” Bystrowski says. “So yes, you’re right. If Erin is convicted of killing your son, she cannot inherit the estate. It would go to whomever is next of kin.”
Antonio nods. “That would be Jason. It is only right that Jeff’s estate should go to his twin. My boys were as close as a hand and glove. It is not right—” he pauses as a rise of feeling chokes his words “—that they should be parted.”
Bystrowski remains silent until Antonio gains control of his emotions, then he folds his hands. “Mr. Tomassi, I promise I will do everything I can to put your son’s killer behind bars.”
Antonio meets the prosecutor’s gaze head-on. “Behind bars is not enough, my friend. I want a life for a life, one fatal injection for another. That is justice, and that is what I will have.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Briley gapes at her client in a paralysis of incredulity. “Your invisible friend,” she repeats, “killed your husband.”
Erin’s face disappears behind her hands. “I know you think I’m only looking for a way out. But I’m not crazy. I’m trying to tell you the truth.”
Briley takes a deep breath and feels a dozen different emotions collide. So long, battered-woman’s defense; hello, insanity plea.
The steady pulse of an approaching headache begins to pound at her temple. “Erin,” she begins, “when I came in today, I was thinking that we might have a good chance of convincing the jury that your husband committed suicide. Even though the police report says your fingerprints are on the syringe and the insulin bottle, that’s not inconceivable if a husband and wife share the same bathroom.”
