The Blackwood Files - File One: Family Secrets

by Terri Reid

“No,” Art admitted. “I’d be kicking butt and taking names.”

  Timothy chuckled. “Well, you’ve naught to worry about,” he said. “You got a confession. There’s not much that can go wrong with that. Good luck, son.”

  “Thanks, Da,” Art replied. “I’ll call you tonight.”

  Chapter Three

  Brooke glanced over the top of her notes and took a good look at Detective Arthur O’Reilly. He looked like a detective out of a movie screen: tall, muscular, blonde and handsome. He was definitely not cut out of the same fabric as many of the detectives on the CPD: overweight, balding and nearing retirement. Not only was he good-looking, he was competent and smart, answering the questions from the prosecution with clear, concise remarks, not letting his feelings for her client cloud his verbal testimony. But she could see in his eyes that he had definite feelings about her client. Both animosity and determination shone in his eyes. He wanted Robbins to go down, and he wanted it badly. She shrugged slightly; too bad she was going to have to ruin his day.

  “That pig think he so bad,” her client whispered, leaning over and pressing himself against her shoulder. “He comes on my turf, I’ll show him who bad.”

  “Be quiet,” Brooke whispered fiercely. “We don’t want the jury to hear you.”

  He smiled and nodded his head slowly. “Okay, you right,” he replied. “But you be my bitch and you take him down.”

  Brooke fought the urge to turn on her client and let him know that she was nobody’s bitch. But a scene like that would sway the jury, if it came to that, and she wasn’t going to risk the case.

  The prosecution finished with Detective O’Reilly, and now it was Brooke’s turn to cross-examine him. She picked up the paperwork she’d received from Niki that morning and stood up, walking slowly to the stand. “Detective O’Reilly,” she said with a polite nod of her head.

  “Attorney Callahan,” he replied, mimicking her movement.

  “I have in my hand the signed confession you took from my client,” she said. “Would you mind reviewing it for me?”

  Art tensed. Callahan was too relaxed. She had something up her sleeve. “I’d be happy to review it,” he said.

  She handed him the paper. “Please pay particular attention to the sections that I have highlighted with the post-it arrows.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said politely and took his time reading the document. He finished with a satisfied smile and handed them back to her. “They look fine to me.”

  “So, you would state for the record that you find everything in order with this confession?” she asked. “And it is correct?”

  “Yes, I would,” he replied.

  “Thank you, Detective,” she replied. She took the document from his hand, removed the little, yellow stick-on arrows and turned to the judge. “Permission to approach the bench,” she requested.

  The judge, an attractive, black woman in her late fifties nodded. “Yes you may.”

  Brooke handed the judge the paperwork. “Your honor, as you can see on the line next to my client’s signature stating he understands that the information he is relaying could be used against him in a court of law, the date is one day later than that on the top of the document. Which means that the confession given by my client was given without his foreknowledge that it would or could be used against him in a court of law.”

  The judge looked down at the paperwork and nodded. “I see that,” she replied.

  Art stood up and looked over from the witness stand. “Where?” he demanded. “Where is there a wrong date?”

  The judge handed Brooke back the paperwork and Brooke brought it over to Art. “Right there,” she said, pointing to an area that had been concealed by one of the yellow arrows.

  “You purposely hid that,” he accused.

  “Detective O’Reilly,” Brooke replied easily. “I asked you to thoroughly review the document. You certainly could have removed the stickers if you had wanted to.”

  “But you knew I probably wouldn’t,” he said softly, meeting her eyes.

  She took the paperwork and walked back to the judge. “Because this confession is the evidence that all subsequent corroborating evidence relies upon, I must ask the court to dismiss the charges against my client.”

  The judge looked back at the paperwork and then over to the prosecuting attorney. “Do you have any more substantial evidence you wish to produce?”

  The prosecuting attorney looked crestfallen. “Not at this time, your honor,” he said.

  With a slight shake of her head, the judge lifted her gavel and pounded it down once. “Case dismissed.”

  Brooke turned and walked back to her client. “They’ll take you back to the jail now, to get your things,” she said. “But then you’ll be free to go. The charges against you have been dismissed.”

  The self-satisfied smile on Robbins’s face made Brooke’s skin crawl. “You did good,” he said. “You did real good. How ‘bout you and me meet up later on, and I can show you my appreciation.” He grabbed the crotch of his orange prison-issued jumpsuit and nodded at her. “You get me?”

  Brooke took a deep breath and met his eyes. “I don’t get you, and I will never get you,” she said, her voice low and firm. “I won. Not because you weren’t guilty, but because I’m good and someone at the police station made a slight error. By all rights, you should be rotting in jail for a very long time. So, my last piece of attorney-client advice to you, because, quite frankly, I never want to see you again, is to change your life, stay out of trouble and never, ever, cross my path again.”

  “No one talks to me like that,” he said, his eyes cold with hate.

  She had to fight the urge to step back. The last thing she wanted to do was to show weakness. “I just did,” she said.

  “Bitch, you gonna regret it,” he whispered, as the guards came up behind him to escort him out of the courtroom. “You gonna regret it soon.”

  She waited until he was escorted out before she allowed herself to sink into her chair. Would she regret it? Did she already regret it?

  “What the hell did you just do?”

  Brooke jumped in her chair and let out a slow breath of relief when she realized it was Detective O’Reilly in front of her. “I’m sorry, what?” she asked.

  “What the hell did you just do?” he repeated, his anger evident.

  For a moment, she wondered if she ought to thank him. His question had snapped the fear away and set her Irish blood boiling. She stood up and faced him. “Oh, let me just explain it to you in simple terms,” she replied. “I won.”

  “Is that all this is to you? A game? A contest?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied, meeting his eyes. “It’s not a game. It’s a job, a job I do very well.”

  He leaned even closer to her. She could feel the heat from his body. “No, it’s not a job,” he said, his voice soft and intense. “It’s people’s lives. The guy you just let go on a technicality killed a little girl. Shot her in the head. She died in front of her mother and her three siblings. Her only crime was to play with her dolls on the front porch that day. She’s not the first person he killed, but I had hoped she would have been the last.”

  Remembering Niki’s words, she started to feel guilty, but looking at his self-righteous face, she slammed that guilt as far away as she could. She wasn’t the one who’d made the mistake. She wasn’t the one who didn’t completely review the document. She was only doing her job. “I didn’t let him go,” she said, stashing her purse and briefcase under her arm, “You did. You and shoddy clerical work did. I did my job. That’s my job. The law has rules, and you have to play by the rules.”

  He nodded slowly at her. “And you always play by the rules?” he asked skeptically.

  The thought of Niki hacking into the computer system immediately came to mind, and she paused just a little too long to reply.

  “Yeah, just what I thought,” he said, not giving her a chance to finally answer. “I just don’t get it. With yo
ur background, I thought you’d be different.”

  “My background?” she asked, taken aback for a moment. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know, with your dad being a detective, I thought you’d be fighting on our side.”

  “My dad’s not a detective, he’s a judge,” she replied. “And we don’t have sides.”

  She started to move past him, but he put a hand on her arm and held her. “No, not your stepdad,” he said. “Your real dad, Bruce Blackwood. He was a real detective. But maybe that’s why you’re angry with us, because we never solved his murder.”

  Bruce Blackwood. Brooke felt the room tilt beneath her feet.

  “What did you say?” she asked, her voice shaking.

  Surprised by the tremor in her voice and the paleness of her skin, Art studied her critically. Could she really not know about her dad? Or was she just playing him for a fool?

  “The Chicago Police Department never solved his murder,” Art repeated, “but you shouldn’t take it out on all of us.”

  Suddenly Brooke felt that there was no air in the room, and Detective O’Reilly’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way away. A flash of memory, from some hidden corner of her brain, reappeared with startling clarity. She could see herself as a child. She was with a man. A man she didn’t recognize, but he was smiling at her. Laughing with her. Tossing her in the air. And then she remembered.

  “Daddy,” she whispered softly, her voice breaking.

  Grabbing hold of the edge of the desk, Brooke took a deep breath, steadied herself and faced Art.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head and holding back the tears. “You’re wrong. My dad is not dead.”

  She wasn’t faking, Art realized, his heart breaking for her. She didn’t know.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I thought…I assumed…You were just little, but…”

  Brooke gasped as another series of flashbacks emerged from her memory. A smiling face surrounded by a five o’clock shadow softly scraping her cheek. Her mother dropping to the floor and sobbing. A dark hearse pulling up in front of their church. Her mother holding her hand as they stand on the steps of the church watching it pull away.

  Art watched the agony of the memories race across her face. “Miss Callahan. Brooke,” he said, trying to bring her back to the present. “People are watching.”

  Immediately, her eyes opened and met his. He watched her internal struggle, trying to replace pain and confusion with a cool, proficient demeanor. It took her several moments, but the polished professional won.

  “Why did you do this?” she whispered vehemently.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  Brooke shook her head, cutting his words off. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered.

  A soft cough across the room reminded her that they weren’t alone, and, as Art had warned, people were watching. Many of them, former adversaries, were looking in her direction, looking for the weakness, ready to take advantage of it.

  No weaknesses, she repeated silently. No weaknesses.

  “Good-bye, Detective,” she said, forcing herself to remain calm.

  “Brooke,” he pleaded. “Wait.”

  Stepping back, trying to get away from his touch, the heel of her shoe caught on the leg of a chair, and she started to fall. But before she could even react, strong arms wrapped around her and steadied her on her feet. Warmth and, surprisingly, comfort infused her body. For the moment, she was secure in Art’s arms. But, in mere seconds, as soon as she was stable, he released her and stepped back.

  “Let me drive you home,” he offered softly.

  Feeling even more disoriented, Brooke didn’t trust her voice. Shaking her head, she pushed past him and ran out of the courtroom.

  Watching her leave, he wondered if he should just leave her alone to deal with her pain by herself. Then he remembered the look in her eyes and shook his head. He needed to be sure she was okay.

  “Hey, O’Reilly,” the prosecuting attorney called from across the room. “What did you do to Callahan? Ask her on a date?”

  Shrugging and nodding with a smile, Art made sure his steps were casual so no more attention would be drawn to Brooke’s quick exit. But as soon as he stepped into the hall, he looked up and down the hall for any sign of the escaping attorney. To his left, a crowd of people waiting for the next trial to begin blocked his view, but as people started to move, he caught a glimpse of her. She was stepping into the elevator.

  “Callahan, wait,” he called, but before he could reach her, the doors closed.

  Holding her breath until the door closed, Brooke slowly released her breath and slumped against the wall of the elevator. “It can’t be true,” she whispered aloud. “It can’t be true.” But every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. The stranger who was not a stranger.

  Rustling through her purse, she pulled out her cell phone. Waiting until the door opened so she would have coverage, she dialed her mother’s number as she half-jogged to her car.

  Hearing her mother’s answering voice just as she unlocked the door, she paused, her hand on the top of the car. “Mom?” she asked, taking a deep breath and forcing her voice to be emotionless. “It’s Brooke.”

  She slipped onto the leather upholstery of the car’s seat and put her key into the ignition. “I have a quick question for you. Who is Bruce Blackwood?”

  The long pause gave her all the answer she needed. Oh God, she thought, it’s true.

  “Mom, I’m coming home. We need to talk.”

  She hung up the phone before her mother could respond and tossed it carelessly on the passenger seat. Almost immediately, the phone began to ring. Brooke shook her head and wiped away a few stray tears.

  “Not on the phone, Mom,” she said to herself. “This conversation is going to take place in person.”

  Chapter Four

  Loosening his tie as he walked back to his car, Art felt sick. Could he have been any more callous or thoughtless? “How could I have been so stupid?” he sighed.

  Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he pressed his father’s number and leaned against his car in the concrete parking garage. He had no idea if there were going to be political ramifications because of his faux pas, but he needed to warn his father just in case.

  “Art,” his father’s voice boomed across the line. “And so, how did it go in court today?”

  Art sighed softly. “We lost, Da,” he said. “Robbins is back on the street.”

  “But you had a confession,” his father responded. “How could that happen?”

  “There was a clerical error on the confession,” Art replied. “The signatory line was dated the next day.”

  “Sometimes I have a love/hate relationship with our justice system,” Timothy said, frustration evident in his voice. “I’m sorry, son. I know how badly you wanted him put away.”

  “Yeah, I did,” Art admitted. “But, Da, that’s not the reason I called. I think I might have majorly messed up today.”

  “Oh. And what did you do?”

  “After the hearing, I went over to Brooke Callahan,” he said, rubbing his hand across his face. “I have to admit I was angry that she used a technicality to let this creep get back on the streets.”

  “Well, Art, it’s her job.”

  “I know. I know I was being unreasonable, but it hurt. It really hurt to see him walk free,” he said. “So, I said some things about the damage Robbins caused, and I told her I was surprised she’d acted the way she did considering who her dad was.”

  He paused for a moment and sighed. “But, Da, she didn’t know,” he finally said.

  “What?”

  “She didn’t know that her dad was Bruce Blackwood,” he said, and then he thought about it. “Actually, I think she might have remembered something when I said his name, because her eyes grew wide and she looked like she’d seen a ghost.”

  “They never told her?” Timothy asked incredulously. “They never told her about her real father?�
��

  “I guess not,” Art replied. “It must have been some kind of family secret. Which I decided to blab to her and pull the rug out from underneath her.”

  “Well, you didn’t mean to, son,” Timothy replied. “You couldn’t have known that her family covered up who her real father is.”

  “But I still told her,” he replied. “Not just told her, I used it as a weapon because I was angry about losing the case.”

  “No. No, you didn’t,” Timothy replied.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know you,” he answered. “You might have been angry, and you might have been frustrated. But when you asked her about her father, you were looking for answers, not trying to hurt the lass.”

  Art sighed. “But I did hurt her,” he said softly. “If you could have seen her face, it would have broken your heart.”

  “And did it break yours?” Timothy asked his son.

  “Dad, I don’t have a heart anymore, remember? But I do feel like a real jerk,” Art admitted. “I feel like I kicked a kitten. I tried to run after her. Tried to help. But she would have none of it.”

  “Ah, but she’s Irish,” Timothy said. “She’ll take a few licks and come up fighting. See if she doesn’t.”

  Art sighed, rubbing the space between his eyes. “Da, that’s not all,” he said.

  “What else?” Timothy asked.

  “I’m also worried about the political fallout,” Art said. “Reece Callahan is a powerful man. I don’t want my indiscretion to backfire on you.”

  Timothy chuckled. “Don’t worry, Art,” he said. “That’s one of the reasons I remained a patrolman. I fly under the radar of politics. Besides, he’d be a fool to criticize someone for repeating information that every cop of a certain age knows about. It’s his fault and his wife’s, for not being honest with their daughter. And, if anyone is going to receive fallout, I have a feeling it is going to be them.”

  Chapter Five

  The drive from downtown Chicago to the exclusive suburb of Kenilworth, Illinois, generally took about an hour. Glancing down at the dashboard clock and over at her speedometer, Brooke eased up on the accelerator and acknowledged ruefully that today she was going to make it back to her family home in record time. She’d already called Emma, her assistant, at the office and canceled her appointments for the rest of the day. She’d already convinced herself that it simply couldn’t be true. How could she not know about her own father? It had to be a lie, and the sooner she got to the bottom of this fabrication the better. Then she’d get O’Reilly brought up on charges for lying to her. She nodded. Yes, that was all it was, some sort of stupid, intimidation tactic. He was just trying to throw her off her game. She’d show him.