She nevertheless held her breath when the judge asked if the jury had reached a verdict.
The foreman rose to his feet. “We have, your honor. We find the defendant, Timothy Dalton, not guilty.”
The breath rushed out of Ainsley’s lungs, as beside her, Tim started to weep. Not noisily or demonstrably, but a steady stream of silent tears that were more rewarding than any whoops of relieved joy.
Ainsley placed her hand on his arm.
Tim turned her direction, his expression stunned. And then he buried his face on her shoulder and wept. “You can grieve them now,” she whispered to him. She knew that over the course of the past year he’d not been able to fully process the loss he’d endured, because he’d been fighting to prove his innocence. And it was for that in particular that Ainsley held the prosecutor in contempt. There’d been plenty of evidence to create a reasonable doubt. And a total lack of evidence that implicated her client conclusively. But rather than dig deeper, insist that the investigators follow other leads, the man had been convinced of Monica Dalton’s husband’s culpability from day one.
It was sloppy, it was unethical and it was wrong.
And it brought back all of the reasons she’d become a criminal defense attorney in the first place.
Timothy finally pulled away to mop at his face. “I can’t possibly thank you enough.”
“You just did,” she assured him, and then turned him over to his parents and his sister, who were waiting anxiously behind the rail separating the defense table from the visitors’ seats. She hugged each of them in turn before glancing toward the back of the courtroom.
A tall, handsome and immaculately groomed dark-haired man leaned against the back wall. When he saw Ainsley looking at him, he gave her a thumbs up.
Ainsley smiled at her boss, Jack Wellington. The man who was both a thorn in her side and the best mentor she could possibly ask for. Jack was one of the most sought after defense attorneys in Savannah, taking no prisoners in the courtroom. Or in any room, for that matter. He was both cunning and ruthless when it came to winning, which more often than not made him a pain in the ass to work for.
But he was also fair, and he’d had enough faith in Ainsley to let her fly solo on this case. For that, she was in his debt. Although she’d never admit that out loud.
Jack slipped out the door, and Ainsley started gathering up her files and notes, shoving them in her briefcase. She wanted nothing more than to make a brief statement and then get out of here and decompress. It had been one hell of a trial.
“Good work, Counselor.”
Ainsley paused in the act of closing her briefcase. She didn’t even have to look up to recognize the voice. She’d heard it so much over the past few weeks that it haunted her dreams at night.
“Kiss my ass, Daniels.”
The ADA raised his sandy brows. “A poor winner? I wouldn’t have expected it of you, Ms. Tidwell.”
“I wouldn’t have expected you to be a total douchecanoe, but I can’t ignore reality.”
He grinned. The little weasel’s ego was coated with Teflon.
“Now, now. Is that any way to treat a professional colleague?”
“You’re right,” she said, slinging the briefcase strap over her shoulder before sticking out her hand. ADA Daniels shook it, and Ainsley smiled for the benefit of anyone who may be watching. “I should have said Mister Douchecanoe,” she murmured under her breath. “My apologies.”
Daniels chuckled, and then rubbed his fingers across her palm when she pulled her hand from his grip.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
The odious little troll winked. “I’ll look forward to seeing you again, Ms. Tidwell.”
Ainsley watched him saunter out, disbelief temporarily freezing her in place. The man thought he was flirting with her. Unreal.
He’d go out and put on a somber face and complain to the news crews about the miscarriage of justice, blah, blah, blah. Or maybe he would spin it to say that he’d done the best he could with what he’d been given, but the justice system was set up to operate on the principle of innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, and the mishandling of some key evidence had worked against them. It would still cast doubt as to Timothy Dalton’s innocence, making it sound like he’d gotten off on a technicality because someone somewhere along the line – prior to reaching the DA’s office, of course – had screwed up.
Ainsley shook her head. Say what he would, the fact remained that Tim Dalton would remain free. She hoped that the police would reopen the investigation, but either way, Monica Dalton’s husband couldn’t ever be tried for her murder again.
After one last talk with her client and his family, Ainsley sailed out of the courtroom. She gave a brief statement to the press who were waiting outside, and then headed toward the parking garage. When she’d rounded the corner, safely out of sight of the press, she allowed herself to do a little happy dance. Not the easiest task in three-inch heels, but at this point she wasn’t even sure her feet were touching the ground. And as much as the heels were a nuisance – unthinkable to her former tomboy self – they’d allowed her to meet ADA Daniels eye-to-eye in the courtroom. A minor detail, but given the fact that in many ways the justice system was still a good ole boys’ club, she would take any advantage she could get.
Pulling herself together, Ainsley took a deep breath, smoothed her hair. She retrieved her phone from her pocket and turned it back on so that she could check her messages while she walked.
A congratulatory text from her dad. Ainsley smiled. He must have had one of his former colleagues contact him as soon as the verdict was handed down. He’d wanted to fly in from Colorado for the conclusion of the trial, but Tyra’s – her stepmom’s – health was precarious right now, so she’d told him to stay put.
She shot back a quick response. Chip off the old block. I’ll call you when I get home. Love you.
Ainsley scrolled through her other messages. She had two missed calls from Sabrina. She’d have to call her later, too. She’d been so busy preparing for this trial that aside from a few quick texts back and forth and one brief phone call, she hadn’t really talked to her cousin for well over a month.
She stuck her phone back into her suit pocket before taking off the jacket and slinging it over her briefcase. Despite the fact that it was October, it still felt like mid-July. But that was Savannah for you. Fall was more of an idea than an actual reality.
Her blouse was sticking to her by the time Ainsley entered the parking garage down the street from the courthouse. She yanked on it to get some air circulating to her skin and then took her keys from her briefcase pocket. Clicking the remote, she watched her car’s taillight’s flash.
But it wasn’t until she got closer that she saw the words.
Baby killer.
Bitch.
Fury bubbled up inside her as Ainsley read what was printed in what looked to be lipstick on her driver’s side windows. She knew that there was a contingent of the public that believed the accusations against her client, no matter how much evidence to the contrary she produced. The supposedly grieving husband actually being the murderer of his wife and unborn child was the stuff of true crime novels and detective shows, after all.
And everybody liked a good story.
Finding some napkins from the coffee shop she’d visited earlier stuffed into the outer pocket of her briefcase, Ainsley wiped off the graffiti as best she could. People were such assholes. Holding on to their narratives and their beliefs because it was just too difficult to admit they might have been wrong. No matter how much evidence you presented.
Taking a deep breath, Ainsley shoved the soiled napkins back into her briefcase and then climbed into her car. She wouldn’t let the idiots get her down. Not when she’d just won the most significant case of her career to date.
And more importantly, an innocent man remained free.
Her phone rang again as she was pulling her seatbelt across her chest,
and Ainsley lunged toward the passenger seat to retrieve it. Probably her dad, unable to wait until she got home to talk to her. She checked the readout. Sabrina again.
Ainsley smiled in anticipation, and then put the phone to her ear. “Big Dick’s Bar and Grill. Liquor in the front, poker in the rear.”
She waited for Sabrina’s response, but all she got was static.
“Bree?” she said, using the diminutive from their childhood.
A couple words came through, but they were completely garbled.
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. I’m in the parking garage, and the reception probably isn’t the best. Let me call you back.”
Ainsley ended the call and then backed her car out, shuddering a little as she always did when driving down the garage ramp. All of the concrete and cars stacked on top of each other gave her the creeps, making her feel claustrophobic. Ainsley had a problem with feeling hemmed in, or trapped someplace where she couldn’t get away. Which was silly, really. She was no more trapped here than she was inside her apartment or any other building.
But then the phobias that stuck with us from childhood were often the most irrational and difficult to break.
She cleared the garage and headed to the office to deal with the remaining paperwork before kicking back with a bottle of wine. Or two.
Turning on her hands-free device, she returned Sabrina’s call, only to have it go straight to voice mail.
“Hey,” she said. “I doubt you’ll check this since you seem to be allergic to voice messages, but on the off chance that you do, give me a call later this evening. But not too late, as I plan to be intoxicated in celebration of kicking the prosecution’s ass today.” Ainsley smiled, the triumph coursing through her blood as sweet as any candy. “Bear in mind that after two or three glasses I can’t be held responsible for humble-brags, point by point recaps or rambling declarations of affection. So procrastinate at your own risk.”
Ainsley ended the call and then turned the radio up, singing along as she wove confidently in and out of traffic.
THE music was too loud. Every beat of the bass echoed like a fog horn, bouncing off the rocky walls of her head.
“Turn that down,” she muttered to her friend Beth, who’d spent the night because neither of them had been in any condition to drive.
The music stopped, and Ainsley settled back in to her pillow. She’d just fallen back to sleep when the music started up again.
“Beth, seriously, what the hell?”
Ainsley sat up, pushed her tangled hair from her eyes, and peered around her dimly lit bedroom. Bright light crept around the edges of her blinds, letting her know that it was well past dawn. The bedroom door was shut, which meant that even if Beth – who’d crashed on the sofa – was awake and listening to her playlist, Ainsley shouldn’t have been able to hear it quite so well.
But something that sounded a lot like Pour Some Sugar On Me was blaring beside her.
Frowning, Ainsley started groping around beneath the sheet. Her hand landed on a hard rectangle just as the music stopped. Ainsley pulled it out, recognized it as her phone.
Obviously, someone had changed her ringtone and adjusted the volume. Ainsley cast a dark look at the closed door – and her friend who she assumed still slumbered on the other side – before checking the call log. She’d talked to her dad last night, and it was still fairly early in Colorado, so she doubted it was him.
It wasn’t.
She’d missed three calls from her cousin, Ben.
Ainsley frowned. She and Ben weren’t particularly close – the strain between their parents had affected their relationship as well. Not to mention that he wasn’t especially thrilled with her career choice, given that he’d taken what he saw as the opposite side of the law and order coin and was a county sheriff. Lumpkin county, to be specific, which included the town of Dahlonega, where both he and Sabrina lived.
Thinking of Sabrina made her realize that her cousin never called her back last night.
Her stomach did a funny little jump – Ainsley wasn’t sure if it was leftover wine or something else – and she pressed the screen to return Ben’s call.
He answered immediately. “Ainsley. How nice of you to get back to me.”
She couldn’t help but notice the sarcasm in his tone. “I was sleeping,” she said. And then, because she was powerless to resist baiting him. “Too much celebrating my win in court yesterday.”
Ben said nothing for several seconds, but she could practically hear his annoyance. However, his tone was level when he finally spoke. “I need to know what you and Sabrina talked about yesterday.”
“What?” she said, looking around for the bottle of water she was pretty sure she’d put on her nightstand last night. Her mouth felt like someone had replaced her toothpaste with sand and her tongue with a wad of cotton. “We didn’t.” Ainsley snagged the bottle, which was about three-quarters empty, and greedily gulped the rest. “We played phone tag a couple of times and the one time we connected the reception sucked. I left her a message asking her to call me back, but she never did. At least not that I’m aware of. I can check my call log and see if she called when I was asleep.” Or drunk. It was conceivable that Ainsley had talked to her and just didn’t remember, although she didn’t think that was the case. “Why?”
“I see a call from her to you at five-oh-three yesterday that lasted eight minutes.”
“That can’t be right. That was when the reception was bad. I was in the parking garage. I ended the call and then called her back maybe ten, fifteen minutes later. Unless the call never disconnected for some reason. But it had to have disconnected eventually, because I returned her call and got voicemail.”
Because her brain was still sluggish from both alcohol and sleep, it took Ainsley a moment to put things together. “Why are you asking me about Sabrina’s call log? Why not ask her?”
Ben hesitated again, and Ainsley’s heart began to beat harder. Even before he responded, she knew the answer couldn’t be good.
“Because I don’t know where she is,” Ben admitted.
“That’s not uncommon,” Ainsley said reasonably. Sabrina was known for taking off at the drop of a hat, often without a word to anyone. She claimed it was her gypsy soul, but Ainsley thought her restlessness stemmed from some sort of internal disquiet that maybe not even Bree herself understood.
Or maybe understood more than she wanted to.
“It is when she leaves her car on the side of the road with her purse and phone still inside.”
“What?” Ainsley’s jumpy stomach seemed to sink down to her toes. She sat down the empty water bottle and swung her legs off the bed. “Ben, what happened?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. So you never actually spoke to her?”
Ainsley pressed her fingers to her throbbing head. “Not coherently. There were a few words that came through, but they were garbled. That’s why I asked her to call me back.”
“Yeah, I got your voicemail message. Bree never checked it. Are you sure you couldn’t make out anything she said?”
“I’m sorry, no.” But Ainsley hadn’t listened very closely. She’d been too keyed up and excited about the trial’s outcome. Too high on her success.
“Have you checked with her friends?”
“Gee, why didn’t I think of that? Guess I should have gotten a fancy law degree.”
Ainsley bit back a retort. She knew that Ben was worried. “I’m sure you’re exhausting every avenue. I know you’re good at your job. I hope you don’t think I meant to imply otherwise.”
Ben sighed. “Yeah, I know you didn’t. If you can think of anything, or if you happen to hear from Sabrina that she went off on some sort of vision quest or whatever, just let me know, okay?”
“Absolutely. And Ben? Please keep me updated. You know I love her like a sister.”
“I know.” He hesitated again. “I’ll be in touch.”
When he ended the call, Ainsley stared
at her phone for several moments before looking up to see her friend Beth standing in the door. Her short platinum hair stood up in spikes, making her look like an albino porcupine. She crossed her arms over her chest.
“I totally didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I had to pee.” She nodded toward the door to Ainsley’s right, which led to the only bathroom in her apartment. “Something’s wrong with your cousin?”
“She seems to be missing,” Ainsley said. “Which isn’t all that uncommon with Bree, as she tends to be unpredictable, but the circumstances are worrisome.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” Ainsley sat her phone on the nightstand. “Don’t let me keep you.” Ainsley gestured toward the bathroom. “Although I probably should, considering what you did to my phone.”
Beth grinned as she walked past the bed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that until later. Much later. Like, when you go in Monday morning and see your boss.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Who can pour sugar on me anytime he wants to. And lick it off. Slowly.”
Ainsley rolled her eyes and Beth laughed before shutting the door. This was a common refrain among her female friends – and a few male ones – who were in heavy lust with Jack Wellington. On a purely academic level, Ainsley could understand. After all, she’d once dated Jack’s brother. Their gene pool was the kind that made you want to dive in and skinny dip. Jack was handsome, built, intelligent, driven and very successful.
He was also a cocky, controlling pain in the ass.
So on the more important visceral level, Ainsley couldn’t see the attraction. Beth said it was because Ainsley and Jack were too much alike.
Ainsley wasn’t sure that was a compliment.
Shoving the issue of her boss aside, Ainsley chewed on her bottom lip. As much as logic dictated that Sabrina was prone to flights of fancy, she couldn’t deny that leaving her car on the side of the road with her purse inside was not something a person would normally do, not even one as occasionally irresponsible as Sabrina.
The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set Page 30
