In that moment a brilliant plan dawned on Werner. He had tried going about this the right way, but thanks to Desjardines, he was now forced to explore alternatives. Slipping his hand inside his briefcase as covertly as he could, he withdrew a wad of bills, crammed them in his pocket, then locked the case. The lights would change at any moment. He needed to act fast or lose his opportunity.
A youth stood nearby wearing shorts that did not cover his underpants. Werner imagined he was the type who spoke in a vernacular incomprehensible to anyone whose first language was English. He approached the boy and said, “Excuse me, young man. Do you want to make five hundred dollars?”
The kid looked him up and down dubiously. His response sounded like, “Whatchu talkin’ bout?”
“Go tell the driver of that car that I would like a conversation with him. Tell him this is about money.”
“Yo.” The kid stuck his hand out. “Hit me.”
Werner thought assaulting this character was probably not in the interests of his health. As he tried to interpret the invitation, the kid rolled his eyes.
With exaggerated patience, he said, “Put your down payment here, man.”
Werner found a hundred in one of his pockets and poked it into the hand. He said, “You may consider that a gratuity.”
The kid sidled off, and a few minutes later, the lights changed and the SUV crawled past Werner, then slid to a halt. A stringy black man in a ball cap and a satin jacket got out of the passenger side and mooched over.
“I hear you is asking for a meeting with my man, Mr. Notorious Hard?”
Werner refrained from scoffing at the name. He took the wad of twenties from his pocket and handed it to this go-between. “Please pay that young man over there five hundred dollars. You may keep the rest for yourself as payment for your services.”
The man in the ball cap gave a courteous nod. This was how it worked, Werner thought. He had seen television shows about gangs. Everything came down to respect. They were unhappy when they did not receive their due. He could understand that. He felt exactly the same way.
After the kid had been paid, Werner spoke to the go-between in his most deferential manner. “Please inform Mr. Hard that I am looking for a superior individual to perform a surveillance job. No violence. Clean work. I will pay twenty thousand in cash to the businessman who can carry out this assignment for me.”
No need to go crazy. Twenty thousand was surely sufficient to secure the attention of a man whose vehicle was probably his office.
The go-between adjusted his ball cap and signaled toward the car in some kind of sign language. With the cordiality Werner should rightfully have received from Desjardines, his new friend said, “Mr. Notorious Hard is the superior individual who can do this business for you. Walk with me, Mr. Moneyman.”
*
Jules stepped out of a meeting to take Gilbert Desjardines’s call.
“That fool was in here this morning. Put fifty on the table.”
“You told him to take a walk?”
“Yeah. He wasn’t happy.”
Jules sighed. She would be thrilled when this case was over. At the best of times, defending an alleged sex offender was challenging. But most of them understood the gravity of the situation and conducted themselves accordingly. Brigham was a loose cannon.
“Any progress on Lamb?”
“I have people on the parents’ house and the best friend.”
“Do something for me, Gil. As soon as she shows, put a security tail on her as well.” The last thing they needed was for Brigham to violate the restraining order on the eve of his trial.
“I’ll call Marcel.”
“If anyone sees Brigham hanging around, I want to know.”
“You want me to put someone on him, too?”
Jules vacillated. She’d thought about it, but Sagelblum was squeamish about placing a client under surveillance. Understandably, no one wanted to pay the bill to be spied on by their own legal team.
“No, it’s an overreach,” she said. “If we can keep him away from her until the trial’s over, that works.”
She ended the call and returned to the conference room. These were the final few days for the defense team to fine-tune their strategy. Jury selection would begin tomorrow, and the makeup of the final twelve would dictate certain aspects of their approach during trial. But right now, they were rehearsing their key witnesses once more, and Jules was testing her opening statement in front of the team. Everyone was tired. At this stage, all-nighters were routine and the team’s energy was fueled by strong coffee, adrenaline, and the goal of another reputation-enhancing victory.
“Take a break, people,” she said from the doorway. It was after one and their day had started at seven. “Go eat lunch.” She stopped Sid Lyle on his way out. “Want to walk and talk?”
Sid was her secondary and the local counsel on the team. Sagelblum never contracted out a case. Instead the firm pulled in a local attorney, if none of their branch offices was licensed for the jurisdiction, then obtained admission to practice. Or they used a lead counsel from a branch office, as was the case in Denver. The partners had discovered long ago that you couldn’t send a high-octane Los Angeles trial lawyer into a hick-town courtroom and expect him or her to win over the jury and a judge who had never made the big time himself.
At the same time, bringing in a national trial attorney provided a buffer. Local counsel sometimes had vested interests, and politics could prevent them from adopting the most aggressive tactics. They still had to do business in their jurisdiction once the trial was over. If anyone got pissed off, it was useful to have someone to blame—the fancy defense attorney brought in from elsewhere by the client made an ideal scapegoat.
Jules had worked with Sid before and found him to be a straight shooter. He was not a Yale wunderkind in an Italian suit; he was a down-home guy any mother would love. Polite. Genuine. Ordinary looking, with a wedding ring and some middle-aged spread. Pictures of his four kids crowded his desk. His oldest was fighting in Iraq, his second was a local high-school football hero. His young daughters were twins and had appeared on television with their mother, spearheading a local campaign to buy state-of-the-art artificial limbs and equipment for young amputees from disadvantaged backgrounds.
Everyone saw Sid Lyle as a man of the highest ethical standards. If he told a jury a client was innocent, they wanted to take him at his word. In a case like this one, Jules would have him question the weakest witnesses to lend their testimonies greater weight, and she would refrain from using him on cross. If anyone was going to look like a villain, it had to be her.
She said, “Brigham tried to put a tail on Lamb this morning.”
“We should have taken the DA’s offer,” Sid said.
“I agree.”
“You want me to talk to him again?”
“Yeah, and this time frighten the shit out of him,” Jules said. “He thinks a Brigham won’t be sent to prison in this town. His grandfather was a governor. His mother knows Nancy Reagan. He doesn’t get it that the law applies to people like him, too.”
“Can’t we take a run at getting him certified? His mother could make it happen.”
“Carl won’t buy it.”
“Carl would sell Christ a ticket to his own crucifixion,” Sid said in disgust. “Brigham needs help, and that’s giving him the benefit of the doubt.”
“I hear you. But he’s not our responsibility. Our job is to keep him out of trouble until we have a verdict. After that, he’s on his own.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Sid sounded weary. “Some cases…you just know it’s going to end in tears.”
*
Love is always in the air at baggage claims, Rhianna thought as she waited by the carousel at Denver International. Around her, people clung to one another, made pickup arrangements, chatted blithely like no one could hear them except the person at the other end of their Bluetooth. Fragments of conversation cluttered the air. Every second
sentence was “I love you.”
Or that was how it seemed.
Rhianna resisted the urge to break out her new prepaid cell phone to prove she, too, had someone special who wanted to know the moment she’d landed safely. She watched smiles break across eager faces, hands swing together, lovers kiss. Her parents didn’t know when she was coming in. That was intentional. Rhianna planned to take a taxi to her best friend Mimi’s place in LoDo, then call them and arrange to meet at a cousin’s home.
Her mom thought she was being overly dramatic, but her dad supported her. They all agreed that this would be over soon and she would no longer need to live her life in fear, wondering if she would turn a street corner and be dragged into a car.
Rhianna caught sight of her two bags and hauled them off the carousel onto a trolley. The Denver weather was supposed to be cool, typical for March, so she wheeled past the crowd to a line of seats near one of the exit doors and opened the case that held her woolen coat. She was back here, she thought suddenly, and her heart began to race. She slid her arms into the coat, tugged the zipper closed on her bag, and flopped into one of the seats to calm her breathing.
She had almost been tempted to cancel the trip, to call her victim advocate and tell her she could not go through with the trial. For the first time since Werner Brigham had invaded her world, she was starting to feel safe and could actually laugh. Missing friends and family was the big drawback with her new life, but she could imagine a time when she could return to visit. Werner Brigham could not possibly stay interested in her forever, especially if he couldn’t find her. Sooner or later, he would give up and turn his attention to someone else. All she had to do was wait.
Recently, during one of her occasional phone calls, her father had suggested they plan a family vacation. He thought they could go on a cruise. He and her mom had been saving for a couple of years toward a dream holiday, and they had enough to include her. One of her brothers and his wife would join them. It would be like old times when they all went camping together, only the food would be edible.
Rhianna loved the idea and they’d agreed that after the trial, when the crazy man was locked up, that’s how they would celebrate. A wayward thought crossed her mind as she stared at the people milling in the arrivals area. What if something came of her affair with Jules, if that’s what it could be called? What would her parents think if she wanted to bring a girlfriend along on a family holiday? So far, she’d never asked them to accept someone as her partner. She’d never brought anyone home for Thanksgiving or Christmas, other than Mimi one year when Mimi’s parents were out of town. None of her relationships had been that serious.
Rhianna wondered why that was. She had a group of good friends, and somehow they’d fallen into the habit of going out together. They were all single, all in their twenties, and she’d known most of them her whole life. Gradually, over the past several years, some had started pairing off and getting engaged, and the circle had grown smaller. Mimi was the only one who knew Rhianna was a lesbian, although she was sure a couple of the others had guessed.
Rhianna had been meaning to come out to them ever since she came out to herself after she graduated from college, but she’d been a coward. Although none of her circle was anti-gay, as far as she knew, Rhianna had always worried that something would change if she told them who she was. It wasn’t as if she wanted to live a “gay lifestyle” 24/7, going to GLBT community events, getting involved in politics, or mixing only with gays and lesbians. She had never wanted to be pigeonholed that way; she didn’t see why she needed to make a public statement out of her personal feelings.
The few people closest to her knew, and if anyone else had ever asked she would not have lied. But no one had. Rhianna knew she was guilty of deceit by omission, and she knew that allowing people to make assumptions was taking the easy way out. But so what? Everyone had things about themselves that they didn’t discuss, and she was not one of those exhibitionists who thought the whole world needed to know what color panties she wore. There would be no MySpace if everyone was like her.
That was one of the reasons the thought of this trial made her feel ill. Bad enough that she would have to see that loathsome man sitting in the courtroom next to his lawyers, acting like he was innocent. But the idea of having to take the stand and explain what had happened, to answer disgusting intrusive questions, to hear it implied that she had somehow invited her attack—Rhianna had no idea how she was going to cope.
For the next two days she was supposed to be spending time with Norman Clay, the prosecuting attorney, reviewing her testimony again. She’d already been back and forth from Denver several times since she’d moved to Oatman. Thanks to the preparation she’d received, she knew what to expect when she took the stand. Mr. Clay had warned her that a big-city trial attorney would be coming in to represent Brigham. The last time they’d spoken, he still didn’t know who that would be, but Rhianna imagined a slick, handsome lawyer with a ski tan and a perfect smile.
The defense would try to make it look like she was to blame for what had happened, but Norman Clay said that strategy would be an uphill struggle because she was a credible plaintiff. All she had to do was be herself and tell the truth. He had made one request, that she get her hair color changed back to blond by the time she appeared in court. He thought her new look was too sophisticated.
Rhianna had made an appointment with a hairdresser for Friday afternoon and was even getting extensions so she would appear in court with the blond ponytail she used to have. She supposed it was a good idea. At least Brigham would not get to see how much she had changed her appearance. The less he knew about her, the better.
She checked her wristwatch. It was almost 7:00 p.m. Idly she wondered what Jules was doing and whether she was home. Her stomach fluttered. She still couldn’t believe she had actually had phone sex, something she’d snickered over in the past when one of her friends had bragged about doing it. She would never have imagined the experience could be so erotic. Even now, just thinking about it made her wet, yet she was mystified by the appeal. How could she get so aroused just talking on the phone? Was it healthy?
She pictured Jules at work, impeccably dressed, about to go to a meeting but getting all flustered and wanting to have sex instead. The thought made her blood run lusciously hot, flooding every sensitive spot. Her clit tingled. Her nipples perked. She felt gloriously female, powerful and desirable. This was how sexy women felt, she thought. They knew they could make someone want them. Rhianna had never experienced that heady self-awareness until now. Until Jules.
Impulsively she took her new cell phone from her purse, along with the card Jules had sent with the flowers. She dialed the number and held her breath.
“Jules Valiant.” Her voice seemed flat and distracted.
Rhianna almost hung up, sensing she had probably called at a bad time. But she wanted at least to say hello and confirm their date for Saturday night. Nervously, she said, “Jules, it’s me…Kate. I’m at the airport.”
In a heartbeat the tone changed. “It’s so good to hear your voice. Don’t move. Don’t get a taxi. Don’t even think about going to your parents’ place. I’m coming to get you.”
Rhianna laughed. “You can’t do that. Our date’s not till Saturday.”
“Are you seriously going to pretend you called me just to say hello?”
The smoky drawl somehow insinuated its way from Rhianna’s ear to her throat, stifling the breath she needed to draw. “No,” she admitted, taking in a sharp gulp of air.
“Good. Because I’ve finally finished work and I can’t think of anything I’d like more than to see you.”
“I’d like that, too.” Why pretend otherwise? Rhianna smiled helplessly. With all the shit that had happened to her over the past eighteen months, she was owed one good thing, and Jules was certainly that.
“Are you at the baggage claim?”
“Yes.” Rhianna wished she’d worn something more interesting than jeans and
a simple sweater. Maybe she would go change in the ladies’ restroom.
“Take the elevator down to level four,” Jules instructed. “I’ll be at the curbside pickup in twenty minutes. Dark gray Mercedes CLS550.”
“I was planning to see a friend later,” Rhianna said feebly. Fortunately she hadn’t told Mimi for certain which day she would arrive. She had a house key and a standing invitation to show up whenever she was in town.
“She’ll understand,” Jules said. “I’m on my way to the parking garage at work.”
“Okay. Good. I mean…fantastic.” Rhianna hesitated, then spilled exactly what she was thinking. “Jules…I can’t wait to see you.”
“Don’t sound so amazed. My ego can’t handle it.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to make it up to you,” Rhianna teased recklessly.
“You know I’m going to hold you to that, don’t you?”
Rhianna knew there was a hot, dark gleam in Jules’s eyes. “I was hoping you might.”
Chapter Eight
Jules shoved Kate’s luggage into the designer apartment used by Sagelblum trial attorneys when they were in town. The ride from the airport had been exquisitely tense, the conversation, erratic. She felt knotted inside, not quite able to believe her own turbulent emotions. She couldn’t think. She was awash with craving, a prisoner of Kate’s every unconscious movement: The quivering copper of her hair as the Denver breeze plucked at it on the way to the car. The curve of her neck as she lowered her head to get in the passenger seat. The slope of a wrist, the hitch of a shoulder, the way one of her knees angled in against the other as she sat.
When they spoke, Jules was lost. Her blood stirred at the shape of Kate’s mouth. She wanted to stroke a finger around it and tease the shadow beneath her lower lip. Kiss her. Fuck her. Not let her sleep. The force of these desires troubled her. She supposed she was used to calling the shots with women. Kate’s ambivalence about their budding liaison had made her uneasy. Perhaps that could explain her intense desire. Was she desperate to somehow stake a claim? How juvenile.
Dark Valentine Page 9
