by Pamela Clare
The plane taxied to the gate and the door opened. Passengers grabbed their bags from overhead bins and filed in the center aisle. Tanner didn’t move. He let all the passengers go by before standing up, clearly avoiding the inevitable meeting about to take place when his mother picked them up at baggage claim. Jess pulled her only carry-on bag from under the seat as Tanner lifted his own backpack and they started out.
Jess kept her feelings in check. She couldn’t control anything but her love for him, and that was a free-flowing river. They were a united front in everything they did. The bond they shared matched what she saw in her parents’ relationship and she refused to take it for granted.
She’d already vowed to protect him and if anyone even looked at him funny, she was going to let them have it with both barrels.
No one messed with her man.
They emptied out into the terminal and headed toward the exit.
“I love you,” she told him. “No matter what happens, I love you.”
Tanner nodded, his eyes bright with uncharacteristic emotion. “Love you too.”
Jess hated seeing him so worried. “I know,” she said, leaning against him. “And I have the ring to prove it.” She lifted her left hand and let her sparkly engagement ring speak for itself.
Tanner grinned and she smiled back at him. “I’m serious when I said we’re upgrading as soon as I can afford something bigger.”
“And I’m serious when I said I didn’t care about the size of the diamond. It’s the idea of the ring that makes me deliriously happy.” She tipped her head to the side. “Check that. You make me deliriously happy.”
Grabbing her hand, Tanner glanced at her. “You are so getting laid tonight.”
Happiness bubbled in her veins. “Mission accomplished,” she murmured, linking their fingers.
An escalator ahead took them down to the baggage carousels and ground transportation. A large contingency of people seemed to be crowded at the bottom of the escalator. But not until they reached the midway point did Jess see the sign.
Welcome Home, Tanner.
The emotion that Jess had kept in check until now slowly leaked out her eyes.
A crowd of over fifty people cheered when they saw him and Jess squeezed his hand tighter. Holding the sign in front of them, five women had tears streaming down their cheeks and when Tanner got into hugging range, his mother and sisters mobbed him with unconditional love.
Jess laughed through her tears, knowing she’d written the final scene for her movie exactly right.
The End
About Dee J. Adams
After graduating high school in Texas, Dee moved to Los Angeles to pursue acting. For twenty years, she acted in television and worked behind the scenes as an acting/dialogue coach for sitcoms. Writing happened accidentally after a vivid dream and the urging of her husband to “Just write it down.” Three weeks, fourteen hours a day, and four hundred and fifty (long hand) pages later, she had her first novel. Dee loves writing books filled with action, mystery and love. (Not necessarily in that order.) Her experience in show business led to her narrating many of the books in the Adrenaline Highs series for Audible.com. She is the wife of a wonderful man and mother to a fabulous daughter. She’s a dog lover all the way, with a fondness towards Boxers and Pit Bulls. She is a member of several organizations, including Romance Writers of America and SAG-AFTRA.
For more information on Dee’s books please visit:
www.deejadams.com
Dee can be found on Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/DeeJAdamsAuthor
Twitter:
https://twitter.com/DeeJAdams
Goodreads:
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5107047.Dee_J_Adams
Amazon:
http://amzn.to/MuznPw
Guarding Suzannah
The Serve and Protect Series
Norah Wilson
USA Today Bestselling Author
Chapter One
Detective John Quigley stepped inside Courtroom 2, closing the door quietly behind him. One or two people in the small gallery glanced up at him briefly, then returned their attention to the front of the courtroom where a young patrol officer was being sworn in.
Quigg took a seat, glancing around the drab, low-ceilinged, windowless room. Provincial Court. Nothing like the much grander Queen’s Bench courtrooms upstairs or the Court of Appeal chambers on the top floor. But aesthetics aside, they did a brisk business here. In the fifteen years Quigg had spent on the Fredericton force, he’d been responsible for sending quite a few customers through these doors. Doors that all too often turned out to be the revolving kind, the kind that spit offenders right back out on the street to re-offend.
On that thought, Quigg glanced over at the accused. Clean shaven and neatly dressed, he sat off to the right, beside the Sheriff’s deputy. His long hair, drawn back into a ponytail, glinted blue-black under the fluorescent lights. If he were conscious of Quigg’s scrutiny, he didn’t betray it with so much as a twitch of a muscle. Rather, he kept his flat, emotionless gaze trained on the witness.
“Your witness, Mr. Roth.”
At the magistrate’s words, Quigg faced forward again.
“Thank you, Your Honour.” The Crown Prosecutor adjusted his table microphone and directed his first question to the witness. Mike Langan, the impossibly young looking constable in the witness box, responded, his answer clear and concise.
Over the next fifteen minutes, the prosecutor methodically built his case with one carefully chosen question after another. Constable Langan’s manner in the witness box was confident and assured. He referred often to his notebook, which appeared to contain copious, comprehensive notes. Quigg unclenched his fingers and leaned back into his seat. What could go wrong?
Everything.
His gaze slid to the one area of the courtroom he’d so far managed to avoid, the defense table. Suzannah Phelps. There she sat, primly erect, all that straight blond hair pulled up into a knot at the back of her head. Even under the black tent-like court robes, she still managed to look model elegant. His pulse took a little kick.
Dammit, why did he do this to himself? He didn’t have to be here. He was off today. He didn’t have even a glancing involvement with this case, or with Constable Langan.
Because you’re a bloody masochist.
“Any questions on cross, Ms. Phelps?”
The magistrate’s voice cut into Quigg’s thoughts.
“Just a few, Your Honour.”
A few? Yeah, sure.
“Please proceed.”
Quigg glanced at Langan, saw the younger man tense. Relax man. He tried to send the thought telepathically. Don’t let her get to you. Don’t let her see you sweat.
“So, Constable Langan, you didn’t actually see my client flee the crime scene?”
“No, ma’am. Not from the actual scene. But I did see a man fitting the robber’s description running just four blocks from the scene.”
“And who provided this description?”
“The shopkeeper.”
“And the description was…?”
“Native … er, First Nations individual, average height, stocky build, long black hair worn in a ponytail.”
“Were those the shopkeeper’s precise words? First Nations individual?”
“Huh?”
“Did the shopkeeper describe the perpetrator as Native? Native American? First Nations?”
“Not exactly.”
Quigg sank lower in his seat, suppressing a groan. This was gonna be a train wreck and Langan didn’t even know it yet.
“Exactly how did he describe him, then?”
“He made it clear that the individual was Indian.”
“Those were his words, then? Indian?”
“No.” Constable Langan shifted, glancing down at his notebook.
“What were his precise words, Constable?”
Langan glanced at the judge, then back at Suzannah Phelps. “I beli
eve his precise words were, wagon burner.”
“Which you took to mean a member of the First Nations?”
“Yes.”
Quigg massaged his temple. Ah, Christ, here we go.
“Thank you, Constable.”
Her voice was polite, prim, even. Which just served to show that sharks came in all kinds of guises.
Suzannah glanced down at her notes, then back at the hapless witness. “So, Constable Langan, could you take a guess how many males from our Native population would fit that description?”
“Objection, Your Honour. We have eye-witness testimony from the shop owner that the accused is the individual who committed the robbery. He was picked out from a lineup containing no fewer than ten Native men of similar ages and builds.”
Finally! An objection from the Crown. Quigg resisted the urge to rake a hand through his hair.
“As my learned friend knows, I could cite dozens of cases where eye-witness identification put innocent men behind bars,” responded Suzannah. “And those were cases where the perpetrators’ faces were not partially obscured by a kerchief.”
“Point taken.” The judge leaned forward. “Your objection is overruled, Mr. Roth. You may proceed, Ms. Phelps.”
“Thank you, Judge.” She turned back to the witness. “Again, Constable Langan, in your opinion, can you tell me how many males of Mi’kmaq or Maliseet descent could answer to that description: medium height, stocky build, black hair?”
A pause. “Quite a few, I would imagine.”
“A majority of them?”
“Possibly,” Langan conceded.
“Then any Native male observed within a reasonable radius of the crime scene might have fit your description?”
“Maybe. But then again, there aren’t a lot of them in this particular shopping district.”
Mother of God. Quigg sank even lower in his seat.
“Ah, so my client shouldn’t have been there in the first place, in an exclusive shopping district?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Langan’s face hardened. “This particular Native male was fleeing capture.”
“Is that so?” She made a show of reviewing her notes. “Was my client running when you first spotted him?”
“No.”
“When did he start running?”
“When I cut him off with my vehicle. He was walking fast—I mean, real fast—down the sidewalk, in an easterly direction. I pulled into an alley, blocked him off.”
“And then he fled?”
“Yes. He turned and fled back in a westerly direction.”
“Were your red and blue bar lights flashing when you executed this maneuver?”
“Yes.”
She shuffled some more papers. “Is it conceivable that my client’s flight might have been an ingrained response to perceived police harassment?”
“No!”
“No? Constable Langan, are you a member of a visible minority?”
“No.”
“Objection!”
The judge held up his hand in the prosecutor’s direction. “Overruled.”
“Imagine for a minute that you are a member of a visible minority. What might you do if a police cruiser were to suddenly swing into your path like that?”
Constable Langan bristled. “The guy had the money on him. The exact amount that was later determined to be missing from the cash register.”
“Ah, so now we have a First Nations male, walking where he ought not to, with more money in his pocket than he should have?”
“Money he stole from that shopkeeper at knifepoint!”
Damn, the kid was losing it.
“Ah, yes, the knife.” Suzannah flipped the page on the legal pad in front of her. “A knife which bore no fingerprints and which you haven’t been able to tie to my client.”
“He dumped it down a sewer grate a block from where he was apprehended, two blocks from the scene. He still had the polkadotted blue-and-white handkerchief in his pocket. Give or take the coins in his pockets, he was carrying exactly the amount of money that was stolen. He was ID’d by the shopkeeper…”
Quigg closed his eyes, pressing a thumb and forefinger against his lids. Inside his head, he heard the theme from Jaws.
“Thank you for that summation, Constable, but I think the Crown was planning one of its own.” She flipped another page on her yellow pad. “Since you’re feeling so loquacious, maybe you can answer this question for me—do you yourself ever carry a handkerchief?”
Langan blinked.
“Would you like me to repeat the question, Constable? When you’re off duty, wearing your civilian clothes, do you ever carry one of those polkadotted handkerchiefs? Shoved in a front pocket of your jeans, maybe, or in your coat pocket?”
Five more minutes. That’s all it took to completely decimate the Crown’s case. Not that Roth surrendered without a fight. He called the shopkeeper and adduced his evidence. Evidence which the defense challenged effectively. But by the time Suzannah finished her summation, she’d planted more than just the seed of reasonable doubt. No one in the courtroom was surprised when the judge pronounced his verdict without even a short recess. Not guilty. The prisoner was released.
Quigg stood and slipped out the door as quietly as he’d slipped in.
*
Suzannah stood, turning to scan the gallery. The seats had emptied out, apart from her client’s two female cousins. Certainly the owner of the gaze she’d felt boring into her back for the last half hour was gone.
“Congratulations.”
She turned toward Anthony Roth, whose lean, dark features were wreathed in resignation. Fiercely competitive, he hated to lose, but he was a good prosecutor. He knew his role wasn’t to secure a conviction at any cost; it was to get to the truth.
“Thanks.”
“And you made yourself a brand new friend on Fredericton’s finest, too. Quite a day.”
She grimaced.
When young Mike Langan had finally been excused from the witness box, his body language as he jammed on his hat and tugged at his Kevlar vest had screamed exactly how he felt. Suffice to say he wouldn’t be joining the ranks of the Suzannah Phelps Fan Club any time soon.
That’s how it goes, Suzie-girl. You didn’t get into this business to make friends.
“Couldn’t be helped,” she said lightly. “You know I had to play the cards I was dealt.”
“Of course. I’d have done the same thing in your shoes.” Roth swept his briefcase from the desk. “Fair warning, though. It’ll be different next time we cross swords over this guy.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
His lips lifted in a cynical smile. “Right.”
As soon as the Crown Prosecutor moved off, her client moved in. Gripping her hand in a two-handed clasp, he pumped it enthusiastically. “Thank you, Ms. Phelps.”
“You’re welcome, Leo.” Suzannah withdrew her hand. “You still interested in a job at the graphics studio I mentioned?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
She plucked a business card from her briefcase and handed it to him. “Give this lady a call. She agrees you have talent, but you’d have to prove yourself.”
The card disappeared into Leo’s huge hand. “Thanks, Ms. Phelps. This is great.”
“And you’d have to stay clean, Leo. You understand?” She caught his gaze and held it. “Squeaky clean. No more altercations with the police.”
“I understand.”
“I hope you do. You put a foot wrong after this, they’ll be watching.”
He cast a sideways glance at his cousins. “Gotcha.”
“Good. Now get out of here.”
He grinned and was gone.
Suzannah turned back to the desk, her smile fading as she began packing her note pads, law books and files back into the big hard-sided court bag.
Dammit, she’d won, hadn’t she? Why didn’t she feel better?
Made yourself a brand new friend today … Ro
th’s words echoed in her head.
“Oh, for pity’s sake.” She was such a baby sometimes. Shoving the last file into her bag, she glanced around the courtroom. Normally, she’d adjourn to the ladies room to remove her court garb, but she could do a striptease in here today and there’d be no one to witness it.
One tug and the white tabbed collar came off. Then the robe, over the head like a choir gown. She ran a hand over her hair to make sure it hadn’t come loose. Satisfied, she folded the robe carefully, stuffed it into a blue velvet sack and pulled the drawstring tight. There. Street ready. She smoothed her pinstriped skirt, slung the sack over her shoulder, hefted her bag and headed for the exit.
Despite the quick change, her getaway was not as clean as she would have liked, however. In the corridor, she ran into Renee LeRoy, half-assed reporter and full-fledged pain-in-the-ass. Suzannah searched her mind for the name of the local weekly Renee worked for, but it eluded her. Not that it mattered. She avoided reading her own press if she possibly could, especially anything this particular woman might have to say.
Well, at least this explained the sensation she’d felt of being watched back there in the courtroom. Suppressing a groan, Suzannah tacked on a pleasant smile. “How’s it going, Renee?”
The other woman didn’t smile back. In fact, her face was set in grim lines more reminiscent of a Russian forward in the ’72 Canada/Russia hockey series than a female reporter. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, Suzannah chastised herself. Her dislike of Renee LeRoy had nothing to do with the other woman’s appearance and everything to do with her attitude.
“I see your client walked away a free man.”
Oh, hell, here we go again. The woman was a broken record. “The burden of proof always rests on the Crown, Renee,” she said reasonably. “This time, they failed to meet that burden.”
“Thanks in no small part to you.”
“Why, thank you.” Suzannah offered a wide if disingenuous smile. “I’d be flattered, except I think any reasonably competent criminal lawyer would have secured an acquittal under the circumstances.”
The reporter’s eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t it keep you awake at night, Ms. Phelps? Doesn’t your conscience ever bother you, knowing you’re helping guilty men go free?”
