THE PROSECUTOR

by Adrienne Giordano

  “Zac met me at work. He didn’t want me to come home alone.”

  Mom stared at her, a slight smile threatening before she looked at Zac. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

  “No problem, ma’am.” He squeezed Emma’s arm. “I should go. Busy day tomorrow.”

  The Leeks kid. Right. “I know. Thanks for bringing me home.”

  She wouldn’t ask him to keep her posted. He was still the prosecutor and she was still the defense. Confusing. Besides, Penny would have her spies out and would fill her in.

  Zac nodded. “Make sure you lock up. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ben Leeks Jr. was a bigger weasel than his father. What a conniving piece of trash this guy was. Zac watched on an oversized monitor in an office adjacent to the conference room where investigators conversed with Junior.

  Watching this particular interview, Zac silently seethed. He wanted nothing more than to tell the kid and his lawyer to cut the nonsense and answer the flipping questions.

  They’d been responding, but those responses had been in an abstract, vague way that failed to completely answer the questions. Junior’s whole demeanor, the relaxed, mocking posture, the eye-rolling, all of it, stank. At least he came dressed to impress in slacks and a pressed shirt, probably his lawyer’s doing. But this guy knew—knew—he’d be walking away a free man even if he was guilty.

  His father would make sure of it.

  Ray stood beside Zac, studying the screen, his arms folded. “He’s not giving us anything.”

  “Yeah, because the lawyer isn’t letting him. They’ve admitted he was at the club and that he left with a group. Knew that before he walked in here. We need to push harder, see if he and Chelsea argued that night.”

  Ray ignored the comment. No shock there. He’d made it clear he had no interest in pushing.

  Zac focused on the monitor and Leeks Jr. Massive kid. Muscular and strong. Zac hit the gym four or five times a week, pumping serious iron, and yet the guy being interviewed was at least double his size. Freakishly big. Unnatural. “Ask him if he uses steroids.”

  “What?”

  “Chelsea’s friends said he was abusive. Look at his body. He’s huge. If he’s taking steroids, Chelsea may have been a victim of ’roid rage.”

  Ray sighed.

  “It happens.”

  “I’ll have the investigator ask. Right after we get him to admit that he was wearing a white shirt that night.”

  Now Zac rolled his eyes. Conveniently, Junior couldn’t recall what color shirt he wore the night Chelsea died.

  Zac’s phone buzzed. Bethenny, the office assistant. Odd. They were right down the hall. Why didn’t she just come get him? “Let me take this.” He pressed the button and stepped into the hallway. “Hi, Beth. What’s up?”

  “Sorry to disturb you. Did you have an appointment this morning?”

  Zac stuck his bottom lip out, ticked through his mental calendar. Aside from court that afternoon, the Leeks interview was it. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “There’s a Stanley Vernon out here to see you.” Zac snapped his head up. Stanley Vernon. The State’s star witness. “He didn’t specifically ask for you, but he wants to see the prosecutor working the Sinclair case.”

  A blood rush made Zac dizzy and he shook his head. Stanley Vernon. “I’ll be right up. Lock him in my office if you have to, but don’t let him leave.”

  He clicked off, then stuck his head in the office where Ray continued to observe the Leeks interview. “I gotta go.” Ray raised his eyebrows in that what-the-hell look Zac had gotten used to. “I know it’s my case, but I’ve suddenly got the State’s key witness wanting to see me.”

  “He’s here?”

  “In reception.”

  Ray jerked his chin. “Go. Don’t screw up.”

  Thanks for the vote of confidence. “That wouldn’t be my favorite option.”

  For a change, Ray laughed. That was progress after the tension-filled couple of days they’d had. One thing Zac never wanted to be was the problem employee.

  Forgoing the time it would take to detour to his office and grab his suit jacket, Zac hustled up the hall to the waiting area.

  Beth spotted him coming around the corner and pointed to Stanley Vernon, a middle-aged man about six inches shorter than Zac. Thin with sloping shoulders, he wore a zipped-up windbreaker, jeans and the stooped look of someone carrying a heavy load.

  He flipped a tan newsboy cap in his hands. Back and forth, up and down, the movement constant. Oh, yeah. This guy definitely had something on his mind.

  Buzzing tension sizzled up Zac’s arms. Calm down here. He extended his hand. “Mr. Vernon, I’m Zac Hennings. The new prosecutor on the Sinclair case.”

  “Hennings?”

  “Yes, sir.” Obviously, recognition dawned. “You met my sister the other day. She’s the defense attorney on this case.”

  Vernon’s eyes widened. “That’s...different.”

  No kidding. “It sure is.” Zac gestured down the corridor. “Let’s talk in private.”

  Back in his office, Zac closed the door behind them while Mr. Vernon took in the files lining the office. “These all yours?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Astonishing.”

  “We live in a crazy world.” Zac settled into his squeaking desk chair and leaned back, all calm and cool. “What can I do for you?”

  Vernon stared down at the newsboy cap, flipped it a few times. “I...uh.” He looked up, stared right at Zac, his eyes heavy-lidded and desperate. Fierce hammering slammed in Zac’s head. Whatever the man had to say was tearing him up.

  “Mr. Vernon, talk to me. I can assure you, it won’t be the worst thing I’ve heard.” Hoping to ease the strain suddenly drowning the room, he cracked a smile. “Trust me there.”

  More cap flipping. “Your sister and the Sinclair girl.”

  “What about them?”

  “They asked me questions. Got me thinking about that night.”

  Here it comes. “Go on.”

  “I was walking by the alley. It was noisy, though. The club door was open and people were in line waiting to get in. Between the talking and the music from inside I couldn’t really hear anything.”

  “Okay.”

  “I saw someone, though, in the alley. A man. Definitely a man.”

  Zac would not help. Mr. Vernon had to come clean with no reminders or assistance. “I read that in your statement.”

  “Your sister. She asked me about the white shirt.”

  “Yes, sir. You testified that you saw a man in a white shirt. It’s in the transcript.”

  He nodded. “I started thinking about that and, you know, when the detectives questioned me? I never said anything about the white shirt.”

  Zac drove his feet into the floor, forcing himself to remain still, not a flinch, not a nudge. “You didn’t see a white shirt?”

  Slowly, with what looked like great effort, Mr. Vernon shifted his head side to side. “They told me someone else saw a white shirt.”

  Someone else? Who the hell was that now? Zac would have to go through Emma’s files and find the other witness. After tracking down the transcripts, he’d seen that there were other witnesses called to the stand, but he didn’t recall any of them mentioning a white shirt. Emma would know.

  Forget keeping still. He had to move. Dispel some of the energy. He sat forward and casually leaned his elbows on the desk. “Do you remember a white shirt?”

  More cap flipping. Once, twice, three times. “I don’t think so.”

  As brutally hard as it was, Zac didn’t move. He’d love to grab a notepad, but it might spook the guy. Besides, if he was about to recant—which it sounded as if he was—they�
��d have to write up his statement. “When you were questioned, did the detectives ask you if you remembered the white shirt?”

  “Yes. They asked me and I said I wasn’t sure. They said to think about it because they had another witness who said they saw someone in a white shirt. If I could agree with that, they could get the guy.”

  Right. Zac’s guess? The other witness was bogus. Nonexistent. Detectives had probably determined that Brian Sinclair had been wearing a white shirt. Hell, Brian probably told them that himself. When Brian became the primary suspect, the P.D. wanted someone to say they saw a guy in a white shirt in that alley. Stanley Vernon was their someone.

  “You agreed?”

  Mr. Vernon finally set his cap on the edge of Zac’s desk and pressed both hands into it before pulling back. “They seemed pretty sure that Sinclair had done it. The way they put it to me was they were just tying up loose ends. I figured since they had someone else saying they saw a white shirt, it wouldn’t be just me.” He stared down at his empty hands—nothing to flip—and shook his head. “I wanted to help.”

  For a second, Zac pitied the guy. For two years he’d been thinking that he’d helped put a killer behind bars. Now he wasn’t sure and the guilt landed on him like a tanker thrown in a tornado.

  “Relax, Mr. Vernon. You’re doing the right thing. I appreciate your coming forward. We need to clarify what you’re saying here. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Zac grabbed his notepad and pen. “Let’s run through it. You don’t recall seeing a man wearing a white shirt?”

  “I saw a man coming from the alley, but I don’t know what color shirt he was wearing.”

  * * *

  AT IT SINCE 6:00 A.M., Emma had already spent four hours of her day at the dining room table studying constitutional law. The exam was only two days away and she had a nagging sense of panic that she’d flunk. She’d never flunked a test in her life.

  Never.

  Maybe Zac, the lover of all things constitutional law, could quiz her. Or maybe she was just looking for an excuse to see him.

  And have sex with him—lots of steamy, sweaty sex that left her loose and purring.

  She ducked her head and giggled. Bad, Emma. Bad. Her cell phone beeped and she snatched it off the table. Zac. Their pheromones must have beelined.

  “Hey, handsome. I was just thinking about you.”

  “What do you know about another witness identifying the white shirt?”

  And hello to you, too. Forget the purring. “In reference to the white shirt, there’s no other witness. Mr. Vernon was it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Pfft. Was he serious? “Of course. I can pull the witness files for you. I have them all sorted by time frame. If there was another witness who saw a man with a white shirt, it would be in the file with Mr. Vernon’s.”

  “I need those files.”

  In the back of her brain, something snapped. A physical zap she’d never experienced against the back of her skull. “What’s going on?”

  “I can’t say. Yet.”

  “You want me to turn over my files and you’re not going to tell me why?”

  Silence. “Do you trust me?”

  Of course she did. “Completely.”

  “Then I need those files. You’ll find out why soon.”

  Give him the files. She should talk to Penny first. Give him the files. “This is a good thing then?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  His answer came without hesitation. No pause, no moment to consider a response. Nothing. That had to mean something. If she truly trusted him, it meant turning over information without knowing why. Which she hadn’t been inclined to do when it came to Brian.

  But that snapping in the back of her head was new. Maybe a good sign. Take a chance.

  “Give me an hour to copy the reports and get them to your office.”

  “Thank you.”

  It took Emma fifty-two minutes to call Penny, take a quick shower, copy the files and race them downtown. Penny, being Penny, went to work on her contacts to figure out what the prosecution was up to.

  While Emma drove, she speculated on the sudden need for these files. It had to be something regarding the Ben Leeks interview. At a red light, she tapped the steering wheel and mulled over the options. Maybe the interview had yielded a new witness and Zac wanted to know if Emma had a statement from said witness.

  From the seat beside her, the phone beeped. Still waiting for the green light, she checked the ID and punched the speaker button. “Hi, Penny.” The light changed and she made a left toward the parking garage.

  “Are you there yet?”

  “No. About to park.”

  “Park and call me. Do not go into that office until you talk to me.”

  Emma’s stomach seized as she drove up to the ticket machine at the parking garage. “Is this bad?”

  “No. I just don’t want you driving when I tell you.”

  “Did we get a new trial?”

  Penny huffed. “I’m not saying another word. Park and call me.”

  The lunatic hung up. What was that? She calls, gets Emma all wound up and then dumps her? Sheesh.

  Still, her body hummed with an incessant energy, that same zapping current from before, that told her something big was about to happen. It took scouring five levels before she found an open parking space. Somehow, it seemed fitting. She’d waited all this time. Why not a few extra minutes?

  She slammed the car into Park and dialed Penny. The phone beep-beeped. No signal.

  “Gah! Stupid parking garage.” Not a break to be had. She snatched the files and her purse and took off toward the elevator. She pressed the button. Waited and waited. The darn thing seemed to be on the second floor for a lifetime. Heck with this. She darted for the stairwell, checking her signal the whole way. Nothing.

  The run down the stairs left Emma breathless, a not-so-gentle reminder that she hadn’t exercised in months. Soon. With any luck, maybe soon she’d have time. Not that she’d ever had much luck, but a girl could dream.

  Once on the street, three glorious bars appeared on her phone. Thank you, signal gods. She dialed Penny.

  “What took so long?” her lawyer asked.

  “Don’t start. There was no signal in the garage and then the elevator was slow. I just ran down five flights. Please tell me what’s going on.”

  She checked traffic coming both ways and stepped off the curb.

  “Mr. Vernon just recanted.”

  Midstride, her right knee locked and buckled. Pain shot up her thigh and she stumbled, catching the files before they fell to the ground. A horn sounded, brakes squealed and a cabbie swerved. Near miss. She gasped and clutched her folders tight while the cabbie swung his fist. Another car horn blared and she jumped back onto the curb before being flattened. Wouldn’t that be the kicker? Dying just as her brother got a new trial?

  “Emma?”

  Recanted. That’s what Penny had said. Please, God. She drew a bumpy breath. Why did it feel as if someone had reached into her and ripped out part of a lung?

  “I’m trying not to get squashed here.” On the sidewalk, Emma straightened, drew a long, slow breath and adjusted the files in her arms. “Okay. I’m good.”

  “We’re not supposed to know this yet, but Mr. Vernon just told Zac he never saw a man in a white shirt. He definitely saw a man. No white shirt. The detectives told him another witness saw a man in a white shirt and they asked him to confirm.”

  Now it made sense. “Zac is looking for the witness. That’s why he needs my files.”

  “I just talked to my dad. We don’t think there’s another witness. We think the cops knew Brian wore a white shirt that night so they made up this other witness to convince Mr. Vernon they had t
he right guy.”

  Please, please, please. “So Mr. Vernon’s testimony will get thrown out?”

  “It’s enough for us to file our post-conviction petition and probably get a hearing.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Emma hurried across the street and sprinted up the steps leading to the building where Zac’s office was housed.

  “Don’t get crazy on me, Emma. We are still months away from a hearing. These things take time, but this is all good. Great, in fact.”

  In the last ten years, the Sinclairs hadn’t seen a whole lot of great. Suddenly, this Hennings bunch was offering an abundance of it. “I’m heading in. I’ll call you when I’m done with Zac.”

  “Don’t let on that you know. Play dumb. Make him squirm a little.”

  Emma scoffed. Everything was a competition between them. They literally thrived on it. “You two make me crazy.”

  “I love making him wonder what I’m up to.”

  The line for security stretched to the lobby door and Emma almost laughed. Hadn’t the last two years of her life been filled with this hurry-up-and-wait mentality? Her phone beeped again. Popular today.

  Zac. “I’m stuck at security.”

  “Okay,” he said, then silence.

  “Hello?”

  No answer. She held the phone in front of her. “Really now? You hung up on me? Sheesh.”

  Craving peace, she turned the phone off—what the point of that was, she didn’t know—but it felt good. That’ll teach them.

  * * *

  STILL AT HIS DESK, Zac read Mr. Vernon’s statement for the thirtieth time. The man had signed it and, with his guilt slightly assuaged, had gone on his way. Mr. Vernon’s statement wouldn’t be enough to free Brian Sinclair from prison, and who knew if he actually belonged there, but slowly, piece by piece, the case was starting to break open.

  Alex Belson, the former public defender on Brian’s case, swung into the office. Interesting timing. His rumpled suit jacket and hair that stuck up on the side indicated that Alex might be having a rough day.