by Shenda Paul
Rachel’s response is more measured. She’s shocked and devastated for Mom and me, of course, but she understands immediately what I need from her. She promises to support Mom through this and to keep me informed about her state of health. I tell her I’ll be speaking to Mom’s doctor, asking him to monitor her closely because the last thing we need is for her already fragile physical state to deteriorate.
I depart on Sunday evening, leaving Mom tearful and devastated. I’m equally desolate that in my attempt to care for her, I’ve hurt her so deeply. I can’t deny my sense of relief that the truth is out in the open, though, and I try to convince myself that once the trial’s over, we’ll be able to get back to where we were before I made such a terrible mistake.
I’ll have to inform Ruth and probably the manager of Starbucks about my trouble as well. I’m almost sick with worry about losing my jobs, but I’ve decided that I can’t not tell them. They deserve to know about any possible media attention. I should probably also tell Jeanette, and I’m sure that, sooner or later, my fellow students will find out as well. I had no idea that accepting Joseph’s offer would have such widespread impact.
Back in Boston, I find that Amy’s left several messages. Three, in fact, which she used to describe how brutal her witness conference had been. She accused Jodi Maddox of being mean and hardnosed, nothing like she’d been at the first interview, Amy huffed. Sounding disappointed, she said Adam Thorne decided she should provide a written statement rather than testify in court. I find it hard to understand why she’d want to publicly discuss her time at Liaison. I envy her, frankly, and can’t help wondering, if I’d cooperated, whether he’d have given me the same reprieve.
I choose not to call Amy. All I want is to lock myself in my apartment and shut my door on everything trial-related. The next day, I get home from work to find my subpoena in the mail. On Tuesday, I summon the courage to tell Ruth about the trial and the part I’m to play in it. She’s shocked, and I sense intrigued, by the fact that I’d been Justin’s escort but, thankfully, has the good grace not to ask. She’s very frank about my job, though, and says that, as much as she’d like to, she’s unable guarantee it. I tell her I understand, and I do; it’s her reputation and livelihood at stake, after all.
Ruth says she views me as a friend and would like to give me as much support as possible. I thank her for her kindness and offer to resign before my role becomes public knowledge. “Let’s wait and see how things unfold,” she says, much to my relief.
Later that day, my Starbucks manager’s eyes nearly pop out of his head, but he manages to contain his curiosity. He says the best he can offer is that I work in the back, where customers are less likely to recognize me. I’m grateful for both his and Ruth’s compassion and fervently hope I’ll be able to hang onto both jobs.
It’s the first day of Justin’s trial, and I’m scheduled to appear in court on the second day, which is tomorrow. Since receiving the subpoena, I’ve been in an almost constant state of anxiety, and, today, despite my efforts to keep myself occupied with work and thoughts of Mandi and Samuel’s arrival, I’m feeling worse. Others have noticed my distraction. Declan asked why I wasn’t smiling; a student pointed out that I’d already asked her to perform a particular step; Ruth had to repeat herself twice before I responded, and, now, the supermarket cashier reminds me that she’s waiting for payment.
I’m relieved to be home and, finally able to feed my need for information, turn on the television. Thankfully, I don’t have to wait long because Justin’s trial leads the newscast, which starts with live footage of him and Cynthia arriving at the courtroom, hand-in-hand,
That visual is followed by another, showing them returning to court from lunch. Justin stares straight ahead, ignoring the reporters’ shouted questions; she clings to his hand like it’s a lifeline. Tom, following them, stops to address the media.
“Neither Senator Wade nor Miss Buchanan stopped to answer questions, but Thomas Martin, lawyer for the Senator, was more than happy to let reporters know of his client’s innocence. When asked about the couple’s on again, off again relationship, Mr. Martin appeared coy, saying, and I quote, ‘Senator Wade has always had deep feelings for Miss Buchanan. They are well matched and have been great friends for a long time, perhaps much more than friends,” the newscaster reports over the footage of Tom.
I almost regret tuning in now. The sight of Justin and Cynthia hurts—not because of her treatment of me at that restaurant, or because of the sense of betrayal I feel, although, I can’t completely deny its existence. It’s because their appearance, together, is yet another humiliating reminder of my stupidity and the truth in Tom’s parting words. Justin doesn’t have any further use for me; he never did.
The report switches to a visual of Adam Thorne in the courtroom. He stands tall, commanding in a dark suit and a crisp, white shirt that throws his striking color into relief. Confident and at ease, his voice is almost as mesmerizing as his appearance as he starts his address.
“The defendant, Justin Wade stands charged with three crimes under the Commonwealth’s prostitution laws; namely, sharing in the earnings of prostitution, procuring persons to enter into a place of and practice prostitution, and keeping a house of ill fame.
“He is a man educated in and one who has sworn to uphold the law. He is an elected official and holds a position of trust in our community. He is a man who should have known better, done better than flout the very laws he swore to uphold. Yet, the defendant, supposedly a pillar of our community, did just that,” he tells the jury, whose attention has been riveted on him since the first word he uttered. They, like me, appear incapable of looking away.
“He became part owner of a business that deliberately and callously targeted and enticed young, often vulnerable, women into selling their bodies into prostitution. In some instances, those exploited were no more than seventeen years of age, still children in the eyes of the law,” he claims, and I gasp, shocked and appalled, unable to believe that Justin would become involved in something so despicable.
“Defense Counsel will, no doubt, seek to convince you that his client had been unaware of the true nature of Fidelity’s business. Justin Wade, he will claim, had been deliberately misled,” he continues as if reading my mind, everyone’s mind, no doubt. He says the government—meaning he—will prove the contrary.
“We will provide indisputable evidence that the defendant knew about the illegal nature of at least one of the nightclubs owned by Fidelity when signing the agreement granting him ownership. We will prove not only that he had been aware of the prostitution conducted from that establishment, but that he also participated in its criminal activities,” he declares, his cutting tone, his threatening words, feel as if they’re aimed at me. If I held any doubt about his intention to uncover the truth about my relationship with Justin; he’s just dispelled them.
“The Commonwealth, Your Honor, Ladies, and Gentlemen, will prove, without a doubt, that Justin Wade is guilty of the charges brought against him,” he finishes, thanks the court, and then returns to his place beside Jodi Maddox.
I feel numb; shocked by the accusations made against Justin, the seriousness of my predicament, which I can no longer deny or escape. Mostly, though, I’m stunned by the passion, conviction—the sheer determination—with which Adam Thorne delivered his case. The man is lethal. The combination of intellect, oratory skills, and physical attributes he possesses is spellbinding. How anyone ever wins against him is unfathomable. How on earth I will survive his questioning, I honestly don’t know.
I turn off the television, wishing more than ever that I could turn the clock back as easily. In fact, right now, I’d settle for just being able to stop thinking about all of this, even if, just for a little while. But I can’t. My mind’s consumed with the thought that Mom’s probably already seen or read about today’s proceedings, and I’m anxious about our telephone conversation later tonight. But, what I dread most is that tomorrow, I’ll have to face
Adam Thorne in court.
—End of Book One—
Preview
Destiny
M y conversation with Mom had been predictably emotional, and later, in bed, I tossed and turned for hours, unable to think of anything but my court appearance and the notoriety it’s sure to bring. I woke this morning, feeling more anxious than ever—and nauseous. The slice of toast and weak, black tea I had for breakfast made me feel only marginally better.
I’m hoping that Mandi and Samuel’s presence will settle my nerves. They’re both arriving this morning, in fact, Mandi’s plane was due to land ten minutes ago, so she should be here shortly. I offered to pick her up, of course, but she insisted on taking a cab so I could have more time to get ready. She’s staying with me, and Samuel, with a friend of an ex-Marine buddy. He called yesterday to say he’d meet us at the courthouse. He seemed a bit evasive when I asked about his flight, but I put it down to my imagination.
When Mandi does arrive, we cling to each other. “It’ll be fine,” she whispers in my ear. I wish I could believe her, but, sadly, I don’t. After placing her suitcase in the bedroom and giving her the opportunity to freshen up, I lead the way into the kitchen.
“Aren’t you having anything?” she asks, studying me carefully over the rim of her cup.
“I had a slice earlier; I’ll just have another cup of tea,” I say as I hand her the toast with honey that she asked for.
“Angel, you have to eat, you’re looking pale,” she admonishes me.
“I feel a bit sick, and I don’t want to throw up.”
“We’ll get some crackers or something. I don’t want you to faint.”
There’s no point in arguing when Mandi’s made up her mind, so I just let it go. “I have to get dressed,” I say, starting to clear up the kitchen. “Do you need the bathroom?”
“I’d like to brush my teeth and redo my make-up just before we go. You go and get ready; I’ll finish up here.” She dismisses me with a wave of her hand.
I’ve opted to wear a simple, dark blue suit and black pumps. I pull my hair back into a low ponytail and keep my makeup natural because no amount of red lipstick will give me the confidence I’m so fervently praying for today. When done, I stare at myself in the mirror and, for some reason, Adam Thorne’s warning about being photographed and having my character assassinated by the media springs to mind. I feel even sicker after that.
“What’s wrong, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost?” Mandi pulls me from my unwelcome thoughts.
“Just nervous,” I say, my voice sounding cracked.
“You need a shot of self-confidence. What about a brighter lipstick?”
“I don’t want to look like everyone’s stereotype of an escort,” I respond unnecessarily sharply.
“I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your spirit. Save it for the bastard,” she grins, referring Adam Thorne’s courtroom reputation. I can’t help but smile in return. Mandi’s irrepressible nature is just what I need right now.
“That’s better!” She comes over to hug me. “The people who love you don’t judge you, Angel. Everyone in that courtroom may have an opinion, but they don’t and shouldn’t matter. Just tell the truth and be yourself; that’s the message your Mom asked me to give you.”
Tears spill over as our eyes meet in the mirror. She tightens her arms around me. “Pretend you’re talking to Samuel and me and try to forget everyone else,” she says. “Now, fix your makeup while I’ll go and find that confidence-booster.”
“Here, these are perfect,” she returns with her hand outstretched.
“You’re right,” I say with a tiny smile as I take Mom’s earrings from her.
“How much longer do we need to sit here and wait?” Mandi complains as she paces the small room.
An eager young man from the DA’s office, who introduced himself as Andrew, met us on arrival. He advised that I would be called second and offered us the choice of waiting directly outside the courtroom or in a meeting room. Afraid of attracting unwanted attention, I chose here.
“What’s the time?” I ask for the umpteenth time since sitting down.
“Eleven-ten. It’s been nearly two hours. How much longer can they question one person?” she huffs impatiently. I wish she hadn’t reminded me of what I may be in for.
“I don’t know. I wish I’d thought to bring a book.”
“Well, neither of us are veteran court attendees,” she quips. “I wonder where Samuel is? Did he know you had to be here by nine-fifteen?” she asks, and I must admit I’ve been wondering where he is.
“Yes—I hope everything’s all right.”
“Samuel’s more capable of taking care of himself than anyone I know, Angel. He’ll be here.”
“I know he’d never let me down,” I say, more to reassure myself than in response to her statement.
“Ms. Bain?” Andrew steps into the room, looking apologetic.
“Are they ready for me?” I ask, suddenly feeling sick again.
“No. The judge called an early lunch recess, and I suggest you take the opportunity to have something to eat. There are several coffee shops and restaurants nearby, just make sure you’re back within the hour.
“That’s a brilliant idea,” Mandi declares.
“Has everyone left the courtroom?” I ask, reluctant to leave my sanctuary.
“The area should be clear by now,” Andrew assures me.
“Thanks,” I give him a tiny smile before following Mandi.
“Should we return here?” I turn back to ask.
“It would probably be best to wait outside the courtroom. You’re due to be called as soon as court’s called to order,” he says, and my stomach, predictably, twists at that information.
“Angelique!” A familiar voice calls out as we make our way out.
“Samuel!” I smile, relief flooding me. “What’s wrong?” I ask when seeing his dark expression.
“Nothing. How are you?” he says, and this time, I have no doubt that he’s deflecting.
“I’m fine,” I brush off his concern, intending to press him for answers, but Mandi intervenes. “She’s feeling sick,” she tells Samuel.
“Come on, court’s adjourned.” He leans in to kiss my cheek before taking hold of my elbow.
“How do you know that?” I ask suspiciously.
“I heard the judge make the announcement,” he replies, and I look up at him in surprise. “I’ll tell you over lunch,” he says firmly and leads me away.
“You were in court?” I ask as soon as we’re seated in the coffee shop.
“Yes. Yesterday also.”
“But… I thought you got in this morning.”
“I’ve been here for two days, Angelique.”
“You didn’t say anything when I spoke to you before you left… wait were you already…”
“I called you from the courthouse. And before you ask why I didn’t say anything; I didn’t want to get into an argument about it,” he says, his voice challenging me to deny his statement.
“But why?” I ask, catching a glimpse of Mandi’ knowing smile.
“Did you know?” I accuse her.
“No, but I wish I’d thought of it,” she grins.
“Why?” I insist, turning back to Samuel.
“I wanted to see that bastard squirm, and I wanted to warn him to stay away from you,” he says grimly.
“What have you done?” I demand, suddenly afraid as I recall his earlier anger.
“I haven’t done anything. I just told Wade and his lawyer friend a few things that needed to be said.”
“I told you I was the one who…”
“And I’m not stupid enough to believe that you weren’t taken advantage of!” he hisses.
“Angel, Samuel’s right. They need to know you’re not alone. I wish you’d kicked them both in the balls,” she tells Samuel crudely, and then raises her brow, daring me to disagree. I don’t; it’s not worth another long lecture from either or both of th
em.
Samuel insists that I have ginger ale to settle my stomach. He swears it helped Nic through her pregnancy. I also try to force down the toasted cheese sandwich to appease Mandi but end up leaving more than half uneaten. I’m pretty quiet, preferring to listen to them talk about the happenings in their lives and thankful that they understand my need to reserve whatever strength I have.
Sooner than I’d like, Samuel announces that we should be getting back. I repress a shudder as we make our way through the throng of reporters. If Adam Thorne’s prediction becomes a reality, then this is probably the last day, for some time, that I’ll be unrecognizable.
A commotion breaks out just as we reach the top of the courthouse steps. Shouts of ‘Mr. Thorne’ and ‘Adam’ reach my ears, and, like a moth drawn to a flame, I turn to watch. He and his two companions are waylaid by the noisy gaggle. He says something to Jodi, who immediately moves close; but it’s his action to ensure the safety of the other woman, a willowy and very beautiful blonde, that holds my attention. ‘Is there no end of stunning women in his life?’ I wonder as he pulls her close and wraps a protective arm around her. He ignores the shouted questions, confidently pushing forward while frequently glancing over to check on Jodi. They must ask something that amuses both him and the blonde because he bends his head to look at her. She looks up, their affection evident in the shared smile. For some unfathomable reason, the sight leaves me feeling empty.
A number of reporters suddenly veer off, and I let out an audible gasp when I recognize their new target. Tom, Justin, Cynthia, an older woman, and another man fight their way through the throng. Justin holds her hand and keeps walking, determinedly ignoring the media. Something twists painfully in my chest. It’s not jealousy, I know, because I don’t and have never loved Justin. What I’m feeling is shame—and regret.
