A Raging Dawn

by C. J. Lyons

  Voorsanger rose, taking his place at the podium between the prosecutor and defense tables. He stood, silent, assessing Rossi as if she were a particularly dangerous specimen trapped inside the cage that was the witness stand. Ryder looked past the defense attorney to his client, Eugene Littleton. The man was squirming, his belligerent stare vanquished by a single glance Rossi sent in his direction.

  “Thank you, Dr. Rossi,” Voorsanger began in the tone of a gracious host, “for taking the time to talk us through your medical findings in such precise detail.”

  Rossi didn’t take the bait and offer any sarcasm or snark. Instead, she replied, “It’s part of my job. Advocating for victims.”

  Voorsanger nodded, turned to his notes, but then swiveled back abruptly as if caught by her final word. “But have we established that Ms. Nelson was a victim of a crime? Much less one committed by my client?”

  Manny looked up. “Objection.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said. “The jury will disregard defense counsel’s editorial opinions.”

  Voorsanger ignored the interruption and focused on Rossi. “Dr. Rossi, to the best of your knowledge, will Ms. Nelson be making an appearance here today to give us her account of what happened seven months ago?”

  Ryder sat up straight. Asshole. Voorsanger made it sound like Tymara was too busy shopping for shoes to testify. From the stricken look that crossed Rossi’s face as she glanced at Manny for guidance, he guessed the judge had ruled that no mention of the reason why Tymara wouldn’t be testifying could be given. Prejudicial or some such legal bullshit.

  Rossi looked up, and he locked his gaze with hers, certain she was reliving the horror of finding Tymara’s body that morning. She swallowed hard, gave him a small nod, her features easing back into a mask of professionalism. Then she leaned forward to adjust her own microphone, eyeing each of the jurors in turn. “To my knowledge, Ms. Nelson is unable to testify, leaving it to me to report on the facts of her trauma.”

  “The medical facts?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do your medical facts provide any physical evidence that the sexual intimacy between my client and Ms. Nelson was nonconsensual?”

  “In the vast majority of sexual assaults, there is no physical evidence.”

  “Did your detailed medical examination reveal any evidence that my client assaulted Ms. Nelson?”

  Rossi didn’t hesitate, her voice remaining calm, confident. “Yes. My medical history indicated that Mr. Littleton sexually assaulted Tymara Nelson.”

  Ryder glanced at the jury. This would be the stumbling point of the case against Littleton. They had plenty of evidence showing that Littleton and Tymara had sex, but nothing except Tymara’s disclosures to Rossi during her rape exam to prove it was nonconsensual. The jury was definitely paying attention, but without Tymara to tell her own story, would they buy it?

  Chapter 9

  “HISTORY TAKEN FROM Ms. Nelson?” Jacob asked me.

  “Yes.”

  “So basically we’re talking about she said/he said. A difference of opinion.” Jacob turned to the jury, his skepticism over my painstakingly recorded medical history palpable. Despite my anger at his trivialization of Tymara’s assault, I marveled at the way he’d captured the jury so quickly. I’d forgotten how good an actor he was, the power of his voice, his body language. “Let’s go through things from the start. See exactly how your medical history somehow proves my client assaulted Ms. Nelson in any way.”

  Clearing my throat, I began in a professional cadence “On May twenty-first, Tymara Nelson had a knock on her apartment door. It was the defendant, there to spray for bugs.” Littleton was an exterminator whose company held the contract for the Kingston Tower.

  “Ms. Nelson invited him in?” Jacob interrupted, deliberately breaking my rhythm.

  “Yes. She—”

  “Yes. Ms. Nelson invited him inside her apartment.”

  I kept my face composed, refusing to show any emotion at his cheap and all-too-common tactic. I had expected more of him.

  Focus, I told myself. Tymara’s last chance at justice is riding on you. Although, sitting there, buffeted by lawyers and their rules, I wondered why I’d been so adamant with Devon that courtroom justice was better than his street justice.

  I glanced at Littleton, a totally unremarkable man if you believed his mask of normalcy. Wondered what it would take to make him feel the same terror and anguish that Tymara had at his hands and the hands of his partners. Wouldn’t that be true justice?

  Jacob startled me, abandoning his notes and shuffling to stand beside the podium. It was against the rules for him to approach me, but by coming out from behind the podium, it left him exposed, vulnerable.

  The jury also took note. They would place added weight on the next few moments—a weight that might add up to reasonable doubt during deliberations if I wasn’t careful.

  I sat up straighter, the edge of the worn, wooden chair digging into my thighs, and anticipated the sparring match to come. The rest of the room faded into shimmering echoes of color accompanied by the gentle tinkle of chimes.

  Not now. I couldn’t risk a fugue episode now.

  I forced my attention to center on Jacob as I massaged the pressure point between the thumb and index finger of my left hand, trying to eke additional energy and alertness from my body’s diminished reserves.

  Jacob took a step toward me, his stance aggressive. So unlike his usual style. A thrill vibrated through me. If only he’d been this aggressive about saving our marriage. Understated, subtle, always playing by the rules, that was Jacob.

  An opposites-attract sort of thing, the rebel ER doctor and the by-the-book attorney.

  But now, it was Jacob breaking the rules. My pulse revved up, buzzing beneath my skin. Something was going on here. This wasn’t the way Jacob worked. What was wrong with him?

  Idiot. Jacob was fine—the problem was with me. Hopped up on the stimulants Louise had prescribed.

  Jacob squared his shoulders, facing the jury more than me.

  The jurors leaned forward, entranced, waiting to see what was coming. If he disappointed them after this buildup, his client was sure to suffer the consequences. Which was exactly why Jacob seldom resorted to melodrama.

  I had to work to swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. Tymara’s death was my responsibility. I was the one who had persuaded her to go to the police. I was the one who had bolstered her courage, promised her that confronting her attackers was the right thing to do.

  And Tymara, fool that she was, had placed her trust in me. Anger seared through me. The entire room simmered with the strength of my fury. I blinked against the image that violated my vision, more than blood, the terror on her face…

  “Then Ms. Nelson led Mr. Littleton into her bedroom, correct?” Jacob said, jarring me from my morbid visions.

  “She went to turn on the lights so he could see as he sprayed for roaches.”

  “She willingly led him to her bedroom.”

  I stared at him, refusing to confirm his rewording of my testimony, waiting for a question. Sweat pooled at the base of my spine, and my hands trembled. I tightened them into fists, drumming against my thighs, out of sight from the jury.

  Jacob’s dramatic pauses were killing me. Why didn’t he just get on with it? His eyes seemed filled with sorrow and remorse. As if I was leading him somewhere he didn’t want to go. Wait. Could he know? That I was sick? Once upon a time, he could read me that well.

  “And then Ms. Nelson undressed for Mr. Littleton,” he said.

  “He was holding a knife on her.”

  “Did Ms. Nelson sustain any knife wounds?” Jacob countered. He rustled a stack of papers, reminding me Big Brother was watching if I detoured from the medical record.

  “No.” I spit out the word as if it was a spoiled piece of meat. The single syllable lingered in the air as the jury watched, mesmerized. The tension coiling between us was palpable, electricity before a lightning strike.
<
br />   As if this trial needed any more drama.

  Jacob consulted his notes as I waited for his next question. I risked a glance at the prosecution table and saw Manny frowning, shaking his head at me in warning.

  “According to the medical history you collected from Ms. Nelson,” Jacob finally said. “What happened next?”

  I took a breath, trying to rein in my anger and frustration. But one glance in the direction of the defendant eroded my control. “Mr. Littleton raped her.”

  The jurors gaped at me. I didn’t have to see Manny’s scowl to know it was a mistake as soon as the words left my mouth.

  Jacob took a step back behind the podium, his eyes wide at my use of the offensive verb. He glanced at his client, gave a small, regretful shrug of his shoulders. “Your Honor, permission to treat this witness as hostile?”

  The judge pursed her lips, her eyes creasing, and nodded. “Granted.”

  Manny glared at me, half-rising from his chair before slumping back into it, resigned. By having me declared hostile, Jacob had greater latitude in his questioning, could approach me, even try to manipulate my testimony.

  I’d played right into his plans. There was a good reason why this was my last case.

  Below the railing, out of sight of the jury and Jacob, I shook the blood into my hands, forcing myself to concentrate, to brick up my emotions. Manny was right about one thing: If we wanted to win, I needed to get the jury to trust me as a professional, keep my emotions out of it. After all, this whole psychodrama they called a trial wasn’t about me, it was about getting justice for Tymara.

  Jacob wasn’t making things any easier. He needed the jury to see me as flawed, emotive, weak—and therefore, not to be believed.

  “You testified that Ms. Nelson told you she faked an orgasm while engaged in sexual relations with my client,” Jacob said, facing me squarely. “Since she’s not here for me to question her motives, I’d like your expert opinion, Dr. Rossi.”

  Jacob was pushing things. And getting away with it, because the jury was eating it up, leaving Manny no way to object without making things worse.

  “Why? Why did Ms. Nelson do it?” he drawled, spinning to face the jury, impervious to my anger. “After all, according to your well-documented notes, she told my client she liked what he was doing to her, so much so that, and I’m quoting verbatim what Ms. Nelson told you during your medical history, she asked for ‘more, please, more.’ Enlighten us. If she lied to my client about how she felt in that moment of intimacy, is it possible that it could have been because she cared enough about him that she didn’t want to hurt Mr. Littleton’s feelings?”

  Littleton had scripted her words at knifepoint. Tymara had been begging for it to stop. But I hadn’t recorded her reasons for faking an orgasm verbatim as part of the medical record, so I couldn’t testify to it. Which Jacob damn well knew.

  If you can simmer with anger, can you boil over? I was about to. The courtroom was sweltering. If I took my jacket off, the jury would think I was shaken. They’d realize we were losing.

  Manny reached for his microphone. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

  Jacob dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Withdrawn, Your Honor. I think we all know the answer without Dr. Rossi’s interpretation of what a woman told her seven months ago.” He pivoted to face me again. “Dr. Rossi, did you find any evidence that the sex between my client and Ms. Nelson was not consensual?”

  “Ms. Nelson told me—”

  “I’m not interested in hearsay, Dr. Rossi. I’m interested in the medical facts. Physical findings. Did your forensic examination reveal any physical evidence that my client used force?”

  Damn him, damn him to hell. Jacob was the last person I’d expected to resort to tactics like this. But he always played by the rules—and the rules stating his client deserved the best defense he could offer trumped the simple fact that Littleton was a rapist.

  I slanted a glance over at Manny, but all he could offer was a glare and a tiny shake of his head, reminding me this whole thing was my fault. The movement echoed through the air around him, shimmering in the red-gold light shining through the stained-glass windows.

  Shit, not now. I pinched the flesh at the base of my thumb, hard. The pain focused my vision, and the echoes of color faded, although the chimes persisted, an aural shadow at the edge of my awareness. The echoes were a prelude to my fugues and threatened to mesmerize me, pulling me into a vortex where time stopped and I could lose myself if I wasn’t careful. That’s all this case needed, its star witness falling into a catatonic state, complete with drooling, right there in front of the jury.

  “You seem to be having difficulty hearing me,” Jacob said, marching back to the podium and the microphone there.

  He left a trail of colorful ripples in his wake. I edged forward, digging my nails into my palms, and the echoes were banished. For now.

  “Dr. Rossi, did your examination reveal any physical evidence that my client forced Ms. Nelson to have sex with him?”

  I took a quick inventory of the jury. The only one who would meet my gaze was an older man who seemed more interested in looking down my shirt than what I had to say. No doubt about it, I’d lost them. Best to get it over with quickly.

  “No.”

  “No what?” Jacob was relentless.

  “I found no physical evidence that Mr. Littleton used force when he raped Ms. Nelson.”

  “Dr. Rossi,” Judge Shaw said, further making Jacob’s case for him, “confine your remarks to the facts presented.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” My tone could have been more contrite, but I was having a hard time maintaining a professional facade.

  “Anything else, Mr. Voorsanger?” the judge asked, glancing at her watch. We were ahead of schedule, and she liked that.

  “I just have one last confirmatory question, Your Honor.” Jacob glanced back over his shoulder to the spectators, then shuffled his notes as if ticking off a checklist. “Dr. Rossi, one last time for the jury. You found no evidence that Ms. Nelson was raped, correct?”

  I blinked, at first certain I hadn’t heard him correctly. Manny sat up so fast he knocked a pencil off his table. It hit the ground with a crack that echoed through the suddenly silent room. In the rear of the galley, Ryder straightened as well.

  Jacob had his head buried in his notes. The jury had relaxed. They’d heard him ask the same question twice before already. They knew my answer.

  Except they were wrong. It wasn’t the same question, not the same question at all.

  I glanced at the judge, who inclined her head in a small nod, giving me permission to answer the question Jacob had asked.

  Exactly as he had asked it.

  “That is not correct.” My voice ricocheted off the jurors, grabbing their attention.

  “Excuse me?” Jacob rocked his head up, but his face revealed no surprise. Damn the man, he knew what he was doing. Somehow he was managing to both defend his client and ensure that a group of mad-dog predators wouldn’t continue to run free. Littleton picked up on it as well, frantically reaching across the defense table to yank at Jacob’s sleeve.

  “You asked if I found any evidence that Ms. Nelson was raped. I did find evidence. Evidence that she was both raped and physically assaulted. Multiple times. By multiple assailants.” Just no evidence that his client had used force.

  Thanks to Jacob’s slip, the forensic evidence of the full extent of Tymara’s injuries could now be introduced to the jury. We’d be on the record with everything that really happened to Tymara. If it swayed the jury, it could be enough to get Littleton to give up his partners.

  Thanks to Jacob, Tymara would finally have a chance to be heard. Even if it was from the grave.

  Littleton’s features twisted into a scowl. He pounded a fist on the tabletop. Then he focused on me, his face florid with rage.

  He lunged from his seat, hands stretched toward me. “You bitch! You fucking bitch! You’re not allowed to say anything and
you know it!”

  The judge banged her gavel, calling for silence. “Mr. Voorsanger, control your client.”

  Jacob stepped away from the podium and said something in a low voice. Littleton’s posture stiffened, his mouth twisted with fury. The bailiff moved to stand behind Littleton, positioning himself where he could restrain him if needed.

  “That’s not right. She can’t trick you like that,” Littleton protested, whirling on Jacob. “Your fault—it’s all your fault!”

  Elbowing the bailiff so hard the man fell back and hit the railing, Littleton wrapped his hands around Jacob’s throat. “I’ll kill you, you bastard! I’ll kill you!”

  Chapter 10

  RYDER BOUNDED FROM his seat, reaching the defense table before the bailiff had time to recover. His pulse hammered so loudly in his ears he barely heard Littleton’s shouts or the judge’s gavel banging.

  He tackled Littleton, pulling him away from Voorsanger. A wristlock and knee to the small of the back tumbled the prisoner to the ground. By that time, the bailiff was there with his cuffs.

  The bailiff dragged Littleton out of reach as Ryder climbed back to his feet, his gaze scouring the courtroom, searching for any further threats. His breath had barely sped up, although his chest was tight, as if he’d run a mile. But still, for his first day back on the job, it felt pretty damn good.

  The pain would hit later after the adrenaline fled, but who cared?

  He blew his breath out and backed up behind the prosecutor’s table as courthouse security flooded the room. It took three of them to haul out Littleton, who was screaming incoherent threats at anyone who would listen.

  Ryder turned his head to check that Rossi was okay. She perched half in and half out of the witness box, a fierce expression on her face, as if she’d intended to take on Littleton herself. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was focused on her ex, Jacob Voorsanger.