by Norah Wilson
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 believe 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 th
e 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 ... Roth’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?”
Suzannah’s lips thinned, along with her patience. Was a little open-mindedness from the press too much to ask? “What would bother me is to see a conviction entered on the quality of the evidence we saw today. My client deserved to be acquitted. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a schedule to keep.”
A minute later, she descended the steps of the Justice Building and crossed the parking lot. The sun had already begun to dip behind the tallest buildings, casting long shadows. Even so, heat rose from the asphalt in shimmering waves.
All of southern New Brunswick had been gripped in a heat wave since the July 1st Canada Day holiday. Like the rest of her pasty-faced compatriots, Suzannah had welcomed the first real taste of summer. Now, almost three weeks later, she cursed the humidity that made perspiration bead between her breasts before she’d even reached her car.
She thought briefly about stowing her case in the BMW’s trunk, but decided that would require too much effort. Instead, she hit the button on her remote to release the door locks. She opened the back door on the driver’s side and tossed the garment bag onto the back seat. She’d started to swing the heavy bag into the vehicle when a flash of color from the front passenger seat caught her eye. She lost her grip on the handles, and the bag collided with the car’s frame and thudded to the pavement.
Oh, God, no. Not again.
♥ ♥ ♥
“Can I give you a hand with that?”
She seemed to just about come out of her skin at his words, whirling to face him. Wide blue eyes locked onto him, and for an instant, Quigg saw fear. Not surprise. Not your garden variety momentary fright when someone startled you. This was real, raw fear. Then it was gone, and she wore her smooth Princess face again.
“Thank you, no. I can manage.”
Her voice was cool, polite, completely assured. Had he imagined the blaze of fear?
Bending, she righted the briefcase, deposited it on the car’s seat and closed the door. She must have expected him to move on, or at least to step back, because when she turned, she wound up standing considerably closer than before. Closer than was comfortable for her. He could see it in the quick lift of her brows, the slight widening of her eyes. But she didn’t step back.
Neither did he.
Damn, she was beautiful. And tall. In those three inch heels that probably cost more than he made in a week, her gaze was level with his. Throw in all that long blond hair that would slide like silk through a man’s hands, and a body that would...
“You’re that cop.”
He blinked. “That cop?”
“Regina vs. Rosneau.”
“Good memory.” They’d secured a conviction on that one, but her client had taken a walk on appeal. Though in truth, Quigg hadn’t minded over much. The dirtball had done it, all right, but strictly speaking, the evidence had been a bit thin. One of those fifty/fifty propositions.
“Regina vs. Haynes. That was you, too, right?”
Okay, dammit, that one still stung, although the insult was almost two years old now. Two defendants, separate trials, separate representation, each accused managing to convince a jury the other guy’d done it. Of course, Quigg could
take consolation from knowing the noose was closing yet again around Ricky Haynes’ good-for-nothing drug-dealing neck. Haynes had since moved outside the city limits, beyond municipal jurisdiction, but Quigg had it on good authority that the Mounties were building a rock-solid case against him.
Yes, he could take some consolation in that. Some small consolation. Not enough, however, to blunt the slow burn in his gut right now.
“Keep a scrapbook, do you, Ms. Phelps? Or maybe you cut a notch in your little Gucci belt, one for every cop you skewer?”
Something that looked astonishingly like hurt flashed in her eyes, but like before, it was gone before he could be certain he’d really seen it. Then she stepped even closer and smiled, a slow, knowing smile that made him think about skin sliding against skin and sweat-slicked bodies fusing in the dark, and he knew he’d been mistaken. When she extended a slender, ringless finger to trace a circle around a button on his shirt, his heart stumbled, then began to pound.
“Definitely not the belt thing,” she said, her voice as husky and honeyed as his most sex-drenched fantasy. “At the rate you guys self-destruct under cross, there’d be nothing left to hold my trousers up, would there, now, John?”
Then she climbed in her gleaming little Beemer and drove off before his hormone-addled brain divorced her words from her manner and realized he’d been dissed.
Against all reason, he laughed. Lord knew it wasn’t funny. Certainly, young Langan wouldn’t share his mirth.
Of course, the whole thing defied reason, the way it twisted his guts just to look at her. She was rich. She was beautiful. She was sophisticated. She was the daughter of a judge, from a long line of judges. She was ... what? He searched his admittedly limited lexicon for an appropriate term. Kennedy-esque.
Meanwhile, his own father had worked in a saw mill; his mother had cleaned other people’s houses. Suzannah Phelps was so far out of his league, there wasn’t even a real word for it.
She was also the woman not-so-affectionately known around the station house as She-Rex. And worse.
Much worse.
Except she hadn’t looked much like a She-Rex when she’d spun around to face him, her face all pale and frightened.
