The Jury Has Spoken

by R. Barri Flowers

  "It was a mistake," she maintained. "I was trying to get back at Thomas and you just happened to be there. Let's just leave it at that."

  "No, let's not!" He tried to keep his cool, but was failing. "Dammit, I love you, Cassandra! What we experienced was so beautiful. Don't turn it into something ugly."

  "I don't mean to," she said. "But this can't go on. I'm involved with another man."

  "Who?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Like hell it doesn't!"

  She stiffened. "Look, I'm sorry I don't feel the same way you do. You need to get over it and forget about me."

  His face darkened. "I can't do that."

  "You don't have much choice. Either stop harassing me or..."

  "Or what?"

  Her eyes widened. "Or I'll get a restraining order against you. How will you explain that to your colleagues, Judge Armstrong?"

  His nostrils flared. "You wouldn't?"

  "Do you want to put that to the test?" She paused. "Yeah, I didn't think so. Do us both a favor and find some other lonely wife to seduce. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to have some tea—alone. Close the door on your way out."

  He regarded her beneath knitted brows. "You bitch!"

  "Well, I guess that makes you a bastard." She laughed. "And a pathetic one at that. Now get the hell out of my house and don't come back!"

  The thought of never being with her again was more than he could bear in that moment. In a fit of rage, he grabbed a golf club leaning against the wall, raised it, and struck her across the head before she could react.

  Blood immediately spurted from the wound. She looked at him with contempt and he struck her again and again as she crumpled to the floor in agony.

  He wasn't sure how many times he swung the club. Only that by the time he was through, she was nothing but a bloody unrecognizable mass. He released the club, still embedded in his lover's head.

  Now what did he do? Should he dispose of the body?

  His entire life flashed before him, even as he felt satisfaction knowing that Cassandra would never humiliate him again. Or be with another lover who would never appreciate her as much as he could.

  He heard a key in the front door. Looking at the bludgeoned remains beneath him, he panicked. If someone should find him there, his world would come crashing down around him. A sitting criminal court judge convicted of murder and sent to prison for the rest of his life, or worse, was something he could not imagine.

  They would eat him up inside.

  He leaned against the bookshelf, hidden from view as heavy steps came toward the living room.

  Thomas Baker entered and saw his wife on the floor. "Cassandra!" he screeched, and immediately went to her aid.

  Walter saw this as the answer to his predicament. Why not frame the man who had caused Cassandra so much misery? Given Thomas Baker's jealousy and quick temper, who wouldn't believe he'd done away with his wife?

  Grabbing a thick, wooden bookend off the shelf, Walter crept up behind Thomas. By the time he heard a sound, it was too late.

  Raising the bookend, Walter brought it down hard on the back of Thomas's head. He went out cold, falling flat on his face beside Cassandra's bloody remains.

  Walter had to get the authorities there before Thomas came to. Spotting a cell phone on the coffee table, he grabbed it and dialed 911. When the operator answered, he said nothing; simply setting the phone on the floor near Cassandra's head.

  Taking the bookend with him, Walter walked out of the room, leaving bloody footprints in his wake. He made sure the front door was unlocked and then exited out the back door, vacating the premises as if never there.

  * * *

  Judge Walter Armstrong looked at the bloody shoes, gloves, and bookend—pieces of evidence implicating him in the murder of Cassandra Baker. He hadn't been able to dispose of them since they were all he had left to remind him of Cass, albeit it in a hideous manner. If he couldn't have her, no one could. He had seen to that.

  He put the box back on the closet shelf and closed the door. Finishing off his drink, he wondered who would win the next jackpot between him and his colleagues. Maybe it was his turn to play judge and jury. Again.

  He salivated at the thought, his mind focused on the woman who was once his lover before all hell broke loose and the relationship was brought to an abrupt and bloody end.

  # # #

  Following is a bonus excerpt of the bestselling legal thriller eBook, STATE'S EVIDENCE, by R. Barri Flowers. Available in Kindle and Nook.

  PROLOGUE

  She was a real piece of ass...

  He could feel his arousal through tight jeans. He had been watching her, following her, getting to know her every move till it was time to do what had to be done.

  He could have taken her any time he wanted, crushing her pretty skull between his strong, calloused hands, as easily as one might flatten a piece of dough. But it was more fun and stimulating to bide his time like a shark might before going after a helpless fish. Or even a human. He knew exactly where she was every minute of the day.

  And night.

  Why rush a good thing?

  He considered killing a person a work of art. Like the Mona Lisa. It required skill, finesse, courage, determination, and a vision.

  He had been born with these talents thirty-two years ago in East L.A.'s Latino community. Surviving the mean streets there had required every bit of his artistic skills, and then some. With his mama a whore and his daddy a wife-abusing heroin addict, he had literally been left to fend for himself as early as he could remember.

  Joining a gang had allowed him to sharpen his skills. He imagined he had taken out or seriously injured maybe a dozen or more rival gang members by the time he was fifteen. He considered it all in a day's work. It was either them or him. Which was a real no-brainer.

  But he knew he was going nowhere fast in L.A.'s war zone. Between the rival Latino gangs and the black gang bangers fighting for territory, respect, or just for the hell of it, he saw no future there. Sooner or later he figured a bullet or blade would have his name written on it in blood—unless he quit while he was ahead.

  Which was precisely why he had given up the hood and gang life and fled the city before he turned eighteen. He ended up in Northern California in a town called Eagles Landing. By comparison to the urban jungle he'd left behind, it was fairly laid back and boring as hell.

  Still, he didn't miss his homeboys one bit. No damned way!

  He'd hooked up with distant relatives and was cool with a few dudes in Eagles Landing.

  But even that was fleeting. It didn't take long for him to realize he operated much better on his own, apart from keeping a roof over his head in living with a broad. This way he got to keep all the profits and pleasures from doing what he did best—killing people.

  It was a rush like no other. Even better than getting off inside a bitch. Or the almost orgasmic feel of cocaine going into his veins. He killed for hire or just plain old desire. It made no difference to him. What counted most was that once he had targeted someone for death, it was just a matter of when, where, how, and sometimes how much.

  He contemplated those very things as he studied the nice looking broad through the window of her fancy home. She was maybe thirty, slim, with a big ass and even bigger breasts. Her yellow hair was permed with fluffy curls and she had full red lips. He imagined kissing that mouth, then sticking his tongue inside. Or better yet, having that mouth go down on him and do its thing.

  Before he gave her a taste of death.

  She was sitting at the dining room table with her husband. He was a few years older than her, dark haired, and seemingly uncomfortable in her presence, as though he didn't belong.

  He looked away from the man back to his wife, watching a while longer, as he devised his strategy for her demise. A rush of adrenalin poured through him at the prospect, knowing the time was getting near to put the plan into action.

  But first he wanted to allow her a bit
more false sense of security. It was always that much more exhilarating when his victim realized that the perfect little world she or he had created was about to come crashing down around them and there wasn't a damned thing that could be done to prevent it.

  Except maybe hope you got run over by a bus first. Or dropped dead of a heart attack, sparing yourself from meeting up with him.

  Short of that, the person was his for the taking. And he fully intended to do just that.

  Only a matter of time.

  Yes, let her feel secure in her comfortable house. With that husband of hers there to protect her. Wouldn't do her one bit of good.

  She would never live to see the light of day.

  ONE

  The jury foreman looked tense as she responded to the judge's terse question, "Have you reached a verdict?"

  The juror, an attractive Jordanian professor and mother of five, risked a furtive peek at the other jurors, as if for final confirmation. Then she raised her big brown eyes to the bench. "Yes, we have, Your Honor—"

  Judge Sheldon Crawford was in his mid-fifties, but looked younger with a cappuccino-toned face that was without wrinkles save for a barely perceptible crease stretching across his forehead. He had short salt and pepper hair, and deep gray eyes that rarely seemed to blink. Focusing them on the juror, he instructed her to hand the verdict to the bailiff.

  Judge Crawford had a reputation as a tough judge, routinely doling out the stiffest penalties the law would allow. Needless to say, prosecutors and their constituents loved him and the justice rendered. Whereas, defense attorneys and their clients feared coming before the judge, often doing all they could to avoid his court, including plea bargaining at virtually every opportunity.

  Beverly Mendoza, co-counsel for the State, fidgeted in her seat. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Her intense green eyes studied the faces of the jurors, trying to get a hint as to what direction they had taken. Admittedly she hadn't a clue and was too smart to make any presumptions.

  The case involved a woman accused of murdering her lover by pushing him off a 320-foot cliff. Her defense was that they were just fooling around—love play, she had called it—when he accidentally fell to his death. The fact that she didn't report him missing for two weeks seemed incidental. As did his million dollar life insurance policy, which had only recently named her as the beneficiary.

  Beverly gazed at the thirty-year-old defendant who sat there cool, calm, collected, and incredibly confident.

  Does she know something I don't?

  Could this jury have possibly let her off the hook?

  Meaning the prosecution would have failed to prove its case. And I'd have a loss on my record that would be hard to swallow and harder to justify.

  She snapped her head back, causing her long, straight brunette hair to bounce against the gray jacket of her Anne Klein linen suit. Her eyes landed on her co-counsel, Deputy District Attorney Grant Nunez. His Afro-Latino profile was classic with chiseled, caramel colored features and a round head that was shaven bald. He wore a tailored dark brown suit that fit well on his muscular, tall frame. Grant was forty—eight years older than her—and in line for a judgeship by all indications. Losing this case would not help his chances.

  Nor would it bode well for Beverly's career. Sensationalized cases would always be remembered for the winners and losers, no matter how many other battles were fought and won, especially when lawyers were always looking ahead in their careers. She had aspirations of being a district attorney someday. Or maybe even a judge.

  Right now, assistant district attorney for Wilameta County would have to suffice.

  Sensing her stare, Grant swiveled his head, slanting his cool sable eyes at her. If he was worried, he didn't show it. Instead, he gave Beverly a devilish smile that she knew was less about the proceedings than it was about them. They had been dating for four months now, though it had only become sexual in the last four weeks. Both had survived bad previous relationships and, once they had overcome their fears of failure and the unknown, had succumbed to mutual desires that left Beverly shamelessly wanting him every chance she got.

  But getting her twelve-year-old son to approve of Grant had proven to be a far more formidable task. Jaime was very protective of her and did not want to see his mother get hurt—again. To him, Grant was someone who threatened the life Jaime had known for most of his young life, where it had pretty much been just the two of them.

  Perhaps even more difficult for Beverly to deal with was losing her mother five years ago to breast cancer and now watching her father wasting away with Alzheimer's disease. It left him but a shell of his former and proud self as a Latino who was used to being a macho man in command of his life and times. Sometimes she wished it would be over with for him so her father wouldn't suffer anymore; other times Beverly wanted him to hang on for as long as he possibly could. After all, having part of a father and grandfather to her son was preferable to none at all.

  Wasn't it?

  Beverly's mind shifted back to the attention Grant was giving her, as if they were the only ones in the courtroom. She willed herself to avert his lascivious gaze that had managed to cause her temperature to rise, and focus on the important matter at hand. Judge Crawford read the verdict to himself. He passed the slip back to the bailiff, giving no indication by his dignified facial expression as to what it said.

  Beverly felt butterflies in her stomach as she usually did whenever a case was about to be decided. It represented weeks or months of hard work and in an instant would culminate for all parties concerned. Later there would be the penalty phase. And then, in all likelihood, appeals, and more decisions to come.

  But for the moment it didn't get any more exciting and tension filled than this.

  Once the bailiff had returned the verdict to the jury foreman, the judge faced the defense table and stated levelly, "Will the defendant please rise—"

  She obeyed him, springing to her feet and running thin fingers through short crimson hair before taking a breath and awaiting the judge's words that would change her life for the better or worse. Standing alongside her was her attorney, Cassandra Fielding, a forty-something, ex-prosecutor, who had put up a strong, sympathetic defense. No doubt she had an eye on a hefty percentage of the insurance payments, mused Beverly. Provided they ever came.

  Judge Crawford nodded at the jury foreman. "You may read the verdict."

  The woman put on her glasses, almost for effect, took a deep sigh, and looked down at her trembling hands. "We, the jury, find the defendant, Suzanne Landon, to be guilty of murder in the first degree—"

  The courtroom erupted in cheers from the family of the victim. Beverly let out a sigh of relief and saw victory spread across Grant's face in a big grin. The two hugged as co-counsel might be expected, formally and professionally. There would be time later for a much more private celebration.

  The newly convicted murderess was led away in handcuffs, tears of disbelief or disappointment flowing down her reddened cheeks. Before leaving the courtroom, she shot Beverly a contemptuous gaze, which the prosecutor dismissed for all it was worth.

  Sticks and stones may break my bones, but hateful glares won't hurt me.

  Justice was not always blind. Not today anyway.

  * * *

  "We did it!" Grant Nunez declared magnanimously. He had Beverly cornered in his office, right between two file cabinets. The door was locked and might just as well have had a DO NOT DISTURB sign on it. He certainly had no intentions of being interrupted till they were done.

  At six-three, he hovered over Beverly by almost seven inches. But that didn't detract from the presence she had as a woman. With her Selma Hayek looks and a hot, taut body all her own, it was all Grant could do not to want to be with Beverly 24/7.

  He'd settle for twenty-four minutes and seven ways to make love to this woman who turned him on like no other with both her mind and sexuality, inside and out of the courtroom.

  "Never thought for a minute
we wouldn't," Beverly declared between kisses.

  "You're not a very good liar." Grant put his hands on her firm breasts through her silk blouse, causing Beverly's nipples to tingle.

  "So sue me," she murmured, "but only after you make me come."

  "Whatever you say, Counselor." He put his tongue in her mouth. "Never let it be said that I don't believe in the spirit of cooperation."

  "Maybe that's why we make such a great team."

  "Maybe."

  Beverly tasted spearmint from his tongue, and gave him hers to play with. She put a hand to his pants, feeling the hardness of Grant's erection begging to be released. She was only too happy to oblige, unzipping him, even as his hand went under her skirt and began to caress between her legs. She pulled him out and held firmly as if her own, stimulating the shaft.

  "Umm..." She heard the sound utter between their mouths, unsure who it had come from.

  Her back stiffened when Grant slipped fingers inside her panties and then into her. She spread her legs while leaning against a file cabinet, urging him on and giving back as much in touching his penis. Beverly bit her lip as he began to stimulate her, causing her to nearly scream with pleasure.

  Instead, mindful they were somewhere where noise could be easily heard, she managed barely more than a whimper. While still holding his throbbing erection, Beverly looked Grant ravenously in the eye. "Condom?"

  He removed one from his pocket and placed it in her palm, content to see her take the lead. She quickly removed the foil and slid the latex over him and climbed atop Grant's sturdy hips, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  Beverly inserted him inside her. "Make love to me," she demanded in a desperate voice, the sense of urgency spreading across her body like a bolt of lightning.

  "It would be my pleasure, baby," he husked, and held onto her slender waist while plunging himself deep into her as she absorbed the thrusts while slamming herself back against him with equal zest.

  Her orgasm came quickly and a second one shortly thereafter at about the same time that Grant climaxed with a rush of breath and a violent shudder. Both were breathing heavily, and Beverly could feel Grant's heartbeat pounding as they clung to one another till the experience had come to a mouths smacking, bodies perspiring, satisfying conclusion.