A sea of people swirled around as another court spilled out for the day. Wanting privacy, Ann took Glen’s hand and led him across the hall, through a heavy steel door to the landing of the fire stairs.
“You’re going to get convictions on the rapes, though?” she said, her voice echoing in the stairwell. “Isn’t that what you told me just the other day?”
“I want the homicides, Ann. I can’t let maniacs kill people and get away with it.”
“It’s just a case. Glen,” she said, trying to get him to look at her. Just then she noticed that Glen’s hair had fallen forward onto his forehead, and she reached over and tenderly brushed it away.
“It’s not just a case,” he said, flinging his hand up to brush her away. “One of the victims was my high school English teacher. Shit, these women are the same age as my mother.”
No wonder he was tense and distracted, Ann thought, wanting to comfort him. Because she was handling Delvecchio on an underlying offense, a violation of probation, and would also be assigned the presentence report following conviction, Ann was not only familiar with the case, she would have considerable influence at sentencing. “Just get the rapes,” she said firmly. “With the enhancements for the weapons and a recommendation for consecutive sentences on the sodomies, I’ll recommend at least twenty years.”
“He’ll be out in ten years,” Glen responded. “And that’s if he gets the full boat. The judge may impose the midterm and then he’ll be out in five years. Delvecchio’s only twenty-six, Ann.”
She moved closer and ran her fingers along the lapels of his jacket, wanting to coax him out of his funk. “He’ll get the max. Glen. The court always follows my recommendations. You know that. He was even on probation at the time of the rapes. That’s an aggravating factor.” Seeing the tension in his face ease, Ann carried it a step further. “And don’t forget, he’s an African-American with an established record.”
Glen smiled weakly. “You really believe the court imposes higher sentences on minorities, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Ann said. “I know it for a fact, Glen, and it makes me sick, but hey, when they’re guilty of crimes as nasty as these, it can work in our favor.”
The smile on his face expanded, one comer of his lip curling up and exposing a tooth.
Luring him on, Ann idly trailed her hand over the metal railing for the stairs, then ran it down the side of her neck, stopping right over her breasts. “Guys like Jimmy Sawyer glide through the system because they’re white or their families have the bucks to buy a first-rate defense,” she said, her hand now circling her breasts seductively. “But believe me, Delvecchio is going to sit in prison for a long time.”
Even though Glen was still smiling, he shook his head. “You’re wrong, Ann. The only reason minorities get stiffer sentences is that they commit more serious crimes. Hey, I believe in the system, remember?”
“Yeah,” Ann said playfully, “you’re the last Boy Scout. You showed me that on the beach last week.” With her foot, she kicked the toe of his boot.
Glen chuckled. “I’d rather be the last Boy Scout than the Angel of Death. I hear that’s what they call you at the jail.”
Ann stiffened. “Where did you hear that?”
“From one of the deputies. He says you go over there and sweet-talk those animals, get them to tell you all kinds of incriminating shit. Then you turn around and use it to aggravate their sentences. Is that true?”
“Of course not,” she said quickly. “My God, they’re criminals. I wouldn’t be surprised at anything they say about me.”
Glen tilted his head and winked. “Oh, come on, Ann. I know it’s true.”
Ann tried to keep a straight face, even though she wanted to break out laughing. She was cautious, however, about admitting her private war on crime: getting criminals to talk, tell her things they had never told anyone else. It was a skill she had honed for years. Defense attorneys frequently tried to cry entrapment, but not one of Ann’s cases had ever been overturned on appeal. Just as some officers generated hostility and apprehension, Ann had a disarming, innocent way about her that garnered trust almost from the moment she walked into an interview room.
She was turning to leave when Glen pulled her into his arms. “I need you, Ann,” he said in an urgent tone she was starting to know well.
“I have to get back to work,” she said, her breath catching in her throat, memories of the last time they had made love igniting her body. Glen had taken her to the movies and slid his hand up her dress. By the time they’d walked out of the theater, Ann was both wildly excited and mortified at the thought that someone might have seen them. Glen had driven straight to the beach and talked her into making love in the open.
Conservative Ann, who people said looked like a schoolteacher in her pastel sweaters and white cotton blouses, had discovered a side of herself she’d never known existed. And Glen made it all seem so natural. Hemmed in a stuffy courtroom all day was agonizing, he told her. Passion should be spontaneous, even a little dangerous—not delegated to a bedroom.
“You don’t have to go back to work,” he said, his voice low and sexy.
“I have a report to dictate,” Ann said, gently pushing him away.
“Please, Ann, I want you,” he said, placing his hands on her buttocks and pressing her even closer to his body. “You’re begging for it,” he said, emitting a husky laugh. “You should see the look on your face.”
“No, Glen,” she protested, looking up and meeting his mouth and then trying to slip away. “Don’t do this…not here.”
“I can’t wait,” he said, keeping her close, his eyes dancing in anticipation. “No one’s going to see us.”
She could feel his chest expanding and contracting, feel his erection through her clothing. She should never have brought him here, never acted so suggestively. It was just so new and exciting, she thought, this feeling, this man.
Fingers tickled the back of her thighs. Hands slid the hem of her skirt over her nylons covertly, an inch at a time. Ann felt the cold surface of the wall against her buttocks through her panty hose as he raised her skirt to her waist.
“I hate panty hose,” Glen panted, his fingers inside now, ripping right through the nylons to reach the spot between her legs, touching her, stroking her.
“Please, Glen,” Ann said, torn now between her urge to run and her growing desire to do anything and everything he wanted.
He kissed her neck again along her collarbone, then sucked her left breast right through her silk blouse, leaving a small wet spot. Ann laughed nervously. “You’re incorrigible.”
Opening his jacket. Glen leaned his torso into her and pulled her head gently onto his shoulder. The sound of their clothes rustled up and down the stairwell. He began rubbing the small of her back. “Relax, Ann. Look at me. I like to watch your face when you get turned on.”
Ann’s mouth was open and her eyes closed. If she didn’t open them, she thought, then she could possibly forget where they were. “I can’t,” she protested, her eyes springing open. “Someone’s going to see us.”
“Yes, you can,” he whispered. “You loved it the other night on the beach.”
“Not here,” she said, eyeing the surroundings. Everything in the stairwell was painted gray, like the interior of a battleship, ugly, industrial. Huge rolled ducts laced across the ceiling. They must have just painted the whole area recently, because Ann could smell the paint.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, feeling him push inside her.
Lifting her legs, Glen held them as he moved inside her slowly and sensuously. “I adore you, Ann,” he said, finding her eyes and probing there. “You know what turns me on the most?”
“Mmmmm,” was the only sound she could make. His words were falling around her while she responded with her body, pushing forward to meet him.
“You look so prim and proper…that little gap between your front teeth.” Ann’s legs were locked around his waist now, and he placed a pa
lm over her stomach, right above her pubic hair. “But down here you’re hot,” he said sensuously. “Incredibly hot.”
Holding her breath, Ann was adrift, her inhibitions stifled by her state of arousal. She didn’t cry out, but she felt a jolt of liquid pleasure and her body trembled and then stiffened. Silent and intent. Glen began moving faster, her lower body striking the wall again and again until he exploded inside her.
All at once Ann heard a noise and looked up just as the door leading out into the corridor slowly closed. “Glen…” she said, panic rising.
Ignoring her, he kissed her on the mouth and pinned her arms against the wall, chuckling while she tried to twist away. Then he released her arms and sighed, running his fingers through his hair and looking around in a daze.
“Christ, Glen, someone opened the door. Someone saw us.” She shoved her skirt down, saw her nylons in shreds where he had ripped them. “The door just closed. Why did I let you talk me into doing this?” she said, her face flushed and damp with perspiration.
“Great, wasn’t it?” Glen said, slumping back against the wall. Then he saw the alarm in her eyes and became alert. “Are you serious? Someone saw us?” He quickly zipped up his pants, shoving his shirttail in at the same time. “Who? Did you recognize them?” His tie had been flipped over his shoulder, and he pulled it back down, smoothed his hair, and straightened his jacket. “You just imagined it.”
“No, Glen,” Ann insisted. “I saw the door closing. If it was closing, it had to have been open. It’s too heavy to open by itself.”
She glared at him as she would at an errant child.
Although he was concerned, she could see that he was also titillated by this public exposure. When she spoke, her voice was low but cutting. “I have a son. Glen. I can’t afford to carry on like this in public, subject myself to ridicule. Especially not here at the courthouse.”
He tried to take her in his arms, but she pushed him away and reached for the heavy fire door.
“Don’t you think David has been through enough?” she tossed out, her voice shaking. “He certainly doesn’t need to hear that his mother is screwing in the stairwell at the courthouse.”
“Ann,” Glen said, trying to get her to calm down, “even if someone did see us, it’s not going to get back to David. Aren’t you overreacting? So, maybe it was a risky thing to do, but it’s not a four-alarm fire.”
She sighed, letting the tension go. He was right. There were more serious things to be concerned about. David was one. “I just want him to accept you, get to know you, before he finds out we’re sleeping together. And he will. Glen. He might even suspect it now. He’s very observant for a twelve-year-old.”
Glen held up his hand, irritated. “It’s not like I haven’t tried,” he said.
They stood there facing each other without speaking. Ann felt sorry for him. He’d made every effort to gain her son’s approval. A week ago, she’d casually mentioned that Tommy Reed, a homicide detective and old friend, was taking her son to a Raiders football game. Glen had insisted on tagging along. Not only had the boy remained aloof, barely acknowledging Glen’s presence, but Reed and David had purposely excluded Glen from every conversation. Glen had even bought David a Raiders pennant, but when the game was over, David had left it on the stadium bench, telling Glen that he didn’t like pennants. Ann had scolded him, but beyond that there was little she could do.
Ann knew she had to give the man credit. Faced with a hostile kid and a woman recovering from the loss of her husband, most men would have walked away. “David will come around. Glen. We just have to give him time.” She glanced at her watch, reaching for the door handle again. “I’ve got to go.”
With that, she touched a finger to his lips in a mock kiss, smiled, and walked through the door.
Back in her office, Ann went into an interview room and dictated her report. By the time she finished and returned to her desk, most of the other probation officers had already left for the day. She thought of calling David and telling him she was running late, but after the frenzied coupling in the stairwell, she was in a strange mood—pensive, inert. Picking up her briefcase, she had decided to forgo the call and leave when her gaze landed on her husband’s picture on her desk. Setting the briefcase down, Ann brought the photograph close to her face. He would always look like this, she thought. No gray hair, no wrinkles, not a day older. Sometimes the only image she could remember was the one she was holding.
The time had come, she decided, sucking in a breath and then letting it out slowly. She opened her desk drawer and gently slid the glass frame inside, knowing this was a significant moment. Funny, she thought, sometimes milestones in a person’s life came and went in the most mundane ways. A picture placed in a drawer. A letter tossed in a mailbox. A key removed from a key chain.
Thank God for Glen’s persistence, she thought, grabbing her briefcase and heading for the elevators, feeling lighter and younger than she’d felt in years. Without Glen she would still be mired in the past, sitting home alone every night feeling sorry for herself. Seven times over the past year, the district attorney had asked her out, and each time Ann had turned him down. But he was patient and polite, expressing his concern for her and her son each time they spoke, and he continued to ask until she finally said yes.
“Yeah, sure,” Ann said, chuckling at herself as she pushed the button on the elevator to go down. Now that she knew him, she wondered if her repeatedly turning Glen down was what had fueled his interest. Who cares? she thought. Glen might be brash and a little wild in some ways, but he made her feel alive. Now all she had to do was get her son to let go and move forward with his life.
That could take some doing, though. The boy was as stubborn as his father.
A highway patrol officer. Hank Carlisle had been nicknamed “Bulldog” by his fellow officers. Although he had been six feet tall, his stockiness had made him appear closer to the ground. He had worn his light brown hair in a military-style crew cut, but the “Bulldog” handle developed because of his thick neck and small, cunning eyes. That and his explosive temper. Ann had accepted her husband’s fierceness as an assurance of security. Unlike the average police spouse, she hadn’t worried about him getting injured on the job. Of course, Ann’s father had been a police captain, and Ann herself had started her career as an officer with the Ventura police department. She wasn’t exactly the run-of-the-mill police wife.
She’d always seen Hank as indestructible. She even used to crack jokes around the office that it was the people on the streets that she worried about, not her husband.
Then, four years ago, the incomprehensible had occurred: Hank Carlisle had simply vanished off the face of the earth.
His police cruiser had been found abandoned alongside the interstate just beyond the Arizona-California state line—that long, dusty stretch of road highway patrol officers call no-man’s-land. The car doors as well as the trunk of the police unit had been left standing wide open, and no blood or other evidence was found in the vehicle. He’d made no radio transmissions the hour prior to his disappearance.
The investigators had put it together only one way. Sergeant Hank Carlisle had made a routine traffic stop that summer night four years ago, probably to issue a speeding citation. The motorist he’d stopped had been a wanted criminal. Knowing the policy of the highway patrol was to check wants and warrants on all traffic stops, the person or persons had jumped Carlisle as he walked back to his unit to use his radio. The most likely scenario was that he had been struck from behind with something heavy, the butt of a weapon perhaps. Then when he was unconscious, he had been disarmed, transported to some unknown location, and executed.
After months of digging in the miles of barren, sandy earth, the authorities had failed to locate the body. They’d used dogs, helicopters, and the most sophisticated aerial photography, and had canvassed the area on foot and in four-wheel-drive vehicles. But they had found nothing. No body, no evidence, not a single thread they could pu
rsue.
Ann had suffered through grueling interviews from highway patrol investigators, question after question about their marriage, their finances, their friends and associates. They had to rule out everything, they told her, even the possibility that her husband had purposely staged his own disappearance for some reason they had as yet to uncover.
Thank God, Ann thought now, as she stepped off the elevator, the ruling of foul play had been officially entered in the file. The ruling was important for more reasons than her peace of mind. Although the department had been issuing Ann small checks each month from Hank’s retirement fund, it had not yet released his life insurance money. She could use that money to put David through college.
Ann reached her ‘87 black Jeep station wagon, nearly alone in the vast parking lot. Once she was in the driver’s seat, she turned the key in the ignition. There was only a click. “Damn,” she said, trying it again. Another metallic click; the engine wasn’t engaging at all. It couldn’t be the battery, she told herself, getting more annoyed by the second. She’d just replaced the battery last week. This time it had to be something even more costly—like the starter. She got out of the car, slammed the door, and stood there trying to figure out what to do.
Glancing back at the court complex, Ann thought of returning to call the emergency road service. For a few moments she just leaned back against the car and let the cool evening air brush across her face, telling herself that she mustn’t let little things like this get to her.
Her eyes rested on the windows of the jail, and she watched as shadowy figures moved around inside. The complex took up an entire city block, housing almost every official agency in the county. During the day it was next to impossible to find a parking place, though Ann estimated there were enough slots for five hundred or more cars. The county had also sprung for some decent landscaping. Oleander bushes formed a tall hedge all around the parking lot, filtering the noise from Victoria Boulevard, a major divided thoroughfare in Ventura. Ann thought the bushes were nice, since they softened the concrete and gave her a little greenery to look at from her window.
First Offense Page 2
