by J W Becton
I forced myself to take another deep breath, and this time when I spoke, I sounded like myself again.
“Me.”
“You,” Tripp repeated, more as a confirmation than a question.
His eyes didn’t leave mine as I explained everything. What I’d done. Why I’d done it. When. How. I spilled it all, sang like a canary, trusted Tripp with the truth.
With every new admission, I put a little more faith in him. He would understand. He had to.
Tripp believed in the dogged pursuit of justice, and he had seen what happened to my family in the aftermath of the rape. He knew about the fights and drinking and isolation. He was almost as invested in tracking down Tricia’s attacker as I was.
Tripp would understand that I had been seeking justice. He would comprehend why I’d done what I’d done.
He heard my entire confession, and then he dropped the chain he’d been clutching, letting my swing fall away. His shoulders sagged and he studied the ground for a long while before he met my eyes again.
I hate it when expectations clash with reality, and in this case, I was definitely not ready for the disappointment on Tripp’s handsome features. He didn’t have to say a word for me to realize that he not only didn’t approve of what I’d done but also didn’t understand why I’d done it.
“I thought you knew, or at least suspected,” I said finally. “You actually walked in on me when I was leaving the evidence viewing room that day.”
“No, I didn’t know,” Tripp said, shaking his head. “Not about the fabric. I knew you had copied the file and the print, but Jesus, Jules! You altered evidence.”
I squinted up at him.
“So copying the file, running the print—that’s okay?” I demanded. “But taking the teensy-weensy scrap of fabric somehow crosses the line?”
He lifted his chin and glared at me, and I expected him to shout, but his next words were more resigned than angry.
“You know it does. You knew it was a felony, or else you wouldn’t have hidden it from everyone. From me.”
He frowned, and my heart clenched.
“A good attorney will make it sound like you’ve been obsessed with resolving your sister’s case, that you would have done anything to bring her some closure, including tampering with evidence to convict an innocent man. Or worse, they’ll make it look like you’ve been out to get Slidell for years. Like it’s a personal vendetta.”
“The defense attorney would be right on one score,” I replied, snorting in aggravation. “I have been out to get Tricia’s attacker for years, but I never wanted to convict anyone wrongly. What would I gain from that?”
“You tell me,” Tripp murmured, shrugging.
“Nothing. That’s what I’d gain. Sure, it might sound like a nice idea—get closure at any cost, but you know me, Tripp. You know that I couldn’t live with myself if I did that. I couldn’t send someone else to jail and leave the real rapist on the streets to harm other women.”
“Well,” he said, sighing heavily, “I didn’t think you’d tamper with evidence either.”
I folded my arms over my chest. “Look, it doesn’t matter what kind of spin the prosecutor tries to put on the story or even what you think of me right now. The DNA proves that Slidell raped Tricia, and the remaining evidence supports that fact. That means Slidell’s hardly innocent.”
Tripp rubbed the back of his neck. “Doesn’t matter. The accused has protections in this country. You can’t just trample Slidell’s rights, even if he is a raping bastard.”
“You mean like he trampled my sister’s rights?” I hissed, unable to suppress my anger at the whole situation. “I did what I had to do.”
Tripp rolled his eyes, and his voice turned stony.
“Oh please, say that again. Repeat to me the mantra of every dirty cop.”
Taken aback by his choice of words, I leaned away from him.
“I’m not a dirty cop, and you know it, Tripp! I was desperate to make sure that my sister’s attacker was caught and punished. I couldn’t let him walk the streets, maybe raping other girls. I thought having the DNA sample would help identify him.”
“Maybe that’s true. Maybe you’re not dirty, but that might not matter in the long run. When this gets out, your reputation as a law enforcement officer will be ruined. At the very least.”
That might be true, but I was really trying not to care about that.
“There are more important things than my reputation as a law enforcement officer.”
Tripp snorted. “You say that….”
He was right. I had often said that I didn’t care about my job or professional reputation, that I’d become a cop solely to catch my sister’s rapist, but with the truth of what I’d done being exposed to little slivers of daylight, I wasn’t so sure I was ready to sacrifice my livelihood on the altar of justice.
It was too late for those thoughts now, so I forced aside my confusion, hid it in a little corner of my brain.
Standing, I grabbed the chain of Tripp’s swing and turned him to face me.
“I became a cop for this very reason: to arrest Tricia’s rapist. That’s it. I did what I felt was necessary to achieve that goal, and if I lose my job because of it, then I’ll have to live with that.” I paused. “I want you to understand that I didn’t do this to hurt you.”
“I know that.”
He shook his head and pulled away so that the chain fell out of my grasp.
Feeling the distance as keenly as if Tripp had suddenly retreated across the Grand Canyon, I searched his eyes. Sadness crept over me. His disappointment was palpable, and I choked on it.
“I don’t understand you anymore,” he murmured. “I don’t understand why you would risk so much to catch a suspect who ultimately would have been identified by the police through the proper channels. You could lose everything over this.”
I cleared my throat, trying not to allow too much emotion to leak into my voice.
“I lost everything the day Tricia was raped. I don’t have much else to lose.”
Realizing that I’d just spoken a half-truth, I looked away from Tripp. I had lost a lot the day Tricia was raped—stability, security, family—but I still had plenty left to lose. I’d built a nice life for myself, had developed good friendships, and now everything was at risk.
“Plus, I was trying to do the right thing.” I added. “I didn’t intend to make trouble.”
Tripp sighed, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft and resigned.
“I know you didn’t mean to do anything to harm your sister or anyone else, but intentions don’t matter. Only results. Slidell could walk.”
At that, my throat closed completely. Since deciding to break the law and remove a sample of the DNA evidence, I’d firmly believed I’d done the right thing. I recited all the reasons to myself as I sat under Tripp’s watchful eye. I knew better than most what happens as cases age—they can be forgotten—and that’s not even taking into account how often evidence gets lost, stolen, or tainted, even while in police care. That sample was an insurance policy against my sister’s future.
I had never regretted my decision, but now, shame galloped over me. I’d broken the law and been caught. Fair and square. Now, taking that sample seemed like a foolish choice, one that could subvert my entire life’s work.
“Not to mention the fact that you’ve put me in a pretty shitty predicament. Pardon my language,” Tripp said, his Southern gentleman kicking in. “I could go down with you as an accessory after the fact.”
His voice had gone steely again, and I faltered.
“Because you gave me those files on Slidell, you mean? You didn’t give me anything that I couldn’t have gotten through public records.”
“No, not because of those files. Because you’ve just confessed a felony to me, and as much as I want to tear you a new one for messing with that evidence, I also really want to find a way to help you out of this mess.”
My eyes widened as the rea
lization hit me. Tripp might not be my enemy, and he wouldn’t rat me out, but my confession put him in an untenable position. I’d placed a hefty burden on his conscience. Now Tripp was in the very position I’d tried to save him from by not telling him about the evidence theft years ago. He knew about my crime, and he was conflicted about what to do with that knowledge.
I sat heavily on the swing again.
Good Lord, what had I been thinking? What kind of friend was I to put him in that position?
“I didn’t think. I shouldn’t have said a—”
“Yes, you should have told me. I came here to find out the truth. But you need to do more than just tell me. You must come forward immediately and explain why you tampered with that piece of evidence. Because there’s a lot at stake here, more than the case against Slidell.”
I blinked.
“Your freedom for one,” he said flatly. “Are you willing to lose that? Because that’s a real possibility. The DA is serious about this, Jules. She called in the GBI, and mark my words, their investigation is not going to end with a little slap on the wrist.”
I thought that over in silence, and then Tripp added, “I want to be on your side. I want to help, but if you don’t come forward, my hands will be tied. I’ll have to do my duty.”
Translation: Tripp wouldn’t allow my wrongs to ruin him as well. If questioned, he’d have to reveal what I’d admitted to him.
God, I wish you weren’t always so noble, I thought.
“I don’t blame you for that,” I said.
I stared at the ground, letting the swing turn me from side to side and watching as my toes made funny patterns in the sand below. From the direction of the parking lot, I heard children’s voices and the rapid tap of approaching feet. I looked up to see two kids, probably brother and sister, bundled against the cold, dragging their mother toward the playground where Tripp and I sat.
Tripp noticed them too and stood, and I followed his lead, offering the swing set to those it was designed for. We were too old, too jaded, to go back to childhood now.
“I’ll think about it,” I whispered as we stepped onto the jogging path together.
Tripp turned, giving me a hard look, and I knew he wanted me to do more than think about it. He wanted me to trot over to the judge and spill my guts right away, but good decisions aren’t made in the heat of the moment. I needed time to think and plan. A lot rode on my next action—my sister’s case, my freedom—and I needed to do things right. Whatever that meant.
“I said I’ll think about it,” I repeated firmly.
“You’d better think fast, then,” Tripp warned. “Before long, the GBI will put the pieces together, and then it will be too late.”
As much as I didn’t want to admit it, Tripp was probably right. Coming forward likely gave me the greatest chance of clearing up this mess, but a teeny, tiny part of me thought that staying quiet and letting the situation play out for a while might be a better option.
Maybe it would all just blow over.
Yeah, sure it would. That sort of thing always happened.
Thank you for reading!
Click here to purchase the Kindle edition and continue reading Moral Hazard (Southern Fraud Thriller 4) by J. W. Becton.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to everyone involved in the creation of At Fault, especially Ed Becton, whose stories of insurance fraud antics inspired the series and who makes sure I understand industry’s intricacies. Also thanks go out to my editorial team—Damaris Rowland, Kelley Fuller Land, Octavia Becton, and Marilyn Whiteley. Finally, I am grateful to Bert Becton, who not only answered all my automotive questions, but also took me to a junkyard and taught me to hotwire cars (for research purposes only, of course). As always, all mistakes in this text belong to me, but I will try to foist them off on someone, so for any auto errors, please consult Bert Becton.
About the Author
J. W. Becton (a pseudo-pseudonym for historical fiction author Jennifer Becton) worked for more than twelve years in the traditional publishing industry as a freelance writer, editor, and proofreader. Upon discovering the possibilities of the expanding ebook market, she created Whiteley Press, an independent publishing house. Absolute Liability, the first in the six-book Southern Fraud Thriller series, became an Amazon Kindle Best Seller and made the Indie Reader Best Seller list for three nonconsecutive weeks.
Connect with Jennifer Online
Blog: http://www.bectonliterary.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/JenniferBectonWriter
Twitter: http://twitter.com/JenniferBecton
Southern Fraud Thriller Series: http://www.jwbecton.com
To be notified when the next book in the Southern Fraud Series is published, join the Southern Fraud Launch List: http://eepurl.com/o-leX
Please enjoy the following excerpt from
Attempting Elizabeth
by
Jessica Grey
There’s really only one course of action after a sob fest of that magnitude. I changed into my rattiest and most comfortable sweatpants, pulled out Pride and Prejudice, poured myself a glass of wine, and stretched out on our living room couch for a date with some of my favorite characters.
I fell asleep reading. I hadn’t started at the beginning of the book. I’d read it so many times that I knew the plot forward and backward. I could quote dialogue. I may or may not have read and written fan fiction. I admit nothing.
I do admit, however, that I’m not-so-secretly in love with Mr. Darcy. What’s not to love about a handsome and rich man (“ten thousand pounds a year!”) that falls so desperately in love with a woman that he is willing to examine his own prejudices and overcome his pride to be with her? Actually, it’s even better than that, because Darcy changes not knowing if it will result in Lizzy falling in love with him. And he does, I think, a truly amazing and dashing thing, when he helps rescue her sister from certain ruin and wants no recognition for it. He saved her younger sister, Lydia, at great trouble and expense, just because he loved Elizabeth and didn’t want to see her hurt. Sigh.
And yes, I know he is a fictional character; I’m still kind of in love with him. It’s a pity that my own attempts at finding my own Mr. Darcy had turned into such debacles.
I had started reading at the first proposal scene. There is something so heartbreaking about Darcy’s awkward attempt at a proposal. He so desperately doesn’t want to love Elizabeth, and he makes it abundantly clear. The verbal smackdown she gives him is one of my favorite scenes in all of literature. I figured I’d read from first proposal, through Lizzy coming to love Darcy, and all the way to the happy ending.
I didn’t make it to the end, though. I was so tired out from the ill-conceived hiking excursion and my crying jag that as soon as Darcy stormed out of Hunsford cottage after being soundly rejected, I felt my eyes getting heavier. I had barely made it through the letter Darcy gives Elizabeth the next day when I dropped off to sleep.
As my eyelids drifted shut, I felt like I was being pushed and pulled from all sides. There was a loud rushing sound in my ears. I opened my eyes, but I seemed to have trouble focusing. I could bring the scene in front of me into focus, briefly; then it got blurry again. It was bright, much brighter than my softly lit living room. After a moment or so of fighting to focus, my vision cleared. The strange sounds remained in my ears, like the sounds of waves pulling in and out.
I felt different. I looked down at my body. I was dressed in a pale muslin morning dress, holding a sampler as my hands—except they weren’t my hands; they were much smaller and more delicate than my hands—were busily setting a series of small precise stitches into the fabric. I have never sewn in my life.
I looked around the room. It was lovely—filled with early afternoon sunlight from large multi-paned windows, decorated in a soft feminine style, and stocked with the most gorgeous antiques I had ever seen.
I became aware that someone was talking to me. There was a woman sitting on a small co
uch to my left. She was dressed in a Regency era dress just like I seemed to be and had a small lace cap on her head. It appeared she’d been speaking to me for some time, but her voice was just beginning to filter through the rushing in my ears.
The woman was dark-haired and petite and looked to be in her late thirties or early forties. She also sat with a sewing project in her lap, but unlike my hands, which were still busily working away, hers were gesturing in the air as she punctuated whatever point she was making. As her voice became clearer I became even more confused.
“...and I must say, he was paying you particular attention yesterday during our stroll. Did you not notice it? Such charming manners, and so handsome. Georgiana, are you attending me? You have quite a blank look on your face.”
Georgiana? Who was she talking to? I turned my head slightly to each side, but there was no one in the room but the two of us. The woman looked at me in exasperation, but then laughed.
“I dare say you are daydreaming about a certain gentleman. You should do me the favor of attending when I am speaking of the very same gentleman,” she teased.
I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are talking about.” For some completely inexplicable reason my voice came out significantly higher and softer than my usual alto. And in an extremely refined sounding upper British class accent. I was so shocked I dropped my sewing sampler and it fell to the floor with a soft whoosh.
My companion looked surprised as well, but she recovered quickly with a patently fake-sounding laugh. “Oh my dear, what a dreadful tease you are turning into. Who else could we be speaking of? Do you have that many beaux that you are getting them confused?”
I continued to stare at her. The look on my face—I had a brief dumbfounded moment of realization that I had no idea what my face looked like; judging from the difference in the appearance of my hands and the tenor of my voice, it might look extremely different from my own—must have given her another moment’s pause, because she furrowed her brow and said, “Why, Mr. Wickham of course.”
