He did not answer but instead moved toward me, not quite touching, but I could feel his body.
“Did anything happen,” he asked with a boyish grin.
Cliff and I had not had sex and this was the first time he had ever slept over.
“No. I took off your shoes and put you into bed and you went right to sleep.”
“I was tired.”
“You were.”
“But I am not tired now.”
Putting his arm behind my neck, I turned my head into his shoulder and he softly stroked the curve of my neck from ear to ear. It was ticklish but I did not move or speak. He then ran his hand along my arm, brushing the delicate hair gently. I remained perfectly still as he moved a little closer; his stomach was now against the small of my back and I felt the hardening of his manhood pressed into my thigh. He then slipped his hand under my shirt, circling his thumb around my navel as I shifted a bit to look at his face.
Cliff was so calming. As he moved closer, he circled my belly with his middle finger and I uttered a sigh as he placed his lips against mine. After that moment, we both knew we had transgressed. There was no turning around and I closed my eyes and felt the sensation of his fingers passing over the tips of my breasts, hardening, wrinkling the skin like a whisper of wind. His fingers teased my nipples and I moaned and sighed with each touch. As I shivered in delight, he ran his fingers slowly down my spine from the nape of my neck to the curve of my butt.
“One moment,” I said as I reached for the condom packet that I had placed on my nightstand before I went to bed.
He smiled as he took it from my hand and tore the foil packet.
“As you already know, I am a very detailed person.”
Cliff smiled again and moved on top of me, gently parting my legs as we both looked at each other. He was asking me for permission. And with my returned smile, he entered me, huge and fierce. The sensation that took over my entire essence was so piercingly pleasurable that I thought I would scream. He thrust slowly at first with deep measured strokes and I felt a throbbing fullness as he began to move inside me. But, without a sound, I was soon moving with him as he thrust deeper and withdrew, and then deeper. I became even more aroused as my body seemed to float and fall only to float again as Cliff positioned his right hand under my butt, allowing him to thrust even deeper. And with each movement, I arched my bottom to meet him as we moved rhythmically as one, ever faster and faster. I was moving with him like two figures locked together on a speeding carousel.
I moaned uncontrollably as his thrusting increased in speed. He then withdrew from my tightness almost to the tip, and then plunged back in as deep as he could possibly go and I cried silently with the sound of utter passion, sliding helplessly into the fire of my desire, so tightly woven. I then thrust my body up to meet his downward strokes, running my hands down his back.
“Harder,” I begged, not wanting to utter a single word as I was losing all control of my body and mind. And over and over he drove into me.
“Harder.” I repeated the word only to be heard by myself.
“Harder,” without a sound I cried one more time as my body tightened. And I felt myself losing control, being swept away in a sea of blinding desire. My body was pouring its sweetness onto the throbbing head of his manhood as I cried out my desire with his name on my lips. With one more plunge, I crashed against the shore as my climax tore through me, sending rolling waves of pleasure throughout my body. I was unable to bear anymore as I cried out my passion. But I had one more wave to ride as Cliff erupted into me; his orgasm powerful as a rocket and sending his warm rush deep inside me.
“Wow,” Cliff said as he rolled onto his side and we both giggled like little children at his choice of words.
I felt goose bumps from head to toe trying to wiggle my toes. And as Cliff spoke, his face was alive with love and I gazed into his endless brown eyes. For me, never before had I realized that such closeness could be a beautiful experience instead of one fraught with pain and terror.
PART THREE
Chapter Twenty Eight
It had now been almost a year since I joined the LA District Attorney’s office. Because of my trial experience as an assistant DA in New York, along with budget cuts that did not allow the department to replace attorneys who left, my seniority rapidly ascended.
Our office was headed by Ryan Preston and each Wednesday morning we met for calendar assignments. We also took turns bringing donuts.
“Ah, bear claws,” Ian said with delight as he grabbed the artery clogger and took his seat. Ian was a second year DA like me. “Those are from B and B. I drive by there all the time.”
“Yeah, my friend said the place has been on Olympic forever!” I said.
Ian joked, “I wonder if they cater?”
“Good morning everyone,” Ryan said, grabbing a chocolate frosted donut as he took a seat at the head of the badly chipped and worn conference table.
“God’s gift, these donuts, aren’t they?” he said, taking a big bite. “Thanks, Danielle.”
“Good morning,” all of us responded in unison.
Despite the hectic work load and the responsibility of managing ten attorneys as well as a work staff, Ryan was surprisingly always in a great mood, which made him a great boss.
“Everyone here?” he asked, looking at Rochelle who was our court calendar coordinator.
“Tina is in 73 with pre-trials and Mike is doing the Watson prelim,” Rochelle replied.
“How is that going?” Ryan asked.
“He says ok but the defense attorney is pushing hard for a deal. Otherwise, his client is looking at three strikes.”
“Well, his client should have thought about that before he held up that liquor store and knocked around the clerk with the barrel of his gun. He should spend the rest of his life in jail. Ok, let’s move on,” Ryan said as he dumped dozens of manila files on the table that had been neatly stacked in a banker’s box. He began to assign cases that were going to trial.
“People vs. Hartinger, case number SM-078675633,” Ryan announced as he opened the file and read from the notes. “Defendant is charged with PC459. He was offered a first time plea with 60 days, credit for time served, three years’ probation and declined. Prelim found sufficient evidence to bind him over. Plea offered again but defendant refused. Now set for trial on 11-14, Department 38. That is Judge Wilson. How’s your calendar?”
Ian had just reached for another donut and cleared his throat. “I am open. I can take it.”
“It’s yours,” Ryan announced and launched the file like a hockey puck into Ian’s waiting palms.
“All right, moving on, People vs. Feingold, case number SM-076542084. Defendant is charged with shoplifting and,” Ryan paused as he reviewed the file, “well, it seems Mrs. Feingold has good taste as she tried to walk out of Gucci’s with a belt and blouse in her purse. And,” he paused again, “her attorney is claiming his client had just returned from a vacation and was suffering from jet lag and therefore was soooooo tired that she was not in her right frame of mind and did not know what she is doing. He therefore wants the charges reduced to a trespass. Well, Mrs. Feingold, the People of the State of California don’t buy your defense. Ok, Joe, this will probably end up with her taking the plea but I want you to handle this one.”
“What’s the date?”
“11-15.”
“Yeah, no problem. Send it down.”
Another file was launched down the middle of the wobbly conference table.
Ryan continued through at least twenty more cases before announcing, “People vs. Robbins, case number SM6767554444. Defendant charged.” Ryan paused to read the notes in the file. “He was originally charged with PC 273.5. And later charges were enhanced to PC 262, Marital Rape. Why do I know this case, Rochelle?”
“He’s the son of some studio head and the dad’s publicist keeps trying to keep it hushed up.”
“Oh yeah, I remember now. This case is old,” Ryan flippe
d through at least an inch of paper in the file. “The recommendation by the arresting officer was to file the case as a rape. But when the wife was later questioned, she said she did not want to testify. So it was filed as a domestic violence. We have had two pre trials, the offer is the standard first time but the husband isn’t biting. We made a few offers but it looks like the victim is wavering.”
“And the wife has now filed for divorce,” Rochelle said.
“But they were still married at the time of the attack?” I said.
“Yeah, but I think they were separated. Anyway, marital rape is a tough one,” Ryan commented as he read the file notes.
“Ryan.” I held up my hand.
“Yeah, go ahead, Danielle.” Ryan momentarily lifted his head.
“I would like a shot at it.”
“I am not sure. You have a lot of…”
I interrupted. “A woman just doesn’t throw out the word rape. That is what she told the police.”
Ryan looked over his half eyes. “Yeah but there are no pictures, no bruising, no rape kit.”
“When I was in law school, I wrote a paper on marital rape for my law review. And I remember some crazy statistic that over 70 percent of married women never report that they were raped.”
Ryan continued to flip through the file as I rattled off some more statistics.
“But in this case,” Ryan said, “the parties were separated. They weren’t living as husband and wife, and I’m not sure we can get a jury to buy the marital rape.”
“But neither party had filed for divorce. So, they were still married.”
“It’s a tough one, Danielle,” he warned. “This is an election year and I’m not sure we should be spending taxpayer money on….”
“Let me work the file up and talk to the victim,” I requested. “Besides, just because she took off her ring, doesn’t change the fact that she was forced to do something against her will.”
“Allegedly.”
“Allegedly. But let me talk to her. If we can’t get her to cooperate, then I will recommend that we dispose of it. But maybe she needs some encouragement. We owe her that much.”
“Fine,” Ryan said, sliding the file to me, which stopped midway because of its size. “Make contact with her and report to me next week.”
That night, I took the file home. I wanted to be completely prepared before I called the victim the next day.
“Hello,” the voice answered hesitantly.
“Hi, is this June?”
“It is.”
“My name is Danielle Landau. I am with the district attorney’s office. Is this a good time to call?”
June was an elementary school teacher. At first she was resistant to my suggestion that we get together to talk. But after a little prodding, she agreed to meet the next day at a Starbucks near her school.
“Hi, you must be June,” I said when she entered the cafe.
It was our office policy to have pictures of all witnesses and I recognized her from her photo.
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Thanks. Ah, decaf. Otherwise, I will be up all night.”
“I know what you mean. I will be right back.”
Waiting in line, I observed June over my shoulder. She seemed nervous as she kept touching her hair and looking at her watch. I knew that I needed to quickly put her at ease or this would be a very short meeting and her husband would end up getting the break of his life.
“Here you go. I brought you some cream and sugar.”
“Thanks.”
“First off, thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” I started.
The coffee shop was noisy but I sensed a bubble of silence between June and me.
“I know this is difficult,” I continued.
“It is. I just did not want to relive this and wanted it to go away,” June replied.
“I understand. But your husband is charged with a very serious crime. And you must have felt very angry about what he did or you would not have called the police and told them what you said.”
“I did, I mean I do. But.”
“Well, I have read your file and I feel you have a strong case. But we can’t prosecute it without your cooperation.”
“I know. I have been told that. But there’s no evidence of the attack,” June said in a defeatist tone.
“That’s right. Other than your word against his, we have no independent evidence.”
“And we were, I mean, we still were married. But I knew if I didn’t do something, I would end up like that girl.”
“Girl. What girl?”
“You know,” June said. “Laci Peterson. They found her body. She was in her ninth month.”
As June said that name, a chill rushed through my body and I froze as I thought about Jacob.
“Are you all right?” June asked.
“I am sorry,” I apologized. “I am. I just remembered something I needed to do at work. I am sorry. Please continue.”
“Well, I need to move on. I have filed for divorce but I don’t think I could do this. And his family is very powerful.”
“June, you used the word rape when you spoke to the police. That means that you were forced to, against your will. And just because there was a wedding band on your finger did not give him the right to do that to you.”
June scrutinized every word I said with her eyes roving over my face.
“I know.”
“By you not doing going forward, you are opening the door for him to do this again. And next time, there could be even greater consequences.”
“I don’t know,” June looked away.
“June. I need to tell you something. I was where you were several years ago.” Her eyes were again focused on mine. “But I was scared.”
As I continued, June set her cup of coffee on the table.
“And I didn’t do anything. Instead I ran away. Please don’t follow my mistake.”
My eyes provided her a reflection.
“I need to think about it,” she said, reaching for a tissue from her purse to wipe the tear that was about to roll down her cheek.
“I understand.” I covered her hand with mine.
“It is so hard. And I want to do the right thing, but…”
“I know.” I flipped open the file. And we do have another pretrial hearing on the 26th, so perhaps he will take our offer.”
“I wasn’t aware of that date.”
“You wouldn’t be,” I reassured her. “The court schedules hearings to allow the defense to meet with the DA and try to negotiate a deal. So far, his attorney is still holding out that we will drop the charges. And, well, without you, we may have to. And your husband will get away with what he did to you. But at this point, we’re holding firm. So, if you do decide to testify, and I hope you do, I promise you, I will do everything in my power to bring you justice.”
“I know you will,” June said.
“But, please understand, I will need your answer before the next hearing so I can advise the court that we are ready to proceed with trial.” I handed June my business card. “If I am not available when you call, because I am in court a lot, please leave a message. I check my messages every day and will return your call. I promise.”
“Thank you for your help.”
“I do want to help you.”
The next afternoon I received a message from June. And after obtaining Ryan’s approval, I immediately began preparing for the trial of my life.
Chapter Twenty Nine
The wheels of justice were turning even slower today as Ian was out with the flu. As a result, I had double duty trying to cover his and my hearings. I had just walked out of Department 33 rushing to my next appearance when I heard my name.
“Ms. Landau.”
“Yes,” I said, slowly turning in the direction of the towering radio-announcer sounding voice as I balanced my attache over my shoulder and at least a dozen files in my hands.
“May I have a word?”
Without offering me an opportunity to say no, he proceeded.
“My name is Michael Pontrelli.”
Pontrelli was a very tall, tan and dapper gentleman dressed in what I was sure was a very expensive custom-made suit, flashy cufflinks, and a neatly-pressed handkerchief that complemented his bright red tie.
I juggled the files to reach his outstretched hand.
“Hello. Do I know you?” I asked even though I did.
“No but you will soon,” he responded with confidence. “I am the new attorney on the Robbins file.”
Pontrelli had handled many high profile criminal clients and loved the media attention. But I did not want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I was familiar with him.
“Oh, well I wasn’t aware that he had changed attorneys. Have you…”
Again, he interrupted. “Yes, I filed a substitution on the case. I know my secretary sent you a copy. It should be in your office.”
“Well, it probably hasn’t reached the file yet. Anyway, I am sorry. I am really late,” I said, straining to expose my wrist so that I could see my watch, and I started to walk away. As I did, he stepped in front of me.
“I would like to set a time to sit down and go over the file with you and see if there is some middle ground.”
“Middle ground?” I asked curiously. “Your client is charged with a very serious offense,” I reminded him as I walked towards the direction of my next courtroom while he tried to slip his business card into my hand, which was losing the battle of trying to juggle all of the files.
“I am sorry. As I just said, I am late. But call my office.”
“I was hoping I could buy you coffee or…”
This time I interrupted before he could finish.
“Mr. Pontrelli.”
“Michael.”
“Mr. Pontrelli. When you want to talk to the DA, you come to our office.” Knowing I had won the first battle, I walked away. But I also knew the next encounter would not be that easy.
The next day, Pontrelli called my office to make sure I would be there when he stopped by.
“Counselor.”
Against My Will Page 17
