“As you’re doing now?” She didn’t know how she managed to stay calm or subdue all the rolling emotion in her heart. Taylor looked at Lucas through eyes that desperately wanted to tear. With her last ounce of strength, she held them back.
“She’s hurting and still grieving for Stephen. I—” She drew in a quivering breath. “I spent so much time and effort settling Stephen’s estate and various other obligations that I didn’t give my daughter the love and reassurance she needed. I didn’t know she felt guilty about that last morning she had with Stephen. It seems a small price to pay now to let her take a few swipes at me.”
She forced herself to look him in the eye.
“I’m the first to admit I’ve made mistakes with Stephanie. Just as I made them with you. But we each made our choices a long time ago, Lucas. Everything I’ve done since learning I was pregnant has been with the best interests of my child in mind. Right now, we both have a child that deserves our time, attention, and love.”
She made it to the doorway before his soft voice caused her to pause. She should have expected him to challenge her, to question the emotions she’d once again been trying to ignore. What surprised her, what worried her, is how desperately his words made her want to turn back to him.
“What about us, Taylor? Don’t we deserve the same chance to have love?”
Chapter 7
While she hated the latest argument with Stephanie, Taylor relished the solitude of the drive into town. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had time by herself without expectations or responsibilities or the necessity of putting forth the right image. It was wrong to resent many of the demands Stephen’s career had placed on her. After all it was his prominence and connections that had given her the life she enjoyed.
The life that had safely hidden all her secrets.
She sighed as she turned the car onto the town square. For the last eighteen years, she’d focused on and worked for the future. Yet here she was, back at the scene of the crime so to speak. The lawyer in her could almost be amused by the turn of phrase while the woman trembled with intensifying emotions.
While she circled the square for the second time, she again felt that strange sense of homecoming she’d experienced yesterday.
Parking, Taylor drew in a long breath and slowly released it. Shrugging off the fact that she’d failed to wear a watch, she grabbed her briefcase, exited the car, and headed down the sidewalk. It barely registered in her mind that her steps slowed, that she took appraising glances around. Her shoulders relaxed, the grip on her briefcase lessened, and the throbbing at her temples faded. At one time this place had been home, at least the closest she’d ever had to having a home.
The abrupt slam of a car door had her turning to see a man well into his fifties striding toward her. She took a step back as if to get out of the way, but he stopped in front of her. “You’re Taylor Adams, ain’t you?”
“Yes.”
He waved a pink slip of paper in front of her. “Can you do something about this?
She peered at the slip. Of course, she recognized what it was. It was the man waving it at her that she couldn’t place. “I’m sorry, you don’t look familiar. Do I know you?”
“Name’s Randolph, Harry Randolph. You and Lucas went to school with my youngest boy, Curtis. That Lucas turned out to be a fine man, better’n his drunk of a father. From what I hear you’re a good lawyer. So, can you fix this?” He waved the slip of paper again. “A speed trap is what it is. Sheriff’s got no right to make me pay for speeding when they were sitting there waiting for me to come by.”
“Let me take a look.” She couldn’t remember a Curtis Randolph, but accepted the man’s claim. Scanning the paper, she sighed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Randolph, but speed trap or not, you were speeding.” The officer had clocked Harry Randolph’s speed at sixty in a thirty-five speed zone.
“It’s a speed trap, I’m telling you.”
“The police are entitled to observe traffic wherever and in whatever manner they choose. And the fact remains that you were speeding.”
“It ain’t right.”
“Well,” she said, somewhat amused. “I can’t say as I disagree with you there. You can choose to go to court and dispute the fine, but I wouldn’t advise it.”
Mr. Randolph swore under his breath and glanced past her shoulder. “You lawyers and police are all in this together. Police worry about a man trying to get to wherever he’s going when they should be catching real criminals.” His gaze zeroed back on her. “And you lawyers find every excuse to let them good-for-nothings go free while tax-paying citizens have to shell out hard-earned cash. It ain’t right, I tell you.”
Taylor didn’t bother to comment since Mr. Randolph turned and headed for the courthouse, presumably to pay his ticket.
“What Harry didn’t tell you—” Taylor turned to see the sheriff standing five feet away. “—is he’s guilty of speeding through that intersection every single day of the week. My deputy finally got tired of giving him repeated warnings.” He stepped closer and offered a hand. “Sheriff Ray Morgan.”
“I remember you, Sheriff.”
“It’s good to see you again. Sorry it’s under these circumstances, but I’m glad you’re representing Micah. He had a little trouble when he went through a bad spell a year or so ago, but he’s basically a good kid.”
“Can I call you as a character witness?”
He returned her smile. “I wish you could, but since I’m out capturing criminals instead of having this conversation, I’m going to act like you never asked.”
“Do you think he did it, Ray?” she asked, using his name rather than his title. “Off the record.”
“No, ma’am, I don’t.” He lifted a hand in reply at someone honking a car horn as they drove by.
“Why not?”
“There’s something off with Rebecca’s story if you ask me.” His lips creased ever so slightly as his gaze scanned the town square. “Not that you did, of course.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned to respect it’s an officer’s instinct.” She recalled something Bryan had mentioned during the phone call she’d finally answered. “What do you know about Tommy Newman’s past?”
“You mean his association with a gang back in Texarkana? Yeah, I know about that. So far he hasn’t given me or any of my people reason to bring him in.”
“But you’ve been keeping an eye on him?”
“I like to think we keep an eye on everyone around here.” He looked down at her. “Even well-known visitors.” He flicked a finger off the brim of his hat. “I won’t keep you.”
Taylor stood a moment longer, considered what Sheriff Morgan said about Micah—and Rebecca’s claim. With a shake of her head, she walked into the florist shop and discovered Mrs. Brewer standing behind the counter, a big barrel of a man in front of her.
“Taylor, do you remember Mr. Halperson?”
“Of course, Lucas and I were…” She managed to hold back the groan, but did consider biting off her tongue. “Well, that is, Lucas was bringing me up to date on some of the people in town.”
Mr. Halperson chuckled at her stammering. “You always were quick with the words, missy. No wonder you done so good as a lawyer.” He chuckled again. “Here’s something you can take back and tell Lucas. I finally talked Miss Mamie into making an honest man of me.” He laughed out loud when Taylor quickly glanced at Mrs. Brewer.
Then he sobered. “Hey, seeing as you’re this all-fired good lawyer, can you draw up papers so Miss Mamie gets everything I have if something happens to me?”
“A will? That’s not really my area.”
He lifted a large meaty hand, swatting away her reservations. “Lucas trusts you with his son, that’s good enough for me. Besides, I remember you were always a good girl, smart and honest, never got into any trouble. Just give Miss Mamie everything I have. I want to make sure she’s taken care of.”
His hand lowered to cover Taylor’s. She
felt the warm gentleness of his touch, saw it in the look on his face, heard it in his words as he said, “I’m sure your husband did the same for you.”
“Yes, yes he did.” Taylor swallowed down the lump in her throat. “All right, Mr. Halperson, I’ll do it for you. Why don’t you come…” She stopped. Once again, the naturalness of claiming Lucas’s house as her home nearly tumbled out.
“Just write it up,” he said, trust implicit in tone and words. “We’re getting married Sunday, four o’clock at the courthouse. I wanted to give Miss Mamie the church wedding I know she always wanted,” he added in a way that Taylor found touching. “But she says at this point we should just go to Judge Williams.” He ran a hand over his balding head. “Gonna have a big party out at Miss Mamie’s afterwards. You tell Lucas we expect to see him and his boy there. You and your pretty little girl come along. Just bring the papers then.”
“Thank you, Mr. Halperson. I’ll be happy to give Lucas your message.”
“You do that. But, come Sunday, I’ll be the happy one.”
An hour later, Taylor went from congratulating a happy man to questioning a miserable, unhappy teenage girl.
Rebecca Whitfield sat at the conference room table, her head bowed to stare at the clasped hands in her lap. Her brown hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore an ankle length beige skirt with a white blouse buttoned to the collar. She wore no makeup or jewelry.
That she didn’t want to be here was apparent in every straight line of her body. Taylor noted that Rebecca avoided looking at either her father or Mr. Oates. Reverend Whitfield, on the other hand, never took his accusing gaze off his daughter.
“Rebecca, I’m Taylor Adams,” she began, striving for the balance between a woman’s soft concern and an attorney’s hard determination. “I represent Micah Black, the man you’ve accused of raping you.” Rebecca’s hands jerked in her lap.
“Is that still your claim?” The girl nodded. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to verbally answer all the questions.” Using the point of her pencil, Taylor indicated the woman sitting in a corner, recording the conversation.
“Do you still accuse Micah Black of raping you in your home three nights ago?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever had sexual relations with Micah Black before that night? Or any other boy?”
“Ms. Adams,” Mr. Oates protested.
“How dare you.” Reverend Whitfield yelled as he pounded a fist on the table.
Rebecca’s head jerked up, her eyes wide. Dark brown eyes, Taylor noted that were, at this moment, filled with fear. Residual fear from the memory of the attack? Or fear of the truth being uncovered?
“No,” Rebecca softly answered over her father’s continued protest. “He.” Her gaze once again searched for the hands in her lap. “That night is the only time.”
“You were home alone, is that correct?”
“Yes. I came home from the revival service, but Father wanted to drive over to Harrison and speak with the preacher there about the new education wing he thinks the church should build.”
“I guess it’s not uncommon for you to be home alone, is it?”
“No. Father’s service to the Lord keeps him busy with Bible studies, visiting the sick and shut-ins, leading the sinful away from their wicked lives.”
It sounded so pat and uncompromising. So lonely.
Was that how Stephanie had felt, Taylor found herself wondering. True, many of the functions she and Stephen attended had been essential and necessary for his political career. But there were some she could have backed out of and stayed home with her daughter.
Had she gone with Stephen out of a sense of obligation? A means of repaying him for all he had given, and done for her?
Taylor Adams DeLong, the abandoned daughter, supportive wife, and concerned mother, sympathized with Rebecca, a shy young girl who, with reservation and obvious shame, related her version of the night in question. Taylor Adams, the skilled attorney, spotted holes in that story and possible opportunities to help her client.
“What time was it when you arrived home from the revival service?” Taylor asked Rebecca.
“I don’t know for sure.”
Although she knew the answer, Taylor made a show of consulting her notes. “You told the police it was around ten o’clock. Does that sound right?”
“I guess so.”
“I imagine, like most teenagers, you spend a lot of those times you were alone on your cell phone, talking with your friends.”
“I don’t have a cell phone.”
It took a moment for this to process with Taylor. She simply could no longer fathom a teenager without a cell phone.
“So, if you didn’t call him, how did Micah know that you were home?”
“When I came into the house after Father dropped me off, the telephone was ringing. It was him.”
“Him.” Taylor jotted down some notes and questions. “Micah Black?”
“Yes.” Though she kept her head bowed, Taylor saw Rebecca press her lips together. “We talked for a long time, longer than we ever had before. I was beginning to worry that Father would come home and find me on the telephone. I think I said something about ending the call, so I wouldn’t get into trouble. Not long after, there was a knock at the door. It was him.”
“Micah Black?” Taylor asked again.
“I knew I shouldn’t let him into the house.”
“Why not? Isn’t Micah a friend of yours?”
“Father believes Micah is responsible for my brother’s death.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
The lack of hesitation in Rebecca’s answer interested Taylor. “So, you let him come inside.”
There was a distinctive pause before she spoke. “He said he wanted to talk some more. He said that no one understood him the way I did. He said he would leave before Father came home.”
“You didn’t feel intimidated or worried?”
“No.”
“After you invited him inside, what happened?”
“We sat on the sofa and talked.” Her chest rose as she drew in a deep breath. “Then he kissed me.”
Reverend Whitfield bowed his head over his steepled fingers and began murmuring a prayer of forgiveness for his failure to keep his daughter on the Lord’s path. Rebecca lifted a hand to swipe at the tears brimming in her eyes.
“Was this the first time you’ve been kissed?” Taylor asked.
“Yes.”
“I know this is difficult for you, Rebecca. Take your time and tell us in your own words what happened.”
“He kept kissing me. It felt nice at first, but then he kissed harder. I didn’t like it as much. I told him to stop, but he just ignored me and kissed me again. Then.” She shuddered. “He touched me.”
“Where did Micah touch you, Rebecca?” Taylor asked, noting how Rebecca continued to avoid using Micah’s name.
“He touched my breasts.”
“Did you have a shirt on at the time?”
She nodded, but Taylor didn’t remind her to voice the affirmation aloud. “When I tried to stop him, when I tried to get off the sofa, he shoved me back down and ripped my shirt open. His hands hurt. He squeezed hard when I opened my mouth to scream. Then, he…he pushed up my skirt and pulled my panties off.”
Taylor waited a moment. “Is this when he penetrated you?”
“Yes.” Tears fell onto the hands still gripped tight in her lap. “It hurt, it hurt so much.”
Reverend Whitfield abruptly stopped his praying, his accusing gaze narrowing on his daughter. Taylor and Mr. Oates exchanged looks, each sorry for putting a young girl through this ordeal, each understanding the necessity. Mr. Oates slid a box of tissues in Rebecca’s direction.
“Did you try to escape or defend yourself against Micah?” Taylor asked after Rebecca blew her nose.
“He—”
“Micah?”
“He held my hands above my head with one of his.
”
Taylor swallowed. “What did he do with the other hand?”
“He covered my mouth so I couldn’t scream. He kept saying over and over that he knew this was what I really wanted. This is why I let him inside. Over and over he kept saying it,” she repeated as her breath heaved in and out.
“Even when I still tried to get away, he laughed and said the way I fought excited him. I finally just closed my eyes and tried not to think about what he was doing to me.”
Taylor had an all too vivid image of Micah, big and strong, as he stood beside Stephanie. And Stephanie smiling as she flirted with him.
“What happened after the rape?” she asked.
“He—”
“Micah?”
“Why do you keep doing that?” Rebecca demanded, lifting her head so Taylor could see the girl’s tear-washed face. “Why do you keep asking me if it was Micah?”
“I want to make sure I know exactly who you’re talking about.”
Rebecca once again looked down at her lap. “When he got off me, I ran to my room.”
“Did Micah follow you?”
“When Micah came into my room…”
Taylor leaned forward in her chair. Rebecca’s voice seemed different somehow, softer, more subdued and less anxious.
“Micah tried to hold me. He kept saying he wanted to help me. His voice was gentle and nice, just like…before. I guess it got mixed up in my mind so, I fought him. I scratched him, but he kept trying to hold me. That’s when Father walked in.”
“And you accused Micah Black of rape.”
“Yes.”
“Rebecca Whitfield, is it your sworn declaration today that you still name Micah Black as the man who raped you?”
“Ye—yes.”
Taylor sat back, her gaze straying to Mr. Oates and Reverend Whitfield.
“Are you aware, Rebecca, that should a jury find him guilty, Micah Black will go to prison?”
“Ms. Adams,” Mr. Oates protested. “That sounds suspiciously like a threat.”
“I’m simply pointing out the facts.”
Rebecca’s lips quivered before she pressed them together. “Yes, I know.”
Shared Secrets Page 9
