Let Darkness Come (17 page)

“Sixty-seven days,” Briley says. “Self-defense is still a possibility. But the problem with all of these arguments is that they put the syringe in Erin's hand. She keeps resisting, because she still insists she didn't inject her husband. I can't walk into that courtroom with a hostile client.”

“Maybe she'll fire you,” Kate says, smiling.

Briley sighs. “She's stubborn, but she's not stupid. If she fires me, she knows she'll get a public defender—someone who's likely to be overworked, underpaid, and even more understaffed than me. Plus her trial will be postponed, which means months of waiting in jail.”

Kate leans back in her chair, a frown puckering the skin between her eyes. “Denial is a powerful emotion. Maybe part of your job is going to be helping her realize what happened that night.”

“I still like the suicide argument,” William says. “Jeffrey Tomassi was a lowlife who abused his wife and cheated on her. He might have had an attack of conscience.”

“That's a problem,” Briley says. “The Tomassi family is adamant that Jeffrey wasn't suicidal. If the prosecution puts all those grieving siblings and cousins on the stand…” She shakes her head. “We'd be talking tragic opera. Not a good idea.”

“Accidental death?” William asks. “Maybe he got careless.”

“Fingerprints,” Briley counters. “The fingerprints on the syringe are hers, not his. And Erin's on record saying that she never gave her husband insulin injections.”

“So…” Kate tugs on the blond hair at her collar. “What's it going to be, Counselor?”

Briley stares at William's list. “Every theory has a hole in it. As much as I hate to go against my client's wishes, I think we have the best chance of mitigating a first-degree murder charge with the parasomnia defense. Erin is innocent because she could not form intent while asleep. Sleepwalking is the only way we can explain her fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

William draws a deep breath. “Even if you get her off, some people will never buy that theory. To them, she'll always be guilty of murder.”

“What other choice do I have? Fingerprints don't lie.”

“Sometimes they do,” Kate says. “I once saw a TV show where a secret agent used a gummi bear to replicate and plant a fingerprint.”

Briley frowns, not sure if she's joking. “Any other thoughts?”

“Just one.” William presses his hands together. “The most incriminating piece of evidence is the syringe with our client's fingerprints on it, right?”

Briley nods.

“Well…what if that evidence were thrown out?”

“Excluded? How?” Briley clamps her mouth shut, wishing she felt more confident. A more competent attorney, one with actual experience in a capital case, would know more than the law librarian.

William wags a finger. “Was the evidence properly obtained? Did the police have a warrant when they entered the house?”

“I don't think they need a warrant to enter when they've been called because of a suspicious death,” Briley says. “And until a death is ruled suicide or accident, any scene is considered a crime scene.”

William shrugs. “I'm wondering if they asked Erin for permission to search the residence.”

Briley bites her lower lip. “You may have something there. I'll speak to my client. If they didn't ask—”

“You could get the evidence thrown out.” William smiles and tweaks the corner of his mustache. “You could blow them out of the water.”

Briley rests her chin on her hand. If she attempts to get the evidence excluded and doesn't succeed, she may become the laughingstock of the Cook County courthouse. On the other hand, one never knows what argument might sway a
judge. If she hits the books and digs around on Westlaw, she may be able to find a legal precedent….

She smiles at the others around the table. “Wish me luck, then. If this works, we may annihilate the state's case with just one motion.”

O
n Thursday morning, Briley slides into her car and drives to an interview she's been dreading. She's not certain if she'll learn anything useful from Erin's brother, but at some point, every desperate lawyer trolls for information.

In a northern section of Austin, Roger Wilson's group home lies on a street that has managed to retain a hint of its stately dignity. Briley parks on a pitted section of asphalt and studies the sprawling two-story Victorian as she locks her car. She crosses the sidewalk and opens a peeling iron gate, careful to latch it behind her. A gently curving sidewalk leads her through a sea of winter-dead grass to the front door, where a hand-painted sign presents a smiley face and a command: ring the bell. She does.

She stands on the front porch, shivering in the frigid wind, until a white-haired man in a cardigan opens the door and welcomes her to the house.

“I called earlier,” Briley explains, stepping into the foyer. “I'm here to see Roger Wilson.”

“You must be the attorney. I'm Floyd McKee.” The man smiles, reminding her of the genial Grandpa on
The Munsters
. “Roger is in the dayroom. If you'll come with me…”

Briley follows her host to a large room with wide windows overlooking the bare side lawn. Three adult residents sit in the room, two of them engaged in watching an
I Love Lucy
rerun. Another resident sits alone, working a jigsaw puzzle on a TV tray. He is dressed like Floyd: dark slacks, cardigan sweater, and white shirt, though his face is
unlined. If fashion sense is inheritable, these two could be father and son.

“Please excuse the holiday decorations,” Floyd says, gesturing to the Christmas tree in the corner of the room. “I know the season has passed, but my young friends like the lights.”

Briley pauses before the tree, which has been adorned with plastic bulbs, Popsicle-stick ornaments, and paper cutouts.

“Roger?” Floyd walks over and rests his hand on the puzzle-worker's shoulder. “You have a visitor. This young woman is a friend of your sister's.”

Roger looks up, his wide forehead crinkling. “Is Erin coming to see me?”

“She can't come today.” Briley steps forward and gives him a smile. “I'm Briley. May I sit and talk with you a few minutes?”

Roger looks to the older man, who reaches for a folding chair. “Make yourself comfortable,” he tells Briley, setting the chair on the other side of the TV table. “You can help Roger with his puzzle. And may I take your coat?”

Briley shrugs out of her coat and hands it to Floyd, then sits. Roger gives her an absent frown and returns his attention to the puzzle pieces scattered over the tray.

This interview isn't going to be as straightforward as she had hoped.

“This is a pretty puzzle,” she says, tilting her head to see it better. “What will it be, a seascape?”

Roger's brows knit in puzzlement. “It's the beach.”

“Of course. The beach.” She picks up a straight-edged piece and looks for a match. “I'm sorry Erin couldn't come with me today. Do you remember living with her when you were younger?”

Still intent on his puzzle, he shakes his head.

“That's too bad. Does she visit you here?”

Roger holds a puzzle piece before his eye, as if he could see through it. “She comes to see me. Sometimes.”

Floyd, who has been standing behind the other two resi
dents, steps toward them. “We haven't seen Erin in a couple of years,” he explains, his smile apologetic. “Last time she stopped by, she said it was hard for her to get away. With a husband in politics, I suppose I can understand.”

“Her husband was…quite demanding.” Briley gives Floyd a pointed look. “I don't suppose Roger reads the newspapers?”

“We don't even take a paper.” Floyd's expression remains neutral, though he has to be curious about Erin's case. “He has no idea about—the matter that brings you to see us. I don't let my young friends watch the evening news, either.”

“A good idea.” Briley smiles at Roger. What did she hope to find here? “Erin asked me to come see you,” she says, trying to catch his gaze. “She misses you.”

Roger sets another puzzle piece into the center of the tray, then looks at Floyd, his eyes glowing. “My sister misses me.”

“I'm sure she does,” Floyd answers, pulling over another folding chair.

Briley's heart sinks when the older man sits down. This is not going well; Roger is less communicative than she'd hoped. She ought to tell him goodbye and be on her way, but now that Floyd has taken a seat, she'll need to talk for at least a few minutes or he'll think her rude.

The older man laces his fingers. “Such simple souls.” He crosses his leg at the ankle, doubtless settling in for a nice long conversation. “You might not think they are deeply devoted, but Roger adores his sister. He keeps several pictures of her up in his room.”

Briley glances at her watch. “Does his mother ever come to visit him?”

The older man's face shifts back into a neutral expression. “Why don't you ask Roger?”

Briley turns, about to repeat the question, but Roger has his answer ready. “Christmas,” he says, poring over the puzzle with a new piece in his hand. “Mama visits at Christmas.”

For a moment Briley sits in awkward silence, not know
ing what else to say. On the other side of the room, Ricky explodes into Spanish as he scolds Lucy for overspending. The two men watching television laugh.

“Plato,” Floyd says, resting his folded hands on the cushion of his belly, “held that we are born perfect and then split in half by Zeus. So we spend the rest of our lives searching for our missing half, our soul mate.”

Briley's thoughts immediately dart to Timothy. She swallows the lump that rises in her throat and picks up another puzzle piece, a bit of green ocean.

“I don't buy into Plato's theory,” Floyd continues, shifting his focus to the men in front of the television, “but often I look at my friends and wonder if some genetic accident robbed them of the selfish streak most people exhibit from infancy. They're not perfect, but they're generally much sweeter than ordinary people.” One corner of his mouth turns up, and his blue eyes gleam as he grins at Briley. “Maybe they've had most of the selfishness yanked out of them.”

Briley snaps her puzzle piece into place and watches as Roger's mouth curves into an approving smile. “I wouldn't know,” she says. “I don't have much time for mysticism. Or religion, for that matter.”

“You're a skeptic, then.”

She shrugs. “A realist. But I can appreciate people who have the time and willingness to consider things like souls…and sweetness.”

She snaps a blue piece of sky into place, and smiles when Roger gives her another grateful grin.

A
s swollen clouds threaten to engulf the top floor of the courthouse, Briley and her client wait for Travis Bystrowski to arrive in the courtroom. Erin has been given a clean jail uniform for this appearance, but her face is thinner than it was a month ago, with shadowed blue eyes taking up most of the available space. Shackles bind her ankles and hobble her steps; handcuffs clink every time she lifts her arm.

Though a defendant has the right to attend any hearing related to her case, some defense attorneys do not bring their clients to hearings concerned with matters of law. Briley, however, thought it important for the judge to get a good look at Erin Tomassi. Looking at her, the judge will see not a scheming killer, but a woman who is more doormat than diva.

“How are you doing at the jail?” Briley asks, grateful for an opportunity to speak to her client outside that depressing interview room. “Are things getting any easier for you?”

Erin snorts softly. “I've learned how it feels to be an unwelcome minority.” She rubs a hand over her thin arm. “Some of the women despise me because I'm white. Most of them think I'm some kind of a snob.”

Briley peers at a dark spot on Erin's jawline. “Is that another bruise? Did someone else hit you?”

The corner of Erin's mouth dips. “I'm learning to keep my head down and not look anyone in the eye. And I pray a lot.”

Suddenly embarrassed by her freedom, Briley lowers her gaze. “How do you pass the time in there?”

“You don't. Time passes
you
.”

Briley straightens when she spies Bystrowski coming through the double doors. “Here we go.”

A moment later, the prosecutor extends his hand to Briley. “Good to see you, Counselor. I trust you received all of our materials?”

“Yes, thanks.” Briley sinks back into her chair, noticing that the prosecutor didn't think to greet her client. “I trust you received our files, too.”

“If I hadn't, you'd have heard about it.”

He drops his briefcase on his table and pulls out a chair. Briley glances at the clock on her cell phone and hopes they won't have to wait long for the judge.

“I have an offer for your client,” Bystrowski says, opening his briefcase. He pulls a sheet of paper from a folder and hands it to her. “Save the state time and money, plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter, and we'll send Ms. Tomassi to Decatur women's prison for twenty years. It's medium-security, not hard time.”

Briley knows nothing about Decatur, but she could live with a manslaughter conviction. Twenty years, however, is a long time, even with the possibility of parole. “I'll have to confer with my client,” she says, scanning the offer.

“No.” Erin speaks in a jagged whisper. “I did not kill my husband.”

“Are you sure?” Briley lowers her voice. “We could negotiate the sentence.”

“No.” Erin lifts her chin and meets the prosecutor's gaze straight on. “No deal.”

Briley looks at Bystrowski and shrugs. “Your offer is refused.”

“Don't you want to take a couple of days to think about it?”

“You should be grateful we're saving the state's valuable time.”

His gaze narrows. “You can't possibly believe you can pull off an acquittal.”

“I believe there's more to this case than meets the eye. My client did not intentionally kill her husband.”

“I didn't kill him unintentionally, either.” Erin leans forward and meets the prosecutor's gaze. “I know you don't believe me, but it's true. I didn't murder—”

“Shh.” Unnerved by her client's outburst, Briley drops her hand to Erin's arm. “That's enough, Mrs. Tomassi.” Maybe she should have urged Erin to waive her right to attend this hearing.

Briley waits, hoping Bystrowski will counter with another offer, but the prosecutor only gives her an incredulous look and sits at his table. “Looks like we're going to trial.”

Three minutes later, Judge Milton Trask sweeps into the courtroom and takes his seat on the bench. He is an older man, with jowls that hang in flaps like the muzzle of a hound, but his eyes snap with curiosity and directness.

The court reporter, a thin woman in black slacks, slips in behind the judge and sits at her table, immediately opening her laptop.

After greeting the two lawyers, the judge turns to his case file. “Oh, yes,” he says, pulling a folder from his briefcase. “The state senator.”

“Your Honor…” Bystrowski stands and hands Briley a list of official charges. “The state is charging Erin Wilson Tomassi with first-degree murder in the death of her husband, Jeffrey Tomassi, an Illinois state senator, on December 3 of last year.”

The judge looks at the page with the air of a man who has seen such charges many times before. “And the pretrial motions?”

“The defense has a motion pending.” Briley stands, offering the prosecutor a copy of the motion she filed the previous week. “Your Honor, the defense moves to exclude any and all evidence gathered at the Tomassi house on the day of Jeffrey Tomassi's death.”

Bystrowski rolls his eyes. “The state objects. Police detectives have every right to investigate a suspicious death.”

“As I stated in my motion, Jeffrey Tomassi's death was not considered suspicious at the time of the investigation,” Briley argues. “The detectives had no reason to rummage through my client's home without her permission.”

“But they asked permission, Your Honor. The search was good. The police did everything by the book.”

“Did they?” Briley arches a brow and looks at Bystrowski. “I don't recall seeing a signed statement in the police report. Or any mention of recorded assent.”

“Young woman.” The judge's granite eyes lock on her. “Ms. Lester, you are to address the court, not opposing counsel. Do you understand?”

Briley swallows hard. “Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge shifts his gaze to Bystrowski. “Do you have evidence of permission to search, Counselor?”

When the prosecutor's face goes the color of bleached paper, Briley knows he has no proof.

“Not at hand, Your Honor.”

“But you've known about this motion for a week.” The judge folds his hands. “Am I correct in assuming that evidence of permission to search does not exist?”

Bystrowski's nostrils flare. “Apparently…that is an accurate assumption.”

“Then I'm afraid I'll have to exclude—”

“I gave him permission.”

Erin's voice is so low that at first Briley is certain she's hearing things. But when she looks down, she sees that Erin is biting on her thumb. She's also looking directly at the judge. So she
did
speak. She opened her mouth and destroyed everything Briley is trying to accomplish.

“Y-Your Honor…” Briley's head swims with words, none of which want to cooperate with her stammering tongue. She needs to object, but with what argument? Should she invoke the Fifth Amendment and her client's
right not to incriminate herself? Or should she simply state that the defendant is naive and has a fool for an attorney?

Too late. Judge Trask casts Briley a disbelieving glance before addressing her client. “Mrs. Tomassi, did I hear you correctly? You gave the police permission to search?”

Erin lowers her head in an abrupt nod. “One of the policemen who showed up right after the ambulance asked if he could look around. I said he could. That's the same thing, isn't it? Granting permission?”

“It certainly is.”

Briley suppresses a groan as Trask drops the copy of her motion. Why didn't he just wad it up and toss it over his shoulder? “Motion to exclude is denied. And, ma'am—” he transfers his gaze to Erin “—in court, you are usually best served by letting your attorney speak for you. Do you understand?”

A dark, painful red washes up from Erin's throat. “Yes, sir.”

Unable to look at the judge, Briley lowers her head to her hand. She should have kept her client under control; she should have explained what she was trying to do. In attempting to impress the judge with Erin's vulnerability, she has made a fatal mistake.

The prosecutor wouldn't have been able to prove anything without the fingerprint-covered syringe. The judge would have dismissed the case.

She rakes her hand through her hair and gives Bystrowski a
Can you believe it?
look. Maybe Erin should reconsider that insanity defense.

Judge Trask glances from one lawyer to the other. “Are any other motions pending?”

“Yes, sir.” With great reluctance Briley stiffens her spine to address one other important piece of business. “The defense has also filed a motion to take the death penalty off the table. Illinois requires special circumstances before the option of capital punishment can be presented to jurors, and none of those special circumstances apply in this case.”

Bystrowski's mouth dips into an even deeper frown. “The state disagrees, Your Honor. We believe this case qualifies under at least two special circumstances.”

“Really?” Briley shoots back. “Name them.”

“Ms. Lester.” The judge casts her a sharp look. “You are out of order.”

“I'm sorry, Your Honor.” Briley lowers her head in what she hopes is an apologetic posture.

Bystrowski continues. “Illinois allows the death penalty for cases where the murder was committed for pecuniary gain,” he says. “Erin Tomassi stood to inherit her husband's fortune if he died. Second, as a state senator and public servant, Jeffrey Tomassi qualifies as a government employee. Special circumstances must apply in this case.”

“As a wife, Erin Tomassi already shared her husband's fortune,” Briley argues. “That statute was created to punish murderers-for-hire, which is not the situation in this case. And the government-employee provision was intended to protect police officers, firemen, and even state's attorneys as they go about their duties. Jeffrey Tomassi was not working while he slept.”

“Your Honor, when is a state senator not working?” Bystrowski counters. “Public officials do not keep office hours. They are continually serving the people. Earlier that night, Tomassi attended an event for his constituency—”

“He attended a fundraiser for his next campaign.” Briley's nervousness disappears, replaced by a rising indignation. “On that night, he wasn't thinking about his place in the Illinois state senate, Your Honor. He was dreaming about a spot in the U.S. Congress.”

“Where he would still be serving the people of Illinois!”

Judge Trask holds up his hand. “I've heard enough from both of you.” He studies a page of the case file for a moment, then looks up. “Within the next ten days, I'd like each of you to send me a brief with your points and authorities. I will withhold my ruling on the death-penalty motion until the
trial. Until then, I advise you to proceed as if this is a capital case. Now…is there anything else?”

Briley crosses one arm over her chest and struggles to cool her simmering temper. “The defense has nothing else, Your Honor.”

Bystrowski shakes his head. “Nor does the state.”

“Then I'll see you on the sixteenth of March.”

As the judge walks out, the court reporter in tow, a corner of Bystrowski's mouth twists in a cynical smile. “I'll see you ladies in a few weeks, then.”

Briley waits until the prosecutor closes the heavy courtroom door, then she turns to her client. “Erin…things did not go well for us today.”

Erin stares at her, her eyes like bits of brilliant blue stone. “What do you mean?”

Briley closes her eyes and struggles to find a way around the unspoken accusation on her tongue:
Are you trying to sabotage your trial?

“I told you I've never tried a capital case,” she finally says. “Maybe you need a better lawyer.”

“I don't think I can find a better lawyer.”

Briley turns, about to suggest that Erin try the yellow pages, then she realizes her client is smiling.

“You've worked hard,” Erin says, her hand coming to rest on Briley's arm. “I heard passion in your voice today, and that's what I need in a lawyer. You've never done this before? Neither have I. But you can't quit on me now. I won't let you.”

Briley draws a deep breath, then pats Erin's hand. Something in her wants to respond with a quip about putting that statement in writing because it'll be useful during the appeal, but this is not an appropriate time for teasing.

A deputy is approaching. It's time for Erin to go back to jail.