Let Darkness Come (16 page)

“H
ey, beautiful.” Briley lifts her hands from the computer keyboard as Timothy steps through her office doorway and drops into her guest chair. “How's your day been so far?”

“What are you doing here?” Grinning, she steps out from behind her desk and moves to the door, then glances down the hall to see if anyone has noticed her unexpected visitor. Timothy would have had to pass Kate's desk, but Kate wouldn't care if Briley entertained a personal visitor for a few minutes.

She closes the door and leans against it. “I don't believe it. You came here to ask about my
day?
”

He tips his head back and grins at her. “I was in the area. Dax has a doctor's appointment, so he'll be tied up for a while. I thought I'd pop in and see how my favorite girl's doing.”

She gives him a look of pained disbelief, then walks to her desk and leans against the edge. “You should have called.”

He laughs. “Do I need an appointment to see you?”

“No, but a little consideration would be nice.” She crosses her arms. “I don't have as much leisure time as you and Dax. I spent most of the morning at the jail, and this afternoon I have to work on my case theory. Plus I'm expecting a call from the prosecutor's psychologist.”

“But you're not on the phone now.”

“Thanks for pointing out the obvious.” She feels a smile slip onto her face. Sometimes she finds it hard to stay upset with this man.

She leans forward and gives him a quick kiss, then points to the laptop on her desk. “I'm sorry I can't talk, but I'll be tied up until six. After that, I'm all yours.”

“Okay, but by six I'll be on duty with Dax. He's entertaining some producer, so the pressure tonight will be intense.”

Briley sighs. “Honestly, how much longer is it going to take?”

His eyes flash a gentle warning. “What?”

Feeling reckless, she plunges ahead. “Is the man ever going to stand up for himself? This ‘I need to be with Dax' routine is getting a little old.”

“You know what my job entails—I have to be available for as long as my client needs help. We're building a relationship based on trust. No one's going to listen to a sober companion they don't know and respect.”

“I only wish you would set a few boundaries. Even in your line of work, you have to protect time for yourself.”

Laughter lights Timothy's eyes as he slips his hands into his coat. “You're still upset about the night Dax came for dinner. He got rid of the girls, didn't he?”

“After ruining our night. And I'm not mad about that anymore. I'm worried.”

“About what?”

“About us.” There, she's said it. She didn't mean to, didn't want to bring up the fact that since Timothy started working for Dax they seem to be traveling in two different directions. She has always reserved time for him, but he doesn't seem to think it's necessary to do the same for her.

“Briley.” Tim stands and places his hands on her shoulders. “I know you're under a lot of stress, but take a step back and think about this. We're both in the same kind of work—we want to help people. You use your knowledge of the law, I use my knowledge of addiction. Because I've been in that dark pit, people trust me to be there for them…just like your clients trust you.”

Briley's mind burns with the memory of Erin Tomassi
pounding on the interview-room door, desperate to escape her lawyer's plan. Why has that picture sprung into her head? Her present case has nothing to do with her personal life, nothing at all.

She looks up into the dark pools of Timothy's eyes and breathes in the scent of leather. “You don't have to give so
much
. I know when to cut things off with my clients. I try to walk out of here at six and plan on no more than a couple of hours' work at home every night. This is a busy time of my life, but when I'm with you, I'm with you completely. I'm ready to focus on
us
…but you're not likely to be around.”

Timothy's mouth shifts just enough to bristle the two-day stubble on his cheek. “Life doesn't come tied up in nine-to-five packages, Bri.”

“And a career doesn't have to take over your life. If you want a relationship, if you want a family, you're going to have to learn how to maintain a professional distance with your clients.”

“Professional.” He pronounces the word as if it were an expletive. “You think I'm not
professional?
”

“Don't act like I've just insulted you. I don't know where you draw the line as a sober companion, but there are so many other things you could do. You could be a counselor or work in a rehab center. You could go to jails and talk to prisoners about how to beat addiction. You wouldn't have to become personally
involved
—”

He releases his grip on her shoulders. “Good grief, it sounds like you want me to wear a tie and sit behind a desk. I'd hate that.”

“That's not what I said. I'm saying you could find a job that doesn't demand a complete surrender of your private life.”

“But I haven't given up my private life. I'm with you now, aren't I?”

“But you shouldn't be!” Briley glances at the clock, her frustration rising with every passing moment. “I grew up with a father who was always looking out for other people.
Every time the phone rang, he would run out the door, carrying groceries to some family or going off to pay some single mother's electric bill. He'd apologize every time, telling me he'd be right back, but the phone calls never stopped coming, until the night he didn't come home…and the world is still full of needy people.” She stops, her hand going to her throat, as a sudden lump strangles her voice.

Timothy studies her, his eyes moist and concerned, then he bends to kiss her cheek. “I'll be going, then,” he says, releasing her. He moves toward the door. “I'm sorry I interrupted your work.”

“Don't go away mad, please.”

“Just go away, right?” He releases a hollow laugh. “I understand, Briley. Maybe more than you realize.”

“Timothy, that's not—”

The door closes with a definite click.

By the time she wipes the wetness from her cheeks and hurries into the hallway, he has disappeared.

 

With less than two weeks remaining before she has to return to the courtroom, Briley opens her laptop and smiles at the members of her defense team—a motley crew, by the firm's usual standards. For a trial with this kind of notoriety, she ought to have a couple of interns, a paralegal, and another associate by her side, but Franklin keeps insisting that no one is available to assist her.

She smiles at Kate and William. These two, at least, have been generous with their time.

They are in the library, sorting through all the material received in pretrial discovery. Four cardboard boxes wait on the conference table, recent arrivals from the state's attorney's office. Each box holds dozens of folders containing information, some of it redundant, from the prosecutor or the police investigators: an inventory of all evidence gathered at the crime scene and photographs of the collected evidence; names and addresses of potential witnesses,
along with copies of recorded statements from those witnesses; statements made by Erin Tomassi during interrogation; the autopsy and toxicology reports from the medical examiner's office; and copies of an evaluation from the psychologist Bystrowski hired. Briley has shipped several similar boxes to the prosecutor's office.

Kate is studying a list of physical evidence gathered by the police, including bagged hairs, trash from the master bathroom, the sterile wrapper that once held the presumed murder weapon, bottles of insulin, and the personal sharps disposal unit from under the vanity sink.

“Two cotton-tipped swabs from the trash,” she reads, making a face. “Good grief, did they catalog
everything?
”

“Nothing's too trivial to scrutinize in a murder trial,” William answers, his voice dry. “I'm surprised they didn't empty the trap on the sink and catalog every hair.”

“There are lots of random hairs listed by location,” Kate says. “Most of them from the bed, but a couple from the carpet and one from the closet.”

“Be glad they didn't go through the vacuum cleaner bag.” Briley shakes her head. “I know they have to be thorough, but only two people were in the house that night.”

“They found three sets of fingerprints,” William reminds her.

“Meet the housekeeper.” Kate holds up a fingerprint card. “Shirley Walker went down and got her hands inked. So all the prints belonged to people who should have been there.”

“Too bad.” William picks up another folder. “If another person had been in the house, wouldn't that get our client off the hook?”

“Any mysterious third person would have to be invisible and walk through walls,” Briley says, her voice dry. “No one set off the alarm, remember? And the video cameras don't reveal anyone else entering or leaving the house.”

For several minutes, they read in silence, each team
member sorting through the files and making notes. After skimming the witness statements, Briley has a strong hunch Bystrowski will build his case around a motive of revenge. “For several reasons,” she tells the others. “First, Bystrowski will say Erin had reached her limit with the abuse. Because he knows I could use the abuse to our advantage, he'll want to establish that Erin acted with malice. To do that, he'll say she knew Jeffrey was cheating on her, so she killed him. It's not the most elegant case theory, but it's simple. A jury won't have any problem understanding it.” She looks at her two assistants. “But can he make it stick?”

Kate shrugs. “Why not? People have killed for far less.”

William tweaks the end of his mustache. “How do we know the senator was cheating?”

“Bystrowski has a statement from the man's girlfriend.” Briley waves the appropriate page. “And judging from what I've heard about Jeffrey Tomassi, I doubt she was his only paramour.”

Kate snorts. “We could subpoena half the women in Chicago if we wanted more proof. The man wasn't subtle about his infidelities.”

“He was sly, though.” The corner of Briley's mouth twists. “According to this statement, Jeffrey usually used his twin's name at hotels. In fact, once he was downtown engaging in a tryst while his brother stood in for him during a televised charity event. What a toad.”

“Now I understand why our client killed him,” Kate says. “Any rat who'd do that simply couldn't love his wife. He reminds me of this guy I used to date—”

“Our client
allegedly
killed her husband.” Briley cuts her off, not willing to discuss matters of the heart while they're working. She hasn't heard from Timothy in a week, so he must have been more upset by their last meeting than she realized. “And, by the way, Erin insists she didn't know her husband was cheating. I'm not sure she bore him malice. Like a lot of abused wives, she felt the abuse was somehow her fault.”

William holds up his legal pad and shows Briley a numbered list. “So…what's our defense going to be? Mental illness, battered-spouse syndrome, parasomnia, or something we haven't covered yet?”

“I have a plan, but let's discuss it.” She shoves a folder aside and opens a document on her computer. “The prevalent definition of legal insanity says a person is not responsible for criminal conduct if at the time of such conduct, as a result of mental disease or defect, he lacks the capacity either to appreciate the criminality of his conduct or to conform his conduct to the requirement of law.”

“Break it down.” Kate taps the stem of her glasses against the table. “Mental disease or defect—what about Erin Tomassi's invisible friend? Does delusion qualify as mental disease?”

Briley shakes her head. “I tried to convince Dr. Lu that we had to be dealing with a split personality, but she wouldn't confirm that diagnosis. Bystrowski's shrink said the same thing. Erin may be delusional, but so are a lot of perfectly sane people.”

“So you form a case around parasomnia,” William suggests. “How does Dr. Lu feel about the sleepwalking defense?”

Briley glances at her notes. “She's not thrilled about it. If Erin went sleep-jogging a couple of times a week, we'd stand a better chance of convincing a jury. But I've only been able to document one other case of parasomnia in her history—if that's what you call waking in the middle of a drug-induced stupor with enough energy to fight off your would-be rapist and flee the scene.”

“Have you completely written off self-defense?” Kate asks. “That preacher's wife who killed her husband with a shotgun claimed abuse as a defense and was only convicted of voluntary manslaughter.”

William snaps his fingers. “I remember that one. The wife was sentenced to two hundred and ten days and released after serving a couple of months.”