Let Darkness Come (23 page)

Briley's thoughts skitter in panic as the gloved hand lifts, leaving the taste of leather on her lips. She is easing toward the safety of the nearest toilet stall when a fist rockets from out of nowhere and slams against her temple. The blow sends a flurry of white dots into her field of vision and knocks her off her feet. She blinks, and finds herself staring at a pipe attached to the bottom of a sink. She reaches for something solid, feels a crumpled paper towel beneath her fingers, and tastes blood on her tongue. A distant radiator begins to clank and hiss, and one thought runs through her mind before the room goes black. Is this what Erin experienced every day?

 

“Ouch.” Briley grimaces as a uniformed security guard hands her an ice pack for the lump at the back of her head.

The EMT kneeling by her side holds up two fingers. “How many?”

“Two,” she says. “And I've already named the president and the mayor of Chicago. I'm fine, I just want to go home.”

“Not so fast.”

The security guard steps aside as a man in a trench coat approaches. Briley blinks up at him and sighs when she recognizes the face. “Detective Malone. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Twice in one day, even.” As the EMTs pack up their gear, the cop sinks to a chair and pulls his tablet from his coat pocket. “First off, are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” Briley lifts the ice pack and smiles with a bravado she doesn't quite feel. “I bit my tongue and got a bump on the head. That's it.”

Malone clicks his pen. “Want to tell me what happened?”

She shrugs as she looks around the hallway, searching for
signs of a red ski cap. “I was in the side stairwell and thought I heard someone following me. I ducked into the restroom on the fourth floor and waited until the coast was clear. Apparently I'm not so smart. The guy just opened the door so I'd
think
he was gone, then he hid in the next stall. He caught me when I came out. He knocked me on the head and I passed out. Next thing I know, a cleaning lady is slapping my wrist and waving smelling salts under my nose.”

“Did you get a look at your assailant?”

Briley leans forward and lowers her voice. “If I did, do you think I'd tell you? I don't think the guy would want me to rat him out.”

Malone leans forward, too. “If you don't give me a few details, how are we supposed to catch the bad guy?”

She leans back in her chair. “It was a warning. Pretty scary, but that's all. He didn't even take my purse.”

“But he threatened you.” The detective's squint tightens. “Want to tell me what he said?”

She hesitates. “It was a warning…about my client. Apparently I'm supposed to take a dive on this one.”

“Really.” Malone pockets his notebook. “I have to tell you, Counselor, usually it's the prosecutor who gets threatened. Why do you think the shoe's on the other foot this time?”

“Not my job, Detective.” Briley lifts the ice pack from her head and drops it onto Malone's knee. “And now, if you'll excuse me, I have homework to do.”

“You're not driving, are you?”

Briley stands and takes a step, then hesitates as the room sways around her. She reaches for the closest solid object—Malone's shoulder—to steady herself.

“Come on,” he says, taking her arm. “Let me drive you home.”

They are halfway to the elevator when Briley looks up at him. “Rancid breath,” she says. “Red knitted ski cap. Brown trench coat. Male, maybe five-eleven or six foot. And honestly, that's all I can tell you, except…”

“Except what?”

“Except maybe you should check out the Tomassis.”

Malone rewards her with a quick smile. “Good enough, Ms. Lester. That's a start.”

W
hen the prison van rumbles to a halt on the second morning of Erin's trial, she leans forward and tries to peer out the narrow window in the back door. Yesterday she had to walk past a crowd of reporters and photographers, but today the driver has parked closer to the side door of the courthouse building. Yesterday this spot must have been occupied…either that, or the driver took a bribe and fully intended to parade his passengers in front of the waiting paparazzi.

When a guard unlocks the door at the back of the van, she shuffles forward, the links in her shackles clinking as she awkwardly manages the step down to the asphalt. Blinking in the sting of the frigid lake wind, she breathes out a breath and hurries through the ensuing frosty cloud. Prisoners are not given coats for this brief transfer, and the jail uniform provides little protection from a Chicago winter. Following her escort, Erin tries not to think about the many coats waiting in her closet at home—the red wool trench, the brown mink, the green stadium jacket. Right now, she'd give her right arm for any of them.

Half a block away, a handful of reporters are waiting behind a security fence, cameras in one hand, Starbucks cups in the other. She looks away, but one of them has recognized her. “Hey. That's Erin Tomassi! Hey, Erin, look over here!”

She lowers her head and concentrates on her shuffle until she is safely inside the courthouse, where a pair of uniformed deputies waits in the hallway. They greet her escort
and joke about the weather, paying her no more attention than if she were an inanimate object. Without a word or even a glance at her face, one of them takes her arm and leads her to the elevator.

She leans against the back wall and closes her eyes for the duration of the ride upstairs. The elevator stops on the seventh floor. The deputy steps off, tugging at Erin as if she were a dog on a leash. She tries to walk at his side, but the shackles around her ankles will not let her keep pace with the man.

Finally they reach the holding area connected to Judge Trask's courtroom. Erin steps over the threshold and inhales the aromas of warm food and fresh coffee. Her defense team has gathered around a table against the wall: Briley; William, the man who works at Briley's firm; and a middle-aged blonde Erin has never met.

Briley, who is eating a breakfast burrito, looks up, sees Erin, and nearly chokes on her food. With an effort, she swallows. “What happened to you?”

The deputy turns to Erin, looking at her face for the first time. A flicker of compassion moves in his eyes, then he moves aside so she can enter the iron cage that takes up half the room. Once she steps over the threshold, he kneels to remove her shackles and handcuffs.

While he works, Erin meets Briley's gaze. “I tried to use the phone last night. I needed to call my doctor, remember?”

The unfamiliar woman's face is blank with shock, while William's mustache twitches above the newspaper he's reading.

When she is free, Erin moves to a bench and looks pointedly at the newcomer, who is holding an outfit swathed in dry cleaner's plastic. “I'm Erin Tomassi. I don't believe we've met.”

“S-sorry,” the woman stammers, a blush brightening her face. “Kate Barnhill. I'm a paralegal at the firm. I've brought you some clothes.”

“Kate's been helping me.” Briley drops her unfinished
breakfast on the table and peers at Erin. “Are you okay? We could get an extension if you need to see a doctor.”

Erin shakes her head. “It's only a few scratches.”

“And the mother of all bruises,” Kate adds. “Looks like someone took a baseball bat to your cheek.”

“It was a fist,” Erin says. “I waited over an hour in line for the phone. I was nearly there when Big Shirley cut in front of me. I gave her a dirty look—or so she says. Next thing I know, she's pounding on me and all her friends jump in to help her out.”

Briley stares at Erin for a long moment, then looks at Kate and William. “What do you think? Do we cover that bruise with makeup?”

Kate studies Erin, her eyes alive with speculation. “If you hide that bruise, you might miss a great opportunity to win the jury's sympathy.”

“On the other hand,” William says, “leave it, and some of the jurors might think she's strutting around the jailhouse picking fights. Is that the image you want to project?”

“I don't think,” Briley says, speaking slowly, “that Erin looks like she
struts
anywhere.”

“What about you?” William asks. “If that lump on your head weren't covered by hair, would you want the jury to see it?”

Erin frowns when Briley shoots him a warning glance. “What lump?”

“It's nothing,” Briley says, shrugging. “I fell.” She peers at Erin again, then winces. “Are you
sure
you're okay?”

“I'm fine.” Erin flashes a smile, though the effort makes her face ache. “The one thing I don't want is an extension. I don't want to spend a single extra day in that place.”

“So we leave it,” Briley says, though her voice is a long way from confident. “Did you ever make that phone call?”

Erin rolls her eyes. “What do you think?”

“You want me to call the doctor for you? Maybe he could explain what he wanted.”

Erin studies her hands, which are scraped and bruised from last night's brawl. “You can try. With those new privacy laws, I don't know if he'll tell you anything.”

“I'm a lawyer.” A teasing smile flickers across Briley's face. “I have ways of making people talk.”

S
hirley Walker, Erin and Jeffrey Tomassi's housekeeper, appears even smaller and older behind the oak railing of the witness box. In comparison, Travis Bystrowski looks like a giant as he reinforces the fact that Erin was an unhappy wife by quizzing the housekeeper about the Tomassi marriage.

“All that poor girl wanted was a baby,” Shirley says, touching a tissue to the corners of her eyes. “And he didn't want one.”

Briley studies the jury. Four of the women visibly soften at this remark, but most of the men sit with blank and unreadable faces. She's been watching the jury all morning, trying to discern how they're feeling about her client. What are they thinking about Erin's scratched and bruised features? Do they see her as a victim, or some kind of hellcat?

When Bystrowski concludes his examination, Briley approaches the lectern with a smile. “Mrs. Walker, how many years have you worked for Jeffrey and Erin Tomassi?”

“I've been with them since they first married.” Shirley settles her hands in her lap. “They've never had any housekeeper but me.”

“You worked at their house, what…once a week?”

“That's right. I cleaned every Tuesday.”

“Did you know them well?”

“I knew Erin real well,” Shirley says, her eyes bright behind her glasses. “Him, not so well. But she confided in me quite a bit. I got the feeling she didn't have anyone else to talk to.”

“Did you like her?”

“Yes, I still do.” As if to prove her point, Shirley leans forward and sends a smile winging toward the defense table.

“Tell me, Mrs. Walker—in all the time you spent with Erin, did you ever see her do anything intended to hurt someone else?”

“Heavens, no.” Shirley's lower lip trembles. “That girl wouldn't hurt a fly.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Well, once we found this kitten in the gutter in front of their brownstone. I brought it inside, thinking I'd take it to the humane society as soon as I finished cleaning, but Erin picked it up and started lovin' on it. Next thing I know, she's feeding it milk and tuna and calling it Tinker Bell. I thought maybe she'd finally found something to help her feel a little less lonely, but the kitten was gone when I came back the next week. Erin said Jeffrey wouldn't let her keep it.” The woman frowns. “I only hope he took it to the humane society instead of dropping it in a Dumpster. I wondered about that, but didn't have the heart to check.”

Concerned that Shirley may have given the jury another reason to believe Erin killed her husband, Briley moves on. “That's an interesting anecdote, but it doesn't really establish Erin Tomassi's character. After all, people can love animals and resent other human beings, can't they?”

The housekeeper blinks behind her glasses. “I suppose so.”

“Did Erin ever say anything about resenting her husband? Or anyone else in particular?”

Shirley hesitates, then shakes her head. “I don't think so. That girl was more sad than hateful. But I never heard her say a bad word about her husband or anyone else, and generally people who resent other people talk bad about 'em. But Erin isn't the gossipy type.”

“You testified that Erin was unhappy in her marriage and that Jeffrey often raised his voice to his wife. Did you ever hear Erin yell back at him?”

“No.”

“Did you ever see her strike out at him, even in jest?”

“Heavens, no. Erin isn't the type.”

“Not a fighter, then? Not a brawler?”

“No.” Shirley's forehead crinkles as she glances toward the battered woman at the defense table. “I don't know what happened to her, but I know she's not the sort to pick fights. Especially not with her husband. He was so much bigger than her.”

“Thank you.” Briley glances at her notes. “What sorts of things did you do at the Tomassi home?”

“You mean…what did I clean?”

“That's right.”

Shirley shrugs. “I vacuumed all the carpets, dusted the entire house, scrubbed the kitchen sink and counters, cleaned the bathrooms, changed the sheets in the master bedroom, and put fresh flowers on the foyer table. Erin loves fresh flowers in the foyer.”

“Did your duties include cleaning the windows?”

A smile gathers up the wrinkles by the woman's mouth. “Sure. I did the windows about once a month.”

“Did you raise and lower them, or just clean them on the inside?”

“I usually cleaned the inside.”

“Did you ever have occasion to raise the windows?”

“Well…sometimes when the weather was nice, I raised them up to let in some fresh air.”

“Did you always lower the windows before leaving the house?”

“Well…no.”

“Objection.” Bystrowski stands, a look of weariness on his face. “While this is fascinating, it's also irrelevant.”

“I have a point, Your Honor,” Briley says. “If I may be allowed to continue, my reasoning will become clear.”

Judge Trask nods. “Objection overruled. Get to your point, Ms. Lester.”

Briley turns to the bewildered housekeeper. “Is it possible,
Mrs. Walker, that after opening some of the Tomassis' windows, that you might have left a window unlocked?”

The housekeeper's smile dissolves. “Why—I didn't mean to.”

“But on the days when you left and some of the windows were still open…someone might have closed a window without locking it, correct? And it remained unlocked for an indefinite amount of time?”

Her face goes pale as uncertainty creeps into her expression. “You mean…I might have let the killer in?”

Briley braces for another objection, and Bystrowski does not disappoint. “Objection—unresponsive. The witness did not answer the question.”

Trask sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Objection sustained. The jury will disregard that last remark.”

Briley tries her best not to smile. Mrs. Walker leaped to the appropriate conclusion, and the jury followed her. She turns toward her witness again. “Emptying the household trash cans—was that another one of your duties?”

“Yes.”

“Did you often see syringes in the trash?”

“Every once in a while.”

“Did you find these in the bathroom trash bin? Or did you ever find them in other areas?”

“The kitchen,” Shirley says. “Sometimes Mr. Tomassi would test his blood in the kitchen and give himself a shot at the sink.”

“Did he carry that syringe into the bathroom and dispose of it in the special sharps receptacle?”

“Shoot, no, he couldn't be bothered. He'd drop it into the trash compactor. I learned to be real careful when emptying that machine. I didn't want to get stuck with a needle. Those syringes come with plastic caps for protection, but Mr. Jeffrey never bothered to put them back on.”

“May I approach, Your Honor?”

The judge motions her forward.

Briley walks to the courtroom clerk and picks up the bag marked State's Exhibit One. “Mrs. Walker—” she holds up the evidence bag “—does this look like one of the syringes you occasionally saw in the trash compactor?”

Shirley nods with great enthusiasm. “Yes.”

“And for the record, will you state whether or not the cap is on the needle?”

“It's missing.” Shirley directs her gaze toward the jury. “No cap on that one.”

Briley smiles at the witness. “Thank you, Mrs. Walker.”

 

For some reason—probably because he looks so much like his dead brother—Erin tenses when the prosecutor calls Jason Tomassi to the stand. She sits beside Briley, her face pale, her eyes downcast, and her arms locked across her chest. Her right foot betrays her anxiety and begins a rapid-fire tap-tap-tapping on the carpeted floor.

Briley's own pulse begins to pound as the prosecutor establishes Jason's identity and relationship to the deceased. She tilts her head and imagines Jason Tomassi's face covered by a red ski mask. How tall is he? What would his voice sound like in a ragged whisper?

As much as she'd like to ponder the matter, she needs to focus on the trial.

Bystrowski launches into a series of questions obviously intended to undermine the housekeeper's benign opinion of Erin's character. “Mr. Tomassi,” Bystrowski says, “were you surprised to hear that your sister-in-law had been arrested for the murder of your brother, Jeffrey?”

“No,” Jason answers, his expression tight and grim. “That woman is as crazy as a coot.”

“Objection!” Briley stands and narrows her gaze at Jason. “The witness stand is not a venue for expressing personal opinions.”

“Overruled.” The judge looks at Bystrowski. “I trust there's a valid point to this line of questioning.”

“Yes, sir,” the prosecutor says. He looks at his witness. “You may continue.”

Jason shrugs. “There's not much to say. Jeffrey loved Erin, but the more I got to know her, the more I thought she was a few bricks short of a load.”

“For the record, could you explain the metaphor?”

Jason scrubs the stubble on his cheek, then leans forward, a picture of earnestness. “At first I thought she was naïve. She always seemed kind of quiet and shy, sort of distracted. Then Jeff began to tell me—”

“Objection.” Briley stands. “This is hearsay. The witness does not have direct knowledge of these facts.”

“Objection sustained,” the judge rules. “Mr. Tomassi, you may testify only about what you yourself heard or know. The jurors should disregard that answer.” Trask points at Bystrowski. “Continue, Counselor.”

The prosecutor faces his witness. “Mr. Tomassi, were you and your brother close?”

“Very. We were twins. When we were kids, we spoke in a special language no one else could understand.”

“Did your close relationship continue into adulthood?”

“Yes. Jeff confided in me about everything—including things he didn't share with his wife.”

“Really? Was there some kind of problem between him and his wife?”

“Jeffrey had doubts about Erin—”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Briley stands, struggling to mask her frustration. “This is hearsay and speculation. We cannot know what Jeffrey Tomassi thought about his wife.”

Judge Trask narrows his gaze and studies the witness. “Objection overruled,” he says, nodding at Jason Tomassi. “I'd like to hear this.”

Briley sinks back to her chair, her irritation increasing when she realizes that her hands are trembling. Is his voice affecting her on some subconscious level…or is she simply paranoid?

The prosecutor motions to his witness. “Please continue.”

“Well,” Jason goes on, “after a while Jeff began to wonder if Erin was mentally unstable. He said she talked to herself, and she had a tendency to rage when things didn't go her way. He was worried about how she'd handle being in the public eye as a politician's wife.”

“If he didn't think she could handle her role as a politician's wife, why'd he continue in his political career?”

“Because politics was his passion.” Jason transfers his gaze to the jury. “I'm not saying my brother didn't love Erin—he did. But he's been planning to run for national office ever since junior high. He was our eighth-grade class president, and he's loved politics ever since. Erin knew all this before they got married. He was honest with her about his priorities.”

“I see. Do you have an opinion as to why the defendant might have killed your brother?”

“Objection!” Briley rises. “Opinions are not facts, Your Honor.”

The judge's voice booms from the bench. “Objection overruled. I want to hear this.” He nods at Jason Tomassi. “You may continue.”

“Yes,” Jason says. “I have an opinion.”

“Would you care to share it with the court?”

Jason clears his throat and glances at the jury. “I believe my sister-in-law killed Jeff because she was tired of politics. The night Jeff died, they'd just come from a big fundraiser and Erin obviously didn't want to be there. I think that night—and seeing how well Jeff was doing—convinced her that she was in for years of that sort of thing. Something in her must have snapped.”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Briley stands again. “The witness is not a psychologist. He cannot know the defendant's mental state.”

The judge tips his chin in Briley's direction. “Objection sustained.”

Briley sits, but the damage has been done. The jury knows Jason Tomassi thinks her client is crazy.

Bystrowski turns away from the lectern and flashes a grin in Briley's direction. “Your witness, Counselor.”

Briley takes a moment to consider her options. None of Jason Tomassi's opinions should be in the record; the jury shouldn't have heard any of his testimony. She can move to strike, and the judge might actually be reasonable, but if she strikes Jason's testimony she can't cross-examine him on the issues he raised. The elephant has walked through the room; can she pretend no one saw it?