Tell No Lies (50 page)

He closed his eyes but he still saw her, crouched in a dark closet with her brother's hand clamped over her mouth. Unable to help, unable to scream, unable to join her mother and father and sister, wherever they were going.

Massacre
. She'd told him they had watched, but he now realized that she hadn't told him what, exactly, she'd seen. She'd shown him the pictures of her parents and her sister, and he'd been so thrilled that she was finally letting him in that he hadn't stopped to consider how painful looking at the photo album must have been for her. He hadn't considered that she might have seen in her mind's eye much more than was on the page. He tried, but even now he couldn't imagine what the scene would have revealed to the eyes of a nine-year-old.
 

Looking up, he quickly scanned the yard; Jamie was oblivious to his presence. He hastily fumbled with the other few stories, squinting to find the one with the most recent date as he simultaneously skimmed the headlines. He was trying to find a story about the trial or maybe the sentencing. He held his breath. He felt certain that the words
death penalty
or
capital punishment
or some other euphemism for the ultimate revenge would jump out at him from the headline. He realized, with shame, that he wanted—he was hoping—to see it.
 

Just four days before trial, prosecutors in the Dodson triple murder case that shocked the city last spring announced a plea bargain with attorneys for defendant Anthony Vaughn. Although the exact terms of the agreement were not disclosed, prosecutors have indicated that in exchange for Vaughn's testimony against reputed mob boss Salvatore Ronzini on other charges, the multiple first-degree murder charges against him will be reduced to second-degree murder and they will recommend the minimum sentence of 10 years.

Nothing, however—not the despair of revisiting the details of her family's murder, not even the shock of learning how the murderer had managed to escape a meaningful sentence—could have prepared him for what he read next. Even with the details laid out in front of him in black and white, he had to reread the paragraph to be sure he hadn't misunderstood.

Although Ronzini's connection to the murders has been merely speculative, Vaughn's attorneys have suggested that their client was acting for the reputed mobster when he broke into the victims' home last summer and murdered the three family members while two other children looked on. Some sources have claimed that Harold Dodson was heavily in debt to the mob for money borrowed to maintain a secret mistress, identified as Maxine Carson, and that the crime was orchestrated in retaliation for his failure to pay. Prosecutors have repeatedly denied this, even though the particular nature of the murders was consistent with Ronzini's modus operandi, in which victims are usually killed execution-style. Miss Carson, reached at her apartment in the city, refused to comment.

Except for the increasing rise and fall of his breath, Jack sat perfectly still and gazed, unseeing, at Jamie at the edge of the yard. He thought back to Jenny's arraignment, to when the clerk had read the charges. They hadn't referred to the victim as Maxine Shepard. They'd referred to her as Maxine
Carson
Shepard. He remembered it as clearly as if he still sat in the courtroom.
 

Beads of perspiration formed near his temples and he was acutely aware of the sweat dripping down the side of his face.
I'm not interested in being someone's mistress
.
Especially not yours
. He stood only after he was certain that his legs would bear his weight.
He was a full-fledged American. As Waspy as they come. Like you, Jack
. He mumbled something to Jamie about staying out of the pool and then walked numbly into the house with the file under his arm.
 

They said he had a mistress
. Standing in front of the kitchen table, he put the papers back together and tucked the file into his briefcase.
I'm not just saying that because we're friends, although that would be an added benefit, wouldn't it?
It was unthinkable.
If I ever got in trouble
. . . He went out to the garage and put the briefcase on the passenger seat of his car.
If I ever got in trouble
. He returned to the house, picked up the receiver from the phone in the kitchen, and called Jeff at home. An answering machine picked up.
 

"Jeff, it's Jack." The sound of his voice was foreign. He swallowed, but it was difficult. "Give me a call, will you?"

It was simply unthinkable.

The End

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Tell No Lies
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Tell No Lies
book discussion questions at:
 

http://www.julie-compton.com/compton-tell-no-guide.htm
.
 

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Also by Julie Compton:

Rescuing Olivia
 

Keep No Secrets
 

(the sequel to
Tell No Lies
)
 

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About the Author:

Julie Compton was born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri, where she attended Washington University for both undergraduate and law school. She began her legal career in St. Louis, but last practiced in Wilmington, Delaware as a trial attorney for the U.S. Department of Justice. When her family moved to Florida in 2003, she gave up law to pursue writing full-time. She lives near Orlando with her husband and two daughters.
Tell No Lies
is her debut novel.
 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am truly indebted to Jo Bicknell, who selflessly took me under her wing and has been a constant friend and passionate advocate. I am also deeply grateful to the folks at Macmillan and St. Martin's Press, who first published this novel to a wide audience back in 2008. All of them gave it a new life.

Many, many thanks go to the numerous individuals who provided invaluable advice, assistance and support during the years I wrote and revised the novel:

Alison Hicks of the Greater Philadelphia Wordshop Studio, and all of the members of her Monday night AWA workshop. Alison practically held my hand the entire way, acting as my friend, mentor and inspiration when I was ready to give up.

Karen Voellmann, one of my closest and dearest friends who acted as my first "non-writer" reader.

Rob Livergood, who spent more time on the phone with me than I'm sure he had available, answering numerous questions about prosecutors and the criminal justice system. (Also, thanks in advance to the people of St. Louis for granting me the literary license to use the technically inaccurate but more nationally known term: district attorney.)

Kathy McLaughlin, my Philly running buddy and a talented designer who was very gracious about the cover switch.

Ellen Cooney, who probably doesn't even remember me, but who was the first "real" writer I knew who, with three small words on one of my short story manuscripts—"Send it in!"—convinced me that maybe, just maybe, I could do this.

Andrea Chapin, who waded through my hefty first draft and immediately honed in on where the story truly begins.

The Dave Matthews Band, for a never-ending supply of music to write to.

I also owe enormous thanks to my daughters Jessie and Sally for not getting too upset when mommy spends more time at the computer than with them. They are genuinely good kids and my greatest accomplishment in life.

Finally, and most importantly, I want to thank my husband Rick, who is one of the most loving, generous, patient men ever to walk the earth, and for whom there is no rival. Without him, this writing life of mine would not be possible.