Let Darkness Come (19 page)

A
fter leaving her car in the five-story parking garage across from the Cook County courthouse, Briley crosses to the hulking gray stone building at the corner of Twenty-sixth and California. A fleet of news vehicles is parked along the curb, each van sprouting cables that snake across the sidewalk and up the courthouse steps.

Briley slips on her sunglasses and keeps her head down, not wanting to attract media attention while she's trying to focus her thoughts.

At the courthouse doors, a veritable flood of humanity merges from all directions, the somber suits of government employees and lawyers mingling with the street clothing of jurors, witnesses, and reporters. Briley lingers at the edge of the courthouse steps until she spies William Hughes in the crowd. Somehow he has obtained the firm's permission to attend the trial. He won't be entitled to sit at the defense table—an honor reserved for those who have passed the bar exam—but he can sit in the first row of the gallery and offer any assistance she might need.

She smiles, finding comfort in the sight of a familiar face. “William!” She waves to catch his attention, then falls into step beside him as they move toward the entrance.

“So?” He gives her an uncertain smile. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

She shakes her head. “I tried to put the trial out of my mind this weekend, but I couldn't stop revising my opening statement. Last night I ended up drinking warm milk to help
me sleep, then I dreamed of Napoleon and Waterloo.” She takes him in with one glance. “You look nice, by the way.”

“Thanks.” He lifts the edge of his overcoat and pats the lapel of the suit beneath. “Thought maybe it'd be best to leave the cardigan at home, seeing as how I'll be representing the firm.”

They slow their steps as the crowd funnels through a single hallway that ends at a pair of metal detectors. The people around them begin to remove watches, shoes, and heavy jewelry. Anything metal must be placed in a plastic bin.

“Just like the airport,” William jokes as he takes off his belt. He pulls his cell phone from his coat pocket and drops it into the tray with his belt and shoes. “Americans strip down pretty easily these days.”

Briley gives him a quick smile, but she's not feeling up to small talk. They probably won't accomplish much more than seating a jury today, but the right jury can make all the difference. She's never selected a jury for a murder case, but the firm still wouldn't approve funding to hire a jury consultant. So she'll be on her own, with only William and her instincts to help her choose the best jurors for this trial.

She slides off her shoes and drops them into a plastic bin, then sets it on the conveyer belt beside her briefcase. Ahead of her, a security guard barks commands and instructs all arrivals to remove their outerwear and jackets. She slips out of her coat and suit jacket, noticing that the young man behind her, sans coat, is wearing obvious gangsta attire.

She hopes he's not heading toward her courtroom.

William's smile vanishes when the security guard gestures to him. With the posture of a brigadier, William marches through the machine and waits for his bin to roll through the X-ray machine.

Briley follows, nodding in relief when she passes through without setting off the alarm. When she and William have collected their belongings, she leads the way past the snack shop and the bulletin board where printouts of the day's
court calls are tacked in fifteen rows, three pages deep. While they wait outside the elevator, a single-file line of prospective jurors passes, their eyes wide as a deputy herds them from one holding pen to another.

“Seventh floor,” she tells William when they enter the elevator. “Judge Trask's courtroom.”

They ride up in the heavy silence generated by a group of somber strangers, and exit at the seventh floor. But when she steps into the hallway, Briley grabs William's arm as her knees turn to gelatin.

Standing before the courtroom's double doors is Jeffrey Tomassi.

I
n a surge of fierce satisfaction, Antonio smiles as he watches the defense attorney's knees buckle. “Look.” He nudges Jason. “The woman is nervous. She knows her client is doomed.”

Jason glances at the man and woman huddled in the hallway, then he takes his father's arm. “Come, Papa. We should go inside.”

Antonio jerks free of Jason's grip. “We have all day to sit. I want to stand here…and let them know Jeffrey will not be forgotten.” He lifts his chin as a photographer approaches, camera in hand. He stares, silently granting the man's unspoken request for a shot, but a deputy runs over and reminds the stranger that photography is not allowed in the courthouse.

Antonio sighs in resignation. He glances behind him to be sure his daughters have come out of the restroom where they went to repair their makeup. The youngest is pale; the oldest has red-rimmed eyes. All of them look like grief-stricken women, as they should.

“No tears,” he reminds them. “Keep your chin up and pray for justice. Now…let us go inside.”

Like the stately patriarch his father once was, Antonio leads his children into the courtroom.

W
illiam pats Briley's hand. “Are you all right?”

She pulls herself off the wall, hoping that no one else noticed her stumble. “Is that…? That's not…?”

“The resemblance is remarkable, isn't it?”

“But that's not Jeffrey.”

“It's Jason Tomassi, Jeffrey's brother.”

Briley straightens and releases William's arm. “Amazing likeness.”

“Almost close enough to be identical, but I hear they were fraternal twins.”

Briley takes a deep breath to calm her leaping pulse. “I did some checking up on Jason, just to be sure he didn't have any reason to profit from his brother's death. They went to college together, and apparently they had some kind of secret language. Used to drive their frat brothers nuts.”

She steps forward on legs that threaten to tremble beneath her weight.

“Are you sure you're okay?” William asks, walking beside her.

“I'm fine. I…had forgotten how alike they were.” She pauses several feet away from the courtroom doors, allowing the Tomassis to enter undisturbed. When Jeffrey's family has moved down the aisle, she grips her briefcase and steps through the doorway.

After they pass the family, William jerks his head toward the Tomassi men. “Could Jason have a reason for wanting his brother dead?”

Briley shakes her head. “Not likely. Jason was with his girlfriend the night Jeffrey died, so he has an alibi. Don't worry, I made sure the police checked him out. If Erin is convicted, Jeffrey's estate goes to his brother.”

“I assumed Jeffrey's lavish lifestyle was financed with his daddy's money.”

“That's a good assumption. Apparently the Tomassi family patriarch gives his children a lump sum when they get married. Jeffrey used his to buy the house in Lincoln Park and still managed to invest a good amount.”

William grins. “Mr. Franklin always says you should follow the money.”

The comment hangs in the air as Briley makes her way to the counsel table. Has she done enough to follow the money? The estate leads directly to Jason, but there's no evidence to implicate him in the crime. Furthermore, at this point it's not her job to play Columbo. Her job is to defend Erin.

She steps through the swinging gate set into the wooden bar and sets her briefcase on the defense table. William sits in the gallery behind her, and she reminds him to reserve that seat for the duration of the trial. “If I need something,” she tells him, “I want to be able to glance over my shoulder and know you're there.”

She looks up, distracted by the sight of a familiar face in the crowd. Shirley Walker, wearing a dark suit and heels, is heading straight for her.

To spare the woman the embarrassment of being stopped by a deputy, Briley steps into the gallery. “Mrs. Walker. Did you get my message? We won't need you today. We probably won't need you until later in the week.”

The housekeeper takes Briley's hand. “I didn't come down here to testify. I came to give Erin my support. And to give you a message for her.”

“What's that?” Briley smiles, though an inner alarm bell begins to clang. If the woman has just remembered something important…

“I had Erin's calls forwarded to my house, so when Mrs. Tomassi's doctor called again, I picked up the phone and spoke to Dr. Phillips. He said it's important that Erin call him as soon as possible. I didn't tell him, of course, about her being locked up. Apparently he doesn't watch the news.”

Briley sighs, remembering the slip of paper in her briefcase. It had been among the letters she carried to the jail last week, but the note must have dropped to the bottom of her bag. “Thank you, Mrs. Walker. I'll give Erin the message.”

“Thank you, dear. We can't be too careful about our health, you know.” The woman pats Briley's shoulder and moves to a seat on the second row.

Briley looks up as a door to the left of the judge's bench opens. A bailiff appears and leads Erin into the courtroom. She has been allowed to trade her orange uniform for the ivory suit Briley bought her, and today she has chosen the bright blue blouse to provide a spot of color. As her client walks forward, Briley notices that the blue is a perfect match for Erin's eyes.

“Nice choice on the outfit,” she says, meeting Erin at the defense table. “I was hoping you'd like the clothes I picked out.”

Erin runs her hands over the pencil skirt. “This is a lovely suit, but I'm afraid it'll be dirty by the time the trial is over.”

Briley smiles, preferring not to explain that she chose ivory for a reason. She wants her client to appear virtuous, and an ivory suit is a tad more subtle than Virgin Mary robes.

“I can pick up something more practical later,” Briley says. “Maybe something in yellow.”

“Can't you get something from my house?” Erin's eyes fill with helpless appeal. “It's not that I don't appreciate the outfit, but it's not mine. I'm so out of my element, it'd be nice if I could at least wear my own clothes.”

Briley leans over to pat her hand. “I understand. But your house is a crime scene, and it won't be cleared until after the trial. Let's see how things progress. If all goes well, you should be wearing your own clothes in a week.”

When a murmur moves through the gallery, Briley turns to see Travis Bystrowski and his assistant approaching. “Buckle your seat belt,” she says, keeping her voice low, “here comes the opposing team.”

After Bystrowski settles at the prosecution's table, Briley walks over and extends her hand. “Good morning, Counselor,” she says, her voice artificially bright. “Ready to go another round?”

“Always ready for you.” The prosecutor smiles as he takes her hand, but Briley can't shake the feeling that his remark is an intentional insult. He's reminding her that she's in the big leagues now, and sorely inexperienced.

She tilts her head toward the doorway that leads to the judge's chambers. “Shall we go in and greet Judge Trask? I'm ready to get this show on the road.”

He extends his hand in a gallant gesture. “Ladies first.”

She strides forward with a confidence she doesn't feel, then raps on the door to the judge's office. A hearty “Come in” gives her permission to proceed.

Judge Trask, already wearing his robe, is downing a bottle of water when Briley and Bystrowski enter. He keeps swallowing until the container is empty, then he wipes droplets from his lips. “Good morning, Counselors.” He tosses the plastic bottle into the trash. “Anything I need to know before we begin?”

The judge looks at the prosecutor. “Mr. Bystrowski?”

“The state is prepared,” he says. “We're ready to commence with voir dire.”

The judge glances in Briley's direction. “Ms. Lester, did you receive everything you needed in discovery?”

She struggles to find her voice. “As far as I know, Your Honor.”

“Good. Anything else, then?”

“Yes, sir,” Briley says.

When both men look at her, she steels herself to roll the dice again. “In light of your recent ruling,” she says, knowing
she's taking a risk, “the defense would like to move that a particular piece of evidence be excluded. A syringe was taken from my client's bathroom without a warrant. In this situation she had a reasonable expectation of privacy—”

The judge lifts his hand. “Didn't we cover this at the pretrial hearing?”

“No, sir. The motion I made at that hearing had to do with whether or not my client gave her consent for a search. My present motion is based on the fact that the home wasn't a crime scene until the medical examiner declared Jeffrey Tomassi's death suspicious—an event that occurred several days after the search on December 3. On that day, my client cooperated fully, calling 911 for her husband and giving police permission to search the bedroom where the victim's body was found.”

“The people object, Your Honor.” Bystrowski gives Briley a
You're kidding
glance. “The police don't need a warrant to search if consent has been given.”

“But the police had no reason to search the master bathroom,” Briley argues. “The victim was discovered in the adjacent bedroom, where he expired. Given that citizens have a reasonable expectation of privacy in the most protected areas of their homes—”

“Preposterous, Your Honor. The police had a right to search any room in the house.”

Judge Trask fixes Briley in a steely-eyed gaze. “Interesting gambit, but you're assuming the crime occurred in the bedroom, and we don't know where the man was attacked. I will not grant your motion on the basis of assumption, therefore anything found in the house is admissible if permission to search has been granted. Your motion to exclude is denied.”

Briley sighs. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

“All right, then.” The judge picks up a copy of the prosecution's witness list and compares it to Briley's. “Any idea how long this trial should take?”

“We'll need three days,” Bystrowski says. “Our case is simple and straightforward.”

Briley nods. “We'll need a day or two. Our defense is equally simple. But if my client is convicted, we'll need several days for the penalty phase of the trial.”

“Understood.” The judge waves the papers in his hands. “And is this the proper order?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let the games begin.”

When the judge grabs another bottle of water from a minifridge behind his desk, Briley realizes they've been dismissed. She and Bystrowski exit the judge's chambers and take their seats at their respective tables.

A moment later, the bailiff calls for order.

 

“All rise.”

Briley stands with the crowd as the bailiff announces, “This honorable court is now in session, the Honorable Milton Trask, Judge, presiding. Be seated, please, and come to order.”

As the judge enters and takes care of a few housekeeping matters, Briley studies the faces of the men and women in the jury pool and wishes she had more time to consider them. From the fifty people filing in through a front door, she and Bystrowski must choose twelve jurors and two alternates. Because this is a death penalty case, she and the prosecutor are both allowed twenty peremptory challenges.

Beside her, Erin seems listless and anxious. Knowing that such behavior can influence jurors' opinions, Briley takes a legal pad and a pen from her briefcase and slides them to her client. “By the way,” she whispers while the jurors are listening to the judge, “because jurors get suspicious when we put our heads together, write any comments you'd like to tell me on this paper. It's less distracting.”

Briley listens to the judge's instructions and makes a note on her legal pad when one of the jurors looks confused.
She needs intelligent jurors, people who can follow a line of reasoning and come to the correct conclusions.

Voir dire will continue for a couple of hours, and before they actually strike the jury she and Bystrowski will be given the opportunity to repeat the judge's questions and ask follow-up questions of their own. She will not emphasize the possibility of capital punishment; instead, she'll stress that not every guilty verdict deserves a death sentence. She might ask whether or not these jurors have faith in something that contradicts the laws of science and reason….

She'll have to be careful with that last query, but she really wants to know.

She needs jurors who can believe in phantoms.

 

When the judge dismisses the court for lunch, Briley reaches for her briefcase, then halts in midgesture. She usually spends the midday recess in a nearby restaurant, preoccupied with the trial, but Timothy's words keep haunting her:
You care about people. You care about your client
.

Does she? In three years of practicing law, Briley has never given a thought to where her clients eat lunch. She looks up and sees a deputy approaching to escort Erin to wherever the “custodies” are fed. “I'd like to have lunch with my client today,” she says, using her firmest voice. “Maybe you could find us an empty interview room?”

The man stammers in surprise, but Briley proceeds as though she does this every day. “Wills,” she says, pulling two tens from her wallet, “will you run out and grab us some burgers? We're going to eat with Erin today.”

“I'll have to talk to the judge,” the deputy says. “This is highly irregular.”

“Please check with him, then.” Briley folds her arms on the table. “We'll wait right here.”

Five minutes later, the deputy returns with an answer. “Judge Trask says you can eat here, in the courtroom, or in
the bullpen. But if you eat there, you'll be on one side of the bars and your client on the other.”

“What an appealing option.” Briley rests her chin in her hand and smiles. “I guess we'll have a picnic here. Deputy, would you like to join us for a burger?”