Let Darkness Come (4 page)

I
n the back of his limo, Antonio pulls out his cell phone and dials his lawyer's private number. Though Joseph Franklin is sure to be either at lunch or in a meeting, the managing partner at Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton answers almost immediately. “Antonio?”

“Joe. I suppose you've heard about my son.”

“Of course, I was so sorry to hear the news. I trust you received the flowers we sent.”

“I'm sure we did. Listen, I'm calling about a matter relating to Jeffrey's death…but this must be handled, you know, carefully.”

In the background Antonio can hear the hum of conversation and the clinking sounds of restaurant service, but Joseph's voice carries clearly: “I'm listening.”

Antonio stares out the window, where the stately brownstones and wrought-iron fences of Lincoln Park are sliding by. “The police have made an arrest. I can't believe it, but late this morning they took my daughter-in-law into custody. Erin will be needing a lawyer.”

The thick silence of concentration rolls over the line. When Joe speaks again, his voice is guarded. “You want us to defend her?”

“I do. People will expect the family to support her, and you are the family's firm. But I talked to the medical examiner and the chief detective, and the case against her is rock solid. So I want her punished to the fullest extent of the law.”

“So you're saying—”

“The fullest extent, you understand? Assign someone to her case, make sure everything's done by the book. But don't allow her to walk free of that courtroom with my son's blood on her hands.”

Antonio can almost see the heavy lines of concentration that must be creasing the attorney's forehead. “We'll have to be careful to avoid the appearance of impropriety. Even a guilty client is entitled to an adequate defense.”

“I don't think the Constitution says anything about a stone-cold killer being entitled to the
best
defense, does it? So do whatever you have to, but don't let the woman who killed my son walk out of that courtroom without paying for what she did.”

The sweet sound of tinkling ice cubes rattles over the line, followed by Joseph's assuring voice. “Don't worry, my friend. As always, we will do everything we can to merit your confidence and trust.”

Antonio nods at his grim reflection in the darkened window. “I know you will.”

B
riley giggles as Timothy's lips, cooled by the ice cream he's just finished, nuzzle the side of her neck.

“That tickles,” she says, sliding out of his embrace. “You should warm up those lips before you start breathing down my throat.”

His smile widens in approval. “Got any ideas about how I could do that?”

Briley laughs. They are standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk on Chicago's “Magnificent Mile,” surrounded by shoppers and employees who, like her, really should get back to work.

She wags a gloved finger at him. “You're going to get me in trouble.”

“Sounds promising.”

“Come on, walk me back to the office.”

Timothy sighs and grabs her hand as they begin to walk. “Thanks for making time for lunch. And for ice cream.”

“You're welcome. Maybe we could do it again sometime.”

“If we're lucky.”

She's about to suggest that they make it a regular date when the tinkle of a cell phone spoils the silence. She groans. “Yours or mine?”

“Not my ring tone. And Dax shouldn't be calling for at least another half hour.”

“Ohmygoodness.” Briley stops walking and yanks her purse from her shoulder. “My boss. I programmed that ring tone for Mr. Franklin, never dreaming he'd actually call
me.” She finds the phone at the bottom of her bag and presses it to her ear. “Hello?”

She listens, hears her boss's voice, and strides to a granite planter edging the sidewalk. After dropping her purse on the rim of the planter, she slides the phone between her shoulder and her ear, then rummages for a grocery list at the bottom of her bag. She looks at Timothy, frantically pretending to write on the air.

“No, sir,” she tells her boss. “You didn't catch me at a bad time.”

Timothy hands her a pen, which she clicks. With his shoulder as a support, she's jotting a client's name on the back of the grocery list when a chill strikes the marrow of her bones.

“Did you say Erin Tomassi?” She grips the phone. “The state senator's wife?”

“The state senator's widow,” her boss answers. “And, according to the state's attorney, his killer. She was arrested this morning, so you'll need to get over to the jail ASAP.”

Briley winces, not sure she's heard correctly above the sound of tires hissing on the wet asphalt. “You want me to go to the jail? Am I filling in for Morton or Hubbard?”

“What's the problem? Aren't alleged killers entitled to your representation?”

“That's not what I meant. Of course I'll go. But I've never handled a murder case. And
this
trial—”

“We need you to get over there and give us a full report as soon as you can. The Tomassis are highly valued clients, so we need to know what the state's attorney knows. See if you can get a summary of the case and a copy of the police report.”

“Right. Okay.” Briley disconnects the call and drops the phone back into her purse. She looks at Timothy, aware that most of the sunshine has just gone out of the day.

“What's wrong?” he asks.

“A client,” she says, a sense of unease settling over her like a dark cloud. “A murder charge.”

He whistles. “That's not your usual gig, is it?”

“No.” She frowns at the name on the paper in her hand. “It involves the Tomassi family. This trial is going to be huge, so why did he call—”

“Because you're good.” Timothy takes his pen from her grip and puts it back in his pocket, then laces his fingers with hers. “Come on, let's get you back to the office.”

Briley walks beside him, her thoughts as clogged as the traffic on the congested street. Something doesn't fit. Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton has represented the Tomassi family for years, but never in a criminal case. Antonio Tomassi, the family patriarch, must have been astounded when the state's attorney charged his daughter-in-law with the murder of his son, so he immediately called the family's firm.

But why did Franklin call
her?
She has no experience with murder trials and little experience with the press. And the press will be all over this trial.

Franklin certainly won't keep her on the case. Maybe he needs someone to run to the jail and she's the only associate not tied up in a meeting. Or maybe he's thinking that photos of a female attorney leaving the jail will elicit public sympathy for the defendant. Juxtaposing photos of Briley's solid, unglamorous face with pictures of the elegant Erin Tomassi will make an impression on readers of the morning news.

She halts on the sidewalk and considers what she'll need for her jail visit: pen, paper, a recorder. Fortunately, she carries a digital recorder in her purse and she can get paper at the security desk.

“Can I borrow your pen?” She squints up at Timothy. “I need to take it to the jail.”

“You're going
now?
”

“Franklin wants me to get there ASAP, so I might as well catch a cab here.”

He pulls the pen from his pocket and drops it into her purse. “So you're off to save the world?”

“Not the world, just one woman. And I'm not going to save her. I'm only pinch-hitting.”

“Can you say more?”

She rises on tiptoe and presses a kiss to his cold cheek. “I don't know any more. Besides, I'm sure this is a one-shot deal. This trial's going to be major league, and I'm still in the minors.”

Timothy steps to the curb and lifts his hand, signaling to a cab in the right lane. When the cabbie stops, he opens the door and catches Briley's hand. “Off you go.” He squeezes her fingers. “Be careful down there.”

“Don't worry about me,” Briley says, sliding into the backseat. “No one wants to kill the defense attorney until
after
the trial.”

 

As the taxi growls through the traffic on Michigan Avenue, Briley stares out the window and tries to corral her galloping thoughts. This case will undoubtedly end up with John Morton, the firm's most experienced criminal litigant. Last year he handled three high-profile murders and won an acquittal in each case. The man's closing arguments were pure poetry, and rumor had it that he could strike a jury better than anyone in the state. Because he had a knack for ferreting out the hard-liners, his juries were soft enough to eat with a spoon.

If Briley handles this interview well, she might be allowed to sit as second or third chair during the trial. She'll gain valuable experience, and an acquittal would be a feather in her cap, no matter how small her role. If she's going to move up the ladder in this firm, she needs to be involved in more serious cases.

She smiles at the memory of her favorite movie. She's been fascinated by the role of defense attorney ever since watching Atticus Finch defend Tom Robinson in
To Kill a Mockingbird
, but she's never had to defend a client against a murder charge. How will the prosecution play this one? Will they be going for first-degree?

An unexpected gust of trepidation blows down the back
of her neck. A first-degree murder conviction could result in the death penalty. Capital punishment in Illinois is reserved for situations with at least one aggravating circumstance, but some of those circumstances might apply in this situation. Briley mentally runs down the list—as a state senator, the victim could be considered a government employee, but that wouldn't count as an aggravating circumstance unless he was killed in the course of his duties. Murder for pecuniary gain is a special circumstance, so if the wife killed her husband to inherit his trust fund, Erin Tomassi's life could be ended by lethal injection.

Briley braces herself as the cab rattles and bounces over a stretch of potholed asphalt. Maybe she shouldn't ask to be a part of this woman's defense team. Tom Robinson's trial devoured Atticus Finch's life and profoundly affected his family. And after all that, plus a guilty verdict, Tom Robinson ended up with a bullet in his back.

When she's finished with this interview, she will be happy to hand the case to John Morton.

 

The accused killer sparkled the first time Briley saw her, but nothing about Erin Tomassi glitters now.

In a pale green interview room at the Division Four building, part of the sprawling Cook County Jail, Briley comes face-to-face with the firm's latest client. In her V-neck top and elastic-waist pants, the standard jail uniform, Jeffrey Tomassi's young widow huddles in a plastic chair and rubs her bare arms. Since Cook County uniforms are color-coded by security level, Erin is wearing orange—not a good color for blue-eyed blondes.

Briley has never interviewed a prisoner in orange before.

She waits until the armed escort removes the prisoner's handcuffs, then she sets her purse on the table and extends her hand. “Mrs. Tomassi? I'm Briley Lester from Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton. I'll be representing you before the judge.”

For an alleged murderer, Erin has a surprisingly uncertain look in her eyes. “I—I didn't think I could afford an attorney.”

Is she kidding, or is this some kind of act? “I doubt you would qualify for representation by a public defender. Clients above a certain income—”

“The money's not mine.” Erin lowers her gaze. “And I don't know why they're saying I killed Jeffrey. I didn't kill him, I
wouldn't
kill him, and I don't want his money. I never did. That's why I signed a prenup before we got married.”

Briley waits until the guard leaves and closes the door, then she slips into the chair on the other side of the table, pulls her digital recorder out of her purse, and clicks it on. “Before we begin, I need to warn you—watch what you say here in the jail. Don't talk with the guards, the police, or another inmate about anything even remotely related to your husband's death. Don't doubt that some snitch will rat you out in a minute. Unless you're talking about the weather, the food, or what's on TV, keep your lips zipped.”

The woman nods, her eyes reminding Briley of a terrified rabbit's. “How long will they keep me locked up in this place? I don't think I could bear being in here at Christmas.”

“Depends upon what the judge sets for bail.” Briley slides a borrowed notepad onto the table. “Now—don't tell me what happened. Tell me what they
say
happened. What have you heard from the state's attorney or the police?”

Erin's eyes fill with tears. “They say I killed Jeffrey,” she says. “They say I gave him an overdose of insulin while he was asleep. I guess…that'd be first-degree murder, wouldn't it?”

Briley jots on her notepad. “Was your husband diabetic?”

“Yes.”

“He took daily insulin shots?”

“He injected himself three or four times a day. He always acted like it was no big deal.”

Briley frowns. “How long has it been since your husband died?”

The woman's lower lip quivers. “He died on December 3. The morning after his big fundraiser at the Conrad.”

Briley does the subtraction in her head. “Only nine days
ago. Toxicology reports usually take a good six weeks to come back from the lab.”

The slender woman rubs her arms again. “I don't know anything about that, but I wouldn't be surprised if Antonio pulled a few strings. The Tomassis always get what they want.”

Studying her client, Briley lets the comment slide. “Do you know anyone who would want your husband dead?”

Her shock appears genuine. “No.”

“Was your husband suicidal?”

She shakes her head.

“Did the police mention
why
they think you killed him?”

Erin wipes tears from her lower lashes. “All I know is they say he died from an insulin overdose, then this morning they showed up at my father-in-law's house with my name on an arrest warrant. And my juice glass. They kept asking if the fingerprints on the juice glass were mine.”

Briley clicks her pen and draws a deep breath. To make such a quick arrest, they must have fingerprints on something more incriminating than a glass. “That's all they asked?”

“They asked if I ever gave Jeffrey his injections. I said no, of course, because I never did.”

Fingerprints confirmed on a juice glass. Insulin overdose…They have her prints on a
syringe
. As far as the cops are concerned, this case has been investigated, wrapped, and handed to the state's attorney with a shiny bow on top.

Briley wouldn't be surprised to learn that people are pressuring the state's attorney for a quick conviction. The Tomassis are big names in Chicago, and the senator's fundraising event attracted a lot of media attention. Everyone knew Jeffrey Tomassi was launching his campaign for Congress that night. But if someone wanted to prevent that launch, why wouldn't they kill him the night before?