Let Darkness Come (6 page)

As the candidate promised brighter days and lower crime rates for Illinois, Briley leaned toward Tim and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Did you know that eighteen American presidents were over six feet tall?”

Tim returned her grin. “And the reason for this comment is?”

“Even Eleanor Roosevelt was six feet tall. Tomassi is tall, too, don't you think?”

“Shouldn't short men run for office?”

“Ask Napoleon.” She nudged his shoulder. “How tall are you?”

Tim straightened his spine. “Tall enough to score tickets to this shindig. But maybe not tall enough to run for office.”

“Don't worry about it. I don't think I could handle many more of these dinners.”

They fell silent as a string ensemble began to play. A murmur of approval rose from the crowd as Jeffrey Tomassi extended his hand to the lovely woman at his side. She stepped out from behind the head table and joined him in the cleared space reserved for a dance floor. And while the strings played Eric Clapton's “Wonderful Tonight,” Jeffrey and Erin Tomassi floated over the floor in each other's arms.

Briley fell silent as she studied the dancers moving in the spotlight. How did some women always manage to look so perfect? How, for instance, did Erin Tomassi achieve her unique hair color? Anything that pours from a bottle tends
to result in a uniform shade, but Erin Tomassi's hair was a mixture of gold and blond and variant shades in between. It spilled like a waterfall over her shoulders, gleaming and swaying like living silk….

Briley shifted her gaze to the couple's faces—his resolute and handsome, hers soft and graceful. Erin's mouth moved as she said something to her husband. Though Briley couldn't see his answering expression, she did observe his hand flexing over his bride's spine, drawing her closer in the dance.

W
hile the strings played and her husband hummed in her ear, Erin tried to maintain the stiff smile affixed to her face. “You're holding me too closely.” She uttered the words in a voice designed to reach him alone. “Jeffrey, please.”

“Relax.” He smiled and spun her again, eliciting another burst of applause from the delighted crowd. “They like it when you're relaxed.”

“I am relaxed. I'm smiling.”

“Not like you were when Dax Lightner looked at you. So step it up, darling, and turn on the charm. Everyone wants to see how you'll handle the pressure as a U.S. congressman's wife.”

She turned her face, not willing to look at him, and felt his palm press against her bare back. In a moment, his grip on her hand would crush the bones in her fingers—

She sighed in relief when the music finally faded. Jeffrey released her and stepped back, bowing to the audience and, with a mocking attempt at gallantry, to her. She waved through a veil of tears and turned to go back to her seat. Only in moments like this, when she hid her face from the crowd, could she relax, but soon she'd be on display again, expected to sit and smile and clap and make sparkling conversation with strangers who felt they owned her somehow, so they had every right to pry and pat and soothe her as if she were a china doll to pass around….

Someone must have handed Jeffrey a microphone; she could hear his voice booming out more promises he would
keep if elected to national office. National health care! Respect for the environment! A college education for all!

Good grief, he sounded as if he were already running for president. That goal lay at least ten years away, but he and his family had laid careful plans, bridling their ambition until they could sweep into the Oval Office and commandeer space for the entire family in the West Wing.

Unable to bear the sound of Jeffrey's voice another minute, Erin stepped behind the head table and slipped through a gap in the velvet curtain that served as a backdrop. An open door beckoned beyond the empty space, and she ran toward it, not caring what anyone might think about her sudden departure.

On the other side of the door lay a deserted hallway. Safely out of sight, she leaned against the wall and breathed deep to steady her pounding pulse. She had tried her best to please tonight; she had taken extra pains with her hair and makeup, she had chatted gaily with the older man seated on the other side of the lectern. But still Jeffrey had found fault. Naturally, he would. Her efforts were never good enough.

She caught her breath when she heard footsteps approaching through the open doorway. She turned to walk down the hall.

“Erin?”

She glanced over her shoulder when she recognized the voice. Her father-in-law stood behind her, a look of compassionate concern on his face. “Are you feeling all right?”

She forced a smile. “I'm fine. Just…breathless.”

“It was warm in there, especially under the lights. Would you like me to take you outside for some fresh air? I could give you my coat—”

“I'll be fine. I'm feeling better already.”

“Then let me escort you back inside.” He offered his arm, jutting it toward her like the sturdy iron hasp on a length of chain. Reluctantly, she slipped her arm through his, pasted on a smile, and inhaled the refined scent of his cologne.

“What's this?”

She glanced at Antonio's face and saw that he was staring at her upper arm, which bore the marks of Jeffrey's hard grip. “Oh, that.” She forced a laugh. “I tripped over the hem of my gown and Jeffrey had to catch me.” She smiled, waiting for him to respond, but he stared at her with deadly concentration.

“Maybe you should be careful not to…trip in the days ahead. We have a lot riding on that young man.”

Erin lowered her gaze. If she told Antonio the truth, he would correct his son, and later the son would correct his wife. With as much force as necessary to convince her never to speak up again.

“Your son—” she chose her words with care “—is quite forceful about his opinions.”

“All great men are forceful.” Antonio's dark eyes pinned her in a long and silent scrutiny, then he patted her hand and gestured toward the doorway. “Shall we rejoin the others?”

Still at the lectern, Jeffrey didn't miss a beat of his speech. She sank into her seat and settled her hands in her lap, hoping he hadn't noticed her abrupt disappearance.

But during an applause break, he turned, looked at her, and flashed a knowing smile that made her blood run cold.

I
n an office muffled with after-hours quiet, Briley holds a roast beef sandwich in her left hand and makes a list with her right. She's usually home at this hour, watching the news while she eats a prepackaged dinner hot from the microwave, but Timothy's little pep talk has inspired her to begin working on the Tomassi file. Tomorrow she'll check into shifting her current cases to other associates, but now she needs to focus on doing what needs to be done for Erin Tomassi.

That woman, at least, should be relieved to learn that she now has a lawyer. Though she probably won't be thrilled by the firm's choice.

Briley takes another bite of roast beef and considers the first steps she needs to take. Almost immediately, she'll need to assemble a defense team. Current ABA guidelines for death penalty cases suggest that no fewer than two attorneys, an investigator, and a mitigation specialist work concurrently on the case. Not only must they prepare for the guilt-or-innocence phase of the trial, they must be ready for the possibility of a conviction. If the penalty phase of the trial is necessary, the defense team will attempt to mitigate the crime by presenting the defendant's past, social upbringing, good deeds, character witnesses—anything that might persuade a jury to spare her life.

For the first phase, Briley will need copies of the autopsy and police reports, along with an inventory of all items seized when the police searched the crime scene. She'll need to discover what witnesses might be able to shed light
on the events of Jeffrey Tomassi's final days, and she'll have to learn what motive the police are ascribing to Tomassi's wife. Why would an openly adoring woman want to kill her husband? As the spouse of a state senator, Erin enjoyed power and prestige. She shared her husband's wealth, which included two homes, one in Springfield and one in tony Lincoln Park. The couple had no children, but Jeffrey Tomassi was close to his father, brother, and four sisters. Presumably the large family had embraced Erin and made her feel at home.

So why would she risk all that by murdering her husband?

Briley draws a question mark in the margin of her legal pad and takes another bite of her sandwich. She'll need to conduct an in-depth interview with her client, which means a trip down to the jail next week. After learning more about the case, she may need to hire a private investigator to track down reasons why other people may have wanted Jeffrey Tomassi out of the way. Joe Franklin is fond of saying that investigators should follow the money trail, so if Erin doesn't inherit her husband's fortune, who does? That person certainly needs to be questioned.

On the other hand—she flips a page—perhaps the medical examiner misinterpreted the evidence and Jeffrey Tomassi suffered an accidental death. She might need a medical expert to testify about insulin injection. Maybe the man overdosed. The family may not want to believe that their rising star could make such an elementary blunder, but stranger things have happened. All Briley needs is the element of doubt. Unless all twelve jurors vote “guilty,” her client walks free.

But the state's attorney knows this…and wouldn't have charged Erin with first-degree murder without incontrovertible evidence. Which, presumably, involves a set of incriminating fingerprints on a syringe, and who knows what else?

Briley pulls out the firm's phone directory and looks over the employee roster. She's going to need help on this case, though Franklin hasn't said anything about providing it.

She turns to her computer and types out a quick e-mail, asking Franklin for the full-time assistance of one paralegal, one private investigator, a mitigation specialist and another associate. Given the potential for media interest in this matter, she finishes, I'm sure you can see why I'd feel more adequately prepared with additional staff on the team. With one click, she sends the e-mail, then she telephones the Cook County prosecutor's office to ask for the case file to be sent over. Because the office is closed, her call goes straight to voice mail, but crime—and prosecutors—operate twenty-four hours a day. She might get an answer tonight.

This call will establish the beginning of a long trail of paperwork. As pretrial discovery commences, she will have to provide the prosecuting attorney with the names and addresses of any potential witnesses, copies of witness depositions, any psychologist's or physician's reports she intends to introduce, and a list of evidence she plans to present at trial. The prosecution should provide the same for her, as well as copies of all statements made by the defendant and in the prosecution's possession.

Before she hangs up the phone, she has an e-mail answer from Joe Franklin: Client should be responsible for cost of investigator and any other consultants. Unable to provide full-time assistance for your case at present. Suggest you use staff as they become available.

Briley's stomach lurches. Is the firm
trying
to sabotage her case? The associates and paralegals on this floor are already overworked; none of them will be “available” anytime in the near future. And if Erin can't afford a T-shirt at the jail, how can she pay for an investigator?

Briley chews on her thumbnail, then flips the cover of her address book. Criminal justice standards require jurisdictions to ensure that if a defendant doesn't have money, the court will provide funds for the payment of investigators and experts, as a matter of the defendant's constitutional right
to present an effective defense. The court is especially willing to provide funds for persons facing the death penalty.

Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton rarely represents indigent clients, but under Illinois's slayer statute, no person convicted of a murder charge can financially benefit from the victim's death. Since the state has filed charges against Erin Tomassi, the banks have undoubtedly frozen Jeffrey Tomassi's estate, including any accounts jointly owned with his wife. The estate will not go through probate until after the murder trial, so for the moment, Erin is essentially penniless. If she's convicted, she'll remain destitute.

Either way, she qualifies for financial help from the state of Illinois. Joseph Franklin may not be wild about the idea of Briley's petitioning the state for a handout, but if he won't provide the funds she needs to investigate this case, he's leaving her with no other choice.

Once again, Briley picks up the phone.

 

The next morning, Briley pads down the stairs in sock-clad feet and peeks through a decorative windowpane in the front door. Her newspaper sits on the frost-covered lawn, barely twenty feet away.

Does she dare run out in her robe and socks, or should she wait until she's dressed?

She peers through the glass again, and tries to judge the traffic. She hears no sounds of approaching cars, and nine o'clock is still early, especially for a Saturday.

She flips the dead bolt on the door and pulls on the handle, allowing a stream of frigid air into the foyer. Like a swimmer about to plunge into icy water, she tucks her chin, grips the edges of her robe, and runs across the porch. She scoops up the paper and pivots on the ball of her foot, ready to sprint back inside.

“Hello!” Mrs. Ivins, the older woman who lives next door, lifts her head above the jagged edge of the picket fence and calls out a cheery greeting. “Lovely morning, isn't it?”

Briley glances up at the sky. “Yes,” she calls, walking back to the porch as quickly as she can without appearing rude. “Beautiful morning. Going to be a pretty day.”

“It's supposed to snow on Sunday.” Mrs. Ivins gazes at the winter-dead canes of her rosebushes. “I don't care for the snow, but your father loved it. I've always thought winter was cruel, but your dad used to say it was a promise of better things to come.” She blinks and shifts her gaze to Briley. “That reminds me—Are you doing anything special for Christmas? I'm having my open house on Christmas Eve.”

Briley shivers and hesitates on the sidewalk. “Um…I haven't decided about Christmas Eve yet. But if I'm here, I'll be sure to stop over.”

“By the way,” Mrs. Ivins says, “nice picture of you in the paper.”

Frowning, Briley twiddles her fingers in a quick wave, then crosses the porch and closes the front door. Mrs. Ivins has to be mistaken about seeing her picture. The woman is eighty if she's a day, and sometimes she talks about Briley's dad as if he were still living in the house….

On her way to the coffeepot, she unwraps the paper. A bold headline dispels every hope of a leisurely morning: Senator's Wife Arrested for Murder.

Forgetting her coffee, Briley slips into a chair at the table and skims the article. The front-page piece centers on the facts of the case, providing details of Jeffrey Tomassi's death and Erin's arrest. But the reporters have been busy. Inside the paper, on pages six and seven, are several affiliated articles. One features the Tomassi family and details the close relationship between the six siblings and their devoted father. Another article records Jeffrey Tomassi's rise to prominence and includes several quotes from political experts who are convinced he was destined for national office, probably “as high as he wanted to go.” A shorter article tells the story of Erin Tomassi, a Chicago girl who met Jeffrey at a party and married him not long after. The
writer does a good job of implying that Erin married Jeffrey for money, power, or both.

Briley studies a photo of the couple and recognizes the dress Erin wore to the banquet the night Jeffrey died. Jeffrey is flashing a confident grin in that picture; Erin wears a decidedly smaller and more self-contained smile.

She catches her breath as a frisson of recognition climbs her spine. As she'd expected, her picture is featured in the lower half of the page, but it's the small photo that hangs in the foyer at Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton. It's a serious-lawyer shot in which she appears unsmiling and severe—completely unlike her glamorous client. A caption beneath the photo announces that Briley Lester will be representing Erin Tomassi in the upcoming trial.

Briley drops the paper to the table and scrapes her hand through her hair. A reporter must have contacted Mr. Franklin late last night, because no one called her for a quote or permission to use her picture.

But they'll be calling soon. And this time around, she'd better handle the media carefully.

This time, the stakes are higher.