Let Darkness Come (9 page)

A
ntonio Tomassi steps off the elevator and into a branch of the Cook County State's Attorney's Office, a space crowded with L-shaped desks, steel-and-vinyl chairs, and myriad human bodies. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead while the air vibrates with the hum of fax machines and computers. Tired-looking men and women work behind desks, either tapping on keyboards or squinting at papers as they tilt their heads to hold telephones against their shoulders. Every one of them looks like central casting sent them to play the role of anonymous civil servant.

Without glancing behind him, Antonio gestures to Jason.

“Yes, Papa?”

“Who is the man we need to see?”

Jason steps forward and pulls a slip of paper from his pocket. “Travis Bystrowski.”

Antonio steps into the room, narrowing his gaze as he scans the nameplates on several doors opening off the main area. He knows better than to expect the state's top dog to try his son's case, but he hopes the man has assigned the trial to someone with experience and a hunger for justice—

He points to a door in the far corner of the room. “There. Bystrowski.”

“A Polack.” Jason shakes his head. “Wouldn't you know we'd draw a Polack?”

“Shut up.” Antonio lifts a warning finger. “You don't say a word in that room, understand? You listen and let me talk.”

Without waiting for his son's response, Antonio shoul
ders his way through the sea of government workers and cheap furniture. The door to Bystrowski's office is closed, but through the frosted glass he glimpses a human form behind a desk. He raps on the door.

“Come in.”

Bystrowski—a young man with short hair and a lean look—glances up from his reading when Antonio steps through the doorway. “Can I help you?”

Antonio removes his hat. “My name is Antonio Tomassi, and this is my son, Jason. I understand you are the prosecutor assigned to my son's case.”

Bystrowski's brow furrows until the name registers. “Tomassi—Jeffrey Tomassi.” He stands and offers his hand. “May I extend my sympathies to you both? And yes, I'll be prosecuting the case.”

Antonio shakes the man's hand, then gestures to the chairs crowded against the wall. “May we?”

“Certainly.” Bystrowski waits until Antonio has been seated before he settles back in his seat. “How can I help you, gentlemen?”

Antonio looks around, taking in the diplomas on the back wall, the newspapers piled in the corner, the nameplate proclaiming Travis Bystrowski an assistant state's attorney, the cigarette stubs in the ashtray. A half smile tugs at his mouth as he points to a length of curled ashes. “Are state's attorneys allowed to smoke in public buildings?”

“Um, no.” Bystrowski has the decency to flush as he dumps the ashtray into the trash. “I often work late, and if I'm alone up here—”

“Don't worry, Mr. Bystrowski, your secret is safe with me.” Antonio smiles, without humor. “We want to support you in any way possible. We want justice for Jeffrey.”

Bystrowski glances from Antonio to Jason, as if he doubts the sincerity of their stated intention. “That's what the state wants, as well. How much do you know about our progress with the case?”

“We know Erin has been arrested.”

The attorney nods. “That's correct. She was arraigned yesterday, and pleaded not guilty.”

Antonio barely resists the urge to spit. “She killed him, of course. Who else could have?”

“The evidence certainly points to her,” Bystrowski says. “The police found no indication of a break-in. And her fingerprints were on the murder weapon.”

“The trial will be concluded quickly, then? No surprises from the defense?”

“Well—” Bystrowski spreads his hands “—the defense can try to sell any cock-and-bull theory to win sympathy for the defendant. Sometimes, particularly if the defendant has money, they can hire expert witnesses that can convince a jury of almost anything.”

“You need not worry about the defense attorney,” Antonio says, satisfaction warming his face. “The woman is inexperienced in these matters.”

Bystrowski gives him an uncertain smile. “You know Briley Lester?”

Antonio shrugs. “I know she is no threat. Not only is she unskilled, but Erin has no money for experts and such. Jeffrey gave her everything, and she killed him for more.”

Interest flickers in Bystrowski's eyes. “We've been unable to confirm details of your son's will.”

“I'll be sure my lawyer gives you a copy.” Antonio gestures to Jason. “See that it's done, will you? But though Erin stood to inherit their considerable joint assets, she cannot inherit if she killed him, right? Such injustice should not be allowed.”

“The Illinois slayer statute prohibits a murderer from profiting from the crime,” Bystrowski says. “So yes, you're right. If Erin is convicted of killing your son, she cannot inherit the estate. It would go to whomever is next of kin.”

Antonio nods. “That would be Jason. It is only right that Jeff's estate should go to his twin. My boys were as close
as a hand and glove. It is
not
right—” he pauses as a rise of feeling chokes his words “—that they should be parted.”

Bystrowski remains silent until Antonio gains control of his emotions, then he folds his hands. “Mr. Tomassi, I promise I will do everything I can to put your son's killer behind bars.”

Antonio meets the prosecutor's gaze head-on. “Behind bars is not enough, my friend. I want a life for a life, one fatal injection for another. That is justice, and that is what I will have.”

B
riley gapes at her client in a paralysis of incredulity. “Your invisible friend,” she repeats, “killed your husband.”

Erin's face disappears behind her hands. “I know you think I'm only looking for a way out. But I'm not crazy. I'm trying to tell you the truth.”

Briley takes a deep breath and feels a dozen different emotions collide. So long, battered-woman's defense; hello, insanity plea.

The steady pulse of an approaching headache begins to pound at her temple. “Erin,” she begins, “when I came in today, I was thinking that we might have a good chance of convincing the jury that your husband committed suicide. Even though the police report says your fingerprints are on the syringe and the insulin bottle, that's not inconceivable if a husband and wife share the same bathroom.”

“But it's not the truth.” Erin drops her hands and looks across the table, her eyes gleaming with determination. “I'm telling you the God's honest truth, because I want to be completely transparent with you. I don't know anything about defending someone in court, but I want you to know what actually happened. Whether or not you believe me, the truth is that I didn't know what happened until last night.”

“Until Lisa Marie told you. In a dream.”

Erin nods.

Briley squeezes the bridge of her nose. She should have listened to her college adviser and minored in psychology. Right now, she could use a crash course in delusions and body
language…or maybe an expert opinion on why a client would invent an implausible story when a believable defense could be stitched together using most of the available evidence.

“We're going to bring in an expert.” Briley looks into the woman's resolute blue eyes. “I want you to talk to a psychologist. But if we bring someone in, the prosecution is going to counter with a psychologist of their own. Say whatever you like to the examining doctors, but know this—if you're lying, they're likely to see right through you. I'd advise you to tell them the truth, in the simplest terms possible.”

“I'm not a liar.” Erin speaks with quiet firmness. “I may be weak and cowardly, but I never even lied to Jeff, and telling
him
the truth got me into more trouble than you can know.”

“You lied to the prison matron.” Briley tilts her head. “And to your father-in-law's housekeeper. You told them that you fell going up the stairs.”

A flush rises from Erin's neckline, blotching her pale complexion. “I—I forgot about that.”

“Every word you say matters.” Briley picks up her pen again. “Let's talk about your relationship with your husband. What convinced you to marry Jeffrey Tomassi?”

Erin shifts her gaze to the wall. “Jeffrey was working for his father when we met. I was a senior in college, but he seemed so polished. Mature. I couldn't believe he was interested in me.”

“In college, did you date many other men?”

“I hardly dated at all. I wanted to concentrate on my studies. But once I started dating Jeffrey, I was doing something with him almost every night. I finally had to tell him I couldn't see him on weeknights because I had to study. That only seemed to make him more persistent. Before I knew it, he proposed.”

“And you accepted?”

“Not right away. I adored him, but I wanted to be independent for a while, so I turned him down. After graduation, I started an event-planning business, and Jeffrey was my first
client. I arranged a birthday party for his father, and at the event Antonio welcomed me like I was already one of the family. Jason seemed to like me, too, as well as the girls. They were all so warm and friendly, so
Italian
—they showed me everything a family could be. So when Jeffrey proposed again, I accepted.”

“When did you marry him?”

“Five years ago, in September. If I'd been wiser, I might have realized that every time I refused him, he became more determined to have me—not in a romantic sense, but like a possession. We hadn't been married a week when he asked me to quit my job. I didn't want to, but he bought the brownstone in Lincoln Park and said taking care of the house would take up all my time. I wanted to please him, so I disbanded my little company and dedicated myself to making Jeffrey happy.”

“What did he do to make
you
happy?”

Erin blinks. “Well…he'd say he did a lot. He gave me a beautiful home, hired a housekeeper and a gardener. When we entertained, I was supposed to bring in a cook and a decorator and a party planner—and that irritated me, because I am good at that sort of thing. It didn't take me long to realize he didn't trust me to handle the smallest detail.”

“Was he attentive? When you were alone together, did he behave as though he loved you?”

Erin manages a tremulous smile. “Jeffrey loved me…like he loved his Bentley. He loved owning me. If I complained about us not spending meaningful time together—time where we talked or did something I wanted to do—he would say that I had everything a woman could want, so what right did I have to complain?” Her gaze drops to the scarred tabletop. “After a couple of years, he began hitting me to reinforce whatever lesson he wanted to teach. And I learned. I learned to keep quiet and do what I was told.”

Briley bites her lower lip, barely managing to quell the anger thrumming beneath her breastbone. Men like Jeffrey
Tomassi shouldn't be allowed to marry. If they managed to get to the altar before revealing their true colors, they should be incarcerated after the first blow.

She'd join Bystrowski's team if it meant she could lock men like Jeffrey Tomassi away.

“It's a good thing—” she clicks her pen in a flurry of frustration “—you didn't have children. Imagine how frightened you'd be for them.” When Erin's chin quivers, Briley knows she's hit a sensitive spot. “During the marriage…were you ever pregnant?”

Erin presses her hand to her face, her eyes bright with repressed tears. “I wanted a baby more than anything,” she whispers in a ragged voice. “I knew I'd have to be careful to make sure he didn't hurt our child, but I was sure he wouldn't. After all, Antonio adored his children—he revered them, gave them everything they asked for. And he desperately wanted a grandson. He dropped hints every time we were together.”

Briley pulls a tissue from her purse and hands it to her client. “So…?”

Erin takes the tissue and sniffs. “I have a brother. He's thirty-two, he has Down syndrome, and he lives in an adult group home. I don't see Roger often, but I'd never do anything to hurt him.”

Briley lifts her chin. Erin has mentioned the brother before, but only in passing. She nods as the pieces fall into place. “Let me guess—Jeffrey wasn't exactly thrilled to hear about your brother.”

Erin snorts. “He was furious. If I'd told him about Roger
before
the wedding, I think he would have called the entire thing off. Maybe that's why I didn't tell him until our first Christmas, when I was making out our shopping list.”

“That's a shame. Other politicians have been up front about relatives with disabilities. No one would have criticized Jeffrey. They might have actually praised him for caring about people with special challenges.”

“That's what I thought, but Jeffrey wasn't about to care for Roger until I convinced him that it'd be better for us to place Roger in a private group home than have his story leaked to the press. I hated the thought of hiding my brother away, but Jeffrey was terrified by the idea that we—that I—might have a baby with a genetic problem. After he found out about my brother, he convinced himself that my genes were defective. He wanted a child—he thought it'd be a plus to have a son on the campaign trail—but he forced me to go to a geneticist before he'd even consider the idea. He told me that if the tests proved my DNA was free from genetic diseases, we could have a baby.” She shakes her head. “He had it all planned. If everything worked out, our baby would be six or seven by the time Jeffrey was ready to run for president. I knew he could imagine himself standing before a crowd with a child on his hip, promising to put new blood in the White House.”

“Where did you fit in that picture?”

Erin's mouth twists. “I suppose he either saw me standing beside him, waving like the perfect little wife…or dead.” She pillows her head on her arms and wearily closes her eyes. “That's why your suicide theory won't ring true to anyone who knew Jeffrey. His father, his siblings, his closest advisers—they all know how determined he was to win a congressional seat and then tackle the White House. Some people joke about such things, but Jeffrey was dead serious. He wanted to win. He did not want to die.”