When life is busy, and I know I can't spend hours working on my lastest novel, I do love to tinker with flash fiction. Working in the judicial system day in and day out, I often see the injustice of people set free on mere technicalities. I once had to watch what clearly was a murderer walk free, a mistrial declared on a technicality. Before we left chambers the prosecutors reminded counsel and the judge this same person was on trial next week for raping an eight year old. I hope you enjoy -
One Man's Justice
Monica Stacy holstered her pistol. "They're all dead."
"Shit happens." Silas Cornwell glanced at the three bodies stretched out on the warehouse floor. Each had taken one shot, but each of those shots had been carefully placed and deadly.
"Silas, they're kids. None of them could be over eighteen." Monica knelt by the first body. She'd heard great things about Silas Cornwell. He was the main reason she'd transferred here last month. But if this was how he treated crime scenes she'd made a mistake. A big mistake.
Tapping the first body with his boot, Silas spit contemptuously. "Marty Crenshaw, eighteen. His first love was Cocaine, his second hurting woman and kids." Moving to the second body he bent down and turned him over. "Simon Benfield, seventeen. Child molester, and if he'd lived long enough, a future serial killer." Moving to the third body, Silas stopped long enough to light a cigarette. Taking a deep drag he exhaled slowly. "Timothy Bradshaw, fifteen. In and out of Juvie Hall since he was ten. Raped his own grandmother last year, and only God knows how many others."
Monica joined him and stood staring down at the third body. "Why weren't they in jail?"
Silas tossed the cigarette and turned toward the door. "You said it yourself, they're just kids."
Monica ran to catch up with him. "Shouldn't we call it in, get forensics out here? No matter who or what they were, we still have to do our job."
Silas stopped walking, his fingers twitching, curling into rock hard fists. "We'll do our damn job."
Monica took a step backwards as he turned. His pupils were mere dots locked inside a glacier of ice. "This was one man's justice. And I'll arrest him, but I sure as hell don't have to like it."
Monica swallowed hard. "One man's justice?"
Silas stepped outside the warehouse, breathing in the chill night air. "Two months ago those three brutally beat and raped a ten year old girl right here inside this warehouse. Everyone knew they did it, but little Jennifer Hidalgo suffered severe head injuries and she was left blind and unable to speak, so she couldn't identify her attackers. "
Silas lit another cigarette, offering the pack to Monica. She hadn't smoked in five years, but suddenly that Marlboro Red looked like manna from heaven. Shaking one out with trembling fingers she leaned into the flickering flame of Silas' lighter and took a deep drag. Exhaling slowly she wondered why she'd ever quit. "So what happened?"
"A slick lawyer, and minor technicality and the judge set them free yesterday. Insufficient evidence." Turning back to the warehouse a slow smile played around his lips. "James Hidalgo did what any father would do. I'm only surprised he killed them so quickly."
Monica tossed her cigarette, a sudden longing to rush home and hug her own little girl washing over her. If it had been her child she wouldn't have killed them with one bullet. She would have tortured them for days, weeks, months. She would have skinned them alive, one little slice at a time. She would have. . . .
Silas slapped her on the back and headed for the car. "Let's go do our job, partner."
Monica followed him, her heart heavy. "All right, Silas. I'll do my damn job, but I sure as hell don't have to like it."
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author ~ ~ ~ writing and streams of consciousness
Showing posts with label sample sunday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sample sunday. Show all posts
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Sunday, December 26, 2010
A WIP - Sample Sunday
I love writing, and find myself constantly battling the voices in my head. Characters with stories to be told--voices to be heard. My first sample Sunday was the prologue to this book so I decided to post Chapter One this week. This is my first attempt at a legal thriller. Last week I posted Chapter One of Passing Judgment. I hope you enjoy the samples. If you love mysteries that keep you guessing all the way to the end, check out The Jacody Ives Mysteries - still available on Amazon Kindle to 99 cents. Happy Holidays.
CHAPTER ONE
Michael Elkins took his gaze from the jury for just a moment to admire the beautiful young woman delivering a scathing closing argument. His former client was referred to as an unholy animal who had butchered and reveled in the death of a homeless immigrant. Her blue eyes flashed, as condemning words were delivered with precision. She didn’t flutter or wave her hands at exhibits. Instead she gripped them as weapons, walking slowly in front of each juror as she met their eyes, dropped her voice, making it soft, senuous. “This was someone’s son. Someone’s father. Someone’s best friend.”
The jurors averted their eyes from the gory picture.
Michael drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he grinned, remembering how those same hands had earlier that morning roamed his body, finding places that delighted them both. There was nothing stiff about Cassie, in or out of the courtroom. She lived for passion whether it was prosecuting a scumbag like Mark Trevello, or making love. He didn’t need to stay to hear the jury’s verdict. Trevello had lost the second she dropped her voice, whispered those soft words “. . .someone’s son. . .someone’s father. . . someone’s best friend.”
Shrugging his shoulders he met the gaze of Scott Harman, the young attorney that had taken his place on the case when Cassie was assigned as prosecutor. Their relationship wasn’t exactly public knowledge, but there was no way he would risk her career or his own for a lowlife like Trevello. He’d known Trevello was guilty from the first time he talked to him. He hated the loss for Scott, but he would be hard pressed to conceal his pride in Cassie.
Rising he caught her eye as she returned to prosecutor’s table to wait for Judge Moyer to deliver the jury instructions, and then the wait for the verdict. He caught the subtle wink, slight lifting of the corner’s of her mouth as her tongue flicked out for less than a second, a promise of things to come.
Michael raised his hand, running his fingers through the thick blonde hair, a silent salute as he headed for the courtroom door to answer the cell phone that had been vibrating incessantly for more than five minutes.
He cleared security, heading for fresh air and a much needed cigarette before he returned the call. The Honorable William Jefferson Elkins had summoned—six times. He wasn’t going to be happy about Michael’s refusal to answer the phone, even if he had been in court. Lighting the cigarette he took a deep drag and scowled. His father hadn’t called him in over six months, and now he’d called six times in the space of a half hour. Hitting the redial button he threw the unfinished cigarette into the street.
“Hello.”
“Maria, it’s Michael. My father has been trying to reach me.”
The silence on the phone was deafening. Michael felt the first tremors of foreboding.
“Hold please.” The words were whispered, an underlying note of compassion, pain.
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling you for hours.” Judge Elkins bellowed into the receiver.
“I’ve been in court, dad.” Michael didn’t bother to correct him that it had only been a half hour. No one ever corrected Judge Elkins. At least no one that still had a bar license.
“There’s been an accident.” Anger still riddled the old man’s voice. “Your mother’s dead.”
CHAPTER ONE
Michael Elkins took his gaze from the jury for just a moment to admire the beautiful young woman delivering a scathing closing argument. His former client was referred to as an unholy animal who had butchered and reveled in the death of a homeless immigrant. Her blue eyes flashed, as condemning words were delivered with precision. She didn’t flutter or wave her hands at exhibits. Instead she gripped them as weapons, walking slowly in front of each juror as she met their eyes, dropped her voice, making it soft, senuous. “This was someone’s son. Someone’s father. Someone’s best friend.”
The jurors averted their eyes from the gory picture.
Michael drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he grinned, remembering how those same hands had earlier that morning roamed his body, finding places that delighted them both. There was nothing stiff about Cassie, in or out of the courtroom. She lived for passion whether it was prosecuting a scumbag like Mark Trevello, or making love. He didn’t need to stay to hear the jury’s verdict. Trevello had lost the second she dropped her voice, whispered those soft words “. . .someone’s son. . .someone’s father. . . someone’s best friend.”
Shrugging his shoulders he met the gaze of Scott Harman, the young attorney that had taken his place on the case when Cassie was assigned as prosecutor. Their relationship wasn’t exactly public knowledge, but there was no way he would risk her career or his own for a lowlife like Trevello. He’d known Trevello was guilty from the first time he talked to him. He hated the loss for Scott, but he would be hard pressed to conceal his pride in Cassie.
Rising he caught her eye as she returned to prosecutor’s table to wait for Judge Moyer to deliver the jury instructions, and then the wait for the verdict. He caught the subtle wink, slight lifting of the corner’s of her mouth as her tongue flicked out for less than a second, a promise of things to come.
Michael raised his hand, running his fingers through the thick blonde hair, a silent salute as he headed for the courtroom door to answer the cell phone that had been vibrating incessantly for more than five minutes.
He cleared security, heading for fresh air and a much needed cigarette before he returned the call. The Honorable William Jefferson Elkins had summoned—six times. He wasn’t going to be happy about Michael’s refusal to answer the phone, even if he had been in court. Lighting the cigarette he took a deep drag and scowled. His father hadn’t called him in over six months, and now he’d called six times in the space of a half hour. Hitting the redial button he threw the unfinished cigarette into the street.
“Hello.”
“Maria, it’s Michael. My father has been trying to reach me.”
The silence on the phone was deafening. Michael felt the first tremors of foreboding.
“Hold please.” The words were whispered, an underlying note of compassion, pain.
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling you for hours.” Judge Elkins bellowed into the receiver.
“I’ve been in court, dad.” Michael didn’t bother to correct him that it had only been a half hour. No one ever corrected Judge Elkins. At least no one that still had a bar license.
“There’s been an accident.” Anger still riddled the old man’s voice. “Your mother’s dead.”
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Passing Judgment
I truly enjoyed sample Sunday last week, and decided this week to choose something a little different. One of the things I love most about being an Indie is the lack of structured rules on genres and not being bound to one specific genre. Hope you enjoy the sample.
CHAPTER ONE
“Are you gonna shoot my papa?”
The course of life can be altered by many things. Lacey St. Clair knew that more than most. Her own life had been altered many times. Given new direction. Tragic events that shaped her, molded her, allowed her to survive. In the end, it all boiled down to choices.
Lacey stilled her auto reflexes, gently removing her finger from the trigger and staring at the small child less than five feet away.
Damn Chandler, he’d told her Domaslav had no family. Someone had made a mistake. A really big one.
Lacey could hear the sounds of movement overhead. A baby’s cry. The flick of a light switch, opening of the door. Light spilled down the stairway.
“Anna?”
“Here, Papa.”
Lacey moved back into the shadows beneath the stairway. Seconds ticked by, the huge clock in the foyer the only sound in the small hallway. The child had not moved. Her eyes were huge, riveted to the gleam of cold steel. Her body trembled, but she made no sound. She’d seen guns before. Knew about death.
Lacey caught bits and pieces of whispered conversation above her. The mother’s anguished cry. Domaslav knew she was here. Knew why she was here. She could hear him hastily dressing, shushing the woman. Footsteps descended. The huge Russian stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
“I know you’re here.”
Lacey moved out of the shadows, gun held in front of her. “Keep your hands up.”
“I’m unarmed.”
Gun held firmly in her right hand, Lacey patted him down and stepped back.
“Anna, go to your mother.”
The child hesitated, but moved slowly toward the stairs, her bare feet soundless. She stopped at the bottom step, raised her head and stared into Lacey’s eyes. A single tear slid slowly down her cheek. “I love my papa.”
The words were a mere whisper, lost within the ticking clock, raspy breathing of Domaslav, but Lacey heard them. A shudder ran through her. A long forgotten memory. No sobs, no begging for her father’s life. Just a single tear from a powder blue eye. Lacey waited as the child ascended the steps. Waited for the sound of the door closing above.
“Please, do not hurt my family.”
“Turn around.”
The Russian turned slowly, hands held on top of his head. Lacey studied his face, just as she’d studied the photograph that had been given to her. She looked deep into his eyes. Faces could change. Hair. Even body shape. But the eyes were always a dead giveaway. There was no mistake. It was Domaslav. He had the same powder blue eyes as Anna. The same age-old acceptance that death was imminent. He showed no fear as he lowered himself to his knees. He obviously knew the drill. He wouldn’t beg for his life. But he would beg for the life of those he loved.
“You will not hurt my family?”
I love my papa. The words seemed to echo in the room, but Lacey knew it was all inside her head. She felt dizzy. She could still hear the baby crying, the sounds of quiet sobs above her. How long had they waited for this moment? Anna could be no more than five, and yet her eyes had reflected knowledge far beyond her years. Acceptance of this day. The death of her father neither surprised her, nor had she feared it. She had merely accepted it.
Lacey glanced around the small foyer, noting the sleeping bag just beneath the stairs. The child had not mysteriously appeared. She had been waiting for her, or someone like her. Kneeling there in the dark, watching the shadows. How many nights had Anna kept that vigil? How many morning suns had risen to find the child on her knees, murmuring a prayer of thanks for one more day.
“Please, you will not hurt my family?”
The words brought Lacey back to the present. Cleared her head. Her hands trembled slightly as she tightened the silencer into place. Dammit, she didn’t pass judgment. It wasn’t personal. Just names and faces. People who had to die. Choices. She hated choices.
“I will not hurt your family.”
Domaslav relaxed, his last words a knife that sliced into Lacey’s soul. A curse of things to come.
“Bless you.”
CHAPTER ONE
“Are you gonna shoot my papa?”
The course of life can be altered by many things. Lacey St. Clair knew that more than most. Her own life had been altered many times. Given new direction. Tragic events that shaped her, molded her, allowed her to survive. In the end, it all boiled down to choices.
Lacey stilled her auto reflexes, gently removing her finger from the trigger and staring at the small child less than five feet away.
Damn Chandler, he’d told her Domaslav had no family. Someone had made a mistake. A really big one.
Lacey could hear the sounds of movement overhead. A baby’s cry. The flick of a light switch, opening of the door. Light spilled down the stairway.
“Anna?”
“Here, Papa.”
Lacey moved back into the shadows beneath the stairway. Seconds ticked by, the huge clock in the foyer the only sound in the small hallway. The child had not moved. Her eyes were huge, riveted to the gleam of cold steel. Her body trembled, but she made no sound. She’d seen guns before. Knew about death.
Lacey caught bits and pieces of whispered conversation above her. The mother’s anguished cry. Domaslav knew she was here. Knew why she was here. She could hear him hastily dressing, shushing the woman. Footsteps descended. The huge Russian stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
“I know you’re here.”
Lacey moved out of the shadows, gun held in front of her. “Keep your hands up.”
“I’m unarmed.”
Gun held firmly in her right hand, Lacey patted him down and stepped back.
“Anna, go to your mother.”
The child hesitated, but moved slowly toward the stairs, her bare feet soundless. She stopped at the bottom step, raised her head and stared into Lacey’s eyes. A single tear slid slowly down her cheek. “I love my papa.”
The words were a mere whisper, lost within the ticking clock, raspy breathing of Domaslav, but Lacey heard them. A shudder ran through her. A long forgotten memory. No sobs, no begging for her father’s life. Just a single tear from a powder blue eye. Lacey waited as the child ascended the steps. Waited for the sound of the door closing above.
“Please, do not hurt my family.”
“Turn around.”
The Russian turned slowly, hands held on top of his head. Lacey studied his face, just as she’d studied the photograph that had been given to her. She looked deep into his eyes. Faces could change. Hair. Even body shape. But the eyes were always a dead giveaway. There was no mistake. It was Domaslav. He had the same powder blue eyes as Anna. The same age-old acceptance that death was imminent. He showed no fear as he lowered himself to his knees. He obviously knew the drill. He wouldn’t beg for his life. But he would beg for the life of those he loved.
“You will not hurt my family?”
I love my papa. The words seemed to echo in the room, but Lacey knew it was all inside her head. She felt dizzy. She could still hear the baby crying, the sounds of quiet sobs above her. How long had they waited for this moment? Anna could be no more than five, and yet her eyes had reflected knowledge far beyond her years. Acceptance of this day. The death of her father neither surprised her, nor had she feared it. She had merely accepted it.
Lacey glanced around the small foyer, noting the sleeping bag just beneath the stairs. The child had not mysteriously appeared. She had been waiting for her, or someone like her. Kneeling there in the dark, watching the shadows. How many nights had Anna kept that vigil? How many morning suns had risen to find the child on her knees, murmuring a prayer of thanks for one more day.
“Please, you will not hurt my family?”
The words brought Lacey back to the present. Cleared her head. Her hands trembled slightly as she tightened the silencer into place. Dammit, she didn’t pass judgment. It wasn’t personal. Just names and faces. People who had to die. Choices. She hated choices.
“I will not hurt your family.”
Domaslav relaxed, his last words a knife that sliced into Lacey’s soul. A curse of things to come.
“Bless you.”
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Sample Sunday--A work in progress
Prologue
"You look very beautiful today, Kamela."
Kamela Beaumont smiled at the woman seated across from her, studying the time-worn face, thick makeup that to all except the most perceptive eye disguised the green discoloration, subtle swelling. The son-of-a-bitch had beaten her again.
Kamela continued her assessment, the long sleeves of the Versace silk, even though the weather was blistering outside. The delicate scarf tied around her neck. Olivia Elkins was a beautiful woman, but the luster was gone from her eyes. The spark of life slowly fading.
"Kamela?"
Placing her napkin on the table, Kamela took the hands fluttering helplessly, and held them tight, her own hands trembling. Olivia had expected an answer, but perhaps not the one she was about to reveal.
"Women often look their most beautiful, Olivia, when they’re pregnant."
Kamela watched the color fade from the already pale face, the hazel eyes start, blink, and settle on her face questioning, seeking.
"Jordan and I are expecting a child."
Olivia pulled her hands away, shaking her head. “But that’s impossible. Jordan is in prison."
Kamela laughed, a soft tinkle, like delicate crystal. "Money buys many things, Olivia. It can buy private time. Even in prison."
Olivia continued to shake her head as realization slowly dawned on her. The hands stopped fluttering, but her mouth twitched, words forming slowly.
"Does he know?"
"No."
Olivia continued to nod slowly, her hands settling around the crystal water goblet, gently wiping away the condensation, like the tears on a child’s face. There had been so many tears. So much heartache.
Kamela waited until the hazel eyes met hers, clear, determined.
"What do you want me to do?"
Still she hesitated. There was just no other way. "We have to get him out, Olivia. I want my child to have a father."
"William will never allow it."
Kamela felt her anger rise, color flooding her face. "William would have no choice if you told the truth, Olivia."
Kamela immediately regretted her words as the hazel eyes misted, tears threatening to overflow.
"I tried to tell the truth."
"I know, you did, Olivia. We have to try again. Jordan only stole that gun to protect you. You know he would never hurt anyone." No one except his father, Kamela thought.
"Olivia, talk to Michael. Tell him the truth. Show him."
Olivia slowly shook her head. She had fought so hard to hide the truth from her beautiful boys. They were all that had sustained her. The only spark of joy in her world of hell. If only Jordan had not come home early that day. If only . . .
Rising slowly, Olivia wiped her hands on the napkin, folded it and placed it carefully on the table. Her lips trembled slightly as she smiled, but her hands were steady.
"I’ll talk to William."
"Olivia, no. You can’t. He’ll. . ." Kamela’s voice faltered as she watched in horrified silence as Olivia walked away from her, back straight, head held regally. ". . .kill you." She finished the sentence, her voice barely a whisper, as a cold chill enveloped her.
CHAPTER ONE
Michael Elkins took his gaze from the jury for just a moment to admire the beautiful young woman delivering a scathing closing argument. His former client was referred to as an unholy animal who had butchered and reveled in the death of a homeless immigrant. Her blue eyes flashed, as condemning words were delivered with precision. She didn’t flutter or wave her hands at exhibits. Instead she gripped them as weapons, walking slowly in front of each juror as she met their eyes, dropped her voice, making it soft, senuous. "This was someone’s son. Someone’s father. Someone’s best friend."
The jurors averted their eyes from the gory picture.
Michael drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he grinned, remembering how those same hands had earlier that morning roamed his body, finding places that delighted them both. There was nothing stiff about Cassie, in or out of the courtroom. She lived for passion whether it was prosecuting a scumbag like Mark Trevello, or making love. He didn’t need to stay to hear the jury’s verdict. Trevello had lost the second she dropped her voice, whispered those soft words ". . .someone’s son. . .someone’s father. . . someone’s best friend."
Shrugging his shoulders he met the gaze of Scott Harman, the young attorney that had taken his place on the case when Cassie was assigned as prosecutor. Their relationship wasn’t exactly public knowledge, but there was no way he would risk her career or his own for a lowlife like Trevello. He’d known Trevello was guilty from the first time he talked to him. He hated the loss for Scott, but he would be hard pressed to conceal his pride in Cassie.
Rising he caught her eye as she returned to prosecutor’s table to wait for Judge Moyer to deliver the jury instructions, and then the wait for the verdict. He caught the subtle wink, slight lifting of the corner’s of her mouth as her tongue flicked out for less than a second, a promise of things to come.
Michael raised his hand, running his fingers through the thick blonde hair, a silent salute as he headed for the courtroom door to answer the cell phone that had been vibrating incessantly for more than five minutes.
He cleared security, heading for fresh air and a much needed cigarette before he returned the call. The Honorable William Jefferson Elkins had summoned--six times. He wasn’t going to be happy about Michael’s refusal to answer the phone, even if he had been in court. Lighting the cigarette he took a deep drag and scowled. His father hadn’t called him in over six months, and now he’d called six times in the space of a half hour. Hitting the redial button he threw the unfinished cigarette into the street.
"Hello."
"Maria, it’s Michael. My father has been trying to reach me."
The silence on the phone was deafening. Michael felt the first tremors of foreboding.
"Hold please." The words were whispered, an underlying note of compassion, pain.
"Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling you for hours." Judge Elkins bellowed into the receiver.
"I’ve been in court, dad." Michael didn’t bother to correct him that it had only been a half hour. No one ever corrected Judge Elkins. At least no one that still had a bar license.
"There’s been an accident." Anger still riddled the old man’s voice. "Your mother’s dead."
"You look very beautiful today, Kamela."
Kamela Beaumont smiled at the woman seated across from her, studying the time-worn face, thick makeup that to all except the most perceptive eye disguised the green discoloration, subtle swelling. The son-of-a-bitch had beaten her again.
Kamela continued her assessment, the long sleeves of the Versace silk, even though the weather was blistering outside. The delicate scarf tied around her neck. Olivia Elkins was a beautiful woman, but the luster was gone from her eyes. The spark of life slowly fading.
"Kamela?"
Placing her napkin on the table, Kamela took the hands fluttering helplessly, and held them tight, her own hands trembling. Olivia had expected an answer, but perhaps not the one she was about to reveal.
"Women often look their most beautiful, Olivia, when they’re pregnant."
Kamela watched the color fade from the already pale face, the hazel eyes start, blink, and settle on her face questioning, seeking.
"Jordan and I are expecting a child."
Olivia pulled her hands away, shaking her head. “But that’s impossible. Jordan is in prison."
Kamela laughed, a soft tinkle, like delicate crystal. "Money buys many things, Olivia. It can buy private time. Even in prison."
Olivia continued to shake her head as realization slowly dawned on her. The hands stopped fluttering, but her mouth twitched, words forming slowly.
"Does he know?"
"No."
Olivia continued to nod slowly, her hands settling around the crystal water goblet, gently wiping away the condensation, like the tears on a child’s face. There had been so many tears. So much heartache.
Kamela waited until the hazel eyes met hers, clear, determined.
"What do you want me to do?"
Still she hesitated. There was just no other way. "We have to get him out, Olivia. I want my child to have a father."
"William will never allow it."
Kamela felt her anger rise, color flooding her face. "William would have no choice if you told the truth, Olivia."
Kamela immediately regretted her words as the hazel eyes misted, tears threatening to overflow.
"I tried to tell the truth."
"I know, you did, Olivia. We have to try again. Jordan only stole that gun to protect you. You know he would never hurt anyone." No one except his father, Kamela thought.
"Olivia, talk to Michael. Tell him the truth. Show him."
Olivia slowly shook her head. She had fought so hard to hide the truth from her beautiful boys. They were all that had sustained her. The only spark of joy in her world of hell. If only Jordan had not come home early that day. If only . . .
Rising slowly, Olivia wiped her hands on the napkin, folded it and placed it carefully on the table. Her lips trembled slightly as she smiled, but her hands were steady.
"I’ll talk to William."
"Olivia, no. You can’t. He’ll. . ." Kamela’s voice faltered as she watched in horrified silence as Olivia walked away from her, back straight, head held regally. ". . .kill you." She finished the sentence, her voice barely a whisper, as a cold chill enveloped her.
CHAPTER ONE
Michael Elkins took his gaze from the jury for just a moment to admire the beautiful young woman delivering a scathing closing argument. His former client was referred to as an unholy animal who had butchered and reveled in the death of a homeless immigrant. Her blue eyes flashed, as condemning words were delivered with precision. She didn’t flutter or wave her hands at exhibits. Instead she gripped them as weapons, walking slowly in front of each juror as she met their eyes, dropped her voice, making it soft, senuous. "This was someone’s son. Someone’s father. Someone’s best friend."
The jurors averted their eyes from the gory picture.
Michael drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he grinned, remembering how those same hands had earlier that morning roamed his body, finding places that delighted them both. There was nothing stiff about Cassie, in or out of the courtroom. She lived for passion whether it was prosecuting a scumbag like Mark Trevello, or making love. He didn’t need to stay to hear the jury’s verdict. Trevello had lost the second she dropped her voice, whispered those soft words ". . .someone’s son. . .someone’s father. . . someone’s best friend."
Shrugging his shoulders he met the gaze of Scott Harman, the young attorney that had taken his place on the case when Cassie was assigned as prosecutor. Their relationship wasn’t exactly public knowledge, but there was no way he would risk her career or his own for a lowlife like Trevello. He’d known Trevello was guilty from the first time he talked to him. He hated the loss for Scott, but he would be hard pressed to conceal his pride in Cassie.
Rising he caught her eye as she returned to prosecutor’s table to wait for Judge Moyer to deliver the jury instructions, and then the wait for the verdict. He caught the subtle wink, slight lifting of the corner’s of her mouth as her tongue flicked out for less than a second, a promise of things to come.
Michael raised his hand, running his fingers through the thick blonde hair, a silent salute as he headed for the courtroom door to answer the cell phone that had been vibrating incessantly for more than five minutes.
He cleared security, heading for fresh air and a much needed cigarette before he returned the call. The Honorable William Jefferson Elkins had summoned--six times. He wasn’t going to be happy about Michael’s refusal to answer the phone, even if he had been in court. Lighting the cigarette he took a deep drag and scowled. His father hadn’t called him in over six months, and now he’d called six times in the space of a half hour. Hitting the redial button he threw the unfinished cigarette into the street.
"Hello."
"Maria, it’s Michael. My father has been trying to reach me."
The silence on the phone was deafening. Michael felt the first tremors of foreboding.
"Hold please." The words were whispered, an underlying note of compassion, pain.
"Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling you for hours." Judge Elkins bellowed into the receiver.
"I’ve been in court, dad." Michael didn’t bother to correct him that it had only been a half hour. No one ever corrected Judge Elkins. At least no one that still had a bar license.
"There’s been an accident." Anger still riddled the old man’s voice. "Your mother’s dead."
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