A Raging Dawn (9 page)

I took a quick inventory of the jury. The only one who would meet my gaze was an older man who seemed more interested in looking down my shirt than what I had to say. No doubt about it, I’d lost them. Best to get it over with quickly.

“No.”

“No what?” Jacob was relentless.

“I found no physical evidence that Mr. Littleton used force when he raped Ms. Nelson.”

“Dr. Rossi,” Judge Shaw said, further making Jacob’s case for him, “confine your remarks to the facts presented.”

“Yes, ma’am.” My tone could have been more contrite, but I was having a hard time maintaining a professional facade.

“Anything else, Mr. Voorsanger?” the judge asked, glancing at her watch. We were ahead of schedule, and she liked that.

“I just have one last confirmatory question, Your Honor.” Jacob glanced back over his shoulder to the spectators, then shuffled his notes as if ticking off a checklist. “Dr. Rossi, one last time for the jury. You found no evidence that Ms. Nelson was raped, correct?”

I blinked, at first certain I hadn’t heard him correctly. Manny sat up so fast he knocked a pencil off his table. It hit the ground with a crack that echoed through the suddenly silent room. In the rear of the galley, Ryder straightened as well.

Jacob had his head buried in his notes. The jury had relaxed. They’d heard him ask the same question twice before already. They knew my answer.

Except they were wrong. It
wasn’t
the same question, not the same question at all.

I glanced at the judge, who inclined her head in a small nod, giving me permission to answer the question Jacob had asked.

Exactly
as he had asked it.

“That is not correct.” My voice ricocheted off the jurors, grabbing their attention.

“Excuse me?” Jacob rocked his head up, but his face revealed no surprise. Damn the man, he knew what he was doing. Somehow he was managing to both defend his client and ensure that a group of mad-dog predators wouldn’t continue to run free. Littleton picked up on it as well, frantically reaching across the defense table to yank at Jacob’s sleeve.

“You asked if I found any evidence that Ms. Nelson was raped. I did find evidence. Evidence that she was both raped and physically assaulted. Multiple times. By multiple assailants.” Just no evidence that
his
client had used force.

Thanks to Jacob’s slip, the forensic evidence of the full extent of Tymara’s injuries could now be introduced to the jury. We’d be on the record with everything that really happened to Tymara. If it swayed the jury, it could be enough to get Littleton to give up his partners.

Thanks to Jacob, Tymara would finally have a chance to be heard. Even if it was from the grave.

Littleton’s features twisted into a scowl. He pounded a fist on the tabletop. Then he focused on me, his face florid with rage.

He lunged from his seat, hands stretched toward me. “You bitch! You fucking bitch! You’re not allowed to say anything and you know it!”

The judge banged her gavel, calling for silence. “Mr. Voorsanger, control your client.”

Jacob stepped away from the podium and said something in a low voice. Littleton’s posture stiffened, his mouth twisted with fury. The bailiff moved to stand behind Littleton, positioning himself where he could restrain him if needed.

“That’s not right. She can’t trick you like that,” Littleton protested, whirling on Jacob. “Your fault—it’s all your fault!”

Elbowing the bailiff so hard the man fell back and hit the railing, Littleton wrapped his hands around Jacob’s throat. “I’ll kill you, you bastard! I’ll kill you!”

RYDER BOUNDED FROM
his seat, reaching the defense table before the bailiff had time to recover. His pulse hammered so loudly in his ears he barely heard Littleton’s shouts or the judge’s gavel banging.

He tackled Littleton, pulling him away from Voorsanger. A wristlock and knee to the small of the back tumbled the prisoner to the ground. By that time, the bailiff was there with his cuffs.

The bailiff dragged Littleton out of reach as Ryder climbed back to his feet, his gaze scouring the courtroom, searching for any further threats. His breath had barely sped up, although his chest was tight, as if he’d run a mile. But still, for his first day back on the job, it felt pretty damn good.

The pain would hit later after the adrenaline fled, but who cared?

He blew his breath out and backed up behind the prosecutor’s table as courthouse security flooded the room. It took three of them to haul out Littleton, who was screaming incoherent threats at anyone who would listen.

Ryder turned his head to check that Rossi was okay. She perched half in and half out of the witness box, a fierce expression on her face, as if she’d intended to take on Littleton herself. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was focused on her ex, Jacob Voorsanger.

The judge banged her gavel once again, and a sudden silence descended over the room. Voorsanger slowly pushed himself upright, leaning heavily against the podium as he caught his breath.

“Your Honor, we request a recess to discuss options with the prosecution,” Voorsanger said, his voice hoarse, his chest heaving with each word.

“Wise decision, Mr. Voorsanger. I’m declaring an immediate mistrial with no prejudice to the prosecution. Mr. Cruz, you may refile charges at your convenience, but it is my sincere hope that we do not have a repeat of this mockery of justice. At least not in my courtroom. Do I make myself clear, gentlemen?”

Both lawyers nodded, appearing sheepish. The judge turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, you are dismissed. Thank you for your time. We are adjourned.”

With a regal swish of her robe, she disappeared into her chambers. Everyone else filed out, leaving only Manny Cruz, Jacob Voorsanger, Rossi, and Ryder gathered in the no-man’s land between the defense and prosecution tables.

“Glad I gave up my lunch hour,” Ryder said, the heel of his hand caressing the empty holster on his belt like an amputee scratching a phantom itch. Damn new rules insisted only courthouse security officers carry inside the courthouse. Those bozos weren’t any better than mall rent-a-cops. “Nice show you guys put on.”

“This is ridiculous.” Manny wheeled on Voorsanger. “If I have to go through this shit again, I’ll bury Littleton’s ass deeper than the last coal they dragged out of the Cambria Mine. I swear I will.”

Voorsanger was worrying at his neck, now blossoming with red marks, ignoring the other men as he stared at Rossi.

“You okay?” she asked, placing her hand on his arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Ryder had the feeling she wasn’t talking about Voorsanger’s neck. It was obvious Voorsanger’s last question hadn’t been a mere slip of the tongue.

Voorsanger gave her a slow nod. “I’m fine.”

“So, what do you think?” Manny went on in his usual breathless way, ignorant of or ignoring the exchange, excited by his sudden reversal of fortune. His no-win case had just turned into a slam-dunk conviction. “That asswipe going to roll finally? Because now he’s facing assault and attempted murder with you and Judge Shaw as my star witnesses.”

“You’ll need to offer his new attorney a good deal,” Voorsanger said. “I don’t know details, but as you know from Mr. Littleton’s previous statements, the men who coerced him to assault Ms. Nelson are rich, connected, and vicious. They’ll kill anyone who gets in their way or threatens them. Just like I’m assuming they killed her.”

The four of them exchanged glances. Ryder shrugged. Dealing with animals was his main reason to crawl out of bed in the morning. Manny nodded, a single jerk of his chin. The three men stared at Rossi.

“I saw Tymara,” Rossi reminded them. “What they did to her. We need to get them off the streets. Whatever it takes.”

<<<>>>

DEVON PRICE WAS
late for his breakfast date. It was twelve thirty-eight, a few hours shy of what he considered a civilized time of day. After spending the morning trying to find a line on who killed Tymara, he wasn’t moving at full speed. If it hadn’t been for the trial, he’d still be in bed. But, turned out, as lousy as the morning had been, he was glad he’d taken the time to talk to the Tower residents. He hadn’t learned anything new about the Brotherhood, but his conversations had raised more questions. Questions he hoped Angela would be able to answer tonight.

Always borrowing trouble.
That’s what the Tower women who’d raised him had told him. This time he hoped they were right, that he was seeing trouble where it didn’t exist. But the itch along his spine told him otherwise.

He stood inside the entrance to the chic Pan-Asian restaurant, ostensibly to remove his sunglasses. In reality he was waiting for the pause, that micro-moment of hush when women raised their gazes to admire him while their male companions straightened to acknowledge the competition. Not that anyone here could dream to compete with Daniel Kingston’s son, illegitimate or not.

It never failed. Devon wasn’t used to it, but in the month since he’d returned to Cambria City and had taken over Kingston Enterprises, he’d learned to expect it. All part of the game he had to play, which was to maintain the illusion of power and control the Kingstons had cultivated for generations. He gave the other diners a lazy glance, basking in the glow. So very different from the way his father had treated his bastard son as a child. Or the way he had treated Devon’s mother.

Chuckling beneath his breath at the irony, he followed the hostess in her tight silk dress. She stopped and indicated a private booth at the rear of the restaurant, dark enough that his weary eyes wouldn’t be subjected to glare.

Before she left, he slipped his card into her palm. Not his business card. His personal one. She jumped, her porcelain calm shattered, her expression bordering on fear.

“Er,” she stuttered, “I’m sorry, Mr. Price.” He folded the card into her palm as he raised her hand to his lips, kissing the flesh immediately above her wedding ring. A promise as well as a performance for the others watching.

“Keep it,” he murmured, staring her down.

“But—” She was shuffling, too polite to yank her hand free, anxious to get away.

“I’ll expect you tonight.” He released her, and she ran away, teetering on high heels, his card crumpled in her sweaty grip.

“Hope you’re not going to torch the place if she refuses,” said Gena Kravitz, his dining companion, her chopsticks waving in the air. “I like the food here.”

He hid his irritation that she’d ordered and begun without him. Knew it was one of her power plays. Why was it everything in this city boiled down to a few people in power playing games? At least when he’d worked with Philly’s Russian mob, they’d been honest about their brutality and the consequences of failing to meet their expectations.

“For you, I’ll simply organize a kitchen-worker strike,” he said with a gracious flutter of his hand. “Most of their busboys and dishwashers come from the Tower.”

If it came from Kingston Tower, then Devon controlled it. As soon as he dealt with men like Eugene Littleton and his partners in crime. People needed to understand that no one trespassed on what was Devon’s. No one.

Gena slurped her tea, almost dunking her outrageous blonde curls in the process. Despite being a beautiful woman with a body she loved to flaunt, Gena was a slob when it came to table manners. No appreciation for the finer things in life, she was ruled by her passions—passions that, from the rumors Devon had heard, ran to the extreme. Enough that she’d left a top-tier firm in Philly to come here and open a solo practice.

“And then you’ll extract a personal payment for ending the strike, right?” she asked, her eyes gleaming. “One custom-made ego trip ready for carry-out. What will it be, Devon? A night spent with you? Will you make her husband watch?”

Without him needing to order, a young waitress appeared with a tray laden with succulent specialty items, none from the menu everyone else ordered from. Only the chef’s best for Daniel Kingston’s son. The chef whose wife worked as hostess.

Devon nodded to the girl as she poured tea for him, her arms moving in graceful arcs. She finished her task and left, never once making eye contact with him. He eased his elbow along the top of the bench as he watched her walk away.

“Oh,” Gena said in a breathless voice that made Devon wonder about the attorney’s own proclivities. “A mother-daughter double feature. Wouldn’t that be sweet?”

“Need you be so crass, Gena?” He kept his tone light, maintaining the facade of boredom, hiding a frown. She had no idea what he had planned, and if Devon had his way, she never would. He cast a lazy glance around the crowded restaurant. None of them would.

“It’s my nature. Besides, you like having me around, someone who sees what you do and can appreciate it without judging.”

“Speaking of judges—”

“Heard about the mistrial.” She made a tut-tutting sound. “So disappointing. I know you were counting on an acquittal. Especially after what happened this morning. Do the police have any leads?”

Devon scowled. “No. My men saw nothing out of the ordinary, not even the ones I had patrolling Tymara’s floor.”

“No cameras?”