Let Darkness Come (10 page)

A
ntonio slows his step as he comes down the winding staircase, his eyes gravitating to the twenty-foot spruce in the foyer. The decorators have done exceptional work: the tree shines and sparkles with hundreds of lights, dozens of blown-glass bulbs, and a boxful of traditional Tomassi Christmas ornaments. Next to the tree stands the
ceppo
, a wooden pyramid with shelves.

He pauses on the bottom step to scan the battered “tree of light,” one of the family's few remaining Old Country traditions. A nativity set rests at the bottom, and a star hangs from the uppermost point. When his children were small, small gifts of fruit, candy, and glitter-encrusted pinecones crowded the interior shelves. He mounted candles at the ends of each shelf, and tiny pennants fluttered in the candles' warm breath.

No one rolls pinecones in glitter anymore; none of his children would appreciate an apple or orange for Christmas. But they have continued one Italian tradition, a ritual that far surpasses anything the Americans have invented. Instead of writing selfish letters to Santa, Antonio's children write letters to their papa to tell him how much they love him. These letters are placed under his plate before Christmas dinner, and during the meal Antonio pretends that he's unaware of the missives hidden under his meal. Then, just after the serving of the panettone, he discovers the letters—aha!—and reads them aloud so that everyone can share in the joy.

Jeffrey always wrote the best letters. Jason is an adequate
writer, at best, and the girls are sweet and grateful, but Jeffrey had a way of making Antonio feel young and hopeful. Every year his letters grew richer, while Antonio's hopes for his favorite son grew brighter—

He steps off the lowest stair and approaches the
ceppo
, then fingers the silver star dangling from a ribbon. Grief strikes like a blow to his stomach, forcing him to drop the ornament and step back while he gasps for breath.

This Christmas will not be like any other. Despite tradition and his five remaining children, brooding sorrow will saturate this holiday. As painful as grief is, the most horrible aspect of this tragedy is feeling impotent in the face of intolerable injustice. Antonio is used to being obeyed; he orders and people run to do his bidding. Yet the American system crawls toward judgment, careful to give killers the protection and consideration they did not offer their victims.

But he will not sit idly by. He will let the American court proceed with its plans, but he will work behind the scenes. He will do whatever he must to be certain Jeffrey's death is avenged.

Flushed with the prospect of action, Antonio strides into his study, closes the door, and picks up the phone.

H
ow can a perfectly rational twenty-eight-year-old woman believe in a murderous phantasm?

The question hounds Briley, even popping into her brain when she wakes on Wednesday morning. When no obvious answer springs to mind, she knows she's in for hours of reading and research.

When she slides behind her desk at the office, she finds an urgent e-mail from her boss: Need you to meet with us on the Majestic Elevator matter. How's 9:00 a.m.?

She glances at the computer clock. She's already late. She should have checked her e-mail before leaving the house.

Five minutes later she's in Franklin's office, listening to Jim Myers recap a recent deposition of an elevator mechanic. She glances from Myers to Franklin, not sure why she's been summoned when a far more pressing case waits on her desk.

When Myers finishes his report, she waves for Franklin's attention. “I'm not exactly sure why I'm here.” She smiles at Myers, not wanting him to think that she's complaining about him.

“I want you to assist Myers on this one,” Franklin says, peering over the top of his reading glasses. “We need to depose the plaintiff's coworker, because he witnessed the accident. I'll be sending you to do that.”

“Me?”

“The guy's a hardnose. I think he'll tone down the machismo if we send a woman to take the deposition.”

Briley looks from Franklin to Myers. Have any of the
other female associates had to face this kind of subtle sexism? On a purely practical note, however, the man might have a point. “I'd be happy to help,” she says. “But this is the first I've heard of the matter.”

Franklin looks at Myers and jerks his thumb in her direction. “Fill her in, will you?”

Myers crosses his leg at the ankle. “We're defending the Majestic Elevator Company in a lawsuit filed over a year ago. The plaintiff is a twenty-four-year-old guy who slammed into a pair of elevator doors while horsing around with his buddies on the sixth floor of his apartment building. He popped the doors off their tracks and fell down the shaft, breaking both legs and an arm.”

“Ouch.” Briley grimaces. “That can't be his interpretation of the event.”

Myers grins. “Of course not. He would have us believe that he barely touched the doors and they flew open, forcing him to be sucked in by the evil elevator monster that lives in the shaft.”

“Sarcasm—” she struggles to hide a smile “—can hurt you.”

“Not in here, it can't.” He punches her shoulder. “Lighten up, Lester. You know some of these cases are ridiculous. Since when are companies supposed to protect people from that kind of stupidity?”

“Are you sure the guy's pals didn't pry open the doors and throw him down the shaft?” She frowns. “If that's what happened, maybe
pals
isn't the right word.”

“I'm arguing that he was negligent because he and his friends were drunk and they were playing tackle football in the sixth-floor lobby.” Myers jiggles his bent knee, a testament to the uncontrolled energy of young men. “He's lucky he survived.”

“I still don't see how the elevator company had anything to do with his injuries. Is he saying there's a problem with the design, the maintenance, or both?”

“So far they're beating around the bush on that, but the plaintiff's attorney claims Majestic was negligent because the doors shouldn't give way when a klutz like his client tries to plow through them. But any hard blow can knock the sliding doors off their track. What is Majestic supposed to do, surround the elevator with a vault?”

Briley shakes her head. “Seems to me he should be suing the building owners. Don't they maintain the doors?”

“The owners, a mom-and-pop landlord, are codefendants. They say, of course, we're the ones with the maintenance contract, so it's our problem. And the plaintiff's lawyer probably figures Majestic has deeper pockets. They install most of the elevators in the Midwest.”

Franklin gives Myers a satisfied smile and turns to Briley. “Got that?”

She nods.

“Give Nancy your avoid dates so we can coordinate with the plaintiff's attorney.” Franklin taps the arm of his chair, then lifts his hand. “By the way, Ms. Lester—how are you coming with the Tomassi case?”

Briley clears her throat, surprised by his reference to her case. “Erin Tomassi's arraignment took place Monday morning,” she says. “She pleaded not guilty. I kicked off informal discovery by interviewing her at the jail, and met with her again yesterday. I'm beginning to wonder if I ought to consider an insanity defense.”

Her boss's mouth takes on an unpleasant twist. “Do you think she might not be competent to stand trial?”

“She certainly seems competent. But I'm going to have her evaluated by a forensic psychologist. We'll see what the shrink says before formulating a case theory.”

She waits, braced for an objection—the approach is too expensive, too time-consuming, or too complicated—but Franklin says nothing else. Nor does he thank her for her efforts and state that he'd better assign the case to someone more experienced.

Instead, he reaches for the coffee decanter and pours himself another cup. “Thanks, everyone.” He nods at them above the rim of his mug. “Good work all around.”

Myers falls into step with Briley as she leaves the boss's office. “Sorry about all this. I told Franklin I'd be happy to take the elevator guy's deposition, but he wants you to do it.”

“I don't mind, but I hope it doesn't interfere with my current case. Franklin seems to think I can handle it alone, but I'm not so sure. I need to do a lot of research, and there are people to interview—”

Myers stops and lowers his voice. “Is your client really crazy?”

Briley shakes her head. “I don't think so. I get this feeling that she watched an episode of
Law & Order
and decided to use one of the plots for her defense. She has developed…a delusion.”

Myers gapes in pleased surprise. “What kind of delusion are we talking about?”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.” She gives him a rueful smile. “I was half hoping Franklin would transfer the case to someone else. I'd be a little disappointed, but in the long run it'd be a relief to walk away from this one.”

Myers grins. “I could tell you were ticked when he said he wanted you to take our witness's deposition.”

She shrugs. “I'll fit it in, if you can get me a summation and a list of questions. How long will it take, a couple of hours? A full morning?”

“In a perfect world, sure. But the guy lives in Washington State, so you'll lose at least two days in travel time.”

Two days of travel and a day for the deposition means three days away from home, her murder case, and Timothy. “That's three days.” She meets Myers's gaze. “I can't be gone three days.”

“Why not? You like Starbucks. I hear Seattle has one on every corner.”

“Can't we do the deposition by phone or video link? It'd
be a lot less expensive for our client, plus we've got the holidays to consider—”

“They don't mind paying for the advantage of face-to-face. They want your reading of the witness and his credibility, plus you've got that female thing going for you. When you smile, Lester, you can be quite disarming.” Myers grins. “Want me to book your flight?”

She exhales through clenched teeth. “Thanks, but I'll do it myself.”

And as she walks away, she considers the possibility that in a week or two she may feel as trapped and miserable as Erin Tomassi.

How is a woman supposed to have a personal life with a work schedule like this?

 

Briley retreats into her office, grateful for a few hours of uninterrupted time in which to work on her theory of the Tomassi case. She opens the file and studies the police report, which includes a copy of the crime scene's fingerprint analysis, a report remarkable primarily because no fingerprints save those of the victim, the accused, and an unknown third person, probably the housekeeper, were found at the crime scene. Furthermore, the syringe found in the trash can revealed only one set of prints—and the partial print on the plunger is an exact match for Erin Tomassi's left thumb.

The evidence is so tight, she might need wire cutters to unravel the prosecution's case.

She shuffles through the papers in the folder and finds the statement filed by Detective Mark Malone. In a conversation recorded the morning after the murder, Erin Tomassi told Malone that she never administered her husband's insulin. Unless she killed Jeffrey, there is no reason for her thumbprint to be on the plunger of any syringe, especially one found in the trash and not in the special receptacle for the safe disposal of used needles.
If the victim had self-admin
istered the overdose
, Malone wrote,
his prints should have been on the wrapper, the cap, and the syringe. They were not
.

In her law school days, Briley dreamed of defending an
innocent
client in her first murder trial. Too bad those dreams have gone the way of her belief in Santa. Sighing, she consults her notes. Despite Bystrowski's warning, she ought to give the battered-wife defense serious consideration. After all, the concept of necessity usually supersedes that of immediacy. If Erin believed her husband would one day kill her in a fit of temper, she had the right to defend herself even though she was not under direct threat.

But did that give her the right to kill him while he slept?

Selling that concept to a jury would be difficult. First, she'd have to produce credible and sympathetic witnesses who would testify to the abuse Erin suffered. Given the hero-worship surrounding Jeffrey Tomassi, such witnesses might be hard to find.

Second, she'd have to establish that Erin feared for her life, and Erin is probably the only person on earth who could testify to that. Third, she'd have to establish Erin's credibility, and Erin has already lied to Antonio Tomassi's housekeeper about the source of her bruises. If Briley calls the housekeeper or a jail matron to testify about the signs of abuse they witnessed, she'll expose her client as a liar. Fourth, she'd have to call expert witnesses to testify about the psychology of battered woman's syndrome, but a preliminary Westlaw search revealed that the field is rife with “experts” whose theories are nothing but junk science and patently unprovable. Bystrowski would pick them off like ducks in a shooting gallery.

Finally, murder as self-defense rarely results in a get-out-of-jail-free card. Other women who claimed the battered-woman defense have been found guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to prison time.

Briley turns a page in her trial notebook. When one case theory presents too many obstacles, or doesn't fit with the
evidence, it's time to consider another. Mental illness? Always risky, no matter how many voices the defendant hears in her dreams. A trial based on a plea of insanity has to be divided into two phases: the first phase determines the defendant's guilt or innocence of the crime; the second determines whether or not the defendant is sane. If Erin Tomassi is judged guilty and then insane, she could be sent to a mental hospital for years.

If sanity is not an issue…Briley considers the arguments of diminished capacity and intoxication. Erin told Detective Malone she took a double dose of Ambien, and some sleep aids have been known to cause parasomnia—behaviors like sleepwalking and unconscious eating. The sleepwalking defense has been used in murder trials, but does it apply in this case? A quick search of the Illinois criminal code reveals that intoxication is not a valid defense for criminal conduct unless the intoxicated condition was “involuntarily produced.” Erin willingly took the sleeping pills…but she couldn't have known that they would produce parasomnia.

Briley slips out of her office and walks to the law library at the end of the hallway. The firm owns an impressive collection of law books, most stacked on floor-to-ceiling shelves, but hundreds exist in digital editions. A large conference table occupies the center of the room, a computer monitor waiting at each seat. William Hughes, the law librarian, looks up when she enters the room.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Lester,” he calls, one hand rising to adjust his bow tie. “Can I help you find something?”

“It's Briley.” She scans the intimidating shelves. “What do you know about sleepwalking as a murder defense?”

“Murder? That's not your usual purview, is it?”

“No,” she answers, her voice dry. “But apparently Mr. Franklin thinks I'm up to the challenge.”

William rolls his chair toward the closest computer and sets to work, his fingers clattering the keyboard. “Seems to me that defense was recently addressed by a medical doctor
after a rather bizarre murder. A man stabbed his wife forty-four times, then pulled on gloves and dragged her to the pool, where he held her underwater until she drowned. A neighbor saw the drowning and called the police. By the time the cops arrived, the man had changed clothes, wrapped up the evidence, and tucked the bundle in the trunk of his Volvo. The police took him to the station, where he magically awoke and claimed no memory of the murder. But he did remember to mention he was a frequent sleepwalker.”