Saving Grace (Katie & Annalise Book 1) (11 page)

I could do this. I had to do this.

I dumped my briefcase onto the counsel table with five minutes to spare. Emily looked at me with round blue eyes and raised eyebrows. Her long blonde hair was defying gravity, as usual, in a way that said, “I got up an hour early to sculpt this perfection.” Her nails were bright red, freshly painted. She wore a white blouse with tuxedo pleats under her version of Nick’s navy suit from the day before. She was bold and confident, everything that I was not today.

“I’ll be fine,” I said before she could ask.

“You look rode hard and put up wet,” she said.

“That’s enough, Miss Rodeo Amarillo,” I replied, but without rancor. My friend did not lie. A great outfit couldn’t hide the truth from her.

Zane was engaged in deep conversation with a woman in the first row of the spectator’s gallery. I studied him critically. He was dressed slightly less offensively today, except for his bright purple tie. He had a matching purple fedora with a zebra-striped hatband sitting in front of him. I grabbed it and stuck it under the table while his eyes were still glued to the breasts in row one.

The state continued with their witnesses, building the blocks to their case, with Mack still taking the lead and Junie still gazing in awe at her engagement ring. Emily continued propping me up, although I was better than the day before. No egregious malpractice, at least, and that was a miracle.

We broke for lunch halfway through our allotted time in front of the judge. I remained seated in my chair. A herd of wildebeests stampeded through my brain until a voice interrupted my trance.

“How do you think we’re doing, counselor?” Zane asked.

I thought I saw a flash of something in his mouth. Had he been eating chocolate? It looked as if he had something on his teeth. Whatever it was, hopefully it would come off when he ate lunch.

“Um, everything is fine. No surprises. Just like we expected,” I said. Which was true. It wasn’t my whole truth, but he didn’t need that.

Emily was standing on the other side of Zane. She drew his attention away from me and said, “It’s going great, Mr. McMillan. Katie is one of the best trial attorneys in the city. Is everything OK, from your perspective ?”

I was giving Emily a raise when we got back to the office. Just then Zane checked her out, his elevator eyes taking long stops on every floor. I’d get her a spot bonus, too.

“Nah, I’m good if you guys are good,” Zane said. “Just checking. I’m paying for no surprises,” he said. But he was mumbling, and his voice sounded different. It was an odd statement from an odd man.

As Emily and I walked off to find ourselves some food, she said, “If Zane doesn’t quit staring at your ass when you stand up, the jurors are going to find him guilty just on general principles of common decency.”

Ugh. I just wanted this trial to end so I could crawl in a hole and sleep for a week. Or a month. Or a year.

After lunch, Mack put on the police officer who would testify about the bag of McZillion shoelaces they’d confiscated in the search of Zane’s condo. These shoelaces were the source of Zane’s angst from the day before. I’d researched the legality of the warrant and the resulting search, but I hadn’t had enough time or experience to reach a solid conclusion. Frankly, I had no idea what the right play was here—challenge or not? This was something Zane’s previous firm should have handled weeks ago, months ago, if it was to be done at all. Trial was the wrong place to go on the defensive on this issue, in my opinion, in front of a jury that already didn’t like Zane, if it had any sense. Shannon had agreed with me when I ran it by her. However, if I didn’t raise the objection, I’d risk upsetting my client and lose the right to appeal on the issue.

Mack offered the search warrant into evidence. It was now or never, decision time. I could feel Emily and Zane watching me. I pictured myself objecting. In my mind’s eye, I saw the jury react, looking at Zane like he was a guilty dog barking. Besides, who the hell else carried around $150 custom-made Nike shoelaces with “McZillion” stitched in real gold thread? We weren’t arguing that the shoelaces belonged to someone else or that he hadn’t tied her up with them, anyway. Our only issue was whether she’d wanted him to.

I thought of my father, and of all the hard-working officers I’d known in my life. This was ridiculous. I passed the witness without cross-examining him, and without objecting to the evidence. Zane needed to watch less crime drama and have sex with fewer strange women. He was just pissed the cops snagged three thousand dollars’ worth of his booty favors. He stared daggers at me from the other end of the table, and I pretended not to notice.

The state finished the day and their entire case with Tabitha. When she stepped up to the witness box, I did a double take. The woman—all of twenty-five, maybe—had freckled pale skin and long wavy red hair. A younger version of my mother. Hell, a younger version of me, except with better breasts. The photos in the file hadn’t done the resemblance justice. Apparently McMillan had a type, in sexual partners and lawyers in rape trials.

I shot a glance at Zane. The daggers were gone. He grinned back at me, exposing a silver grill with “McZ” written in embedded rhinestones.
Oh my God.
I didn’t grin back.

“Take that off right now,” I ordered him, trying to whisper. “You look like you’re mocking her. Take it off before the jury sees you.”

Zane flashed a wide smile at the jury. I watched in horror as the two women nearest us in the front row cringed in disgust. He pulled the grill out of his mouth and set it on the table, then leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. The prosecutor continued his direct exam of Tabitha, unaware of the distracting show my smarmy jerk of a client was putting on for the jury.

I eyed the grill. No way was I touching that spit-covered metal monstrosity with my bare hands. I grabbed my Clorox Wipes handipack out of my purse, snatched a few out, and used them as a barrier between my skin and Zane’s saliva. I put the grill in the outside pocket of my leather briefcase, then shoved it away from me. I could dry-clean the case later.

I would have to worry about Zane’s behavior later, too. Right now, my job was to make them forget about him and his vile grill while I handled the cross-examination of Tabitha Brown in such a way that the jurors didn’t think I was a big insensitive meanie.

This was a challenging prospect, since I had some hard questions to ask her. But I could pass as her older sister, so I’d try to act like one. I channeled my inner loving-while-proving-she’s-a-liar big sister and got to my feet.

“Ms. Brown, just a few questions. Before we begin, do you need anything? More water? A tissue?” Tabitha’s tears from her direct testimony still lingered in her lashes.

“No ma’am, thank you.” Her voice was soft, high. Young. Innocent-sounding. She had dressed the part, too, in a Peter Pan-collared navy dress nipped in at her narrow waist with a thin belt in matching fabric. Sunday school teachers, eat your heart out.

I asked her, “Had you met my client, Zane McMillan, before the night in question?”

“No, ma’am, I had not.”

“And you met him at Good Sportz?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How did you meet him?”

“How?”

“Yes, how did you come to meet him? Did he walk up to you and introduce himself, or did you have mutual friends that introduced you?”

Some of the story that Zane had told me had come out during the state’s direct examination of Tabitha. All of it had come out in her deposition, which I had read in preparing for trial. Unfortunately, it was my job as defense counsel to make sure the jury heard all of it from the defense’s perspective. Which made me a shitheel.

“I, uh . . .”

“I apologize if this gets embarrassing for you, Ms. Brown. I certainly don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but I’m going to have to ask you a direct question since you can’t think of an answer for me. So, did you have a note delivered to him with your phone number on it, asking him to text you if he wanted to ‘see some great tits’?”

Her voice got softer. “I may have.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes. Yes, ma’am.”

“Did Mr. McMillan text you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did you text him a picture of your bare breasts that you took yourself right there in the club?”

I could barely hear her as she answered. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Brown, but could you speak just a little bit louder, so the jury can hear your answers?”

She tried. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you. Did Mr. McMillan then ask you to meet him in the VIP room?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And when you got there, did he ask you to perform oral sex on him in a private room?”

She started to cry again. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry to make you remember this, Ms. Brown. It can’t be easy talking about what you did.”

Mack jumped to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. That’s not a question.”

“Sustained,” Judge Hutchison replied. “Remove that from the record,” he instructed the court reporter.

I continued, not caring about the objection. The jury had heard me. “So you went into a private room and performed oral sex on a man you’d only just met because you’d texted him a photo of your bare breasts?”

“Yes, but I—” Tabitha said.

“Hold on, Ms. Brown. I only asked a yes or no question.”

“But—”

I cut her off. “Did Mr. McMillan ask you to leave Good Sportz with him for the purpose of having sex at your apartment?”

“Yes, but when I got in the car I sobered up, and I changed my mind.”

The jury had already heard all about her drug and alcohol use on direct. Now I objected. “Objection, as to everything but ‘yes’ as nonresponsive, Your Honor.”

Judge Hutchison was agreeable today. “Sustained. Remove that from the record, please.”

I knew the young woman wouldn’t give me the answer I wanted to my next question, but I asked anyway. The jury needed to see me do it.

“Ms. Brown, Mr. McMillan couldn’t have sexually assaulted you because you consented to have sex with him at your apartment, isn’t that correct?”

“No,” she protested, “I—”

I interrupted her as I walked briskly toward my seat. “No further questions at this time, Your Honor.”

Mack asked Tabitha a few more questions, then the judge excused her.

My cross-exam of Tabitha lasted ten minutes. Ten minutes in which I felt like the world’s biggest sleaze, except for maybe my client. Zane deserved a good defense, or at least that was what they taught us in legal ethics class in law school, but I just wished I didn’t have to be the one providing it and putting all this tawdry garbage out into the universe.

“We’ll reconvene at 9:30 tomorrow. Court is adjourned for today.” The judge banged his gavel and left the courtroom.

I had managed to complete the whole day without turning into a gargoyle or collapsing into a snoring heap. I had survived Zane’s antics. Hell, I’d made it through two whole days. Two days on emotional empty defending a case I was clueless about for the world’s most obnoxious client. I was whipped.

My goodbyes were even shorter than the day before. I bolted out of that courthouse and into my Accord, and drove away with my air conditioner cranking full blast. The August heat could wither stronger women than me in an instant, and I was far less than strong right now. I jerked out the bobby pins that had held my hair in its severe knot, snatched a kleenex from the console, and scrubbed my lipstick off. The urge to call my mother was so strong that I had my phone out before it even hit me that speed dial wouldn’t reach her where she was now.

“Son of a bitch,” I screamed, and pounded the steering wheel. More softly, I repeated it. “Son of a bitch.”

When I got home, I threw my contaminated briefcase down on the coffee table. Thank God I only had one more day, that I was home now, that I could hide from the eyes of everyone in that courtroom until tomorrow morning.

I looked at the freezer. I knew what was in it. I wanted what was in it.

I redirected my thoughts. A good cry might help. Or a hot shower. I should try one of those. Or both.

Or neither. I opened the freezer and got out the icy-cold bottle of Ketel One. I pulled a can of V-8 out of the pantry. I retrieved a Waterford crystal tumbler and stir stick, thinking maybe my uptown drinking accessories would make me feel less low-class about this. I mixed my concoction, then used antique silver tongs to drop the ice cubes in gently, one at a time so they wouldn’t splash. I took one teensy sip. I’d pace myself, just have one to settle my nerves.

I sat down on one of my barstools, the kind with the twirly seats. Hands on the black granite countertop, I twisted one way, then the other. I should make myself something to eat, I thought, but I didn’t want to. I could watch TV or read a book, distract my mind from recycling the last two days, before I dove back into prep for day three. I took another sip. And another.

Tomorrow I’d put on our case, which included a few experts to rebut the state’s conclusion that sex between Tabitha and Zane was nonconsensual. We’d finish with our death blow, testimony from the roommate Sherry. Sherry’s testimony would plant reasonable doubt in the jurors’ minds, no matter what I did. I would under no circumstances ever permit Zane, his roving eyes, and his enormous ego on the stand, so I didn’t have to worry about preparing for that.

Maybe just one more drink. I could do tomorrow in my sleep. Or with a wicked hangover.

I gave in and poured.

The next morning, I sprinted to the courts building from my parking spot on the street. I knew I’d get a ticket and that the city would probably tow my car away, but that was the least of my worries. I was late for court. I’d slept through my alarm and only woke up when one of my condo building’s security officers knocked on my door, courtesy of a call to them from the best friend and paralegal in the world. Thank God for Emily. I just prayed she hadn’t called Gino first.

Today I ran through the halls, dodging people, repeating, “Excuse me,” over and over. I hated people that did this. I hated me for doing it. I hated me.

I glanced at my watch as I hit the courtroom doors. It was 9:55. Trial was to have started with our case—our witnesses—at 9:30.

I took a deep breath to quell my nausea. And then I was inside. A hot mess in heels, clippety clopping far too loudly as I race-walked to the bench to present myself to the honorable and righteously pissed Judge Hutchison. He glared at me, his black eyes ringed with bright white in his coal-black face. Mack joined us. He was glowing.

I looked down and saw a flash of white lace bra. I pulled at the neckline of my navy coatdress until I was decent again, then spoke.

“Your Honor, I’m so sorry. I’ve been quite ill. I will be able to continue, but I had a very difficult night, and I just didn’t wake up this morning. I live alone, so there was no one around who knew I was sick, to check on me and make sure I woke up. I am incredibly grateful to my paralegal for contacting me. I beg your forgiveness, the state’s, and the jury’s, for wasting everyone’s time. I have practiced for years in the Dallas courts, sir, and this has never happened before. It will never happen again.” I prayed that a giant B for Boozer hadn’t appeared on my forehead.

Judge Hutchison leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know what to say, Ms. Connell, except that it will absolutely not ever happen again, or it will be the last time you argue before me. If you are as sick as you say, you’d better not get me ill, too. Please return to your table.” He looked at me again. “You really do look awful.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Thank you, Your Honor.”

Mack looked disappointed that the judge hadn’t spilled any of my blood, but he didn’t protest. Maybe he thought it was better for the state that the judge let a “sick” defense attorney proceed. I couldn’t disagree.

I took a seat as close as I could get to Emily, whose hairsprayed cosmetological creation kept me at bay. She didn’t look at me. Zane, however, leaned around her and winked. I noticed his attire for the day. Finally, he’d taken my advice. If I hadn’t known he was nine inches taller than Nick, I’d think he had borrowed his navy suit. It was like Zane and I had planned a matchy-matchy day.

He burst my short-lived bubble. “Rough night, counselor? Got the wine flu, or did you lose sleep knocking boots with some cowboy?”

I was too sick to punch him and the trial wasn’t over, so I gave him a wan smile. Later, I promised myself. Later. I reached into my briefcase to get my notes for my direct examinations of the witnesses this morning and my hand found something solid with sharp edges. I realized I’d fondled a handful of Zane’s grill, and jerked back like it had jolted me with electricity.

Never again, I promised myself. No more criminal trials, ever.

“Are you ready, Ms. Connell?” Judge Hutchison asked.

No, Your Honor, but I have no choice in the matter. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Call your first witness,” he said.

I wished I could stay seated, but the judge would never permit it, so I stood, careful not to jostle my brains. I needed all the cells I had left fully functioning. While the court reporter swore my first witness in, I drained a bottle of water and then concentrated on holding it down. I’d never brought a hangover to trial before. It would have devastated my mother.

“Shame on you, Katie,” she used to say when I chose badly, like when I bent the legs of Collins’ favorite GI Joe in the wrong direction until they broke.

Actually, I was pretty much ashamed on her behalf. “Shame on me, Katie,” I thought, then pushed it aside. Any more of that would border on self-pity.

The first two witnesses went fine, better than I deserved. They were our experts on the crime scene evidence. We weren’t contesting that the evidence existed—that it was his semen and shoelaces, that the shoelaces had abraded Tabitha’s wrists and ankles, and that her body had been covered with bruises. We were simply arguing that it wasn’t rape. The only important point I needed to establish with them was that nothing about the scene or her injuries precluded a conclusion that Tabitha had consented to sex with Zane. The longer I knew him, though, the less I believed in the possibility of anyone consenting to having sex with him.

In a truly shocking turn of events, Junie cross-examined the experts. What was Mack up to? She did a competent job, but they both held up quite well. Score one for defense, times two.

I began to think everything would turn out OK despite me. I hadn’t tossed my cookies, and I’d still have time to put Sherry Talmadge on before lunch. That meant we could deliver closing arguments immediately after the jury got back from lunch. If so, we could send the case to them before the end of the day. That would make the jury happy with me and meet the judge’s deadline of three days.

And then I could relax for a nanosecond and figure out what the hell had happened in my life since Bloody-Mary-thirty last evening.

I cleared my throat. “Your Honor, the defense calls Sherry Talmadge.”

A short, pregnant Caucasian woman made her way from the back row of the courtroom to the stand. This was my first time to lay eyes on Ms. Talmadge. She was cute bordering on pretty, or on used-to-be-pretty. Her straight brown hair clung to her head. The dark bags under her eyes over sallow skin told us all about her lifestyle, bun in the oven or not. I reached up and touched my own face. I shuddered.

I shook it off. It was show time. As I stood to start my direct, I looked around the courtroom for Nick. It was our last day of trial, and I hadn’t checked in with him last night. He wasn’t here. Our possibly-last trial together was almost over.

I took Ms. Talmadge through the easy parts of her testimony first—her name, her address, her occupation—while I got a feel for her rhythm and tempo. She fiddled with the cuff of her long-sleeved mauve maternity dress. She stuttered some and looked down more than I would have wanted, but testifying in trial was scary, and lots of people did far worse than she. Once we had established her presence for the events in question, I got to the point of her testimony.

I opened it wide for her. “Ms. Talmadge, please tell me what you observed and heard happen on the night in question, from the time Ms. Brown and Mr. McMillan got to your apartment, until Mr. McMillan left.”

Sherry drew a deep breath and blew it out forcefully, and took her time with both. When she spoke, she spoke rapidly, looking at Mack and Junie instead of the jury or me. “Tabitha came home and tried to lock Zane out but he pushed his way in after her and dragged her to the bedroom and shut the door and then she screamed at me to call the police because he was raping her and he threatened to kill me if I did.” She stopped speaking and looked down.

It took me a moment to realize what I had just heard, which wasn’t what I had expected to hear. It didn’t take Zane nearly as long as me. He jumped to his feet, taller by seven inches and heavier by a hundred pounds of muscle than anyone else present. His jacket fell open, exposing the shirt I hadn’t seen earlier. It read, “Ladies, wait your turn.”

“Bitch,” he screamed. “What the fuck do you mean, you lying fucking bitch?”

Everyone gasped.