Читать книгу A Man To Count On - Helen R. Myers - Страница 7

The moment the judge leveled his gavel and announced, “Court is dismissed,” E. D. Martel began shaking. Act One, Scene Two accomplished, but she didn’t give herself good odds for making it through the next one, let alone the rest of the day.

“We’ve received word there’s a growing swarm of reporters outside, Ms. Martel,” her associate and junior counsel Bruce Littner said near her ear. “Some are unfamiliar to me and probably from out of town. I don’t know that we can assume they’re here for this verdict. You want me to ask the bailiff for a sheriff’s deputy to escort you out of here through a back exit?”

More than that, she wanted to wake up in her bed and realize the last several hours had been a bad dream; but she knew better than to accept any protection from the press. There was no denying she was breathless from shock, hurt to the point of wanting to dive into the ladies’ room and sob, and angry enough to show Trey what a receding hairline really looked like. None of that was an option, though, as Bruce was right; this extra media attention was personal business. Hers. Any outward sign of distress or resentment on her part would serve her, Emmett and the office badly.

With a veteran’s ability to press her lips into a semblance of a smile, she touched the concerned young lawyer’s shoulder, hating that his biggest professional moment to date ultimately would be reduced to trash. “With your help, I think we can manage. If you’d be so good as to accompany me,” she told him, “I’ll make the usual ‘justice has been served’ statement and then, as the give-us-gossip queries begin, excuse us.”

The brown-eyed blonde, who could have passed for her kid brother if she’d had one, nodded with emphasis. “You’ve got it, Ms. Martel. And if any of them get pushy, don’t worry. I was a champion wrestler in high school and college. Nobody’s going to muscle us.”

He was as sweet in his concern as he was thorough in his work. She made a mental note to mention his value to their boss, D.A. Emmett Garner. Who could say—with her luck, he’d be replacing her before Christmas. “Make that E.D. You’ve earned it. As for trouble, I suspect the only threat we need to worry about is a chipped tooth from having a microphone jammed into our faces.”

As she slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder and reached for her briefcase, she wondered at her calm voice and hoped that the sweat starting to trickle down her back and between her breasts didn’t bleed through her red suit. She traditionally wore this suit with the double-breasted gold buttons on final arguments day, when murder one was on the table, to keep the jury’s attention. She opted for a black one on the day she expected a jury verdict, to signify her awareness that another life had been lost, and that everyone loses in a conviction.

Only today the jury hadn’t taken two hours to reach their decision.

It was just as well, she reasoned. The red could substitute as her internal grieving for what her children must be going through.

So help me, Trey, you will pay for this.

Operating on reflexes that she’d honed from almost sixteen years with the district attorney’s office, E.D. accepted the teary thanks, emotional hugs and powerful handshakes from poor Misty Carthage’s family and friends. That barely slowed her path toward the double doors, beyond which cameras would click madly and video cameras would catch every nuance. Knowing she had seconds before the full circus started, she told Bruce, “When you get out of here, take that patient girl of yours out for a terrific dinner. If you want to try Bruno’s, use my name and have them charge it to my account. One of us deserves a good meal out of this.”

Usually someone with above-average reflexes, the attorney had to reach twice for the door handle. “Uh…thanks. You’re sure?”

E.D. blocked thoughts of what Trey had done with their joint accounts while she’d been tied up in court. “Absolutely. Now let’s get this done.”

Bruce opened the door to a barrage of people and electronics. From the bulwark poured eager and strident appeals.

“Are you pleased at putting another defendant on death row, Ms. Martel?”

“E.D., is it true your husband has locked you out of your own home?”

“Did you know the photos you approved would end up on the Internet?”

“The word is that Playboy is offering you a million for a mother-daughter layout. Gonna take it?”

Wishing she could broadside smug Josh Perle with her briefcase, E.D. paused and began, “Thank you for your interest in Misty Carthage’s devastating case. The state of Texas is grateful that justice has been served once again and that other studious coeds, the Austin community as a whole, will be safer—at least from the likes of Ed Guy.”

“With this being May, you’ll soon have two condemned men facing execution,” another reporter she didn’t recognize called from the back. “New DNA tests are being requested by their attorneys. What’s your reaction to that?”

“It’s their right, of course. That said, the Sandman did not beat Debra Conyers to death in her bed, her husband did, despite his recant after excessive publicity attracted a high-profile defense team to his case. As for Counselor Baltow’s claim regarding his client, science has already shown the state will not be putting an innocent person to death and I expect that new appeal will be denied, as well. Thank you for your time.”

After a speaking glance to Bruce, she started down the hall. Undaunted, several reporters matched her stride.

“Would you make a statement about Mr. Martel’s decision to sue you for divorce and get a restraining order, Ms. Martel?”

“No.” But E.D. wished Trey could hear himself being referred to by her maiden name. The reporter had to be new.

“Have you talked to your daughter or son?” someone else asked in a sharper voice.

Caught off guard, she ignored the question due to the sudden boulder lodging in her throat. Thankfully, Bruce forced his way forward and stretched out his arm to deter the persistent.

“Back off! You have your statement.”

Three minutes later she reached her office, rejecting Bruce’s offer to escort her the rest of the way. She’d expressed her gratitude again and urged him toward the parking garage. Now she drew in a long, deep breath knowing she wouldn’t get off so easy. The sound reminded her of a rattling shutter in a storm.

Don’t.

As her throat began to hurt anew, she tried to ease that by swallowing several times. She had no time for tears, forget outright panic. But vulnerability was compounding on itself. Sure, for the moment she had a job where she would be defended in any public forum. All it would take to end that, though, was a few more crass comments by Trey, Dani in hysterics…and the photos showing up in more and more places. Then, whether it was fair or not, E.D. would be asked for her resignation, left as raw meat to the voracious media hounds.

One thing at a time. Get through here, and then figure out where you’ll sleep tonight.

She honestly didn’t have a clue. By the first break in court today, Trey had left a message on her cell phone warning her not to return to the house because he’d had the locks changed so she wouldn’t be able to get inside. Supposedly, her luggage was waiting for her in her office. Not only hadn’t the bastard had the decency to let her pack her own things, he was subjecting her to the humiliation of the whole office seeing evidence that she was being ejected from her own home—for reasons as bizarre as they were infuriating.

As E.D. walked the long halls, she again tried to call her seventeen-year-old daughter, Dani—but without success. Mac, her eleven-year-old son, didn’t answer his phone, either. Trey must have had some input there. As bad as Dani’s situation was—and she had yet to get to the bottom of it—surely he hadn’t succeeded in convincing her son that she was in any way responsible?

Walking through the halls, she willed her expression to remain blank and only murmured, “Thanks,” to the half-dozen people who were still there working on their own cases, looking up to congratulate her. She’d encouraged her secretary, Nita, not to wait on her—a good thing because as she opened the door to her office, the sight of her three red suitcases had her slumping against the door, her vision blurring from tears.

Remember where you are.

Real help came as her phone started vibrating. Hoping it was Mac or Dani, she straightened and reached into her pocket. When she checked the caller ID screen, she couldn’t believe her eyes.

Dylan Justiss!

Why she continued to keep his number on her personal phone she couldn’t say—or didn’t want to admit. But realizing that she was a button click away from hearing his strong, reassuring voice had her insides fluttering in excitement.

Someone discreetly coughed behind her.

Pivoting, she saw a suave-looking, mature man, his hair barely a shade lighter than his steel-gray eyes and suit. “Sir.”

“Congratulations, E.D.,” Travis County District Attorney Emmett Garner said with a regal nod. “You’ve done me proud again.”

“Thank you. Though considering the amount of DNA evidence, I think a final-year law student could have handled this case.” Pocketing her phone, she gestured. “Care to come in?”

Apparently, he did, and while he eyed the luggage, it was noteworthy that he made no comment. Instead, he shut the door, leaned back against it, and assumed a deceptively casual pose of folded arms and crossed ankles. Cary Grant never did it better. E.D. had once read that while in college, Emmett had done Shakespeare onstage, earning reviews that could have launched a stage career if he’d wanted it. Aside from his smooth, sophisticated features, his precise diction and lack of any Western twang seemed to support that; however, his performance hall had become a Texas courtroom, and he’d tried some of the most important cases in the state’s history, winning the majority soundly.

“I hope you didn’t stay late because of me?” E.D. asked, preferring to get this over with rather than deal with a prolonged silence. Reaching her desk, she set her bag and briefcase onto it and met his shrewd scrutiny straightforward.

“Because of and for these few words, my dear. Delayed an engagement after I heard the verdict,” he intoned. “I wanted an opportunity to salute Le Martel and see for my own eyes how, under the circumstances, the day’s events affected my faithful soldier. Elegant, but a gladiator still,” he added with a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “You reassure me.”

Meaning he’d heard the worst and had questions about his “best and brightest” being in deep domestic trouble. E.D. admired and often liked Emmett, but she had no illusions about how fast he would give the thumbs-down signal to feed her to the two-legged lions if she polluted his precious department and crippled his political future.

“You trained your protégée well, sir. I, too, would like to recognize someone—my assistant, Bruce Littner. He deserves a letter in his file for his part in this verdict.”

“See that it’s done. At the rate we wear out staff, it’s always good to remember to stroke the young talent, and I’ve long admired your nose for potential stars.”

“Thank you.”

Without breaking eye contact, Emmett tilted his head toward the luggage. “I’m not going to meddle, unless you feel the need for a confidant…and I think that same fine mind is far too intelligent to want me to be one.”

Velvety words barely cloaking a steel-hard warning had the desired effect on E.D. This wasn’t the first time she had heard them, although it was the first since rising so high in the department. “You flatter me, sir. But I plan to continue separating work and family.

“This should be simply a divorce case at worst,” she continued, holding his penetrating gaze. If she’d had a choice, she would as soon take her chances with a great white shark. “As for the T.R.O., I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do tonight about the media’s carnivorous interest in the temporary restraining order. However, I’ll seek injunctive relief first thing tomorrow morning. In the meantime, you can be assured I signed no authorization whatsoever for my daughter to model, and would certainly never approve of those kind of photographs.

“Danielle is barely seventeen.” She lowered her voice to a near whisper to guarantee his focus. “As a mother, my heart is aching for my daughter’s humiliation. As an attorney, I’m furious that yet another predator has apparently taken advantage of a minor and I plan to make him—or whomever is responsible—rue the day they hatched this plan.”

Despite her quiet dignity, Emmett looked only marginally reassured. “You have my deepest sympathies and support, as well as the resources of this office to prosecute what I’m hearing from you is a criminal act. But…I would prefer it not to be played out on the front pages of the newspapers and on TV. At least not now. I think you agree with me that this would be in no one’s best interests?”

E.D. clasped her hands behind her back to keep him from seeing her fist them. No one, meaning Emmett Garner. She could see the gears in his mind working and knew that he was concerned about a “guilt by association” implication. At fifty-eight, he was in prime professional and political condition to take the governor’s seat in the next election. It was critical for him to leave the D.A.’s office on a high note. E.D. had no intention of making a public show of her daughter’s naiveté or foolishness—whichever this proved to be—but she would be damned if Emmett’s ambitions cost her child legal justice.

“Protecting the privacy of a minor is my first and greatest concern,” she said coolly.

Ever the image of self-containment, Emmett checked his watch. “Initially, this is bound to impact your schedule.”

The nerve of the man, she fumed in silence. E.D. had successfully juggled a tough schedule through two pregnancies, and had returned to work early each time. As an aspiring novelist, Trey had been eager to stay at home with the babies. Oh, she thought with a new sinking feeling, how she had played into her husband’s hands.

“There. That’s exactly why I came to see you,” Emmett snapped, pointing a professionally manicured finger at her. “There’s self-doubt on your face. Since when does E. D. Martel let anyone see anything less than resolve?”

Since her I’m-writing-the-great-American-novel spouse pulled something she had yet to fully comprehend. Since their daughter had walked, tripped or otherwise been lured neck-deep into a disaster that could haunt her the rest of her life. Dani couldn’t begin to know the breadth and width of what she’d done, but E.D. dealt with such things 24/7.

Drawing a steadying breath, she offered, “This is Wednesday, and as you know I have the Horvath case starting Monday, which will bring the office as much attention, if not more, than the Guy case did. If I haven’t shown you that I’m up to your standards by the end of opening remarks, replace me.”

E.D. had no idea if her challenge was all bravado, let alone sensible.

What she was convinced of was that she hadn’t spent the last thirty-eight years of her life building to this, only to chicken out even before she fully understood what she was dealing with.

Emmett studied her another moment and then pushed himself away from the door. “I’m glad that we understand each other. See you at seven-thirty for the regular java and jockeying session.”

As he let himself out, E.D. responded to the sudden weakness in her legs and lowered herself to sit on the edge of her desk. She had no illusions as to what he meant by the word understand: If she didn’t lead the D.A.’s team in the Horvath case—and win—her future here was over. It didn’t matter that it would require two clerks to assist her and Bruce in the face-off with Lester Horvath’s pricey defense team. Somehow she would still have to figure out a way to reason with Trey, as well as help the children. Where would she find the extra hours in her already crammed days, let alone the energy to use them wisely?

A knock on her door had E.D. starting. Had Emmett changed his mind and decided he wanted her off the case after all?

“Come in.”

A young man poked his head inside. “Ms. Martel?”

“Yes.” A courier, she thought with relief, noting his cyclist’s helmet tucked under his arm.

“I have an express for you.”

Praying it wasn’t another present from Trey, E.D. accepted the small padded packet, only to stare at the sender’s bold initials. D.J. Incredible! So the call wasn’t an accident. But what was Dylan doing and could she afford to satisfy her curiosity?

For a moment she was tempted to reject the delivery; her instincts told her it was the wise thing to do. The use of just his initials was proof that this was personal and for her eyes only. Dylan needed a paper trail to her right now about as much as Emmett wanted one; after all, she’d heard the latest rumor about Dylan filing for the upcoming election.

Feeling caught in some game where she didn’t know the goal let alone the rules, E.D. yielded to temptation and signed the appropriate line on the delivery record. Plucking out a folded bill from the side compartment of her purse, she handed it over along with the clipboard. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

As she waited for the gangly, spandex-dressed youth to leave, her thoughts circled around the ludicrous concern that her signature didn’t resemble her usual confident flourish and that her hands refused to stop trembling. But as soon as she heard the door click closed, she tore at the padded envelope.

He had to have seen the news this morning, she thought as she pulled out the smaller envelope inside. Maybe he—her breath caught as she felt something hard inside.

Oh, no!

He’d been bold. Mad. So out of character for steady, live-by-the-rules Dylan.

E.D. tore the smaller envelope and dropped the contents into her cupped left palm. As she’d surmised, a shiny brass key landed there. She closed her fingers around it and pressed her fist to her pounding heart.

You dear man. You crazy, idealistic man.

Shaking her head, she checked the envelope to see if he’d included a message. A brief note had been handwritten on a blank sheet of notepad paper.

You know what this goes to. Use it.

Scrawled below were four numbers. As the past rushed forward to replay itself before her eyes, E.D. shook her head and debated over the options that unfolded before her. There was no mistaking that she’d been reminded of the rest of his cell-phone number; she didn’t need to check her directory to confirm that. The question was should she respond?

She had to. Such a gesture—regardless of his motives—made some response mandatory. But as she retrieved her phone out of her pocket, she didn’t deceive herself; the pounding in her ears was less about what common sense demanded she say than eagerness to hear his voice again. That shamed the woman who was a mother and, until today, a damned faithful and caring wife.

Navigating to the correct memory code, E.D. punched the call button. After only half a ring, she heard the voice that embraced and reassured like no other.

“I was beginning to give up hope. What else can I do?”

The part of her that had been increasingly ignored and becoming repressed whispered, “Ah.” Dylan’s voice had always reminded her of profound things: the baritone bell ending a monastery prayer, the timely discovery of a quilt during a hard winter freeze. The professional man inspired equally stirring and lasting feelings in people. He stood statue tall and was built as physically well as he was mentally solid, more than capable of enduring strong political winds and ethical challenges. It was difficult to look into his ink-blue eyes and not be overwhelmed; framed by a strong-boned face, they radiated wisdom, wit and a patience honed from years of watching and listening. E.D. missed that face, that voice, and more, their strange, indefinable friendship.

Wondering if his pitch-brown hair was tumbling over his broad brow by now from hours bent over files and law books, she managed a smile, wistful though it was. “You shouldn’t have done anything in the first place.”

“I’ve already worked through that argument myself and found it wanting.”

She cupped the phone as though it were his cheek. “I think you let sympathy override sensibility. As generous as the gesture is, it’s impossible.”

“Why? You need to sleep, a quiet place to think.”

When Trey had first hit her with his accusations and threats last night, E.D.’s impulse had been to call Dylan—not for aid, but advice. If anyone could think of something that could be done to stop this insanity before it mushroomed into a blinding, noxious cloud that permanently damaged her children, she’d suspected he would. However, just as quickly, she’d reasoned she would be every bit as poisonous to Dylan. Any contact could potentially stain a brilliant career that seemed to be about to take off to new heights; and so she’d resisted.

“I don’t know what to say.” She studied the key to the comfy but rustic cabin west of the city, about forty minutes into the hill country. “I’m grateful, of course, but…this is so embarrassing.”

“If anyone should be embarrassed it’s your—” Dylan’s sigh spoke of frustration “—it wasn’t my intention to make you feel awkward. After I saw the report on TV, I could only imagine what hell this has been for you. How’s your daughter?”

“I wish I could tell you. I haven’t been able to reach either of the kids.”

“And you?”

“I’ve had excellent training at hanging on by my fingernails.”

“You can’t ask me to stand by and do nothing.”

No, not the man whose last name perfectly described him; Dylan Justiss had been born to serve the law. However, this time he’d picked the wrong battle.

“You’re wonderful.” She hoped her sincerity carried through in those two simple words. “But that doesn’t change that I can’t let you do this.”

“So you’re going to a hotel and face curious stares from staff when they deliver room service? Reporters paying for a heads-up call that you’re leaving, or details about where you’re going and with whom?”

He had her there. She was dreading that possibility, so much so that she’d considered driving out of town to find a sanctuary. Trey had already blocked her from their joint checking account and put a freeze on everything else they held jointly, but she had enough personal resources to survive for a while without having to borrow from the firm or friends. The added lure of Dylan’s offer was that his retreat would make her truly invisible…if the arrangement could be kept secret.

“It’s been years since I’ve driven out there, and it would be perfect, except for—”

“I know we’re both being careful not to say too much because we’re not on secure lines,” Dylan replied. “All I want to do is assure you, it is private and exactly what you need. My caretaker will know to expect you and unless you ask for help, you’ll be left alone.”

He’d put serious thought into this and that added to E.D.’s torment. Despite her concern for security, she needed to take a risk and make him see what an error he could be making. “This is supposed to be the happiest professional day of your life—and I am so pleased and proud for you—but look at what you’re doing. Why would you risk your future by having any contact with me? If this gets out, don’t you realize what conclusions people will draw?”

The sigh that came over the line sent her heart sinking as deeply as when she’d first heard of Dani’s crisis. So he was only being a gentleman and would let her talk him out of this. Well, she appreciated the gesture nonetheless. No one else had stepped forward so gallantly.

After a considerable silence Dylan opined, “And here I thought you knew me better than that.”

Could she have underrated him that much? E.D. pressed her fingers to her lips to fight back a building sob. “The fact is I don’t claim to know anyone anymore,” she forced herself to admit.

“Oh, I think we know each other so well, it’s scaring you,” he countered. “Use the key or I’ll come get you myself.”