Free Let Darkness Come by Angela Hunt Page A

Jeffrey died. Jeffrey is flashing a confident grin in that picture; Erin wears a decidedly smaller and more self-contained smile.
    She catches her breath as a frisson of recognition climbs her spine. As she’d expected, her picture is featured in the lower half of the page, but it’s the small photo that hangs in the foyer at Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton. It’s a serious-lawyer shot in which she appears unsmiling and severe—completely unlike her glamorous client. A caption beneath the photo announces that Briley Lester will be representing Erin Tomassi in the upcoming trial.
    Briley drops the paper to the table and scrapes her hand through her hair. A reporter must have contacted Mr. Franklin late last night, because no one called her for a quote or permission to use her picture.
    But they’ll be calling soon. And this time around, she’d better handle the media carefully.
    This time, the stakes are higher.

Chapter Sixteen
    T en days before Christmas, Briley sits in the high-ceilinged courtroom beside her client, who is shackled hand and foot. Erin Tomassi is still wearing her orange jail uniform, and her long hair appears tangled and unkempt. An ugly purple bruise mars her cheek, a dark oval Briley doesn’t remember seeing the last time they met.
    Judge Hollister, an older woman wearing rhinestone-studded glasses, motions to her bailiff, then engages the man in a private conversation. She’s fast-tracking, trying to clear her call sheet and empty the bullpen before the start of whatever trial is scheduled to begin at nine-thirty. The gallery behind Briley is filled with anxious lawyers, most of whom are checking their watches or reading police reports.
    Briley turns to her client and keeps her voice low. “How are you doing at the jail?”
    â€œI’m okay.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    Erin gives her a brittle smile. “I’m tougher than I look.”
    â€œIf you’re having trouble over there…”
    Erin glances at the jury box to her left, where a half-dozen other female prisoners await their turn before the judge. “I don’t want to make waves.”
    Across the room, Travis Bystrowski, one of Cook County’s leading prosecutors, saunters over with a file, which he drops onto the defense table. “Morning, Ms. Lester. I got your message. I think you’ll find everything you need in here.”
    Briley opens the folder and scans the contents: copies of the police report, the toxicology and autopsy reports, the inventory, and the indictment. “Thank you—and since we’ll be working together, why don’t you call me Briley.” She offers him a polite smile. “Anything you need from us at this point?”
    Bystrowski grins and slips his hands into his pockets. “A confession would be nice. Save a lot of taxpayer dollars.”
    â€œWhy would an innocent woman give you a confession?”
    Bystrowski grins and backs away, offering a little wave as he goes.
    â€œThank you,” Erin murmurs, “for taking my case, and believing in me. I’m glad someone does.”
    Briley gives her client a sidelong glance of astonished disbelief. Could this woman really be so naive?
    When the court clerk calls her case, Briley draws a deep breath and stands with her client. The judge looks up when the clerk finishes reading the charge. “Erin Wilson Tomassi,” Hollister says, her nasal voice piercing the shuffling from the jury box, “you have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you.”
    â€œYour Honor, I’m Briley Lester, an associate with Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton. I will be representing Mrs. Tomassi.”
    The judge makes a note and continues: “Mrs. Tomassi, you, or your attorney, have the right to confront and cross-examine witnesses against you. You have the right to a jury trial. You have the right not to incriminate yourself. You have the