straightened, plastered on a smile that would have raised millions for any politician, and gave me a nod. “Let the games begin.”
<<<>>>
RYDER ENTERED THE courtroom and slid into the pew farthest from the jury. It had been over two decades since he’d served as an altar boy, yet he still had to fight the impulse to cross himself and genuflect. Except this was no church. He knew all too well the foibles and follies that often corrupted the profane proceedings of the criminal justice system.
The benches weren’t built for a man as tall as he was. Sinking back against the polished oak, inhaling the familiar incense of lemon oil, sweat, fear, stale paper, and mildew, he stretched his legs into the aisle and crossed his ankles. His side ached a bit with the movement, but it was a good kind of ache. The I’m alive despite being gut shot kind of ache.
The jury was already seated, and Rossi was on the witness stand. After he’d dropped her off, he’d headed over to the jail annex in the hopes of learning something helpful from the corrections officers. It’d been a waste of time. Littleton had left little to no impression on anyone. Not affiliated with any gangs, he’d bided his time in the overcrowded facility without disturbing the equilibrium of his fellow inmates or the overworked, underpaid staff.
Ryder watched Manny Cruz efficiently walk Rossi through the medical testimony. She was lucky the judge and Manny had gone for her idea; he’d never heard of any prosecutor trying a sexual-assault case without the victim testifying. Manny tried to put a good spin on her exam findings and the history Tymara had given her, but Rossi had to tiptoe through a minefield to avoid mentioning the true causes of Tymara’s brutal injuries: the men Littleton had invited to join him in Tymara’s apartment after his initial attack.
Manny finished and sat, giving Ryder a few moments to observe Rossi. Despite the way her day had begun, she didn’t allow her emotions to crack her professionalism. Sitting up there, waiting for her ex to begin his cross-examination, she looked damned good. Brunette hair tinted red and gold by the stained glass, a touch of color in her lips and cheeks. Her chin jutted forward, revealing the taut muscles in her neck.
No one would ever suspect she was facing a death sentence. At least, that was what his research on fatal insomnia had told him—every new report he found revealed an enemy worse than any he’d faced in Afghanistan. He wished she’d talk to him about it or let Louise, her doctor, give him details. That’d be better than the crazy shit he’d found online.
Had Rossi even told Louise about her and Ryder? He had, his one breach of Rossi’s request for privacy, but he’d been going crazy with only the words “fatal insomnia” and endless, harrowing online searches. At least Louise had been able to direct him to legitimate research, scant as it was.
Ryder didn’t understand Rossi’s need for secrecy, but she insisted on it, and he didn’t mind the mystique it added to their relationship. Hell, she wouldn’t even let him call her by her first name, much less any nickname. How afraid of intimacy did a woman have to be to refuse to allow her lover to call her by her first name? His stomach clenched, and he glared across the courtroom at Jacob Voorsanger, assigning blame to the ex.
Voorsanger rose, taking his place at the podium between the prosecutor and defense tables. He stood, silent, assessing Rossi as if she were a particularly dangerous specimen trapped inside the cage that was the witness stand. Ryder looked past the defense attorney to his client, Eugene Littleton. The man was squirming, his belligerent stare vanquished by a single glance Rossi sent in his direction.
“Thank you, Dr. Rossi,” Voorsanger began in the tone of a gracious host, “for taking the time to talk us through your medical findings in such precise detail.”
Rossi didn’t take the bait and offer
<<<>>>
RYDER ENTERED THE courtroom and slid into the pew farthest from the jury. It had been over two decades since he’d served as an altar boy, yet he still had to fight the impulse to cross himself and genuflect. Except this was no church. He knew all too well the foibles and follies that often corrupted the profane proceedings of the criminal justice system.
The benches weren’t built for a man as tall as he was. Sinking back against the polished oak, inhaling the familiar incense of lemon oil, sweat, fear, stale paper, and mildew, he stretched his legs into the aisle and crossed his ankles. His side ached a bit with the movement, but it was a good kind of ache. The I’m alive despite being gut shot kind of ache.
The jury was already seated, and Rossi was on the witness stand. After he’d dropped her off, he’d headed over to the jail annex in the hopes of learning something helpful from the corrections officers. It’d been a waste of time. Littleton had left little to no impression on anyone. Not affiliated with any gangs, he’d bided his time in the overcrowded facility without disturbing the equilibrium of his fellow inmates or the overworked, underpaid staff.
Ryder watched Manny Cruz efficiently walk Rossi through the medical testimony. She was lucky the judge and Manny had gone for her idea; he’d never heard of any prosecutor trying a sexual-assault case without the victim testifying. Manny tried to put a good spin on her exam findings and the history Tymara had given her, but Rossi had to tiptoe through a minefield to avoid mentioning the true causes of Tymara’s brutal injuries: the men Littleton had invited to join him in Tymara’s apartment after his initial attack.
Manny finished and sat, giving Ryder a few moments to observe Rossi. Despite the way her day had begun, she didn’t allow her emotions to crack her professionalism. Sitting up there, waiting for her ex to begin his cross-examination, she looked damned good. Brunette hair tinted red and gold by the stained glass, a touch of color in her lips and cheeks. Her chin jutted forward, revealing the taut muscles in her neck.
No one would ever suspect she was facing a death sentence. At least, that was what his research on fatal insomnia had told him—every new report he found revealed an enemy worse than any he’d faced in Afghanistan. He wished she’d talk to him about it or let Louise, her doctor, give him details. That’d be better than the crazy shit he’d found online.
Had Rossi even told Louise about her and Ryder? He had, his one breach of Rossi’s request for privacy, but he’d been going crazy with only the words “fatal insomnia” and endless, harrowing online searches. At least Louise had been able to direct him to legitimate research, scant as it was.
Ryder didn’t understand Rossi’s need for secrecy, but she insisted on it, and he didn’t mind the mystique it added to their relationship. Hell, she wouldn’t even let him call her by her first name, much less any nickname. How afraid of intimacy did a woman have to be to refuse to allow her lover to call her by her first name? His stomach clenched, and he glared across the courtroom at Jacob Voorsanger, assigning blame to the ex.
Voorsanger rose, taking his place at the podium between the prosecutor and defense tables. He stood, silent, assessing Rossi as if she were a particularly dangerous specimen trapped inside the cage that was the witness stand. Ryder looked past the defense attorney to his client, Eugene Littleton. The man was squirming, his belligerent stare vanquished by a single glance Rossi sent in his direction.
“Thank you, Dr. Rossi,” Voorsanger began in the tone of a gracious host, “for taking the time to talk us through your medical findings in such precise detail.”
Rossi didn’t take the bait and offer
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