The Prosecutor

Chapter Thirteen


Ben Leeks Jr. was a bigger weasel than his father. What a conniving piece of trash this guy was. Zac watched on an oversized monitor in an office adjacent to the conference room where investigators conversed with Junior.

Watching this particular interview, Zac silently seethed. He wanted nothing more than to tell the kid and his lawyer to cut the nonsense and answer the flipping questions.

They’d been responding, but those responses had been in an abstract, vague way that failed to completely answer the questions. Junior’s whole demeanor, the relaxed, mocking posture, the eye-rolling, all of it, stank. At least he came dressed to impress in slacks and a pressed shirt, probably his lawyer’s doing. But this guy knew—knew—he’d be walking away a free man even if he was guilty.

His father would make sure of it.

Ray stood beside Zac, studying the screen, his arms folded. “He’s not giving us anything.”

“Yeah, because the lawyer isn’t letting him. They’ve admitted he was at the club and that he left with a group. Knew that before he walked in here. We need to push harder, see if he and Chelsea argued that night.”

Ray ignored the comment. No shock there. He’d made it clear he had no interest in pushing.

Zac focused on the monitor and Leeks Jr. Massive kid. Muscular and strong. Zac hit the gym four or five times a week, pumping serious iron, and yet the guy being interviewed was at least double his size. Freakishly big. Unnatural. “Ask him if he uses steroids.”

“What?”

“Chelsea’s friends said he was abusive. Look at his body. He’s huge. If he’s taking steroids, Chelsea may have been a victim of ’roid rage.”

Ray sighed.

“It happens.”

“I’ll have the investigator ask. Right after we get him to admit that he was wearing a white shirt that night.”

Now Zac rolled his eyes. Conveniently, Junior couldn’t recall what color shirt he wore the night Chelsea died.

Zac’s phone buzzed. Bethenny, the office assistant. Odd. They were right down the hall. Why didn’t she just come get him? “Let me take this.” He pressed the button and stepped into the hallway. “Hi, Beth. What’s up?”

“Sorry to disturb you. Did you have an appointment this morning?”

Zac stuck his bottom lip out, ticked through his mental calendar. Aside from court that afternoon, the Leeks interview was it. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“There’s a Stanley Vernon out here to see you.” Zac snapped his head up. Stanley Vernon. The State’s star witness. “He didn’t specifically ask for you, but he wants to see the prosecutor working the Sinclair case.”

A blood rush made Zac dizzy and he shook his head. Stanley Vernon. “I’ll be right up. Lock him in my office if you have to, but don’t let him leave.”

He clicked off, then stuck his head in the office where Ray continued to observe the Leeks interview. “I gotta go.” Ray raised his eyebrows in that what-the-hell look Zac had gotten used to. “I know it’s my case, but I’ve suddenly got the State’s key witness wanting to see me.”

“He’s here?”

“In reception.”

Ray jerked his chin. “Go. Don’t screw up.”

Thanks for the vote of confidence. “That wouldn’t be my favorite option.”

For a change, Ray laughed. That was progress after the tension-filled couple of days they’d had. One thing Zac never wanted to be was the problem employee.

Forgoing the time it would take to detour to his office and grab his suit jacket, Zac hustled up the hall to the waiting area.

Beth spotted him coming around the corner and pointed to Stanley Vernon, a middle-aged man about six inches shorter than Zac. Thin with sloping shoulders, he wore a zipped-up windbreaker, jeans and the stooped look of someone carrying a heavy load.

He flipped a tan newsboy cap in his hands. Back and forth, up and down, the movement constant. Oh, yeah. This guy definitely had something on his mind.

Buzzing tension sizzled up Zac’s arms. Calm down here. He extended his hand. “Mr. Vernon, I’m Zac Hennings. The new prosecutor on the Sinclair case.”

“Hennings?”

“Yes, sir.” Obviously, recognition dawned. “You met my sister the other day. She’s the defense attorney on this case.”

Vernon’s eyes widened. “That’s...different.”

No kidding. “It sure is.” Zac gestured down the corridor. “Let’s talk in private.”

Back in his office, Zac closed the door behind them while Mr. Vernon took in the files lining the office. “These all yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Astonishing.”

“We live in a crazy world.” Zac settled into his squeaking desk chair and leaned back, all calm and cool. “What can I do for you?”

Vernon stared down at the newsboy cap, flipped it a few times. “I...uh.” He looked up, stared right at Zac, his eyes heavy-lidded and desperate. Fierce hammering slammed in Zac’s head. Whatever the man had to say was tearing him up.

“Mr. Vernon, talk to me. I can assure you, it won’t be the worst thing I’ve heard.” Hoping to ease the strain suddenly drowning the room, he cracked a smile. “Trust me there.”

More cap flipping. “Your sister and the Sinclair girl.”

“What about them?”

“They asked me questions. Got me thinking about that night.”

Here it comes. “Go on.”

“I was walking by the alley. It was noisy, though. The club door was open and people were in line waiting to get in. Between the talking and the music from inside I couldn’t really hear anything.”

“Okay.”

“I saw someone, though, in the alley. A man. Definitely a man.”

Zac would not help. Mr. Vernon had to come clean with no reminders or assistance. “I read that in your statement.”

“Your sister. She asked me about the white shirt.”

“Yes, sir. You testified that you saw a man in a white shirt. It’s in the transcript.”

He nodded. “I started thinking about that and, you know, when the detectives questioned me? I never said anything about the white shirt.”

Zac drove his feet into the floor, forcing himself to remain still, not a flinch, not a nudge. “You didn’t see a white shirt?”

Slowly, with what looked like great effort, Mr. Vernon shifted his head side to side. “They told me someone else saw a white shirt.”

Someone else? Who the hell was that now? Zac would have to go through Emma’s files and find the other witness. After tracking down the transcripts, he’d seen that there were other witnesses called to the stand, but he didn’t recall any of them mentioning a white shirt. Emma would know.

Forget keeping still. He had to move. Dispel some of the energy. He sat forward and casually leaned his elbows on the desk. “Do you remember a white shirt?”

More cap flipping. Once, twice, three times. “I don’t think so.”

As brutally hard as it was, Zac didn’t move. He’d love to grab a notepad, but it might spook the guy. Besides, if he was about to recant—which it sounded as if he was—they’d have to write up his statement. “When you were questioned, did the detectives ask you if you remembered the white shirt?”

“Yes. They asked me and I said I wasn’t sure. They said to think about it because they had another witness who said they saw someone in a white shirt. If I could agree with that, they could get the guy.”


Right. Zac’s guess? The other witness was bogus. Nonexistent. Detectives had probably determined that Brian Sinclair had been wearing a white shirt. Hell, Brian probably told them that himself. When Brian became the primary suspect, the P.D. wanted someone to say they saw a guy in a white shirt in that alley. Stanley Vernon was their someone.

“You agreed?”

Mr. Vernon finally set his cap on the edge of Zac’s desk and pressed both hands into it before pulling back. “They seemed pretty sure that Sinclair had done it. The way they put it to me was they were just tying up loose ends. I figured since they had someone else saying they saw a white shirt, it wouldn’t be just me.” He stared down at his empty hands—nothing to flip—and shook his head. “I wanted to help.”

For a second, Zac pitied the guy. For two years he’d been thinking that he’d helped put a killer behind bars. Now he wasn’t sure and the guilt landed on him like a tanker thrown in a tornado.

“Relax, Mr. Vernon. You’re doing the right thing. I appreciate your coming forward. We need to clarify what you’re saying here. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Zac grabbed his notepad and pen. “Let’s run through it. You don’t recall seeing a man wearing a white shirt?”

“I saw a man coming from the alley, but I don’t know what color shirt he was wearing.”

* * *

AT IT SINCE 6:00 A.M., Emma had already spent four hours of her day at the dining room table studying constitutional law. The exam was only two days away and she had a nagging sense of panic that she’d flunk. She’d never flunked a test in her life.

Never.

Maybe Zac, the lover of all things constitutional law, could quiz her. Or maybe she was just looking for an excuse to see him.

And have sex with him—lots of steamy, sweaty sex that left her loose and purring.

She ducked her head and giggled. Bad, Emma. Bad. Her cell phone beeped and she snatched it off the table. Zac. Their pheromones must have beelined.

“Hey, handsome. I was just thinking about you.”

“What do you know about another witness identifying the white shirt?”

And hello to you, too. Forget the purring. “In reference to the white shirt, there’s no other witness. Mr. Vernon was it.”

“You’re sure?”

Pfft. Was he serious? “Of course. I can pull the witness files for you. I have them all sorted by time frame. If there was another witness who saw a man with a white shirt, it would be in the file with Mr. Vernon’s.”

“I need those files.”

In the back of her brain, something snapped. A physical zap she’d never experienced against the back of her skull. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t say. Yet.”

“You want me to turn over my files and you’re not going to tell me why?”

Silence. “Do you trust me?”

Of course she did. “Completely.”

“Then I need those files. You’ll find out why soon.”

Give him the files. She should talk to Penny first. Give him the files. “This is a good thing then?”

“I believe so, yes.”

His answer came without hesitation. No pause, no moment to consider a response. Nothing. That had to mean something. If she truly trusted him, it meant turning over information without knowing why. Which she hadn’t been inclined to do when it came to Brian.

But that snapping in the back of her head was new. Maybe a good sign. Take a chance.

“Give me an hour to copy the reports and get them to your office.”

“Thank you.”

It took Emma fifty-two minutes to call Penny, take a quick shower, copy the files and race them downtown. Penny, being Penny, went to work on her contacts to figure out what the prosecution was up to.

While Emma drove, she speculated on the sudden need for these files. It had to be something regarding the Ben Leeks interview. At a red light, she tapped the steering wheel and mulled over the options. Maybe the interview had yielded a new witness and Zac wanted to know if Emma had a statement from said witness.

From the seat beside her, the phone beeped. Still waiting for the green light, she checked the ID and punched the speaker button. “Hi, Penny.” The light changed and she made a left toward the parking garage.

“Are you there yet?”

“No. About to park.”

“Park and call me. Do not go into that office until you talk to me.”

Emma’s stomach seized as she drove up to the ticket machine at the parking garage. “Is this bad?”

“No. I just don’t want you driving when I tell you.”

“Did we get a new trial?”

Penny huffed. “I’m not saying another word. Park and call me.”

The lunatic hung up. What was that? She calls, gets Emma all wound up and then dumps her? Sheesh.

Still, her body hummed with an incessant energy, that same zapping current from before, that told her something big was about to happen. It took scouring five levels before she found an open parking space. Somehow, it seemed fitting. She’d waited all this time. Why not a few extra minutes?

She slammed the car into Park and dialed Penny. The phone beep-beeped. No signal.

“Gah! Stupid parking garage.” Not a break to be had. She snatched the files and her purse and took off toward the elevator. She pressed the button. Waited and waited. The darn thing seemed to be on the second floor for a lifetime. Heck with this. She darted for the stairwell, checking her signal the whole way. Nothing.

The run down the stairs left Emma breathless, a not-so-gentle reminder that she hadn’t exercised in months. Soon. With any luck, maybe soon she’d have time. Not that she’d ever had much luck, but a girl could dream.

Once on the street, three glorious bars appeared on her phone. Thank you, signal gods. She dialed Penny.

“What took so long?” her lawyer asked.

“Don’t start. There was no signal in the garage and then the elevator was slow. I just ran down five flights. Please tell me what’s going on.”

She checked traffic coming both ways and stepped off the curb.

“Mr. Vernon just recanted.”

Midstride, her right knee locked and buckled. Pain shot up her thigh and she stumbled, catching the files before they fell to the ground. A horn sounded, brakes squealed and a cabbie swerved. Near miss. She gasped and clutched her folders tight while the cabbie swung his fist. Another car horn blared and she jumped back onto the curb before being flattened. Wouldn’t that be the kicker? Dying just as her brother got a new trial?

“Emma?”

Recanted. That’s what Penny had said. Please, God. She drew a bumpy breath. Why did it feel as if someone had reached into her and ripped out part of a lung?

“I’m trying not to get squashed here.” On the sidewalk, Emma straightened, drew a long, slow breath and adjusted the files in her arms. “Okay. I’m good.”

“We’re not supposed to know this yet, but Mr. Vernon just told Zac he never saw a man in a white shirt. He definitely saw a man. No white shirt. The detectives told him another witness saw a man in a white shirt and they asked him to confirm.”

Now it made sense. “Zac is looking for the witness. That’s why he needs my files.”

“I just talked to my dad. We don’t think there’s another witness. We think the cops knew Brian wore a white shirt that night so they made up this other witness to convince Mr. Vernon they had the right guy.”

Please, please, please. “So Mr. Vernon’s testimony will get thrown out?”


“It’s enough for us to file our post-conviction petition and probably get a hearing.”

“Oh, Lord.” Emma hurried across the street and sprinted up the steps leading to the building where Zac’s office was housed.

“Don’t get crazy on me, Emma. We are still months away from a hearing. These things take time, but this is all good. Great, in fact.”

In the last ten years, the Sinclairs hadn’t seen a whole lot of great. Suddenly, this Hennings bunch was offering an abundance of it. “I’m heading in. I’ll call you when I’m done with Zac.”

“Don’t let on that you know. Play dumb. Make him squirm a little.”

Emma scoffed. Everything was a competition between them. They literally thrived on it. “You two make me crazy.”

“I love making him wonder what I’m up to.”

The line for security stretched to the lobby door and Emma almost laughed. Hadn’t the last two years of her life been filled with this hurry-up-and-wait mentality? Her phone beeped again. Popular today.

Zac. “I’m stuck at security.”

“Okay,” he said, then silence.

“Hello?”

No answer. She held the phone in front of her. “Really now? You hung up on me? Sheesh.”

Craving peace, she turned the phone off—what the point of that was, she didn’t know—but it felt good. That’ll teach them.

* * *

STILL AT HIS DESK, Zac read Mr. Vernon’s statement for the thirtieth time. The man had signed it and, with his guilt slightly assuaged, had gone on his way. Mr. Vernon’s statement wouldn’t be enough to free Brian Sinclair from prison, and who knew if he actually belonged there, but slowly, piece by piece, the case was starting to break open.

Alex Belson, the former public defender on Brian’s case, swung into the office. Interesting timing. His rumpled suit jacket and hair that stuck up on the side indicated that Alex might be having a rough day.

Zac closed the folder containing Mr. Vernon’s statement. “Hey, Alex. Visiting the dark side?”

He cracked a grin, but nothing about it appeared to come easy. “I figure it’s a good reminder of why I belong elsewhere.”

Zac sat back. “What’s up?”

“I was in court and heard that a witness in the Sinclair case recanted.”

News traveled in this building. Zac had always known that, but this was world-record speed. Being the defense attorney who took the case to trial, Alex probably wanted assurance that his butt would be covered. When it came to this convoluted mess, nobody was safe. “You heard right. Stanley Vernon.”

Alex’s head dropped an inch. “The guy from the alley?”

“Yeah. He came in this morning. Said the detectives implied they had a solid case against Brian Sinclair. All they needed was corroboration.”

“Oh, man.” Alex winced. “I should have caught that.”

Probably. But given that he was the fourth PD on Brian’s case, anything could have happened. By the time Sinclair got to Alex Belson, the cops had him trussed up all nice and tidy.

“Your sister will be all over this.”

“Any time now she’ll have that post-conviction petition submitted.”

Alex shook his head. “This case. Damn nightmare. The thing won’t go away.”

Not many things said in the company of trial attorneys shocked Zac anymore, but referring to the murder of a cop’s daughter as the thing caught him short. Maybe he was wound too tight after the crazy week, but a young woman was dead, brutally murdered, and they may have incarcerated the wrong guy.

“There are issues, for sure.”

Alex tapped his fingers against his leg. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

As if Penny would let Alex Belson anywhere near this case. No. His sister would see this one to its conclusion.

Whatever that conclusion might be.

* * *

EMMA CHARGED OFF THE ELEVATOR, scooted by a few milling people and raced toward the receptionist’s desk. Having seen her previously, the woman waved her through. “He’s waiting for you.”

“Thank you.”

Emma made a left, angled around a guy who looked like a lawyer and her gaze zoomed in on the man striding toward her.

Alex Belson. The useless, waste of a public defender who’d done nothing—nothing—for Brian. He’d barely lifted a pen. Even when Emma funneled him information from her research, he’d always come up with reasons to dismiss it.

Useless piece of garbage.

As they neared each other, his focus shifted to her, studying, remembering. He slowed his pace.

Yeah, you know me. Emma stopped in front of him, blocking his path. “I suppose you’ve heard the SA has assigned an investigator to my brother’s case.”

“I did. Good for you.”

So smug. “Good for my brother. Finally.”

Alex folded his arms and huffed an annoyed you-are-such-an-idiot breath. “You want to say something to me, say it.”

Like a hard slap, his low, guttural tone knocked her sideways. Emma’s jaw clamped tight. Him, him, him. Could it be? She squeezed the folders, gripped hard, her fingers nearly splitting from the pressure. You want to die right here like Chelsea Moore? Couldn’t be. But all those times, all the evidence he’d refused to consider. She’d handed it to him. All he’d had to do was use it, which he’d never done.

Emma backed away, slowly moving around him.

“What?” he said. “You don’t think I did a good job for your brother?”

“Emma?”

She turned, saw Zac striding toward her, his long legs eating up the space between them, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever been so happy to see someone. The agony of her thoughts made her nauseous. What was happening? Sickness swirled and tumbled and slid and she backed up another step, needing distance. Needing space.

“Nice to see you again, Ms. Sinclair,” Alex said from somewhere behind her.

Zac set his hand on her shoulder. Instantly, her pulse settled. His simple touch brought her mind back into focus.

“You look like hell. You okay?”

“It’s him.”

“Who?”

She turned back. No Alex. Gone. “Alex Belson. He’s the one from the alley.”

* * *

ZAC DRAGGED EMMA to his office to figure out what in hell she was talking about. Something had spooked her because all color had drained from her face. Nothing left but ashy white skin.

Could this day get any more bizarre?

He shut the door behind them, took the files from her and guided her to the chair. She mumbled something and he glanced at her.

“Did Alex say something to you?”

He sat on the edge of his desk directly in front of her, their legs almost touching. The tiny lines at the corners of her mouth pinched and she brought her gaze to his. Her dark eyes locked on his so hard it could have been a punch. Emma Sinclair was one pissed-off woman.

“He’s the one who attacked me in the alley.”

She’d totally lost it now, but Zac would slap on his neutral prosecutor face. “Emma—”

“It’s him. I recognized his voice. The tone was the same. I recognized his voice.”

Complete insanity. Zac rubbed both hands over his face then looked up at the ceiling, hoping any god in the general area would send him strength.

“You think I’m crazy,” Emma shot.

“I think you’re under pressure.”

“I know what I heard.”

“We all have Chicago accents.”

“Not like him you don’t. The tone he used was evil. I know what I heard.”


Dug in. That’s what she was. And in the short time he’d known her, getting her from this line of thinking would be no easy task. Having her walking around accusing a public defender of criminal acts wouldn’t do her—or Brian—a damn bit of good, either. Zac tapped his foot, twisted his lips.

“Just say it, Zac.”

He held his hands up. “I’ve known this guy four years. He’s a civil servant and you think he’s a murderer?”

“I didn’t say that. I think he attacked me in the alley. Why he’d do that, I don’t know, but I’ve given up trying to figure out the things that happen in my life.” She scooted to the edge of her chair and touched his knee. “I’m sure it was him.”

Any time now, he could use that strength from a nearby god. Couldn’t he get a break? He shook his head then jammed his palms into his eyes and pressed until his eyeballs begged for mercy. He dropped his hands, stared at Emma and wondered just what the hell they were doing. “What do you want? I can’t walk into my boss’s office and tell him this. I need proof. You know that. After the Leeks kid, Ray already thinks I’m in over my head. I might as well resign right now because accusing a public defender of attacking the woman I’m sleeping with won’t look good in my file.”

Emma gawked. “So this is about what looks good?”

“No. I want to support you. I’ve done nothing but support you.”

“That’s not true.”

A rumbling in his brain alerted him to his temper firing. Check that. He held his breath, let it out again and cocked his head. “I’ve chased down every lead I could find on this case.”

“You chased down those leads hoping you’d find that Brian was guilty. You didn’t count on him being innocent. That’s okay because you’re a prosecutor and I get that. What I don’t get is how you say you’ve supported me. You’ve supported me because it made sense. Suddenly, something doesn’t make sense and you’re backing off. I guess I’m good enough to sleep with when conditions are favorable, but now I’m a liability.” She stood, waved her arms. “When did you become such a coward?”

Oh, hell no. The muscles in his neck became twisted ropes squeezed so tight that any slack was gone. Labeled a coward, he turned apoplectic. “Are you kidding me? You think anyone else around here would take on this mess?”

The second—make that millisecond—the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Damn temper. Words like that could slice a woman in two.

“Now I’m a mess? My brother being falsely convicted is a mess? A mess?”

“That’s not what I meant!”

She held her hands in a stop motion and jerked them at him. Hauling her shoulders back, she closed her eyes and curled her fingers. Within seconds, she opened her eyes again, her body not as stiff and outraged. “Forget it. This is getting us nowhere and it makes us both look bad. I know how that upsets you. But hey—” her voice was low, as if a thousand soldiers had pummeled it “—I guess it’s time for you to learn that life isn’t always fair. Believe me.”

She swung away from him and cruised to the door. No drama, no stomping feet, no carrying on.

“Emma!”

She opened the door and held it so it wouldn’t bump the wall.

Without glancing back, she said, “I think we’re done here. Thanks so much for your time.”

* * *

EMMA RACED FROM the elevator, blew by slower people standing in the lobby and focused on the exit, the one leading to fresh air. She’d been so stupid to think she could depend on anyone from the State’s Attorney’s Office to help them.

And she’d slept with him. Let him invade her not-so-iron heart. Heartbreak, at this point, was the last thing she needed. Not when life seemed to be on an upswing. Well, an upswing graded on the curve of Emma’s crappy luck.

Now she had to deal with this attachment to Zac because as furious as she was with him right now, a slow-growing ache had formed in her chest—one she didn’t want to feel. She knew what it was. This was how it started with her. She’d ignore the ache, work around it, justify it, whatever.

Then one morning she’d wake up paralyzed, unable to move or breathe or function and her world would be empty and suffocating and she’d want to pound on something until all that hurt and anger went away.

Broken hearts totally stank and something told her Zac Hennings had just made the first crack in hers.