A Case of Self Defense

Rebecca felt her composure, her cold exterior begin to thaw at the sight and sound of him. She lowered her voice. "Ben, c'mon, is it Jennifer? The girls?"

She heard a gulping sob, but couldn't tell whether it was for Jennifer or the girls. Putting her soda on the coffee table, she got out of her chair and went over to the couch, unsure whether to risk sitting next to him.

It had been like that ever since that night, especially since Ben left. She'd had to force herself to endure human contact, to avoid flinching at the most casual of touches. Still, he was crumbling before her eyes, and she couldn't think of anything else to do. Sitting on the couch beside him, she placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Ben," she encouraged, "you've got to tell me what you want. I can't help you unless you tell me." When he said nothing, she added, "Fine, consider me hired. We'll work out the details later."

He looked up, saw she was serious, and began talking. Low and with emotion at the beginning, but by the end in a dulled monotone.

An hour later, Rebecca could only stare slack jawed as Ben finished telling about all of the deception. Yet, little more than a minute after he went silent, signaling the end of the tale, the lawyer in her kicked in. She flipped the latches on her briefcase, pulled out pen and legal pad, and began writing a plan.

"Okay, Ben," she said, "you wanted my help, and now you're going to get it." The pace of her writing picked up as her anger rose. "And I'm not going to give you much of a choice. We're going to burn their asses, and we're going to burn them but good."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Two weeks later, Richards sat across from Broussard in the executive dining room.

"We may have a problem," he said, looking around to make sure no one was listening.

Broussard put his fork down and his chewing slowed.

"He may be in the system," Richards continued. "There's some strange log ins. Weird times, unaccounted for double log ins, snooping around in mundane folders."

Broussard speared a piece of carrot and put it in his mouth, chewing methodically while staring at Richards. When he swallowed, he spoke. "Any indications he's accessed any of the files related to the venture?"

Richards shrugged. "No real way to tell. He could've. The chances are slim. Hell, there are millions of files throughout the system, and the chances of just running across that one are slim to none. Still, are you sure there are no trails anywhere else?"

"Trails?" Broussard asked. "What kind of trails?"

Richards leaned into him. "You know, any communications with . . . anyone else . . . about the . . . umm . . . ."

Broussard's eyes narrowed as he pondered the question. "No," he finally intoned. "We've never written it down. Hell, we haven't even spoken in months, in any way, shape, or form."

Richards sighed, feeling the tension leave his body. "And you don't keep any traces of this anywhere else?"

Broussard hesitated before answering. "No, of course not."

Richards knew he was lying. For the first time since this had all started, he felt a wrenching emptiness in the pit of his stomach. "Just make sure you don't," he said.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Across town, Rebecca picked up her office phone.

"Rebecca Lyons," she said.

"It's done," Ben said.

She smiled. This was going to be fun.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Two days later, Jeff Richards was surprised to hear a knocking on his door. It was only six, and she wasn't due for another half hour. She couldn't usually stay too late on Fridays, but he knew this wouldn't take long anyway.

"What's so important you had to see me tonight?" she said breezily, walking past him as he closed the door.

"We've got a problem," he said, for the first time immune to her quiet sexuality.

She spun and he saw anger flash over her face. "What kind of problem?"

"Broussard," Richards said. "He didn't listen to everything I told him. About security."

Her eyes narrowed. "How do you know?"

Richards smiled. "Because I hacked into his accounts," he said. "Both at the office and at home."

"And?"

"And he's got enough there to put us all in jail for a very fucking long time," Richards said, his voice breaking with the anger welling up inside of him.

She slammed her purse on the table. "That fucking idiot," she hissed.

"And there's more," Richards said, walking closer to her.

"Such as?"

"Such as videos," Richards said, grabbing her arm and gripping her tightly. Her eyes went wide. "Didn't know he liked videotaping his sessions with you, did you?" He saw the look of realization flash across her face, and the grip on her arm tightened.

"Let go of me," she said, trying to jerk her arm from his steely grasp.

"Oh, he videotapes his sessions with all of them. All twenty-four of you, to be exact. But the ones with you were the ones I really liked seeing." She was struggling now, trying to jerk away from him, but he held on as he continued talking.

"I particularly liked the last one," he continued. "The one where you and he plot to fuck me into helping you."

"It wasn't like that," she pleaded.

"It was exactly like that," he thundered. "I watched the fucking video. I heard you, laughing at me." He pushed her onto the sofa now. "Is that all I was to you? Just another fucking patsy? Did I ever mean anything to you?"

She had tears now, streaming down her face. "Not at the beginning you didn't. But you do now. I don't see him anymore. Just you. You're all I want, and you know that."

Richards paused in his anger. She was convincing, and he wanted to believe her. And she was right: There had been no more videos of her and Broussard since that last one. They'd never again been together, of that he was sure. Given Broussard's predilections for recording his conquests, he was sure there'd have been more if she'd have continued.

"You know it's true," she wailed. "Look at me, Jeff. You know it's true, don't you? Maybe not at the beginning, but now it's true. Right?"

Against his will, he felt his head nodding in agreement. It was true. It had to be true. Because if it wasn't, there was no use in continuing. With anything.

"There's more," he said.

Her crying subsided to sniffles, and she was brushing the tears from her cheeks. "What do you mean?"

"The money," he said. "It's gone."

"Gone?"

He nodded.

"That fucking bastard," she screeched, grabbing her purse and flying out the door.

Richards watched her go, again unsure whether she was in it for him or the money.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ben turned over and looked at the alarm clock. A little after six, time to get up. He rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom, relieving himself before brushing his teeth and shaving. Returning to the bedroom, he nudged the sleeping mound under the covers. She had gotten in late the night before, well after he'd already gone to bed, though he'd feigned sleep as she had snuck under the covers..

"Honey," he whispered, "wanna take a shower together?"

She murmured in response and clutched the blankets tighter to her body.

He decided to let her sleep and went to shower.

Freshly showered and cleaned up, he was buttoning his shirt when the doorbell rang. Six thirty on Saturday morning, who the hell could that be?

He trotted down the stairs and to the door. Opening it, he was greeted by a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit, his face a mask of fatigue. He was holding a badge up for Ben to see, and behind him were three uniformed police officers.

"Mr. Bradford?" the suit said. Ben nodded. "Is Mrs. Bradford home?"

Ben paused. "Why?"

"Because we'd like to speak with her," he said.

"And you are?"

"Detective Dale Robertson."

"And what do you want to talk with Jennifer about, Detective?"

"Ben, honey, who is it?" he heard from behind him. He turned as Jennifer descended the stairs.

"It's the police," he said. "They want to . . . . Jesus H. Christ, what the hell happened to you?"

Jennifer flinched, but it did little to hide her battered face. Her lips were split and puffy, one eye beginning to blacken, and her left cheek was swollen and bruised.

"Jennifer," he insisted, "what happened to your face?"

From behind him, Ben heard gasps as the officers apparently saw the signs of her beating.

"Did your husband do this to you, ma'am?" Detective Robinson said.

Jennifer fled back up the stairs without another word.

Ben started following her when the detective's command to stop froze him.

"Did you do that to her?" Robinson asked.

Ben shook his head. "Of course not. Jesus Christ, you think I could hit my wife? What kind of fuckin'–"

"When did you last see her before just now?" Robinson continued.

Ben thought for a moment before speaking. "Why are you here, Detective?"

"Please answer my question," Robinson said.

Ben shook his head. "I don't think so." He looked back over his shoulders toward the stairs, then turned back to Robinson. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Robinson grinned. "Doesn't work that way. We need to speak with your wife, and we need to speak with her right now."

"You got a warrant?" Ben shot at him.

Robinson's lips tightened. "We don't need a warrant."

"Wrong, Detective. This is my house–and her house–and we're in it. You can't come in without a warrant, and you can't take her out without a warrant. You know it and I know it."

"Okay," Robinson said, "we'll get your warrant. And we'll keep someone here to make sure you don't take off. But Mr. Bradford?" He glared at Ben, who glared right back at him. "I won't forget how difficult you made this, okay?"

In response, Ben swung the door shut.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Robinson returned to the Broussard residence and strode into the den, noticing that the coroner's office was jotting down body temperatures on a chart and the crime techs were just finishing packing their equipment.

"Anything since I've been gone?" he asked no one in particular.

"Probable cause of death," the coroner said, still jotting notes. "Knife to the chest, bled out."

"No shit," Robinson smirked, taking in the puddle of blood spread out all around the body.

"Got this, though," said one of the techs. "Thought you'd find it interesting."

Robinson walked over behind the desk and looked at the computer screen.

"We were dusting the desktop and mouse for prints and bumped the mouse. The screen came up and showed us this."

With that, the tech bumped the mouse and the screen lit up. Robinson saw the coroner rise from the body, then looked up and saw the same thing. Looked down, then back up.

"He's got this place set for video?"

"Yep," the tech said, grinning.

"Was it set last night? When this happened?"

The tech shrugged. "Dunno, didn't check. Not my field. Just thought you'd find it interesting."

"Oh, I find it interesting all right," Robinson said, pulling out his cell and phoning in for computer services technicians to get their asses over to the scene.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"What's going on?" Rebecca asked as she walked in the front door.

"I'll give you the whole story later," Ben said. "But for now, the cops were here and want to question Jennifer."

"About what?"

"They wouldn't say. But probably about that thing we talked about last night."

Rebecca's face tightened as she tossed her jacket over the couch. "Where's Jennifer?"

"Upstairs." Ben pointed up the stairwell. "Last door on the right."

"You spoken to her since they left?"

He shook his head. "She locked the door and won't let me in."

Rebecca nodded. "Stay here," she ordered. "Maybe she'll be more comfortable just talking to me."

Ben bit his bottom lip and nodded.

"Jennifer," Rebecca said, knocking on the door. "Jennifer, I'm Rebecca Lyons. I'm an attorney, and I need to speak with you." She heard no response. "Jennifer, please let me in. Ben's not here, he's downstairs. It'll be just you and me, okay? Please, Jennifer, we don't have much time."

She heard padded footsteps, then the door handle clicked and the door opened.

"Can I come in?" Rebecca asked.

Jennifer walked back and sat on the bed, saying nothing. She just stared at Rebecca, who gasped when she saw Jennifer's battered face.

"Jennifer, the police were here." Jennifer said nothing. "Do you know what they want?" After a moment, Jennifer nodded slowly, as if in a trance. "Can you tell me what happened to you?"

Jennifer turned to face Rebecca and again nodded. Then a tear started to trickle down her cheek, and she leaned over into Rebecca and squeezed her in a tight hug.

"Settle down," Rebecca whispered, rubbing Jennifer's back as she felt the damp tears penetrate her blouse at the shoulder. "Jennifer, you've got to be strong now. The police will be back any minute, and I need to know what happened. Okay?"

She felt Jennifer nod against her shoulder, then the hug loosened. After a moment, Jennifer sat back and started to speak.

Thirty minutes later, Jennifer finished her story. Rebecca could only sit there stunned, her mind a whirl of feverish activity. Before she could fully form a plan, she heard the doorbell ring and knew that decision time had arrived.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Robinson waited patiently while the dark haired attorney read the warrant. She's beautiful, he thought, but wounded. There was something about her, a skittishness around people, a hesitation to touch. She only seemed comfortable around Bradford, he realized. Best file that away to look into down the road.

"All right, Detective," she said, handing back the warrant. "Please proceed."

"But Rebecca," Ben said behind her.

"There's nothing we can do, Ben," she said. "It's all in order."

Robinson smiled. "Told you I'd be back, hotshot." He tapped Ben on the shoulder with the warrant as he walked past, leading five uniformed officers and three crime scene technicians into the heart of the house.

The officers and technicians spread out, each going into different areas of the home. Robinson followed their progress before turning and facing Rebecca and Ben.

"Where's Mrs. Bradford?" he asked.

"Upstairs," Ben said.

"Will she be joining us?" He directed this question at Rebecca.

"No, she won't be joining us," Rebecca said. "She's had a very traumatic time, and she's better off resting."

"You know," Robinson said, knowing he was wasting his breath, "if she'd just answer a few questions, we'd be able to leave these people alone."

Rebecca shook her head. "No go, Detective. You should be advised right now that Mrs. Bradford is represented by counsel–me–and she won't be answering any questions unless I'm there. Okay?"

Robinson nodded while willing his blood pressure to go back down. Goddamned lawyers.

"Detective," he heard from his right. Glancing that way, he saw a technician striding in from the garage with a camera held up.

"Right here," he said, showing Robinson the picture on the digital camera. "Just like we thought."

Robinson looked at the picture and, sure enough, there it was. Along the driver's side door was a long scratch through the paint and to the metal running for nearly the length of the door. He smiled. Gotcha, Mrs. Bradford.

"Alfaro," he called out.

"Yeah," a uniformed sergeant replied from the other room.

"You're in charge here 'til I get back, okay?"

"Got it."

"And Sergeant," he called, turning to look at Rebecca and Ben, "don't let Mrs. Bradford leave. She steps a foot out this door, you cuff her and take her in. Got it?"

"Got it," said Sgt. Alfaro, walking into the room.

"We'll play it your way, Ms. Lyons," Robinson said, not bothering to contain his glee. "You just wait here until I get back with the arrest warrant, okay?"

Rebecca only yawned in response. "Please don't take too long, Detective," she said.

His blood pressure went back up at her mocking tone. Then he had two thoughts back-to-back. First, I'll wipe that smirk off your face, counselor. Then second, what does she know that I don't? She's playing this awful cool, even for a lawyer.

The second thought ate away at Robinson even as he drove back to the Bradford residence with the warrant on the seat beside him.

What does she know that I don't?

CHAPTER TWENTY

Lake County State's Attorney Robert Knight was turned out in his best suit and tie for this appearance. He was in the middle of a tight race for State's Attorney, and he needed a very public show of law and order to help him along to his third term. People of the State of Illinois v. Jennifer Bradford was going to be just that vehicle, he'd decided when the file had been brought into the office. To that end, he'd made the decision to personally see this case through from beginning to end.

The courtroom was abuzz with spectators and press, and Knight smiled. This was perfect, he knew. The more of this, the better his chances looked. Now he just had to make sure he secured a quick conviction. He nodded in thought at that. Murder trials could easily take as much as two years to get to trial, and that would be far too late for his purposes. He had to do his best to speed this one along as quickly as possible. The primaries were four months away, and the election thirteen months away. If he could get this to trial by the end of summer, he'd build a wave of momentum that would carry him back into office.

"All rise," the bailiff commanded, and the courtroom fell silent save the shuffling of a hundred bodies coming to their feet. "The Circuit Court for the Nineteenth Judicial Circuit is now in session, the Honorable Judge Gerald Feldman presiding."

Knight smiled as the judge strode through the door from chambers to the bench, taking a seat as the bailiff told everyone they could take their seats, too. Knight was delighted Judge Feldman had been assigned to the case. In his seventeenth year on the bench, he was known as a no nonsense, law and order judge. Sure, Knight knew, he could raise hell with the attorneys if they slipped up, but he'd do his best to get this show on the road.

"Is the defendant here?" Feldman asked the bailiff.

"I'll bring her out, your Honor."

Feldman nodded, and all eyes followed the bailiff to a side door. A minute later, Jennifer shuffled through the door in an orange jail jumpsuit stenciled with Lake County Jail, orange laceless tennis shoes on her feet, and manacles holding her hands to the chain around her waist.

Knight felt himself get aroused at the sight. She was a beautiful woman, someone he'd love to bed if given the chance. Then the smile turned predatory as he realized she would guarantee front page coverage for the duration of the case.

"We're calling People v. Bradford, Case Number 09 CF 2311," Feldman said in a bored voice, shuffling through the file folder in front of him. "Counsel for the State, please identify yourself."

"Robert Knight for the People of the State of Illinois," Knight said, his deep voice booming through the courtroom.

"Counsel for Defendant?"

"Rebecca Lyons of Schwartz, Gillman, your Honor."

Feldman turned to the dark haired wisp of a woman next to him. He noticed for the first time that she was as beautiful as her client, but in a diametrically opposed way. While Jennifer was medium height, blonde haired, blue eyed, with a slim, athletic build, Rebecca Lyons was shorter by several inches, brown haired and brown eyed, with a petite built. And whereas Jennifer, even in her current state, exuded an air of relaxed sexuality, Rebecca Lyons burned with an obvious intensity.

"Ms. Lyons," Feldman intoned, looking over the top of his glasses, "does your client waive the reading of the charges?"

"She does, your Honor."

"Fine. How does she plead to the sole count at this time, murder in the first degree?"

"Not guilty, your Honor."

A murmur arose in the courtroom, and reporter's pens scribbled over their notepads.