Death by Trial and Error (A Legal Suspense Short) (3 page)

Clutching her throat, Emma felt as if her
entire body was being invaded by a foreign enemy. One determined to
make sure she did not survive. But not before she suffered
horribly.

She fell backwards, her body wracked with
pain, before she hit the floor with a thud. Her voice was raspy,
but she was unable to scream. Yet her mind was still remarkably
clear. She had laced the wine with strychnine.

It was intended for Harrison.

# # #

The following is a bonus excerpt from R.
Barri Flowers' bestselling legal thriller

STATE'S EVIDENCE
: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller

Prologue

She was a real piece of ass...

He could feel his arousal through tight
jeans. He had been watching her, following her, getting to know her
every move till it was time to do what had to be done.

He could have taken her any time he wanted,
crushing her pretty skull between his strong, calloused hands, as
easily as one might flatten a piece of dough. But it was more fun
and stimulating to bide his time like a shark might before going
after a helpless fish. Or even a human. He knew exactly where she
was every minute of the day.

And night.

Why rush a good thing?

He considered killing a person a work of art.
Like the Mona Lisa. It required skill, finesse, courage,
determination, and a vision.

He had been born with these talents
thirty-two years ago in East L.A.'s Latino community. Surviving the
mean streets there had required every bit of his artistic skills,
and then some. With his mama a whore and his daddy a wife-abusing
heroin addict, he had literally been left to fend for himself as
early as he could remember.

Joining a gang had allowed him to sharpen his
skills. He imagined he had taken out or seriously injured maybe a
dozen or more rival gang members by the time he was fifteen. He
considered it all in a day's work. It was either them or him, which
was a real no-brainer.

But he knew he was going nowhere fast in
L.A.'s war zone. Between the rival Latino gangs and the black gang
bangers fighting for territory, respect, or just for the hell of
it, he saw no future there. Sooner or later he figured a bullet or
blade would have his name written on it in blood—unless he quit
while he was ahead.

Which was precisely why he had given up the
hood and gang life and fled the city before he turned eighteen. He
ended up in Northern California in a town called Eagles Landing. By
comparison to the urban jungle he'd left behind, it was fairly laid
back and boring as hell.

Still, he didn't miss his homeboys one bit.
No damned way!

He'd hooked up with distant relatives and was
cool with a few dudes in Eagles Landing.

But even that was fleeting. It didn't take
long for him to realize he operated much better on his own, apart
from keeping a roof over his head in living with a broad. This way
he got to keep all the profits and pleasures from doing what he did
best—killing people.

It was a rush like no other. Even better than
getting off inside a bitch. Or the almost orgasmic feel of cocaine
going into his veins. He killed for hire or just plain old desire.
It made no difference to him. What counted most was that once he
had targeted someone for death, it was just a matter of when,
where, how, and sometimes how much.

He contemplated those very things as he
studied the nice looking broad through the window of her fancy
home. She was maybe thirty, slim, with a big ass and even bigger
breasts. Her yellow hair was permed with fluffy curls and she had
full red lips. He imagined kissing that mouth, then sticking his
tongue inside. Or better yet, having that mouth go down on him and
do its thing.

Before he gave her a taste of death.

She was sitting at the dining room table with
her husband. He was a few years older than her, dark haired, and
seemingly uncomfortable in her presence, as though he didn't
belong.

He looked away from the man back to his wife,
watching a while longer, as he devised his strategy for her demise.
A rush of adrenalin poured through him at the prospect, knowing the
time was getting near to put the plan into action.

But first he wanted to allow her a bit more
false sense of security. It was always that much more exhilarating
when his victim realized that the perfect little world she or he
had created was about to come crashing down around them and there
wasn't a damned thing that could be done to prevent it.

Except maybe hope you got run over by a bus
first. Or dropped dead of a heart attack, sparing yourself from
meeting up with him.

Short of that, the person was his for the
taking. And he fully intended to do just that.

Only a matter of time.

Yes, let her feel secure in her comfortable
house. With that husband of hers there to protect her. Wouldn't do
her one bit of good.

She would never live to see the light of
day.

Chapter One

The jury foreman looked tense as she
responded to the judge's terse question, "Have you reached a
verdict?"

The juror, an attractive Jordanian professor
and mother of five, risked a furtive peek at the other jurors, as
if for final confirmation. Then she raised her big brown eyes to
the bench. "Yes, we have, Your Honor—"

Judge Sheldon Crawford was in his
mid-fifties, but looked younger with a cappuccino-toned face that
was without wrinkles save for a barely perceptible crease
stretching across his forehead. He had short salt and pepper hair,
and deep gray eyes that rarely seemed to blink. Focusing them on
the juror, he instructed her to hand the verdict to the
bailiff.

Judge Crawford had a reputation as a tough
judge, routinely doling out the stiffest penalties the law would
allow. Needless to say, prosecutors and their constituents loved
him and the justice rendered. Whereas, defense attorneys and their
clients feared coming before the judge, often doing all they could
to avoid his court, including plea bargaining at virtually every
opportunity.

Beverly Mendoza, co-counsel for the State,
fidgeted in her seat. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
Her intense green eyes studied the faces of the jurors, trying to
get a hint as to what direction they had taken. Admittedly she
hadn't a clue and was too smart to make any presumptions.

The case involved a woman accused of
murdering her lover by pushing him off a 320-foot cliff. Her
defense was that they were just fooling around—
love play
,
she had called it—when he accidentally fell to his death. The fact
that she didn't report him missing for two weeks seemed incidental.
As did his million dollar life insurance policy, which had only
recently named her as the beneficiary.

Beverly gazed at the thirty-year-old
defendant who sat there cool, calm, collected, and incredibly
confident.

Does she know something I don't?

Could this jury have possibly let her off the
hook?

Meaning the prosecution would have failed to
prove its case.
And I'd have a loss on my record that would be
hard to swallow and harder to justify
.

She snapped her head back, causing her long,
straight brunette hair to bounce against the gray jacket of her
Anne Klein linen suit. Her eyes landed on her co-counsel, Deputy
District Attorney Grant Nunez. His Afro-Latino profile was classic
with chiseled, caramel colored features and a round head that was
shaven bald. He wore a tailored dark brown suit that fit well on
his muscular, tall frame. Grant was forty—eight years older than
her—and in line for a judgeship by all indications. Losing this
case would not help his chances.

Nor would it bode well for Beverly's career.
Sensationalized cases would always be remembered for the winners
and losers, no matter how many other battles were fought and won,
especially when lawyers were always looking ahead in their careers.
She had aspirations of being a district attorney someday. Or maybe
even a judge.

Right now, assistant district attorney for
Wilameta County would have to suffice.

Sensing her stare, Grant swiveled his head,
slanting his cool sable eyes at her. If he was worried, he didn't
show it. Instead, he gave Beverly a devilish smile that she knew
was less about the proceedings than it was about them. They had
been dating for four months now, though it had only become sexual
in the last four weeks. Both had survived bad previous
relationships and, once they had overcome their fears of failure
and the unknown, had succumbed to mutual desires that left Beverly
shamelessly wanting him every chance she got.

But getting her twelve-year-old son to
approve of Grant had proven to be a far more formidable task. Jaime
was very protective of her and did not want to see his mother get
hurt—again. To him, Grant was someone who threatened the life Jaime
had known for most of his young life, where it had pretty much been
just the two of them.

Perhaps even more difficult for Beverly to
deal with was losing her mother five years ago to breast cancer and
now watching her father wasting away with Alzheimer's disease. It
left him but a shell of his former and proud self as a Latino who
was used to being a macho man in command of his life and times.
Sometimes she wished it would be over with for him so her father
wouldn't suffer anymore; other times Beverly wanted him to hang on
for as long as he possibly could. After all, having part of a
father and grandfather to her son was preferable to none at
all.

Wasn't it?

Beverly's mind shifted back to the attention
Grant was giving her, as if they were the only ones in the
courtroom. She willed herself to avert his lascivious gaze that had
managed to cause her temperature to rise, and focus on the
important matter at hand. Judge Crawford read the verdict to
himself. He passed the slip back to the bailiff, giving no
indication by his dignified facial expression as to what it
said.

Beverly felt butterflies in her stomach as
she usually did whenever a case was about to be decided. It
represented weeks or months of hard work and in an instant would
culminate for all parties concerned. Later there would be the
penalty phase. And then, in all likelihood, appeals, and more
decisions to come.

But for the moment it didn't get any more
exciting and tension filled than this.

Once the bailiff had returned the verdict to
the jury foreman, the judge faced the defense table and stated
levelly, "Will the defendant please rise—"

She obeyed him, springing to her feet and
running thin fingers through short crimson hair before taking a
breath and awaiting the judge's words that would change her life
for the better or worse. Standing alongside her was her attorney,
Cassandra Fielding, a forty-something, ex-prosecutor, who had put
up a strong, sympathetic defense. No doubt she had an eye on a
hefty percentage of the insurance payments, mused Beverly. Provided
they ever came.

Judge Crawford nodded at the jury foreman.
"You may read the verdict."

The woman put on her glasses, almost for
effect, took a deep sigh, and looked down at her trembling hands.
"We, the jury, find the defendant, Suzanne Landon, to be guilty of
murder in the first degree—"

The courtroom erupted in cheers from the
family of the victim. Beverly let out a sigh of relief and saw
victory spread across Grant's face in a big grin. The two hugged as
co-counsel might be expected, formally and professionally. There
would be time later for a much more private celebration.

The newly convicted murderess was led away in
handcuffs, tears of disbelief or disappointment flowing down her
reddened cheeks. Before leaving the courtroom, she shot Beverly a
contemptuous gaze, which the prosecutor dismissed for all it was
worth.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but
hateful glares won't hurt me.

Justice was not always blind. Not today
anyway.

* * *

"We did it!" Grant Nunez declared
magnanimously. He had Beverly cornered in his office, right between
two file cabinets. The door was locked and might just as well have
had a DO NOT DISTURB sign on it. He certainly had no intentions of
being interrupted till they were done.

At six-three, he hovered over Beverly by
almost seven inches. But that didn't detract from the presence she
had as a woman. With her Selma Hayek looks and a hot, taut body all
her own, it was all Grant could do not to want to be with Beverly
24/7.

He'd settle for twenty-four minutes and seven
ways to make love to this woman who turned him on like no other
with both her mind and sexuality, inside and out of the
courtroom.

"Never thought for a minute we wouldn't,"
Beverly declared between kisses.

"You're not a very good liar." Grant put his
hands on her firm breasts through her silk blouse, causing
Beverly's nipples to tingle.

"So sue me," she murmured, "but only after
you make me come."

"Whatever you say, Counselor." He put his
tongue in her mouth. "Never let it be said that I don't believe in
the spirit of cooperation."

"Maybe that's why we make such a great
team."

"Maybe."

Beverly tasted spearmint from his tongue, and
gave him hers to play with. She put a hand to his pants, feeling
the hardness of Grant's erection begging to be released. She was
only too happy to oblige, unzipping him, even as his hand went
under her skirt and began to caress between her legs. She pulled
him out and held firmly as if her own, stimulating the shaft.

"Umm..." She heard the sound utter between
their mouths, unsure who it had come from.

Her back stiffened when Grant slipped fingers
inside her panties and then into her. She spread her legs while
leaning against a file cabinet, urging him on and giving back as
much in touching his penis. Beverly bit her lip as he began to
stimulate her, causing her to nearly scream with pleasure.