Jury Town (32 page)

“Sure.”

She moved back to the couch as “
The Way You Look Tonight”
began playing. “Do you want a drink?”

“Nope.”

“Come on.”

“Not while I’m taking care of you.”

Victoria sat down on the sofa, aware that she was a little closer to him than before.
Watch it
, she told herself. The first few sips were already affecting her. “So we’ll never be able to have a drink together?”

“Never say never, but not anytime soon.”

“I love this song,” she murmured, watching him finish putting the Glock back together. “You ever get scared, Dez? I’ve wanted to ask you that question ever since we met.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think you do. It’s like you have no fear of anything. I’ve only known one other person like that.”

“Your father?”

She smiled at him. “How’d you guess?”

“It wasn’t hard.” He took a deep breath. “Sure, I get scared sometimes. Just like your dad did.”

“Were you scared when we were attacked on the driveway at my house?”

He shook his head as he eased back onto the couch. “I know how this’ll sound, but I didn’t have time to be scared. I was afterward. I always get scared after when I think about what just happened, how close I came to dying. It was the same for me when I was a SEAL. I never got scared during a mission, but always after.”

She bit her lower lip gently. “I miss Cam.”

“I know.”

“It’s my fault he’s gone.”

“No,” Dez countered deliberately and firmly, “it’s not. It’s the fault of the people who are trying to kill you. You’ve got to get off that road.”

“Do you ever get lonely?”

“You’re full of interesting questions tonight.”

“Do you?”

“I love what I do.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t get lonely. Is there a future Mrs. Dez Braxton up in Washington?”

“Maybe . . . but I haven’t met her yet.” He gestured to Victoria. “Are you lonely?”

As the song faded, she felt for a moment like an ordinary person, not Virginia Lewis, former governor. It usually took cocaine to make her feel this way. “You know I am, Dez,” she finally whispered, “very lonely. It seems like I’ve never had time to get really close to anyone.”

“Make time.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. Not yet.”

“Why?”

“There’s still too much to do,” she said as “
My One and Only Love”
began to play. “Oh Lord,” she murmured as the slow song drifted through the room. “This is my
favorite
Sinatra. It gives me goose bumps every time I hear it.” She held her forearm out so he could see.

He glanced at her arm, then into her eyes. “Dance?” he asked, standing up and holding out his hand.

“Yeah,” she answered taking his hand, “I’d love to dance with you, Dez.”

She laughed softly as she blended into his body perfectly, and they began to move as one.

“Am I that bad?” he asked.

“You’re awesome.”

“Why’d you laugh?”

“I don’t even know where you’re from, and I’m living in your house and dancing slow with you.”

“But why’d you laugh?”

She pressed her face to his chest. “I guess I always figured you Special Forces crazies all come from the same tough-as-nails small town in Texas or Montana or someplace wild like that.”

Dez leaned back with a confused expression. “What?”

“Where are you from?”

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

“Blah, blah, come on.”

He shook his head as she pressed her face back to his chest. “I’m serious. There’re some nasties around the world who’d love to find that out, so they could get to my family and get their revenge. I was involved in some very classified stuff.”

She looked up at him again. “You’re kidding, right?”

He shook his head.

“So is your name really Dez Braxton?”

He smiled widely. “What do you think?”

PART THREE

CHAPTER 40

VIRGINIA BEACH, VIRGINIA

“Please state your name, sir,” the prosecutor requested in a friendly tone as he walked out from behind the long table.

He paced across the courtroom toward the witness stand, soles clicking purposefully on the buffed hardwood. His steps broke the breathless silence, which filled every corner of the courtroom. A courtroom packed to capacity, save for the jury box . . . which was a ghost town.

The prosecutor couldn’t keep himself from glancing in that empty direction. It was odd not to have a jury sitting to his left as he approached the witness stand; unsettling not to have them follow his every move and hang on his every word as he constructed his case; eerie to realize they were all watching him through a lens from two hundred miles away, like so many voyeurs.

He cleared his throat twice to erase any nerves that might be loitering in his voice. “For the record, sir.”

“My name is Jack Hoffman.”

“What is your occupation?”

Hoffman gave a curious, uncertain look. “Um . . . I’m unemployed.”

The prosecutor winced. A terrible gaffe and he’d practiced this opening many times at home before the bathroom mirror. He had to relax and let things flow naturally. But the stage had never been this daunting. There was so much riding on this trial. It would make or break his career. That had been made very clear.

The fundamental challenge for him was that Angela Gaynor’s high-powered attorney team had steamrolled this case into court very quickly—because of the election. He hadn’t been allowed anywhere near the normal time to prepare, and he was a painfully deliberate man, always had been. So he wasn’t confident in his facts or his witnesses. The doubts were fueling his nerves.

He inhaled deeply to calm himself. “What was your most recent occupation?”

“I was the chief executive officer of Gaynor Construction Incorporated before I was terminated.”

“Where is Gaynor Construction headquartered?”

“Virginia Beach, Virginia.”

“Who owns that corporation, Mr. Hoffman?”

“Angela Gaynor. One hundred percent.”

“Is she in this courtroom?” Now he was finding his rhythm. His breathing was becoming normal; his chest was relaxing; his thoughts were coming quickly.

“Yes.”

“Could you please identify her?”

Hoffman pointed to the defense table, arm and forefinger fully extended. “She’s right there,” he said loudly, without hesitation, as Angela Gaynor’s eyes narrowed to slits.

Out of habit, the prosecutor glanced at the jury box, but he quickly redirected his gaze to the camera aimed at the defense table. He hoped the jury had gotten a clear view of Gaynor’s angry reaction to her former CEO’s demonstrative and committed identification. He hated them not being in the courtroom.

“Let the record show that Mr. Hoffman has identified the defendant as the owner of Gaynor Construction Corporation,” he said loudly.

Twenty-nine years old, the prosecutor was a child of the technology era, unlike his middle-aged associates in the DA’s office. He should have been more comfortable with the new arrangement. But he was still having trouble transitioning to the jurors’ invisibility. He liked seeing their faces. More importantly, he liked seeing that they liked him—as most juries apparently did, based on his outstanding won-lost record. Would he have that same winning effect through a screen?

“Mr. Hoffman, please give the court a brief description of Gaynor Construction’s activities.”

“The company builds a variety of large commercial structures including office buildings, high-rise apartment complexes, warehouses, and sports venues.”

“In fact, during your tenure as CEO, didn’t the company begin construction of the new Hampton Roads Sports Arena?”

“We did.”

“What is the cost of that facility, Mr. Hoffman?”

“When it’s finished, the total cost will exceed two hundred and fifty million dollars.”

A gasp raced around the courtroom.

Even the judge seemed impressed, the prosecutor noticed. “So, Ms. Gaynor will make a quarter of a billion dollars on that—”

“Objection!” the lead defense attorney shouted. “The prosecutor knows full well that what something costs has nothing to do with what Gaynor Construction will actually make on a project. What the company makes on that project, if anything, will be far less than the amount he’s citing.”

“Sustained. The jury will disregard.”

“Mr. Hoffman,” the prosecutor continued—certain he’d deftly made his point despite the objection—“did Ms. Gaynor direct you to make cash payments to three Hampton city council members and the mayor in order to ensure that Gaynor Construction would be named the prime contractor on the project?”

“No.”

The prosecutor’s gaze raced from the camera aimed at the witness stand to the witness. “Excuse me?” he asked, doing a horrible job of masking his shock. They’d been over and over Hoffman’s testimony. This one wasn’t his fault. Had someone gotten to Hoffman? Was he recanting?

“She directed me to make
three
payments. She made the fourth payment herself.”

“Objection! Hearsay!”

“Sustained. The witness will—”

“Ms. Gaynor made that bribe personally to the mayor of Hampton,” Hoffman continued loudly over the judge’s warning. “It was for fifty thousand dollars.”

“Objection!”

“The other three I made were for twenty-five thousand each. Twenty-five thousand so we could make two hundred fifty million,” Hoffman kept going.

“Objection!”

“She forced me to make the payments, or she told me she’d fire me!” Hoffman yelled bitterly as the judge hammered the bench with his gavel. “I had to do it. I have a family. I have e-mails that prove everything! Who to bribe, how much to pay, and that she’d can me if I didn’t!”

“He’s lying!” Angela screamed over her lawyer and the gavel, shooting up from her chair so fast it tumbled over backwards. “He’s lying about everything! Not just about the mayor’s payment. I knew nothing about
any
of this.”

The defense team pulled Angela back down after righting her chair. But the damage had been done.

“Don’t do that again,” her lead counsel begged. “It only makes you look guiltier,” he whispered . . . just as the courtroom went silent.

“Guilti
er
?” she asked loudly, her words echoing around and around the room.

The prosecutor muted a grin as he watched the scene playing out at the defense table. Jackpot.

That testimony about Angela delivering the mayor’s bribe herself was strong, incredibly strong, even if it was technically hearsay. But where had it come from? This was the first he’d ever heard of it.

He’d find out later.

Now all he had to do was introduce the stack of incriminating e-mails Angela Gaynor had sent to Hoffman—and this case was over. Gaynor would be heading to a state penitentiary—not to Washington, DC.

And his career was about to take off.

JURY TOWN

Racine shifted in his chair at the back right of the jury box as the testimony continued.

He glanced at the defense table, which was on the upper right-hand screen affixed to the opposite wall. Angela Gaynor was so compelling. She seemed smart, hardworking, and honest. And he related easily and completely to the struggles she’d endured and conquered on her way to making Gaynor Construction a force. He hoped Excel Games would ultimately perform as well as Gaynor Construction had.

He liked Angela Gaynor. He wanted her to be innocent.

But the evidence was piling up against her. As jury foreman, Racine would maintain his neutrality until the bitter end. He would show no bias either way, unlike several of the most outspoken jurors who were already muttering about her “obvious guilt.” But he couldn’t help starting to believe she’d end up serving prison time. That perhaps the outspoken jurors were correct. Key people were testifying against her. And the jury was about to see the e-mails the prosecutor kept alluding to. E-mails Gaynor had allegedly sent to Hoffman, which proved her complicity in the conspiracy beyond a shadow of a doubt. If the e-mails were as damaging as the prosecutor claimed, that would clinch her guilt.

Racine’s thoughts wandered as Jack Hoffman stepped down from the witness stand. He wondered how Excel Games was performing with the money from Mao Xilai—and how Bart Stevens was coping with everything by himself. It was horrible, being unable to speak to Bart, even worse being cut off from Claire. He had to keep reminding himself he was doing the right thing, that it was all for her even if she hated him when he came out.

As he refocused on the proceedings, Racine realized that Sofia had just glanced over her shoulder at him from the front row of the jury box. They’d been spending a great deal of time together since they’d arrived at Jury Town, eating most meals together. She was teaching him how to play pool—she was surprisingly good—and he had to admit he was having feelings for her. But she was still in mourning for her murdered husband, and he didn’t want to push.

He smiled at her when she glanced over her shoulder again—and she smiled back.