The Child Comes First (19 page)

“And was he trying to find you?” Simon prodded.

“Yes. He'd been trying to find me because he thought I had something of his.”

“What did he think you had?”

“A bomb of tragic magic. But I never had it,” she said as she eyed the men in uniform who were standing guard inside the courtroom. “I never had it—he just thinks I do. So he was looking for me.”

Simon moved closer to the woman to distract her from the crowd. “Can you explain to us what ‘tragic magic' is?”

“I told you before, it's cocaine. A whole bomb. Stupid idiot lost it somehow and he thinks I have it. Or he figures I've got the money from selling it. Wrong on both counts.”

“So your husband's name is…?”

“Joe Martin Baldridge.”

A name for the jury. The name of someone else to blame for Derek's death. Someone other than Tiffany. From this initial triumph, Simon carefully, gently, painstakingly guided the woman to describe the abuse she and Derek had endured at Joe Martin's hands, tell how she'd run off to protect herself and her son. She explained how Derek had ended up in foster care because she hadn't been able to take good enough care of him, how her husband hadn't cared about his son—only about getting his hands on his ex and the drugs he believed she'd stolen from him.

“If your husband had found Derek and if your son wouldn't or couldn't tell him where you were, would Joe be capable of harming Derek?”

“He slapped us both around enough when we were together, so I guess he could have. But Social Services said they wouldn't even let me know where my kid was staying, so I don't see how Joe would have found him.”

This was more than Simon had wanted her to say, Jayda knew. But he appeared unfazed by it. Calmly, he asked again, “But if he was desperate and clever enough to find Derek, in the hope of finding you, would he have been capable of hurting your son to try to get at you?”

“Sure. He'd have done anything to find me.”

“That's all I need for now, Mrs. Baldridge, thank you.” He came back to the defense table and Jayda could see he was on edge. His body seemed to exude tension. They both knew that cross-examination could undo most of the good Simon had just done for Tiffany's case. It was only a matter of how much damage McGuire would do.

On cross, the prosecutor focused first on the woman's own drug abuse. He used the simple tactic of asking where she currently resided. She had no choice but to give the name of the rehab facility—she had no other address.

“How long has it been since you last saw your husband, Joseph Baldridge?”

“His name isn't Joseph, it's just Joe Martin. That's the name his mother gave him.”

McGuire smiled congenially at the woman, as if he wanted to be her friend. “My apologies. How long since you last saw Joe?”

“A year. Maybe more.”

“Then how would you know he was trying to find you after all that time?”

“Because I know Joe and he wouldn't give up. Plus, on the streets, nothing is secret. I heard it from people I know, that he was looking for me. Looking real hard.”

“But for all you know, he could be dead. Drug dealers don't have long life spans.”

“Did I ever say he was a drug dealer?” Patricia retorted.

“You said you took his crack cocaine and that's why he was after you.”

“I said he
thought
I took his crack. I never said I actually took it.” She glanced at the bailiff again as if she half expected the handcuffs to come out.

“Did you take it?” McGuire asked. “Remember, you're under oath.”

The witness hesitated, looked at Simon, who appeared impassive even though Jayda could tell he was wound tight and hyperfocused. Patricia's gaze shifted to the guards and then to the judge.

Becker interjected, “Just answer the attorney's question, Mrs. Baldridge. Perjury is also a crime.”

“All right,” she said. “I did take it. But it's gone, long gone. And I'm clean now at the rehab.”

“That's all I need from this witness, Your Honor,” McGuire said. Indeed, he had taunted her into revealing that she was a drug user and that she was willing to lie under oath. As a defense witness, Patricia Baldridge was almost as bad as having none at all.

Simon stood respectfully. “No redirect, Your Honor.” He sat back down, and they waited while Patricia Baldridge was led out of the courtroom again.

“Further witnesses?” asked the judge.

“Yes, Your Honor. Tiffany Thompson would like to take the stand in her own defense.”

J
AYDA KNEW
S
IMON FELT
he had no choice about having Tiffany testify. He couldn't leave the jury with the lasting memory of Patricia's muddled testimony. And if he tried to rest his case now, Tiffany might never forgive him. As much as Jayda didn't like subjecting the girl to the prosecution's cross-examination, she'd agreed with Simon about letting her have her say on the witness stand.

She looked tiny and meek in the witness chair—her toes didn't even touch the floor. No one could have looked less like a murderer than Tiffany. And she told her story calmly at first, reviewing with Simon the events that had led up to Derek's final moments. When it came time to explain what happened just prior to Derek's death and after her foster mother came home, Tiffany seemed frightened and vulnerable. Jayda banked on Tiffany's vulnerable state negating some of the damage her foster mother had done as a prosecution witness.

Though Simon had done a solid job of discrediting the foster mother, Hester Amity—who'd left two young foster children alone, against both the law and fostering regulations in Maryland—he hadn't shaken the woman's recollection of what Tiffany had said that day. This was the basis for the prosecution's dogged pursuit of Tiffany as an adult murderer, despite her age and the controversy the case had raised in the media.

After Simon finished guiding Tiffany through her story, the prosecutor stepped halfway to where she sat between the judge and the jury and spoke from the center of the room. “When Ms. Hester came in from outside, she saw you with Derek, didn't she?”

“Yes,” Tiffany said warily.

“And you spoke the words, ‘I didn't mean to do it.' Is that right?”

“I can't remember saying that.” She'd already told the jury the same thing moments before.

“But your foster mother says those were your exact words.”

Tiffany didn't say anything. Simon had previously explained to her that calling her foster mother a liar might make her seem older and angrier and that it could work against her.

“And you feel guilty about Derek's death?” McGuire asked.

“No, I feel sad that I couldn't do anything to help him.” Her voice seemed to be getting stronger and more determined, much like it did other times when she was building up to one of her outbursts of anger. Jayda began to fear that Tiffany would lose her composure. At the very least she would seem older to the jury if she talked in that mature way of hers.

“When someone says, ‘I didn't mean to do it,' wouldn't most people assume that person was guilty of something?”

Simon leaped to his feet and called out “Objection! He's asking the child to speculate about what other people would think.”

“Sustained,” Judge Becker said. “Mr. McGuire, are you almost finished?”

Tiffany looked at the judge and said in a clear voice, “Sometimes people say things because they're scared or because they've gotten used to being blamed for things they didn't do or because things just blurt out for no good reason, right?”

Judge Becker smiled at her. “Sometimes that's right.”

Relief washed through Jayda. That exchange couldn't have gone better if they'd scripted it. The judge seemed to be favoring Tiffany and that was bound to affect the jury to her advantage.

But McGuire wasn't done. “Ms. Thompson, you have a history of violent behavior, isn't that right?”

“No, sir,” she said with a tiny lift of her chin.

“Your record clearly shows…”

“But you asked me if I have a history of violence and I don't. I know what my record says, but sometimes people exaggerate. Sometimes people make too much out of other people getting angry. I get angry sometimes. Have you ever been in foster care, Mr. McGuire?”

Uh-oh, now she'd been pushed to the point of asking clever questions far beyond her years. And that steely look had come into her eyes that indicated her fury was growing. Simon had worked so hard to paint her as a child, frail, softhearted and incapable of adult forethought and strength and rage. But here she was, standing up for herself in an extremely adult manner and on the precipice of a meltdown. Jayda had to will herself not to groan in dismay.

“I'm not on trial for murder, Ms. Thompson, so I'll ask the questions,” McGuire said curtly.

Simon got to his feet again. “Your Honor, this has gone far enough. Prosecution is attempting to twist this child's words and make her out to be something she clearly is not.”

The judge looked at Tiffany, who did her best shrinking-violet imitation, now that Simon had reminded her of how she was supposed to appear. “I agree,” said the judge, scowling at the prosecutor. “Any redirect?” he asked Simon.

“No, Your Honor. She's been through enough today,” Simon responded, getting in that last little point of sympathy in front of the jury. “The defense rests.”

Jayda let out a sigh of pent-up breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. It was over except for closing arguments, which were to be given on Monday. Then the instructions would go to the jury and Tiffany's fate would be in the hands of these men and women. But at least she knew she'd done her best for the girl. And Simon had been the right choice for this case.

Looking on as Simon accepted his usual hug from Tiffany, who remained in his arms longer than usual, clinging to him for support after the ordeal of testifying, Jayda wished once more for a place in the family these two were attempting to build. But soon, very soon, she wouldn't see either of them again.

 

S
IMON CARRIED
T
IFFANY INTO
the house without waking her up, even when he laid her down on her bed and took off her shoes. Her ankle monitor chafed her delicate skin and he hated that she still had to wear it. Almost over, he told himself. If only he could feel sure he'd be allowed to give her a home after her acquittal. If only he could be sure he'd won that acquittal for her. His closing argument on Monday would need to be nothing short of spectacular. The responsibility weighed heavily on him. Yet he still vibrated with leftover nervous energy. He needed an outlet.

He called Jayda. “She's asleep and Mom's going to bed, too. But I'm still pumped with adrenaline from court today. I need to get out, expend some energy. Come with me?”

“Um,” she said. “To do what?”

“It doesn't matter. We could go dancing, or walk around the harbor or see a movie. Please don't leave me trapped here alone tonight.”

“You have lots of other friends you can call,” she said.

“Not anymore. Funny how quitting the law firm killed off all those superficial relationships based on coattails and ambition.”

“You
quit?
”

“Boyden and I mutually agreed to part ways. But he was going to fire me if I hadn't agreed to go. I've been spending too much time on Tiffany's case to suit them.”

“What will you do?” The dismay in her voice raised his spirits. She must care at least a little.

“I'll open my own practice. Listen, let's talk about this after I pick you up. I'm selling the Mustang, so this will be one of my last opportunities to take it out for a spin. I can be there in half an hour.” He knew he was being pushier than he ought to be with Jayda. But he was feeling desperate to see her and he couldn't stop himself.

“Okay,” she said after a brief hesitation.

Step one of his plan to win Jayda was accomplished with that single word from her. He hoped he could coax her to say it over and over again, all through the night.

 

“H
OW ABOUT THAT COMEDY
playing at the Charles?” he suggested as he opened the door out on to the street for her.

“In all the years I've lived in this city, I've never been to the Charles theater. Some pretty odd movies play there.”

“You'll love it,” he said. “This movie isn't all that odd, for once, and the Charles is old and quaint—it's sort of a throwback to old-fashioned cinemas.”

“Sounds like fun. We could both use some laughter.”

He smiled at her as he opened the car door, once again appreciating her sexy legs as she slid into the low bucket seat. Then he was beside her, enthralled by her scent and nearness and that aura of wholesomeness she always seemed to exude.

“I'm sorry you have to sell your car,” she said. And she sounded completely sincere. What other woman on the planet would care that he had to part with his beloved vehicle?

“I'll need the money for start-up costs for my law office. I'd rather sell than build up debt before I even get going. Anyway, I bought her as an investment,” he said as he smoothed his palm lovingly over the dashboard. “Time for her to pay off.”

“What will you get? A hundred grand?”

“I'm holding out for a quarter million. And I think I'll get it.”

She made an appreciative sound, and he noticed that she, too, ran her fingers delicately over the inside of the passenger door. Watching her reverent treatment of the car made his chest tighten and his body heat. He silently reminded himself he needed to be gentle with this woman, had to hold back, let her take the lead, cautiously persuade without ever making her feel pushed. That had seemed easier to do when he hadn't been sitting in such close proximity.

 

I
T WAS GREAT TO HEAR
Simon laugh during the movie. Fun, too, to discover that they both found the same sorts of things amusing. At times, they were the only ones chuckling, because the wit in the script was often subtle. The film ended before Jayda was ready to give up on the happy feeling she'd gained while sharing the evening with Simon.

In no time, he'd parked his car near her apartment. They walked to her door in silence, but it was a congenial, comfortable quiet. The atmosphere didn't become awkward until they stood right outside the entrance to her place.

She hesitated only a moment, afraid he'd decline but determined to give it a try. “Do you want to come in for a while?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, and the quickness of his response made her insides flutter with happiness.

“Can I get you some wine, or coffee, or tea?” she offered once they got in her living room.

“Wine would be nice, if you'll join me,” he said.

Sure, why not, she thought. A glass of wine might make them both forget what had happened that fateful morning in Tiffany's bedroom when she'd ruined everything. She opened a bottle. When she turned back toward the kitchen doorway, he was there beside her with that hungry look in his eyes. She froze, waiting to see what he would do.

“I want to kiss you,” he said in that sensual voice of his.

“Okay,” she said.

He moved fractionally closer. “I don't want to frighten you off.”

“I'll try not to let you.” She leaned a little toward him, encouragingly.

“Then it's all right if I touch you?”

“Yes,” she said. And she dared to press her palms against his chest, slowly passing her hands over the muscles that lay beneath the shirt.

He sucked in a breath, and then bent down to close his mouth over hers. But he didn't touch her with his hands. He let her do all the touching. Though he raised his arms as if he longed to pull her close, he seemed to be resisting. The strain of holding back became more obvious as he continued to kiss her.

She took the initiative and fitted her body against his. Clearly he wanted her—and she wanted him. Did he know how much? Could she show him? Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pressed herself closer, making him groan. But he still restrained himself. She was grateful that he had such self-control, that he gave her all the power, but she wondered how long it would last.

Not long. In another heartbeat, he extracted himself from her arms and turned his back to her, giving a rueful chuckle and breathing hard. “This isn't how I'd planned it,” he said.

“You planned how you'd kiss me?”

“Oh, I had a plan, all right. But it wasn't only about kissing.”

She stared at him, joy and relief racing through her. He'd truly forgiven her, she realized. Somehow, he'd gotten past what she'd done that terrible morning and he still wanted her. At least for kissing, and maybe for something more. It wasn't a promise to love her forever, but it was certainly a start. And she'd take it.

“I went to visit my mother after I…After the incident with Tiffany's splinter.”

Simon leaned back against the kitchen countertop, prepared to listen. “Did that help?”

“I think so. It's what some of my therapists had suggested years ago. I needed to confront her and try to forgive her, they said, before I could move on.”

“That's not possible,” he said with a scowl. “What she did was unforgivable.”

“Maybe not. I told her that as an adult I can see the things my uncle did were not my fault. And I know that bad things sometimes happen to good kids. I told her I wish she'd protected me and that I resent her for not doing that.” She paused to assess how she felt about the experience with her mother. “It turns out that sometimes just saying the words out loud can make a difference. That, and a lot of therapy.”