The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(2)

“You have evidence of your claim?” Siniard’s manicured eyebrows reared up his forehead. “It was, after all, primarily your confession that convicted you.”

“I sure do.” Charlie might not have gone to college—hell, he never even finished high school—but he was smarter than people realized. Way, way smarter than anyone would guess. “Like I said, I was protecting someone. Emotion caused me to make a mistake.”

Siniard gave a slow nod as if assessing his options. “All right. If you do in fact have credible evidence—”

“I do, and that entitles me to a new trial.” Charlie was not taking any shit from this highfalutin guy.

“I’ll need a name and the details,” Siniard demanded, his tone thick with condescension.

Charlie grinned. Wouldn’t he like to know. “You get me a new trial, and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“Let me be clear, Holmes,” Siniard warned, his posture stiff with indignation. “If we start down this path, I will not—”

“You will if you want the biggest case in this state’s history,” Charlie challenged. “You should stop beating around the bush and make this happen.”

Siniard held his gaze without saying a word for long enough to make Charlie sweat. “I will need the name and the evidence before I proceed.”

“No problem.” Charlie sat back in his chair. The shackles he wore rattled with the movement. “Buckle up, Mr. Siniard. This is going to be a wild ride.”

“Why now?” Siniard asked again. “Why wait five years?”

“Some things are worth waiting for.” And this was worth everything.

Siniard’s lips thinned with more of that glaring disgust. “Public perception is important, Mr. Holmes, but jury perception is key. I’m afraid we’re going to need a better reason to sway the jury to our side.”

Charlie had the perfect reason. One that was universally recognized and accepted. “I opened my heart to Jesus, Mr. Siniard. He won’t let me live with this lie any longer. I have to tell the truth.”

And that was the biggest lie of all.





2


Wednesday, July 6

1:30 p.m.


Metro Police, East Precinct

East Trinity Lane

Nashville

“Let’s go over this again.”

Finley O’Sullivan considered saying no, but that would only land her another extended period of the silent treatment while the detective pretended to confer with his colleagues. Spending more time in this eight-by-ten sterile-white interview room was not exactly how she wanted to occupy the rest of her day.

“How many times do you need to hear the same story, Detective?”

The question earned her a long look of frustration. Detective Ronald Graves was likely only a couple of years from retirement. He had the gray hair, the sagging jowls, and the slightly rounded belly to prove he’d done his time in a demanding field. But his indifference toward his physical condition hadn’t dulled his keen mental acuity. The man was sharp.

He knew she was lying, and she knew he had every intention of proving it.

Better men had tried.

“Perhaps it’s time you reconsidered council, Ms. O’Sullivan,” he offered. “Despite what you see in the media, it is my job to look out for the best interests of all citizens, including those involved in cases where someone ends up dead.”

Finley dug a little deeper for more patience. He couldn’t possibly hope to drag this out much longer. “As I told you before, I am an attorney.”

“But you’re not practicing right now,” he said, his gaze narrowed in accusation. “You’re on probation, isn’t that right?”

Ah, the intimidation tactic. She knew it well. Had used it all the time as an assistant district attorney for Davidson County. She executed a mental eye roll. Former assistant district attorney. After her famous crash and burn, she’d been given two options: be fired, or take probation and have her position reviewed in one year. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, her grandmother would have said. Either way, she’d lost her job, with the minor exception that she’d quit before she was fired. The media had, of course, had a field day with the story. “Hotshot ADA Bungles Case. Courtroom Meltdown One for the Record Books.” Went with the territory. The higher you flew, the farther you had to fall. And fall she did.

Didn’t help that her mother was a judge who God and everyone else appeared to hold in highest regard. Cue the potential for longer staying power in the news and broader humiliation.

“You are correct, Detective Graves; I am not practicing right now. But that status doesn’t change the fact that I understand my rights and have the ability to judge my own needs.”

He held up both hands. “I meant no offense,” he hastened to assure her. “Like all the persons of interest in this case, your background has been thoroughly reviewed.” He shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I’m just a little worried. There was that . . .” He shrugged again. “What did they call it in the reports?”

He asked the question aloud when it was clearly not meant for her to answer.

He already had the answer.

“A psychotic breakdown I believe was the term.” He nodded, answering himself. “You had a nervous breakdown last year. In the middle of the trial of the decade.” His expression turned to one of sympathy. “They say you came back to work too soon after your husband’s murder.”