Whispering Rock (Virgin River #3)(92)

There was a good case against Powell. Even though he’d worn a condom so as not to leave his DNA behind, the rape kit performed on Brie at the hospital had turned up hair, plus they’d found her gun in his possession. He claimed to have found it.

However, the defense had been able to suppress any testimony of earlier arrests or trials, which precluded Brie from explaining that her positive ID was based on the fact that she had prosecuted him. Since she had failed to convict him, she couldn’t testify to that. The defense suggested she might falsely accuse him in a rage at having lost the case against him.

Brie didn’t have to be in court as often as she was—she could have waited to be called to testify. But she wanted to get used to seeing him, to bolster herself before her testimony, and she wanted him to see her, to know how it was going to go down. The prosecutor was not going to accept a plea agreement under these circumstances, the crime being retribution against an officer of the court.

But seeing him every day didn’t bolster her, or calm her. Now she knew exactly how her witnesses had felt. Brie barely slept, had trouble eating and felt as though she were vibrating under her skin. The illogical reaction—all emotional—was hard for her to accept. After all, he was in custody; he couldn’t reach her. And right beside her were two powerfully strong men who would stop at nothing to keep her safe. Yet the very sight of him was making her sick.

Jerome Powell was six feet tall, tan from his stay in Florida, his blond hair thick and floppy, his jaw square. He had a big smile, one that certain women could be drawn to. He had very large hands, strong arms from working construction and was powerfully built. His eyes were dark, close together and sunken under hooded brows.

He glared at Brie. Sometimes he smiled at her, which made her stomach turn. Every time he turned his head to look at her, she felt Jack and Mike tense beside her. She looked up at their profiles, her lover and her brother, and watched the dangerous tics and tension in their expressions. These were completely fearless men—Jerome Powell should be as afraid of getting off as going to prison. But he sat calmly, unafraid, arrogant.

In the evening, conversation at Sam’s was subdued and superficial. Mike, Jack and Sam took to the patio after dinner while one or two of Brie’s sisters dropped by the house to spend time with her, being there for her. And at night, in bed, Mike would curl himself protectively around her, holding her closely, whispering to her that he loved her, that he was proud of her, that he could not imagine her courage.

“I could not get through this without you,” she told him.

“I think you could, you’re that strong. But I’m glad you don’t have to. You’ll never have to go through anything alone again.”

When the day for Brie to testify finally arrived she went bravely and calmly to the stand to be sworn in. No testimony about her prosecution of him for previous crimes could be admitted by the prosecutor, so she was left to describe the details of her rape. As she took her seat and looked into the courtroom, she saw Brad in the back. Well, she thought, he was a part of it all, like it or not. Maybe they could all get their closure and get on with their lives.

“I had to work late and wasn’t home until after midnight. I opened the garage door, but I parked in the drive because the garage was full of junk that I’d been meaning to clean out for months. My car door wasn’t even closed when I was grabbed from behind, by the hair. He smashed my head into the top of the car. Then an arm came around my neck, choking me. I dropped my briefcase and was trying to get into my purse. I carried a gun. But the purse was flung away—I’m not sure if he did it or if I lost control of it in the struggle.”

“Did you struggle, Ms. Sheridan?”

“I fought with everything I had, and he hit me, three or four times in the face. I blacked out for a moment. When I came to, I was on the ground and he was leaning over me. He was smiling. It was so evil, so terrifying, I froze. That’s when he reached under my skirt and tore my hose and my underwear off. Well, not off. Down. He held a hand around my throat to keep me still while he undid his trousers with his other hand. I was choking.”

She looked at her brother and Mike. Jack frowned and looked down, but Mike held her gaze. Steady. She knew that inside he was in terrible pain, hearing what she’d been through, but for her he kept a strong front, chin up, eyes level.

“Did he say anything?” the prosecutor asked.

“Objection. Your Honor?”

The judge put his hand over the microphone and leaned toward Brie. “Can you answer the question without introducing any prohibited information?”

“Of course,” she said. She had to focus on the lawyers’ faces. “He said, ‘Look at me. I want you to see my face. I’m not leaving any evidence behind. I’m not going to kill you. I want you to live.’”

“And did that make you feel safe?” the prosecutor asked.

“He was putting on a condom as he said that. When it was on, he raped me, holding me down at the neck. I thought I was going to choke to death. I felt like I was being ripped apart. When he was done, he pulled his pants up and I watched—that condom went with him, inside his pants. Then he stood up and kicked me several times. I lost consciousness.” She went on to describe the injuries she sustained as photos taken at the hospital were passed around the jury box. Her voice was steady, her words well chosen and clear, but tears ran down her cheeks and dripped onto hands folded in her lap. And inside, her stomach churned violently. It was almost enough to double her over.