Whispering Rock (Virgin River #3)(93)

“Did he say anything else?”

“Objection! Your Honor?”

“Sustained,” he said.

“That’s all I have for now,” the prosecutor said.

The defense attorney got up and started asking her questions about the time of night, whether she was tired, did she wear glasses, was it dark or was the drive well lit, all aimed at throwing doubt on her ability to make an ID. The room began to sway before her eyes and she wavered a bit. The judge leaned over and asked her if she could continue. “You’re looking a little pale,” he pointed out.

“Let’s just do it,” she whispered back.

The defense took up an hour with questions about her schedule, her health, her mental stability, even her divorce. Finally he said, “Did you pick the suspect out of a lineup?”

“No. He fled.”

“Did the police show you photos?”

“I did look at photos, yes.”

“And that was how long ago?”

“Seven months ago,” she said, and her face glistened in sweat.

“Do you see the man you identified in this room? This man you identified to police as your ra**st?”

“Right there,” she said, pointing. “Jerome Powell.”

“And you’re confident that a man you identified from a photo seven months ago is this man?”

Her head snapped up, her eyes wide, at attention. The prosecutor in her had kicked in.

“Yes or no, Ms. Sheridan.”

She leaned forward. “No,” she answered.

By the look on his face, the defense attorney immediately knew what he’d done.

“Your Honor, may we approach?” Brie’s lawyer asked.

The lawyers went to the bench and a heated argument ensued, every bit of which Brie could hear. The prosecutor argued that he was entitled to explore that last answer while the defense argued that it would ultimately introduce testimony on evidence not allowed. At length the judge admonished the defense attorney that he had opened the door and the prosecution could proceed.

“Ms. Sheridan,” the prosecutor asked, “how is it you’re not confident that the man you identified from the photo is this man?”

“Because I looked at photos, but I didn’t identify him from a photo.”

“And how did you identify your ra**st?”

“I gave the police his name. I knew him.”

“And how did you know him?”

“I was an assistant district attorney when he raped me. I had just prosecuted him for the serial rape of six women—and I lost.”

So much noise erupted in the room that the judge had to bang his gavel several times and threaten to clear the courtroom.

When the din had finally subsided, the prosecutor asked her, “Did he say anything else to you, Ms. Sheridan?”

“Yes. He said, ‘I’m not going to kill you. I want you to try to come after me again, and watch me walk again.’”

The place went crazy with gasps and murmurings, the judge banging his gavel again and again. But it was at that moment that Brie allowed herself to look again at Mike. Her lips curved in a very small smile as she locked eyes with him. Even at that distance she could feel the pride in his gaze. Love and pride and commitment. He smiled at her and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. She’d done it. She’d got him. It was why she’d come.

“That’s all I have for Ms. Sheridan,” the ADA said.

The defense tried to recover, asking Brie if there was any chance she was out to get this guy, since she had failed to convict him before. Her voice clear and strong, even knowing that possibility would be contained in the defense attorney’s closing arguments, she said, “And leave another ra**st out there? My ra**st? The police not even searching for him because they thought they had the suspect? Not hardly.”

“Perhaps you couldn’t identify your ra**st, Ms. Sheridan, and saw your chance to go after the defendant.”

“Objection,” the prosecutor shouted. “Your Honor!”

The judge leveled his gaze on the defense. “Was there a question in there or are you just testing me to see what it’ll take to find you in contempt?”

“Is that possible, Ms. Sheridan?”

“It is not,” she said. “I saw him, I knew him, I identified him.”

“You may step down, Ms. Sheridan.”

She rose on shaky legs, grateful to be finished, to have finished strong. No way they could let him go now. No way a single jury member could doubt. Now that the door was open to Powell’s motivation for raping her, they could look at his past, at his previous arrests.

She stepped down and started toward Mike. Then she collapsed.

When Brie had delivered her final statement Mike saw her face go pale, then white. As she left the stand and started to walk toward him, he noticed that her eyes had become glassy and she wasn’t walking in a straight line. He started to come to his feet just as she fainted. “Brie!” he yelled. The bailiff stopped him until the prosecutor identified him as her husband—though he was not.

Mike rushed to her. By the time he lifted her head, her eyes were opening. “I did it, darling.”

“Can we get an ambulance here?” Mike yelled.

“On the way, sir,” someone said.