Death by Trial and Error (A Legal Suspense Short) Read online

  But it was not to be.

  He had left without so much as a meager attempt at reconciliation, having clearly anticipated such, and even making plans for living arrangements.

  Plans that no longer included Emma.

  "The moment you walk out that door," she told him, "you end any chance of us remaining friends. I have no intention of going from your wife and lover to someone you think you can come to for comfort when your little bimbo decides you are too old, unsatisfying, and too much of an asshole for her."

  Harrison flung several pairs of slacks into the bag, and hit Emma with a contorted glare. "Sorry you feel that way. I was really hoping we could somehow end this more civilized."

  "No you weren't," she challenged him. "You were hoping to get the best of all worlds, just like the characters in one of your damned novels. But it doesn't work that way in the real world. You made your uncivilized bed, Harrison. Now I hope you and your mistress lie in it and rot!"

  Emma found that it had become increasingly easier to vent her feelings. She knew that she couldn't simply go away like the good wife who had been taken advantage of and mistreated. He didn't deserve to get off that lightly. She had worked too hard at making their marriage work to watch it come apart at the seams and dismiss it as if swatting away a fly.

  Harrison zipped his bag, grabbed it, and said colorlessly, "I'll pick up the rest of my things in a few days. I'm sure we'll be able to work out a satisfactory arrangement regarding property and such. Goodbye, Emma—"

  She said nothing, wanting only to hear him leave, for she could no longer stand the sight or smell of him. When she heard the front door click shut, Emma knew that the world she had come to know and love had changed forever.

  And for the worst.

  She sank down to the hardwood floor and cried for the first time. The tears stung her cheeks and seemed to embody all of the feelings that raced through her like a locomotive out of control. She no longer had a husband. Or a lover. Or a confidant. Or a best friend.

  Another woman had inherited the man she had dedicated herself to in body and spirit.

  But instead of being engrossed with self-pity, Emma found herself absorbed with anger.

  Loathing.

  Discontent.

  Revenge.

  She wanted to kill him.

  It was the only way to free her from the feelings of betrayal and anguish.

  And prevent him from taking what was hers and giving it to another woman unjustly.

  She contemplated the many ways in which she could carry out the deed.

  Carbon monoxide poisoning.

  Strangulation.

  Asphyxiation.

  Castration.

  That last thought clung to her like a second skin. She wondered how long it would take him to bleed to death from the source of his abandonment.

  She hoped it would not come too swiftly, for it would only be equitable to what she felt if he were forced to suffer for some time before the end came unmercifully.

  * * *

  The woman sat impassively at the defense table beside her court-appointed attorney. She was on trial for the murder of her husband and the attempted murder of his lover. He had been shot ten times at pointblank range. His lover had been shot three times, miraculously surviving the assault though left a paraplegic.

  Across the room, the prosecutor fidgeted nervously at his table, glancing occasionally at the defendant.

  The jury sat tensely, carefully avoiding direct eye contact with anyone, as if to do so might tip the scales one way or the other.

  The judge took all this in, sighed, and looked at the jury foreman. "Have you reached a verdict?"

  "Yes, we have, Your Honor."

  The verdict was passed from the bailiff to the judge, who glanced at it with no indication from her facial expression of what it said, before sending it back to the jury foreman.

  "Will the defendant please rise," the judge ordered.

  Her attorney stood first, and urged his client to stand. The prosecutor joined them.

  The judge knew this was the moment of truth when life and death hung in the balance. She considered this raw power for a moment or two before regarding the foreman.

  "You may read the verdict—"

  The foreman licked his lips, refraining from eyeing the defendant, as if to do so would result in some form of punishment. "We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of first degree murder and attempted murder—"

  Judge Emma Kincaid quickly restored order to the court and immediately directed the newly convicted woman to be remanded to the county jail to await sentencing.

  Emma gazed down at the woman as she was being led away by sheriff's deputies. For a moment, their eyes met and Emma felt empathy that she could never express to the woman or anyone else.

  In court she was a judge, sworn to uphold the law to the best of her ability.

  Outside of court, she was a woman. One who had all the frailties and vulnerabilities of a woman scorned.

  This was the woman that possessed her now.

  Emma left the courthouse a short while later and went directly home. She was still thinking about the case she had just presided over when she pulled up into her driveway. Waiting there beside a dark sedan were two men dressed in cheap suits. By their demeanor and respectful but uneasy expressions, Emma knew instinctively that they were police detectives.

  She got out of her silver Lexus. They approached her.

  "Judge Kincaid," said the older of the two, removing his identification from his pocket, "I'm Detective Buchanan and this is Detective Jefferson. We need to talk to you."

  She lifted a brow, wondering if they had somehow been able to invade her thoughts.

  "What is this about?"

  The detectives looked at each other, as if carrying a great secret.

  "Mind if we go inside?" Detective Jefferson asked.

  "Has something happened to my husband?" Emma surprised herself by asking, her voice fraught with emotion.

  Again the detectives exchanged glances and frowns.

  She decided to take control. "Something has happened to him. Has he had an accident?" She wasn't sure why she chose to use the word "accident" instead of "heart attack" or some other reference to death or dismemberment.

  Detective Buchanan looked at her grimly. "There was a plane crash. A twin engine Cessna went down in the Sierras. There were two people on board—Harrison Kincaid and a young woman who hasn't been identified yet." He paused. "I'm afraid that neither one survived."

  Like the good wife, Emma turned white as a ghost and began to wail like a newborn baby. "Noooo," she cried out. "There must be some mistake." She knew there was no mistake. Harrison had told her that he and his mistress were going to the cabin for a couple of days.

  Obviously he never made it.

  When she finally got rid of the detectives a half an hour later, Emma retreated to the study. Admittedly, she was in disbelief over the shocking turn of events. It was almost as if she had willed the accident to happen.

  Yes, it had been an accident.

  She had never even contemplated Harrison's death by plane crash, though somehow it seemed fitting. She imagined the terror he and his ill-fated lover must have felt as the plane was spiraling out of control, knowing that death was imminent...mere seconds away that probably seemed like years.

  She wondered if Harrison had thought of her just before the moment of impact.

  Had he considered that the circumstances that would result in his death might never have occurred were it not for his own misguided choices?

  Emma poured herself a glass of red wine. She drank it, laughing hysterically, while saying aloud: "To my darling late husband. May you and your whore rot in hell!"

  She thought about how justice seemed to have a way of prevailing when all was said and done.

  Suddenly she felt dizzy and her stomach tightened. Then her throat felt like it was on fire. She dropped the glass, spilling its contents onto the floor ev
en before it shattered into a thousand pieces.

  Clutching her throat, Emma felt as if her entire body was being invaded by a foreign enemy. One determined to make sure she did not survive. But not before she suffered horribly.

  She fell backwards, her body wracked with pain, before she hit the floor with a thud. Her voice was raspy, but she was unable to scream. Yet her mind was still remarkably clear. She had laced the wine with strychnine.

  It was intended for Harrison.

  # # #

  The following is a bonus excerpt from R. Barri Flowers' bestselling legal thriller

  STATE'S EVIDENCE: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller

  Prologue

  She was a real piece of ass...

  He could feel his arousal through tight jeans. He had been watching her, following her, getting to know her every move till it was time to do what had to be done.

  He could have taken her any time he wanted, crushing her pretty skull between his strong, calloused hands, as easily as one might flatten a piece of dough. But it was more fun and stimulating to bide his time like a shark might before going after a helpless fish. Or even a human. He knew exactly where she was every minute of the day.

  And night.

  Why rush a good thing?

  He considered killing a person a work of art. Like the Mona Lisa. It required skill, finesse, courage, determination, and a vision.

  He had been born with these talents thirty-two years ago in East L.A.'s Latino community. Surviving the mean streets there had required every bit of his artistic skills, and then some. With his mama a whore and his daddy a wife-abusing heroin addict, he had literally been left to fend for himself as early as he could remember.

  Joining a gang had allowed him to sharpen his skills. He imagined he had taken out or seriously injured maybe a dozen or more rival gang members by the time he was fifteen. He considered it all in a day's work. It was either them or him, which was a real no-brainer.

  But he knew he was going nowhere fast in L.A.'s war zone. Between the rival Latino gangs and the black gang bangers fighting for territory, respect, or just for the hell of it, he saw no future there. Sooner or later he figured a bullet or blade would have his name written on it in blood—unless he quit while he was ahead.

  Which was precisely why he had given up the hood and gang life and fled the city before he turned eighteen. He ended up in Northern California in a town called Eagles Landing. By comparison to the urban jungle he'd left behind, it was fairly laid back and boring as hell.

  Still, he didn't miss his homeboys one bit. No damned way!

  He'd hooked up with distant relatives and was cool with a few dudes in Eagles Landing.

  But even that was fleeting. It didn't take long for him to realize he operated much better on his own, apart from keeping a roof over his head in living with a broad. This way he got to keep all the profits and pleasures from doing what he did best—killing people.

  It was a rush like no other. Even better than getting off inside a bitch. Or the almost orgasmic feel of cocaine going into his veins. He killed for hire or just plain old desire. It made no difference to him. What counted most was that once he had targeted someone for death, it was just a matter of when, where, how, and sometimes how much.

  He contemplated those very things as he studied the nice looking broad through the window of her fancy home. She was maybe thirty, slim, with a big ass and even bigger breasts. Her yellow hair was permed with fluffy curls and she had full red lips. He imagined kissing that mouth, then sticking his tongue inside. Or better yet, having that mouth go down on him and do its thing.

  Before he gave her a taste of death.

  She was sitting at the dining room table with her husband. He was a few years older than her, dark haired, and seemingly uncomfortable in her presence, as though he didn't belong.

  He looked away from the man back to his wife, watching a while longer, as he devised his strategy for her demise. A rush of adrenalin poured through him at the prospect, knowing the time was getting near to put the plan into action.

  But first he wanted to allow her a bit more false sense of security. It was always that much more exhilarating when his victim realized that the perfect little world she or he had created was about to come crashing down around them and there wasn't a damned thing that could be done to prevent it.

  Except maybe hope you got run over by a bus first. Or dropped dead of a heart attack, sparing yourself from meeting up with him.

  Short of that, the person was his for the taking. And he fully intended to do just that.

  Only a matter of time.

  Yes, let her feel secure in her comfortable house. With that husband of hers there to protect her. Wouldn't do her one bit of good.

  She would never live to see the light of day.

  Chapter One

  The jury foreman looked tense as she responded to the judge's terse question, "Have you reached a verdict?"

  The juror, an attractive Jordanian professor and mother of five, risked a furtive peek at the other jurors, as if for final confirmation. Then she raised her big brown eyes to the bench. "Yes, we have, Your Honor—"

  Judge Sheldon Crawford was in his mid-fifties, but looked younger with a cappuccino-toned face that was without wrinkles save for a barely perceptible crease stretching across his forehead. He had short salt and pepper hair, and deep gray eyes that rarely seemed to blink. Focusing them on the juror, he instructed her to hand the verdict to the bailiff.

  Judge Crawford had a reputation as a tough judge, routinely doling out the stiffest penalties the law would allow. Needless to say, prosecutors and their constituents loved him and the justice rendered. Whereas, defense attorneys and their clients feared coming before the judge, often doing all they could to avoid his court, including plea bargaining at virtually every opportunity.

  Beverly Mendoza, co-counsel for the State, fidgeted in her seat. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Her intense green eyes studied the faces of the jurors, trying to get a hint as to what direction they had taken. Admittedly she hadn't a clue and was too smart to make any presumptions.

  The case involved a woman accused of murdering her lover by pushing him off a 320-foot cliff. Her defense was that they were just fooling around—love play, she had called it—when he accidentally fell to his death. The fact that she didn't report him missing for two weeks seemed incidental. As did his million dollar life insurance policy, which had only recently named her as the beneficiary.

  Beverly gazed at the thirty-year-old defendant who sat there cool, calm, collected, and incredibly confident.

  Does she know something I don't?

  Could this jury have possibly let her off the hook?

  Meaning the prosecution would have failed to prove its case. And I'd have a loss on my record that would be hard to swallow and harder to justify.

  She snapped her head back, causing her long, straight brunette hair to bounce against the gray jacket of her Anne Klein linen suit. Her eyes landed on her co-counsel, Deputy District Attorney Grant Nunez. His Afro-Latino profile was classic with chiseled, caramel colored features and a round head that was shaven bald. He wore a tailored dark brown suit that fit well on his muscular, tall frame. Grant was forty—eight years older than her—and in line for a judgeship by all indications. Losing this case would not help his chances.

  Nor would it bode well for Beverly's career. Sensationalized cases would always be remembered for the winners and losers, no matter how many other battles were fought and won, especially when lawyers were always looking ahead in their careers. She had aspirations of being a district attorney someday. Or maybe even a judge.

  Right now, assistant district attorney for Wilameta County would have to suffice.

  Sensing her stare, Grant swiveled his head, slanting his cool sable eyes at her. If he was worried, he didn't show it. Instead, he gave Beverly a devilish smile that she knew was less about the proceedings than it was about them. They had been dating fo
r four months now, though it had only become sexual in the last four weeks. Both had survived bad previous relationships and, once they had overcome their fears of failure and the unknown, had succumbed to mutual desires that left Beverly shamelessly wanting him every chance she got.

  But getting her twelve-year-old son to approve of Grant had proven to be a far more formidable task. Jaime was very protective of her and did not want to see his mother get hurt—again. To him, Grant was someone who threatened the life Jaime had known for most of his young life, where it had pretty much been just the two of them.

  Perhaps even more difficult for Beverly to deal with was losing her mother five years ago to breast cancer and now watching her father wasting away with Alzheimer's disease. It left him but a shell of his former and proud self as a Latino who was used to being a macho man in command of his life and times. Sometimes she wished it would be over with for him so her father wouldn't suffer anymore; other times Beverly wanted him to hang on for as long as he possibly could. After all, having part of a father and grandfather to her son was preferable to none at all.

  Wasn't it?

  Beverly's mind shifted back to the attention Grant was giving her, as if they were the only ones in the courtroom. She willed herself to avert his lascivious gaze that had managed to cause her temperature to rise, and focus on the important matter at hand. Judge Crawford read the verdict to himself. He passed the slip back to the bailiff, giving no indication by his dignified facial expression as to what it said.

  Beverly felt butterflies in her stomach as she usually did whenever a case was about to be decided. It represented weeks or months of hard work and in an instant would culminate for all parties concerned. Later there would be the penalty phase. And then, in all likelihood, appeals, and more decisions to come.

  But for the moment it didn't get any more exciting and tension filled than this.

  Once the bailiff had returned the verdict to the jury foreman, the judge faced the defense table and stated levelly, "Will the defendant please rise—"