McGuire looked straight into the camera, expounding his viewpoint to southern Wisconsin as Sherilyn gazed at him like a teenage girl salivating over Ricky Martin.
“What do you mean, Detective?”
The reporter bobbed her head and her hair tilted at a precarious angle. Jessica hoped the mass would fall off and hit McGuire between those sensuous dark blue eyes of his; but luck wasn’t with her, and Sherilyn’s hair appeared to do nothing other than whiplash his face with a few wayward strands.
“I mean,” McGuire said, “this man got away with murder! I know it. You know it. The judge knows it. The guy’s lawyer probably knows it for sure. So why is that man back on the street?”
“Because there’s such a thing as an illegal search, Detective.”
Jessica’s outburst fell into a silence so loud she could hear a siren wailing down Interstate 43 behind them. She hadn’t realized she’d stepped out of the shadow of the courthouse and into the bright June sunshine. All eyes turned toward her—so did the camera. The microphone nearly hit Jessica in the teeth as Sherilyn dove in her direction.
“Judge Kirkland, would you care to elaborate?”
Jessica ignored Sherilyn, for the moment concentrating on McGuire. She continued to glare at McGuire as he stopped lounging and stood up straight, seeming to tower over her even though a distance of several feet separated them. Slowly he removed his glasses, giving her an uncommon view of his eyes. She wished he’d put the shades back on. For once his eyes didn’t spark with annoyance or anger, instead they looked—interested. That difference disconcerted her.
Jessica pulled her gaze away as Sherilyn waved the microphone dangerously close. “Would you care to elaborate, Your Honor?” the pushy reporter repeated.
“If I allowed the case in question to go to trial it would only be thrown out. The search of the suspect’s premises was illegal. That is the law, not my opinion. My hands are tied.”
“So were the victim’s.” McGuire had crept up on her, startling her.
The man moved too fast and too quietly for someone of his size. “Excuse me?” she said in her best judicial voice. She could not allow him to see how much his nearness rattled her. She was a tall woman, with confidence to spare, yet McGuire always made her feel tiny.
“You said your hands were tied, Your Honor. Well, so were the victim’s. Do you think she’d want her murderer to go free over a legal technicality?”
Her mind flooded with memories, and she blinked at their vividness. The sun seemed to beat hotter; the voices around her buzzed louder—her temples pounded. Sweat trickled between her breasts, down her back, and she felt the silk blouse beneath her jacket sticking to her skin. She stared into McGuire’s angry blue eyes, forced the past back where it belonged, and then she got mad, too.
She understood about victims…pain…and the need for justice in an unjust world. She’d spent the past fifteen years of her life working for what she believed in. She’d given up any hope of a husband, a family. Heck, she had no life at all, because she searched for one thing—justice.
How dare McGuire question that?
“I’m sure the victim doesn’t care about the law. But I have to. If I don’t follow the law, I’m no better than the ones I presume to judge. And neither are you, Detective. Do the job right next time, and we’ll have no further problems.”
“I did the job.” He stepped closer, crowding her. “I got the warrant.”
“With false information.” She took a step forward, determined not to be the one to back off.
“I didn’t know it was false at the time.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“Well, this is very interesting,” Sherilyn interrupted, her microphone separating the two of them, who were nearly nose-to-nose. “If you two could answer a few questions for our listeners…”
Jessica flushed. She’d forgotten she was on television. McGuire made her forget a lot of things. She glared at him and turned toward the camera.
“I just want the people to know that something has to be done to stop criminals from being set free on technicalities before the case reaches the courtroom. If anyone has a solution, I’d be glad to hear it.”
She turned on her heel and marched back into the courthouse, ignoring the shouted questions and the scent of that man, which she knew would taunt her long into the evening ahead.
She spoke directly to me, begging for help. She has such a strong sense of justice and tries so hard, but the legal system—what can she do? It’s her job—no more, no less—even if doing that job allows the guilty to go free.
I have a solution. I’ll make her so happy. She won’t have to be sad any longer. Since she can’t do it, someone has to.
That someone will be me.
“Judge Kirkland, wait up.”
The low-pitched command resonated with a feral undertone that suggested menace, while at the same time plunked sensuously on her backbone with the potency of Pablo Casales strumming a Takamine guitar.
Jessica halted, took a deep breath, and turned. “What is it, Detective McGuire?”
He pulled up, enveloping her again with the force of his male energy. “Just what in holy hell do you have against me?”
She raised her head in the hope of getting the full stature out of her five feet nine inches. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“You know damn well what I mean. Hours and hours of investigative paper and legwork goes up in smoke in the couple of minutes it takes for a judge like you to throw a case out of court. First you did it with Bellemy, now Gilbert.”
“Detective McGuire, you and your partner are quite aware that Sam Bellemy’s admission of guilt would never have stood up in court.”
“He confessed, didn’t he?”
“Before his lawyer arrived! Why didn’t you halt your questioning the moment he asked and wait until one was present? Instead, your partner made matters worse and beat the confession out of him.”
“He didn’t beat him. So he shoved him around a little bit. You can’t blame Vic. He has an eight-year-old daughter. Any parent on a jury would have done the same if they’d seen what that sick pervert did to that little girl.”
“I have no doubt you’re right, but, unfortunately, Mr. Bellemy was spared the jury process because of Detective Peterson’s actions—and yours for not restraining your partner.”
“I had all I could do to restrain myself. My mistake was stopping Vic from killing the bastard!”
“Oh right, Detective, that would make Peterson a condemned murderer and he’d be the one who would end up serving a life sentence.”
“Not if he came up before you, Your Honor. Seems like murderers get an easy walk in your court.”
Jessica watched him storm off with that panther stride of his.
When Jessica entered the office, her distress must have shown on her face. Liz Alexander glanced up with a sympathetic smile. “I watched it all in living color. I see he got to you again, honey,” she said, in reference to Nemesis-Detective Douglas I. McGuire.
Liz had been Jessica’s secretary when they worked together in the D.A.’s office, and had come with her when Jessica had been chosen to fill a sudden vacancy on the circuit court. She had toiled tirelessly to help get Jessica elected to that seat when the temporary term had expired. But Liz was more than a secretary to her. The fifty-year-old widow had become her confidant, her counselor, the sympathetic ear to her tribulations—the joyous smile to her accomplishments—a shopping companion, or the