Mitigating Circumstances Read online

  Mitigating

  Circumstances

  Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  First published by

  Signet

  October 1993

  Lily Forrester is an ambitious Assistant District Attorney on the rise in her professional career and on the brink in her private life. Eager to step into her new role as Chief of the Sex Crimes Division, she is also coping with a foundering marriage and the lure of an extremely attractive man. What keeps her anchored is her quirky thirteen-year-old daughter, Shana. But when an intruder invades their home and commits a savage attack against them, Lily heads out on a trail of vengeance beyond any law but that of her own rage. And suddenly, with one shattering act, she finds her life is spinning out of control, leaving her nowhere to hide. But even as a circle of danger closes in on her, Lily Forrester knows that she must find a way out, because there’s no turning back. Written by a former policewoman, this riveting, edge-of-the-seat spellbinder bursts with authenticity, giving an irresistible insider’s look at the shifting dynamics between cops and killers, prosecutors and defenders, law and order.

  “A CORKING GOOD THRILLER!”

  Larry King, USA Today

  “A riveting and well-told portrait of a world in which truth and justice are sometimes opposites.”

  New York Newsday

  “A mother’s worst nightmare…gripping…sizzles with emotional heat.”

  Vincent T. Bugliosi

  “Intricate and satisfying…Rosenberg develops a startling premise skillfully…[her] familiarity with the police and the courts gives the story a strong veneer of reality.”

  Los Angeles Times

  “GRIPPING, DISTURBING…A STRONG CRIME NOVEL.”

  New Haven Register

  “FASCINATING, DISTURBING…an outright suspenseful tale {that} realistically delivers cynical cops, grisly crime scenes and animalistic offenders…a darn good story!”

  St. Petersburg Times

  “Unflinching…compulsively readable, intricate suspense…Rosenberg’s overwhelming portrayal of the incendiary, universal emotions of vengeance and guilt definitely touch a raw nerve.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “GET OUT YOUR NERVES OF STEEL…a fast-paced thriller with all the right elements.”

  San Antonio Express

  “Fast action…this thriller delivers the goods.”

  Booklist

  “Genuine surprises…Rosenberg draws us not only into a suspenseful plot, but also into the issues of American crime and law, justice and revenge.”

  Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “Shocking…a former cop’s page-burning tale of…vengeance offers thrills aplenty.”

  Kirkus Reviews

  “A PAGE-TURNER…presents disturbing, provocative questions about crime and punishment.”

  Newport News

  “A FAST-PACED THRILLER…READS LIKE A HIGH SPEED CHASE: ONCE YOU HIT THE ROAD, YOU DON’T STOP ‘TIL YOU DROP…A WHITE-KNUCKLES RIDE.”

  Woman’s Own

  “A NOVEL THAT BEGS TO BE PICKED UP AND READ…Rosenberg is a good writer who knows her subject.”

  South Bend Tribune

  “A gripping page-turner of violent crime, terrible vengeance, swiftly building suspense, and redemption.”

  The Boca Raton News

  “Reminiscent of Alfred Hitchcock…Rosenberg expertly pulls story lines together in a way that deals with some of today’s most sensitive issues.”

  Birmingham News

  “Hits the bull’s-eye…tension that holds tight.”

  —Daily News

  “Unstoppable…Presumed Innocent crossed with Thelma and Louise!”

  —Glamour

  “Adrenaline-pumped…no woman…has ever had a stronger motive for vengeance than Lily Forrester.”

  —New York Times Book Review

  To Jerry, my beloved husband

  and very best friend.

  Without his support, this book

  would not have been possible.

  CHAPTER 1

  Inside the windowless courtroom, a man awaited sentencing for murder. There were no reporters and no spectators. His victim had been a rival gang member. The female prosecutor’s voice echoed in the empty courtroom as she made her closing argument.

  “Your Honor, the people feel the maximum sentence in this case is both appropriate and justified. The defendant has a lengthy criminal history, a prior offense for assault with a deadly weapon, and by his own words he’s demonstrated his callous disregard for human life.” As she started shuffling papers on the counsel table, the air conditioner emitted a loud noise and died. “I read from the probation report: ‘After you stabbed him once, you then proceeded to stab him three more times?’ The defendant’s reply: ‘He took a licking and kept on ticking.’” She paused. “Your Honor, this was a human life, not a Timex watch.”

  At the defense table, the defendant snickered, cupping his hands over his mouth like a child. The public defender shot him a look of utter disgust, and he sat up in the seat, solemn and alert. The judge glared at the man, peering over the top of his glasses. The prosecutor opened her mouth to continue, then stopped and removed her jacket. In minutes she would be dripping wet.

  “It’s the people’s position that the defendant be sentenced to the California Department of Corrections for the term of twelve years to life; that the enhancement for the use of the weapon, as well as the prior offense, be served consecutively for a total term of nineteen years to life. There are no mitigating circumstances in this case.” She dropped into her chair. The air was heavy and still; perspiration trickled between her breasts. Her mind began drifting to other cases.

  “Young man,” the judge said after the imposition of sentence, “if the law allowed it, I would sentence you to prison for the remainder of your life. You’re a blight on the face of the earth.”

  With that, the gavel came down, the prisoner was remanded, and the hearing over. Even with the maximum sentence, he would be eligible for parole in less than ten years. She grabbed the heavy case file and headed for the exit, the public defender right behind her.

  “So, we’re not going to have to contend with you in the courtroom much longer,” he said, referring to her recent promotion. “Gosh, that’s a shame, Lily.”

  They hit the double doors and he followed her down the hall. “That little snicker probably cost your client five additional years in the slammer. He could have served the five for the prior concurrently,” she snapped. “You need to keep your animals under control.”

  “Right, Forrester, right.”

  She was buzzed through the security doors, leaving the public defender standing there shaking his head.

  Even after eight years as an assistant district attorney, she still let the vermin she prosecuted get to her, touch that exposed wire leading to her nervous system. Sparks were flying all around her, inside her. Reaching her office, she took the file and threw it with every ounce of strength she had against the glass window, watching as the contents spilled out and tumbled to various resting places all over the new commercial-grade carpet. The same names, the same faces, kept reappearing. The system was spitting them back out like rotten pieces of meat viler than when first digested. She thought of the guillotine, wondering if it had really been barbaric. They certainly didn’t reoffend.

  Seeing the open cardboard box by her desk, she started packing her remaining personal effects. Tomorrow she took charge as chief of the Sex Crimes Division, one more step toward a black-robed seat on the bench. What she wanted was to look down at the courtroom, her domain, where no one could even approach her without permission. She wanted the rulings and decisions to be hers. She wanted the power, but more than an
ything, she wanted the control. At least she wanted something she could possibly obtain. She was married to a man who wanted nothing, aspired to nothing, accomplished nothing. John didn’t even want his own wife anymore, not as a man. But this was something that had started not long after her daughter’s birth. It wasn’t anything new. They’d slept in the same bed without sex for years.

  She looked around the office, the scattered file, the boxes. Glancing at her watch, she realized that she was late to the agency cocktail party celebrating the promotions of her and others, the shuffle in assignments that occurred every six months.

  On her hands and knees, she reached under the desk and pulled out two items: an autopsy photo and a birthday card. The photo was replaced in the file, but the card she carried to her desk and opened it, standing it upright. It was one of those musical cards that played “Happy Birthday.” Yesterday had been her thirty-sixth birthday. No one had remembered but her mother. Her husband had not remembered; none of her so-called friends had remembered. Maybe if her mother had not sent her the card, Lily herself could have forgotten.

  She stood and listened to the musical serenade while red, white, and yellow sequential lights flashed on the front of the card. The notes got weaker and weaker and flatter and flatter before she realized that the minuscule battery was wearing out. It sounded like a birthday anthem for a mouse. With one abrupt move of her fist, she smashed the card flat and put it out of its misery, asking herself what kind of sentence she would give for mercy killing a birthday card: four minutes, out in two.

  Tossing the last certificate in the box for the short ride down the hall, she also tossed the card in the trash can, where it emitted one pathetic dying squeak. She grabbed her briefcase and left the office.

  When she stepped outside the building, a large man approached her. “Forrester,” he said. “The jury just came in with a verdict of second-degree murder on the Owen homicide. I was just coming up to shoot the breeze with one of your investigators. You know, brag a little.”

  The man was an Oxnard detective, one of the few good ones. The case was one he’d worked on for years. She wanted to stay and talk, but she was late already. “Congratulations, Cunningham. Chalk one up for our side, huh?” She liked this man. He was what the job was all about: people who really gave a shit what happened, who were willing to give it their all. “We need it. Let me tell you, the way it looks right now, the other side’s winning the war.”

  Jaywalking across the busy street, she looked toward the corner and wondered how many times she’d walked all the way down to cross at the crosswalk and then had to walk all the way back to the bar. She wasn’t exactly concerned with a ticket. If people could go out there and kill and maim, sit around for a few years, and do it again, she should be able to walk anywhere she damn well pleased. She was an underpaid servant of the people, there had to be some fringe benefits. A car screeched to a stop in front of her, and the driver flipped her the finger. Smiling sweetly, she made a point of walking even slower.

  The Elephant Bar was filled to capacity with suits, both the male and female versions. Since the completion of the massive new government center complex, the legal community had claimed the bar as their own. The atmosphere was straight out of Casablanca, circa 1992, with whitewashed walls, ceiling fans, and a black piano player who played when no one could hear and everyone was too preoccupied to listen. But deals were cut here daily, plea bargains and under-the-table transactions, the days of a person’s life dealt out like so many playing cards. Attorneys would brag that they had settled a case in Division 69; everyone knew that meant over drinks at the Elephant Bar.

  Clinton Silverstein and Marshall Duffy, both A.D.A.‘s, were at a table near the front door. It was one of those high tables with no stools, the kind used by establishments like the Elephant Bar to cram more bodies into a small space. Silverstein was running his fingers around the glass rim of his gin and tonic while Duffy poured beer from a pitcher. Duffy was black and handsome, dressed in a stylishly tailored pin-striped suit and a crisp white shirt and tie. He towered over the short, stocky Silverstein.

  “You’re a righteous nut case, you know,” he said to Clinton, “even if I do call you a friend.”

  “I’m a nut case. Right. Well, at least I don’t wear tinted contacts. Do you know how weird those make you look?” Clinton stepped back from the table, loosening his tie, smiling at the other man.

  Duffy tipped his glass and let the beer slide down his throat before speaking. “My baby blues. My wife loves them. All the women love them. So what’s the big deal with this transfer? I thought you put in for it.”

  “Before, I put in before. When Fowler still had the unit. I’m sick of the Misdemeanor Division. Shit, if I have to handle one more drunk driving, I’ll throw it all in.

  “So you don’t. You got the transfer. What’s the big deal about the lady? She can’t be all that bad. Nice little ass. Reminds me of my wife.” Duffy stepped back and almost toppled a plastic palm tree.

  “I don’t care what she looks like. I just know she’s one tense lady. What she needs is a good tranquilizer, a good fuck, or both. That’s what I think. She’s going to run that unit with an iron fist. Mark my words.” Clinton ran his hands through his permed hair, making it stand on end like the boxing promoter Don King.

  “Sounds like the pot calling the kettle black, my man.” Duffy’s eyes turned toward the door. “Take a big slug of that drink, Clinty. Calm yourself down. Your new boss just arrived.”

  “Lily,” a mans voice called to her. “Over here.”

  The bar was dark and smoky, and her eyes were still adjusting to the outside light; she followed the voice. “Hello, Marshall. Looks like the party started without me.”

  She was anxious, scanning the room. From the looks of it, the entire agency and half the private attorneys in the area were here. She seldom attended these parties. There weren’t enough hours in the day as it was, and socializing wasn’t her strong suit.

  “Hey, we’re all waiting for you. You’re one of the guests of honor tonight. What’re you drinking?”

  She started to order her standard glass of white wine, then changed her mind. “I guess a margarita, with salt.” As Duffy started to flag the waitress, she added impulsively: “And order me a shooter of tequila on the side.” Might as well do it right, she thought. This is what the men did when they had a bad day, came over here and got smashed. It appeared to work for them. Maybe it would work for her. Today had been a rough one, and the new job assignment was weighing heavily on her mind.

  “Whoa, there. I’m impressed. Clinton and I were just talking about you. He’s been telling me how excited he is about working with you.”

  “Guess he’s not too excited. He just walked away.” She laughed, but it really wasn’t funny. Attorneys like Silverstein represented another problem Lily had to contend with, a new problem brought on by the promotion. Now she had to supervise other attorneys, some with far more experience and much larger egos. It wasn’t going to be easy. She could use a good stiff drink.

  Duffy turned his head to the side, surprised. Clinton was standing a few tables over talking to Richard Fowler, Lily’s predecessor.

  Lily tried to look into Duffy’s translucent blue eyes, but her gaze was drawn to Fowler. “You transferred into Homicide, took my slot, right?” Her eyes burned into Fowler’s back, willing him to turn around. Instead of bending down and placing her briefcase and purse on the floor, she dropped them with a loud thud. The noise was lost in the bar, and Fowler still didn’t turn. Her face felt flushed. “Where’s the waitress?” she asked Duffy, thinking she’d change her order to a glass of wine. She didn’t want Fowler to see her tossing down shot glasses of tequila like a truck driver, but it was too late. Duffy had already given the girl the order.

  “Guess you can call me a victim of the Big Butler Shuffle,” Duffy said, placing his elbows on the table.

  His words drifted past her and once again her thoughts turned to Fowler. F
or the past two weeks he’d been working with her, coaching her to make the shift in supervisors as smooth as possible. He was tall, maybe six-five, with the lean, hard body of a runner or a swimmer. His hair and eyes weren’t just dark, they were actually black, a sharp contrast against his fair skin. He moved his long body and long legs without sound wherever he went, fluid and relaxed like a large cat ready to pounce on unsuspecting prey. He moved the way Lily wanted to move. And he moved Lily.

  He saw her and headed in her direction. The waitress approached with the drinks, and he lifted the margarita off the tray, looking at Lily. She nodded. Then he saw the shot glass and again looked at her. “Yours?” he asked.

  “No…yes…I…” She blushed. She was stammering like a fool. Fowler did that to her. “It’s been one of those days. Thought I’d try to drown it.”

  Setting both glasses on the table, he slid in close to her, in front of Duffy. A cloud of his cologne drifted to her nostrils, a hint of lime. For the past two weeks she’d been inhaling it, even found it lingering on her clothes like cigarette smoke when she was forced to work closely with a smoker.

  “Shooters, huh?” he said with a slight smile, lifting only one corner of his mouth. “Was it really that bad a week?”

  “No, you’ve been great. I mentioned the sentencing I had today, didn’t I? You know, the sweetheart who thinks human life is comparable to a Timex watch.”

  “You mean, ‘takes a licking? Well, it’s kinda cute, isn’t it? The guy might become a stand-up comic when he gets out.”

  “That’s the problem. The fact that you can kill a person and be out on the streets to do it again in a few years. It makes me sick. It’s just something you don’t get used to, no matter how many times you see it.” She saw the waitress and bent down to get her purse, turning her back and digging for her money. “Let me buy you a drink.”

  “The waitress is gone. Next round if you insist.”

  He was so close now that their hips were touching. Lily downed the shooter of tequila in one swallow and chased it with the margarita, licking the salt off her lips. The closer he stood to her, the more flustered she became. She was talking like a rookie D.A., like she’d never prosecuted a homicide case before.