Every Reasonable Doubt Read online

  Books by Pamela Samuels Young

  ___________________________

  Vernetta Henderson Mysteries

  Every Reasonable Doubt (1st in series)

  In Firm Pursuit (2nd in series)

  Murder on the Down Low (3rd in series)

  Attorney-Client Privilege (4th in series)

  Angela Evans Mysteries

  Buying Time (1st in series)

  Anybody’s Daughter (2nd in series)

  Non-Fiction

  Kinky Coily: A Natural Hair Resource Guide

  Every Reasonable Doubt

  Goldman House Publishing

  ISBN 978-0-9892935-4-9

  Copyright © 2006 by Pamela Samuels Young

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or used in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, including, but not limited to, xerography, photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the express written permission of Goldman House Publishing.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, dialogue, incidents, companies, organizations, and places, except for incidental references to public figures, products or services, are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. No character in this book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional. The author and publisher have made every effort to ensure the accuracy and completeness of the information contained in this book and assume no responsibility for any errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or inconsistencies contained herein.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact the author or Goldman House Publishing.

  Pamela Samuels Young

  www.pamelasamuelsyoung.com

  Goldman House Publishing

  [email protected]

  Cover design by Marion Designs

  Printed in U.S.A.

  To my mother, Pearl,

  who taught me the power of prayer.

  To my father, John,

  who taught me that hard work always pays off.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Epilogue

  PROLOGUE

  If Max Montgomery ever had to commit to monogamy to save his wife’s life, she would just have to come back and haunt him from the afterlife.

  Max rested his forearm on the registration desk as his eyes anxiously crisscrossed the lobby of the Beverly Hills Ritz-Carlton. He watched as people milled about, dressed in tuxedos and evening gowns. He made eye contact with a short, brown-skinned cutie who sashayed by in a dress so tight he could see the faint outline of her thong. Max smiled. She smiled back. Too bad he was already about to get laid. Otherwise, he definitely would’ve taken the time to follow up on that.

  “Here’s your key, Mr. Montgomery,” said a cherub-faced girl with a shrill voice. “You’ll be in room 502. One of our most elegant suites.”

  When he reached for the key, his fingertips accidentally brushed her hand and she nervously looked away. She wants me, Max thought. But she was way too young for his taste.

  He thanked her and headed for the bank of elevators in the rear of the lobby. Max tapped the elevator button and the car to his left instantly glided open. Some of the tension eased from his body once he was safely inside. He had waited nearly a week for this night and his wait was almost over.

  The anonymous invitation to a “private evening of intimacy” had intrigued him and he had immediately decided to accept. No questions asked. A man like Max didn’t make hasty decisions very often. On the rare occasion that he did, it was only because he was banking on a huge payoff.

  Max stepped off the elevator, studied the sign directly in front of him, then turned left down a long hallway. He walked with a distinctive, self-assured stride, like a male model taking a slow stroll down the catwalk. He stopped in front of a door near the end of the hallway and fished the plastic card key from his breast pocket.

  A huge smile of anticipation spread across his face as he entered the lavish suite. The place was a classy ensemble of muted colors, luxurious fabrics, and calming scents. From the flowing silk curtains to the massive mahogany sleigh bed to the sleek suede comforter, everything in the room spelled class with a capital C. And that pleased him.

  Max made his way over to a nightstand near the window, his feet sinking into the plush, caramel-colored carpet with every step. He examined a champagne bottle sitting near an antique lamp. Dom Pérignon, vintage 1995. Definitely his style. He only hoped his host was familiar with some of his more erotic personal preferences.

  The sight of a red teddy hanging from the corner of the headboard triggered a twinge of arousal that warmed him inside. He rubbed the soft fabric between his fingers, smiled again, then tossed it onto the bed. On the floor near the nightstand was a large wicker basket with three packages of rose petals, twelve scented candles, two champagne glasses, and a book of matches. He set the basket on the bed and read the fancy gold card inside. It provided additional instructions for the evening.

  Max glanced at his watch. He didn’t have much time. He scooped up the basket with one hand, began undoing his tie with the other and proceeded into the bathroom. It was just as dazzling as the rest of the suite. The marble floor, the shiny granite countertop, the extravagant gold fixtures were all symbols of an affluent lifestyle Max knew well.

  As the card commanded, Max filled the oversized Jacuzzi tub with water, sprinkled it with the rose petals and positioned the candles about the room. He lit each one, then turned off the lights to admire his handiwork. Yes, yes, yes. He was about to have himself one big ball.

  Max ripped up both the invitation and the card and flushed them down the toilet. A married man could never be too careful. Just as he was about t
o head back into the bedroom, the enormous mirror on the wall directly across from the tub stopped him in his tracks. Max grinned. He would get to watch.

  Marching into the bedroom, he stripped off his Hugo Boss suit and draped it over the back of an armchair near the bed, making sure his pants were carefully folded along the crease line. After removing the rest of his clothes, he grabbed the champagne bottle and strutted naked into the bathroom, where he eased into the steaming hot water and waited.

  All day long he had tried to figure out who his freaky little hostess might be. He had instantly ruled out Janice. A single parent with three kids didn’t have the time, not to mention the energy, to plan something this elaborate. She could barely escape from her solo law practice for their once-a-week lunchtime romps. That left Paula, a stewardess who had served him on a flight to New York three months earlier, and Natasha, the big-breasted Swede who was temping as a receptionist at his firm’s Newport Beach office. She had straight out boned him with her eyes when he walked up to the reception desk to find out her name. Yeah, both Paula and Natasha were kinky enough to plan something like this.

  Max poured himself a glass of champagne and took a slow, satisfying sip. The air jets pelting his back with spurts of water felt great. He closed his eyes and slowly twisted his head to the left as far as it would go, then repeated the move on the opposite side. The muscles along the base of his neck felt like dense, knotted fists. Maybe she would give him a massage afterward.

  At the sound of the hotel room door opening, Max bolted forward, causing rose petals to splash onto the floor. He could feel his pulse racing as he waited for his mystery date to appear, and when she did not, he settled back into the tub and tried to calm himself down. She was probably just slipping into that sexy little teddy. He was so hard now he had to fight the urge to jack himself off.

  Max reached for the champagne bottle to refill his glass just as a sharp, searing pain attacked his left temple. He hoped it wasn’t another migraine. There was a time when he could almost will them away if he concentrated hard enough. But that wasn’t working anymore. He sat the bottle back down. He would wait and share the rest with her.

  Max leaned back, sucked in a long, deep breath, and closed his eyes for several seconds. When he reopened them, he could not focus. A thick curtain of haze had suddenly filled the room. He tried to sit up, but his head felt heavier than a bowling ball and fell backward, slamming hard against the tiled wall. He was now blind, dizzy, and in excruciating pain.

  By the time the bathroom door opened, Max could feel the presence of someone else in the room. He could even hear a voice. A voice he was too dazed to place, speaking words he could not quite make out. Max had never had a migraine like this one before. He tried to speak, but his lips spewed nothing but gibberish. Had the champagne been spiked?

  Without warning, a powerful jolt of pain pierced the right side of Max’s chest at the same time that his head seemed to explode.

  His visitor, hovering over him now, plunged a knife deep into Max’s chest, then repeated the motion. A second time, a third time, a fourth time. The stabbing continued until the rose petals disappeared into a pool of deep, dark red.

  CHAPTER 1

  The brain is a funny thing. Sometimes it’ll just go numb for no apparent reason. Like when you’re in the middle of a conversation and whatever you were about to say just tumbles out of your head. That’s exactly what happened when I heard the jury’s verdict. My brain went totally numb.

  “Congratulations, counselor,” beamed David Winslow, my ever-arrogant second chair and a fellow associate at O’Reilly & Finney. He was smiling just like Howdy Doody. “Think this verdict’ll get us a multimillion dollar book deal?” he whispered.

  I took exception to his use of the word “us” since he’d been nothing but a pain during the entire trial, and shook his extended hand anyway. I could smell the stale scent of the three double lattes he consumed each morning before eight.

  Turning away, I gripped the edge of the plaintiff’s table and tried to steady myself. I’d just won the biggest verdict of my career and I felt faint. The entire courtroom was one big, beige blur. The judge was speaking now, but I didn’t hear a word he was saying. I was buzzed from a strong blast of adrenalin, but trying hard to play it cool. As if juries handed me five-million-dollar verdicts every day.

  I suddenly remembered my client, Roland Hayes, standing next to me. He was gasping for air like an elderly asthmatic. The verdict obviously meant a whole lot more to him than it did to me. He’d be set for life. I pulled out his chair and motioned for him to sit.

  When I saw the jury rise, I assumed we were done. I sloppily stuffed papers into my Coach briefcase, hugged Roland for the second time, and watched as he ran off into the arms of his ecstatic wife. David, meantime, was flashing our despondent opposing counsel a gloating smile.

  As we headed out of the courtroom, a gang of reporters rushed toward us, nearly knocking us back inside.

  “Vernetta Henderson,” somebody shouted, “the jury’s five-million-dollar verdict is a pretty hefty award in a single-plaintiff race discrimination case. How do you feel?” I looked to my left and saw that the question came from the skinny blonde with the bad split ends from Channel 7.

  Before I could answer, another reporter hurled a question my way. “Ms. Henderson, why do you think the jury went so heavy on the punitives?”

  Because my client worked for a bunch of racist yahoos. I squeezed through the crowd, chin forward, shoulders erect, ignoring them. Just like they did on Law & Order. I looked over at David. His thin lips were tightly pursed. No one had bothered to stick a microphone in his face and he was pissed.

  When we reached the elevators, we found the down button blocked by a fortress of reporters. The hot, gleaming lights from a small TV camera nearly blinded me and somebody’s microphone kept nudging me in the back of the head.

  “Ms. Henderson, were you surprised at the verdict?” yelled a voice from the rear.

  I brushed passed the inquisitive mob, determined to ignore them. “No questions for now,” I said finally, as David and I escaped toward the stairwell. “We’ll talk to the media later this afternoon.”

  CHAPTER 2

  By the time we made it back to the offices of O’Reilly & Finney, word of the verdict had already raced through the firm. I barely had time to touch up my lipstick and shove my purse underneath my desk before I was whisked off to the twentieth floor to continue bathing in the glory of my mind-blowing victory.

  A handful of my colleagues pounced on me the second I stepped into the conference room, corralling me in a small circle of professional envy. Lawyers are a lot like ten-year-olds. They smile and pretend to be happy when someone else wins the big case, but on the inside they’re pouting.

  Al McAndrews, a tax partner, was the first to congratulate me. “Incredible work, counselor,” he said, giving me a benign pat on the back. McAndrews routinely ignored me during our morning elevator rides. I hoped this didn’t mean I would have to make small talk the next time we were stuck in an elevator together.

  For the next twenty minutes, I graciously accepted praise heaped on top of praise even though I knew most folks were there for the jumbo shrimp. I spotted David across the room entertaining his own flock of worshippers. I could hear snatches of his conversation. He was explaining how well we had worked together. All lies.

  The post-trial victory celebration was an O’Reilly & Finney tradition. It was a first for me, having been at the firm for only nine months. I scanned the room, looking for Jim O’Reilly, the firm’s managing partner, but he was nowhere in sight. When I saw Neddy McClain walk in, my body stiffened.

  For a reason I had yet to figure out, the woman acted as if she despised me. The fact that we didn’t get along was especially tragic since we were the firm’s only African-American attorneys. Black folks are like crabs in a barrel, my grandmother used to say. As soon as one climbs up, another one pulls ‘em back down.

  As u
sual, Neddy’s lips were ziplocked into an obnoxious frown, broadcasting the perpetual state of discontent that she wore like an old sweater. Thank God we had different practice areas and never had to work together.

  I took a sip of a Diet Coke somebody handed to me and checked my watch. If I didn’t leave soon, there was no way I was going to make it across town for dinner with my husband. I had promised Jefferson that as soon as the trial ended, I was all his. I had also promised to give some serious consideration to starting a family. The first pledge I planned to keep. I was still searching for a loophole big enough to get me out of the second one.

  All the bodies hemming me in were beginning to make me feel claustrophobic. Just as I was about to make a break for it, an attorney I barely recognized shoved his way through the huddle. “Way to go, Henderson!” he yelled, giving me a high five.

  All I could do was grin. The rays of praise beaming down on me felt so good I almost wanted to squeal. Truth be told, I had actually fantasized about this day in law school. This was what it was all about.

  While the praise-fest continued, I watched out of the corner of my eye as Neddy studied the colorful display of hors d’oeuvres. She did not appear anxious to make her way toward me, but decorum dictated that she must. I wondered just how long it was going to take her to march across the room and give me my props.

  O’Reilly finally towered in, giving her a temporary reprieve. He grabbed an empty wineglass from the tray of a passing waiter and gently clinked it with a knife.

  “May I have your attention?” He didn’t actually need to ask for the floor. When O’Reilly walked into a room, all heads automatically turned his way. An oversized, gregarious Irishman with curly, reddish-brown hair, he had an easygoing, Clintonesque style about him. He was just as comfortable addressing a room full of wealthy bankers as a congregation of black Baptists.