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A Case of Self Defense

By: Rehnquist



I've never submitted a story in the Loving Wives category, and I'm doing so now with great trepidation. Frankly, the commentators in this section are brutal. Many, though, are very insightful and offer genuinely thoughtful comments about writing style, character development, and the like. My only complaint with this category is that much of the basic plot lines appeared to have been thoroughly explored. Moreover, many of the themes are beyond cliche. Though it may be true, I long ago tired of every poor cuckolded bastard bemoan that his "slut" of a wife had violated their marital vows to foresake all others. No, I wanted to write something different. I don't really think I've succeeded, and I'd appreciate the readers' thoughts on this.

Finally, much of this is a courtroom drama, and quite a bit of law is present. For those of you who watch too much Law & Order, I should tell you up front that the vast majority of the law as set forth in this story is an accurate depiction of the law in the State of Illinois and under the Federal Constitution, particularly the final bit at the end. I am an experienced attorney, and I have tried to keep as faithful to the law as possible.

Finally, I fully realize that almost no lawyers act as depicted in here, but enough do act like this to make the story believable. (Remember the sleazy prosecutor in the Duke LaCross Team Rape Case? Or how about all the mob lawyers serving time in prison for conspiring with their own despicable clients?)

Though I realize this is a very long story, I didn't want to drag it out so you're getting it all in one fell swoop. Please take some time to comment and let me know what you think.



CHAPTER ONE

"That was nice," she said, regaining her breath.

Alain Broussard only grunted, too winded to speak. Instead, his fingertips traced over her distended nipples. He loved her nipples. They were tiny, surrounded by small, light pink areolae, but they got hard as pebbles when she was excited and stayed that way.

"You remember what we talked about this afternoon?" she said after finally settling her breathing. "Over lunch?"

"Uh huh," he said, not really remembering.

"Well," she said, rolling onto her side and facing him, "I think I've got an idea."

Broussard was alert now and flipped onto his side to face her. "Let's hear it."

Her eyes blazed with excitement as she began.

"All right, here's the deal." She sat up, sitting Indian style. He looked at her pussy, the bare mound and lips now slick with sweat, semen, and arousal. He focused back on her eyes and caught the sly smile.

She gets me going more than any of them, he thought. So comfortable in her body, flaunting it and knowing how to get him aroused.

"Concentrate, Alain," she said. "This is important, and it'll make us a bundle."

He shot his eyes back to hers and nodded.

"Good boy," she taunted. "So, everyday we calculate interest. Every day. On all deposits, investments, mortgage loans, short-term and long-term commercial paper. On all of it, and we do it every . . . single . . . day."

He nodded. "Yeah. So what?"

"Right down to the ten thousandth of a cent, right?"

He nodded.

"Well, let me ask you something. When you get your savings account statement, does it show the fractions of a cent? Or does it just show the actual cent?"

"Just the cents."

She nodded. "Exactly. Your statement says, like, twelve dollars thirty-four cents, right?" He nodded. "Not twelve point three four two nine six three, right?" He nodded again, not seeing where this was going.

Her grin got bigger. She enjoyed playing him along like this, but he was getting impatient, wanting to look back between her legs. "You'd never know if someone took the fractions off of the cents, would you?" He opened his eyes, realizing the import of what she was saying.

"So we set up a dummy account, funnel all of those fractions of a cent from every single account–every single day–into the dummy account. Then we automatically funnel the dummy account balance to a numbered account, maybe Switzerland or the Caymans. It's only fractions, but–"

He finished the thought for her, unable to contain his excitement. "But on millions of accounts every single day, it's. . . . Jesus Christ, it's a goddamned fortune."

She nodded, pleased with herself. "Actually, it's about nine hundred grand a month, give or take," she said. "Some months the fractions will average lower, some months higher. But on average, we're looking at nine hundred grand a month."

He nodded, all thoughts now on the treasure about to be amassed rather than the treasure between her legs. "But can it be done? I mean, I'm sure it can be done somehow. But won't we get caught? Who checks this shit? And, frankly, I don't know shit about computers."

She nodded and bit her lip.

"Out with it," he said.

"Well, we've got you to cover our ass from on high. You're a senior vice president in commercial paper, so you routinely sign off on overseas transfers."

"Yeah," he said. "And that raises the first problem. We'll have to create a whole mess of new accounts, not just one. The system will trigger IRS flags on any daily transfers from one account in excess of ten grand. So we'll have to set up, what, four or five accounts just to be safe."

"Good," she agreed. "And we've got me. I'm in audits. Not a big wig, mind you, but I can keep an eye on things there. So we've got two out of three bases covered. We've got the money out covered, and we've got hiding the trails covered. Now we need someone to break the computer security and program the system to do what we need." She raised her eyebrows at him. "Any ideas?"

For the first time, he felt a smile coming over his face. "I think I do," he said. "And we're going right to the top."

"Richards?" she said.

Broussard nodded. "It's perfect. He's the best, that's why he runs electronic security. He's a fuckin' genius to hear Jensen go on about him."

"But will he do it? I was thinking someone a bit more . . . I don't know . . . vulnerable."

Broussard rubbed his hands together. "Oh yeah, given the right amount of enticement he'll do it. Just got divorced. I heard him talking in the executive dining room, and he's getting clobbered on child support and alimony. He needs the money."

She frowned. "Yeah, but will he get in on this? I mean, we get caught we go to prison. And we're ruined, professionally and financially."

"You chickening out already?"

"Hell no," she said. "I know the risks, but I'm willing to take them. And you know them, but it won't stop you. Our chances of getting caught are slim–especially with all bases covered–but there's still a chance. And he's a mousy little shit. He'll be scared off by the down side, no matter how small the chances of getting caught."

"That's where you come in," Broussard said. "You see, he's also lonely. And I've seen him look at you. We play this right, you'll have him wrapped around your finger in a matter of weeks."

She frowned, mulling over what this meant. Broussard laughed, getting hard at the thought.

"Think about it," he said, "it'll be like banging a high school virgin. You'll have your own little sex slave to keep you pleased. Train him to do what you want."

She laughed back. "I've already got one of those," she said. "He's called my husband."

"Then what's another sex slave?" He reached his hands to her head and jerked her head–and that wonderful mouth–to his now throbbing erection. "I'll make sure your other needs are met," he said, then groaned as his cock sank to the back of her throat.

CHAPTER TWO

Alain was right: Jeff Richards was a lost puppy dog. His divorce had caused a crushing financial burden that required him to give up half of his net income in child support and alimony, he was displaced from his five-bedroom home on the North Shore to a one-bedroom apartment further from the city, and he hadn't been laid in over a year.

At first, she was subtle. A smile, light touches on the arm, leaning into him for his answers to her innocuous questions. After two weeks, she sat with him in the executive dining room and chatted gaily about work, music, movies, and art. Soon, she was sitting with him every day, and the conversations got more personal. When he told her how crushed he was by his divorce, she even managed a tear as she stroked his arm.

The seduction was complete a month after it began. They were leaving the office together, and she invited him for a drive along the lakefront. Thirty minutes later, after stroking his thigh and murmuring her sympathies at his continued tales of woe, they were parked in the far corner of a forest preserve parking lot, away from other cars and prying eyes.

"Jeff," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "I want to do something for you."

"What?" he replied, confused.

She was enjoying this. He hadn't made a move, and she knew he would do nothing even if she was stark naked beside him.

"I want to help ease your pain," she said, her fingertips now running over the growing bulge in his pants.

He yelped, almost a squeak. "But . . . but . . . you're married," he stammered.

She lowered her head, closing her eyes. Her voice went lower. "I know," she said. "But this isn't about that. I want to help you, and no one ever needs to know. I'm . . . well . . . these past few weeks, the pain you're under, I feel myself. . . ."

She pressed into him, hugging with one hand and tracing his bulge lightly with the other. After a minute, he hugged her back, running his lips lightly through her soft blonde hair.

"I can't explain," she said. "I just have to do this. You've become . . . someone special to me. Please?"

She unbuckled his belt and slacks, then drew his zipper down. Reaching her hand in, she pulled his cock from the fly of his boxers and stared at it. She smiled. It was enormous. Experience taught her that, unless it was really small, size made little difference in actual sex. No, technique was far more important. Still, it was one hell of a visual turn on, and she was happy to see that Jeff Richards was certainly well above average in the endowment department.

"I don't know," he said, his breath coming shorter.

But his body knew, she realized. His cock was throbbing with the pulsing blood, and his hips were rising toward her lowering mouth.

She took him into her mouth, sliding her lips slowly up and down, sucking in as she did so. With her hand, she firmly grasped the base of his cock and began stroking him up and down in time with her mouth, feeling his pulse quickening and hearing his breath shortening to sharp gasps.

"I'm getting real close," he warned after little more than a minute.

In response, she picked up the speed of her hand and mouth, taking him in deeper and sucking harder.

"Oh my God," he groaned, shooting torrents into the back of her throat.

In response, she pushed her mouth down as far as she could, feeling his release on the back of her throat and around the head of his cock. She tried to swallow as quickly as she could, but his buildup was too much, and she felt the fluid escaping from her lips and onto her cheeks and chin.

"Thank you," he whispered as she released him and looked up. He reached into his pants pocket, withdrew a handkerchief, and licked the end. Then, as she sat up and looked at him, he dabbed the semen from her face.

"No," she said when he was done, leaning in to kiss him, "thank you."

Three weeks later, they lay together in the bed in his cramped apartment. She had spent the previous weeks giving him the rides of his life and planting the seeds of their plan in his mind. She knew he was now addicted to her, and he had reached the point where he'd kill for her if she asked. The time to strike was now, and she warmed him up with a blowjob.

Promising him they could use the money to run away together and never be found, she told him the plan and what he needed to do. Richards was reluctant at first, but she poured it on.

"You're right," she said. "Really, we don't need that much to be together." She stroked his softened cock. "All we really need is a bedroom and a good strong bed."

She saw his eyes light up at the thought.

"But unless you want to pay child support and alimony for the rest of your life to that cheating whore who ruined you, we're going to need to get far away, set up new identities, and have enough money to live on until we're all set in our new lives."

"What about your husband?" he responded.

"I can't stay with him any more," she replied, trying to bring a tear to her eyes and getting close. "He's a bastard, cheating on me with everything that moves. Now I've got you, though." She feathered her fingers over his chest, teasing his nipples. "I just want to be happy, and I need you for that."

She looked deep into his eyes. "Please, Jeff, please tell me you'll do it. When we've got enough, we can go away together." She kissed his chest. "Forever."

He sighed, and she knew she had him.

"Okay," he said. "But first. . . ."

He pushed her onto her back and leaned in, beginning a trail of kisses and darting licks from her neck, over and around her breasts, then to her stomach, concentrating there.

"Don't tease," she whimpered, pushing his head lower.

He obliged, and she groaned long and low when his tongue started circling her clit. My God, she thought, Alain was right. He was getting very good at pleasuring her. Maybe she'd dump Alain when all of this was over and concentrate on making Jeff Richards the ultimate walking dildo.

CHAPTER THREE

She had seen his car when she pulled into the garage, but she didn't want to see him just now. No need for any confrontation.

"Hello, Deborah," he said from behind, startling her.

She froze. "Alain," she responded, turning to see him leaning against the breakfast bar.

"Where've you been?"

Now unable to avoid talking with him, she put her purse on the counter and walked to the refrigerator, retrieving a bottled water and unscrewing the top.

"I asked where you were," he insisted.

She took a drink from the bottle before fixing her eyes on his and responding. "What do you care?"

"You're my wife."

She snorted. "What, no girlfriends free tonight?"

His expression went from cold to hot in a flash. "I've told you, there are no girlfriends. Jesus Christ, there's been no one for seven years, since you caught me and–"

"And your whore of the month?"

He said nothing, just clenched his jaws and tried to stare her down.

"Really, Alain, please don't play me for the fool."

"If you think I'm still having an affair–"

"Affairs, honey," she said, smiling. "Plural."

"Fine," he snapped, "affairzzz. If you think I'm still having affairs, then why are you still here? Why don't you just dump me and move on."

She sipped her water and held his gaze. They'd had this conversation before, too many times to count.

"I'm Catholic," she said. "Very Catholic. You know that. And what's worse, Daddy's even more Catholic. So I'm supposed to be the good little wife and overlook your transgressions and stay by your side."

"He'll never cut you off," Broussard said. "You know that. You're his little princess."

He emphasized princess, and Deborah felt her blood rising. "No sense in taking that chance, though, is there? Not when the pre-nup cuts you off at the knees. So you just keep having your own life and I'll keep having mine, and ne'er the twain shall meet." 

She took another swig from the water bottle before continuing. "But rest assured," she said, "the second he's gone, so are you."

"So you're fucking someone else?" he said. A sinister smile curled his lips. Combined with the mane of dark hair streaked with gray, he looked feral. For a moment, she remembered the intense attraction that had originally drawn her to him twenty years before. Then she thought about what a true bastard he'd turned out to be, and the pleasant memories evaporated.

"I asked if you're fucking someone else," he repeated.

She only smiled in response.

He laughed. "You frigid bitch, you probably haven't been laid in years."

Her smile only broadened. "Wanna bet?"

A look of fury came over his face and he was around the corner and on her before she could flee.

"Is that what you're doing?" he said, tearing her blouse open and squeezing her breast roughly. "You've been fucking someone else? Giving it away to tennis pros and plumbers?"

She tried to push him away, but he was too strong for her.

"Maybe I'll show you who the king is around here," he continued, now gripping her forearm tightly with one hand and fumbling to get his belt undone and pants down with the other. "Maybe a good fucking will keep you in your place."

He ignored her slaps and scratches as he reached under her skirt and tore her panties away before pushing her to the floor and getting on top of her, stabbing his cock toward her center.

"Get the fuck off of me," she yelled, struggling in vain against his weight and feeling his cock pressing against her and into her. She was dry, but the loads still seeping from her afternoon of fun minimized the pain as he began thrusting.

"You're pretty goddamned wet for someone who doesn't want this," he said, picking up the pace of his thrusting.

Stopping her struggles, she started laughing.

"What's so fucking funny," he growled.

"I'm not wet from you, you pathetic pig," she said, glaring into his eyes and now meeting his thrusts with her rising hips.

The look of recognition came across his eyes.

"Oh yes, darling," she said, now bucking into him. "How does it feel to be sloppy fourths. Not seconds, dear. Fourths. To be sliding around in another man's loads?" She felt him going soft. "What's wrong? Not enough friction? Did he stretch me out too much for you to feel anything? Because I'm telling you, it was like being fucked by a baseball bat."

With a roar, he pushed himself off of her and pulled up his pants. For a moment, she thought she'd gone too far. Then she saw his features slackening and a dead look come into his eyes.

"You fucking whore," he said, and stalked from the room, leaving her on the floor with her panties around her ankles and her skirt bunched up under her ass.

She bellowed laughter at his retreating back.

CHAPTER FOUR

An hour later, Broussard was in his locked den, gazing at the images on the screen in front of him.

Why am I so mad? he thought as he watched the action on the screen. His thoughts drowned out the dialogue from the images, but he knew the dialogue by heart.

She's cheating on me, but so what? I've been cheating on her for years–haven't had any interest in screwing her for years–and God knows that even the ice queen needed to get laid once in awhile.

His mind switched back to the screen. This was his favorite part.

"No," the slim blonde pleaded with him. "Please, not that."

"Yes," he said on the screen, his lips moving silently along with the dialogue. "That."

He watched himself on the screen, his mind reliving the moments as he slowly pushed his cock into the woman's clenching anus. His cock got harder as he heard her wailing intensify on the screen.

I know why, his thoughts resumed as he watched his screen image continue the journey deep into the woman's tight ass. It's because she's mine. Deborah is mine, and it's my job to fuck other men's wives, not my wife's job to fuck other men.

"Don't worry, Karen," he said on the screen, "the pain will go away in awhile."

And she had to point out it was a bigger cock, he thought, trying now to banish the thoughts from his mind. He felt a twinge, worried that she was getting better somewhere else than she'd gotten from him. He felt his erection subsiding, and tried to focus again on the screen, concentrating on the dialogue.



A Case of Self Defense



Getting into the house without being heard was easy, all Jerry had to do was go around back and open the basement door.

He couldn't go in the front, the alarm system he had installed at his wife Shelly's insisting would go off. 

She had been a complete nut about that for some reason, bugging Jerry until he finally installed the system.

Opening the garage door would have tripped it, too. The delay on the push button panel was set at 10 seconds because Shelly had asked him to set it that way.

"45 seconds is dumb, a burglar would be all the way into my bedroom before it went off!" She had told him.

"You just want to give your boyfriend time to sneak out the window!" Jerry had wisecracked, Shelly just laughed at him, then turned back to fixing dinner.

But it sounded logical, so he reset the delay. Of course that meant he also set the alarm off himself every time he came home, but it was just for a few seconds until he could climb out of the car and punch in the four digit code.

"This way it gets tested to make sure it works every day!" Shelly smiled brightly one afternoon as he walked in, grumbling after having tripped it about two dozen times already.

Same with any of the windows, all wired. 

But he also knew no one would notice the wire he had run over the top of the door frame down there, bypassing the sensor.

Shelly almost never went down into the basement, even if she did, Jerry doubted she would notice.

The panel lit up perfectly when he had tested that, all of the loops showed secure.

The door didn't make a sound, the hinges that he had oiled slid easily. Same with the steps, each one he had carefully nailed nearly a week before.

Shelly was even happy about that, she had bugged him for months to fix the loose steps.

Testing them with his 220 pound frame, he smiled to himself. Not a sound came from them.

The little .22 caliber Hi-standard pistol he had stuck in the windbreaker that hung from hooks at the top of the stairs held nine rounds. It felt somehow satisfying to reach in the pocket and find it right there where he had left it.

Jerry had no plans on really shooting anyone, not unless he had to.

He also had no plans at all of backing down, either.

+++

Something had been going on and he was determined to find out what it was. There was no real point in confronting his wife Shelly, if something was going on she would deny it. If there wasn't, he would look foolish.

Three years of trying to get her pregnant, three years of failure bothered him. He even went to the Doctor to check, and got a laugh when the old Doc told him to not hug any strange females, even fully dressed ones because he was not only fertile but on the overly fertile side.

The old Doc snorted at his own wisecrack, patted Jerry on the shoulder and told him to go get her with a smirk.

So it was Janet's turn, instead she went to her own Doctor, the same one she had used even back before they were married.

She insisted on that, too.

That day Jerry just happened to see her coming out of the hair salon. It was simply an accident or he might never have even gotten suspicious.

Odd, she was supposed to be at her Doctor's office? Instead, she was getting her hair and nails done?

But Jerry was on the way to bid a job and already five minutes late, so that didn't really hit him until he was driving into his garage.

That was just a month ago, she had told him that evening with a sad look on her face that she could "maybe" have children but it was unlikely.

She even cried softly. He led her until she composed herself, feeling a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach.

"We can just keep trying honey!" She told him, but her tone was not quite right, it didn't quite ring true.

That was when Jerry began to keep his eyes open, he really didn't think the black lady at the hair salon was qualified to advise Shelly on things like that.

Cheating? No, not possible. Shelly was always home, always. No signs, not one of anything. She was always right there when he got home.

Of course there were those overnight trips he had to make two to three times each month.

Drugs maybe? Could that be it, she was addicted to something and hiding it? Also not possible, she looked and acted healthy as a horse, she even had a pound or two extra on her well rounded out body.

Gambling? Maybe, she could be hitting the Indian Casinos, perhaps. But a quick check of finances showed nothing out of the ordinary, if anything Shelly was a bit on the frugal side.

Except for clothes, trips to the salon for $50 worth of fingernails. Having her hair done?

Shelly's fingernails sure looked nice that day, though. 

That part he never understood, he had heard, "Damn, I broke a nail!" no less than fifty times.

Later that night while Shelly was in the shower Jerry snooped in her drawers, then looked in the closet. Shelly loved nice clothes, she had outfits in there he had never seen.

There was a small bag in the dresser drawer, with panties that he wondered why a woman would bother.

He hadn't seen those before, either. But even that was not abnormal, when they went out for dinner or dancing, pretty outfits and tiny undies always appeared.

Jerry loved it when Shelly would come out and pose, basking in his delight at the way she looked. The woman certainly could turn her share of heads, and it was obvious that she was well aware of that.

He grinned to himself, almost wishing it was Saturday night. Dancing with her made him feel proud, then later without fail he got to slip off the outer layers and discover what she almost had on underneath this time.

Then he found the birth control pills.

Birth control pills?

He saw red at that, and barely managed to compose himself before she came out of the shower.

His instinct was to completely blow his stack and yell at her, but he had learned to make sure before acting. 

Once many years before he had caught Dana, his girlfriend at the time kissing some good looking guy that showed up at a party. Jerry had been right to the point with Dana of asking the big question, and he knew she was thinking that also. They had even done the meet Mom and Dad stuff, it was getting serious.

Then he saw her kissing some guy all over his face with eagerness, her body plastered to him in what did not look like any friendly brush on the cheek. He had stood there in shock as she excitedly greeted the man.

Jerry had gone over and smacked the dude, putting him right on his ass.

The man turned out to be her brother that Jerry had never met, just home for the weekend from College. Meeting the brother was going to be the big surprise of the evening, so although Dana had mentioned she had one, she kept the fact that he was showing up that night to herself.

After finding himself thrown out of the house, Dana would not even take his phone calls after that. He had just barely made it to second base a few times with her, and she had hinted earlier that this was going to be the day.

That had actually been more than a hint, when he arrived that night Dana had kissed him, then slipped a pack of condoms into his shirt pocket, giving him a sly look.

Talk about an instant erection!

Smacking her brother right in front of everyone put the skids on that of course.

Yes, think before acting, a lesson well learned.

+++

Jerry had to do a bit of traveling, his job was to bid fencing for farmers, pole barns, corrals. Sometimes he designed a series of corrals so that farmers could handle their big livestock, separate them out for trips to the auction, or for medical attention, things like that.

It was a darned good job because he got to meet a lot of very nice people, plus he was also outside.

The last job had been great, not only did he sell nearly 4 miles of fencing but the family invited him for dinner. Corn Bread with Ham and black beans, real Corn bread, not the crap that comes in the boxes.

Sam Martin was a grizzled old guy, tall and lean. He wore faded red long johns, that was clear because the heavy work shirt was always unbuttoned, suspenders holding up his heavy work pants. His wife Dotty was on the chubby side and happy, a big smile never seemed to leave her face.

By the end of the day, after traveling all over the man's ranch on a pair of Honda ATV's, Sam and Jerry became good friends. They both loved to hunt and fish, Sam somehow became almost like a Father figure that Jerry never had in his own life.

It might be hard to understand how that could happen in just one long day between two men out talking about everything under the Sun, but it did.

The couple had a daughter, she was around 19 or so and a stone fox. Even in a flannel shirt and blue jeans it was clear this was a fine looking young woman.

She also acted interested but of course Jerry was married so she had no hope at all with him.

Molly, they said her name was. He thought about her off and on all the way home the next day.

Yes, good people, the kind a man wants to get to know. 

Their ranch was mostly rolling hills with good water, and Sam had been building his herds for years. Now he needed a good fence, some big pole barns.

The outside world was getting closer to his land all the time, new people were coming in and they didn't like the Cows and Sheep free ranging across their planted lawns and flower gardens.

So there was no choice, build fences or allow the land to grow homes. Sam chose to build fences.

That turned out to be one of his biggest sales to date.

The down side of Jerry's job was that most big farms tended to be long distances away, so very often he would find himself 300 to 400 miles away from home.

That was how it was with this place, over 350 miles away in Idaho.

The company paid his motels and meals while on the road, so instead of driving all the way home, Jerry would usually get a motel room, then head home the next day.

It was different this time, Sam and Dotty insisted he spend the night, escorting him to a large upstairs bedroom. It was so quiet out there that Jerry had trouble getting to sleep.

Once in awhile he would hear a Sheep or a Cow, each time it was like an alarm clock.

The night was warm, he found himself kicking his own covers off.

At about 2 AM he got up the use the bathroom, on the way down the hall he passed another bedroom. The door was slightly open, there was a dim night light.

Lying on top of the covers was Molly, she was nude, her lower body in shadow, one bare breast outlined clearly in the dim glow from the night light. He could see her large mass of pubic hair in shadow.

She appeared to be asleep, the scene was extremely erotic. Jerry realized that she was certainly a beautiful young woman, but he also looked quickly away. It wasn't right to be sneaking looks at her like that.

On the way back to bed he noted the bedroom door was now closed, and blushed knowing he must have been caught looking in at her.

The next morning Sam and Dotty sat him down at the kitchen table. There were piles of eggs, Ham, potatoes that somehow tasted better than any he had ever had.

"We grow them right here on the place, we have 40 acres over on the North range in spuds." Sam told him, spotting his satisfied look as he took a second helping.

Just them Molly walked in, looking around with a yawn. She had on blue jeans and a flannel shirt, she looked somehow wonderful like that.

Then she gave Jerry a wicked look, raising one eyebrow seductively, making him blush. Dotty caught that, glanced back and forth between them, and grinned.

"More Coffee, Jerry?" She asked.

Jerry nodded. These were sure hospitable folks. After breakfast he collected his gear, tucking the contract and the nice check into his briefcase.

It was time to head on home, back to his own life. It did pop into his head that he could live like these folks and be happy.

Dotty handed him a loaf of her Corn bread as he climbed into his truck. He took it and thanked her, looking forward to eating that on the long trip home.

Molly stood on the porch watching, she had one hand on the railing. Jerry gave her a little wave as he started his truck, she waved back.

All the way home he thought about her, he tried to think of other things but the vision of her lying there naked kept popping into his head.

+++

Shelly did keep the house as neat as a pin, and she was always right there to give him a hug and some good loving when he arrived. Those trips were seldom any longer than over night.

Jerry liked coming home after a long trip, oddly for some reason after his overnight trips she always wanted to fondle him more than normal, and sometimes she would even lean down and suck on him. 

Jerry was careful to not allow himself to go off in her mouth, that had happened once, she had jumped up and ran for the sink, gagging.

Then she came back to bed, he could tell from her reaction that she didn't like that last part very much.

At barely 28, Shelly had stayed in shape. She was a fully filled out blond woman, her hair in a short pageboy style. Well built, she did not lack in the upstairs department one bit.

She also worked, commissions sales of real estate. That was fairly good, too, some months she made more than he did but that was rare, and the last few years she often went a month or two without making a sale.

Still, they were getting by. Jerry knew he could use a new truck, his big old Dodge Ram still looked good but it was showing signs of becoming tired.

That could wait because it was paid for.

Sex? That was a couple of times each week, and Shelly was always completely eager.

He felt that their life together was pretty good. Of course there were a few things he wished for, but he was doing his best.

This last trip ended just the same, Shelly was waiting for him, and acted eager to do some loving. They were in the bedroom in just a few minutes, the sheets fresh and crisp like they always were when he got home.

Jerry managed just fine, even though way back in his mind there was now that deep nagging suspicion. 

While out on the job, his mind full of numbers and all the plans, he hadn't even thought about his discoveries. Not that once again filled his head.

He really had nothing solid to base that on. Shelly may have kept both appointments that day, the Doctor and the hair salon both. The new clothes, naughty undergarments? Did she just have a surprise in store for him?

That actually did happen, a few times she would come out dressed for them taking in a nice dinner, and she would do that little spin showing off a new dress, or flash a tiny thong at him with a grin.

But that nagging suspicion would not leave him, he just had to find out the truth.

Birth control pills? That meant she had lied to him, and the worry was that it was because of more than just not yet wanting a child.

So he made the changes that would allow him to check, find out. He did that right in front of her, she never noticed.

+++

Jerry drove by his house the night all hell broke loose, looking to see if there was a strange vehicle there. There wasn't but then he hadn't expected there to be any, not with neighbors nearby. The upstairs bedroom light was on, the curtains tightly drawn.

He really didn't have anything to go on, other than that sinking feeling. That and the packet of birth control pills he had found tucked away in the back of her underwear drawer.

Talk about a shock to his system there!

Seeing her coming out of the salon when she was supposed to be at the Doctor? That was what had started all of this.

"If you smell a Rat, there is probably one close by." His Mom had told him maybe 500 times.

Jerry was smelling a Rat.

+++

At the top of the stairs, he listened. The only sound he heard was the shower running. That was odd, it was nearly two in the morning.

He had expected her to be asleep, or he would catch her doing whatever it was she was doing. If she was doing anything, this should be the time, since he told her his job was all the way over in Idaho. No way could he make it home until late afternoon the next day.

There even was a nice job in Idaho, he took the sale over the phone. Sam and his wife Dotty were so tickled with the first job they didn't bother having him drive over. They actually did invite him but he had to bid another much smaller job close by.

He had thought briefly that he might like that, maybe get some more of that Corn bread. Plus get to maybe see that Molly again?

Jerry shook his head to clear his thoughts, he wasn't completely all together at the moment. Silly thoughts kept jumping into his head, here he was standing at the top of the stairs in his own house thinking of work and a woman he barely knew.

With a pistol in his hand? He came very close to just retreating, slipping back out of the house.

But he had to know for sure.

If Sherry was doing nothing, he could just sneak back out and forget it, if not?

Jerry wasn't real sure what he would do if she had someone in there with her.

In his mind was the thought that she was having an affair, even though he really didn't have any proof of that. There was just that sinking feeling. He stood there for a long time, feeling stupid.

He listened, the only sound was the shower running. Shelly often spent a solid half hour under the shower, so this was not unusual.

Finally, he slowly pushed the door partially open, actually expecting to find nothing. 

A man was sitting there on the edge of the extremely rumpled bed, his back to the door. 

He was fully dressed, reading a magazine, in fact it was Jerry's Popular Science magazine.

Jerry began to see red.

The shower was still running.

The man turned the page on the magazine.

"Who in the hell are you?" Jerry asked, stepping into the room. 

The man jumped up like someone had poked him in the ass and turned, looking at Jerry in shock.

It was Art Barnes, the guy ran the local bank that Shelly's real estate agency used to help close deals.

Probably in his fifties, with gray hair at his temples, Art Barnes was an imposing figure, a larger man even than Jerry was. 

Jerry knew that if any deals worth doing were going on around town, Barnes was not very far away. He also knew that even though he was tough and fast, he would very likely lose some of his own hide taking this asshole on.

"Hey, it's not what it looks like." Barnes got out, then he saw the pistol in Jerry's hand. His eyes widened in fear.

"You come into my house to fuck MY wife in MY god damned bed?" Jerry growled at him.

"Hey, bud, it's not like that...." Was as far as he got. Jerry brought up the pistol, pointed it at the man.

The man dropped the magazine, then he charged. That was a complete surprise, Jerry expected the man to cower, move back.

He very likely would have made it to Jerry before he could fire, but he was on the other side of the bed and had to go out around the end of it.

Jerry shot him in the stomach, the man's face grimaced and he stopped, his hands came up to grab himself.

All sorts of things happened then, it seemed to be in slow motion.

"What was that?" Shelly called out from the bathroom, then the shower shut off.

Barnes had a sick look on his face, then he looked at Jerry and charged again.

Jerry had never shot anybody before, in the movies and on TV you shoot them and they fall down and that is it. He had just shot Barnes dead center and it appeared that all it did was piss him off, because he suddenly lunged.

So Jerry shot him again.

That did it. Down the man went, groaning loudly.

"What was that?" He heard Shelly yell again, then the bathroom door pushed open. She was stark naked, and sopping wet.

He saw that the thin patch of her blond pubic hair was all foamy with soap suds.




A Case of Self Defense



"Who is this guy? What the fuck is he doing here?" Jerry yelled at her. Her hand came up to cover her mouth as she stared down at Barnes groaning on the floor.

"Honey, it's not what it looks like!" She said, looking up.

"Jesus Christ! You are in there washing your ass to get it all clean for this motherfucker?" Jerry shouted.

"No, Honey! We were just going to talk, is all." She whined.

"At two in the morning, in our bedroom? You are naked!"

"I..I just needed a shower, we weren't..." Her eyes were filled with terror.

"You lying BITCH!" He screamed.

In that flash of rage, Jerry shot her too. 

Shelly did exactly what she was supposed to, just like on TV. Down she went, screaming. Jerry watched her for a moment, the vision seemed unreal. It was like she was a stranger, and this was all in a movie or something.

Then he went over and looked at Barnes. The man was moaning loudly. He looked up at Jerry, his eyes full of fear.

"Don't kill me! No! Please!" He screamed. Jerry saw the blood on his shirt, right in the middle of his stomach. He couldn't tell for sure where the second bullet hit, but he knew he had hit him.

He thought for a second of putting one between Barnes eyes but thought better of it.

"Motherfucker!" Jerry told him, delivering a solid kick to his head.

Barnes got nice and quiet.

Suddenly he felt stone calm. It was like all of this was happening to someone else.

Walking over to Shelly, she was screaming and crying. He had hit her low down on the left side. There was a tiny little hole, it wasn't even bleeding very much.

"Was it worth it?" He asked her.

Shelly didn't answer, she just stared up at him with wild eyes.

"Fuck it!" He muttered under his breath, then he went over to the nightstand and picked up the phone.

"I found an intruder in my wife's bedroom, I shot him. My wife was wounded in the scuffle, can you please send an ambulance?" He asked, calm as a cucumber.

Then he stuck the pistol into his belt and went downstairs. Checking the fridge, he found the six pack of beer sitting there.

Like always, Shelly had done her shopping. There was an unopened bag of chips on the counter, along with a can of mixed Peanuts she knew he liked. Jerry grabbed those and went into the living room, sitting down where he could see the bottom of the stairs.

He was thinking about the job he had just bid, began to run the numbers in his head. The pistol was poking him, he moved it over to his side where it was more comfortable. He could hear Shelly upstairs sobbing, so he reached for the TV controller and turned it on. Some people were talking but he had no idea at all what about.

The chips were good, nice and fresh.

He was on his second beer and halfway through the bag of chips when he heard the sirens. They sure took their damned sweet time, he thought.

On the way to the Police station he was pissed off that they wouldn't let him take along his can of mixed nuts.

They hadn't been real gentle either. They spotted him sitting there eating the chips, then they saw the pistol stuck in his belt.

Suddenly guns were pointed at him, and everyone was yelling. The one cop reached down and took the pistol, Jerry had just stuck another chip in his mouth when they grabbed him and mashed him onto the floor, twisting his arms behind his back.

"Ow, you are hurting me!" He complained, but no one answered.

"Shut the fuck up!" One of them growled at him later when he asked for his can of mixed nuts.

Jerry shut up.

+++

"It's not looking too good," The lawyer Jerry hired told him. Jerry didn't know the man, he had never needed a lawyer before. 

One of the other guys in jail with him had mentioned him.

"Mercer, Maclaren, Hanson, Ireland and Phillips." The guy said, reciting it. That sounded to Jerry like the guy spent a lot of time dealing with lawyers.

"I use Jack Ireland, damn good lawyer!" The guy had bragged.

"So how come you are still in here then?" Jerry asked him. That just got him a dirty look.

But he had to have someone, so he called the lawyer. Jack Ireland was a short and dumpy looking man, he had an extremely weather beaten briefcase with him.

He went over the charges, shook his head.

"So what comes next?" He asked the man.

"Bail hearing, we will get that. There is enough equity in your house to cover it, then we wait for the Grand Jury to look at the case."

"How bad is it?"

"Attempted murder. If you are going to shoot somebody, for God's sakes kill them. If you don't, they will testify against you. Right now, you are in a world of shit. I can't believe you used that little pop gun, should have been a magnum or something." He gave a little snort at that.

"How bad are they?" Jerry asked. Nobody was telling him anything.

"Your wife will be fine, just a hole in her side, Barnes was pretty well messed up. Those little .22 caliber rounds tend to rattle around in there, so he spent a lot of time in surgery. Say, why did you shoot him the second time?"

"He was still coming at me."

"Well, that one looks deliberate, you hit him in the balls." Ireland said, looking at him with a sidelong glance.

"Good." Jerry said flatly, getting another snort from the lawyer.

"A magnum would take them clean off, all you did was poke a hole between them." He snorted again.

It was nearly a month before bail was set and Jerry walked out into the open air again. The air smelled so fresh after being in there that it was almost a surprise, he had gotten used to the smell.

He couldn't go home, the court restricted him from that. The restraining order said 100 yards, Jerry didn't care. Shelly was living there, having gotten out of the hospital long before he got out of jail.

But he did beat Shelly to signing the papers, the place was titled as Shelly Jacobson OR Gerald Jacobson.

Either one could sign the papers, one of those neat little points in letters of the law. That came as a pleasant surprise, something he hadn't even noticed when they signed the papers.

It hit him that Shelly had handled that part, now he knew why. But that tiny point had obviously slipped her mind what with being in the hospital.

Jack Ireland actually was a pretty good lawyer, and he wanted to make sure he got his money. 

So if Shelly wanted the place for keeps, there would be some bills. Jack Ireland had one very large lien against the place.

Jerry was flat broke, he had used the savings account to retain the lawyer, and he was well aware that the retainer was only the start.

He also knew damn good and well that would piss Shelly off, but he really didn't give a shit.

His truck was parked right where he had left it, down the street and around the corner. He guessed it was over 100 yards like the restraining order said, he wasn't too sure about that.

The truck also had a dozen parking tickets on it, it was a surprise that it hadn't been towed.

Jerry took the tickets and tossed them into the trash, what were they going to do, arrest him?

+++

At the office, Jerry went in to talk to his boss. The man seemed to be very nervous, then he told Jerry they wouldn't be needing him any more, since he was gone they had to hire someone else.

Jerry understood, he had already seen the newspaper stories.

That night he curled up in his truck, getting a kick out of the place he pulled into. It was called South Park, it seemed the joke was on him.

The next day he called the lawyer, somehow the Jack Ireland made arrangements for a police officer to go with him to get some of his things.

Maybe he wasn't such a bad lawyer after all.

Shelly was nowhere to be seen. Jerry got his clothes, then he grabbed his tools and both of his collector Epiphone guitars. He also grabbed his fishing tackle and all four of his coin collections.

He thought about grabbing the brand new big screen TV but he had no place to plug it in out in the woods.

On the way out, he spotted the can of mixed Peanuts still sitting on the lamp stand by his chair. He grinned at that, grabbed them. He looked in the fridge, started to grab the last five beers but the cop gave him a dirty look so he left them.

Then on the porch, he changed the access code on the alarm system to something else right in front of the Cop who never even noticed.

He grinned to himself at that little act of meanness.

At the local hock shop, they handed him $1500 for the two guitars and all of his fishing poles except for one he kept.

$1500 in cash, it was everything he had left in the world.

Next he went to the post office, he and Shelly kept a box there. Of course his key didn't work, Shelly had taken him off of it and had the key changed. They had his mail though. The clerk wasn't supposed to hand mail over the counter, he knew that because of the big sign. But he asked her flat out, stone faced, having spotted the fear on her face when she saw him.

It was no problem at all, she handed him the bundle quickly. There were several credit card application forms and one for a funeral home. 

That seemed to be fitting.

He also rented a different box, then filled out the paperwork so the court had his address. 

He actually did think of just taking off, but driving a monstrous yellow Dodge Ram crew cab, he thought he might be easy to find.

+++

Two weeks later, Jerry still had no luck finding any work. His unsmiling face had blessed the news for days.

The story in the papers told of an overly jealous and insane husband that had broken into a simple at home business meeting and just started shooting.

He could figure out where that version of what happened came from, Art Barnes was a powerful local wheeler and dealer.

He decided his lawyer had been right, if he was going to go to all the trouble to shoot someone, for God's sakes, kill them!

Otherwise this is exactly the shit you get, everything twisted around right back into your face.

Back at South Park, his new home, Jerry pulled his truck into the bushes far enough to hide it from the street. He got out his fishing pole, found some grasshoppers and caught a half dozen little six inch long Trout in the nearby creek.

They had to be 8" long to keep them, he didn't give a damn. What were they going to do, write him a ticket?

He built a small fire and fried them up. He was just cleaning out the pan in the creek when his cell phone went off.

"Jerry! Hey man, I need to talk to you!" His old boss said. He suddenly sounded nice and friendly.

Now what the fuck? Jerry thought.

"You remember that job you got, the fencing at Sam Martin's Farm over in Idaho?"

"Sure."

"Well, he has over 10,000 acres, and he wants a larger section cross fenced. Two pole barns, and a line fence all the way to the city limits! This will be the biggest job we ever did." He said, excitement was clear in his voice.

"What's that got to do with me?" Jerry asked. He was still mildly pissed off with the way he had been treated. 

But then everyone treated him like that lately, it had gotten so bad he spent most of his time by himself in the park.

"Martin insists on you, he says if you aren't handling it then he will hire someone else."

"Well, that's nice of him, but...." Jerry knew he was not supposed to leave the state.

"What do you say?" His boss asked.

Jerry didn't know what to say. Then it hit him.

"Maybe. What's the offer?"

"You get your job back?"

"Nope!"

"Well, how about..double commissions then?"

"Double?"

"Yes, and your job back full time? I mean...uhh...You aren't carrying any guns, are you?"

"No, I am not allowed to have a gun! The cops took mine." That pissed Jerry off.

Hell, he wasn't running around shooting everybody, he only shot two people. It wasn't like he was a nut, just blazing away in all direction if something irritated him.

But the papers sure made it sound that way.

"How about my back salary? That wasn't fair the way I got fired, I didn't even get to explain."

"Shit, that's months?"

"Half of it then, plus my benefits back?" Jerry was well aware that he had been the company's best salesman by far.

The man hesitated, Jerry could almost hear the wheels turning. He knew also damn good and well it was only about $0.50 per foot profit, but 10,000 acres? Literally miles of fencing?

Pole barns, one of them 100' by 60'?

Damn.

"OK, deal." His boss said.

Jerry went down to the tiny little corner store and bought himself a can of mixed nuts to celebrate. He bought a bottle of beer, too. He wasn't allowed to drink beer but he didn't give a fuck. Still, he drank that quickly and buried the bottle.

+++

The sour faced old Judge looked at Jerry and his lawyer with suspicion. But he approved the request to cross State lines as part of his work, and he had to return each and every night.

"You have some damn serious charges hanging here, Mr. Jacobson. Damn serious! But I can't deny a man the right to do his work until this case gets heard. So don't screw this up or I will throw you right back into jail, got it?"

"Yes, Your honor." Jerry managed to keep a serious face.

+++

The next day he was on the way to Idaho. Old man Martin met him with a smile and a handshake.

Apparently the news hadn't gotten quite this far yet, and Jerry could see no reason to bring any of it up.

"We are putting Corn into that little patch down by the creek, nice South facing land in there. Got to keep the Sheep out of there. Then the Angus, we were running them free range but they got a big development going in, I am just tired of listening to them gripe so we want to keep them on our own land, OK?"

It struck Jerry that this crusty old man must have one hell of a lot of money. It was nearly 8 PM by the time they got back to the ranch house, Jerry knew he had to go to get back to Oregon before midnight.

He hated the idea of turning down dinner, plus maybe even seeing Molly again. But he had to go, so he did. 

Once back in Oregon, he called in but just got a recording, then he called again as soon as the bail office opened.

"Hey, you don't have to call in every damned day. Just follow the rules, OK?" Whoever answered told him.

"OK." he answered.

Nobody ever checks on anything unless something happens to get their attention, he realized.

Back into his truck and back to the Martin farm he went, driving at exactly the speed limit.

He spotted Molly sitting on their porch the moment he drove up, she hopped up and ran inside. She was back in seconds with a big floppy hat and a basket. She was wearing cutoff blue jeans and a T-shirt, from the bounce it was clear she hadn't bothered with a bra.

"Let's go!" She told him, climbing into the truck.

"Where?"

"Dad told me to show you the section down by the development so you can get the measurements, they are all busy shearing today."

"Shearing?" He asked.

"Yes, the Sheep. They will be busy until dark."

It took over an hour to reach the area they were talking about. Cattle were wandering around, none of them paid much attention to them.

On the way, they talked about everything under the Sun. He kept glancing over at her, liking the way her soft breasts bounced each time they hit a rough spot. There were traveling across open fields, there was not even a hint of a road, just periodic strips of what looked like an ATV trail.

It popped into his mind that it had now been one hell of a long time since he was with a woman, but he put those thoughts out of his head. This job was big, he didn't want to do anything at all to upset her folks.

Jerry pulled up over a big rise in the trail, there was a fair sized river and about a half mile past that was a row of three story apartment buildings. They continued on down and out of sight.

That looked really strange, completely out of place in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. Then he spotted the highway on the other side, cars streaming by at a high rate of speed.

Progress, they called that, he thought.

Jerry could see the problem, range laws be damned, cattle in someone's back yard was an irritant.

"The fence goes in 50 feet from those buildings, all the way down to the city limits. We are lucky because we own the river bank on both sides."

Jerry shifted into four wheel drive to cross the stream, then drove the fence line, using his odometer to get the distance. Then back at the big house, he sat down and did the math. The job was going to take their entire crew weeks to complete.

Finally finished, he looked up at Molly. She was sitting in a chair, her legs crossed, the upper leg moving back and forth, her shoe hanging from her toes.

"Everybody is down at the lower barn, they won't come in for hours now. Want to come on upstairs?" She grinned.

Jerry flushed at her being so forward about that, but he knew he couldn't.

"I can't. I mean, I am..still married, we are separated but....Besides, I barely know you."

"Oh. I'm sorry then, I didn't realize, you don't have a ring on. Are you getting a divorce?"

"Yes, probably. In fact, I am sure of it."

"I see. You didn't get along then? What was the problem?"

"I...uhhh...I shot her." He admitted.

"You what?" Molly's eyebrows went up.

"I shot her..and her lover. They were at my house..in my bedroom."

"I see. I guess maybe I don't blame you. Did you...kill them?"

"No." Jerry told her.

"Well, that's good, I guess. Lots of troubles, though?"

"Yes." Jerry told her the whole story, Molly sat quietly and listened.

"So that is why you had to leave last night? To go back to Oregon? Do you have to do that every night?"

"Yes, until the court case, then I will probably end up in jail."

"Maybe not, we will see. So? Can I come with you?"

"With me?"

"Yes, to Oregon. I'm not afraid of you, and you are nice. Maybe even the one, I don't know yet. I do know I am sick of living way out here in the middle of nowhere. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love it out here, it is home to me. But the only men around are either old or married, so I get....lonely sometimes."

"What about your parents? Wouldn't they get upset if you just...?" Jerry asked.

"Dad told me I should try and catch you, he said you looked like good stock. He never said anything like that to me before. He met one boy I dated and told me he wasn't worth the effort. I guess you didn't mention having an old lady, or Dad would never have considered that. He is kind of old fashioned." She grinned at that.

"It's...this is kind of sudden." Jerry managed.

"Jerry, I am no virgin. I know about men. Well. One man anyway, a boy really. We both grew up out here so we already knew about all of that, so we tried it. But still, I am no prude and I think I would like to be with you. Then if I..you and I decide we want to be together full time, I will never cheat on you, OK? You can be pretty sure about that, I happen to know what you might do about it!" She giggled at that.

Jerry didn't have to think about that very long.

"What do we tell your....?" He started to ask.

"Come on, good grief!" Molly got up and took his hand, led him down to the lower barn. A dozen men were working with the sheep, Mr. Martin saw them coming, saw they were holding hands and grinned.

"Jerry and I are leaving, we will be back in the morning, OK?"

"OK, honey. Have fun." He grinned again and went back to work.

Jerry blinked at that, Molly just smiled.

"Dad and Mom are farmers, they know all about sex. Everything and everybody does it, it's natural!" She laughed.

Jerry didn't quite know what to say, he had never in his life met any woman like this. She obviously wanted to be with him, so to her there was nothing wrong with just saying so.

Somehow Jerry managed to not break the speed limit on the way to his motel except for one stretch. That was not an easy thing to do with Molly sitting bare breasted beside him, one hand busy keeping him hard nearly all the way.




A Case of Self Defense



They had barely made it to the open highway before she tugged the T-shirt over her head. His first observation had been correct, she was magnificent.

He even started to pull over, but Molly stopped him.

"The first time has to be in a bed. By the time we get there, you will be ready!" She grinned, reaching over and sliding her hand up the front of his pants.

Once he told her to please put her shirt back on, because even using the Turbo in his big Diesel V-8 he just could not get away from one trucker that spotted her.

Hell, 95 miles per hour in a big semi can get someone killed.

"That guy can see you." Jerry told her when the huge truck pulled up on the right, the driver craning his neck to look out the window. He had just passed it doing about 70.

"Yea, I know." She giggled, not missing a lick with her hand pumping his erection.

"Might as well make his day." She said, sitting up and rolling her shoulders back. Then she looked at the man and stuck her tongue out.

"Jesus!" Jerry muttered under his breath. She had let go of his cock just in time, he was about to plaster the dashboard. Finally after being chased for several miles he told her to cover up before someone got run over, which Molly mercifully did.

Five miles down the road it was right back off.

She did put her T-shirt back on to go into the room, but it came right back off as soon as the door closed.

+++

Jerry was used to lovemaking with his wife Shelly. She was always willing if not eager.

This was completely different, Molly was far beyond eager, she wanted it and she climbed on top of him and had him inside her before he could even get his pants all the way off.

Her body was far more slender in the waist and hips, her breasts were high and firm with youth. Her full natural bush was also a delight. 

They spent most of the night just exploring each other.

His first climax with Molly was actually painful, the hours of teasing and stimulation during the long drive back across the State line had caused his testicles to draw up into rock solid lumps, the release was so powerful it was almost like being kicked there.

"What did he say?" Jerry asked Molly at around 11 the next morning. She had called her Dad to explain they were taking the day off and not driving back.

"He just laughed." She said, climbing back onto what passed for a bed.

By evening Jerry was in love with this woman. He knew almost nothing about her and he simply didn't care, he wanted her.

At dinner in a tiny little local cafe, he told her exactly that.

"You mean just us, permanent?"

"Yes. I want you to belong to me." He told her, meaning it.

"Wow. I really expected you to just want to have some fun. Dad told me he thought you were good breeding stock, to him that is the way life is."

Jerry blinked at that.

Molly laughed.

"Well. You are great. But where would we live?" She asked.

"I...I don't know." Jerry really didn't have a clue at this point.

"Well, you have a job and you have a truck. We can start right there. Let's see where it goes. If I ever do decide to commit to you, that will be it forever." She smiled.

"Molly, I am falling in love with you." He told her.

"Don't do that, not just yet. I like being with you, but I am not completely sure." She told him, the expression on her face was serious.

"All right." His own expression gave him away.

"Relax, Jerry. No one will ever touch me except you for now, and if I decide it's not for me, then you will never touch me again either, OK?"

"OK."

"Good, we understand each other. Now, let's go back to the motel." She grinned.

+++

By the next afternoon, Jerry had finished the bids and the contracts, he sat down with Sam Martin and his wife Dotty. They made a few tiny changes, the man signed the papers and shook his hand.

A few minutes later Molly came out with two suitcases. The couple looked up at her in surprise, then they looked at Jerry.

"I am going with Jerry." She told them. For the first time, Jerry saw the smile leave Dotty's face, but she covered that quickly.

Sam stood up and went over and hugged her. Then he turned to Jerry.

"You have a lot going on, you need to get all that sorted out." He said, in a far more serious tone than Jerry had seen to this point. It was obvious at that moment that he knew far more than he had let on.

Jerry nodded.

"Molly isn't going anywhere!" He said.

"Dad!" Molly exclaimed.

"Shut up, honey. I like Jerry just fine, I think he is a good man but he has to get his shit together. He still has a wife, there is no way in hell you two are ready to start a life together!"

Jerry knew the man was right. He saw Molly's shoulders slump. She was so young, and impulsive, but there was no way she could stand up to this powerful man.

That afternoon, he shook hands all around, hugged Molly for a long time.

"I will be back as soon as I can." He told her.

"It's OK, Jerry. I will wait for you, I still need to know." She had a small tear in her eye as he climbed into his truck.

The long trip back seemed to take forever. Jerry did not want to go back, he now knew the one place on earth he wanted to be.

+++

Courts take their sweet time, there were long periods that Jerry almost forgot about what he faced. His job kept him busy, weekends he drove the long trip to see Molly. 

Both Sam and Dotty welcomed him, unconcerned when they retired for the evening to her bedroom. after a few weeks he felt himself nearly accepted.

He even gained some weight, it was rather hard not to the way Dotty cooked. Every single meal was mountains of food, all of it wonderful.

He discovered that Molly could produce food just as good as her Mother, she had learned well. 

She also was good around the ranch, he watched one day as a big calf that had somehow become injured decided to put up a fight at the idea of being cornered. He had managed to grab it's tail himself, all that did was get him dragged around the field for several minutes while she laughed hysterically at his antics.

But he did manage to slow the large beast down, Molly darted up alongside and reached over to catch the opposite front foot. Using her weight, she threw her shoulder into the creature and down it went, Molly on top.

A piece of string appeared in her hand and she had the hind feet tied in an instant. The animal gave up and lay there bawling. It's Mother of course came running, completely prepared to kill something. 

Jerry would have broken into a flat out run but Molly stood her ground so he had to himself.

Molly tossed him a flimsy stick, for a moment Jerry wondered just what in the hell he was supposed to do with that.

The Cow had it's head down and was blowing snot, using it's front hooves to toss dirt into the air. 

Molly simply used her own stick to poke at it's face and it came to a stop, not knowing what to do about that.

Jerry did the same when the Cow gave up on her and turned to him, together they drove the Cow off and closed the gate, then went back to the big calf. She expertly doctored the slash on it's hind quarters, it had gotten into a piece of wire or something. She laced in several stitches, added some ointment she had in the back compartment on her ATV. Then she released the Calf, it got up and just stood there with it's head down, mouth dripping.

Opening the gate, the Cow ran over to the Calf, it nearly instantly began nursing.

"There, it will be all right." She grinned.

"That Cow wanted to kill me!" Jerry said.

"Yep. But it was just trying to protect it's baby is all. Cows are easy to handle, they are really stupid. It's the damn Sheep that give us fits." She grinned.

Jerry had already seen that, a lead Ewe would go study a slightly larger than normal spot in a fence, then worry it until it was big enough to get through.

Next thing would be the entire flock on the wrong side of the fence.

Once he had been helping them put a flock into a corral, there was a chute that led into the barn that forced the animals to go in one at a time for shearing. Once they were penned up, Jerry had flipped the gate latch over.

He made it perhaps a dozen steps, one big Ewe walked over and looked at the latch, reached up with it's nose and flipped it open. The gate swung wide when she butted it with her head and the entire flock filed right back out into the open field.

That caused some mayhem, there were two little Border Collies that ran out around the flock and dropped down to stare at them. The flock came to a dead stop and stared right back until one of them broke the stare, then the entire flock turned and went back into the pen.

Molly came over and flipped the gate latch, then reached down and pulled a chain latch up and over it, setting the catch.

"They know all about gates!" She laughed.

Then Jerry looked over at the two Dogs, he could have sworn they had disapproving looks on their faces as they both stared right at him.

For several more weeks it went just like that. He drove the long trip to the huge ranch, then found himself helping with the day to day chores. Sam and Dotty both watched him closely, he knew that.

But it was fun! For quite some time he almost forgot about his real world, losing himself in a way of life he had never known.

Reality always came back, when he unlocked the door to his tiny apartment in town.

+++

One day the phone rang. Jerry was surprised to hear Shelly's voice, there had not even been one single contact.

"How are you, Jerry?" She asked. He was thinking she wanted to talk about their pending divorce. There really wasn't much to talk about, she had already been evicted from the house which was on the market. Jerry knew it was unlikely to sell quickly, and even if it did, there was not going to be any money to fight over.

"I'm fine. What do you want?" He asked.

"I just wanted to thank you for not fighting with me about the separate maintenance." She said.

Jerry just grunted at that. The court had ordered him to pay her a healthy sum. His lawyer had told him that it was too bad he had gone back to work or it could have been much less. Her job at the agency had been put on hold while she recovered from her injury.

Jerry had seen the medical report, and he knew Shelly was playing that for all it was worth.

There was nothing to fight over, though. The position he was in meant he paid it and that was that.

"I also wanted you to know that I forgive you." She added.

"What?"

"I forgive you, I understand that you were mad and didn't mean to hurt me."

"You have to be kidding me." He said.

"No, I'm not, I am serious. I still love you, I always have! I was thinking maybe..if you want to..we could go out, have a nice dinner and..talk?" Jerry recognized the tone in her voice, it was one he was completely familiar with.

"That's not a good idea." Jerry said finally after a long pause.

"Sure it is. It can be like it was before, a nice night out and then we can maybe have some fun..like we used to? I will even wear one of those outfits you like so much. Maybe with no underwear, would you like that? I miss your cock, even if it isn't as big as Art's is." The tone in her voice went seductive, even though the words were designed to piss him off.

That worked, too.

"Shelly, you were cheating on me! There is no way in fucking HELL I am going to go out with you."

"Oh, don't be like that. I am trying to make up with you, I told you I forgive you for doing that, I know you didn't mean it." She said.

"Mean it? Mean it? The hell I didn't, I wish I had fucking KILLED you, you bitch! You and that fucking Barnes motherfucker! You forgive ME? You fucking CUNT!" Jerry blew his stack, screamed into the phone.

"Art can reach places in me that you don't even get close to, sweetie." She had a nasty tone in her voice now.

Then there was dead silence on the line, that made Jerry even madder.

"I just might come over there and FINISH the God Dammed JOB!" He yelled.

He heard a tiny titter in the background, the phone went dead.

"Now what in the hell was that all about?" He thought, still fuming.

+++

There were three of them, all big. They put him in handcuffs, once again Jerry found himself locked up in a jail cell.

"That was pretty stupid. Why did you threaten her?" His lawyer said the moment he walked in.

"I didn't, not really. She pissed me off. She called me, telling me she forgave me for God's sakes. The bitch was cheating on me, she has to be crazy."

"Well, they have you on tape threatening her, and Barnes. That's a violation of the restraining order." He said.

"She called me!" He protested.

"That's not what they say."

"They? You mean the son of a bitch was there?"

"Apparently."

Jerry sighed. It took until that moment for him to realize that they did exactly that. Then the lawyer played the short recording. All there was on it was his voice, screaming, right after Shelly's pleasant voice asked him to dinner.

"That has been modified." He told the lawyer, a sinking feeling hit him.

"Probably. But this is not good at all." The lawyer said.

+++

The sour faced old Judge glared at Jerry. Then he shook his head. They had played just the portion of the entire tape for the court. Shelly's voice sounded pleasant, she actually sounded now like she was trying to solve things, make peace.

Jerry heard his own voice screaming in rage, he knew he sounded completely insane.

"This man is far too dangerous to let loose on the general public." The prosecutor said.

"It should be obvious to the court that this was a deliberate attempt to bait my client. He is the one who is horribly wronged here, his wife was cheating on him with Mr. Barnes, that evidence is clear. This is nothing more than an attempt to get revenge." Jerry's lawyer was trying.

"It is your client that was making the threats." The Judge said simply.

"There is no evidence of an affair, either."

Jerry found himself right back in the jail cell.

+++

Days bled into weeks, the weeks became a month. Several times his lawyer dropped by to give him updates. 

Then one day a young woman was with him.

She introduced herself as Carrie Anderson, also an Attorney.

"I don't think I can afford another...." Was as far as Jerry got. He was already resigned to going to jail.

"It's taken care of, it seems you have some friends. I am taking over the case, we have an entire team to help." She smiled at him. 

"Friends?" Jerry asked.

"Yes. Sam Martin and his wife." She smiled.

"There is also a message, they said you would understand it."

"What it it?" Jerry was confused.

"Good breeding stock?" She had a puzzled look on her face.

Jerry grinned at that.

+++

Things suddenly began to progress very rapidly. The powerful Mr. Art Barnes could control things in the little city, he could not control outside forces.

In very short order they had absolute proof the tape had been edited. A trace on Jerry's own cell phone as to where the phone call came from turned out to be from Art Barnes office phone.

Jerry found himself released again on bail in just three days.

The very first thing Jerry did was retrieve his truck and make the drive to Idaho. Molly very nearly knocked him down when she ran over and hugged him.

Sam and Dotty stood on the porch, beaming.

"I want to really thank you guys, but why did you do that for me?" He asked.

"We didn't. We did it for Molly." Sam grinned at him.

That evening, Jerry sat and calmly told them everything, for the very first time. He had not done that up to this point, although he had told Molly. But he also found out they already knew most of what had happened.

Once again Jerry found himself feeling nearly at peace. That evening he lay in bed with Molly, her body snuggled up as tightly as she could get.

Something had been different, he could not quite put his finger on that. Her nipples had flattened out into large pink circles, her loins were swollen, he could feel that.

"I am ready." She told him in a whisper. Jerry grinned happily, she had accepted him. Molly was his, forever.

+++

Finally just one short month later it was the day of the trial, it was a different Judge but he was still a sour faced old man.

The case went about as Jerry expected. Both Barnes and Shelly testified that they were having a normal business meeting, and since it was a long day, Shelly had paused to freshen up in her private bathroom.

Then they claimed that Jerry had burst in and just started firing.

Of course Jerry's team countered with it being 2 O'clock in the morning, in the bedroom at her house.

The prosecution displayed at big chart, explaining their version of what happened. It showed Barnes sitting on the bed reading when Jerry had "burst" in.

His team countered with the question of how Jerry could have burst in and began firing, Barnes had to have gotten up and advanced.

Since Jerry was in his own bedroom, being advanced upon by the very large Mr. Barnes, it was self defense. He had no way to know that Barnes was only there invited, he could have been a burglar, even a rapist.

Jerry was protecting his home.

Members of the jury cast glances back and forth with each other.

Shelly was brought back to testify, she again claimed innocence at the idea of carrying on an affair.

Photographs appeared, showing both her and Art Barnes in compromising situations. Jerry knew about those, they had been taken long after both of them were released from the hospital.

It popped into his head that Barnes had been shot in the crotch, but it was clear from the photos that he had healed nicely.

Shelly stumbled and lost her composure at the photos.

The work was from a very good private detective agency. Those appeared to be a surprise to some people. They were displayed on a very large screen.

It was quite clear to Jerry that Shelly had lied, Art Barnes most certainly was not larger than he was. The prosecution tried to protest at the explicit nature of the photos, but it was far too late, everyone had seen them.

There was a gasp in the courtroom, people turned to look at the disruption. Art Barnes wife had jumped up. 

"You son of a bitch!" She screamed and stormed out, leaving him sitting there. He looked to be completely miserable.

Jerry glanced at Carrie Anderson, she never changed expression.

"Overruled!" The stern Judge said to the prosecution's continued protests.

The next photos showed the scene, taken by the police. The rumpled bed was clear in the photos, the magazine lying on the opposite side of the bed, as was the fact that Shelly was lying there naked after he had shot her.

No one bothered to blur anything there, either. Jerry glanced at Shelly now sitting off to the side, her head was down, her face flaming.

+++

Later, as they talked in the lobby during a break, Carrie explained that the case would be over except for one little problem.

"What's that?" He asked.

"You shot your wife. Shooting Barnes is a walk, that was justified. Shooting your wife was over the top. We can go for temporary, a flash of rage, maybe. Try that at finals, perhaps get some sympathy from a few of the jurors? It's too late to go for temporary insanity now, this Judge will never go for it."

"How about I just tell the truth?" Jerry said.

"We can try that. What would you say?"

"The bitch pissed me off." He said flatly.

"That will get you a guilty of assault with a deadly weapon, you know?"

"Yes, I know. But it's the truth."

Carrie sighed, then nodded.

+++

"On the charge of attempted murder, how do you find?" The judge asked. The jury foreman stood there, papers in hand.

"Not guilty."

"On the charge of Assault one?"

"Guilty." The man sat down. The entire courtroom was dead silent. Jerry had already noticed that Art Barnes was nowhere to be seen, Shelly was also not there.




A Case of Self Defense



The old Judge shuffled some papers in front of him.

"What a mess." He said finally.

Jerry was told to stand.

"Son, you can't just go around shooting people, no matter how mad you are." Then he shook his head.

Carrie had explained to him that this Judge had a tendency to talk a lot when giving his sentence, so he just stood there waiting.

"At least you didn't kill anybody, that's a good thing."

"I think." He added, looking around at the courtroom. That got a titter from the room.

"Quiet!" The Judge banged his gavel, then he grinned, but quickly covered that.

"Sex, lies. Cheating. Violence. Dirty little schemes for revenge, good lord, the things some people do." Then he looked down at Jerry.

"Five years." He said. 

Jerry's heart sank.

"Suspended, probation. Time served. Now get out of here!" The Judge got up and walked out, not looking back.

Jerry stood up, hugged Carrie. Then he turned to look at Molly, sitting there in the audience. She was smiling and crying at the same time.

The Sun was shining when Jerry walked out of the courtroom, holding Molly's hand.

+++

There was almost no argument when the last meeting on his divorce was held just a few days later. Her lawyer was there, she wasn't.

The demand for separate maintenance was dropped, since the math showed that Shelly now made more than Jerry did.

It's hard to make much money while in a jail cell.

The Sun was shining when he walked out of that office, also.

+++

The big Dodge diesel was purring as they drove down the nearly empty highway towards Idaho. Molly was leaned back in her seat, her blouse off, her breasts bared to the morning Sun.

"We are coming up on a truck." Jerry warned her.

"I don't care, let him have his jollies. You don't mind, do you? The Sun feels good."

Jerry just laughed, flipped on his signal and pulled out around the big rig. It was laboring up a long grade so the driver would need to look quickly, if he even noticed at all.

"Say, what do you think about us getting married, Honey?" She asked, as soon as he was settled back in the right lane.

"Fine with me, do you want to?"

"Yep, sure do. Besides, you have to."

"I have to? Why?"

"We didn't use a condom." She grinned.

"We never did, what's that got to....OH!"

"Remember at the house that night, I told you I was ready?"

"Oh. That's what you meant, I thought you meant we were ready to be together?"

"I was. So?"

"So what?" He teased her.

"My Dad has a gun!" She broke out laughing.

"He won't need it." Jerry grinned.

The Sun was still shining when they pulled into the big ranch house. Far up on the crest of the hill above the house, a huge Bull was mounting one of the Cows.

Somehow that seemed perfectly fitting.

"I want to go down by the creek." Molly told him.

"Why?" Jerry asked.

"So I can welcome you home properly." She grinned.

Sam and Dotty came out of the house as they got out of the truck. Molly waved at them, then reached for Jerry's hand.

He glanced back as she tugged him down the hill towards the creek, Sam and Dotty were laughing as they went back inside the house, also holding hands.

On the soft grassy bank, she stripped naked. 

"Hurry up!" She told him, then she was helping him, her fingers urgent. He started to reach for her but she knelt down, pulling Jerry to a kneeling position facing her.

Naked, facing each other, he somehow knew what to do. He reached out and took both of her hands in his. They looked into each others eyes for a very long time.

Then she slid into his arms. Their joining was slow paced, surrounded by birds singing and the soft sounds of the little creek.

As they lay in each others arms, basking in the delightful setting, in the distance the powerful Bull let loose with his bellow.

Jerry threw his head back, doing his best to duplicate the sound. Molly went into hysterics at that.

"You need to work on that part." She giggled.

"What about the other part?" He smiled.

"You mount just fine, honey!"

Laughing, they got dressed and walked back up to the house.

Jerry knew that for the first time in his life, he was really home.



A Case of Self Defense



"Please," the blonde begged. "I've never . . . he's never been there . . . it hurts too much."

"Karen," he snapped, "this is what it's going to take to keep your job. Got it?"

She cried in response, and at that his flagging erection was rejuvenated.

This was his favorite. Of all of them, even Susan Flowers in auditing, this was definitely his favorite.

CHAPTER FIVE

Benjamin Bradford was uncomfortable. Sure, he'd been to these soirees before, but he never fit in. Even with Jennifer at his side, introducing him to the bigwigs of Jensen National Bank and proudly proclaiming the success of his business and what a wonderful, sexy, smart man he was, he still never felt comfortable.

They were surrounded by junior and senior vice presidents, more than a hundred of them, and their spouses. All were dressed straight from Preppies R Us in their designer chinos , tailor- made blue Oxford button down shirts, and thousand dollar Italian loafers without socks. The women were similarly attired in breezy cotton blouses, pleated shorts or capris, tasteful leather sandals, and tastefully expensive jewelry. And here was Brad, in a pair of dockers and a golf shirt, Citizen EcoDrive watch rather than Rolex.

Jennifer neither noticed nor cared, though. She still proudly showed him off to her fellow workers, hand in hand with Ben, and chatted easily with all of them.

"Ben," she said, "I'd like you to meet Susan Flowers and her husband Clark."

Ben turned his head, and his eyes went wide.

"Hello, Ben," Clark Flowers said, extending his perfectly manicured hand and giving a firm handshake. "Clark Flowers."

Ben shook the proffered hand, but his eyes stayed riveted to Susan Flowers.

"Ben, honey," Jennifer giggled, "you're staring."

He cleared his throat and tried to laugh, but it came out as a choking gurgle.

"I know," Clark said, "uncanny, isn't it?"

Ben nodded. Susan Flowers and Jennifer could've been twins. Nearly the same height, about five six, both slim and blue eyed with short blonde hair.

"See anything you like?" Susan laughed, offering her hand and shaking Ben's.

His eyes traveled the length of her body, then turned and looked Jennifer up and down. "Wow," he said. "Were you two separated at birth?"

They all laughed. "Makes it hard around the office sometimes," Susan said. "People are constantly mistaking us for each other. And I think Jennifer here sometimes takes advantage of it, don't you darling?" She placed a hand on Jennifer's forearm.

Jennifer grinned in response. "If they want to think it's the Senior Vice President in charge of Auditing instead of lowly little Junior Vice President me, then who am I to embarrass them?"

"You go girl," Clark said.

"Oh honey, look," Susan said, pointing over Ben's shoulder. Ben turned to follow her finger as she spoke, "It's Alain, from Commercial Paper. I wanted to introduce the two of you, remember?"

"Of course," Clark said, turning to Ben and nodding before following his wife.

"Who's Alain?" Ben said, turning back to Jennifer.

She hesitated before answering. "He's bad news," she whispered.

Ben's eyes traveled back to Broussard. "How so?"

"Just bad news. Stay away from him."

He nodded.

"Who's bad news?" a loud voice said.

"Oh Ben," Jennifer said, tugging his hand to get his attention, "it's Mr. Jensen."

"Please, Jennifer, it's Horace," he said.

Ben looked at the man before him, the President and Chief Executive Officer of Jensen National Bank. He was short, an inch or so shorter than Jennifer, and built like a block. He had a full head of silver hair, craggy face with a deep tan, square jaw line to match the square frame, and twinkling eyes of hazel. Ben guessed his age as sixty, but he could've been ten years either side of that. Either way, he looked to be in good shape, solid and strong for so short a man. And unlike every other person there, he was dressed in a pair of faded Levis and Chicago Bulls t-shirt.

"Horace," Jennifer said, "this is my husband, Benjamin Bradford."

"Benjamin," Jensen said, an iron grip shaking Ben's hand, "I'm Horace Jensen. Pleased to finally meet the man behind our little Jennifer's constant happiness."

"Please, sir," Ben said, "it's Ben. And I'm pleased to finally meet the only other man who has apparently recognized what a special woman Jennifer is."

Jensen raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yessir," Ben continued. "I've known since I first met her that she was special, but you have thousands of employees, and you've still managed to move her up the ranks faster than most, so I know you've seen it, too."

Jensen grinned, and Jennifer tapped his arm with a fist. "Quit it, Ben," she said, though the delight in her eyes said otherwise.

"What do you do for a living, Ben," Jensen said, taking a sip of his drink.

"I'm a systems security analyst."

Jensen's eyebrows rose. "And what's a systems security analyst do?"

Ben cleared his throat. "Well, sir, we break into secure computer systems."

"So you're a professional hacker?"

"Something like that," Ben said, taking a pull on his beer before continuing. "We're hired by companies–banks, mostly, but other companies, too–to try and break into their mainframe systems. We come at them from all different angles to see how secure their systems are. The theory is that if we can't do it, you're probably safe from others. If we can break in, though, we work with the company to create protocols and security features."

Jensen nodded, thinking for a minute before speaking. "Can you wait here a minute?"

"Sure," Ben said.

"Honey," Jennifer whispered in his ear, "I think you've got his attention."

"It would be nice," Ben said, turning back and seeing the look on her face. It was hard to read. Was she excited? Nervous? "I promise," he said, "I won't embarrass you, okay?"

She nodded. "I know, baby."

"Ben," Jensen said, returning with a tall, thin, dark-haired man in his late thirties. "Ben, this is Jeff Richards, Chief of Electronic Security."

Ben and Richards shook hands. He looks nervous, Ben thought. Richards's eyes dated to Jennifer.

"Hi, Jennifer," he stuttered.

"Hello, Jeff," she said.

"Ben's a systems analyst," Jensen said. "You ever hear of that?"

"Sure," Richards replied. "They're hired to evaluate the integrity of system security."

"We have one of those?"

Richards shook his head. "Just me and our people," he said, looking back at Ben with annoyance.

He thinks his people are enough, Ben thought.

"You think that's enough?" Jensen prodded, reading Ben's mind.

Before Jensen could respond, Ben cut in. "No," he said, "it's never enough." Seeing the flash of anger on Richards's face, Ben continued. "Look, I'm sure you're more than qualified. Hell, you're probably better at my job than I am. The problem is, you're only looking at it from your angle, from how to keep the system secure. No doubt you keep up on all the new tricks. You read the manuals and the publications, and you adjust as necessary. But there's a problem with that."

Richards glared at him, but Jensen was intrigued, mulling over what Ben had said. Ben knew he had him, and he waited a minute before continuing.

"The problem," Ben said, "is that the new break-in technique has already happened before anyone could publish anything about it."

Jensen nodded, agreeing with the conclusion. "Makes sense, don't you think?" He nudged Richards, who now looked like a spring about to uncoil.

"Yes," he squeaked, clearing his throat before continuing. "Yes, it does make sense. But how do we know when you've done it? And that you won't mess anything up if you manage to get in."

Ben laughed. "Because I give you a complete audit report," he said. "And because if I screw anything up or get caught doing anything illegal, I lose my business and wind up in jail. That's why."

"Your business?" Jensen said. "You work for yourself?"

Ben nodded. "I've got employees, of course. Four of 'em. All specialists, all highly trained, and all as honest as the day is long. Mr. Jensen, we're good at what we do, and I recommend you give us a try."

Ben looked at Jennifer, who smiled at him before he continued. "If you don't want to use us, or if you thinks our costs are out of line, I still recommend you hire someone to audit your system. I'll be glad to recommend some very good firms."

Jensen beamed at him. "I don't think that'll be necessary, son," he said. He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to Ben. "You call me first think Monday and we'll schedule a time to meet and go over the specifics. But I like what I'm hearing, and I'd prefer to keep this in house. Right, Jennifer?"

She hugged Jensen, who was at first embarrassed by the sudden show of emotion. "Thank you, Horace. You won't be disappointed, I promise."

What was that look Ben saw on Richard's face when Jennifer hugged Jensen? Was it anger? Jealousy? Lust? He couldn't tell, but it made him nervous.

He watched Richards stalk across the lawn toward Broussard and Susan Flowers. When the three were together, Richards started talking, and Ben saw three pairs of eyes turn and stare at him. He looked away, embarrassed at being caught.

CHAPTER SIX

Jennifer walked in the front door and laid her purse on the stand beside the closet.

"I'm home," she called, hearing voices in the back of the house.

"Family room," Ben called.

"Mommy," the twins shrieked in unison, and she heard their clumsy thuds as they ran to find her.

"Hey, babies," she said, stooping and scooping a twin in each arm.

"Ashley and me are reading," Allison said.

"Oh really," Jennifer replied, turning to Ashley. "That true?"

Ashley nodded solemnly. "The Horton book."

"Horton Hears A Who?"

Ashley nodded again and whispered, "It's my favorite."

"Not me," Allison shrieked. "I like Sam I am."

"Well I like them both," Jennifer mediated.

"Good," Ben said, smiling as he walked up and took Ashley from her arms. "Then you can read Green Eggs and Ham to them at bedtime."

Jennifer smiled as he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. They walked into the kitchen for supper.

"How was work, sweetie?" he asked behind her.

"Long." She glanced at the clock on the stove. Eight ten.

"You knew being a veep would bring longer hours," he said. He put Ashley into her high chair and pushed it to the table before turning and giving her a soft look. "You don't have to keep doing this you know."

She shot a weary smile at him. "I know, Ben. I want to be with you." She squeezed Allison tighter to her. "And with you, you little monster." Allison giggled, wiggling as she was placed into her high chair. "But it'll only be six or eight more months. Then I'll have the systems down, the job down, and everyone else taken care of. Then I'll have my life back; we'll have our lives back."

He only nodded before turning to pull down plates and serving the food. They'd been having this conversation for the past year, and she knew Ben was losing his patience. Still, if he could just be patient for a while longer, ten months at the outside, things would settle down and they could get back to normal.

"What did Theresa make for us today?" she asked, trying to lighten the mood.

"Tamale pie," he said, scooping the casserole onto the plates.

Jennifer laughed. "You really need to ask her to make some plain food once in awhile. All of this Mexican cooking is giving me an ulcer."

Ben put plates in front of the girls, both of whom started shoveling the food into their mouths. He turned and hugged Jennifer and said, "They don't seem to mind. Besides, that's what you get for hiring a Hispanic nanny. Mexican food and bilingual children."

"Next time I'm hiring a French nanny," she murmured into his ear as she hugged him back, enjoying the feeling of his arms and body enveloping her.

"No problem," he said, leaning in and brushing his lips and tongue over her ear. "French is good," she heard him chuckle as electric shocks from his lips went into her brain.

"You men are all pigs," she laughed, pushing him away and taking their plates to the table.

When she sat, she winced with pain.

Ben noticed her grimace and raised his eyebrows.

"Fell at work," she explained. "Wet spot on the floor. I landed hard, and I think I bruised my tail bone."

"You okay?"

She heard the tone, and saw the sympathy spread across his face. "I'll be fine," she reassured him. "Just give me a few days before our next . . . workout."

He flashed a grin. "Okay. But just a few days."

She smiled back and started eating.

"So did you meet with Mr. Jensen today?" she asked.

He nodded, grinning.

"And?"

His grin got bigger. "I've got it. I'll be starting soon, after I get done with some things and get the team together and briefed."

"How soon?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Not telling. Don't want you accidentally tipping anyone off."

"Fair enough," she said, pushing her mostly uneaten plate aside. "Did you get a good deal, though?"

He nodded with enthusiasm. "Oh yeah, we got a good deal all right. A real good deal."

"Well don't be too greedy, dear," she warned. "Remember, I work there."

He laughed. "It wasn't me," he said. "Jensen must've spent the whole weekend on the phone. He had rates from everyone else, knew what they all charged. When he found out I was less, he insisted on a higher rate. I tried to argue with him, but he insisted. Says so long as I do a good job, he'd pay me a fair price. If he's not pleased, he'll pay the lower rate–the standard–but he'll pay top dollar if he thinks the work is top dollar. Kind of a bonus, I guess."

Her eyes went wide. "And you think you can give him top notch?"

He nodded. "I guarantee."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jeff Richards watched the monitor as Benjamin Bradford walked out of the elevator and toward his wife's desk. He followed the screen as she smiled up at him while Ben leaned down and kissed her cheek. She stroked his hair and murmured something to him. He laughed, and Richards wished he had audio to go with the visual.

"Keep an eye on him," Richards directed the man and woman sitting in front of the monitors. "Take notes. Wherever he goes in this building, I want to know it. He takes a leak, I want to know the size of his pecker, got it?"

They nodded and started taking notes.

"He's the security specialist," Richards continued. "He gets into this system, we may all be out of a job. Got it?"

They nodded, scribbling faster and peering more intently at the screen. They watched Ben's eyes scan over the room while saying something to Jennifer, who was logging out of her computer and reaching for her purse. Then they followed Ben from monitor to monitor as he left Jennifer at her desk to finish logging out while he walked toward the men's room. They watched him in the men's room–relieving himself before washing his hands and combing his light brown hair–and watched him leave the men's room. Then they followed him intently as Jennifer gave him a tour of her department before leading him back to the elevator from whence he came. Finally, they noted Ben and Jennifer leave the elevator on the first floor and exit the building.

None of the three paid attention to the short African-American janitor shuffle his cart into a supply closet and disappear for twelve minutes before reappearing and shuffling back down the hallway toward other offices.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ben sat in his office workshop, staring intently at the computer screen before him. Ron Washington had hooked a palm-sized computer into the systems lines running through the supply closet, and that little miracle of modern technology was now transmitting to Jeff's office computer. He was at the portal to the system, trying to decide how best to begin.

First, he had to select a target. Whose password should he seek in infiltrating the system? He smiled. Broussard, the arrogant, smirking shit Jennifer had told him was bad news. Well, Ben thought, let's see if there's any truth to that rumor. In Username, he typed Broussard. The computer told him it didn't recognize the username. He typed in ABroussard. Again, no recognition. He nodded. This was standard. In a company as large as Jensen National, there would be any number of Smiths, and nearly as large a number of Smiths with the same first initial. It was just a matter of how many initials to use for the first name. System security rarely worried about username security; they almost always concentrated on password security. After four more tries, he finally got in on the full name: AlainBroussard.

Now came the more tedious part: cracking Broussard's password. He thought of the most obvious method, merely calling the IT help desk and requesting a password verification. Such calls were received dozens of times a day, and help desks routinely gave them out over the phone. Still, if he was unsuccessful–or if they had an extra layer of security at the help desk, such as insisting on going to Broussard's actual terminal and typing in the password themselves in front of him before confirming his password–Ben would be tipping his hand and letting Richards know he was already in the system.

Ben thus decided to start easy with a hybrid attack on the password. The easiest password attack was a dictionary attack, which battered the login screen with nearly every word in the dictionary until the password was found and entry to the system gained. Dictionary attacks worked well on invading home systems, where users are rarely security conscious and needed easier passwords so they would remember them in the future. Unfortunately, dictionary attacks almost never worked in corporate systems because corporations are far more security conscious. Still, the user had to be able to remember the password, so corporate passwords usually consisted of words joined with numbers or keypad symbols. Hybrid attack software is designed to deal with just such passwords by bombarding the system with millions of combinations of letters, numbers, and symbols until entry is gained. Depending on the complexity of the password, such hybrid attacks could take days to gain entry.

Ben decided to wait until after 6:00 p.m., the end of the work day, before starting the hybrid attack. Otherwise, there was a high likelihood Broussard could still be logged into his computer, and the system would be alerted that a double entry was being attempted. Though double entries are not uncommon–people frequently stay logged in over lunch and log in from a remote laptop while eating–Ben guessed Richards would be tracking such double entries, particularly at times when they would be uncommon.

Ben slipped the disk into his computer and fired up the hybrid attack software. He typed in Broussard's username, typed the time parameters, and left his office, locking the door behind.

Time to wait.

CHAPTER NINE

Ben and Jennifer walked hand in hand into their bedroom, shutting the door behind them. The girls had been put to sleep, and Jennifer was no longer sore. She was horny.

"How about a little gymnastics?" she suggested, nibbling the back of Ben's neck as he unbuttoned his shirt.

"You ready?" he said, his hands unworking the buttons faster.

"Oh yeah," she said, her tongue darting into his ear before sucking on his earlobe. She felt the shiver run through his body.

His shirt unbuttoned, he turned and pulled her close, kissing her with longing. Without conscious thought, her body responded, her tongue seeking his while her hips ground into him.

"I've missed this," she mumbled in his ear as he worked down the buttons of her blouse. Done, he tugged her blouse off and reached behind her, unclasping her lacy bra while pulling her to the bed with him.

"Me, too," he said, leaning in to lick and kiss her bare neck as he sat on the bed and pulled her onto his lap.




A Case of Self Defense



Their hands each went to the other's pants, getting in the way, and she felt his hands move away and to her breasts, cupping and squeezing them while she zipped his pants down and reached in to grasp his hard cock.

Without warning, his hands went to her ass and squeezed her cheeks, lifting her off his lap while his mouth zeroed in on her breasts. Standing, he sucked her nipple in, grating his teeth over the tightening nubbin before switching to her other breast and repeating the process.

Jennifer groaned her approval from deep in her chest while arching her back and thrusting her nipples further into his greedy mouth. Ben was the best, she thought. She'd been apprehensive about marriage, worried that their sex lives would wind down into the monotonous routine of twice a week missionary fucks. But that had never happened. Rather, Ben was always hungry for her, and he was constantly inventing new ways to drive her to greater heights. Making love with Ben was never slow and tender, though he could be patient and certainly lavished her body with more than enough attention. No, making love with Ben was all about need and desire and hunger, all about trusting each other to satisfy their mutual needs. She suspected some of his time on the computer was spent surfing internet porn, but she didn't care so long as he continued to surprise and amaze her. Ben had long ago broken all of her inhibitions about the ways two people could please each other, and she never wanted to give this up.

Ben lowered her, and Jennifer's feet touched the floor. She stood there as his mouth trailed lower while his hands undid her pants and pulled them down, leaving her standing in only a pair of lacy white thong panties. He started kissing her mound through the panties, simultaneously lifting her left leg. In response, Jennifer put her left foot on the bed over Ben's shoulder and leaned into him, supporting herself with her hands on his broad shoulders.

"Please, baby," she pleaded, wanting him to quit teasing and just ravish her.

In response, she felt the thong pushed aside as a finger pushed into her to the hilt. She gasped at the invasion, then rolled her hips into his face as he took her clit into his mouth, his tongue circling the throbbing nerve ends insistently.

"Oh God," she groaned after a minute of the attack as she felt a second finger join the first and begin sawing in and out, stretching her lips open. "Keep going."

He did, and her first orgasm jolted through her body seconds later, her bucking hips doing nothing to remove his mouth from her soaking pussy.

The orgasm over, her legs sagged with the relief, and she felt his lips leaving her and his hands again picking her up by the ass. He turned her and laid her back on the bed.

"What's next," she grinned, her eyes still half closed in post orgasmic bliss.

Ben only flashed a wolfish smile in response, pushing his pants down his slim hips and exposing his smooth, throbbing erection.

"My turn," he said, pushing her back on the bed before leaning in and again attacking her with his lips, tongue, and fingers. She was still sensitive, but his touch was lighter this time, and he spent time away from her clit, concentrating instead on her soaking, swollen labia. Jennifer watched him for a minute before she saw his body swiveling on the bed, his cock getting nearer her mouth.

When he was above her, she reached up and squeezed his tight ass with one hand while grasping the base of his cock with the other. Her tongue licked around the ridge of his head, teasing him. She felt him lightly flicker her clit with his own tongue, then move away as her hips jutted off the bed. They teased each other like this until Jennifer was sure her sensitivity had vanished, then, without warning, she sucked the head of his cock into her mouth and started pumping him while her other hand sought his clenched rosebud.

In response, Ben's hands each grabbed an ass cheek as he started tracing his tongue the length of her opening, concentrating feathery flicks of her clit before resuming the tortuous journey back down and up. As she sucked him in deeper with each bob of her head, Jennifer felt a finger circling her juices over her rosebud before, satisfied she was ready, pressing into her.

Jennifer's sucking increasing at the invasion. Her hand went still at the base and, with her other hand, she pulled him deeper and deeper into her mouth and throat while pressing against Ben's clenched anus. Somewhere in the distance of her building pleasure, she heard Ben gasp–felt the rush of hot breath against her pussy–when she broke through the knot of his anus and pushed in. In response, his finger pushed further into Jennifer and his attention remained centered on her clit.

Groaning around the cock now rising and falling into her throat, Jennifer felt the rapid expulsions of hot breath increase and knew Ben was getting close. She started moving her finger in and out of his ass, circling as she did so. The throbbing increased in his cock, and she saw his sac tighten. She was nearing her own orgasm and strove to join what she knew was only seconds away. When she felt the second finger push into her ass and his tongue circle her clit with blinding speed, she exploded in a bucking frenzy. Holding him deep in her mouth, she felt him explode into her throat and fill her mouth with his salty sweet release. She tried to swallow quickly, but the sensations racking her body overrode all commands from her brain, and somewhere in the back of her mind she felt his cum flowing around his cock and down her chin and cheeks.

Pulling himself from her mouth, Ben said, "Round one over."

She smiled. God, she really had to cut back on her schedule.

CHAPTER TEN

More than an hour, and another orgasm for Ben and countless for Jennifer later, they lay in bed together. Ben was stroking his right hand over Jennifer's sweaty breasts and stomach, enjoying the look of contentment on her face.

"I was surprised at the end there," he murmured.

"Excuse the pun," Jennifer giggled, her eyes closed.

"I was just worried it was too soon," he continued. "I don't want to hurt you, you know?"

She opened her eyes and rolled to her side, facing him and stroking his cheek with her left hand. "I'm never worried about you hurting me," she said, leaning in and brushing her lips lightly over hers. "And you were very gentle–the way you always are when we do that–so I wasn't worried this time either, okay?" He nodded, leaning forward to kiss her.

"Besides," Jennifer said, pushing his shoulder over toward the bed and rolling with him until she was straddling his hips, "I was really in the mood for that tonight."

He watched her face draw near to his and felt her hips rock gently against him. He lifted his head to kiss her while lazily stroking her back and haunches.

Breaking the kiss, Jennifer placed an arm on each side of his head and looked into his eyes.

"How's the work for Jensen going?" she said, worry on her face.

He hesitated before answering, his mind on the hybrid attack that was, a mere fifty feet away, trying to get into the system. Still, he had to keep her out of this; she couldn't know anything or she may inadvertently tip someone off.

He smiled. "Haven't really started yet," he replied.

"Please get going on it, baby," she said, leaning down and pecking his lips. "This could be really good for you–for us. And I want Mr. Jensen to love you as much as I do."

"And how much is that?" he whispered, feeling himself, against all odds, begin to harden against her grinding pelvis.

"Let me show you," she said, slinking down his body and taking him back into her mouth, getting him ready for their first round three in several years.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The next morning, after breakfast with Jennifer and the girls, Ben went to his office as Jennifer went to her car for another day at the grindstone. Turning on his media library before starting, he smiled when he heard Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Bank start the mournful opening of "Thunder Road." A good sign, he thought, starting the day with one of his all-time favorites.

Sitting at the main terminal, he sipped his coffee while shaking the mouse with is left hand to bring the screen from screensaver mode. He looked at the flashing display on the screen. That goddamned simpleton, Ben thought. He used his name with the addition of 123 as his password. The program probably cracked this an hour after starting.

Ben started typing notes on another computer, the notes that would be the basis of his ultimate report. These people definitely needed a primer on password security in addition to their internal security measures.

Next, Ben started navigating the system, seeing how far he could get. He started with interoffice memoranda and communications, all of which he easily hacked into. He scanned the e-mails back and forth, clicking back and forth.

Feeling mischievous, he decided to send Jennifer an e-mail from Broussard. "Hey Baby, Guess Who?" he typed.

Little more than a minute later, he saw a response. "I told you not to e-mail me. J."

This raised Ben's hackles. Was this bastard harassing her? He decided to take some time and investigate, but first he needed to cover his tracks; he didn't want anyone to suspect he was in yet, including Jennifer. "Sorry. Wrong addressee. A."

Jennifer didn't respond, so Ben went back to Broussard's e-mails and started delving into the history. Eight months back, Ben saw a series of e-mails that raised question marks in his mind. Investigating further, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he searched through the system, he concentrated on finding the clues. Three hours later, he had uncovered the whole trail and was astounded at the clever simplicity of the scheme. He downloaded copies of the strings of code into his external hard drive, along with the few e-mails obliquely referencing the deception.

Still not satisfied he had the whole picture, Ben next returned to the trail of e-mails back and forth that had originally tipped him off. The e-mails ended abruptly, but Ben was well aware that the massive theft was still an ongoing enterprise. Maybe he's running it from a different account, Ben guessed, and scoured the e-mails for other addresses to search through.

An hour later, Ben was logged into Broussard's home e-mail account. The moron had used the same password at home as at work, which left Ben breathless. How could someone so diabolically clever and, to date, untouched be so incredibly careless? Didn't he realize how easy it was to get at this shit?

Through Broussard's home e-mail account, Ben hacked into Broussard's home computer and started searching. He hit the goldmine on the file marked Banking. In that file were thousands of transactions over the past eight months transferring, to date, nearly six million dollars into offshore accounts. In another folder, Ben found the passwords for all of the offshore accounts, which made Ben laugh out loud. Is there no limit to this fucking idiot's ignorance about computer security? Given who he was working with–Ben had by now identified Jeff Richards as one of the two remaining co-conspirators–you'd think someone would have clued him in.

Ben heard a knock on his door.

"Come in," he called, turning the screens off from the prying eyes outside the door.

Theresa breezed in with a small plate holding a sandwich and an apple. "I thought you'd be hungry, Mr. Bradford," she said, placing the plate on the desk in front of him. "You haven't eaten since breakfast."

He looked at the clock. It was four ten, more than nine hours since he'd had a piece of toast with strawberry jam. Bouncing from the caffeine high running through is veins along with the excitement of what he'd uncovered, Ben hadn't realized how late it was or how hungry he'd become.

"Thanks, Theresa," he said, reaching for the sandwich as his stomach growled in anticipation.

"Mrs. Bradford phoned," Theresa continued. "She's running late tonight and probably won't be home until after the girls's bedtime."

With a mouth full of food, Ben only nodded. Finally swallowing, he said, "Okay. I'll be down in a little while and we'll get them fed."

Theresa nodded and left, closing the door behind her.

Finishing the sandwich, Ben took a munch from the apple while turning the computer screens back on. Searching through the file folders for anything that caught his fancy, Ben double clicked on videos. Let's see what kind of shit he's got here.

The folder had individual folders broken down under the first names of various women with a number after each name. Karen 1, Julie 13, Becky 3, Susan 2, and so on. Ben scanned the list and clicked on Becky 3.

A video started playing, the camera stationary on Broussard and a pretty, mid-twenties blonde seated on a couch. They were talking, and Ben turned up the volume.

Becky: I don't want to do this again.

Broussard: You don't really have much choice now, do you?

Becky, a tear running down her face: Please, Mr. Broussard, I– 

Broussard: Call me Alain. It's easier–and more enjoyable for both of us–that way.

Becky: But it's not enjoyable, Alain. No matter what I call you. I'm . . . this is . . . my husband– 

Broussard, unbuckling his pants while leaning over to kiss the woman: He'll never know as long as you play along.

Ben watched in disgust as Broussard yanked the blonde's short hair, pulling her face to his now exposed cock. Scrolling through the video, he saw enough to know it got no better.

Going back to the list, Ben clicked on other videos. Some of the women were more than willing, but most were being forced. There was little indication what Broussard held over their heads to force them into these degrading situations, but it was something that caused most of them to give up all resistance by the third or fourth video. Only a few, Susan, Julie, and Patricia, were in more than ten videos, and all three of them were more than willing to shag Broussard in any deviant manner he wished. The others all ended after six or seven videos, by which time all inhibitions had been forcibly shed. Broussard must've simply gotten bored once he'd made them run the gamut, Ben surmised.

Ben recognized a few of the women from the various bank parties he'd attended with Jennifer. He knew Susan was the woman he'd met at the last party, the woman in charge of the auditing department. He couldn't remember her last name, and the videos didn't give it up. Still, she'd be a perfect third co-conspirator, and Ben made a note to hack into her systems and see what he could find.

Scrolling back to the videos from more than eight months ago, he looked at the list of names. Though he didn't want to watch any more of these videos, something could be there to give him an idea about the identity of the third co-conspirator Richards and Broussard repeatedly referred to in their e-mails. He knew the third party was a female–they always referred to her in the feminine–but there was no clue about her identity.

About to give up, Ben scrolled over a named file from nearly eleven months before. His eyes got wide and he froze, afraid to click on the file. Jennifer 5. He stared at the screen for what seemed like forever but was, in reality, little more than a minute. Then, focusing on the screen, he held his breath and clicked on the file.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rebecca Lyons pulled into the underground garage of her condo complex. Shutting off the car, she opened the door and checked her hair and make up in the rear view mirror. Brushing her hair back with her fingers, she took a deep breath, grabbed her briefcase, and got out of the car. She looked around the well lit garage, seeing no one, before striding to the elevator. She listened for footsteps and her eyes kept sweeping over the parking facility while she waited for the doors to open.

Once the doors opened, she scurried into the elevator, hit Close Doors, then pressed 12. Her body remained taut waiting for the doors to close, and she was only able to breathe normally again when the doors finally closed and the elevator began its ascent.

Nine years later, she thought for the millionth time, and I'm still nervous. Then a tight smile played over her lips. Good, she thought, because if she'd been this cautious in the first place it would never have happened.

When the doors opened on the top floor, Rebecca walked from the elevator, turned the corner, and collided with someone.

"Sorry," she said, instinctively pulling her briefcase tight to her body.

"Rebecca," the man said, and she almost fainted. After eight years, she still recognized the soft lilt he had every time he spoke her name.

"Ben?" She looked at him. Sure enough, Benjamin Bradford in the flesh. Same trim figure, same short cut hair parted on the side, same deep brown eyes, same faded jeans, worn tennis shoes, and t-shirt apparel sense. If not for a few streaks of gray, which she realized seemed premature for a man in his early thirties, and the look on his face, he hadn't changed a bit in eight years.

"Rebecca," he said, "I need your help."

Her face tightened. "How did you get in here?" she demanded. "This building's secure."

He cleared his throat, the look on his face getting more desperate. "I know someone who lives here. An old client. They got me in."

"What do you want?"

"Help," he repeated. "I need your help."

She studied his face. She'd never seen him look like this. All those years they'd dated, four of the best years of her life followed by one of the worst, she'd never seen him . . . afraid. She realized that that's what he looked now. Afraid. And lost. This made her angry.

"Sure, you need my help," she said, brushing against him as she walked toward her door. "Where were you when I needed your help? Huh? Can you answer me that? And now you want my help?"

She heard him following as she unlocked her door.

"That's not fair, Rebecca," he pleaded. "You know that's not the way it happened. I was there for you. I tried my best, you know I did."

She slumped against the door. He was right, he had gone well beyond the call of duty. And he'd have continued if she hadn't forced his hand and broken it off herself. That night had broken her, and after eight months of Ben trying to patiently get her better she knew she wasn't going to get better. Therapy, love, none of it was going to get that night of terror out of her mind for as long as she lived. So she'd done the hardest thing she'd ever had to do, harder even than enduring that night and the aftermath: She'd forced the only man she'd ever loved to leave her.

"Come in," she whispered, opening the door and going into her condo. She flipped on the lights and walked toward her bedroom. "Have a seat and relax while I get out of this monkey suit."

Five minutes later, Rebecca walked back into the living room, feeling far more comfortable in a sweatshirt and a pair of loose fitting jeans. She walked past Ben, who was sitting on the couch, and into the kitchen. "You want something to eat or drink?" she called. Hearing no answer, she grabbed a can of Diet Pepsi, popped it open, and walked back into the living room.

Ben was hunched on the couch now, his head between his hands.

"Ben," she said, curling into the chair opposite him, "what's wrong?"

"I need your help."

"Why me?"

He coughed, a phlegmy rattle rife with angst. "You'll understand once you know what's going on. What he's doing to them." He looked up from his hands and at her, the anger now flashing from his eyes and the twist of his mouth.

"Who? Who's doing what to whom?"

His face went back to his hands before he answered. "I want to hire you. Only after you've agreed can I tell you." His voice was broken and he sounded on the verge of tears.




A Case of Self Defense



Rebecca felt her composure, her cold exterior begin to thaw at the sight and sound of him. She lowered her voice. "Ben, c'mon, is it Jennifer? The girls?"

She heard a gulping sob, but couldn't tell whether it was for Jennifer or the girls. Putting her soda on the coffee table, she got out of her chair and went over to the couch, unsure whether to risk sitting next to him.

It had been like that ever since that night, especially since Ben left. She'd had to force herself to endure human contact, to avoid flinching at the most casual of touches. Still, he was crumbling before her eyes, and she couldn't think of anything else to do. Sitting on the couch beside him, she placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Ben," she encouraged, "you've got to tell me what you want. I can't help you unless you tell me." When he said nothing, she added, "Fine, consider me hired. We'll work out the details later."

He looked up, saw she was serious, and began talking. Low and with emotion at the beginning, but by the end in a dulled monotone.

An hour later, Rebecca could only stare slack jawed as Ben finished telling about all of the deception. Yet, little more than a minute after he went silent, signaling the end of the tale, the lawyer in her kicked in. She flipped the latches on her briefcase, pulled out pen and legal pad, and began writing a plan.

"Okay, Ben," she said, "you wanted my help, and now you're going to get it." The pace of her writing picked up as her anger rose. "And I'm not going to give you much of a choice. We're going to burn their asses, and we're going to burn them but good." 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Two weeks later, Richards sat across from Broussard in the executive dining room.

"We may have a problem," he said, looking around to make sure no one was listening.

Broussard put his fork down and his chewing slowed.

"He may be in the system," Richards continued. "There's some strange log ins. Weird times, unaccounted for double log ins, snooping around in mundane folders."

Broussard speared a piece of carrot and put it in his mouth, chewing methodically while staring at Richards. When he swallowed, he spoke. "Any indications he's accessed any of the files related to the venture?"

Richards shrugged. "No real way to tell. He could've. The chances are slim. Hell, there are millions of files throughout the system, and the chances of just running across that one are slim to none. Still, are you sure there are no trails anywhere else?"

"Trails?" Broussard asked. "What kind of trails?"

Richards leaned into him. "You know, any communications with . . . anyone else . . . about the . . . umm . . . ."

Broussard's eyes narrowed as he pondered the question. "No," he finally intoned. "We've never written it down. Hell, we haven't even spoken in months, in any way, shape, or form."

Richards sighed, feeling the tension leave his body. "And you don't keep any traces of this anywhere else?"

Broussard hesitated before answering. "No, of course not."

Richards knew he was lying. For the first time since this had all started, he felt a wrenching emptiness in the pit of his stomach. "Just make sure you don't," he said.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Across town, Rebecca picked up her office phone.

"Rebecca Lyons," she said.

"It's done," Ben said.

She smiled. This was going to be fun.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Two days later, Jeff Richards was surprised to hear a knocking on his door. It was only six, and she wasn't due for another half hour. She couldn't usually stay too late on Fridays, but he knew this wouldn't take long anyway.

"What's so important you had to see me tonight?" she said breezily, walking past him as he closed the door.

"We've got a problem," he said, for the first time immune to her quiet sexuality.

She spun and he saw anger flash over her face. "What kind of problem?"

"Broussard," Richards said. "He didn't listen to everything I told him. About security."

Her eyes narrowed. "How do you know?"

Richards smiled. "Because I hacked into his accounts," he said. "Both at the office and at home."

"And?"

"And he's got enough there to put us all in jail for a very fucking long time," Richards said, his voice breaking with the anger welling up inside of him.

She slammed her purse on the table. "That fucking idiot," she hissed.

"And there's more," Richards said, walking closer to her.

"Such as?"

"Such as videos," Richards said, grabbing her arm and gripping her tightly. Her eyes went wide. "Didn't know he liked videotaping his sessions with you, did you?" He saw the look of realization flash across her face, and the grip on her arm tightened. 

"Let go of me," she said, trying to jerk her arm from his steely grasp.

"Oh, he videotapes his sessions with all of them. All twenty-four of you, to be exact. But the ones with you were the ones I really liked seeing." She was struggling now, trying to jerk away from him, but he held on as he continued talking.

"I particularly liked the last one," he continued. "The one where you and he plot to fuck me into helping you."

"It wasn't like that," she pleaded.

"It was exactly like that," he thundered. "I watched the fucking video. I heard you, laughing at me." He pushed her onto the sofa now. "Is that all I was to you? Just another fucking patsy? Did I ever mean anything to you?"

She had tears now, streaming down her face. "Not at the beginning you didn't. But you do now. I don't see him anymore. Just you. You're all I want, and you know that."

Richards paused in his anger. She was convincing, and he wanted to believe her. And she was right: There had been no more videos of her and Broussard since that last one. They'd never again been together, of that he was sure. Given Broussard's predilections for recording his conquests, he was sure there'd have been more if she'd have continued.

"You know it's true," she wailed. "Look at me, Jeff. You know it's true, don't you? Maybe not at the beginning, but now it's true. Right?"

Against his will, he felt his head nodding in agreement. It was true. It had to be true. Because if it wasn't, there was no use in continuing. With anything.

"There's more," he said.

Her crying subsided to sniffles, and she was brushing the tears from her cheeks. "What do you mean?"

"The money," he said. "It's gone."

"Gone?"

He nodded.

"That fucking bastard," she screeched, grabbing her purse and flying out the door.

Richards watched her go, again unsure whether she was in it for him or the money.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ben turned over and looked at the alarm clock. A little after six, time to get up. He rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom, relieving himself before brushing his teeth and shaving. Returning to the bedroom, he nudged the sleeping mound under the covers. She had gotten in late the night before, well after he'd already gone to bed, though he'd feigned sleep as she had snuck under the covers..

"Honey," he whispered, "wanna take a shower together?"

She murmured in response and clutched the blankets tighter to her body.

He decided to let her sleep and went to shower.

Freshly showered and cleaned up, he was buttoning his shirt when the doorbell rang. Six thirty on Saturday morning, who the hell could that be?

He trotted down the stairs and to the door. Opening it, he was greeted by a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit, his face a mask of fatigue. He was holding a badge up for Ben to see, and behind him were three uniformed police officers.

"Mr. Bradford?" the suit said. Ben nodded. "Is Mrs. Bradford home?"

Ben paused. "Why?"

"Because we'd like to speak with her," he said.

"And you are?"

"Detective Dale Robertson."

"And what do you want to talk with Jennifer about, Detective?"

"Ben, honey, who is it?" he heard from behind him. He turned as Jennifer descended the stairs.

"It's the police," he said. "They want to . . . . Jesus H. Christ, what the hell happened to you?"

Jennifer flinched, but it did little to hide her battered face. Her lips were split and puffy, one eye beginning to blacken, and her left cheek was swollen and bruised.

"Jennifer," he insisted, "what happened to your face?"

From behind him, Ben heard gasps as the officers apparently saw the signs of her beating.

"Did your husband do this to you, ma'am?" Detective Robinson said.

Jennifer fled back up the stairs without another word.

Ben started following her when the detective's command to stop froze him.

"Did you do that to her?" Robinson asked.

Ben shook his head. "Of course not. Jesus Christ, you think I could hit my wife? What kind of fuckin'–"

"When did you last see her before just now?" Robinson continued.

Ben thought for a moment before speaking. "Why are you here, Detective?"

"Please answer my question," Robinson said.

Ben shook his head. "I don't think so." He looked back over his shoulders toward the stairs, then turned back to Robinson. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Robinson grinned. "Doesn't work that way. We need to speak with your wife, and we need to speak with her right now."

"You got a warrant?" Ben shot at him.

Robinson's lips tightened. "We don't need a warrant."

"Wrong, Detective. This is my house–and her house–and we're in it. You can't come in without a warrant, and you can't take her out without a warrant. You know it and I know it."

"Okay," Robinson said, "we'll get your warrant. And we'll keep someone here to make sure you don't take off. But Mr. Bradford?" He glared at Ben, who glared right back at him. "I won't forget how difficult you made this, okay?"

In response, Ben swung the door shut.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Robinson returned to the Broussard residence and strode into the den, noticing that the coroner's office was jotting down body temperatures on a chart and the crime techs were just finishing packing their equipment.

"Anything since I've been gone?" he asked no one in particular.

"Probable cause of death," the coroner said, still jotting notes. "Knife to the chest, bled out."

"No shit," Robinson smirked, taking in the puddle of blood spread out all around the body.

"Got this, though," said one of the techs. "Thought you'd find it interesting."

Robinson walked over behind the desk and looked at the computer screen.

"We were dusting the desktop and mouse for prints and bumped the mouse. The screen came up and showed us this."

With that, the tech bumped the mouse and the screen lit up. Robinson saw the coroner rise from the body, then looked up and saw the same thing. Looked down, then back up.

"He's got this place set for video?"

"Yep," the tech said, grinning.

"Was it set last night? When this happened?"

The tech shrugged. "Dunno, didn't check. Not my field. Just thought you'd find it interesting."

"Oh, I find it interesting all right," Robinson said, pulling out his cell and phoning in for computer services technicians to get their asses over to the scene.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"What's going on?" Rebecca asked as she walked in the front door.

"I'll give you the whole story later," Ben said. "But for now, the cops were here and want to question Jennifer."

"About what?"

"They wouldn't say. But probably about that thing we talked about last night."

Rebecca's face tightened as she tossed her jacket over the couch. "Where's Jennifer?"

"Upstairs." Ben pointed up the stairwell. "Last door on the right."

"You spoken to her since they left?"

He shook his head. "She locked the door and won't let me in."

Rebecca nodded. "Stay here," she ordered. "Maybe she'll be more comfortable just talking to me."

Ben bit his bottom lip and nodded.

"Jennifer," Rebecca said, knocking on the door. "Jennifer, I'm Rebecca Lyons. I'm an attorney, and I need to speak with you." She heard no response. "Jennifer, please let me in. Ben's not here, he's downstairs. It'll be just you and me, okay? Please, Jennifer, we don't have much time."

She heard padded footsteps, then the door handle clicked and the door opened.

"Can I come in?" Rebecca asked.

Jennifer walked back and sat on the bed, saying nothing. She just stared at Rebecca, who gasped when she saw Jennifer's battered face.

"Jennifer, the police were here." Jennifer said nothing. "Do you know what they want?" After a moment, Jennifer nodded slowly, as if in a trance. "Can you tell me what happened to you?"

Jennifer turned to face Rebecca and again nodded. Then a tear started to trickle down her cheek, and she leaned over into Rebecca and squeezed her in a tight hug.

"Settle down," Rebecca whispered, rubbing Jennifer's back as she felt the damp tears penetrate her blouse at the shoulder. "Jennifer, you've got to be strong now. The police will be back any minute, and I need to know what happened. Okay?"

She felt Jennifer nod against her shoulder, then the hug loosened. After a moment, Jennifer sat back and started to speak.

Thirty minutes later, Jennifer finished her story. Rebecca could only sit there stunned, her mind a whirl of feverish activity. Before she could fully form a plan, she heard the doorbell ring and knew that decision time had arrived.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Robinson waited patiently while the dark haired attorney read the warrant. She's beautiful, he thought, but wounded. There was something about her, a skittishness around people, a hesitation to touch. She only seemed comfortable around Bradford, he realized. Best file that away to look into down the road.

"All right, Detective," she said, handing back the warrant. "Please proceed."

"But Rebecca," Ben said behind her.

"There's nothing we can do, Ben," she said. "It's all in order."

Robinson smiled. "Told you I'd be back, hotshot." He tapped Ben on the shoulder with the warrant as he walked past, leading five uniformed officers and three crime scene technicians into the heart of the house.

The officers and technicians spread out, each going into different areas of the home. Robinson followed their progress before turning and facing Rebecca and Ben.

"Where's Mrs. Bradford?" he asked.

"Upstairs," Ben said.

"Will she be joining us?" He directed this question at Rebecca.

"No, she won't be joining us," Rebecca said. "She's had a very traumatic time, and she's better off resting."

"You know," Robinson said, knowing he was wasting his breath, "if she'd just answer a few questions, we'd be able to leave these people alone."

Rebecca shook her head. "No go, Detective. You should be advised right now that Mrs. Bradford is represented by counsel–me–and she won't be answering any questions unless I'm there. Okay?"

Robinson nodded while willing his blood pressure to go back down. Goddamned lawyers.

"Detective," he heard from his right. Glancing that way, he saw a technician striding in from the garage with a camera held up.

"Right here," he said, showing Robinson the picture on the digital camera. "Just like we thought."

Robinson looked at the picture and, sure enough, there it was. Along the driver's side door was a long scratch through the paint and to the metal running for nearly the length of the door. He smiled. Gotcha, Mrs. Bradford.

"Alfaro," he called out.

"Yeah," a uniformed sergeant replied from the other room.

"You're in charge here 'til I get back, okay?"

"Got it."

"And Sergeant," he called, turning to look at Rebecca and Ben, "don't let Mrs. Bradford leave. She steps a foot out this door, you cuff her and take her in. Got it?"

"Got it," said Sgt. Alfaro, walking into the room.

"We'll play it your way, Ms. Lyons," Robinson said, not bothering to contain his glee. "You just wait here until I get back with the arrest warrant, okay?"

Rebecca only yawned in response. "Please don't take too long, Detective," she said.

His blood pressure went back up at her mocking tone. Then he had two thoughts back-to-back. First, I'll wipe that smirk off your face, counselor. Then second, what does she know that I don't? She's playing this awful cool, even for a lawyer.

The second thought ate away at Robinson even as he drove back to the Bradford residence with the warrant on the seat beside him.

What does she know that I don't?

CHAPTER TWENTY

Lake County State's Attorney Robert Knight was turned out in his best suit and tie for this appearance. He was in the middle of a tight race for State's Attorney, and he needed a very public show of law and order to help him along to his third term. People of the State of Illinois v. Jennifer Bradford was going to be just that vehicle, he'd decided when the file had been brought into the office. To that end, he'd made the decision to personally see this case through from beginning to end.

The courtroom was abuzz with spectators and press, and Knight smiled. This was perfect, he knew. The more of this, the better his chances looked. Now he just had to make sure he secured a quick conviction. He nodded in thought at that. Murder trials could easily take as much as two years to get to trial, and that would be far too late for his purposes. He had to do his best to speed this one along as quickly as possible. The primaries were four months away, and the election thirteen months away. If he could get this to trial by the end of summer, he'd build a wave of momentum that would carry him back into office.

"All rise," the bailiff commanded, and the courtroom fell silent save the shuffling of a hundred bodies coming to their feet. "The Circuit Court for the Nineteenth Judicial Circuit is now in session, the Honorable Judge Gerald Feldman presiding."

Knight smiled as the judge strode through the door from chambers to the bench, taking a seat as the bailiff told everyone they could take their seats, too. Knight was delighted Judge Feldman had been assigned to the case. In his seventeenth year on the bench, he was known as a no nonsense, law and order judge. Sure, Knight knew, he could raise hell with the attorneys if they slipped up, but he'd do his best to get this show on the road.

"Is the defendant here?" Feldman asked the bailiff.

"I'll bring her out, your Honor."

Feldman nodded, and all eyes followed the bailiff to a side door. A minute later, Jennifer shuffled through the door in an orange jail jumpsuit stenciled with Lake County Jail, orange laceless tennis shoes on her feet, and manacles holding her hands to the chain around her waist.

Knight felt himself get aroused at the sight. She was a beautiful woman, someone he'd love to bed if given the chance. Then the smile turned predatory as he realized she would guarantee front page coverage for the duration of the case.

"We're calling People v. Bradford, Case Number 09 CF 2311," Feldman said in a bored voice, shuffling through the file folder in front of him. "Counsel for the State, please identify yourself."

"Robert Knight for the People of the State of Illinois," Knight said, his deep voice booming through the courtroom.

"Counsel for Defendant?"

"Rebecca Lyons of Schwartz, Gillman, your Honor."

Feldman turned to the dark haired wisp of a woman next to him. He noticed for the first time that she was as beautiful as her client, but in a diametrically opposed way. While Jennifer was medium height, blonde haired, blue eyed, with a slim, athletic build, Rebecca Lyons was shorter by several inches, brown haired and brown eyed, with a petite built. And whereas Jennifer, even in her current state, exuded an air of relaxed sexuality, Rebecca Lyons burned with an obvious intensity.

"Ms. Lyons," Feldman intoned, looking over the top of his glasses, "does your client waive the reading of the charges?"

"She does, your Honor."

"Fine. How does she plead to the sole count at this time, murder in the first degree?"

"Not guilty, your Honor."

A murmur arose in the courtroom, and reporter's pens scribbled over their notepads.




A Case of Self Defense



"Quiet," the bailiff called out, and the murmur died.

Feldman smiled at the bailiff before continuing.

"What's the State's position on bail?"

Knight cleared his throat, needing to make sure he was heard throughout the room. "Given the gravity of the charge, the State requests that Defendant be remanded to custody pending trial."

The murmur arose again, and Feldman shot a look at the crowd, who quieted down.

"Ms. Lyons?"

"Your Honor, Mrs. Bradford has strong ties to this community. She has a family, very young twin girls, and a husband who also has ties to the community. She poses no risk of flight. We request that bail be set at a reasonable amount."

Feldman nodded, then scribbled something on the form in front of him. "Bail will be set at ten million dollars, ten percent to apply. If she can post that, she'll have to surrender her passport."

Knight smiled, pleased with such a high bail. Then he heard a thud and turned to his right. Jennifer Bradford had fainted, and the courtroom erupted in noise.

Knight's smile got broader. Oh yeah, he knew, this was going to give him that third term sure as hell.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Five months later, Ben was nervous, his right knee pumping up and down as he sat in the front row five feet behind Jennifer and Rebecca. They had spent the past four days picking a jury, and Rebecca had assured Jennifer and him that it was a good one. Five men and seven women; only one of the men unmarried, but he was engaged; and three of the women unmarried, but that didn't matter with a self-defense claim based on attempted rape.

Ben noticed that Jennifer didn't look well. She was dressed simply in a white blouse and gray skirt, no make up, hair dull with cheap jail shampoo. Most noticeably, she was pale, gaunt, and had dark circles under her eyes. Jail definitely didn't agree with her, he knew. But then again, who does it agree with except psychos and career criminals?

Rebecca, on the other hand, was a model of intense self assurance. She wore a black skirt and jacket over a white blouse, simple cross necklace visible at the base of her slender throat, hair neatly coiffed, eyes blazing intently as Knight finished his opening statement and retook his seat at counsel table, turning to look at Rebecca with raised eyebrows.

"Does the defense wish to offer an opening statement at this time?" Judge Feldman asked from the bench.

Rebecca rose. "No, your Honor," she said. "If the Court will permit, we wish to defer until the commencement of our case in chief."

"The Court will so permit, Ms. Lyons," he responded. Turning to Knight, he said, "Will the State please call their first witness."

"Your Honor," Knight said, standing at the podium and turning toward the door at the back of the courtroom, "the State wishes to call Deborah Broussard."

Ben was expecting this. Rebecca had explained how trials in the real world–those not skewed in made-for-television movies–really worked. The first witness was almost always the life-and-death witness. That was the witness called to testify she had seen the victim just before death and he was alive. Then, she'd seen him after the death, and he was dead. It seemed ridiculous, but to prove a murder you actually had to have testimony that a live person was now dead; then you had to have the coroner testify that the death was by foul means; then you had the remaining array of witnesses to testify that the defendant was the person responsible for that death by foul means. Moreover, Rebecca had told Ben that surviving spouses were inevitably called as the life-and-death witness because they immediately created sympathy with the jury, contempt for the scoundrel charged with ruining this poor witness's life by killing the spouse, and an appreciation that a real person was now dead, struck down in the prime of their happy, idyllic life.

The door was held open by a bailiff, and Deborah Broussard strode down the aisle between the seats and toward the bench. Knight went rigid at her appearance, and Ben turned to look.

Deborah Broussard was dressed in a glittering array of expensive gold and diamond jewelry, attired in a flowing white pantsuit that accentuated her long legs and the glitter of her jewelry. She didn't look anything like the grieving widow, Ben realized, and he turned to catch Rebecca's reaction. Rebecca's lips were pressed, but there was a glint of humor in her eyes.

The witness was sworn in, and Deborah took the witness stand. The first few questions were introductory. Name, address, occupation, how long have you lived there, were you married, to whom, when were you married, did you have any children. Then the fireworks began.

"Mrs. Broussard, prior to the late evening hours of September twenty-third, when was the last time you saw your husband?" Knight asked, setting up the he-was-alive line of questioning.

"On September twenty-first," she answered, the hint of a smile playing over her lips. Ben saw Rebecca focus in on the witness, as curious as he was about the strange reaction of the grieving widow.

"You mean on the twenty-second, don't you?" Knight said, flipping through a stack of police reports in front of him.

"Objection," Rebecca said. "Asked and answered."

"Overruled," Feldman said. "The witness may answer to clarify any confusion."

Deborah smiled at the judge, then turned back to Knight. "No, Mr. Knight, I mean the twenty-first."

"But you previously told Detective Robinson, the lead detective on the case, that you last saw him on the twenty-second, didn't you?"

"Objection," Rebecca said. "He's impeaching his own witness."

"Sustained."

Knight paused, glared at Rebecca then back at his notes, flipped the page of his question list, then continued. "Okay, the twenty-first. Where were you when you saw him?"

"At my house."

"You mean you and your husband's house, right Mrs. Broussard?" Knight corrected.

"No, Mr. Knight. I mean my house. The house is, and always has been, solely in my name."

Ben was smiling now, noticing that members of the jury were mesmerized by her demeanor and at least one of the men on the jury was smiling and nodding his head. She certainly wasn't playing the grieving widow part very well.

"Okay, Mrs. Broussard, you last saw your husband at your house on the twenty-first. Was he alive at that point?"

She snorted. "You could say that, Mr. Knight. But if you want clarification, you may want to ask the floozie he was busy undressing."

Ben almost laughed aloud, and several members of the jury were choking back laughs while several others turned to Knight to catch his reaction.

"Silence," Judge Feldman thundered, quieting the loud murmuring from the gallery. Silence achieved, he turned to Knight and, suppressing a grin, said, "Please continue, Mr. Knight."

Knight swallowed, then flicked off a series of questions with his pen. Finally reaching one he liked, he asked, "Okay, after the twenty-first, when you last saw your husband . . . uh . . . with another . . . when was the next time you saw him?"

"At about ten thirty on the twenty-third, lying in the middle of the floor of his den about five feet from where I'd last seen him two days before."

"And what was his condition at that time?"

Deborah raised her eyebrows. "Why, he was dead, of course."

Knight looked at the witness, unsure whether to continue. After a moment, he said, "No further questions of this witness, your Honor."

With that, Knight flipped the 3-ring binder holding his questions shut, tucked it under his arm, and strode back to counsel's table.

"Ms. Lyons," Judge Feldman said, finishing his notes as he spoke, "does the defense have any questions of Mrs. Broussard?"

"We do, your Honor," Rebecca said, rising to her feet and walking to the jury box. Unlike Knight, who'd remained locked to the podium in the middle of the court well, Rebecca leaned against the jury box. Ben saw every juror's eyes turn to her, waiting for her first question.

"Ms. Broussard," Rebecca said once every eye had settled on her, "I'd like to take this opportunity to express my condolences at the loss of your husband." Deborah nodded. "I'm sure this is very difficult for you," Rebecca continued.

Deborah snorted. "I'm getting through it pretty well, actually."

Several of the women jurors, including all three single women, smiled at the comment. Good riddance to Alain Broussard, Ben knew they were thinking.

"Ms. Broussard, I just have a few questions if you don't mind." Deborah nodded. "You said the last time you saw your husband, he was with another woman?"

"Yes, another in a long line of them."

Ben looked at Knight, who was glaring at the witness. His first witness was already a disaster for the State; she'd turned the entire jury against the victim and painted him as a slimeball of the first order.

"Did you know this woman?"

"No, I hadn't seen this one before."

"What did she look like?"

Deborah pondered this for a moment. "Like most of the rest, I suppose."

"Most of the rest in his 'long line of women?'"

"Yes," Deborah said. "Mid-twenties to mid-thirties, slim, blonde hair. Pretty."

Rebecca swept her arm at Jennifer, and Ben saw his wife tense at the attention of every juror's eyes upon her.

"Like Mrs. Bradford?"

"Oh yes," Deborah said, "a lot like Mrs. Bradford."

"And what was this woman he was with, on the twenty-first, what was her demeanor?"

"Objection," Knight said, rising to his feet. "Relevance."

"Ms. Lyons?"

"They opened the door on direct, your Honor. I think we're allowed to explore this avenue more fully, particularly given the full extent of the testimony so far and the nature of the affirmative defense we've raised in our pleadings."

Judge Feldman nodded. "Overruled. The witness will please answer the question."

"What was the woman's demeanor?" asked Deborah. Rebecca nodded. "She was crying."

"Your husband was undressing her and she was crying?"

"Objection," Knight thundered.

"Overruled," Judge Feldman shot back.

"Yes. She appeared very reluctant. She was crying, telling him this wasn't right, . . . ."

"Objection. Hearsay."

"Doesn't go to the truth of the matter asserted," Rebecca shot back. "Only goes to indicate demeanor of the woman."

"Correct. The objection is overruled," Judge Feldman said. Turning to Deborah, he said, "She was crying and telling him it wasn't right. Anything else?"

"Yes, your Honor, she was just limp. You know, like she was a zombie. She wasn't helping him, just arms at her side, crying him and asking him to stop."

"And what did you do, Mrs. Broussard?" Rebecca asked.

"I told her to come with me."

"Did she?"

"She wouldn't. I told her she didn't have to do anything she didn't want to, but she just sat there. I told Alain to leave her be, but he just smirked and told me she was more than willing. That this was a little game they played from time to time. He said I should hang around to see how fun it could be."

"Did you call the police?"

Deborah dropped her eyes. "No. I offered to, but the woman begged me not to. She said she'd be fine."

Rebecca tapped her knuckles on the jury rail. "Thank you for your honesty, Ms. Broussard." Turning to the bench, she said, "I have no further questions of this witness, your Honor."

Judge Feldman nodded and turned to Knight. "Mr. Knight? Any re-direct?"

Knight cleared his throat and stood. "No, your Honor."

"Then the witness is excused. Mrs. Broussard, please do not discuss your testimony with any of the other witnesses who are in the hallway. Do you understand?"

Deborah nodded. "I won't, your Honor."

"Thank you." Turning to Knight, Judge Feldman said, "The State may call its next witness."

Knight called Dr. Anthony Iatrolla, the Lake County Coroner. Ben nearly fell asleep during the dry testimony about causes of death, penetrating force, and so on and so on. Even the pictures weren't very interesting. They showed Broussard curled face down in a pool of blood, some photos of scratch marks on his neck and penis, and a few showed close-ups of the fatal stab wound, a tiny slice an inch or so long into his rib cage just to the right of his sternum.

On cross-examination, Rebecca focused first on the time of death. Dr. Iatrolla had estimated death at between seven and ten that evening. Sure, he'd admitted, it could have been earlier, and it certainly could have been later. The home was equipped with a computerized thermostat that automatically changed temperatures in the house, lowering the temperature when people would normally be absent and raising it when they would be home. Given the fluctuations attendant with such temperature changes, most notably how long the home took to heat up or cool down, could skew the time either way. In any event, rigor mortis had not yet set in when the coroner arrived, so he was comfortable with the time frame.

Just as she returned to counsel table, her cross-examination apparently concluded, Rebecca stopped and turned.

"By the way," she said, "this was an artery that was severed I believe you said?"

"Yes," Dr. Iatrolla said. "The aorta, as a matter of fact."

"And those bleed a lot, right?"

"Yes."

"And that blood flow is instant and spastic, right? I mean, once it's pierced, the blood flow is immediate and in great quantity, right?"

"Yes," he said.

"Thanks, Doctor," she said, sitting. "No further questions."

Next to the stand was Detective Robinson, who had been seated throughout the trial at counsel table with Knight. He talked about arriving at the scene at midnight, securing the crime scene, questioning Deborah Broussard, and learning about the home's surveillance capabilities.

"Surveillance capabilities?" Knight asked.

Robinson cleared his throat. "Yes sir. The home has perimeter fencing and an electronic gate. There are cameras on the gate that record every entry and exit every time the gate is either touched–something to do with interference in the electrical signal–or when the gate is activated."

"And did you view the footage?"

Robinson nodded. "It showed a dark BMW 325 entering at seven twenty-three and exiting at seven fifty-two."

"Could you tell the color of the BMW?" Knight asked.

"No, sir, the camera only shoots black and white."

"Did you get a license plate?"

"No," Robinson said, clearing his throat. "The plates were covered, front and back, with what appeared to be mud or dirt. We couldn't make out a number."

"Your Honor," Rebecca said, standing. "At this point, we're going to object under the best evidence rule. If they have the tape, they should produce it and let us all draw our own conclusions rather than let the witness merely describe his observations."

Judge Feldman turned to Knight. "Mr. Knight, do you have the tape?"

Knight glared at Rebecca. "We do, your Honor. But it would be a waste of time–of everyone's time–to have to sit and watch the whole thing."

"Ms. Lyons?" Judge Feldman asked.

She shrugged. "My client's facing life in prison, your Honor. Surely Mr. Knight, or any members of the jury, for that matter, will not begrudge thirty minutes of their time to watch the tape on which the witness's entire investigation seems to have turned."

Ben saw several members of the jury nod with appreciation. 

Judge Feldman directed Knight to lay the foundation for the tape, which he did through Detective Robinson's testimony. Then, everyone spent the next thirty minutes watching the tape.

After recessing for lunch, Knight resumed his questioning of Detective Robinson.

"What did this tape signify to you?" Knight asked Robinson.

"Well, it looked like someone in a dark BMW, license plate unknown, entered the gates at about seven thirty and left about a half hour later. It also looked like that person was a blonde female. And finally, it looked like the driver's side car door made contact with the gate as it pulled out."

Knight nodded. He then led Robinson to further details of the investigation that night. Robinson had a conversation with Deborah about any friends of theirs with BMW 325s, particularly those with blonde hair. The only names she could come up with were Susan Flowers and Jennifer Bradford, two of Alain's co-workers she had met at company parties in the past. When he couldn't reach either by phone, he drove to the Flowers residence. No one was present, and there was no BMW in the driveway. Next, he drove to the Bradford residence, where he eventually located Jennifer's red BMW 325 with a long scratch on the driver's side door.

"Was there any residue on the car door from whatever it struck?"

Robinson shook his head. "No sir. The scratch appeared to have been buffed out."

"Did the scratch appear to be recent?"

"Objection," Rebecca said. "He's not qualified as an auto expert, so he can't testify to the age of the damage to the auto."

"I'll re-phrase the question," Knight said before the judge could rule.

"Detective," he said, "could you describe the scratch in more detail?"

"Sure. It was about two feet long and to the metal." Turning to Jennifer at her table, he continued. "The metal was shiny without a spot of rust."

"And Detective, did your search of the Bradford residence turn up any other evidence?"

"It did," he said. "We found a blouse with blood stains on it."

Knight turned and picked up a clear plastic bag holding a white cotton blouse. "Is this that blouse?"

He handed the bag to Detective Robinson, who made a great show of carefully inspecting the bag.

"It is," Robinson finally confirmed, handing the bag back to Knight.

"Your Honor, I'd like to have what has previously been marked as State's Exhibit Number thirty-four for identification be admitted into evidence as State's Exhibit Number Thirty-Four."

"No objection," Rebecca said.

"There being no objection, State's Exhibit Number Thirty-Four will be admitted."

"I have no further questions of the witness at this time," Knight said.

Rebecca stood and strode to the table holding the exhibits thus far admitted. She picked up the blouse and walked back to Detective Robinson.

"You testified there was blood on this blouse, right?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, taking the blouse.

"You were present when the coroner, Dr. Iatrolla, testified, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you heard him testify that the victim was killed when his aorta was severed, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you heard him say that arterial punctures bleed fast and furious, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Rebecca jerked her head at the blouse in Robinson's hands. "What color is that blouse?"

"White."

"Show me the blood on this blouse," she said, folding her arms and leaning back against the jury box.

The jurors leaned forward and watched Robinson pull the blouse from he bag, unfolding it after he had done so.

"It's right her, ma'am," he said, pointing to a spot on the lower right section of the front of the blouse. The judge set the record about the location of the spot to which Robinson was pointing, then Rebecca continued.

"That's it?" she said. "She's charged with stabbing someone and piercing the aorta, and you're showing me a spot of blood that's, what, maybe the size of my thumb?"

"That's all there is, ma'am. Maybe Mrs. Bradford got out of the way before it started spurting."

"Your Honor," Rebecca said, wheeling to face the judge.

"The witness will please refrain from such comments, understood?" Robinson nodded. "And the jury will disregard that statement."

"All right, Detective, let me ask you, how many homicides have you investigated in your career?"

"Thirty-four," he said.

"And how many cases of any kind–homicides, car accidents, suicides, and so on–have had with arterial punctures?"

Robinson thought for a minute. "Couple of dozen, I suppose."




A Case of Self Defense



"Have you ever seen anything in all of your experience with arterial punctures that indicated someone could just jump out of the way of arterial spray?"

"No, ma'am."

Rebecca nodded. "And this was the only bloody clothing you found in the Bradford residence? No bloody shoes? Or did she manage to float fifteen feet over the floor to make her escape?"

"No," he agreed, "this was it."

"What about the car? If she was leaving the scene of such a messy murder, surely you must have found blood stains in the car, right?"

"No, ma'am, no blood in the car, either."

Judge Feldman chose this point to adjourn until the following morning.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"We've got some serious problems here," Robinson observed to Knight as they walked down the hallway toward Knight's office.

"You fucking think?" Knight said. "She's filed a notice of intent to use the affirmative defense of self defense to rape. Then, right from the starting gate, the grieving fucking widow takes the stand and all but makes their case for them. How the fuck could you let that happen?"

Robinson's lips tightened and he struggled to control his rising anger. "You knew from the get go that she has that defense. You saw the goddamned videos that sick bastard kept. You thought his wife knew nothing about him?"

Knight stopped and spun on Robinson. "Not a word," he hissed. "You hear me? Not a fucking word about any goddamned videos. Those come out and we're fucked."

"Well maybe we should be fucked," Robinson said. "I'm not the one who's withholding evidence here; you are. I turned it all over to you, and what you did with it is none of my fucking business. I mean, what if they ask me about them? You expect me to lie?"

"They don't know anything about any videos," Knight said. Seeing Robinson was clearly uncomfortable with this confirmation of withholding evidence, he continued. "I'll say it again, those videos come to light, we're–both of us–fucked."

"But what if there's something to it? Maybe that sick fucker did try to rape her. She wasn't on any of the videos, so we know if she was there it was for the first time. Maybe she stood up to him and he didn't like it. Jesus Christ, you saw the booking photos. Somebody nearly knocked her head off she was beaten up so bad. You think Lyons isn't going to come after me with that tomorrow?"

Knight nodded. "I know she's going to go after you about that. But still, how do we know it wasn't hubby. Notice he's not on their witness list. That's why he's sitting in the courtroom. He can't offer an alibi, so they didn't even bother listing him."

"Yeah," Robinson said, "but I don't think so. And I don't like how close hubby seems to be with Lyons, either."

Knight's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"You see her body language?"

Knight nodded. "She's got some kind of phobia about being touched."

"Yeah," Robinson said. "It's the first thing I noticed about her the morning of the arrest. But guess who she doesn't mind touching?"

Knight waited for the answer.

"That's right," Robinson continued. "She doesn't get all freaky around hubby."

"You think he's banging her?"

Robinson shook his head. "No. I looked it up. Seems they used to be an item back when she was school. Engaged to be married."

"What happened?"

"She was raped is what happened. Three black dudes from the projects pulled her into a warehouse and raped her repeatedly for a couple of hours. She freaked, was never the same. They called it quits a few months later."

A wave of anger swept over Knight's face. "And I'm just hearing about this for the first time? What the fuck's wrong with you?"

"And what would you have done about it? If you'd known, what the hell difference would it have made."

"Would've been nice, that's all."

"Well," Robinson said, "at least now you know why she's fighting her ass off for Jennifer Bradford. She empathizes with a fellow rape victim."

"But there's no evidence she was raped," Knight insisted.

Robinson laughed. "You know, you gotta show she killed him before they can even raise that defense. And at this point there's damned little evidence she was even in the fucking house."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

They sat in Rebecca's office, sipping sodas while Rebecca went over the questions lined up for the next day.

"So how you going to play it?"

Rebecca looked up and saw that Ben was nervous. She smiled before answering.

"Well," she said, "we're doing pretty good so far. Your little session with Deborah Broussard paid off in spades. How'd you get her to play along?"

Ben grinned. "Wasn't hard. I just showed her a few of the videos and she spilled the beans on the whole story. Just like she did in court."

"So you think she was telling the truth? I mean, did she lie to us or to the cops?"

Ben shrugged. "Not a clue. But once she really saw dear sweet Alain for what he really was–and I don't think she was too surprised–she just grinned and told me not to worry, she wouldn't be a problem. Said she was tired of playing the grieving widow for poor Daddy, and this would finally get him off her back. Whatever all that means."

Rebecca smiled. "Well, she did one hell of a job planting the seeds. And the rest of them," she leaned back in her chair and folded her hands behind her head. "Well, let's just say that we've already got reasonable doubt about whether Jennifer was even there."

"And tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow, my dear, we're going to blow this case wide open," Jennifer assured him.

Ben nibbled on a fingernail. "You sure we're playing this right this time?"

Jennifer nodded. "Oh yeah, I think we've got 'em all where we want 'em."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

After the previous day's fireworks, the courtroom was more packed to the maximum. Spectators were squeezed into the seats, and nearly two dozen more lined the walls.

"So Detective," Rebecca started, "you testified you were first on the scene?"

"Correct."

"Before the plainclothes officers?"

"Yes. I was only a few blocks away on a residential burglary when the call came in. I left a few officers there and headed right over. I was there within minutes of the call coming in."

"And Mr. Broussard was face down on the floor in a pool of blood?"

Robinson nodded. "That's correct."

"Did you subsequently roll him over?"

Robinson hesitated, knowing where this was going. "Yes."

"Did you notice anything unusual when you did?"

"Yes," Robinson said, trying to deflect. "There was a knife sticking out of his ribs and blood covered the front of his body."

Rebecca smiled. "Anything else unusual?"

Robinson took a breath. He knew that any more evasion would only hurt the State's case.

"Yes," he said. "Mr. Robinson's trousers were unzipped and his penis was exposed."

Rebecca nodded thoughtfully, waiting for the rising murmur in the courtroom to die down. "And you heard the coroner testify that, in addition to the knife wound, Mr. Broussard had a few other injuries as well, right?"

"Yes."

"And those injuries were a scratch on his neck and a scratch on his penis, right?"

"Yes."

"How many rape cases have you worked in your time as an officer?"

"Objection," Knight said. "Beyond the scope of direct."

"Overruled," Judge Feldman said without waiting for Rebecca's response.

"Couple of hundred."

"In how many of them did the witness fight back?"

"Fifty, maybe seventy-five," Robinson said.

"What type of wounds did the assailants typically have in those cases where the rape victim fought her attacker?"

Robinson shot a glance to Knight, who only lowered his head. "Scratch marks."

"Scratch marks where, Detective?"

"Face, neck, chest, back, genitals," Robinson answered. "Pretty much where there was exposed skin."

Rebecca's head spun, and her eyes locked with Robinson's. "And the only exposed skin on Mr. Broussard when you found him was his face, neck, and penis, right?"

Robinson, having violated the first rule of testifying by answering too much, mumbled his answer.

"What, Detective? The ladies and gentlemen of the jury didn't hear your answer."

"I said 'yes, those were the only exposed areas not covered by clothing,'" he said, looking back at her.

"And you heard Ms. Broussard's testimony, right?"

"Yes," he said.

"You hear that part about where he appeared to be forcing himself on a young woman?"

"Yes."

"Anything in the course of your investigation arise to lend credence to any history of such behavior by Mr. Broussard?"

Robinson hesitated, looking to Knight again for guidance. Knight only stared back at him, offering nothing.

"Take your time, Detective," Rebecca said. "We all know it was a long investigation."

He cringed at the contempt in her voice.

"Well, we heard some rumblings," he finally offered.

"Rumblings? That's all? You sure there wasn't more?" she said. "Proof of a more definitive kind?"

Robinson was sweating now, afraid to answer, but terrified of getting caught. Knight's face had tightened, and he was watching Rebecca's every move.

"What do you mean by definitive?" Robinson asked.

"Now Detective, I think you know what I mean by definitive." She turned and walked to counsel table, reached into her briefcase, and retrieved a stack of DVDs. Robinson saw Jennifer Bradford's body and face tighten at the sight of them, her eyes going wide. This was the first emotion other than sadness she'd shown since they'd started picking the jury.

As Rebecca turned and held the DVDs up for all to see, Robinson was sure his look of terror made Jennifer Bradford's apprehension seem like giddy joy.

"Objection, your Honor," Knight thundered, flying from his seat.

"Mr. Knight," Judge Feldman said, leaning forward and staring down the prosecutor, "there's no question pending or any offer of evidence."

"But there's going to be," Knight insisted, "and I want it cut off right now."

Robinson sat mute, unable to move as he watched Knight panic. Rebecca, on the other hand, only smiled, continuing to hold the DVDs up high. The murmuring in the courtroom was rising, and the bailiff's attempts to quiet them proved futile.

Judge Feldman stood. "Court's in recess," he said. "Counsel, follow me."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Feldman strode through the door to his chambers and was seated by the time the two attorneys walked in. He smiled at them.

"Okay, Bob, you wanna tell me what's got your undies in an uproar?"

"Your Honor," Rebecca interrupted, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to object to this. If we're going to discuss this, I really must ask that a court reporter be present."

Feldman looked at her. She was cool as a cucumber and had clearly played all of this out well in advance. He had to admit he was enjoying her show. For someone with no experience defending a murder case, she hadn't missed a step yet. Moreover, she was making a complete fool out of Bob Knight. 

"Point taken, Ms. Lyons," Feldman said. "Jim," he called to the bailiff just outside the door, "you wanna ask Francine to come back here for this little show."

They waited for the court reporter, who appeared moments later with her steno machine.

"For the record," Feldman started, "we are in chambers on People v. Bradford. Both counsel are present, as well as myself."

Turning to Knight, he said, "When we left this off, Mr. Knight, you were objecting to what appeared to be a stack of DVDs. Would you please now explain the basis of your objection, however untimely it appears to be at this point?"

Knight fumbled for words before getting started. "The evidence I fear is about to be produced is highly prejudicial and will serve only to inflame the jury."

"And what do you think this evidence is, Mr. Knight?"

Knight squirmed at that one, and nothing came from his mouth.

Feldman turned to Rebecca. "Ms. Lyons," he said, "can you explain what is going on here?"

She smiled wide and placed her hands in her lap. "Of course, your Honor. You see, these are DVDs from Mr. Broussard's computer. They show his various sexual conquests over the three-year period before his death."

Feldman sat back and whistled low. He stared back and forth between Rebecca and Knight, and the look on Knight's face told him that he still wasn't getting the full story.

"This makes you uncomfortable, Mr. Knight?"

Knight shook his head.

Feldman turned back to Rebecca. "All right, Ms. Lyons, assuming what you say is true, what is the probative value of these videos?"

"Well, your Honor," she said, leaning forward and whispering conspiratorially, "the vast majority of the videos clearly depict sex that was highly coercive in nature."

Feldman raised his eyebrows at this and shot a look at Knight. Knight was still tight-lipped, though.

"You disagree with Ms. Lyons's characterization of these videos, Mr. Knight?"

"No, your Honor."

Feldman nodded. Turning back to Rebecca, he continued. "Is there more, or are you going to make me drag this out of you bit by bit?"

Rebecca shot a look of contempt at Knight before she spoke. "Just this, your Honor," she said, turning back to look at the judge with fire now dancing in her eyes. "Mr. Knight had these videos and never bothered to turn them over."

The tightening of Knight's entire body told Judge Feldman that this was true.

"You're kidding me, right Bob?" he said to Knight. "You're prosecuting a murder where we've got notice they're going to be raising self defense to rape as a justification, and you didn't bother turning over videos that show the victim–and I now use that term guardedly–has a long history of coercive sex?"

"But none of them, not a single one, shows the defendant, your Honor," Knight pleaded. "They're not relevant to this case because they don't show that she was the victim of any such coercion."

"Oh come off it, counsel," Feldman thundered. "You know better than that. They're clearly relevant to the matter at hand, and the defense had a constitutional right to have them. And you had a constitutional–and ethical–obligation to turn them over to her."

"But she's already got them, Judge," Knight pleaded. "There's no prejudice where she's already got them."

Feldman thought about this for a moment. "So, no harm, no foul. Is that your response?"

Knight nodded.

Feldman turned to Rebecca. "Ms. Lyons, he makes a good point. If you've already got them, where's the harm?"

"The harm, your Honor, is that is shows he's hidden the most central evidence of this case from us. And you don't know when we got them. If it was only yesterday–which is, by the way, the first time I was able to fully view all of these tapes–then how am I supposed to prepare a defense when they make sure to hide all evidence central to my defense? Oh no, your Honor, we're clearly prejudiced."

Feldman nodded. "I could give you a continuance, permit you to amend your witness list if you wish. Then we could still go forward."

"And how do we know he's not hiding other evidence, your Honor?"

Feldman turned to Knight. "Bob, any more surprises for Ms. Lyons?"

Knight hesitated. "No."

Feldman leaned over his desk and glared at the prosecutor. "This is your last chance to come clean," he said. "If I find any more improperly withheld evidence, she's getting a mistrial."

Knight said nothing for a minute.

"We're waiting," Feldman said.

"No, there's nothing else."

Feldman stared at the prosecutor, knowing he was lying. Then he looked at Rebecca and saw the smile on her face. She knows he's lying, too, and she's going to prove it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"So, Detective, when last we spoke, you were about to tell me whether you had any more definitive evidence that Mr. Broussard had a history of coercing women into having sex. Want to share that with the jury now?"

Robinson looked at Knight, who was staring straight ahead.

"There were videos on the victim's computer," Robinson said. "They were very . . . uh . . . graphic. And they depicted some, well, uh, encounters that appeared to be less than mutually agreeable."

Rebecca flashed him a look of sarcasm. "Do you really want me to start showing these videos, or would you like a shot at describing 'encounters that appeared to be less than mutually agreeable?'"

Robinson flushed. "He seemed to be extorting sex from quite a few of the women."

"How many videos were there?"

"Couple of hundred."

The murmuring in the gallery rose, and Robinson heard an audible gasp from the jury box.

"How many different women?"

"Twenty-three."

"And how many of them appeared to depict such coerced sexual relations?"

"The majority of them."

Rebecca looked at the jurors, going from face to face, as she spoke next. "The majority? You want to try putting a percentage on it?"

Robinson looked at the jury, and all eyes were glued on him, waiting for the answer. He looked at Knight, who looked straight ahead. Oh well, he sure as hell wasn't risking his career for this farce. He'd never wanted the charges pressed in the first place, and now Knight was tossing him to the wolves.

Robinson turned from Knight to Rebecca. "I'll do better than put a percentage on it. Of the twenty-three women, only three appeared consensual. One of those wasn't initially consensual, but it was clearly consensual by the third meeting."

"And the others?"

Robinson turned to the jury. "If I'd had these videos, and if Mr. Broussard were still alive, I'd be pressing charges against him for well over a hundred and fifty counts of aggravated criminal sexual assault."

Most of the jurors stared back at him in shock, and the courtroom erupted in pandemonium.

"Quiet," the bailiff was yelling. Robinson saw that Judge Feldman was only shaking his head. The defendant still appeared nervous, though.

That's curious, Robinson thought. She wasn't on any of the videos. Maybe the night of the murder–if he could even call it that anymore–was her first encounter. And maybe she'd been the first, and only, one to ever resist Broussard's advances fully.

When the courtroom quieted back down, Rebecca smiled at Robinson. "Detective," she said, leaning back against the jury box and placing her arms on the rail behind her, "did you interview any of these twenty-three women?"

Robinson nodded. "All of them."

"Did they all have alibis for the evening of September twenty-third?"

"No."

"Did any of them, either the women or their spouses or someone else close to them, own dark BMW 325s?"

"Yes," Robinson said. Here it was, the biggest chink in the armor. And he had no clue how she knew this. Judging from the smile on her face, though, it was evident she knew everything.

"Did any of those with no alibi, or weak alibis, for that matter, own a dark BMW 325?"

Robinson looked at the defendant. Behind her, he watched Benjamin Bradford cross his arms and sit back. He knows the answer, Robinson realized. He's playing this, playing us, and has been all along.

Robinson looked back at Rebecca. "Of the two women who owned dark BMW 325s, neither had a solid alibi for the night of the murder."

As the noise in the courtroom again rose, Robinson saw most of the jury now openly smirking at him and at Knight. We're done, he thought.

On her way back to counsel table, Rebecca stopped, standing very still while waiting for the crowd to quiet down. Robinson watched as the courtroom went dead silent and every eye in the room locked on the dark, intense defense counsel.

She turned slowly and looked straight at Judge Feldman, her eyes never leaving his as she asked the next question.

"Detective," she said, her voice loud and clear, "you have been a police officer for twenty-one years, correct?"

"Yes," he conceded, hoping this was not going where he thought it was going. Still, he'd testified thousands of times, and he recognized impeachment when he heard it.




A Case of Self Defense



"And during that time, you have received extensive training in cataloguing the process of your investigation, correct?"

"Yes," Robinson croaked, seeing Knight drop his head to counsel table and bury his face in his arms. Looking back at Rebecca, he noticed she was still looking straight at Judge Feldman, a smile now beginning to curve her lips as her voice got louder.

"And part of that process is preparing and filing police reports of each and every interview you conduct during the course of the investigation, correct?"

Robinson hesitated. They were dead.

"Correct?" Rebecca repeated.

"Correct," he agreed.

"And you prepared police reports of each and every interview with each and every one of these twenty-three women, correct?"

Robinson looked around. All eyes were now on him, including an obviously very angry Judge Feldman's piercing stare.

"Correct," Robinson said.

"Then can you explain why none of these police reports were ever turned over to the defense or listed on any of the discovery documents provided to the defense?"

Robinson's answer was drowned out by the new uproar in the courtroom, and Robinson hung his head.

"Counsel," Judge Feldman roared. "Chambers, now."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"So what happened in chambers?" Ben asked her, his feet kicked up on her coffee table and a glass of wine in his hand.

"It's going to be over first thing tomorrow is what happened," Rebecca replied. "Feldman went nuts, and he's going to be spending the entire evening researching and writing his mistrial statement. He's not going to get this wrong and run the risk of it coming back to bite him in the ass. He's going to make sure Knight's ruined over this."

Ben laughed. "Arrogant prick," he said. "Serves him right."

Rebecca smiled.

"Penny for your thoughts," Ben said, sipping the wine and looking at her curled in the chair opposite.

"I'm still worried about how this is going to play out tomorrow," she said. "You know, after the trial's over. Is it going to go down like we're planning? Is there going to be another sudden turn of events to deal with?"

Ben smiled. "Don't worry," he said. "It's going to play out perfectly. Now come over here and give me a kiss."

She did, and it was getting easier every time they touched. Gone was the hesitation, the fear of contact. Though she was still tentative at first, she soon relaxed as their tongues explored each other's mouths and his hands brushed lightly over her stiffening nipples.

My God, she thought, it's taken nine years since that terrible night. What if she'd been more patient the first time and hadn't thrown him out? Would they have stayed together and had children of their own?

Still, she was getting a second chance here–that they were getting a second chance–and she vowed not to mess it up this time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Jennifer stood as the jury filed into the courtroom and took their seats in the jury box. Judge Feldman, she noticed, had a severe look on his face, and he glared several times at Knight. This had to be good, she knew, but Rebecca was playing it close to the vest. She had moved for a mistrial, Rebecca had told her yesterday before Jennifer had been returned to the cell she'd lived in the past five and a half months.

Jennifer had spent the night in her cell praying. Praying that the motion for mistrial would be granted; that this long ordeal would finally be over; and, most of all, that she'd be able to again hold and hug her beautiful little girls that she hadn't seen all this time. She and Ben had agreed at the outset that they didn't want the girls to see her like this, and Ben promised he'd tell them that she was out of town on business for a long time, but would soon return. Both Ben and Rebecca had shared pictures of the girls during that time, but the aching in her heart only grew with every passing day.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Judge Feldman intoned, quieting the courtroom murmur, "in light of yesterday's testimony, defense counsel made a motion for mistrial in chambers. The Court has heard the arguments of both the defense and the prosecution, both for and against defense counsel's motion. Before the Court rules on the motion, it would like to make the following findings."

Feldman shuffled through the papers before him, read a page, then began speaking, looking throughout the courtroom as he did so.

"First, the defense has, from the outset of this action, given notice of its intent to raise the affirmative defense of justification to the charge of murder. That justification is premised on self defense to a sexual assault."

"Second," Feldman continued after glancing at his notes, "under the Due Process Clause as enunciated in the Fifth Amendment of the United States Constitution, the prosecution is obligated to turn over to the defense, in a timely manner, all evidence in the prosecution's possession that either is, or can reasonably be construed as, exculpatory to the defendant's guilt."

"Third," Feldman continued, his voice now rising as he pushed his notes aside, "the prosecution has, in this case, intentionally and with flagrant disregard of the Constitution and the defendant's rights thereunder, withheld key evidence from the defense. That evidence so intentionally withheld includes videotapes that show the victim had a long history of possible sexual assault as well as police reports of interviews with numerous other persons who all had motive and possible means to commit the offense charged. Worse, the prosecution intentionally engaged in a pattern of conduct designed to insure the defense would know absolutely nothing about the existence of any such persons altogether."

"Fourth, there is now great doubt in the Court's mind that any of the evidence thus far adduced–and granted, the prosecution has not yet concluded its case in chief, but I can't see it getting better–that any of the evidence thus far adduced in trial points solely to the defendant as the perpetrator of this crime. To the contrary, we now have at least two other possible suspects, the identity of whom was not disclosed to the defense until Detective Robinson testified yesterday at trial. As a matter of fact, and I want to make this clear, were it not for the truthful testimony of Detective Robinson under less than ideal circumstances, none of this would ever have come to light. For this, Detective Robinson is to be commended."

Judge Feldman gave a nod to Detective Robinson, who was sitting next to Knight at the prosecution's table. Then Jennifer watched as Judge Feldman's gaze swivelled and rested on hers. Without conscious thought, she felt her chest constrict as she held her breath.

"In all of my years on the bench," he said, his gaze unwavering and his facial features softening, "I have never witnessed such gross prosecutorial misconduct. Any evidence presented that may point to the defendant being the vehicle of Mr. Broussard's death–and it's highly unclear whether she was, in fact, the person responsible for that death–but any such evidence points more so to the likelihood that the defense she raised is valid."

Feldman's face now hardened as he turned to Knight. "Given the level of prosecutorial misconduct and the severe prejudice thus inflicted on the defendant's rights after the commencement of this trial, this Court has no alternative but to grant defense counsel's motion for a mistrial." The courtroom erupted, but was just as quickly silenced when Judge Feldman slapped his palm on his bench. "Such mistrial being predicated on prosecutorial misconduct after the jury has been sworn in, the charges are furthermore dismissed with prejudice."

This time, no amount of shouting from the bailiff would quiet the courtroom. Jennifer watched Judge Feldman scribble his signature to an Order form and hand it to the clerk before leaving the bench. She turned and watched Knight slam his briefcase shut and storm from the courtroom, ignoring the questions being shouted at him by a dozen or more reporters..

"What does this mean?" Jennifer asked Rebecca, who was leaning back in the chair beside her, rubbing her face as the intense energy visibly left her petite frame.

"It means you're free," Rebecca said. "It's all over."

Jennifer felt the hot tears sliding down her cheeks as the empty pit in her stomach was filled with hope. She turned and looked at Ben, who smiled at her. She could only smile back, not trusting her voice to speak.

"Miss Bradford," the bailiff said, gently placing his hand on her shoulder. She turned, and he continued, "Could you come with me, please? We're just going to go back and get your things now and we'll have you out of here in no time, okay?"

She nodded, then turned back to Ben. "We'll wait for you," he said.

When Jennifer stood and followed the bailiff, she looked back at Ben, who was now hugging Rebecca. Rebecca, she noticed, was hugging him back just as fiercely. Strange, Jennifer thought. He didn't hug me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Outside the courthouse, Detective Bradford waited near the throng of reporters for Benjamin Bradford to appear. When the door swung open, Ben was leading Rebecca toward the microphones, standing to the side as she answered all questions put to her.

"Can I speak with you for a minute?" Robinson whispered into Ben's ear.

Ben turned and smiled at him. "Why of course, Detective."

They walked unnoticed to a deserted area fifty feet away.

"You knew all along, didn't you?" Robinson said without preamble.

Ben's smile got bigger. "Knew what, Detective?"

"The videos and the police reports. You've had them all along, haven't you?"

Ben only smiled in response.

"You played us," Robinson insisted, trying to get a response. "You–and she–knew this would happen, and you played us."

A cloud of anger passed over Ben's face, then the smile returned. "Detective," he said, "assuming what you say is true, how could anyone have possibly known Knight would withhold all of that evidence? That he'd play right into our hands?"

Robinson shook his head. "That didn't matter if you had all of that evidence though, did it? No, that just made it faster for you, and helped to bring Knight down in the process. Either way, even if it had all been produced, you had us."

"Then why were the charges pressed in the first place, Detective?" The look of anger returned to Ben's face, and his voice was now a hiss. "You knew what a rotten bastard Broussard was, and you still brought these charges and did your level best to convict her. Like the world's a worse place without that . . . that . . . that fucking animal going around destroying all those lives. Oh yeah, who's the bad guy here, Detective?"

Robinson said nothing. Bradford was right.

"Assuming we had all of this from day one," Bradford continued, "and I'm not saying we did, but if we did, then yeah, we weren't really all that worried."

"But again, Detective," Ben said, spitting out the last word with venom, "the real question is why? Why did you bring these charges? You of all people knew what a monster Broussard was. Why did you put us through this?"

Robinson shook his head. "I didn't," he finally said. "I begged Knight to drop it, but he wouldn't. Said he needed this win, needed it to stay in office."

"That's bullshit," Ben said. "You could have leaked all of this to the press months ago. It would have gone away, and you goddamned well know it. No. Instead, you just played right along with this . . . this . . . this fucking farce so you and Knight could get your backs patted, get your elections won and your promotions approved. Well touche, Detective, I guess it didn't work out quite the way you planned, did it? And if you want someone to blame, start by looking in a fucking mirror."

Robinson said nothing to this. What could he say? He just watched Ben storm off toward Rebecca before himself turning and walking back into the courthouse.

CHAPTER THIRTY

"Where are we going, dear?" Jennifer said, looking at Ben.

"We've got to stop by Rebecca's, Jen," he said. He was tight lipped, his face a mask, and Jennifer was uneasy.

"But I want to see my babies," she said. "Ben, please, can't it wait?"

Ben shook his head.

"Ben, baby, what's wrong?"

He shot her a glance, and Jennifer felt a shiver run down her spine. Oh God, she thought, this can't be happening.

She bit her lip as the car pulled into a parking garage. They were silent riding the elevator to the top floor, where they got off and Jennifer followed Ben down the hallway to a door. He pulled a key and unlocked the door, motioning her inside. Seeing him unlock the door to Rebecca's condo, Jennifer felt like someone had punched her in the stomach.

"Sit," he said, pointing at the dining room table.

She slid into a chair and watched Ben. He was running wires to and from a laptop computer and an external hard drive. Then he fired up the computer and clicked on some folders. She couldn't see the screen, but she feared the worst. Seeing the videos in the courtroom had paralyzed her with fear, but she thought she was free and clear after hearing the testimony and figuring out that she hadn't been in any of them. Now she wasn't so sure this was all over yet.

"Here already?" she heard, and turned to watch Rebecca walk in the door and toss her jacket over a chair.

"Just getting ready now," Ben said.

Rebecca smiled and flipped the latches on her briefcase. "Then we'll need these," Rebecca said, pulling a thick manila envelope from the briefcase and setting it on the table in front of Jennifer.

"What's going on here?" Jennifer asked, looking at the two of them as they sat at the table.

"Let me tell you a story," Ben started, typing on a couple of keys on the laptop, then clicking the mouse.

"Once there was a family, and they were very happy. At least the husband thought so. They seemed to have it all. He had a good business that was just starting to take off, and she was rising rapidly through the ranks and getting promoted faster and faster. This couple had two beautiful little girls, and things couldn't have been better."

Jennifer watched Ben as he spoke, and she saw tears welling up in his eyes.

"Then one day, at a party," he continued, "I was hired by your boss to audit your computer security. You seemed so excited at that, so happy for both of us. And I was happy, too. I wanted to make you proud, let you see what I really do and how well I do it. So I gave it my all, and in no time, I was in your systems."

Jennifer felt a tightness in her chest. He'd broken through. She'd tried to monitor him, tried to find out how far along he was, but he'd never tipped his hand. She'd underestimated him, she realized. She'd relied far too much on Jeff Richard's bland assurances that all was well.

Ben smiled through the tears now running down his cheeks. "You only made one mistake, Jennifer, and it was a very small one."

She looked confused while he waited for her to guess.

"Your only mistake," Ben said after seeing she wouldn't answer, "was at the party when you identified Broussard to me as a prick. And just for shits and grins, I decided that he was the one I was going to break in through. You see, it's those people, the arrogant know-it-alls, that usually make the biggest mistakes. They think they're invincible, and they don't bother to listen to all the peons about little things. Little things like password security and overall systems security. And because you pointed that out to me right off the bat, I was unknowingly pointed in the right direction to uncover the whole sordid scheme."

He slid the laptop in front of her and she looked at the screen. "First, there was this," he said, clicking the mouse and calling up a series of e-mails. "E-mails between Broussard and Richards. E-mails between a head of systems security and a head of commercial paper that shouldn't be there. They probably didn't talk to each other five times a year, and suddenly we've got them e-mailing each other two, three times a day."

Ben clicked the mouse again, and a specific e-mail popped onto the screen. "So that leads me to this," he said. "An e-mail from Broussard to his own home computer."

Ben clicked again. "And that led me to this." Jennifer looked at the screen and watched as Ben scrolled down the thousands of deposits from Jensen National to the series of offshore accounts.

"And this," Ben said, clicking the mouse again. A folder was called up giving all of the information about each of the offshore accounts, including balances and account passwords.

"So it was you," Jennifer whispered.

Ben nodded. "You didn't think I was that bright, did you?"

She said nothing, amazed he'd uncovered the whole scheme so quickly. He was right, she'd clearly underestimated her own husband. Then again, she had no idea what he really did or how he did it. Instead, she'd relied on Richards to foil any attempted intrusions.

"The problem was," Ben continued, "I knew there were three of you, but I could only identify Richards and Broussard. Frankly, I figured for Susan Flowers as the third. The third was clearly a female, and just as clearly worked in auditing. I remembered you saying that she and Broussard had a thing going, and I was sure as hell positive that she was the one."

Ben clicked the mouse and a list of folders appeared, all women's names with numbers behind them. "Then I ran across this," he said. He clicked on one marked Susan 9, and a video appeared and started playing. "This confirmed my suspicions," Ben said, turning to the screen. Susan was enthusiastically riding Broussard's cock, in the throes of orgasm.

"But there are none of me on there," Jennifer said, scanning the list of videos. "So what's this all about?"

Ben smiled. "No, Jennifer, there are none of you on here." He scrolled the screen with the mouse, running up and down the hundreds of video files. "This is what the police have had since day one."

"Then you know I'm innocent," Jennifer pleaded. "Please, Ben, I don't understand what's going on."

Ben's look of sorrow vanished, and she watched as pain and anger contorted his features.

"Jennifer," he said, his voice hoarse, "this is what the police had because I took these out."

He clicked the mouse and six video files appeared. They were labeled Jennifer 1 through 5, and the last one was labeled The Murder. Jennifer shivered at the last one.

Ben scrolled the arrow to Jennifer 5 and double-clicked. "This is the video that changed my life," he said. She watched the screen. There she was, naked and in front of Broussard, detailing the scheme to take millions, to seduce Jeff Richards, to make her dreams of wealth finally come true.

"You did it all for the money, didn't you?" he asked.

She nodded, watching the screen.

"No matter what it took, you just wanted the money. Fuck me, fuck our marriage." His voice cracked as she turned to him. "To hell with our little girls, right?"

She gasped at the last. "No, Ben, it was because of them that I did it. So they'd never have to want for anything. So they'd not go to school in hand-me-downs like I did, with cheap haircuts and not enough money for a homecoming dress. So they'd never have to worry about living in a trailer house." She felt the tears streaming down her face. "No, you're wrong there," she said, "they were why I did it. And every time I did something I didn't want to do, I thought of them and how they'd never have to grow up like I did. Ashamed of myself and my family, the butt of everyone's jokes at every dance and football game and class and everything."

Ben's face was now awash in tears, and Jennifer looked at Rebecca. She thought Rebecca looked sympathetic, but she couldn't tell if it was for her or for Ben.

"You slept with more, didn't you?" Ben accused.

She nodded her head.