Gallagher Justice

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“What y’all gonna do ’bout it, Miss Lawyer? Huh? That man’s Five-O. They do what they want,” she said bitterly. “Who’s gonna stop ’em?”

“I’ll stop him. If he comes near you, we’ll get a restraining order—”

Kimbra all but laughed in her face. “You still don’t get it, do you? If he wants me dead, I’ll just disappear one day. Won’t nobody ever know what happened to me. That’s how he’ll do it.”

She paused for a moment, her gaze sliding past Fiona as a look of pure terror crept into her eyes. Then she blinked it away and the defiant mask slipped back into place. “Y’all keep messin’ with the wrong people, Miss Lawyer, they might just disappear you, too.”

* * *

FIONA WALKED OVER TO THE jury box and planted her hands on the railing. Milo had done a fantastic job sum-marizing the evidence and recounting witness testimony in his closing remarks, but the defense attorney, Dylan O’Roarke, had been masterful.

He’d wasted no time in getting to the heart of the case. “In spite of the prosecution’s attempts to muddy the waters at every turn, the case is a simple one, ladies and gentlemen. It boils down to one single question. Who do you believe? A troubled runaway with a long history of drug abuse and a willful disobedience of the law? One who openly bragged about her hatred of the police? One who, as you heard more than one witness testify, swore to get her revenge on Detective DeMarco for an old arrest?

“Or do you believe Vincent DeMarco, a decorated police officer, an ex-Army Ranger who distinguished himself on a desert battlefield as well as on the mean streets of Chicago?”

Dylan had gone on and on, hammering home the same point until Fiona had seen at least one juror nod very slightly in agreement.

And now it was her turn to offer a rebuttal. She surveyed the twelve members of the panel, noting their expressions as they stared up at her expectantly, and then she said, very quietly, “One out of every three women in this country will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime. One out of every three.”

She emphasized the last five words as her gaze slid to a well-dressed, middle-aged woman in the second row who had sat rigidly throughout the whole trial. Her expression rarely showed anything more than an intense concentration, as if she were determined to perform her civic duty to the best of her ability, but beyond that the trial couldn’t touch her. Rape couldn’t touch her.

Fiona stared at her for a long moment until the woman was forced to meet her gaze. “It could happen to any woman in this courtroom. It could happen to me. It could happen to you.”

Something flashed briefly in the woman’s eyes. Denial, Fiona thought. She often found the toughest jurors to sway in a rape case were upper-middle-class white women who had a hard time identifying with a victim like Kimbra.

“Think of three women in your own life. Your mother. Your sister.” Fiona paused, letting her gaze move to a male juror seated directly in front of her in the first row. “Your daughter.”

He flinched.

“One out of every three women in this country will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime.”

Fiona straightened and paced slowly back and forth in front of the jury box. “The defense would have you believe that a man like Vincent DeMarco, a decorated police officer, a war hero from Desert Storm, a man of impeachable honor and character, could not have perpetrated such a terrible crime. A man like Vincent DeMarco could not be guilty of rape. And yet...”

Fiona turned to Kimbra. “Someone did rape Kimbra Williams on the night of April 17. Someone forced her into that alley and beat her until she could barely move. And when she still fought back, her attacker held a gun to her head and threatened to blow her brains out if she screamed.”

Fiona paused again, letting the mental picture seep in. “You heard testimony from the doctor who examined Kimbra on that same night. You saw photographs of the severe bruises and swelling left by the beating. Kimbra Williams was brutally attacked and raped. Of that, there is no doubt.

“But the defense has also implied that Kimbra’s fear may have impaired her ability to correctly identify her assailant. After all, it was a dark, moonless night, and she was terrified beyond reason. How could she—how could anyone—be so certain, under the circumstances, of her assailant’s identity?”

Fiona’s expression hardened. “I’ll tell you how. Vincent DeMarco’s face was only inches from Kimbra’s as he held that gun to her head. It didn’t happen instantly. It took minutes. For Kimbra, it took an eternity. Not only was she able to correctly identify her attacker, but I can pretty much guarantee you that his is a face she will never forget.”

Fiona allowed a shudder to ripple through her.

“The crux of the defense’s case, though, rests on Kimbra’s alleged hatred of the police. Her loathing for authority, they want you to believe, is the real reason for the charges against Detective DeMarco. She held a grudge against him for hassling her on the street so what better way to get back at him than to accuse him of a brutal crime? It’s been known to happen, they warned you.”

Fiona let contempt creep into her voice. “Only one thing wrong with that theory, ladies and gentlemen. Kimbra Williams was raped and beaten on the night of April 17. She didn’t lie about those bruises. You saw the pictures.

“For all we know, she was left for dead in that alley, but even if her attacker never meant to kill her, you can be certain that a man like Vincent DeMarco would not expect her to press charges against him. After all, as a police officer, he would know that fifty percent of all rapes go unreported every year because the victim is either worried she won’t be believed or is afraid of retaliation by her assailant.

“Retaliation is what the defense wants you to believe motivated Kimbra Williams. But let’s examine that for a moment. A girl in Kimbra’s position, a runaway who spends most of her life on the street, falsely accuses a police officer, of all people, of rape. How easy would it be for him to retaliate against her? She’s vulnerable. She’s alone. No friends or family to come to her rescue. Do you really think she’d take that chance?”

Fiona walked back to the jury box and once again placed her hands on the rail, leaning forward. “Vincent DeMarco’s fate is in your hands today, ladies and gentlemen, but regardless of what you decide, Kimbra Williams’s life is never going to be the same. Thirty-one percent of all rape victims develop Rape-Related Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, and they are nine times more likely to attempt suicide. A pretty grim statistic, isn’t it?

“But the most frightening statistic of all isn’t about the victim. It’s about the assailant. Studies have shown that the recidivism rate among rate among rapists can be as high as 50 percent. That means if Vincent DeMarco is allowed to walk out of this courtroom a free man, there is an extremely high probability he will rape again.

“Who will his next victim be, I wonder? That one woman out of three who will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime?”

Fiona gazed at them for a moment longer, then turned and strode back to the prosecution table to await the judge’s final instructions to the jury.

CHAPTER SEVEN

HANDSOME AND CHARMING, with a confidence that Fiona found exceedingly annoying, Dylan O’Roarke had become her number one nemesis in the courtroom since she’d moved to the Criminal Prosecutions Bureau five years ago. Which was only fitting, she supposed, seeing as how their families had been mortal enemies for decades, Chicago’s own version of the Hatfields and the McCoys.

The feud had spanned three generations, beginning in the Prohibition Era when Fiona’s grandfather, William Gallagher, had played Eliot Ness to James O’Roarke’s Al Capone. Once close friends, the two Irish immigrants had become bitter rivals, not only because they’d chosen different sides of the law, but also because they’d fallen in love with the same woman, Fiona’s grandmother, Colleen.

Two recent marriages between the clans, including Dylan’s union with Fiona’s cousin, Kaitlin, had brought an uneasy truce between the families, but as far as Fiona was concerned, the peace accord didn’t extend into the courtroom.

So when he approached the prosecution table after court was adjourned, she glanced up with a fair amount of suspicion.

“Have you got a minute?” he asked her.

She snapped closed the latches on her briefcase and stood. “That depends.” Her gaze slid past him to where Vince DeMarco stood talking and laughing as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Is your client ready to accept my offer?”

Dylan gave a sharp laugh. “Are you kidding? That wasn’t an offer, it was an insult. Second degree sexual assault and seven years at Stateville? No way my client’s doing any time. He’s walking and you know it.”

She gave him an angry glare. “He’s guilty, and you know it. Kimbra Williams is only seventeen years old, Dylan. How do you sleep at night?”

Dylan’s mouth tightened as he returned her glare. “I sleep just fine. How about you, Fiona? Ever have nightmares about Jessie Carver?”

An arrow straight through the heart.

Jessie Carver was one of the Fullerton Five who’d maintained his innocence from the first. He claimed that one of the other suspects in the case had implicated him in order to cut a deal with the prosecution, and then, after forty-eight straight hours of verbal intimidation, beatings and sleep deprivation, he’d signed a confession out of sheer desperation.

In one of those ironic twists, Dylan had represented Jessie Carver three years ago, and now he was defending one of the cops Jessie claimed had coerced his confession, proving that Chicago politics wasn’t the only profession that made for strange bedfellows.

“I believed Jessie Carver was guilty three years ago, and my feelings haven’t changed,” Fiona told him. “The investigation into the Area Three Detective Division was never about Jessie’s innocence. At least not for me.”

Dylan started to say something else, perhaps to argue the finer points of her logic, but then he shrugged. “Believe it or not, I didn’t come over here to start an argument with you.”

“Yeah, well, that’s sort of a fait accompli when you put a Gallagher and an O’Roarke in the same room.” She picked up her briefcase and started walking toward the exit. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”

Dylan fell into step beside her. “Kaitlin wanted me to remind you about her father’s retirement party.”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “Honestly, how many times do she and my mother think they have to nag me about that?” Between the two of them, they must have called her half a dozen times in the past two weeks. It wasn’t like she was senile, for Christ’s sake.

“She’s worried because evidently you forgot Erin’s baby shower last month, and before that, it was Nikki’s birthday party,” Dylan helpfully pointed out.

“I explained all that.”

“You were busy. Yeah, we all know how hectic your social life is, Fiona.”

Screw you, she thought angrily.

“Look, I know you have quite the progressive attitude regarding family these days, but this retirement party is a big deal to Kaitlin. She sees it as a way to cement her reconciliation with her father, and she wants the whole family together. And in her condition, I’d rather not have her upset.”

“I know it’s a big deal,” Fiona said impatiently. “I said I’d be there, and I will be. It’s next week, right?”

“Fiona, it’s tomorrow night.”

She stopped dead in her tracks. “Tomorrow night? That’s impossible.” Where had the days gone?

“So I guess you did need another reminder after all.”

Honest to God, if he smirked one more time—

“Oh, like you’d even be there yourself if it wasn’t for Kaitlin,” Fiona grumbled. Dylan and his father-in-law were hardly bosom buddies. Liam Gallagher had disowned his daughter when he’d found out about her elopement to Dylan, and had ordered her out of his house, never to return until she came to her senses and divorced that lowlife, scum-sucking O’Roarke.

Liam had only recently reconciled with the couple because Kaitlin was pregnant and he didn’t want to be cut off from his only grandchild.

Kaitlin was pregnant.

Could another baby shower be far off?

Fiona winced inwardly at the thought. The Gallaghers were suddenly procreating like bunnies. Her brother, John, and his wife, Thea, had had two sons in the space of six years, in addition to Thea’s daughter from a previous marriage. Her brother, Nick, and his wife, Erin—also an O’Roarke—were expecting their first child any day now. Fiona was happy for her brothers, she truly was, but seeing them with their families, all that love...