Trial by Fire. Cara Putman

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      “Are you going to eat the cake or poke it to death?” Frank’s gravelly voice pulled her from her thoughts.

      “I’m finished.” Tricia pushed back from the table and grabbed her plate. “I’ll get started in the kitchen, Mom.” She walked away before her mom could voice the question plastered on her face. Someday she’d quit hiding. But not yet. She couldn’t force the secrets into the light.

      Tricia kept Mom talking while they cleaned the lunch dishes. “I’m headed home. Relax a bit before the crazy week starts.”

      Mom’s brow wrinkled, and concern filled her eyes. “Everything all right?”

      “Sure. Just stay alert, okay? Don’t want you here if whoever started the fire comes back.”

      “Pshaw.” Mom waved a hand in the air. “It won’t happen. Even if it did, Frank’s here to take care of me. He’s a good man, Tricia. You know that.”

      Tricia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Sure, Mom.” She kissed her cheek. “See you later.”

      The sound of the TV blared from the family room. Frank’s TV filled one of the small walls. Tricia peeked in and saw Frank and Caleb jumping up and down. With a shake of her head, she continued down the hall and slipped out. A well of loneliness swelled as she drove home. Her cottage felt empty and forlorn. Should she find a roommate? Each time she’d wrestled with loneliness before, she’d considered it, but always abandoned the idea. She didn’t want to fight over whose turn it was to buy milk or who needed to clean the bathroom.

      She lived better alone.

      No one could disappoint her then.

      

      Monday morning, Tricia sat at her desk, trying to decide which file to tackle before she left for court. Time to focus on the task at hand, rather than wonder who had torched her mom’s shed. She grabbed the top file. The wife had called 911 a couple of times on her husband, but this was the first time she’d pressed charges. Tricia scrawled a note to check in with the victim, and make sure she was still hanging in there. It wouldn’t hurt to call the anger management counselor and a few other folks. Get their read on the defendant. She rubbed her jawline as she wrote, but she stopped when she reached the ridge of scar tissue on her chin.

      Memories of that disastrous relationship seared her mind. Andrew Parker had looked like the right man for her when she bumped into him during a college class. But she should have known better. Now she knew the signs of an abuser. Then she’d been a desperate nineteen-year-old, looking for any man who might offer her a new life far away from her stepfather’s house. It hadn’t taken long for a pair of baby blue eyes and a great smile to sweep her off her feet as she tried to prove to herself she was lovable after the things her stepfather had done to her. She hadn’t known that, over the weeks and months, Andrew’s smile would become rare, while his control over her increased.

      Her thoughts flitted to the photo she’d looked at the previous week. She grabbed the top folder from Andrew’s file and pulled out Linda’s picture. She rubbed her scar then groaned. She’d covered the scar with concealer. No one saw the larger scar that marred her heart. Or the memories drawn to the surface by Linda Parker’s photo. When she looked at it, the bruises made her flash to the ones Andrew had beaten into her.

      Tricia pushed her chair away from the desk, stomach spinning, and leaned her head back. She used to love her job. Now she vacillated between satisfaction and a weighted-down feeling. The burden amplified with each new case tossed on her desk.

      Sydney stepped into her office. “You’re looking at that file again.”

      “Which one?” Tricia casually covered the file name.

      “The Parker file. The one that depresses you each time you examine it. What happened to the attorney who was passionate about her job, protecting victims and bringing justice to abusers?”

      Tricia sighed. That was the question she wrestled with each day. The Parker case had pushed her to the breaking point. “She’s still buried in here somewhere.”

      “You need to find a way to love your job again.” Sydney leaned on the desk, looking Tricia in the eye. “No job is worth the misery on your face. I need my friend back.”

      Sydney was right. “I’ll pray about it.”

      “Do.” Sydney smiled then turned to leave. “I’ve got to get to a motion in an hour. See you there.”

      Tricia nodded.

      Somehow she had to take joy in the small victories rather than focusing on the fact that domestic violence hadn’t ended and likely never would. She could help victims—one at a time—reclaim control of their lives. Ignore yet again the reality that she’d lived the life herself.

      A knock pulled her from her thoughts, and Tricia opened her eyes to find a paralegal pointing at her watch.

      “You’ll be late for court if you don’t leave.”

      Tricia glanced at her watch and bolted to her feet. “Are the files ready?”

      “On the corner of my desk, sorted by attorney.”

      “Thanks.”

      Time to put her doubts behind her and head to court. Flip the switch. Transform herself into a mentally tough and prepared opponent. Someone other attorneys had to reckon with.

      Tricia stood and grabbed the pile off the corner of the paralegal’s desk. A tumbleweed of tension roiled in her stomach. Tricia exhaled and prayed the sensation would pass.

      Tricia allowed her thoughts to wander as she approached the courthouse and finally the courtroom. Attorneys and clients talked in hushed tones in clusters scattered around the hallway. Tension vibrated in the air. Tricia steeled herself against it and prayed for wisdom and favor before pushing open the solid oak, carved door.

      Controlled chaos reigned in the courtroom. Tricia relaxed, as something about the atmosphere turned her discomfort into charged anticipation. She loved trial work for that very reason. One never knew what would happen, even in hearings as seemingly insignificant as scheduling a trial date.

      Her gaze swept the room. The high ceilings were inlaid with round rosettes. The jury box, witness stand, attorney tables and judge’s bench were all stained mahogany. Judge Sinclair’s attention focused on the dueling attorneys in front of her. With her chestnut hair pulled behind her ears and glasses perched on her nose, she had the air of a middle-aged librarian. Tricia had learned not to underestimate the judge’s brains or her dedication to helping women and children.

      Tricia brushed past the bar separating the gallery from the action and edged through the crush of bodies to find a corner of the plaintiff’s table to stack her files. After releasing the files, she flexed her fingers and eyed the line.

      Easily a dozen attorneys stood in line, some with clients. All waiting for their chance to stand in front of the judge. Tricia grabbed her first folder from the pile and quickly reviewed the file. The front sheet contained important dates and status information. Time to schedule this one for a hearing if defense counsel appeared as ordered. A quick scan of the room didn’t reveal opposing counsel, so Tricia picked up the next file.

      The defendant in this case had decided СКАЧАТЬ