Reasonable Doubt #2
Whitney Williams
REASONABLE DOUBT 2
WHITNEY G.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Whitney Gracia Williams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
Cover designed by Najla Qambers of Najla Qambers Designs
http://najlaqamberdesigns.com/
For my BFF/ultimate beta-reader/amazing assistant/shoulder to cry on whenever I’m acting crazy/ “person” like they say on ‘Grey’s Anatomy’... Tamisha Draper.
My books would suck without you...
And for the F.L.Y. crew...
Table of Contents
REASONABLE DOUBT 2
Prologue
Exculpatory Evidence (n.):
Evasion (n.):
Liability (n.):
Retraction (n.):
Consent (n.):
Denial (n.):
Closing Argument (n.):
Letter to the Reader
Prologue
Andrew
New York City
Six years ago...
For the third week in a row, I woke up to a relentless rain falling over this repulsive city. The clouds above were coated in an ugly hue of grey, and the streaks of lightning that flashed across the sky every few seconds were no longer marvels; they were predictable.
Holding up my umbrella, I walked to a newspaper stand and picked up The New York Times—bracing myself for what lay between its pages.
“How many women do you think a man could possibly screw in his lifetime?” The vendor handed me my change.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve stopped counting.”
“Stopped counting, eh? What did you do, get to ten and decide that was enough before settling down?” He pointed to the gold band on my left hand.
“No. I settled down first, then I started fucking.”
He raised his eyebrow—looking stunned, and then he turned around to organize his cigar display.
A couple of months ago, I would’ve entertained his attempt to make conversation, would’ve answered his question with a lighthearted laugh and a “More than we’ll ever admit to,” but I didn’t have the ability to laugh anymore.
My life was now a depressing reel of repeated frames—hotel nights, cold sweats, marred memories, and rain.
Goddamn rain.
I tucked the newspaper underneath my arm and turned away, glancing at the ring on my hand.
I hadn’t worn it in a long time, and I had no idea what possessed me to put it on today. Twisting it off my finger, I looked at it one last time—shaking my head at its uselessness.
For a split second, I considered keeping it, maybe locking it away as a reminder of the man I used to be. But that version of me was pathetic—gullible, and I wanted to forget him as fast as I could.
I crossed the street as the light turned green, and as I stepped onto the sidewalk, I tossed the band where I should’ve thrown it months ago.
Down the drain.
Exculpatory Evidence (n.):
Evidence indicating that a defendant did not commit the crime.
Andrew
Present Day
The hot coffee that was currently seeping through my pants and stinging my skin was the exact reason why I never fucked the same woman twice.
Wincing, I took a deep breath. “Aubrey...”
“You’re fucking married.”
I ignored her comment and leaned back in my chair. “In the interest of your future short-lived and mediocre law career¸ I’m going to do two huge favors for you: One, I’m going to apologize for fucking you a second time and let you know that it will never happen again. Two, I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just assault me with some goddamn coffee.”
“Don’t.” She threw my coffee mug onto the floor, shattering it to pieces. “I definitely did, and I’m tempted to do it again.”
“Miss Everhart—”
“Fuck you.” She narrowed her eyes at me, adding, “I hope your dick falls off,” as she stormed out of my office.
“Jessica!” I quickly stood up and grabbed a roll of paper towels. “Jessica?”
No answer.
I picked up my phone to call her desk, but she suddenly stepped into my office. “Yes, Mr. Hamilton?”
“Call Luxury Dry Cleaning and have them to deliver one of my suits to the office. I also need a new cup of coffee, Miss Everhart’s file from HR, and you need to tell Mr. Bach that I’ll be late to that four o’ clock meeting today.”
I waited to hear her usual “Right away, sir” or “I’m on it, Mr. Hamilton,” but she said nothing. She was silent—blushing, and her eyes were glued to the crotch of my pants.
“Don’t you need some help cleaning that up?” Her lips curved into a smile. “I have a really thick towel in my desk drawer. It’s very soft...and gentle.”
“Jessica...”
“It is huge, isn’t it?” Her eyes finally met mine. “I really wouldn’t tell a soul. It would be our little secret.”
“My fucking dry cleaning, a new cup of coffee, Miss Everhart’s file, and a message to Mr. Bach about me being late. Now.”
“I really love the way you resist...” She stole another glance of my wet pants before leaving the room.
I sighed and started to soak up as much of the coffee as I could. I should’ve known that Aubrey was the emotional type, should’ve known that she was unstable and incapable of behaving normally the second I realized she’d made up a fake identity just for LawyerChat.
I regretted ever telling her that I wanted to own her pussy, and I was cursing myself for driving to her apartment yesterday.
Never again...
Just as I was tearing off a new paper towel, a familiar voice cleared the air.
“Why, hello...It’s good to see you again,” she said.
I lifted my head up, hoping that this was a hallucination—that the woman at my door wasn’t really standing there smiling. That she wasn’t stepping forward with her hand outstretched as if she wasn’t the very reason that my life was heartlessly altered six years ago.
“Are you going to shake my hand, Mr. Hamilton?” She raised her eyebrow. “That is the name you’re going by these days, isn’t it?”
I stared at her long and hard—noticing that her once silky black hair was now cut short into a bob. Her light green eyes were still as soft and alluring as I remembered them, but they weren’t having the same effect.
All the memories I’d tried to suppress over the past few years were suddenly playing right in front of me, and the blood under my skin was starting to boil.
“Mr. Hamilton?” she asked again.
I picked up my phone. “Security?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” She slammed the phone down. “You’re not going to ask why I’m here? Why I came to see you?”
“Doing so would imply that I care.”
“Did you know that when most people get sentenced to prison, they get care packages, money orders, even a phone call on their first day?” She clenched her jaw. “I got divorce papers.”
“I told you I’d write.”
“You told me you’d stay. You told me you forgave me, you said that we could start over when I got out, that you would be right there—”
“You fucking ruined me, Ava.” I glared at her. “Ruined me, and the only reason I said those dumb ass things to you was because my lawyer told me to.”
“So, you don’t love me anymore?”
“I don’t answer rhetorical questions,” I said. “And I’m not a geography expert, but I know damn well that North Carolina is outside of New York and a direct violation of your parole. What do you think will happen when they find out you’re here? Do you think they’ll make you serve out the sentence that you more than fucking deserve?”
She gasped. “You would snitch on me?”
“I would run my car over you.”
She opened her mouth to say something else, but my door opened and the security team walked in.
“Miss?” The lead guard, Paul cleared his throat. “We’re going to need you to vacate the premises now.”
Ava scowled at me, shaking her head. “Really? You’re really going to let them haul me off like I’m some kind of animal?”
“Once again, rhetorical.” I sat down in my chair, signaling for Paul to get rid of her.
She said something else, but I tuned it out. She didn’t mean shit to me, and I needed to find someone online tonight so I could fuck her random and unwanted appearance out of my mind.
Evasion (n.):
A subtle device to set aside the truth, or escape the punishment of the law.
Aubrey
Andrew was the epitome of what it meant to be an asshole, a shining example of what that word stood for, but no matter how pissed I was, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him.
In the six months that we’d spoken, he’d never mentioned a wife. And the one time I’d asked if he’d ever done anything more than “One dinner. One night. No repeats.” –he’d said “Once,” and quickly changed the subject.
I’d been replaying that conversation in my mind all night, telling myself to accept that he was a liar, and that I needed to move on.
“Ladies and gentlemen of La Monte Art Gallery...” My ballet instructor suddenly spoke into a mic, cutting through my thoughts. “May I have your attention please?”
I shook my head and looked out into the full audience. Tonight was supposed to be one of the highlights of my dance career. It was an exhibition for the city’s college dancers. All of the leading performers for spring productions were supposed to dance a two minute solo in honor of their school, in celebration of what was to come months later.
“This next performer you’re about to see is Miss Aubrey Everhart.” There was pride in his voice. “She is playing the role of Odette/Odile in Duke’s production of Swan Lake, and when I tell you that she is one of the most talented dancers I’ve ever seen...” He paused as the crowd’s chatter dissolved into silence. “I need you to take my word for it.”
One of the photographers in the front row snapped a picture of me, temporarily rendering me blind by the flash.
“As most of you know,” he continued, “I’ve worked with the best of the best, spent countless years in Russia studying underneath the greats, and after a long and illustrious career with the New York Ballet Company, I’ve retired to teach those with untapped potential.”
There was a loud applause. Everyone in the room knew who Paul Petrova was, and even though most in the field were confused as to why he would ever want to teach in Durham, no one dared to question his decision.
“I hope you’ll come out and see the first transformation of the Duke ballet program in the spring,” he said as he slowly walked to the other side of the stage. “But for now, Miss Everhart will perform a short duet from Balanchine’s ‘Serenade,’ with her partner Eric Lofton!”
The audience clapped again, and the lights above them dimmed. A soft spotlight shone on me and Eric, and the violinists began to play.
Short, soft notes filled the room, and I stood on my toes—trying to dance as delicately as the music demanded. Yet, with each step, all I could picture was Andrew kissing me, fucking me, and ultimately lying to me.
“I’ve never lied to you, Aubrey. I trust you for some strange reason...”
I pushed Eric away when he held out his hands, and twirled across the stage until he came after me. He held my face in his hands—as if he was begging me to stay, but I spun away again, launching myself into a full set of nonstop pirouettes.
I was angry, I was hurt, and I wasn’t holding anything back as I showed off just how well I could dance en pointe.
The second the violinists struck the last note, the audience let out a collective gasp and applauded the loudest they had all night.
“Wow...” Eric whispered as he took a bow next to me. “I don’t think anyone will talk shit about you getting the swan role after that...”
“People have been talking shit about me?” I raised my eyebrow, but I already knew the answer to that. A junior landing the top role over all the seniors was unheard of.
“Bravo, Miss Everhart.” Mr. Petrova walked over to me. “She’s going to blow you all away in the spring, I’m sure of it!”
Another round of applause began to build and he moved the mic away from his mouth. “Where are your parents? I’d like for them to come up for a picture.”
“They’re out of town.” I lied. I hadn’t wasted my time even attempting to invite them to this.
“Well, that’s too bad!” he said. “I’m sure they’re very proud of you. You can exit the stage now.”
“Thank you.” I headed into the dressing room and changed into a short white silk dress and a grey feathered headband. As I looked myself over in the mirror, I smiled. There was no way anyone could tell that I was an emotional wreck inside.
I pulled out my phone and noticed a new voicemail from GBH. I knew it was about me missing my internship for the fourth day in a row, so I deleted it. Then something came over me and I googled “Andrew Hamilton” for the umpteenth time this week—hoping something would pop up.
Nothing. Again.
With the exception of his perfect, poised photo on GBH’s website and that less than telling bio, there was no information about him anywhere.
I tried “Andrew Hamilton: New York, lawyer,” but the results were just as dismal. It was as if he hadn’t come into existence until starting at GBH.
“Great performance, Aubrey...” Jennifer, one of Duke’s top seniors, suddenly stepped into the bathroom. “It really is an honor watching someone so young and underdeveloped get unnecessary credit.”
I rolled my eyes and zipped my purse.
“Tell me something,” she said. “Do you honestly think you’re going to last until the spring performance?”
“Do you honestly think I’m going to stand here and continue this dumbass conversation?”
“You should.” She smirked. “Because between you and me, four years ago—back before your time...There was a certain dancer picked to be the lead in Sleeping Beauty, a double major. She was quite talented—a natural really, but she caved under pressure because she couldn’t devote as many hours to the craft as the dancers who only wanted to dance.”
“Is there a point to this story?”
“I took her spot and I was only a freshman.” She smiled. “Now I’m a senior, and a certain someone is dancing in the role that belongs to me. So, just like back then, I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure I get what’s rightfully mine.”
I shook my head and moved past her, ignoring the fact that she whispered “stupid bitch” under her breath. I was supposed to return to the gallery room and watch the other performers, but I needed a break.
I slipped past the sliding doors to the other side of the room and stepped into the gallery’s bistro. It was much quieter on this side, and the people sitting at the tables seemed to be preoccupied with conversations not centered on ballet.
“Miss?” A tuxedoed waiter stepped in front of me with a tray. “Would you be interested in a complimentary glass of champagne?”
“Two please.”
He raised his eyebrow, but
handed me two glasses anyway.
With no grace whatsoever, I tossed one back, then the other—licking the rims to make sure I didn’t miss a drop.
“Where’s your bar?” I asked.
“Our bar? I don’t think the patrons of the art gallery are permitted to—”
“Please don’t make me ask again.”
He pointed to the other side of the room where a few smokers were sitting, and I walked toward them.
“What can I get for you tonight, Miss?” The bartender smiled as I approached. “Would you like to try one of our house specials?”
“Can any of those help me forget about sleeping with a married man?”
The smile on his face faded and he set out three shot glasses, filling them with what I could only hope was the strongest liquor in the house.
I slid my credit card across the counter and downed the first one in seconds—shutting my eyes as the burning sensation crawled down my throat. I held the next one against my lips, but I suddenly heard a familiar laugh.
It was low and gravelly, and I’d heard it a million times before.
I turned around and spotted Andrew sitting at a table with a woman who was not his wife. I didn’t want to admit it, but she was pretty. Very, very pretty: Auburn hair with blond highlights, deep green eyes, and perky breasts that were too perfect to be natural.
She was rubbing him on his shoulder and giggling every ten seconds.
Andrew seemed undaunted by her affection, and as he signaled for the check, I could only assume how their night would end.
I tried to turn away—to act like seeing him with someone else wasn’t affecting me, but I couldn’t help it.
His date was now leaning over the table—purposely putting more of her cleavage on display, and whispering words that were hard to read. As she playfully licked her lips and stroked his chin with her fingertips, I realized I couldn’t take it anymore.
Subject: SERIOUSLY?!
Are you really on a date right now with someone who isn’t your wife?! It’s bad enough that you’re a cheating and lying philanderer, but are you really that much of a sex addict?