Brenda Jackson - Forged In Desire

The bailiff entered and said, “The judge has called the court back in session for the reading of the verdict. We’re ready to escort you there.”

Like everyone else in the room, Margo stood. She was ready for the verdict to be read. It was only after this that she could get her life back.

* * *

“FOREMAN, HAS THE JURY reached a verdict?” the judge asked.

“Yes, we have, Your Honor.”

The courtroom was quiet as the verdict was read. “We, the jury, find Murphy Erickson guilty of murder.”

Suddenly Erickson bowled over and laughed. He actually laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that made the hairs on the necks of everyone in attendance stand up. The outburst prompted the judge to hit his gavel several times. “Order in the courtroom. Counselor, quiet the defendant or he will be found in contempt of court.”

“I don’t give a damn about any contempt,” Erickson snarled loudly. “You!” he said, pointing a finger at the judge. “Along with everyone else in this courtroom, you have just signed your own death warrant. As long as I remain locked up, someone in here will die every seventy-two hours,” Erickson threatened at the top of his voice while looking around at the members of the jury, the prosecutors, the clerk reporter, the defense attorneys, media and all others in the courtroom. It was as if his gaze didn’t miss a single individual.

Pandemonium broke out. The judge continued to pound his gavel, trying to restore order. Police officers rushed forward to subdue Erickson and haul him away. But even then the sound of his threats could still be heard.

Margo glanced around and saw everyone was just as stunned as she. She breathed in deeply, trying to control her racing heart. The judge finally established order in the courtroom and began thanking the members of the jury for their public service. His words were lost on Margo. Erickson’s threats were echoing too loudly in her ears.

CHAPTER ONE

LAMAR “STRIKER” JENNINGS walked into the hospital room, stopped and then frowned. “What the hell is he doing working from bed?”

“I asked myself the same thing when I got his call for us to come here,” Striker’s friend Quasar Patterson said, sitting lazily in a chair with his long legs stretched out in front of him.

“And you might as well take a seat like he told us to do,” another friend, Stonewall Courson, suggested, while pointing to an empty chair. “Evidently it will take more than a bullet to slow down Roland.”

Roland Summers, CEO of Summers Security Firm, lay in the hospital bed, staring at them. Had it been just last week that the man had been fighting for his life after foiling an attempted carjacking?

“You still look like shit, Roland. Shouldn’t you be trying to get some rest instead of calling a meeting?” Striker asked, sliding his tall frame into the chair. He didn’t like seeing Roland this way. They’d been friends a long time, and he couldn’t ever recall the man being sick. Not even with a cold. Well, at least he was alive. That damn bullet could have taken him out and Striker didn’t want to think about that.

“You guys have been keeping up with the news?” Roland asked in a strained voice, interrupting Striker’s thoughts.

“We’re aware of what’s going on, if that’s what you want to know,” Stonewall answered. “Nobody took Murphy Erickson’s threat seriously.”

Roland made an attempt to nod his head. “And now?”

“And now people are panicking. Phones at the office have been ringing off the hook. I’m sure every protective security service in town is booked solid. Everyone in the courtroom that day is either in hiding or seeking protection, and with good reason,” Quasar piped in to say. “The judge, clerk reporter and bailiff are all dead. All three were gunned down within seventy-two hours of each other.”

“The FBI is working closely with local law enforcement, and they figure it’s the work of the same assassin,” Striker added. “I heard they anticipate he’ll go after someone on the jury next.”

“Which is why I called the three of you here. There was a woman on the jury who I want protected. It’s personal.”

“Personal?” Striker asked, lifting a brow. He knew Roland dated off and on, but he’d never been serious with anyone. He was always quick to say that his wife, Becca, had been his one and only love.

“Yes, personal. She’s a family member.”

The room got quiet. That statement was even more baffling since, as far as the three of them knew, Roland didn’t have any family...at least not anymore. They were all aware of his history. He’d been a cop, who’d discovered some of his fellow officers on the take. Before he could blow the whistle he’d been framed and sent to prison for fifteen years. Becca had refused to accept his fate and worked hard to get him a new trial. He served three years before finally leaving prison but not before the dirty cops murdered Roland’s wife. All the cops involved had eventually been brought to justice and charged with the death of Becca Summers, in addition to other crimes.

“You said she’s family?” Striker asked, looking confused.

“Yes, although I say that loosely since we’ve never officially met. I know who she is, but she doesn’t know I even exist.” Roland then closed his eyes, and Striker knew he had to be in pain.

“Man, you need to rest,” Quasar said. “You can cover this with us another time.”

Roland’s eyes flashed back open. “No, we need to talk now. I need one of you protecting her right away.”

Nobody said anything for a minute and then Striker asked, “What relation is she to you, man?”

“My niece. To make a long story short, years ago my mom got involved with a married man. He broke things off when his wife found out about the affair but not before I was conceived. I always knew the identity of my father. I also knew about his other two older sons, although they didn’t know about me. I guess you can say I was the old man’s secret.” Roland tried shifting in bed and suddenly let out a deep moan.

“You okay, Roland?” Stonewall asked in concern.

Roland nodded. “I’m okay.”

“You need to rest,” Striker said.

“The sooner I finish telling you everything, the sooner I can rest.”

“Then finish before we call the nurse to increase your pain meds,” Quasar said, leaning forward.

“One day after I’d left for college, I got a call from my mother letting me know the old man was dead but he’d left me something in his will.”

Striker didn’t say anything, thinking that at least Roland’s old man had done right by him in the end. To this day, his own poor excuse of a father hadn’t even acknowledged his existence. “That’s when your two brothers found out about you?” he asked.

“Yes. Their mother found out about me as well. She turned out to be a real bitch. Even tried blocking what Connelly had left for me in the will. But she couldn’t. The old man evidently had anticipated her making such a move and made sure the will was ironclad. He gave me enough to finish college without taking out student loans with a little left over.”

“Good for him,” Quasar said. “What about your brothers? How did they react to finding out about you?”

“The eldest acted like a dickhead,” Roland said without pause. “The other one’s reaction was just the opposite. His name was Murdock and he reached out to me afterward. I would hear from him from time to time. He would call to see how I was doing.”

Roland didn’t say anything for a minute, his face showing he was struggling with strong emotions. “Murdock is the one who gave Becca the money to hire a private investigator to reopen my case. I never got the chance to thank him.”