Helen Myers - A Man To Count On

More than that, she wanted to wake up in her bed and realize the last several hours had been a bad dream; but she knew better than to accept any protection from the press. There was no denying she was breathless from shock, hurt to the point of wanting to dive into the ladies’ room and sob, and angry enough to show Trey what a receding hairline really looked like. None of that was an option, though, as Bruce was right; this extra media attention was personal business. Hers. Any outward sign of distress or resentment on her part would serve her, Emmett and the office badly.

With a veteran’s ability to press her lips into a semblance of a smile, she touched the concerned young lawyer’s shoulder, hating that his biggest professional moment to date ultimately would be reduced to trash. “With your help, I think we can manage. If you’d be so good as to accompany me,” she told him, “I’ll make the usual ‘justice has been served’ statement and then, as the give-us-gossip queries begin, excuse us.”

The brown-eyed blonde, who could have passed for her kid brother if she’d had one, nodded with emphasis. “You’ve got it, Ms. Martel. And if any of them get pushy, don’t worry. I was a champion wrestler in high school and college. Nobody’s going to muscle us.”

He was as sweet in his concern as he was thorough in his work. She made a mental note to mention his value to their boss, D.A. Emmett Garner. Who could say—with her luck, he’d be replacing her before Christmas. “Make that E.D. You’ve earned it. As for trouble, I suspect the only threat we need to worry about is a chipped tooth from having a microphone jammed into our faces.”

As she slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder and reached for her briefcase, she wondered at her calm voice and hoped that the sweat starting to trickle down her back and between her breasts didn’t bleed through her red suit. She traditionally wore this suit with the double-breasted gold buttons on final arguments day, when murder one was on the table, to keep the jury’s attention. She opted for a black one on the day she expected a jury verdict, to signify her awareness that another life had been lost, and that everyone loses in a conviction.

Only today the jury hadn’t taken two hours to reach their decision.

It was just as well, she reasoned. The red could substitute as her internal grieving for what her children must be going through.

So help me, Trey, you will pay for this.

Operating on reflexes that she’d honed from almost sixteen years with the district attorney’s office, E.D. accepted the teary thanks, emotional hugs and powerful handshakes from poor Misty Carthage’s family and friends. That barely slowed her path toward the double doors, beyond which cameras would click madly and video cameras would catch every nuance. Knowing she had seconds before the full circus started, she told Bruce, “When you get out of here, take that patient girl of yours out for a terrific dinner. If you want to try Bruno’s, use my name and have them charge it to my account. One of us deserves a good meal out of this.”

Usually someone with above-average reflexes, the attorney had to reach twice for the door handle. “Uh…thanks. You’re sure?”

E.D. blocked thoughts of what Trey had done with their joint accounts while she’d been tied up in court. “Absolutely. Now let’s get this done.”

Bruce opened the door to a barrage of people and electronics. From the bulwark poured eager and strident appeals.

“Are you pleased at putting another defendant on death row, Ms. Martel?”

“E.D., is it true your husband has locked you out of your own home?”

“Did you know the photos you approved would end up on the Internet?”

“The word is that Playboy is offering you a million for a mother-daughter layout. Gonna take it?”

Wishing she could broadside smug Josh Perle with her briefcase, E.D. paused and began, “Thank you for your interest in Misty Carthage’s devastating case. The state of Texas is grateful that justice has been served once again and that other studious coeds, the Austin community as a whole, will be safer—at least from the likes of Ed Guy.”

“With this being May, you’ll soon have two condemned men facing execution,” another reporter she didn’t recognize called from the back. “New DNA tests are being requested by their attorneys. What’s your reaction to that?”

“It’s their right, of course. That said, the Sandman did not beat Debra Conyers to death in her bed, her husband did, despite his recant after excessive publicity attracted a high-profile defense team to his case. As for Counselor Baltow’s claim regarding his client, science has already shown the state will not be putting an innocent person to death and I expect that new appeal will be denied, as well. Thank you for your time.”

After a speaking glance to Bruce, she started down the hall. Undaunted, several reporters matched her stride.

“Would you make a statement about Mr. Martel’s decision to sue you for divorce and get a restraining order, Ms. Martel?”

“No.” But E.D. wished Trey could hear himself being referred to by her maiden name. The reporter had to be new.

“Have you talked to your daughter or son?” someone else asked in a sharper voice.

Caught off guard, she ignored the question due to the sudden boulder lodging in her throat. Thankfully, Bruce forced his way forward and stretched out his arm to deter the persistent.

“Back off! You have your statement.”

Three minutes later she reached her office, rejecting Bruce’s offer to escort her the rest of the way. She’d expressed her gratitude again and urged him toward the parking garage. Now she drew in a long, deep breath knowing she wouldn’t get off so easy. The sound reminded her of a rattling shutter in a storm.

Don’t.

As her throat began to hurt anew, she tried to ease that by swallowing several times. She had no time for tears, forget outright panic. But vulnerability was compounding on itself. Sure, for the moment she had a job where she would be defended in any public forum. All it would take to end that, though, was a few more crass comments by Trey, Dani in hysterics…and the photos showing up in more and more places. Then, whether it was fair or not, E.D. would be asked for her resignation, left as raw meat to the voracious media hounds.

One thing at a time. Get through here, and then figure out where you’ll sleep tonight.

She honestly didn’t have a clue. By the first break in court today, Trey had left a message on her cell phone warning her not to return to the house because he’d had the locks changed so she wouldn’t be able to get inside. Supposedly, her luggage was waiting for her in her office. Not only hadn’t the bastard had the decency to let her pack her own things, he was subjecting her to the humiliation of the whole office seeing evidence that she was being ejected from her own home—for reasons as bizarre as they were infuriating.

As E.D. walked the long halls, she again tried to call her seventeen-year-old daughter, Dani—but without success. Mac, her eleven-year-old son, didn’t answer his phone, either. Trey must have had some input there. As bad as Dani’s situation was—and she had yet to get to the bottom of it—surely he hadn’t succeeded in convincing her son that she was in any way responsible?

Walking through the halls, she willed her expression to remain blank and only murmured, “Thanks,” to the half-dozen people who were still there working on their own cases, looking up to congratulate her. She’d encouraged her secretary, Nita, not to wait on her—a good thing because as she opened the door to her office, the sight of her three red suitcases had her slumping against the door, her vision blurring from tears.