Prologue
Nine years ago…
“Your Honor, the prosecution should never have bought these charges against my client. Much less to trial.”
DaShaun Booker did his best not to fidget on the hard, wooden chair where he sat at the defense table, while his legal aid attorney, Earl Conwell, gave his closing argument to the judge. According to Mr. Conwell, squirming around might make him look guilty.
What did it matter? Everyone in the courtroom already knew he was.
Including himself.
He reluctantly pulled his gaze from his hands clasped atop the table and lifted it toward Judge Schrimsher. The man’s expressionless features showed no signs of changing as his eyes tracked Mr. Conwell walking back and forth in front of him.
“Where was the evidence that proved Mr. Booker was anything more than a sixteen-year old kid coerced into a situation that was beyond his control?”
All of that was true. But he could have done something to stop the chain of events that had brought him here.
Like killing Harold Booker. Once his father had told him exactly what he would do to his sister if he didn’t go with him, it had jumped to the top of the list. And he might have done it too, except he hadn’t wanted Kianna left alone when he went to jail.
Look where I am now.
He clenched his fists. His sister was going to be left alone anyhow. And if he had done it…
Ryan Goddard would still be alive.
“Harold Booker was an abusive father who had little, if no, regard for the welfare of his children.”
DaShaun’s gaze flashed toward the empty jury box as Mr. Conwell pleaded with the judge on his behalf. This was a bench trial where the judge would decide the final verdict. Juries were too unpredictable. At least that’s what Mr. Conwell had said.
He hesitantly looked at the judge again. The man who held DaShaun’s future in his hands had a face made of stone. It was the kind of face that said he was a man who would make sure justice was done.
That’s all I want.
Nothing his attorney might say—no matter how hard he tried to excuse DaShaun’s part in what had happened—would change the facts. Nothing would change the charges that had been brought against him a year ago—possession with intent to distribute, conspiracy to commit drug offenses…
Second degree murder with special circumstances.
DaShaun hadn’t pulled the trigger. But Detective Goddard had died. And it was his fault.
I deserve everything I get.
If the judge said he had to go to prison, DaShaun would be okay with it. Mr. Conwell hadn’t understood that at all.
“You feel remorse, and that’s okay,” his attorney had said, his intense green eyes filled with concern, when DaShaun had insisted he wanted to speak. “You should. But I wouldn’t be doing you any favors by letting you testify.”
“It’s not just remorse,” DaShaun had told him before Mr. Conwell could say anything else. “I’m guilt?—”
“That,” his attorney had fired back and pointed a finger at him.
“That right there is why I can’t put you on the stand.
Damn it, kid,” he’d groused, shaking his head as he’d sat down at the visitor’s table in the juvenile detention center and stared at him.
“It’s like you want to spend the rest of your life in prison. ”
DaShaun frowned. Prison was better than the alternative.
His home had been anything but a home for a long time.
His mom had died giving birth to Kianna.
After that, his grandmother had come to live with them.
She’d done her best to take care of her daughter’s children.
But then she had died. So, even if by some miracle he was found not guilty, he wouldn’t be going back.
No one would be there anyhow.
“Kianna Booker…” His head jerked up at his sister’s name. “We all heard her brave testimony of what Harold Booker—hers and DaShaun’s father—had promised to do to her if her brother hadn’t gone with him. Vile, despicable things no child should endure.”
Nothing about what had happened was good.
Nothing. But knowing Harold Booker couldn’t hurt Kianna ever again gave him a little bit of peace.
But he’d hated she’d had to testify. If Mr. Conwell hadn’t insisted everything hinged on what she had to say, she wouldn’t have.
But when she’d heard she might save him, she’d agreed, whether DaShaun had wanted her to or not.
“Let me do something for you for a change,” she’d said.
Kianna had sat up there—so small and timid—looking like a baby, even if she was almost thirteen now, and relived that night.
Seeing her repeat the words their father had threatened hadn’t been easy.
Threats DaShaun had had no doubt he would have been capable of fulfilling.
During her testimony, his little sister had broken down a couple of times, and DaShaun had broken down with her.
But then she’d smiled at him through her tears, and he’d once again been grateful that she was now safe.
God, please let the foster family be treating her right.
“Her brother protected her the only way he knew how. Just like he always did. By doing what Harold Booker demanded. By putting his sister first.” Mr. Conwell’s profile hardened and jaw clenched.
“You’ve listened to testimony from neighbors about the horrors heard coming from the Booker apartment.
Of Kianna begging her father not to beat DaShaun because of her. ”
His attorney shook his head and stared back at him over his shoulder. The look in his eyes…
Was that pity?
“And what about those residents. Why didn’t any of them intervene?
” The edge to Mr. Conwell’s voice went harder as his attention snapped back to the judge.
“Because they didn’t dare. Harold Booker’s reign of terror wasn’t just confined to his children.
The drug business he ran from the apartment building he managed kept the residents in a constant state of fear.
They dared not leave or report him to the police. Others had disappeared for less.”
Mr. Conwell’s shoulders tensed and his hands fisted at his sides.
“Your Honor, I think it would be safe to say when adults couldn’t withstand the kind of menacing intimidation Harold Booker placed on everyone in his little world, how could we expect a sixteen-year-old to do it?
” The judge’s gaze flickered toward DaShaun.
Not for long. But he’d definitely looked at him for a split second, though his face hadn’t changed much.
If at all. “It would be almost impossible. In fact, he couldn’t. ”
Mr. Conwell turned from the judge and met DaShaun’s gaze as he took the few steps back to the defense table and came around to stand beside where he sat. A firm hand landed on his shoulder.
Unfortunately, keeping his eyes on his attorney as he’d rounded the table, had given him a glimpse of the solemn woman sitting two rows behind the prosecutor with her family. He quickly shifted his gaze down as Mr. Conwell squeezed his shoulder.
“In closing, I’m going to do something I’ve never done before. I’d like to add my own personal observations about Mr. Booker.”
“I object.” The prosecutor bounding up from his seat forced DaShaun’s gaze the other man’s way.
He supposed it was his job, but Mr. James scared the hell out of him.
Like now, when his hard, hate-filled, frowning gaze swung his way.
“Whatever personal opinion defense counsel has of Mr. Booker, it has no relevance to the facts of the case.”
“Your Honor,” Mr. Conwell said, as he once more looked down at DaShaun, his own gaze encouraging—kind. He’d heard horror stories about free attorneys who didn’t give a shit about their clients when he’d been in juvie. But Mr. Conwell wasn’t like that.
Other than Kianna, it was the only lucky thing that had happened to DaShaun in his entire life. And Detective Goddard…
“DaShaun is a good young man.” Someone seated in the gallery behind him snorted—probably one of the many officers in attendance who had served with Ryan Goddard—but Mr. Conwell didn’t pause.
“I’ve had a long career of defending individuals who, honestly, I sometimes had a hard time stomaching.
” The hand on his shoulder squeezed again.
“But this young man…” Another squeeze. “Before he was forced into this situation, was making strives to rise above what can only be described as a nightmarish home life. He was a good student who had, against the odds, been offered academic college scholarships while still a junior. He also worked with the elderly at his local community center. You’ve heard testimony attesting to this and to his character. ”
“Your Honor,” the prosecutor said, quickly standing again, his tone clearly disgusted. “Mr. Conwell is correct. We have already heard this during direct testimony and again at the start of defense counsel’s closing. Do we honestly need a rehash of these facts?”
The judge flashed a stern gaze and held a hand up at the other man, stopping whatever else he might be about to say.
“Mr. James,” the judge said, his expression unreadable, although his tone seemed a little aggravated. “I would like to hear what counsel has to say.” Then he waved his hand toward his attorney. “Please continue.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Mr. Conwell continued.
“It’s a tragedy when someone dies. Especially a young, decorated officer in the line of duty who had his whole life ahead of him.
But Detective Ryan Goddard made the conscious decision that night to save DaShaun when the deal went wrong. He gave his life for him.”
Saying the deal had went wrong was a mild way of putting it.
Just as money had changed hands from Ryan Goddard—an undercover narcotics officer—to his father, shouts of, “Hands up... You’re under arrest…
Get on the ground…” went up all around them, sending DaShaun’s heart racing and panicked gaze flashing to people pouring out into the open with guns drawn.