Camille gave a tight smile, one corner of her mouth dimpling. “Well, there’s Thanksgiving . . .”
She trailed off, looking away. Sensing something more, Jocelyn said, “What else?”
Camille fisted the ball of paper towels. “I agreed to testify at Uncle Simon’s trial.”
Jocelyn had known it was coming up. When Camille was in high school, she had been gang-raped by five boys from their school. Their father had brushed it under the carpet, buying off doctors and law enforcement personnel until it was as though the rape had never even happened. Their mother had gone along with it, but she, like her children, had never recovered from the trauma. Before she died, she had asked Simon—her brother—to frame Camille’s rapists for child pornography. When she and Bruce Rush died in a car accident three years earlier, Simon put the plan into action.
He and Bruce had run the biggest criminal defense law firm in the city for decades, Rush and Wilde. Simon’s client list afforded him access to every type of criminal imaginable. Criminals who could break into the homes of Camille’s rapists, hack into their personal computers and plant child pornography. Three of the rapists were charged with possession of child pornography. The other two were dead and in prison, respectively. Ironically, it was Caleb and his team at Special Victims who had helped exonerate the remaining rapists of the child pornography charges. He was able to track down the man who had broken into their homes and the hacker who had planted the evidence on their PCs—both of whom were going to testify that Simon had hired them to do so.
Jocelyn knew that the District Attorney’s office salivated at the chance to fell the man who had bested them in court for the last forty years, gaining acquittal after acquittal. What the DA didn’t have was motivation, and that was where Camille came in. She was the connection between the men who had been framed and Simon—but she was also Simon’s niece. She and Simon had always been close. He had come to her rescue during her years on the street more times than Jocelyn could count. It was Simon who had helped Camille find the rehab facility in California and arranged for her to be admitted there. He was, and always had been, a tremendous support for Camille.
Jocelyn said, “You’re testifying on Uncle Simon’s behalf?”
Camille fidgeted with the ball of paper towels, tearing off small pieces and rolling those into spit-ball sized wads. Jocelyn reached over and took the paper towels from Camille’s hands, placing them onto the coffee table.
“Not on anyone’s behalf,” Camille said. She pointed to her chest. “For me. I’m testifying as to what happened to me. That’s all.” She hesitated, a rosy hue infusing her cheeks with color. Jocelyn knew she wasn’t going to like what came next. “I’m going to ask Zachary Whitman if he’ll testify too.”
Jocelyn groaned. Whitman had been the lookout the night Camille was raped. Jocelyn never could decide if that made him the most detestable or the least detestable of the five. Either way, he made her skin crawl. She leaned back against the couch and looked up at the ceiling. “Oh my God, Camille—”
Her sister stood and paced in front of Jocelyn, folding her arms across her chest. “I need this,” she explained. “He can corroborate my story.”
Jocelyn put a hand to her chest. “I can corroborate your story,” she said. “Me.”
Camille sighed. “You weren’t actually there, remember? Whitman saw the whole thing. It has to be him.”
It was true. Although Jocelyn had been in the house that night, she had no real memories of what happened. After their father covered up the rape and silenced his daughters, Jocelyn had driven her car into a tree, giving herself a grievous head injury. Whether she had done so on purpose or not, she would never know. Her memories from the weeks just before the accident were gone. Although the doctors had said there was a slim possibility of her recovering them, she never had. The night of Camille’s rape was lost to her forever.
Jocelyn watched her sister walk back and forth. Her chin was thrust out in a look of determination. There would be no changing her mind. Camille wanted Whitman to testify. She wanted her story told and validated in a public forum. What better place than a court of law? She had probably come all this way to confront Whitman and ask him to testify. Jocelyn reached out a hand and caught one of Camille’s wrists as she passed. Camille stopped moving and looked down at her.
“Okay,” Jocelyn agreed. She looked at the scar on Camille’s hand—it matched her own except, like Anita, Camille had one on each hand. “Okay to Whitman testifying, but I’ll ask him, all right? I’ve already been in a room with him once. Let me do it.”
Camille bit her lower lip and nodded. Some of the tension leaked from her body.
Jocelyn released her wrist. “Simon is okay with this?”
“You know how he is,” Camille replied, smiling. “He always says, ‘just let the legal process play out.’ He’s fine with it.”
“Do you think you’re ready for this?”
Camille sat back down, resting her elbows on her thighs, head in hands. “The trial’s not for another nine months. I’ll meet with the prosecutors now while I’m here, spend some time with you and Olivia—and Uncle Simon.”
Jocelyn bristled but kept silent. She had barely spoken to Simon in the last year after she’d been inadvertently sucked into the initial child pornography investigation. She had read recently in the newspaper that after his indictment, Simon sold his practice, finally retiring at the age of seventy-five. She had let him see Olivia only twice in the last year. Both times he had taken her to the zoo, and both times, Jocelyn had trailed them the entire day without revealing herself.
She had trust issues.
A high-pitched noise issued from her jacket pocket—tinny-sounding music. It took her a moment to realize it was her new cell phone. She’d have to change the ring tone. She pulled it out, saw it was the office number, and answered.
“Rush,” Anita said. “You need to come in right now. All of you. I already called Kevin, and he’s on his way.”
“All of us?”
“Yeah, you, Knox, and Raz. Call them and get over here.”
Chapter 28
November 17, 2014
They were a weary bunch, gathered around the conference room table at Jocelyn’s office. Trent slumped in a chair across from her. He wouldn’t take his coat off, like he was freezing. Stubble grew unevenly on his cheeks, and there were large bags under his eyes. He had obviously had a much rougher weekend than Jocelyn. Knox sat next to him, reeking of booze—tequila this time, Jocelyn suspected, based on the smell—and fidgeting with his nasal cannula. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week. Only Anita looked healthy and well-rested as she distributed cups of coffee in disposable, foam cups.
Trent and Jocelyn exchanged a look. “These your fancy cups, Rush?”
Jocelyn laughed drily. “Top of the line for you, Raz.”
Both Trent and Jocelyn left their coffees untouched.
“Kevin’s here,” Anita announced. She took up position at the head of the table and sipped her own coffee. Kevin sailed in and stood beside Anita. Whatever news the two of them had, they’d already discussed it.
Kevin looked around and let out a low whistle. “Just look at you sad sacks. Gettin’ the business from a borderline pedophile high school track and field coach.”