The Prosecutor

He set the phone down and jotted notes as the now-deceased detective spoke. Witness unsure. Alley dark. Couldn’t positively ID. Showed a six-pack—the old photo lineup where the witness was given photographs of possible suspects and asked if he could identify any of them. In this case, according to the dying detective, the witness thought that maybe Brian Sinclair could be the guy.

All of it should be documented in the case files.

Zac shook his head as the detective confessed to coaxing the witness with leading questions. He had dark hair, right? And a white shirt, correct?

Zac studied the detective’s sallow face, seeking anything that might indicate that brain cancer had caused mental impairment. Outside of the papery, sagging skin that came with chemo treatments, his speech was clear and he seemed rational. Zac checked the date on the bottom of the screen. Six weeks ago. He’d have to research the effects of brain cancer in the weeks prior to death. To refute this evidence, he’d simply need to prove that the man had lost cognitive brain function. In which case, everything on the video would be thrown out.

Problem solved.

Next. Identification of the white shirt worn by the accused might be something for Penny to run with. The murder happened in March. It could have been cold. Did the assailant wear a jacket? That had to have come up in court.

Again, all this information should be in the case files, which Zac didn’t have. He scooped up his desk phone and dialed his office assistant. “Hey, Beth. Have you seen the files from the Sinclair case yet?”

“I put them in your office. They’re in a box by the corner window.”

On the floor sat one square file box, maybe eleven by thirteen inches. A corner of the lid was torn, as if someone had tried to lift it and it ripped. “That’s it?”

“That’s all that was delivered.”

One box. On a six-month investigation. There should have been stacks and stacks of reports particularly General Progress Reports—GPRs—where detectives recorded notes. Those GPRs were what he needed. Typically handwritten by the detectives, the reports told the story of who said what. Anything on the investigation’s progress should have been documented for use in trial.

So why did Zac only have one small box?

He’d have to track down the old prosecutor—the one who’d been fired by the new State’s Attorney—to see what happened to the rest of the documentation. Yeah, he’ll be more than willing to talk.

Zac stood, grabbed the box and set it on his desk. At least it had some weight to it. Inside he found a few supplementary reports, along with a lineup report. He perused one of the pages for any mention of a white shirt. Nothing. He checked the next page. Nothing.

Not off to a good start. He continued flipping through the files. Nothing about a white shirt. He dropped the stack of papers back in the box and propped his hands on his hips. He’d have to read through every document and study it.

Someone told the detectives that Brian Sinclair was wearing a white shirt that night and it wasn’t their star witness. That guy had only confirmed the shirt’s color. Zac considered the guy’s statement, rolled it around in his mind. Massaged it. What he came up with was that the detectives, in a typically aggressive move, had convinced the witness they had Brian Sinclair dead to rights and all they needed was corroboration on the white shirt.

Which they got. Hello, video. If he couldn’t discredit this sucker, Penny would argue that Sinclair’s constitutional rights under Giglio v. the United States had been violated. In Giglio the Supreme Court ruled that the prosecution had to disclose all information related to the credibility of a prosecution witness, including law enforcement officials.

Bottom line, if the cops had pressured the witness into falsely identifying Brian Sinclair, his testimony could be thrown out.

And then they’d be screwed.

* * *

EMMA FOUGHT THE STAMPEDE of people exiting the building and rode the elevator to the eighth floor. As suspected, Zac was still at his desk, his big shoulders hunched over a legal pad as he took notes. A fierce longing—that black emptiness—tore at her. She’d always been drawn to men with big shoulders and the way her smaller body folded into the warmth and security of being held. Pfft. Right now she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone out with a man, never mind been held.

Dwelling on it wouldn’t help her. She’d have to do what she always did and keep her focus on Brian. Then she’d pick up the pieces of her life.

She knocked on the open door.

“Enter,” Zac said, his gaze glued to his notes.

“Hello again.”

His head snapped up and a bit of his short blond hair flopped to his forehead. A sudden urge to fix the disturbed strands twitched in her fingers. Wow. Clearly she’d been without male companionship for too long. Even so, this was the man who wanted to keep her brother in prison. She had no business thinking about her hands on him.

“Ms. Sinclair?”

She stepped into the office, keeping back a couple of feet from the desk. “Hi, Zac. And it’s Emma.”

He dropped his pen and reclined in his squeaky chair. “Can I help you with something?”

You sure can. She waggled her phone. “I just took a call from a friend of Brian’s.”

The idea that she should have checked with Penny before talking to the prosecutor flashed through her mind. Maybe she’d been too hasty, but that had never stopped her before. Her brain functioned better this way, always moving and jumping from assignment to assignment. Fighting her brother’s legal battle, until now, had been a solitary endeavor, and she had simply not considered that she had an ally. Next time, she’d consult with Penny. Next time.

She stepped closer to the desk and met Zac’s questioning gaze. “Melody was with my brother around the time of the murder.”

Zac opened his mouth and Emma held up her hand. “Let me finish. I know what Melody says doesn’t prove anything, heard it a hundred times. However, she told me she turned over a receipt from the parking garage near the club.”

“And?”

So smug. “I have boxes and boxes of information regarding my brother’s case. Eighteen to be exact. They’re stacked in my mother’s basement. Three high, six across. I guess you could say I’ve amassed one box for every month since his conviction.”

“Really,” Zac said, his voice rising in a mix of wonder and maybe, just maybe, respect.

Not so smug anymore, huh? “I’ve never seen a receipt from a parking garage.”

“With eighteen boxes, you don’t think you could have missed it? And I’m sure you realize that a receipt won’t prove his whereabouts.”

There went the respect. Lawyers. Always vying for the mental edge.

“I do realize that. My concern is why I didn’t know about this receipt and what other information I might not know about. I’d like a copy of the receipt.”

He remained silent, his gaze on hers, measuring, waiting for her to cower.

“Zac, I’m happy to call Penny and make her aware of it. I’m sure you realize that all evidence must be shared with the defense.” For kicks, she grinned at him.

He sat forward, his elbows propped on the desk, all Mr. I-won’t-be-taken-down-by-a-law-student. “You and my sister will get along great.”

“Excellent. I’d like the receipt, please.”

“Sure.” He pointed at the open box on his desk. “It’s probably in here.”

Slowly, she turned toward a brown banker’s box sitting on the desk. The lid was off, but nowhere in sight.

One box.

A small box at that.

“Those are my brother’s files?” She surveyed the office. “Where are the rest of them?”

Zac stood, his tall frame looming over the desk, his focus on the files. “We’ll start with this one.”