Grady’s experience with appeals was going on two
years, and the details of each stood sharp in his mind. Nothing blurred into
another. He slowed and checked his wristwatch. Nine o’clock, but a half hour early
wasn’t early enough to beat the crowd. He tried to steady his shaking hands as
he passed parked cars lining the curb. He looped twice before finding a space
big enough. In another time, a throng of citizens would have suggested a
terrible event such as the impending execution of a criminal or public
whipping. Thanks to news media, this sympathetic crowd celebrated release of a woman
who’d served a sentence for a crime she didn’t commit.
Grady stepped out of his Jeep, smoothed down his
grey-striped tie and adjusted the cuffs of his white shirt. He let out a breath,
spotted Drew Barker of the Los Angeles
Globe, and waved to the reporter who was
instrumental in sharing his discoveries
of fraud and illegal testimony. Other reporters and cameramen shifted and
rolled like an ocean of tipsy goodwill. Grady scanned over the waves for Tori
Morningstar.
She stood stiff at the high security entrance and
hugged a leather moto jacket wrapped over crossed arms. Dressed in her pre-incarceration
style, her defined muscles created a perfect fit for her silk blouse, In prison
she worked the heavy bag, labored hard so that she could protect herself in the
yard.
Grady slipped papers into the hands of a guard. “Good
morning, sir,” he said without another word, signed his clipboard, and rushed
to her side. “Tori. It’s okay to speak to reporters.” The whoop-whoop of a hovering
helicopter drew attention, and cameramen angled their equipment upward.
Beside him she swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “These
reporters helped. I’ll answer questions, but the publicity worries me.” She
froze where she stood, aware of the potential dangers ahead.
“I know.” Their gazes collided. Her eyes resembled
honey-brown gems. Fine cheekbones, a firm chin, and a mouth he found
disturbingly inviting. In the sunlight, her dark hair glowed chestnut. She’d
skinned her hair back from her face so tightly, it had to hurt.
Drew Barker pushed his way in front of the others.
“Victoria Morningstar.” The reporter in his sixties, with a round, open face
and wide eyes lent an expression of constant surprise. “Can you tell us what
happened the night you were arrested?” He held a microphone close to her face.
“Go ahead. Talk to him, Tori,” Grady whispered.
She stood like a brittle statue. . "My cousin and
I were having dinner on the Long Beach waterfront. Rhubarb and Ginger, we went
there a lot. Seamus McGinn and Timothy Noonan must have tailed us. They’re from
Cobh, County Cork." Her words came out in a robotic rush.
“That’s in Ireland.” Grady chuckled for the camera. "For
once Ireland was lucky. Lucky to be rid of them,” He took her ice-cold hand and
stepped around Barker, a reporter familiar with McGinn’s government-agro
kidnappings. Recovered victims had broken collarbones, fractured limbs,
cigarette burns, stab wounds, shattered eye sockets and facial bones,
accomplished with a blunt instrument. Casualties had been alive at the time of
beatings, with foreign objects jammed down throats. Teeth were found in their
stomachs.
“Excuse me.” Another reporter, a tall woman from the
Long Beach Beacon, swarmed down on Tori. "So you saw McGinn and
Noonan?"
"Correct," Tori lifted her chin, her vibrant
eyes filling with the raw memory. “A half-dozen more stormed in. Carried
automatics, ripped through the place. Found the owner, Irene Brennan. Dragged
her out."
"The owner refused to pay them for protection,” Barker
chimed.
Tori nodded, rubbed her forehead. “Same old deal, a
mob upping the ante.”
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