By Way of Sorrow

Book 1: Erin McCabe Legal Thriller

by Robyn Gigl

Genres: General Fiction; Legal Thrillers

Synopsis

In a fresh and riveting thriller debut, Robyn Gigl introduces Erin McCabe, a New Jersey criminal defense attorney doing her best to live a quiet life in the wake of profound personal change—until a newsworthy case puts both her career and safety in jeopardy …
Erin McCabe has been referred the biggest case of her career. Four months ago, William E. Townsend, Jr., son of a New Jersey State Senator, was found fatally stabbed in a rundown motel near Atlantic City. Sharise Barnes, a nineteen-yearold transgender prostitute, is in custody, and given the evidence against her, there seems little doubt of a guilty verdict.
Erin knows that defending Sharise will blow her own private life wide open, and doubtless deepen her estrangement from her family. Yet as a trans woman, she feels uniquely qualified to help Sharise, and duty-bound to protect her from the possibility of a death sentence.
Sharise claims she killed the senator’s son in self-defense. As Erin assembles the case with her partner, former FBI agent Duane Swisher, the circumstances hint at a more complex and chilling story with ties to other brutal murders. Senator Townsend is using the full force of his prestige and connections to publicly discredit everyone involved in defending Sharise. Behind the scenes, his tactics are even more dangerous. His son had secrets that could destroy the senator’s political aspirations—secrets worth killing for. And as leads begin mysteriously disappearing, it’s not just the life of Erin’s client at stake, but her own …

Release date: March 30, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

ERIN HADN’T BEEN IN THIS COURTROOM IN OVER FIVE YEARS. A LOT had changed since then. She smiled as she made her way down the aisle thinking of all the time she had spent here ten years ago, right after she graduated law school, as the law clerk for the Honorable Miles Foreman. She had learned a lot that year, watching the lawyers in the courtroom, both the good ones and the bad. And she had learned a lot from Judge Foreman, also some good and some bad. Today she expected she’d experience the bad. She could deal with that. What other choice did she have?

“Erin, are you out of your mind?” said Carl Goldman, who represented her client’s codefendant, his eyes wide as she slid into the seat next to him.

She dropped her purse, which doubled as her briefcase, onto the bench and smiled politely. “I’m not sure I follow, Carl.”

“Foreman is going to go absolutely insane. Why did you file this motion? Not only is he going to take it out on your client, but he’ll crucify my client as well.”

“Does your client have a defense?”

He studied her, trying to make the connection. “No. But what does that have to do with your motion for Foreman to recuse himself?”

She laughed. “My client has no defense either. Which means, at some point, I’ll be looking to get the best plea deal I can for him. I listened to all the wiretap recordings, and you’re in the same boat. Correct?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Who hands out the toughest sentences in the county?”

“Foreman,” he answered.

“Exactly. We need a judge who is going to see this case for what it is—a simple gambling case, not an organized crime, money-laundering one. Our clients should be looking at a couple years tops, not the eight or nine years Foreman will want to give them. And as long as Foreman has the case, there’s no reason for the prosecutor’s office to be reasonable, because he won’t be when it comes to sentencing.”

“But what are the grounds?”

Her grin was slightly evil. “Foreman’s homophobic.”

Carl stared at her. “What on earth does that have to do with anything? My client’s not gay. Is yours?”

She shook her head. “No, Carl, my client isn’t gay. It isn’t about him. It’s about me.”

Carl stared at Erin, a look of confusion spreading across his face as he looked her up and down. She was wearing a navy-blue business suit over a low-cut white silk blouse that accentuated her breasts, with a skirt that came several inches above her knees. She had on four-inch heels and her makeup was done to perfection. With her copper-colored hair and the dusting of freckles that ran across the bridge of her nose, she was usually mistaken for being far younger than her thirty-five years. She thought it more than ironic that she was often told she had the girl-next-door look.

“But you don’t look gay,” he finally offered.

She cocked her head to one side. “And exactly how does someone who’s gay look? Not butch enough for you? Besides, who said—”

Erin was cut off by the entrance of the courtroom deputy. “All rise.”

Judge Miles Foreman charged out of the door leading to his chambers onto the bench and looked out over his packed courtroom. “State v. Thomas,” he said, not even trying to mask his anger.

Erin and Carl made their way up to counsel table, where the assistant prosecutor, Adam Lombardi, was already stationed. Lombardi’s olive complexion, jet-black hair, which he wore slicked back, Roman nose, and taste in expensive suits sometimes led those who didn’t know him to believe he was a high-priced defense attorney. But his reputation as a top-notch prosecutor was well earned, and he showed no signs of wanting to switch sides.

“Appearances, please,” Foreman said without looking up.

“Assistant Prosecutor Adam Lombardi for the State, Your Honor.”

“Erin McCabe for defendant Robert Thomas. Good morning, Your Honor.”

“Carl Goldman for defendant Jason Richardson, Judge.”

Foreman looked up and lowered his glasses so he could peer over the top of his lenses. To Erin it didn’t look like he had aged in the five years since she had last appeared in his courtroom, or for that matter in the ten years since she clerked for him, but that wasn’t a compliment. Bald, with a dour expression and a demeanor to match, he had always looked ten years older than he was. Now, at sixty-five, he finally looked his age. “Everyone have a seat, except for Ms. McCabe.” He picked up a stack of papers in his hand and waved them about. “Good morning, indeed,” he started. “Do you mind telling me what this is, Ms. McCabe?”

Erin smiled politely. “I presume that’s the motion I filed, Judge.”

“Of course it’s the motion you filed. Do you want to tell me the meaning of this motion?”

She knew she had to walk a fine line between provoking him and being held in contempt. “Absolutely, Judge. It’s a motion seeking your recusal from this case.”

“I know what it is!” he exploded. “What I want to know is where do you get the temerity to challenge my impartiality?”

An answer quickly ran through her head—I think it must be genetic, probably from my mother—but she opted for the safer, “I’m not sure I understand, Judge.”

“What don’t you understand, Ms. McCabe? You say you want me to remove myself from the case, but you filed no affidavits in support. You simply say you want to present an affidavit for me to review privately, in camera, as you put it in your motion. If you have something to say about me, I suggest that you say it in public, on the record.”

She looked at him, trying to gauge how close to the line she was. “Judge, I’m not sure you really want me to do that.”

He slammed the motion papers down on the bench. Placing both of his hands flat on his bench, he leaned forward. “Who do you think you are to tell me what I do or don’t want? Either you put it on the record, or this motion will be dismissed. Am I clear?” He paused, and then with emphasis added, “Ms. McCabe.”

Erin slowly inhaled. “Very well, Judge. For the record, I was your law clerk ten years ago. During my tenure as your law clerk, your honor handled a case called McFarlane v. Robert DelBuno, Mr. DelBuno, of course, being the Attorney General at the time. Perhaps your honor recalls that case?”

Foreman glared down at her. “I remember the case,” he replied, a tinge of concern evident in his voice.

“I thought you would, Judge, because the case involved a constitutional challenge to New Jersey’s sodomy laws, laws which your honor upheld but were subsequently reversed on appeal. Now, if Your Honor may recall, Mr. McFarlane was represented by—”

The bang of Foreman’s gavel brought her to an abrupt stop. “I want counsel in chambers immediately. Now!” Foreman leapt up from his chair and stormed down the three stairs and through the door leading to his chambers.

Adam Lombardi followed behind her as they headed back to Foreman’s chambers. “Erin, this better be good, because if it’s not, you’ll need to get someone down here with bail money pronto.”

She smiled at Adam. He was a decent guy, just doing his job. She knew if it were up to him, he’d put a fair plea offer on the table. “I think I’ll be okay. But if things go south, put in a good word for me with the sheriff, okay?”

“Sure. I’ll see if they can get you a cell with a good view.”

“Appreciated,” she said as the three of them headed back to Foreman’s chambers.

Foreman was pacing back and forth behind his desk, still in his robes, when they walked in. He stopped pacing long enough to run his eyes up and down his former law clerk. “You...” he started. “You have a hell of a lot of nerve attacking me this way. So I got reversed in McFarlane. So what? Judges get reversed every day. This is a gambling case, not a prostitution case. What’s McFarlane got to do with this?”

She held out a document. “Judge, this is my affidavit that I wanted you to review in camera,” she offered. “I did it that way so you could review my affidavit privately in chambers and then decide if you wanted to make it public.”

He reached out and snatched the papers from her hand, then picked up a pair of reading glasses from his desk and began reading. His face began to flush almost immediately. When he finished, he scowled at her.

“These are lies, damnable lies. I never said the things you attribute to me. Never! I should hold you in contempt for writing these scurrilous allegations. Maybe a few days in the county jail will refresh your recollection. What do you say to that, Ms. McCabe?”

She knew she had him by the short and curlies. Sure, it was his word against hers, but she was confident he wouldn’t want any of this aired in public.

“Judge, I have tried my best to refrain from having any of my recollections regarding your comments about Barry O’Toole, Mr. McFarlane’s attorney, placed on the record. I’ll be happy to supply copies to counsel if you want, and of course, if you hold me in contempt, you will have to place my affidavit on the record.”

He threw the papers at her, but they fluttered harmlessly to his desk. “Get out of my chambers,” he spit out. But as they started to file out, he suddenly called her back.

She stopped and turned to look at him. “Yes, Your Honor?”

“You’re worse than O’Toole, you know that. At least O’Toole never lied about who he was.”

She studied him, his anger visible and real. “Judge, ten years ago, a man who I consider to be one of my legal mentors told me that doing what was right for a client was a lawyer’s highest responsibility. He told me that even if a judge disagreed with my position, a judge should always try to respect that I was doing it for my client. I’ve tried to live up to that advice, placing my clients’ best interests over any reaction I may get from a judge. Like me—and as evidenced by my affidavit—that mentor is imperfect. Given my status, I felt that it was likely my client might suffer as a result of certain biases. Nonetheless, regardless of my mentor’s imperfections, I will always respect him for his help and guidance when I worked for him.” She let her last words linger, hoping he’d be convinced of her sincerity. “Will there be anything else, Your Honor?”

Foreman reached down and picked up the affidavit from his desk. He slowly ripped it into pieces. “Here’s what I think of your affidavit, Ms. McCabe,” he said, his contempt evident. “And if your little speech was meant as an apology, it’s not accepted. Get out, and don’t worry your pretty little head about coming back. I will make sure I recuse myself from any case you’re involved in, because I could never treat you fairly after reading your scurrilous lies. And frankly, I hope I never see you again.”

She was tempted to respond, but another piece of advice moved front and center: Quit while you’re ahead.

“Thank you, Judge,” she said, turning and heading back to the courtroom.

“YOU NEED BAIL MONEY?” ERIN’S PARTNER, DUANE SWISHER, ASKED when she answered her cell phone.

“No, Swish. I’m just leaving the courthouse now,” she said with a chuckle, appreciating his warped sense of humor.

“So?”

“He recused himself from this and any other cases I’m involved in.”

“Wow. What was in your affidavit?”

“Oh, just some choice quotes from a homophobic judge. Where are you?”

“I’m with Ben. Trying to decide how to play things with the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”

“Got it,” she replied, hoping that Ben Silver, one of the best criminal defense attorneys in the state, could keep her partner out of the crosshairs of the Department of Justice, who once again appeared intent on pursuing him for a leak of classified information to a reporter from the Times. Three years earlier, Duane had been forced to resign from the FBI under a cloud of suspicion that he was the leaker. Now, with a new book out based on the leaked information, he was once again the target of the DOJ’s investigation.

“Listen, do you think you’d have time to meet a potential new client?” Duane asked.

She ran her calendar through her head. “Yeah, I should be able to. I have to get some stuff out today, but I have time. What time they coming in?”

“Actually, you have to go see him at the Ocean County jail.”

“Okay, not exactly dressed for jail, but what kind of case?”

“Murder. Wouldn’t be surprised if they go with capital murder.”

“Wait. We’re not on the public defenders’ pool list anymore.”

“It’s not a pool case. It’s a referral from Ben. He doesn’t feel he can do it. He knows the victim’s father. It’s a big case, E.”

“Yeah, if you’re talking death penalty, I’d say it’s a big case. Which case?”

“Do you remember about four months ago a kid by the name of William E. Townsend, Jr., was found stabbed to death in a motel?”

“Sure. His father is a big player down in South Jersey; it was all over the news. Didn’t they pick someone up a couple of weeks ago on that?”

“That’s the one.”

“Why is Ben recommending us? I mean, I appreciate it and all, but Ben knows everyone. Plus, I’ve never done a death penalty case.”

“A number of reasons. He really likes the work you’ve done helping him out on my case and he thinks you’re a good lawyer. Second, almost everyone Ben knows is going to have the same problem he has—they either know or can’t afford to cross Mr. Townsend.”

She let out a reflexive laugh. “Yeah, guess we’re not in that league.”

“Last, but not least, Ben thought you might be able to relate better to the defendant than most.”

She was about to question him more, when she remembered the news reports and realized what he was talking about. She paused for a moment, internally weighing the pros and cons. “Well, if it’s not a pool case, how we getting paid?”

“Seventy-five thousand retainer up front, bill at three hundred an hour, and payment is guaranteed by Paul Tillis.”

“And I should know who Paul Tillis is because . . . ?”

“Ah, what has become of you, my friend? Paul Tillis, point guard for the Pacers. Who also happens to be married to Tonya Tillis, née Barnes, the sister of defendant Samuel Barnes. Sister says she hasn’t seen her brother since mom and dad threw him out of the house back in Lexington, Kentucky. But they’re willing to pay for his lawyer.”

Erin let out a low whistle. “Guess I’ll drive south. Let me meet Barnes, and then I’ll decide if I think we can do it.”

“Great. I just spoke to the public defender who has the case now. Said he’d leave you a copy of what he has at the front desk; just ask the receptionist for a package with your name on it. Said the only things he had at this point were a rap sheet for Barnes and the initial arrest report from when they picked him up in New York City. He’ll also fax authorization over to the jail for you to see his client for purposes of possible representation. By the way, he’s thrilled someone might be taking the case. Apparently, no one in his office wants to piss off Mr. Townsend.”

“Wonderful.”

“You can say no.”

She thought for only a moment. “Let’s see what happens.”

“Okay. I’ll be in the office this afternoon. We’ll talk when you get back.”

Had Erin known she’d be headed to the county jail, she would have worn something a little more conservative. She wasn’t sure which was more demeaning, the catcalls from the inmates or the leering looks from the corrections officers.

She walked up to the bulletproof glass, her identification in hand; she always left her purse locked in the trunk of her car.

“Can I help you?” the lieutenant on the other side said without looking up.

“Here to see an inmate.”

“You got to come back later. Visiting hours aren’t until two,” he said, an air of annoyance circling his words.

“I’m an attorney,” she replied.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he slowly leaned back in his chair to look her up and down. “You sure you want to go in there, honey? Those guys can play rough,” he said with a smile. “Maybe you want to stay out here and keep me company.”

While his eyes were focused on her chest, she picked out the name on his name tag: WILLIAM ROSE. Jerk, she thought, smiling back. “You don’t have to call me ’honey,’ Lieutenant. And Rosie, you may be the one, but unless you’d like to bring my client out to see me, I don’t think I have a choice,” she said, placing her license, attorney ID card, and car keys into the metal drawer.

He stared at her, his smirk telling her that he was trying to decipher if she was flirting or mocking. “So who you here to see . . . honey?” he asked as he opened the drawer and looked at her ID.

“Samuel Barnes.”

His grin disappeared. “A freak and a murderer. You’re gonna need more than your good looks and charm for that one.”

“Never know,” she said, holding her tongue, aware that Sam Barnes would reap what she sowed.

The lieutenant turned around and picked up a phone. “Rose here. Get Barnes and bring him down to attorney meeting room two. He’s got an attorney here to see him. Her name is Erin McCabe.” He walked back to the glass partition, put a visitor’s badge in the tray, and slid it out to her. “I hold your license, attorney ID, and keys until you come out and give me the visitor’s badge back. Don’t want anyone sneaking out disguised as you,” he said with a chuckle.

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” she said, taking the visitor’s badge out, putting it around her neck, and walking toward the metal doors to wait to be buzzed in.

No matter how many times she heard it, the clang of the heavy doors behind her always sent a claustrophobic ripple of fear through her like an electric shock. Being locked in and at someone else’s mercy to be let out was not a feeling she enjoyed. Dressed as she was, the fact that she was locked in a men’s jail made her more apprehensive.

After she went through the metal detectors, the guards thoroughly searched the paperwork she had to make sure there were no paper clips or staples, finding only the copied police reports from the public defender, her business card, and a legal pad with the name Samuel Barnes written in her neat script. After satisfying themselves she wasn’t trying to sneak anything in, one of the officers led her to a small room that held a table and two chairs, where she sat in the chair closest to the door as she’d learned early on in her career as a public defender. That way a guard checking through the window on the door could always see her and her facial expression.

Ten minutes later, she heard the key in the door, followed by the clang of the metal door as it was pulled open to reveal Sam Barnes. Just a hair under six feet, he was rail thin. She quickly estimated that he weighed no more than 150 pounds. His brown face had several small cuts, and there was swelling around his lips. Even from the table, she could make out the dark bruises on his cheeks and under his eyes. His hair was in cornrows, hanging down to his shoulders.

He shuffled in, shackled at his ankles and his wrists, a thick chain running between them. In ten years, she had never seen a prisoner shackled inside the jail when visiting their attorney.

“You can unshackle him while he’s with me,” she said to the guard.

“Look, honey, I don’t tell you how to do your job, you don’t tell me how to do mine, okay? He’s in PC. He stays shackled.”

The guard grabbed the chair and pulled it out, then put his hands on Barnes’s shoulders and pushed him into the chair. “Pick up the phone behind you when you want out or if Mr. Barnes here gives you any problems. It rings in the control room.” He turned and walked out, closing and locking the door behind him.

Erin slowly sat down, studying Barnes’s battered face as she did.

“You not my attorney,” he said defiantly and in a distinctly feminine voice.

“My name is Erin McCabe. I’m an attorney. I’m here to see if you’d like me to represent you.”

“And why I want you to represent me? Shit, girl, you ain’t even old enough to be a lawyer. I already got a public defender. Why I need you?”

She paused, wanting to earn Barnes’s trust, but she didn’t want to overplay her hand. “What would you like me to call you?” she asked calmly.

“You wanna be my lawyer and you don’t even know my name?”

“I know the name on your rap sheet is Samuel Emmanuel Barnes, but I suspect that isn’t the name you prefer.”

The room fell silent. “Look here, lady, don’t worry your white, liberal, bleeding heart over what I prefer to be called. Why you really here?”

“I told you why. To see if you want me to represent you.”

“Who send you? I don’t have no money for no lawyer?”

“Your sister, Tonya, and her husband.”

Barnes stiffened and his eyes narrowed. “I haven’t seen my sister in four years. She don’t know where I am. Besides, where she get the money to pay for some schoolgirl lawyer?”

“Honestly, I don’t know where she’s getting the money from; I suspect her husband. But my partner spoke to both your sister and her husband a couple of hours ago and they asked if I would meet with you. Your arrest apparently made the news back in Lexington. That’s how they knew where you were.”

“Yeah, hometown kid makes big.” Barnes stopped and looked across the table. “You keep saying my sister and her husband, they live in Lexington?”

“No, Indianapolis. But your parents are still there and they told your sister.”

At the mention of his parents, Barnes seemed to retreat further into himself. “What’s her husband name?” he challenged her.

“Paul Tillis.”

For the first time, Barnes seemed to let his guard down just a shade. “Good for her. She marry Paul. I use to joke with her when they first meet that if they married, she’d be Tonya Tillis. Don’t know why, but I always thought that sounded funny.”

“I spoke to her briefly on the way here and she asked me to tell you that she loves you and misses you. She’s been looking for you for the last four years. She wished she had been there when your mom and dad threw you out. She might not have been able to prevent them from doing that, but she would have taken you in. She hopes that she might still get to know”—Erin paused—“her sister,” she said softly, finishing the sentence.

A tear seemed to hang momentarily in the corner of Barnes’s eye, but he leaned forward and quickly wiped it away with the back of his shackled hand.

“You just be trying to take my sister’s money?” he demanded, his protective mask quickly slipping back into place. “Is that it? You understand I stabbed some white boy whose daddy is some big shot. Either they execute me or I’m going to spend the rest of my life locked up. And the way things going, it be a very short life at that. So I don’t want my sister wasting her money on you.”

“Who beat you?”

Barnes threw his head back and laughed. “You really are one crazy bitch. First you come in here saying you wanna represent me; then you start asking stupid shit to get me killed.” He glared at Erin. “I tripped and fell. Clumsy me,” he said, rolling his head.

“You really should be more careful. Looks like you fell multiple times. Look, based on what your sister told my partner, I suspect you’re a transgender woman. Has anyone talked to you about trying to get you moved to the women’s jail?”

Barnes closed his eyes. “Please, ain’t no one gonna move me to no women’s jail.”

“You’re probably right. But it’s one way to try and protect you without ratting anyone out. Even if they don’t move you, you’ve drawn attention to the situation, and maybe some judge will be a little bit more sensitive to the fact that you’re getting the shit beat out of you while you’re supposedly in protective custody. Sure as hell doesn’t look protective to me.”

Before Barnes could say anything, Erin continued. “Look, I can’t make you talk to me. Your sister asked me to see you. I’ve seen you. You want me to leave? I’ll leave. I suspect what really happened on the night of April 17 is far different from what has been reported in the press. And as best I can tell, only two people know for sure what happened, and one of them is unavailable for the trial. You want to talk about it, fine; you don’t, that’s fine too. But what do you have to lose?”

Barnes looked at her across the table. “Okay, Ms. Big Shot, my public defender says he’s tried fifteen murder cases. You try any?”

“Three.”

“How you do?”

“Lost them all.”

Barnes laughed. “And you think I should hire you? You don’t sound very good to me, honey.”

“I never said I was. But if that’s the way we’re going to measure how good a lawyer is, do you know how many your public defender won?”

“No, didn’t ask him.”

“Maybe you should. If he’s lost all fifteen, I’m five times a better lawyer than he is.”

Barnes frowned, unimpressed by Erin’s logic. “The public defender guy told me they probably want to give me the death penalty, but he said don’t worry, nobody gets executed in New Jersey. He said that his office have a special team that handles death penalty cases, and that they be the best attorneys in the state. You ever handle a death penalty case?”

“No, I haven’t. And honestly, I’m not here to argue whether or not there are good lawyers in the public defender’s office. I was a public defender for five years. And he’s right; on death penalty cases they draw from a pool of outside lawyers to form a team who will defend you really well. The PD’s office usually assigns the best lawyers to represent defendants in capital cases. It’s also true that no one has been executed in New Jersey since the 1960s. There’s no guarantee, but there is an effort to have the death penalty repealed. But right now, it’s still there, and if it’s still around when you go to trial, chances are the state will be seeking it in your case.”

“If there’s no death penalty, what I looking at?”

“Either life in prison with no parole or thirty years to life.”

“Fuck,” Barnes said to himself. “Look, whatever your name is, I don’t have a fucking chance in this case. But if somehow I did, it ain’t gonna be with some redheaded, freckle-faced lawyer who doesn’t know shit about what my life has been like. I have n. . .