Nothing but the Truth

Book 4: Erin McCabe Legal Thriller

by Robyn Gigl

Genres: Hard-Boiled; Legal Thrillers

Synopsis

“Topically relevant, edgy, and riveting” (Library Journal), this groundbreaking and provocative legal suspense series combines a unique protagonist—a transgender defense attorney—with twist-filled, provocative plots that will appeal to fans of J.A. Vance and Philip Margolin.
 
New Jersey State Trooper Jon Mazer has been charged with killing Black investigative reporter Stewart Marshall in a racially charged, headline-making murder. The evidence against criminal defense attorney Erin McCabe’s new client is overwhelming. The gun used is Mazer’s off-duty weapon. Fingerprints and carpet fibers link Mazer to the crime. And Mazer was patrolling Marshall’s neighborhood shortly before the victim took three bullets to the chest. Mazer’s argument? He’s a gay officer being set up to take the fall in an even bigger story.
 
Mazer swears he was a secret source for Marshall’s exposé about the Lords of Discipline. The covert gang operating within the New Jersey State Police is notorious for enforcing their own code of harassing women, framing minorities, and out-powering any troopers who don’t play their rogue and racist games. With everyone from the governor to the county prosecutor on the wrong side of justice, Erin and her partner, Duane Swisher, are prepared to do anything to make sure Mazer doesn’t become another victim.
 
As Erin deals with an intensely personal issue at home, and faces an uphill battle to prove her client’s innocence, both she and Duane find themselves mired in a conspiracy of corruption deeper than they imagined—and far more dangerous than they feared.

Release date: June 25, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

RUSSELL MARSHALL MUTTERED UNDER HIS BREATH AS THE DOORBELL chimed. He flipped on the front porch light, annoyed that his sources apparently felt they could meet with him anytime they wanted. It’s fucking Monday night, for God sakes. I have a life too.

Except the truth was, for this story he’d give up his Monday night, and Tuesday through Sunday nights as well. If everything went right, this story was going to put him on the map as one of the premiere investigative reporters in the metropolitan area. This story would open up doors—the Times, the Post—there was no telling where it might take him. No, for this story there were no limits.

Marshall pulled open the door, the chill in the fall evening air catching him by surprise. Framed in the doorway was a tall, well-built man, his hands jammed into his coat pockets.

“Hey,” Russell said. “Come on in,” he offered, stepping back to allow the man to enter. “A little surprised to see you. What’s up?”

“Yeah. Sorry to bother you, but I need to discuss something with you,” the man responded, making his way into the foyer.

“Sure. Come on in,” Russell said, nodding toward the kitchen. “I’m just cleaning up from dinner. Can I get you anything—coffee, soda, a beer?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

They walked into the kitchen, and Russell closed the laptop sitting on the counter.

“So, what’s on your mind?” he asked.

“This,” the man replied, taking his right hand out of his coat pocket, a 9mm Glock in his gloved hand.

“What the hell are you doing?” Russell said, taking a step back, panic creeping into his voice at the sight of the gun pointed at his chest.

“Putting a stop to this nonsense.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your article.”

“You’ve known about the article for months. You talked to me about it. Come on, man. Let’s talk this out.”

“Not much to talk about. I’ve watched this game play out long enough. Time to pull the plug.”

“Sure. I can pull the article. Just don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

The man’s laugh had an ethereal quality. “Don’t worry. I won’t regret anything—not even a little. And, as for you pulling the article, you’re a reporter. Even if you killed it, do you really think, given who I am, I can trust you to keep the fact that I’m pointing a gun at you under wraps? You and I both know that’s not going to happen.”

Russell tried to do some quick calculations. In the dish rack was a frying pan he had just washed. If he could grab that and throw it, maybe it would be enough of a distraction so he could tackle him. He wasn’t sure he could overpower him; it was a bit of a mismatch—a forty-five-year-old, out-of-shape reporter versus a fit guy with a gun—but he didn’t have too many other options. He inched back toward the sink. “Let’s talk. Why . . . why are you doing this?” His question really a plea, trying to buy a little more time.

“Because,” the man replied, and then he squeezed the trigger, the roar from the gun reverberating around the room.

The shot hit Russell squarely in the chest, knocking him backward against the sink.

“Unfortunately for you, you’ve gotten to the truth,” the man said. “And the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth isn’t good for me.”

“Please,” Russell gasped, his eyes wide with fear as he grabbed the counter for support, trying to stay on his feet. “I don’t . . .”

The second round struck Russell directly in his heart, causing him to stagger and collapse, his blood quickly starting to pool beneath him as he laid spread-eagle on the linoleum floor.

The man calmly walked around the L-shaped counter so he could have a clear view of Russell sprawled on the floor.

Shock was frozen on Russell’s face; his eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling. As the man stood there watching Russell’s twitching body, he momentarily thought about doing a head shot to ensure the job was finished, but a bullet exploding the skull would likely leave a lot of back spatter. Safer to do one more into his heart.

Russell’s body bounced when the third shot hit his inert body, and there was no further movement after that.

The house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac that backed up to the Dismal Swamp, so the man was confident the gunshots would go unnoticed. He made his way to the front door and, with his gloved hand, turned off the porch light. He checked the thermostat, turning it to “off,” and opened the windows in the dining area and living room. Then he returned to the kitchen, careful to avoid stepping in the blood, spreading across the floor, and opened a window near the kitchen table. He collected two of the three bullet casings and placed them in his pocket. Finally, he disconnected the laptop and tucked it under his arm.

After scanning the scene to make sure he hadn’t left any evidence, he made his way out the back door and across the backyard to the waiting woods.

November 20, 2009

THE CANDLES ON THE ALTAR FLICKERED, THROWING STRANGE SHADOWS across the enormous stained-glass windows that rose up to the vaulted roof of the chapel. Erin McCabe stood among a group of people she had come to know over the last five years. Their journeys were all very different, but they were compatriots nonetheless, joined by a common thread. A thread that also knitted them to the names being solemnly read to the fifty or so people gathered in the pews near the front of the chapel.

“From the United States—Caprice Curry, age thirty-one; Jimmy McCollough, age thirty-four; Foxy Ivy, age twenty-five; Kelly Watson, no age; Eric ‘Beyoncé’ Lee, age twenty-one; Paulina Ibarra, age twenty-four; Mariah Qualis, age twenty-one; Carson Stevenson, age forty-seven; Jacqueline Ford, age sixty . . .”

As each name was read, it was displayed on a large screen. Each name a life lost, most of them young, most women of color, all of them killed in the last twelve months because they were transgender, nonbinary, or gender nonconforming. Tears rolled from the corners of Erin’s eyes. This was her third year attending the International Transgender Day of Remembrance at the Princeton Chapel, and each year was harder than the previous one, as the list of names grew longer every year. Tonight, she and her companions took turns reading each of the 163 names of the people lost.

After the last name was read, they slowly returned to the pews and took their seats among the others in attendance. When they were seated, a Unitarian Universalist minister slowly climbed up to the pulpit and offered a moving prayer about love, compassion, and acceptance. When the minister finished, a singer sat down at the piano and, in a beautiful contralto, offered moving renditions of “Imagine” followed by “I Will Remember You.” As the final chords faded, Erin remained anchored in place, allowing the solemnity of the moment to linger, taking a few more seconds to remember those who had lost their lives, especially those who were remembered simply as “Name Unknown,” a final indignity to lives tragically cut short.

After several minutes, Erin turned to the woman on her right, Rachel Stern, a retired IRS Special Agent, and gave her a hug. “I hope you didn’t mind that I added Jacqueline’s name to the list,” Erin whispered, referring to Rachel’s friend Bradford Montgomery, who had also gone by the name Jacqueline Ford.

“No. It was nice,” Rachel replied. “I know Brad spent his life in the closet, but he was one of us. Although, we both know Brad’s murder was politically motivated, and not because he was trans.”

“That doesn’t make her loss any easier,” Erin replied, purposely switching pronouns to reflect who Brad truly was.

“No. You’re right,” Rachel replied, and sighed. “I still miss her.”

Once they slid out of the pew, Erin gave Logan Stevens a hug. Logan, a self-described biracial, pansexual, genderqueer attorney, had played a huge role in Erin’s last case, and was now dating Rachel.

Gathering their belongings, they made their way out into the unseasonably warm evening. They stood outside the chapel in the well-lit area by the walkway to Nassau Street.

“A few of us are heading over to the Alchemist & Barrister to grab something to eat. You want to join us?” Logan asked.

“Sure,” Erin replied.

“Excuse me,” a man called out as he approached. “Would you be Erin McCabe?”

“I am,” Erin replied, catching Rachel and Logan eyeing the man suspiciously.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but are you the criminal defense lawyer?” he asked skeptically.

“Yes. I’m that Erin McCabe,” she responded with a small grin. “And to answer your next question, as far as I know, I’m the only Erin McCabe who’s a criminal defense attorney in New Jersey.”

“I’m sorry,” the man stammered. “I apologize. You . . . well . . . you just look . . .”

“Too young to be the infamous Erin McCabe, criminal defense lawyer,” Logan suggested with a chuckle.

Erin tried not to blush, but at five foot five with a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and a slim, athletic figure, she was still blessed with a youthful appearance that belied the fact that she was a seasoned attorney with a unique backstory.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Erin asked.

The man rubbed the back of his neck, appearing uncertain. “Um, is it possible for us to speak privately? I promise I won’t keep you from your friends. I know what today is. I was inside for part of the ceremony. I only need a couple of minutes. It’s about a potential case.”

Sensing that Rachel was about to spring into special agent mode, Erin turned to her. “Why don’t you go on ahead with the others and save seats for Logan and me?” she said, hoping that Logan’s presence would reassure Rachel.

Rachel gave Erin a sidelong glance, but headed off to the restaurant.

Erin studied the man. He appeared to be in his early thirties, and was significantly taller than her, so her guess was that he was close to six foot. He was a good-looking guy, well-built. He was wearing a black suit, with a white shirt that was unbuttoned at the collar, exposing a gold crucifix hanging from a chain around his neck. And even though Erin didn’t sense any danger, she felt better with Logan standing next to her.

“Is this about representing you?” Erin asked.

“No. Not me; I have a friend who needs help.”

Erin pursed her lips. “Okay, but just so you know, if it’s not about representing you, the attorney-client privilege doesn’t apply.”

“What’s that mean?” he asked.

“Basically, it means that whatever you tell me isn’t confidential,” she said.

He sighed and looked down at the ground, seeming to weigh his options.

“Okay,” he finally said. “I guess I don’t have a choice. But can we speak alone?”

Now it was Erin’s turn to consider her options. She had certainly pissed off enough rich and powerful people over the last four years to be wary of someone wanting to speak to her alone about representing someone else. Perhaps she was being paranoid, but as she was known to say, “It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you.” Then there was also the issue of Logan, who Erin could sense was now in full protect mode. Erin finally landed on being cautious.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I prefer to have Logan here. Logan’s also an attorney and we sometimes work together, so anything you want to discuss with me you should feel free to discuss with them here as well.”

“Them?” the man repeated, looking around.

“Yes. Logan’s genderqueer and uses they, them, theirs pronouns.”

“Oh,” he replied, unable to mask his confusion.

“I apologize. I don’t know your name,” Erin said.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Gabriel, Gabriel DeAngelis. But please call me Gabe,” he replied, offering his hand to Erin and Logan in turn.

“How can I help you, Gabe?” Erin asked.

DeAngelis seemed to glance around to see if anyone was within earshot. “Like I said, it’s not for me. It’s for my . . . my friend. He was arrested two days ago. He’s charged with murder and he desperately needs an attorney and you come highly recommended.”

“Nice to know someone highly recommends me,” Erin said. “What’s your friend’s name and who’s he charged with murdering?”

“My friend is Jon Mazer and he’s charged with murdering—”

“Russell Marshall,” Erin said, finishing the sentence.

DeAngelis took a deep breath. “I guess you saw it on the news.”

“Gabe, unless I was living in a cave on Borneo, it would be pretty hard for me not to know about the case. A white state trooper shoots a Black newspaper reporter, in the reporter’s home—a reporter who allegedly was working on an exposé of the state police. I mean, the governor, state attorney general, and the superintendent of the state police have all condemned your friend as a bad apple in an otherwise stellar law enforcement agency.”

“They’re all full of it!” Gabe shouted.

“I won’t argue with you about that,” Erin said. “But from what I’ve read, it still sounds like the state has a pretty solid case.”

“That’s exactly why Jon needs you. He didn’t do it. He was the one working with Marshall to expose the corruption within the state police.”

“Look, Gabe, let me be blunt. I presume you know that I’m a transgender woman, and generally speaking, law enforcement doesn’t have a great reputation within the LGBTQ community. On top of that, my law partner, Duane Swisher, is a Black man. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how sick and tired Black people are of being killed by white law enforcement officers.”

“Ms. McCabe . . .”

“Please call me Erin.”

“Erin. I get it, but Jon’s not just any trooper—he’s gay. He’s the only out gay male trooper we’re aware of, and since he was outed, other troopers have put him through hell. They literally hate him.” He bit down on his lip, closed his eyes, and exhaled. “Jon’s a close friend. Trust me, he didn’t do it. You have to help him.”

Erin stared at him for several seconds. “Based on the fact that you’re here, I’m assuming he’s in custody.”

“Yeah. Bail’s been set at two million dollars. There’s no way he can make that.”

“The case is in Middlesex County, right?”

Gabe nodded.

“Not to be crass, but does he have money to pay for a lawyer?”

“We’ll find a way.”

Erin reached into her purse and took out a business card and handed it to DeAngelis. “Let me talk to my partner. Do you have a card?”

He reached into his pocket, took out a card, quickly jotted something on the back, and handed it to her.

She looked at the card, then at him. “That’s interesting.”

“Please don’t call my work number,” he said. “I wrote my cell number on the back.”

“Can you call me around ten a.m. Monday?” she asked.

“Yeah. Ten will work.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to you then.”

He turned and headed down the walkway toward Nassau Street. Once he was out of sight, they made their way down Witherspoon Street to join the others at the restaurant. “You going to take the case?” Logan asked.

Erin shrugged. “Don’t know. At this point I don’t even know if he can afford a lawyer. Not to mention, I’m not sure how Duane will feel about the racial overtones of the case. I guess we’ll see.”

“How about the fact that, based on what’s been in the press, his friend is guilty as sin,” Logan asked.

“Nah. That’s not a consideration. If Duane and I only took on clients who were innocent, we would’ve been out of business years ago.”

Logan laughed. “You think Gabe and Mazer are more than friends?”

“Don’t know,” Erin said. “But it would explain Gabe’s desire for confidentiality.”

“Why?” Logan asked.

Erin handed Gabe’s card to Logan.

Logan looked down at the card, stopped in their tracks, and screamed, “What the fuck! Are you shitting me? Reverend Gabriel DeAngelis, Saint Raymond’s Roman Catholic Church, Franklin, New Jersey.”

“You can’t make this stuff up,” Erin said.

“Damn, woman,” Logan said. “You sure do get some crazy-ass cases.”

November 21, 2009

ERIN AND HER MOTHER SAT OPPOSITE EACH OTHER IN THE BOOTH at their favorite diner. They had just come from Erin’s final wedding dress fitting—a wedding a mere three weeks away.

“Your dress is beautiful,” Peg offered.

It had been a wonderful morning, but Erin could tell that her mom was putting on a brave front for her. It’d only been a little over four months since Erin’s dad, Patrick, had died suddenly, and just two weeks ago, it would’ve been his sixty-eighth birthday. Erin’s parents had met in high school, and had been married for forty-five years, so her dad’s death had rocked her mom’s world.

Although she was now sixty-seven, with her almost wrinkle-free face, and her brown hair cut in a short bob, Peg McCabe could easily pass for someone in her midfifties. She still worked full-time as a guidance counselor at Cranford High School and stayed in shape mainly by doing yoga. But now, for the first time in her life, she was living alone.

“Thank you,” Erin replied. “But I don’t want to talk about my dress. I don’t want to talk about my wedding. I want to talk about you.”

Peg’s eyes widened. “Me? Why do you want to talk about me?”

“Because I’m worried about you, that’s why,” Erin responded. “It’s only been a year since you finished treatment for breast cancer. Then out of nowhere, Dad died, and you’re still beating yourself up over the fact that you believe that you could have saved him,” Erin fired back.

Her mother reached across the table and patted Erin’s hand. “Thank you for your concern, my dear. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you seeing anyone?” Erin asked.

“Honey, it’s only been four months since your father died. Too soon.”

“Sorry,” Erin said, barely suppressing a laugh. “A very poorly worded question. Are you seeing a therapist or a grief counselor? You’ve been through a lot.”

Her mother smiled, apparently at her own misunderstanding of the question. “I talk with my friends,” her mother said. “Some have been through similar things, so that helps.”

“Mom, you’re a guidance counselor; you should know better than most that talking to a professional can be really helpful.”

“I don’t disagree,” Peg replied, “but for my generation, we just tend to muddle through. Besides, you’ve been through a lot, and I don’t see you running off to see a therapist.”

Erin smiled. “Actually, I’ve been seeing my therapist for almost seven years now.”

“You have?” her mother said. “How come I didn’t know that?”

“You knew I had a therapist. I started seeing her before I transitioned,” Erin replied.

“Yes, but I didn’t know you were still seeing her. Why are you still seeing a therapist? Is it my fault?” her mother asked.

“No, Mom,” Erin said, shaking her head. “The reasons I see a therapist are not because of you. And you’re doing what you always do—you’re deflecting. This isn’t about me, it’s about you.”

“But you’ve been through a lot too. I mean, after you came out, your marriage fell apart. Your father and brother stopped talking to you for two years. Someone tried to kill you, and you feel guilty over your last conversation with your father.”

Erin’s face twisted as if she had just sucked on a lemon. “You left out that I recently spent three weeks in jail, where I was beaten and groped. So now that we know why I see a therapist every week, let’s talk about you.”

“You see someone every week?”

“Mom!”

“What? I’m your mother. I’m allowed to worry about you.”

“And I’m your daughter and I’m allowed to worry about you.”

Peg let out a small laugh. “Seems to me we’re doing far too much worrying here.”

“Mom, I’m serious.”

“Honey, I am too.” Peg paused. “I appreciate the fact that you’re worried about me. But right now, I have to find my own way through my grief. I will. But it’ll take time. Your dad was part of my life for over fifty years. It’s hard for me to imagine my life without him, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to imagine it, but at some point, it’ll happen. And honestly, sometimes that scares me more than the fact that I don’t have him—moving on without him. I don’t want that, but . . .” Peg chewed on her lower lip, and wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be sorry, Mom,” Erin said, fighting back her own tears. “Thank you for letting me in—even a little. I love you.”

“I know you do, dear. I love you too. And trust me, there are times that the only thing that keeps me going is you, Sean, Liz, and the boys,” she said, referring to Erin’s brother, his wife, and their sons, Patrick and Brennan. “But I worry about you too because I know you struggle over the way things ended between you and your father.”

All Erin could do was close her eyes and nod. Her last conversation with her father was one that, try as she might, she would never forget. What made things worse was that every time Erin walked into her parents’ kitchen, the sights, the sounds, the smells brought the entire encounter back to her. It was a Sunday morning. She was going to have breakfast with her parents and then take them to her nephews’ soccer game. But the night before she had gone to her twentieth high school reunion—a reunion made slightly uncomfortable by the fact that she had gone to an all-boys high school. When she got to her parents’ that morning, her father had unloaded on her. After church a couple of his friends had let him know that his “daughter” had made quite the impression at the reunion. Why couldn’t she have cut him some slack and just skipped the reunion? he had asked. He told her that he was tired of all the transgender stuff and that she embarrassed him. After a few other tense words, he had walked out of the kitchen, closing the door to the den behind him.

They’d never talk again. The long heart-to-heart she hoped to have with him—the tearful reconciliation, the warm embrace of forgiveness—none of it happened. He died. He was gone; end of story. True, her mother, brother, Liz, and Mark all told her that her father felt awful about what had happened and wanted to make it up to her, but destiny had other plans—for him, and for her.

Erin felt her mother’s arms wrap around her before she had even realized that her mother had slid into the booth next to her.

“I wanted so much for him to be proud of me,” Erin said, sobbing. “And all I’ll ever have is the image of him closing the door on me in disgust.”

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Erin,” her mother gently scolded. “Your dad loved you. Stop beating yourself up.”

“I’m trying,” Erin responded. “There’s one more reason I see a therapist—guilt.”

After a few minutes, her mother went back to her side of the booth and each of them sat silently, lost in their thoughts.

The waitress stopping at the booth to take their lunch order finally broke the solemnity of the moment.

“Can I change the subject?” Peg asked, after the waitress had headed to the kitchen with their order.

Erin gave her a weak smile. “Mom, one thing I’ve learned over the years is that even if I said no, you’ll do it anyway.”

Her mother shrugged. “I’d like to help pay for your wedding. After all, you are my daughter. The bride’s parents are supposed to pay. And thanks to your father’s life insurance, I have more than enough money.”

“That’s very generous of you, Mom, but no, you can’t,” Erin replied. “First of all, this isn’t my first marriage. Secondly, I’ve done okay over the last three years. I mean, I have a condo in Bradley Beach. We were able to put the money from the sale of Mark’s house in Clark toward the house we just bought in Cranford.” Erin paused. “And, last, but not least, the bride’s parents paying is a sexist, misogynistic anachronism going back to the days when a woman’s father had to pay a dowry to get his daughter married off.”

Peg took a sip of her coffee. “Wow! Were you such a feminist before you transitioned?”

Erin grinned. “I wish I could say yes, but probably not. As they say, ‘Perception is reality.’ ”

The waitress slid their plates down in front of them, asked if they needed anything else, and was gone.

“Can I ask a delicate question? Is anyone from Mark’s family coming to the wedding?”

“Molly and Robin. Other than that, no,” Erin replied, with a sigh.

Mark’s sister Molly was a sweetheart. And, as she and her civil union partner, Robin Hansen, liked to joke, as soon as Erin came along, suddenly having a lesbian couple in the family wasn’t so bad. In addition to Molly, Mark had two older brothers, Jack, the oldest, and Brian. After his brothers found out Erin was transgender, all hell had broken loose. Jack would constantly mock Mark about being gay. “Well, you are dating a guy,” Jack would taunt, and he and Mark had almost come to blows over Jack’s refusal to stop referring to Erin as “he.” Brian was never as blatant, but his laughing at Jack’s insults let everyone know where he stood. Things had gotten to the point where Mark’s mother told Mark that Erin was no longer welcome in her home as long as they were dating. Of course, Mark took that to mean he wasn’t welcome either. As a result, Mark had not seen his mother or brothers in over a year and Erin felt horrible. She couldn’t help but feel that their marriage would make the rift permanent.

“Don’t blame yourself for Mark’s family,” her mother cautioned.

“Too late,” Erin replied. “Remember what I said? I do guilt really well.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right,” her mother agreed. “It must be your Irish Catholic upbringing. But we’ve been through this several times before; you can’t let close-minded people decide how you’re going to live your life.”

“Even if they’re your in-laws?”

“Especially if they’re your in-laws,” Peg replied.

There was a long silence.

“Do you really like my wedding dress?” Erin asked.

THE LAW OFFICES OF MCCABE & SWISHER WERE LOCATED ON THE outskirts of the business district in Cranford, New Jersey, occupying the second floor of a former Victorian home that had been converted into an office building over twenty years ago. Erin had started her own firm almost seven years ago, after she left the Public Defender’s Office. At the time, she knew Duane because his wife, Corrine, and Erin’s then wife, Lauren, had been college roommates at Brown. Before they became partners, Duane had been an FBI agent, and probably still would be if he hadn’t been forced to resign when he was set up to be the fall guy in a leak of classified materials involving the illegal surveillance of Muslim Americans after 9/11. When he left the Bureau, he had a lot of options, but to Erin’s surprise, he had agreed to partner with her. Of course, at the time, Erin was still living as Ian McCabe. It was only a year after they became partners that Erin had come out as a transgender woman.

“Good morning,” Erin said to Cheryl, the firm’s receptionist, secretary, and paralegal all rolled into one, as Erin stopped to collect her messages. “Did you have a nice weekend?”

“I did. How about you?” Cheryl replied.

“A bit of a mixed bag,” Erin said. “But the good news is that I really love my wedding dress.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to see it,” Cheryl offered with a warm smile.

“I assume Swish is in,” Erin asked, referring to her partner by his nickname, which, depending on where you knew him from, derived either from his last name, or, since he had been an All-Ivy basketball player at Brown, his prowess from three-point range on the basketball court.

Cheryl gave a knowing nod before Erin continued down the hallway toward Swish’s office. It was always safe for Erin to assume that Swish was in before her because he and Cori had two children—Austin, who was now four, and their baby, Alysha, who was nine months old. Every morning Duane dropped Austin off at preschool and Alysha off at day care, then arrived at the office by 8:15 a.m.

Erin stood in the doorway to his office, which, unlike the clutter and chaos of Erin’s, was always neat and orderly. “Hey, big guy,” she said.

“Morning,” he said with a warm smile, waving her in. Swish, who was six months older than Erin, kept himself in great shape playing in various adult basketball leagues. With his chiseled physique, dark brown skin, and a well-trimmed goatee, he had a commanding presence.

“You seem bright and chipper this morning,” she said, taking a seat in front of his desk.

“For the first time since Alysha was born, both kids slept through the night. I never realized how wonderful a good night’s sleep can be.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling invigorated. Do you have time to talk about the case I called you about?”

He gave a small snort and nodded. “Sure. White state trooper kills Black man. Anything else we need to talk about?”

“His friend claims he didn’t do it and that he’s being set up.”

“His friend the Catholic priest?” he replied, a hint of sarcasm creeping into his voice.

“You have something against Catholic priests?” she asked.

“Nope. It’s