Tell Me No Secrets Read Online Free Page A
dollars into her hand. “I’ll take care of Rick Ferguson.”
Connie said nothing. It was as if she had expended all her energy in Jess’s office, and she simply had no more strength to argue. Tightly clutching the ten-dollar bill, she allowed Jess to put her in the cab, not bothering to look back as the car pulled away. Jess remained for a moment on the sidewalk, trying to still the loud thumping in her chest, then turned around and pushed her way back through the revolving doors.
He hadn’t moved.
Jess strode toward him across the long corridor, the heels of her black pumps clicking on the hard granite floor, watching as Rick Ferguson’s features snapped intosharper focus with each step. The vague generic menace he projected—white male, early twenties, five feet ten inches tall, 170 pounds, blond hair, brown eyes—became more concrete, individualized: shoulders that stooped slightly, unkempt hair pulled into a loose ponytail, deeply hooded cobralike eyes, a nose that had been broken several times and never properly reset, and always that same unnerving grin.
“I’m warning you to stay away from my client,” Jess announced when she reached him, not giving him the chance to interrupt. “If you show up within fifty yards of her again, even accidentally, if you try to speak to her or contact her in any way, if you leave any more gruesome little presents outside her door, I’ll have your bail revoked and your ass in jail. Am I making myself clear?”
“You know,” he said, speaking very deliberately, as if he were in the middle of an entirely different conversation, “it’s not such a great idea to get on my bad side.”
Jess almost laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rick Ferguson shifted his body weight from one foot to the other, then shrugged, managing to appear almost bored. He looked around, scratched at the side of his nose. “It’s just that people who annoy me have a way of … disappearing.”
Jess found herself taking an involuntary step back. A cold shiver, like a drill, snaked its way through her chest to her gut. She had to fight the sudden urge to throw up. When she spoke, her voice was hollow, lacking resonance. “Are you threatening me?”
Rick Ferguson pushed his body away from the wall. His smile widened.
I am Death
, the smile said.
I have come for you
.
Then he walked away without a backward glance.
TWO
“E very day in the United States, 1,871 women are forcibly raped,” Jess began, her eyes tracking the seven men and seven women who made up the two rows of twelve jurors and their two alternates sitting in courtroom 706 of the State Court House at 2600 California Avenue. “That translates to 1.3 rapes of adult women every minute and a staggering 683,000 rapes each year.” She took a brief pause to let the sheer volume of her statistics sink in. “Some are attacked in the streets; others are set on in their own homes. Some are raped by the proverbial stranger in a dark alley, far more by people they know: an angry ex-boyfriend, a once-trusted friend, a casual acquaintance. Perhaps, like Erica Barnowski,” she said, indicating the plaintiff with a nod of her head, “by someone they met in a bar. The women, like the men who attack them, come in all shapes and sizes, all religious denominations and cultural backgrounds, all ages and colors. The only trait they have incommon is their sex, which is very ironic when you think about it, because rape is not about sex. Rape is a crime of violence. It is not about passion, or even lust. It is about power. It is about domination and humiliation. It is about control. It is about the infliction of pain. It is an act of rage, an act of hate. It has nothing to do with sex. It only uses sex as its weapon of choice.”
Jess surveyed the majestic old courtroom, its high ceilings and large side windows, the dark paneling along the walls, the black marble framing its large wooden doors. A sign to the right of the judge proclaimed
Connie said nothing. It was as if she had expended all her energy in Jess’s office, and she simply had no more strength to argue. Tightly clutching the ten-dollar bill, she allowed Jess to put her in the cab, not bothering to look back as the car pulled away. Jess remained for a moment on the sidewalk, trying to still the loud thumping in her chest, then turned around and pushed her way back through the revolving doors.
He hadn’t moved.
Jess strode toward him across the long corridor, the heels of her black pumps clicking on the hard granite floor, watching as Rick Ferguson’s features snapped intosharper focus with each step. The vague generic menace he projected—white male, early twenties, five feet ten inches tall, 170 pounds, blond hair, brown eyes—became more concrete, individualized: shoulders that stooped slightly, unkempt hair pulled into a loose ponytail, deeply hooded cobralike eyes, a nose that had been broken several times and never properly reset, and always that same unnerving grin.
“I’m warning you to stay away from my client,” Jess announced when she reached him, not giving him the chance to interrupt. “If you show up within fifty yards of her again, even accidentally, if you try to speak to her or contact her in any way, if you leave any more gruesome little presents outside her door, I’ll have your bail revoked and your ass in jail. Am I making myself clear?”
“You know,” he said, speaking very deliberately, as if he were in the middle of an entirely different conversation, “it’s not such a great idea to get on my bad side.”
Jess almost laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rick Ferguson shifted his body weight from one foot to the other, then shrugged, managing to appear almost bored. He looked around, scratched at the side of his nose. “It’s just that people who annoy me have a way of … disappearing.”
Jess found herself taking an involuntary step back. A cold shiver, like a drill, snaked its way through her chest to her gut. She had to fight the sudden urge to throw up. When she spoke, her voice was hollow, lacking resonance. “Are you threatening me?”
Rick Ferguson pushed his body away from the wall. His smile widened.
I am Death
, the smile said.
I have come for you
.
Then he walked away without a backward glance.
TWO
“E very day in the United States, 1,871 women are forcibly raped,” Jess began, her eyes tracking the seven men and seven women who made up the two rows of twelve jurors and their two alternates sitting in courtroom 706 of the State Court House at 2600 California Avenue. “That translates to 1.3 rapes of adult women every minute and a staggering 683,000 rapes each year.” She took a brief pause to let the sheer volume of her statistics sink in. “Some are attacked in the streets; others are set on in their own homes. Some are raped by the proverbial stranger in a dark alley, far more by people they know: an angry ex-boyfriend, a once-trusted friend, a casual acquaintance. Perhaps, like Erica Barnowski,” she said, indicating the plaintiff with a nod of her head, “by someone they met in a bar. The women, like the men who attack them, come in all shapes and sizes, all religious denominations and cultural backgrounds, all ages and colors. The only trait they have incommon is their sex, which is very ironic when you think about it, because rape is not about sex. Rape is a crime of violence. It is not about passion, or even lust. It is about power. It is about domination and humiliation. It is about control. It is about the infliction of pain. It is an act of rage, an act of hate. It has nothing to do with sex. It only uses sex as its weapon of choice.”
Jess surveyed the majestic old courtroom, its high ceilings and large side windows, the dark paneling along the walls, the black marble framing its large wooden doors. A sign to the right of the judge proclaimed
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