Frat Party (Sisters In Law Book 1) Read online

  Her life was over.

  She pressed speed-dial 1 and waited for her father to pick up his direct line.

  3

  Christine Susmann stood at the counsel table. "Give me one moment, Judge, please."

  She tossed her head back and gazed at the ceiling. Quickly she weighed who should appear as the next witness. Her dark eyes took in the jury and she saw they had enough patience left in them for an important witness; no need to tread water the rest of the day. She ran a hand through her shag hairstyle, allowing the $400 cut to fall naturally back into a perfect frame for her face. She lowered her gaze to meet the eyes of the judge. She nodded and he raised a hand indicating she should proceed.

  "Defense calls Mishabbi Currant to the stand," she said, and looked at the bailiff to indicate he should retrieve the witness from the hallway. He strode briskly up the aisle and opened the courtroom doors. The jury and judge and spectators and participants heard the bailiff call the witness.

  She entered the courtroom wearing black tights, a plaid pleated skirt, a turtleneck sweater, and a gold chain around her neck with a crucifix pendant. Her face was very pale and her black hair was cropped close to her head and around her ears. Small coral studs adorned her ears, the only color on an otherwise white-on-white face. A small, friendly smile was offered to the jury as she walked past them on the way to the witness stand. She could have passed for twenty-three but she was actually thirty-three.

  Christine nodded at the young woman once she was seated in the witness chair.

  "State your name, please."

  "Mishabbi Currant."

  "Mishabbi, where do you live?"

  "Here in Chicago. Do I have to give my street address? I'd rather not."

  "No, the question doesn't call for your street address," said Christine. "City and state are enough."

  "Thank you."

  Christine checked the judge with a quick glance. She needed Judge Leamon Waters to really focus on the witness. It would be his job to decide whether Mishabbi Currant qualified as an expert witness. A responsible man who was known to be a fair and impartial jurist, he appeared that he didn't want to miss a word of it. He was hard of hearing in his left ear so he inclined his head sharply in the direction of the witness. His long white hair fell away from his head on the left side and he brushed it back into place.

  Christine continued. "You are aware that this case today is a sexual assault case?"

  "Yes."

  "You are aware that my client, Evan Rushdie, claims that the sexual exchange between himself and the alleged victim was actually consensual?"

  The witness looked at the young man sitting next to Christine. His name was Evan Rushdie, a sixteen-year-old boy who'd had his driver's license all of two months. He was tall and lanky and shaving his face was still down the road, although his upper lip was trying out light, immature whiskers. He wore black jeans and a white shirt with a cream tie. His hair was neatly trimmed and his shoes had been recently shined. He was making a concerted effort to sit up straight at the table, as Christine had directed.

  Mishabbi looked from Evan back to Christine. "You told me that Evan said the sex was consensual. You told me that when we met. First time, I think."

  Christine stood fully upright and looked at the jury. She was wearing a gray pinstripe suit with white shirt and red necktie. Her red lipstick was modest, applied sparingly--not too much, not too little--as was the light eyeliner. She fastened her eyes on those jurors who were looking back and smiled. "How many times have we met, Mishabbi?"

  "Twice."

  "Where was that?"

  "Once at Kathy's Kafe and once at your office."

  "The first time we met, what was the topic of that meeting?"

  The witness fingered the gold chain around her neck. "You asked me some questions about how I was doing, stuff like that. Then you said you'd heard that I was a witch, or had once been a witch."

  "What did you tell me about being a witch?"

  "I told you that I had once been a witch."

  "What happened next?"

  "We made a date to meet in your office. That was for the next day. So I came to your office and you explained to me about Evan's criminal case. You said the girlfriend was in high school and she was claiming that Evan had raped her. You said Evan was a freshman at Central High and that he had been seeing the girl for about one month."

  "Did we discuss you becoming a witness here?"

  The pale young woman nodded. "We did. You asked me if I would testify in this case about being a witch and about some of the practices of witchcraft."

  "What did you say?"

  The witness shrugged and looked at the jury. "I didn't really want to do it, but you explained to me the trouble Evan was in. You said he could go to prison. Then we talked about what happened in the girlfriend's bedroom."

  "Now, let me ask about your practice of witchcraft."

  "The black arts."

  "Yes, the black arts. How long were you a witch?"

  "Ten years, give or take."

  "Are you a witch now?"

  "No, I'm a Christian now."

  "Tell us what it means to be a witch."

  "Well, in my practice, I closely followed the ceremonies and practices of witchcraft. It all depended on what we were addressing."

  "What do you mean, 'addressing'?"

  "Say there was a girl after your boyfriend. We would have a ceremony where we would sacrifice her to Satan."

  "Actual sacrifice?"

  "No, it was always ritual. Never the real thing."

  "What about sacrificing animals, drinking blood, the stuff some of us might have heard about?"

  Mishabbi smiled and leaned back. "That's voodoo. That hasn't got anything to do with being a witch."

  "Was some of your practice spiritual?"

  "Yes. I exteriorized at times."

  "What's that mean?"

  "I went on journeys through the universe. By trancing."

  "Trancing."

  "Putting myself into a mental state where I could leave my body and travel through space and time."

  Christine looked over at the jury out of the corner of her eye. Most, especially the women, were clearly skeptical. They had leaned away from the witness, arms folded across chests, not making eye contact with her. The lawyer knew she was not accomplishing what needed to be done. But she wasn't finished yet.

  "When you and I spoke in my office, Mishabbi, do you remember me asking you about becoming an expert witness in this case?"

  "Yes."

  "I want to pursue that with you. You've told us you were a witch for ten years. This next question might strike you as odd, but this is how we qualify witnesses to be experts: we ask them about training, education, and experience. You've already told us about some of your experiences, so let me ask you about education. Is there any sort of training or education that a person would go through to become a witch?"

  "Well, I started with the books. There are books about the pagan holidays and practices. Lots of meditation on the Goddess and God is required. I did mine on the coast of Oregon, where I had my first out-of-body flight."

  "Where did you go? Rather, what happened?"

  "I went into space. I looked at the planets, zoomed around stars, and got caught up in a thunderstorm. It drove me back to Oregon and back into my body."

  "What else might one do to become a witch?"

  "Learn herbal, crystal and candle magic."

  "Did you learn these things?"

  "I did. By joining a coven."

  "You joined a group of witches?"

  "Yes, we practiced our magic together. We had ceremonies, we celebrated pagan holidays, we chanted to the Goddess, everything necessary to practice our magic."

  Christine paused and looked at the judge. He appeared rapt. She decided that she would attempt to qualify the witness as an expert at that point in the testimony.

  "Have you ever testified before as a witch?"

  "No."
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  "You have talked to other people about witches and what they do?"

  "Yes."

  "Are most people knowledgeable about witches and rituals?"

  "Not yet. No, they aren't. They look at it like some kind of disease."

  "Tell us what you know about what happened between Evan and Charlene Meier on the afternoon of the sexual exchange."

  "You told me that they were in Charlene's bedroom in Niles. The police reports confirmed that. I read them all. Plus I read the witness statements, including the girl's statement and her father's statement. Anyway, the girl and Evan got together in her bedroom every afternoon after school and listened to music together."

  "What else did you learn they did together?"

  "They practiced witchcraft."

  "What and how did you learn about what happened sexually?"

  "Like I said, I read the police reports and I read Charlene's statement. Then I listened to the recording, the confession Evan gave to the detectives."

  "How old was Evan when this happened?"

  "Almost fifteen."

  "How old was Charlene?"

  "Seventeen."

  "Do you have an opinion based on a reasonable degree of certainty in the field of witchcraft about the sexual exchange that went on?"

  Mishabbi nodded. "I do."

  "What is that opinion?"

  "Objection!"

  Christine had known all along that Woody Smitts would object at that exact moment. Woody was the First Assistant District Attorney, and was heralded as one of the best prosecutors in the Cook County DA's office. He was known for being a hard-nose on sex crimes and had made this case one that was impossible to settle with a negotiated plea. He had demanded five years’ imprisonment and not a minute less. Now, Woody launched into the basis for his objection: that there was no recognized science known as witchcraft and the witness wasn't an expert--couldn't be--in something that wasn't real.

  Christine responded, pointing out that while everyone might agree that black magic was a fraud, the practice itself had been ritualized and it had its practitioners of its rituals, including the young couple around which this case was swirling.

  Judge Waters listened intently, first to Woody, then to Christine. "Overruled," he quickly decided. "She may answer the question."

  Christine began again. "Do you recall me asking whether you have an opinion about the sexual encounter?"

  "I do."

  "Please tell us that opinion about the sexual encounter.”

  "My opinion is that they were practicing the ritual known as the Maidenhead."

  "What is the basis for your opinion?"

  "First, they had been practicing black arts together ever since they met at a basketball dance a month before. He was heavy into Dungeons and Dragons and she was heavy into Wicca readings and even belonged to a coven. She drew him in."

  "Tell us what facts you are relying on to determine that they were practicing a ritual of black magic?"

  Mishabbi faced the jury. "First, they both had their clothes off. That was her idea, according to Evan. Then she lay back on her bed and told him to get on top of her. This is the typical Maidenhead routine. In the ritual, the male then penetrates the female and withdrawal prior to ejaculation follows. Candles are then lit and the couple sits up in bed, across from each other, and they lapse into chanting spells. That's what he said actually happened. Her story is different. She says there wasn't supposed to be penetration, that he forced himself on her."

  "According to the witchcraft practice, however, you say the ritual actually requires penetration."

  "It does. I believe she performed the ritual and used Evan, but then when her father came home, he walked in and caught them together. So she immediately cried rape."

  Smitts again exploded out of his chair. "Objection! Calls for an opinion outside the scope of her so-called expertise."

  "Overruled. She may tell the jury what facts she's relying on. The father catching them together has been established by Detective Salk. Please answer the question."

  The judge nodded at Christine, who asked, "How did you know the father caught them together?"

  "Evan said that to the police. It's in the police reports. That's how his jaw was broken and wired shut. The girl's father hit him and kicked him."

  Christine looked over at the jury. Arms were no longer crossed on chests; the members were for the most part leaning forward, receptive and making eye contact with the witness.

  "To summarize, it's your testimony that Evan and Charlene, a freshman and senior, were engaged in a Wiccan ritual until the father walked in?"

  "Yes."

  "Nothing further, Your Honor. I would ask that we break for the day now as it's almost five o'clock and it's Friday. I'm sure the jurors want to get right home."

  "Very well. It's four-fifty. We'll resume at nine a.m. Monday with the district attorney's cross-examination. Please remember the admonition. Do not discuss the case with anyone, do not read about the case and do not watch TV reports or listen to radio reports about the case. You're excused."

  Sitting next to Christine, Evan Rushdie was making a concerted effort to sit up straight at the table, and his hands were trying to remember to abstain from the customary fidget of a young boy brought up to the principal's office--or worse, into court for all the world to hear. While Christine stood and began stuffing books and papers into her roll-around briefcase, Evan remained frozen in place.

  "Hey." She smiled at him. "It's okay. You can stand up now."

  "I didn't know."

  "I know you didn't. This is all very foreign, I'm sure."

  "I'm so--so--"

  "Let me guess. You're scared out of your wits."

  The young man allowed a small smile. "Exactly. I had no idea they were going to go into all this--this private stuff."

  She dropped a gray copy of Illinois Evidence into the briefcase. "Oh, yes. Nothing is off-limits inside a courtroom."

  "Charlene--she got me to do it all, you know."

  "I know. I'm sure she was responsible for much of what happened."

  "I mean, I--I--"

  "You weren't exactly taken away at gunpoint. I get it."

  "Gunpoint?"

  "Never mind. Let's get out of here."

  They hurried up the aisle to the two main doors and headed left toward the elevators, stopping momentarily while Christine scanned the waiting crowd in order to be sure the jury had already been taken downstairs.

  It was safe.

  They joined the crowd awaiting the elevator, all eyes fastened on the blinking numbers above the doors.

  * * *

  Safe inside her office where no one was watching, Christine kicked off her Givenchy pumps and sat back in her executive chair and wiggled her toes. "Such fine toes," she said to her feet. She smiled at her words. Law school graduation and the bar exam were almost a year in the rearview, and she was just now beginning to realize the world was, indeed, nuts and that the practice of law was making her nuts, too. At least the things people got themselves into and called her about--those things were nuts.

  She pulled open the double drawer and retrieved her slingback sandals. They said "Prada" on the topside and still reeked of Barney's of New York, the scene of her last shopping spree. She had always been a very reserved woman when she had worked as a paralegal, one who more often than not dressed down. But since jumping into Chicago's mainstream of the practice of law and accepting that she not only had to act the part but look the part as well, she had taken to wearing designer brands not especially of her liking but definitely expected in the hallowed halls of justice around Chicago. In short, she had been warned by friendly female lawyers that the judges in Chicago put great stock in how lawyers not only comported themselves and how well they were versed in the law and how prepared they sounded when they spoke out in court, but also in how they looked and what they wore. Chicago was a city and it was cosmopolitan and she was resigned to playing a new role. New to her, at lea
st.

  She opened the top drawer of her massive teak desk and plucked out a half-full pack of Salems. She spun the tiny wheel on the gold, engraved lighter and inhaled mightily. A coughing spell immediately overwhelmed her chest and lungs and she stabbed the cigarette out in the glass ashtray she hid inside the same drawer. It was a terrible habit, she thought, and she kept it hidden from Sonny and the kids. "Call it my nasty little secret," she told herself. "I'm entitled to at least one nasty little secret, after all." She drank a mouthful of the early morning coffee in the Starbucks venti cup on her desk. Anything to wash away the taste of the cigarette. Then she pressed the intercom switch and said, "Okay. Bring it in."

  Billy A. Tattinger knocked once and entered. In his hands he clutched at least a dozen blue phone messages. Billy was a forty-year-old African-American paralegal whom Christine had stolen away from the law firm where she had once worked as a paralegal. They were longtime friends and knew everything about each other. On the day Christine got the letter from the IARDC informing her that she had passed the bar exam, the first person she had called was not Sonny, her husband. She had called Billy, and she had told him that from that moment on, he belonged to her. He was on the payroll. Then she called Thaddeus Murfee and told him she had stolen his chief paralegal. "I knew he would follow when this day came," Thaddeus laughed. "I'm just excited about the bar exam news. We'll have dinner tonight, you and me and Sonny and Katy. The celebration is on!"

  And they did have dinner that night. Sonny and Christine made it home just before eleven. Christine had driven; it was Sonny's turn to have the family limit of three drinks, and he had enjoyed himself.

  Now, ten months later, Billy Tattinger approached Christine's desk, his right hand clutching phone messages.

  "Put the new ones on your right. Put the current ones on the left. Hold the whiners."

  He dealt the messages into two hands as instructed, but withheld the third.