PERSUASIVE EVIDENCE

PROLOGUE

The woman was in a playful mood as she sashayed sexily around the room, aware that her audience was watching her every move, as though to turn away might result in missing something that might not occur again. She made no attempt to come to the bed, content to tease him and relish in her own stunning physical beauty and sexuality. A high-pitched, self-satisfied laugh erupted from her throat as she tilted her head seductively to the side, causing the golden mounds of shimmering hair to float aimlessly before seductively landing across her bare white shoulder.

She licked a finger coquettishly and moved it up along the inside of her shapely thigh and underneath her dress, bringing it between her legs. She then caressed herself, allowing only a moment of personal satisfaction--where she pictured herself anywhere else but where she was--before turning her attention back to him with a brilliant smile. His dark eyes were hungrily glued on her, darting up and down as if unable to resist any part of her for his gaze to penetrate, poke, and prod.

She began to dance for him, moving her voluptuous body to her own imaginary beat in a series of blatantly sexual gyrations designed to drive him crazy with want. When she got within touching distance, he grabbed at her with outstretched, muscular arms, but she stepped back adeptly in practiced quickness, avoiding his desperate hands. Disappointment contorted his face like a shadow, yet he made no attempt to corral her as his mind clearly wished.

That wasn’t part of the game. She made the rules. She decided when it was time, and not a moment before.

It turned her on to be in total control. In the driver’s seat in the game of seduction and sex.

Never again would she let a man call the shots.

She slid the ruby red slinky tube dress down the curves of her body, revealing her alabaster nakedness in all its magnificence as the dress fell to the floor. Cupping ample breasts, she played with her nipples, watching them swell. He salivated with desire as she approached the bed again, wearing only red high heels.

She pushed him back on the bed so that he fell on his back. He allowed this, content in being her slave of passion and promise. She climbed atop him, straddling him between her legs; then ran long red-nailed fingers through the thick curly hair on his chest. Leaning forward, she pressed her breasts against that chest and licked the bridge of his aquiline nose. She felt the throbbing of his manhood wedged between her thighs. He would explode at any moment now, she sensed, excited at the prospect, but glad to prolong his torture for a little bit longer--though it also meant depriving herself of the pleasure that was sure to come.

She licked his chiseled cheeks and tight chin before planting a very wet kiss on his lips, all the while reveling in her power and sexuality.

Finally, not able to stand it any longer, she grabbed the length of him, arched her back, and lowered herself till fully impaled. Burying his face with her breasts, she squeezed her legs together and rode him like a Palomino.

Her orgasm came and left nearly as soon as he climaxed inside her. With that, her desire for him ended almost instantaneously. It was that way with every man she had been with. The thrill lasted only as long as she wanted it to, though sometimes far less. Then she hated the thought of them even touching her.

He begged her to stay longer, his hands reaching out and touching her all over--clearly in the mood for much more than she wanted to give.

She laughed in his face. Men were like little boys. They always wanted what they couldn’t own. And they were willing to humiliate themselves to have it.

Even powerful men could be brought to their knees by their lustful appetites and weakness for the flesh, she knew with satisfaction.

She slipped back into her dress and eyed the cocaine on the table in three slightly crooked lines of powder. The high was still present in her head, body, and sex organs.

She took another hit up her nose, relishing its euphoric effects. She left him still wanting her, knowing he would never have her again.

CHAPTER ONE

The jurors listened intently as the female prosecutor delivered her dramatic closing arguments. Stunningly attractive without fully appreciating it, her caramel colored complexion sharply contrasted the long, groomed raven locks with brunette highlights framing a face that was as taut as it was determined. At five-nine, she was the picture of lean perfection in a wrinkle free Ann Taylor solid gray suit, pink silk blouse, and low-heeled gray pumps. Her voice was clear and precise, and she pulled no punches in assaulting the defendant with well-chosen words designed as much for their sting as their shock value.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said in a folksy way, “we are not talking about a Sunday school teacher here, but a ruthless killer who stalked his victims, raped them, and then bludgeoned them to death... The last victim literally was on the floor begging for her life”--in a theatrical and spontaneous performance, the prosecutor dropped to her knees, ignoring the discomfort, ripping of her nylons, and being decidedly unladylike, and began flailing her arms into the air as if to ward off an attacker--“doing everything humanly possible to prevent him from hurting her anymore.

“But you know what? He just didn’t give a damn. In fact, this plea for mercy gave him even more pleasure as he raped her again, then beat her to death...”

Springing back to her feet effortlessly, she hung on that last note while refusing to look at the defendant. Not yet anyhow. She wanted to maximize the moment--even right down to her somewhat ruffled appearance and torn nylons. She looked squarely at every member of the jury one by one, seeking to detect any signs of leniency for the monster on trial. There were five women and seven men in the box. Six of the jurors were white, four African American, and two Hispanic.

They would decide the fate of one Raymond Allen Wilson, a thirty-eight-year-old black man who had been charged with killing seven prostitutes in Portland over a three-year period. The trial had lasted almost four months, and had now come down to the nitty gritty. In spite of the overwhelming evidence against the defendant, the prosecutor knew full well that a conviction was no sure thing. Much less the death penalty. The defense attorney had done a masterful job in using the currently in vogue child abuse excuse, in combination with a history of mental illness, to paint a picture of a sick and pitiful victim rather than a cold-blooded sexual serial killer.

Would the jury buy it? she wondered with dread. Or would they see through the subterfuge as if a soiled window to his evil soul?

The prosecutor glared at the twelve jurors as though they were the enemy, then just as easily left them hanging with a flawless flip of her head, causing the long locks dancing on her slender shoulders to change direction in mid air. In what had become a well-practiced move, she took three measured steps with the grace of a ballerina so that she now stood before the defense table. She met the chilling coal-black eyes of the smug-faced defendant with the fierce hazel with flecks of gold of her own gaze, as she said to the jury: “This man--if you can call him that--deserves about as much sympathy from you as he gave to his victims. If you allow what he has done to go unpunished adequately, then you’ll be sending a message to every sexual serial murderer who comes along that it’s perfectly okay to hand pick your victims, rape them, and do whatever the hell else you want to them, and then cry, ‘But it ain’t my fault. It’s everybody else’s.’”

She snarled at the accused, then risked a furtive peep at his attorney, whose fierce competitiveness matched her own. Once again the prosecutor, always in control, smoothly made her way back before her main audience. Planting her hands firmly on the wooden railing of the jury box, she leaned forward, swallowed a quiet sigh, and said demandingly: “There can be only one justice in this trial. You must find the defendant guilty as charged, and sentence him to death. Anything else would be a travesty and a victory for the defense--and defendant. Thank you.”

Only then did she allow herself to offer a sanguine smile to the five women and seven men. It was not a real smile but a thank-you-for-all-your-trouble smile, now do your job right and let’s get on with our lives.

***

It took the jury exactly thirty-five minutes to deliberate, before returning a verdict of guilty on all counts.

A week later, during the penalty phase, Raymond Allen Wilson was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

Feeling somewhat less than victorious with the killer’s life spared, Assistant District Attorney Jordan La Fontaine left the courtroom, briefcase in hand. Alongside her was co-counsel in the trial, A.D.A. Andrew Lombard. Standing six feet tall, and naturally trim, the thirty-year-old looked dapper in a Brooks Brothers navy suit. Dark curly hair lapped on his forehead in bangs, and his close-set blue eyes seemed to sparkle whenever you looked at them. Which was what Jordan found herself doing at the moment, even if she thought he was a bit too young and too white for her carnal tastes. Her mind turned back to the trial.

A couple of minutes earlier, Raymond Allen Wilson’s attorney, Simon McNeil, had stormed out of the courtroom without comment. Jordan could almost read his unprintable thoughts, knowing how the brother hated to lose almost as much as she did. But then, she mused, he would at least be able to go to sleep tonight knowing that his client did not have a date with death--unlike those whose lives he had taken.

“If you ask me,” said Andrew in a deep voice with a Brooklyn accent, “I’d say we got the best we could expect from that jury. I mean, hell, that bastard’s off the streets for good.”

“Try telling that to the families of the victims,” moaned Jordan almost apologetically. “We promised them true justice would be served--meaning an eye for an eye. Make that two eyes for the fourteen he shut permanently. You know as well as I do that Wilson could live at least another fifty years in prison and make a million bucks from book and movie deals. That’s not exactly the Christmas gift the families were hoping for.”

“Maybe not, but I’ll guarantee it won’t be a picnic for Wilson in his new home.” Andrew narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you know what they do to baby faced, slightly built people like him on the inside? I’m sure you’ve got a pretty good idea, without going into the gory details. The asshole may wish the State had given him a lethal dose of poison when all is said and done.”

Jordan had her doubts about that. In her thirteen years with the Multnomah County D.A.’s office, she had found it ironic that the one thing killers seemed to fear more than anything else was dying. It was an odd case of jitters under the circumstances.

They rounded the corner in the wide corridors of the Criminal Justice Center. The marble flooring shone as if it had been polished, in spite of the fact that traffic in and out of the building seemed nonstop. There were several trials in various stages, as judges and lawyers scurried to wrap up the better part of cases before the year 1995 came to an end.

Andrew eyed Jordan and noted whimsically: “There’s a rumor floating around, Jordan, that you and Jerrod Wresler are right at the top of the list for the Homicide Division Bureau Chief opening...”

I’ve heard it too, thought Jordan, tightening her slender fingers around the handle of her black leather briefcase. But then she had heard it all before. Only to see herself passed up by someone else--usually a man--less experienced or qualified. Although she and Wresler were roughly equals in terms of time served, being a woman of color would likely work against her, Jordan believed. Even if she had proven herself time and time again. She had learned not to get her hopes up too high.

“If I were you, Andrew,” she downplayed it, batting her lashes outrageously at him, “I wouldn’t pay much attention to rumors.”

He laughed uneasily. “That means it’s probably true. And, lady, like it or not, you’re the hottest thing the D.A.’s office has going for it right now. They need this more than you do. I’d say you’re a cinch for the job.”

Wishing she could be as optimistic, Jordan put on her best face, and said hopefully: “Only time will tell.”

Speaking of which, Jordan glanced at her watch. Damn! she thought. It was almost five-thirty. In less than seven hours it would be Christmas morning and she still had not bought gifts for her kids.

“I have to go,” she said abruptly, while stopping in her tracks as if lost. The reality was that she wasn’t really sure where to get started in her search for the right presents.

Andrew frowned. “A few of us are heading over to The Ranch for a little Christmas Eve celebrating. You’re coming, aren’t you? Please say yes!”

Jordan gave him a well-meaning smile. “I’ll try,” she told him, though doubting she’d be missed too much. “I promise. But first I have some unfinished business.” She gave him a friendly peck on the cheek. “If I don’t see you before then, have a Merry Christmas, Andrew. And tell everyone else the same!”

She left him flat-footed as she darted off, while thinking in a daze: What the hell does one buy for a precocious fourteen-year-old and mature nineteen-year-old these days?

For Jordan, buying gifts was especially important this year. It was a way of bringing the family together when they needed it most. This was the first Christmas her late husband, Eric, would not be sharing with them.