Private Lives. Karen Young

back he studied the face of Elizabeth Walker. A woman with a face like that could use it to her advantage. He wondered if she was that kind of woman.

      Turning the photo facedown, he picked up the next item, a newspaper clipping, again photocopied. And recent, too, he noticed, with a glance at the date. A feature article in the Sunday edition of the Chronicle. He didn’t recall reading it himself, but he often played golf on Sunday and sometimes only glanced at the features section of the paper. As he began reading, the vague familiarity he’d been unable to grasp earlier suddenly came into hard focus. He swore softly, reading more intently, his eyes now flying over the words. The publisher’s bio had skipped the juicy stuff, but the Chronicle reporter hadn’t. Ryan shuffled through the pages and came across another photo, one that had been used in the feature. She was pictured in her office sitting at her computer. Live plants with cascading greenery enhanced her work area. She was surrounded by bookcases, all volumes neatly shelved. Small art objects and mementos were tastefully placed around the room. He peered closely at her. This time, she smiled. Too fixed to be natural, he thought. Clearly it had been produced on demand by a photographer.

      He closed the folder and sat back, his frown as dark as the twilight swiftly falling over the skyline. Old pain stirred in his chest. Old rage. According to the article, Elizabeth Walker was the daughter of Judge Matthew Walker, a high-profile figure in Houston politics who’d died in a house fire in the late seventies. But it wasn’t that that interested Ryan. What he recalled about Judge Walker was more personal—Matthew Walker was the man responsible for his father’s death more than twenty-five years ago.

      Three

      “Let’s see if I understand you, Ms. D’Angelo.” Ryan Paxton gave the judge a small smile, two men sharing a male moment. “You claim you were physically abused by my client, not once, but several times during your…relationship?”

      “Yes, that’s right,” Gina said, her tone almost inaudible. Both hands were knotted together in her lap. Elizabeth, watching from the front row in the courtroom, felt Gina’s distress. She looked pale and frightened. If only there was a way she could go to her, put a hand on her shoulder, encourage her with a warm hug. Gina had been right. Ryan Paxton was a barracuda.

      A very attractive, confident, skillful barracuda. Gina’s words, but they were an inadequate description. Elizabeth simply hadn’t been prepared for the force of Ryan Paxton in person. He was younger than the mental image she’d conjured up. Not yet forty, she decided, closer to mid-thirties. Very impressive for the level of his success. He was Texas born and bred, of course, she knew it just from the look of him and the lazy drawl in his voice, although there was nothing lazy about his rapier sharp mind. His legs were long, his body well toned. His suit probably cost a couple of thousand dollars. When he moved around the courtroom—which he did a lot—it was with the rangy ease of a man who might have been born in a saddle. Likely a total misinterpretation, she thought with a quiet little snort. He was probably a lot more at home in Houston’s trendy Sierra Grille than either hunting, fishing or riding in Texas’s hill country.

      “Speak up, please,” the judge ordered sternly.

      The judge was worrisome, too. It was Gina’s bad luck that Lawrence Hetherington was presiding. He was known in legal circles as Lock ’em up Larry, notorious for his hard-nosed rulings. Gina had fared well during Maude Kennedy’s questioning, but she was literally trembling with fear now and Paxton was taking skillful advantage of it.

      “Ms. D’Angelo?” the judge prodded.

      Gina cleared her throat before replying. “Yes. Austin was abusive. Frequently.”

      “But not so frequently that you quit shacking up with him, right?” Ryan quizzed.

      “Objection, Your Honor!” Maude Kennedy was on her feet.

      “Sustained,” the judge intoned. “Mr. Paxton, watch yourself.”

      Ryan strode to a table, flipped open a folder and took out a sheet of paper. “This is a list of every hospital and emergency room within a fifty-mile radius of the dwelling you shared with my client, Ms. D’Angelo. Nowhere is there a record of you ever being treated…for anything. How do you explain that?”

      “I never went to a hospital,” Gina said, her tone faltering again.

      “But you were badly injured?” Paxton was clearly skeptical. “More than once?”

      “Yes.”

      “Describe these injuries that you claimed in your testimony were crippling.”

      “Well, there were bruises on my arms and legs and b-backside, you know, when he’d shove me and I’d fall against the furniture. Sometimes I’d be limping for days. Or…or he’d twist my hair in his fist, pulling it out by the roots. He’s struck me in my face, too. One time—”

      “And your co-workers never noticed these bruises? Never inquired about a black eye? Never commented when you appeared on crutches at the firm?”

      “I never needed crutches.”

      “Oh…” Ryan nodded slowly, unconvinced. “And the bruises?”

      “Well…” Gina licked her lips and glanced at Judge Hetherington. “He was always careful, Your Honor. Usually we’d be away from Houston, like at a weekend getaway or on vacation somewhere. So by the time we returned, the bruises had faded or I could cover them with makeup.”

      “Direct your answers to Mr. Paxton, Ms. D’Angelo,” the judge instructed.

      Nodding, Gina obediently turned to face Ryan.

      “You took vacations together during the eight years of your relationship,” he said, looking at a sheet he’d pulled from the folder.

      “Yes.”

      “Often, according to my client. And this list.” Ryan waved the paper in the direction of the judge. “From it, I see you were in Saint Croix, then Hawaii—two times—Europe, Canada, Boston, San Francisco, Washington D.C., New York…hmmm, four, five, six. Six times you visited New York with my client. Like New York, do you?”

      “Austin liked New York.”

      “Were these trips business related?”

      “We attended legal conferences, yes.”

      “How often?”

      Gina shrugged. “Three, four times. I’m not sure.”

      “I’m counting over twenty very posh vacation spots. And, by the way, how often was Jesse allowed on these trips?”

      “As often as I could persuade him to let her go,” Gina said, darting a quick glance at Austin, who was sprawled behind the defendant table looking bored. She had avoided meeting his eyes during her testimony.

      “How many times, Ms. D’Angelo?” Ryan pressed.

      Gina was shaking her head. “Three times,” she replied hesitantly.

      “But being such a caring mother, you cheerfully waved goodbye to your little girl…let’s see, about seventeen times, it appears. Leaving her with…who?”

      “Her godmother.” Gina met Elizabeth’s gaze across the courtroom. “Elizabeth Walker.”

      “Your close friend.”

      “My best friend,” Gina said.

      Ryan turned abruptly to the judge. “I don’t see a pattern of abuse here by my client, Your Honor. On the contrary, my client took Ms. D’Angelo with him when he vacationed, he opened his home to her, she lived well beyond the means she would have been able to provide for herself while keeping company with my client. Furthermore, I believe Austin Leggett is well qualified to have full custody of the child, Jesse. He acknowledges paternity, he loves his daughter, he wants only the best for her.”

      “Is this your summation,