of the case,” Raleigh said, stepping back onto her comfortable platform. She preferred that her arguments be presented first to a judge—not debated in the media.
“You always say that when you don’t like the direction an interview is taking.” Benedict leaned forward, too close for comfort. “I’ve read every news story in which you were quoted, watched every bit of available video in which you were interviewed. When a hard question is asked, you suddenly can’t comment.”
She tried not to show how much his intensity rattled her. Tough reporters had gone after her before. She was used to it. This was nothing compared to what she’d faced when filing motions on behalf of Eldon Jasperson, a convicted child murderer.
So why did it bother her so much? Why did this reporter bother her so much?
“Difficult questions usually involve the specifics of an ongoing case, which I cannot discuss. No mystery about that.”
“I would argue that the Simonetti case is different. It seems…out of character for you. You normally don’t take on cases without more compelling evidence.”
“Each case presented to Project Justice is evaluated based on a unique set of circumstances. We felt this case had merit.” Granted, it had been a hard sell to Daniel Logan, Project Justice’s founder and the ultimate decision maker. If the gun could be traced back to Anthony or anyone in his extensive criminal family, the foundation would be inundated with negative publicity, which tended to cause donations and sponsors to dry up.
But Raleigh believed in Anthony’s truthfulness when he told her he did not own—had never owned—a gun. She had even taken the extra precaution of recording her interview with Anthony on video, then having Claudia Ellison, the foundation’s on-call psychologist, evaluate Anthony’s demeanor. An expert on body language, Claudia had found no sign of deceit. Daniel trusted Raleigh’s and Claudia’s instincts.
If Raleigh was wrong about this one, her reputation would take a hard blow. But she felt strongly enough to take the risk.
“I don’t believe you,” Griffin said, startling her. “Do you want to know why?”
“I feel certain you’re going to enlighten me,” she said with a smugness she didn’t truly feel. Suddenly Griffin Benedict seemed dangerous.
She took a sip of her tea, despite her earlier decision not to drink it. It was easier to hide her emotions behind a paper cup and her steamed-up glasses.
“I have reliable information that you, personally, received incentives to convince the Project Justice decision makers to take on Anthony’s case. Specifically, that you accepted a bribe.”
Raleigh set her cup down with a thud, splashing tea everywhere. “What? Are you crazy?” Who would tell a reporter such a thing about her? Or had he made it up, trying to shake her composure?
Damn it, he’d succeeded. A few nearby coffee-shop patrons looked over curiously.
Don’t make a scene, Raleigh. She could hear her mother-in-law’s voice in her ear, trying to hush Raleigh when she’d been out of her mind with grief. Back then, she had let her big, sloppy emotions spill out onto everyone in her path—cops, doctors, reporters, many of whom blamed her for her husband’s death.
She had learned self-control since then.
“I’m just telling you what I heard.” Griffin took another sip of his coffee.
Raleigh scooted her chair back. “I hadn’t realized this was going to be a character assassination instead of an interview. Please don’t call me again.” She reached for her briefcase on the floor by her chair, intending to make a dramatic exit.
“Wait.”
His single word froze her to her seat. She wished she could have ignored him. But he was so damn compelling.
“I didn’t just take someone’s word for it. I demanded proof—and I got this.” He extended a piece of paper across the table toward her. “Does this look familiar?”
Raleigh grew dizzy as every drop of blood in her body fell to her feet. Yes, the paper did look familiar. It was a copy of her bank statement. The one that showed a twenty-thousand-dollar deposit made to her account from a numbered Swiss bank account.
She should have known. She had tried to tell the bank that the deposit was in error, but they’d insisted it wasn’t. Then she had become frantically busy. She had pushed all thoughts of the aberrant deposit out of her mind, figured someone, somewhere, would miss their money, and the error would be corrected.
“Care to explain the rather large chunk of change that landed in your account?”
“No, I would not,” Raleigh said succinctly, trying not to panic. “Would you care to explain how you came to be in possession of my private financial information? Because I’m pretty sure there’s an invasion-of-privacy issue here. I could sue you up one side and down the other.”
“But you won’t. Because you wouldn’t want this little piece of paper to become a matter of public record, would you?”
He was right about that.
“Don’t worry, Raleigh—may I call you Raleigh?”
She refused to answer.
“I’m not going to publish the specifics of your bank account. But I do intend to find out what’s going on with you. If there is an innocent explanation for the deposit, set me straight.”
“There is, but it’s none of your business. If you want to investigate me, knock yourself out. I have never accepted payment beyond my salary for the work I do at Project Justice, and I never will.”
On that note, she made her exit. She could have sworn she felt Griffin Benedict’s eyes burning into her back as she walked out the door.
GRIFFIN CLICKED off his recorder, watching as the auburn-haired ice queen glided out the door.
That had gone about as expected. Someone with Raleigh Shinn’s experience in high-pressure legal situations wouldn’t cave in and confess with his first salvo.
She wasn’t what he expected, though. Of course he’d seen pictures and video of her. He’d thought she was plain, even somewhat unattractive in her clunky glasses, boxy man suits and hair slicked back into a matronly bun.
But in person, she was something entirely different. For one thing, she had a figure underneath those suits. He’d seen the hint of generous breasts beneath her jacket when she had reached for her tea, the barest shadow of cleavage above the top button of her cream silk shirt.
Her hair wasn’t a boring brown, as he’d believed, but had threads of fiery red and gold mixed in. Her real color, too. If she’d had even a day’s worth of roots, he’d have spotted it.
She apparently wore no makeup, but her skin was a translucent ivory, smooth and soft-looking. And she had a dusting of freckles across her nose.
Nice mouth. Kissable.
But her eyes had intrigued him the most. Those scholarly horn-rim glasses hid eyes of a deep, emerald green with gold flecks. In them he saw flashes of fire, especially when she talked
