Someone To Believe In

Praise for
Someone to Believe In

“Someone to Believe
In
is a wonderfully written, emotional and
extraordinary read and truly deserves a five-star rating.”
Affaire de Coeur

“Shay’s writing trademark is taking
seemingly impossible relationships and developing them into classic
tales of true love, which is what she does here.”
Fresh Fiction

“Once again Shay shines in this starkly
realistic story.”
Booklist

Kathryn Shay

Published by Kathryn Shay at
Smashwords.com

Copyright 2005 The Berkley Publishing Group
in New York

Copyright 2010 Kathryn Shay

Cover art by Patricia Ryan

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Discover other titles by Kathryn Shay at
Smashwords.com:

Promises To Keep

Trust In Me

Ties That Bind

After The Fire

On The Line

Nothing More To Lose

Close to You

Taking The Heat

PROLOGUE

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN of the jury. Have you
reached a verdict?”

“Yes, Your Honor, we have.” His face somber,
the foreman handed a paper to the bailiff.

As the court officer brought the findings to
the judge, District Attorney Clayton Wainwright scanned the
courtroom. It was like a morgue. And he just didn’t get it. He’d
proven his case, and he was sure the perpetrator would be
convicted. So why was Sandra Jones, the judge, glaring at him, the
jury looking as if it were about to sentence Christ to crucifixion,
and even his own assistant acting like Clay had betrayed God?

He stole a glance at the defendant. Hell, she
looked about sixteen, not twenty-five. Long dark hair, porcelain
skin. Even a few freckles if you got up close. Her appearance just
didn’t fit with the image of the worldly anti–youth gang specialist
that she’d made a name as. Maybe that was why, right from the
start, this case had put a sour taste in everybody’s mouth.
Truthfully, Clay had had some moments of self-doubt himself. But it
was his job to prosecute her, and was in keeping with his
tough-on-crime, particularly juvenile crime, stance.

Her face blank, the judge handed the verdict
back to the bailiff who returned it to the foreman. He read aloud,
“The jury finds Bailey O’Neil guilty of Accessory After the
Fact.”

Clayton was far from elated, but she deserved
the outcome. She was guilty as hell of harboring a criminal, in
this case a teenager, knowing he’d committed murder.

He heard a gasp, and saw O’Neil grab on to
her lawyer, her complexion ashen. A hush came over the
courtroom.

Then the foreman spoke up. “The members of
the jury have a statement I’d like to read, Judge Jones, if that’s
all right.”

“I object,” Clay said, bolting out of his
chair. “This is clearly out of order.”

“Objection overruled. Sit down, Mr.
Wainwright. You got what you wanted.” The judge turned her
attention to the juror. “Go ahead, Mr. Foreman.”

He read, “While we recognize the error
committed by Ms. O’Neil, and acknowledge that the evidence is
substantial, we strongly recommend a light sentence. Ms. O’Neil has
kept kids out of gangs, as shown by the defense presented, and
she’s saved lives doing it. We applaud the good she’s done, and
believe she can do even more to stop youth gangs, given the chance.
The requisite fine is acceptable, but the two-to-five-year
imprisonment is not. We recommend a suspended sentence. “

Clay was on his feet again, but before he
could open his mouth, the judge held up her hand, palm out. “Mr.
District Attorney. Do not object. I’ve heard your arguments. I
will take the jury’s wishes under consideration. The defendant is
to remain in custody until Monday of next week, when I’ll render
the sentence. Court is adjourned.” The slap of the gavel echoed
like a gunshot in the too-silent courtroom.

What the hell was going on here? If the
defendant received a suspended sentence, it would send the wrong
message to people in general, and kids especially. To them, it
would say, “Adults will protect you when you break the law.” Clay
snapped his briefcase shut. He noticed no one congratulated him,
not even his assistant. He looked over to the defense table;
O’Neil’s attorney held her in his arms. She cried softly. Clay felt
an unwarranted spurt of guilt.

But what else was he supposed to do? A young
man had been murdered, and this newly convicted woman had harbored
the killer. When the punk had been caught and questioned, it had
slipped out that he’d hidden in the office of his “guardian angel,”
who was Bailey O’Neil, and that he’d told her what he’d done.
Still, she’d lied to the police when they questioned her about his
whereabouts. The boy later contended the murder was committed in
self-defense, but that was yet to be determined.

As soon as Clay left the building, he was
surrounded by reporters sticking microphones in his face and
flashing cameras at him. Backdropped by busy traffic sounds on the
street, a crowd had gathered on the courthouse steps. “Mr.
Wainwright, does this case affect your throwing your hat into the
ring for the Senate race this year?” one reporter asked.

Straightening his tie, Clay cleared his
throat and swallowed his doubts. “Why would it?”

“It’s no secret Bailey O’Neil has the
sympathy of people in this town.”

“The jury found her guilty. I did my part in
upholding the law, which she broke. As you know, I’m running for
the senate on a zero-tolerance-for-crime platform, in concert with
the Republican Party’s stance, particularly for teenagers. I
believe the voters want a safer city, state, nation.”

“Don’t you think this is a little like
Goliath attacking David?” another reporter shouted.

“No, I don’t.” And he didn’t. He fully
believed he was doing the right thing, even if watching Bailey
O’Neil had been tough to take. In some ways, he bought the
defense’s theory that hers was a do-gooder’s knee-jerk reaction to
protect a kid. Her lawyer had called her a “street angel” in his
closing statements.

Well, the Street Angel was going to be caged,
he guessed. It was the right thing to do. He just hoped this case
didn’t haunt him the rest of his career.

ONE

ELEVEN YEARS LATER

CLAY WAINWRIGHT SLAPPED the
morning’s
New York Sun
down
onto his desk after reading the inflammatory letter to the editor.
“What the hell does that woman want from me?”

“Calm down, Senator.” Usually as patient as
Job, his press secretary, Mica Proust, sighed with weary
exasperation.

“I’ll calm down when our little Street Angel
has her wings clipped once and for all.” Hell, Bailey O’Neil was
still using the name she’d gotten during the trial more than a
decade ago when he’d prosecuted, and won, a case against her.

“Thorn’s coming right up.”

“Yeah, well, he won’t like this one.”
Loosening his tie, Clay unbuttoned the collar of his light blue
shirt. He’d already shed his suit coat; his temper had heated his
body and caused his blood pressure to skyrocket.

Mica gave Clay an indulgent look, like the
ones his string of nannies used to bestow on him. He didn’t
particularly appreciate the comparison. “I’m continually amazed at
the effect that woman has on you. You face the Senate Majority
Leader down without a qualm, and I’ve seen you handle angry
constituents without breaking into a sweat. But her...”

He gave the older woman a self-effacing grin.
“I know. She turns me into a raving maniac. Maybe because she got
off practically scot-free for Accessory After the Fact.”

“A year behind bars is not scot-free.” Slick
and tidy, Jack Thornton, his chief of staff, entered Clay’s office,
which was housed in the Russell Building on Capitol Hill. Thorn
took a seat on one of the two leather couches in the
mahogany-paneled room, propped his ankle on his knee, and shook his
head. “The Street Angel’s at it again, I take it.”

While Mica filled Thorn in, Clay pushed back
his chair, stood, and began to pace. He ran a frustrated hand
through his thick crop of hair as he covered the carpet. When Mica
finished, Clay started to rant again. “I have not lost my edge. I
have not caved to politics. Who the hell does she think is,
suggesting I should retire to a country home and play golf, for
God’s sake?”

“More than likely she’s pissed at you now for
blocking the funding for Guardian House in the Appropriations
Committee. “ Thorn’s voice was neutral as he studied his notes.
“And for writing those memos to the governor and her local
senators about that interactive network she’s got up and running
at ESCAPE.”

“ESCAPE!” Her anti–youth gang operation. “I’d
close it down completely if I could”

“And she knows you’d do that.”

“It’s a menace to society. The police should
deal with gang intervention. Not a social agency that coddles young
criminals.”

This was an old debate, one they were all
well-versed in.

Thorn said, “What happened eleven years ago
also remains between you.”

“That woman’s only gotten worse in the last
decade. Guardian needs to be stopped. The last thing we should be
funding is a shelter for gang kids. The money from Stewart’s new
bill should go to poor, underprivileged kids who didn’t choose a
life of crime.”

“Hey,” Mica put in, “you’re preaching to the
choir here.”

His press secretary glanced at his chief of
staff. Thorn added, “I just found out she’s throwing her weight
behind Lawson.”

“What?”

“Publicly. She told the
Sun
she’d be volunteering for the
young councilman’s campaign bid for the Democratic primary for
senator next year so he can run against you in the November
election.”

“Oh, this is just great.” Clay scowled. “Get
the governor on the phone.”

“Clay.” Mica spoke gently from where she’d
gone to stand by the window that overlooked Delaware Avenue. “You
can’t afford to antagonize him again about this. He likes Bailey
O’Neil.”

“The only reason that woman has his ear is
because she helped his niece when the girl was being lured into
that gang.”

Clay saw Mica and Thorn exchange frowns this
time.

“Okay, okay, I know. She’s done some good.
She’s saved some kids. But she broke the law to do it once that we
know about, and God knows how many times she’s broken it since
then. She should be brought up on negative misprision.” Not
reporting a crime when a person knows one has been committed was
illegal.

“You already sent her to jail once.” This
from Thorn.

“I don’t like your semantics. I
didn’t
send
her to jail. She
went to prison for Accessory After the Fact. For a crime against
the United States of America.” He cocked his head. “If I’d needed
vindication, which I don’t think I did, the kid she harbored was
found guilty of the murder.”

“The whole thing only made her a martyr.
Groups fought to get her out early. Even the former governor was
torn.” Thorn paused. “Look Clay, you’ve got to get a handle on this
public feud with O’Neil. We can’t let that old case endanger your
chances of reelection. And of being considered for the vice
presidential nomination.”

“That’s over a year away.”

“Close enough to watch everything you do now.
In any case, your feud with O’Neil was negative publicity eleven
years ago, which you overcame by concentrating on what you’d done
to stop youth gangs as well as other juvenile crimes as a D.A. Then
we effectively buried it in the last election. You can’t let the
case resurface and get out of hand for the next one. You’ve got to
make peace with Bailey O’Neil now.”

“Hell, it’d be easier to sell her the
Brooklyn Bridge.”

“I think we should set up a meeting with her.
Better, you should call her. Ask nicely for one.”

He struggled to be rational. “When am I due
back in New York?”

Whipping out his Palm Pilot, Thorn clicked
into Clay’s schedule. “Thursday. You have a late meeting with
Homeland Security on Wednesday afternoon so you can fly out at
dinnertime.” He fiddled with some buttons. “You have a window of
time that morning before you do the ribbon cutting for the women’s
shelter. I could have Bob set up a breakfast.”