Jury of One by David Ellis Page B

nice piece of ass, you know that, Shelly?”
    Shelly shut her eyes, gasped for air with a mouthful of gun.
    “You wearing a bra under there, Shelly?” The man touched her breast, fondled it, one then the other. “No, of course not. You were asleep. Yeah, it’s too bad we don’t have more time tonight. Maybe you could put on a little show for us.”
    Shelly squeezed her eyes shut but kept still. She thought the words with a calm that surprised her.
Not again.
They would have to kill her first.
    “Aw, she’d probably put up a fight,” said the one behind her. “Just for show. Before long, she’d have her legs wide apart. Isn’t that right, Shelly?”
    “Maybe next time,” said the one in front. “Maybe, things don’t work out here, we’ll bring back three or four others. We’ll take turns on little Shelly.”
    “Yeah, but you know what happens then.”
    They both laughed.
    The second man moved his face next to Shelly’s. “She’ll cry rape again.”
    Shelly felt faint, could hardly keep her balance. They were telling her they were cops, had pulled her file, knew all about her. They wanted her to know.
    The man in front moved even closer, so that his mask almost touched Shelly’s nose. “If we hear a single bad word about Ray Miroballi, you both die. We’ll find Baniewicz, in or out of jail. And we’ll find you. We’ll make it hurt, Counselor. You know how the Cans do it, right?”
    She did know. The Columbus Street Cannibals killed rival gang members by cutting off a limb and letting them bleed to death.
    “You keep your mouth shut about this visit, and Baniewicz pleads guilty.” The gun moved against the base of her throat. “Or there’s nowhere either of you can hide.”
    The gun at her temple moved against her ear, then around to the back of her neck, never leaving her skull. Then she felthands on her shirt, her hair, and she was turned violently and hurled across the room. She could fight, yes, but she was small, maybe a hundred and ten pounds at best, and the force sent her face-first into the carpet.
    She did a quick inventory, with her chin dug into the carpet. No broken bones, maybe a scrape or two at most. If they came at her from this position, she had several options, most of them below the belt. Some would maim. Some would hurt like hell.
    But they weren’t coming at her. They were done.
    “Yeah, really not a bad piece of ass,” one said to the other.
    She heard laughter, then movement, a door closing gently behind her. She tried to scream but, once again, she couldn’t.

14
Birthday
    I T WOULD HAVE been a terrible day, anyway. The nineteenth of February. A day off for Shelly usually, every year. A
personal day.
    She hadn’t slept after the visit from the intruders. She had called the police and spoken with officers when they arrived, saying nothing of her very real suspicion that it was police officers who had paid her a visit. Her point had simply been to show them—if they were still watching—that she wasn’t afraid to call the authorities. If the burglars were cops, they would be checking the report that was filed. She wanted them to know.
    She had to see Alex, as she had every day, first thing in the morning before going to work. She didn’t want to shower, didn’t want to move her eyes off the front door. So she had bathed in the kitchen, taking a bar of soap and running it over her underarms and chest, drying with a towel. She hadn’t washed her hair but pulled it back sharply and pinned it. She could only imagine the impression she made.
    She watched the clock as it hit seven-thirty. She inhaled and closed her eyes. On her kitchen table, she lit the sole candle and stared into its flame. She did the same thing she did every year on this day, asked for forgiveness and redemption.
    God, of all days.
    She drove to the detention center and raced to the check-in. “Michelle Trotter,” she said, “here to see my client, Alex Baniewicz.” She looked at the clock. It was