Guilty as Sin Read Online Free PDF Page A

me from the neighbor's yard. Understandably frightened, I stepped back into the garage with the intent of going into the house to call the police. Then the door flew open and Mitch Holt tackled me."
     
    Cameron leaned forward, his forearms braced on the table, his blue eyes bright. "You thought you heard gunshots in your backyard, so you stepped outside? That seems odd, Dr. Wright. I think that would be the last thing I'd do. Weren't you afraid of being shot?"
     
    "People don't get shot in Deer Lake ," Wright scoffed. "I thought it was probably some kids fooling around in Quarry Hills Park , shooting at rabbits or something."
     
    "At night, during a blizzard?"
     
    The muscles around his mouth tightened ever so slightly as he regarded Cameron Reed.
     
    "The man Mitch Holt chased through the woods was dressed in black," Ellen said. "When apprehended, you were dressed in black, breathing hard, perspiring even."
     
    "If Mitch Holt burst into your garage and tackled you, you'd be breathing hard and sweating, too," Dennis said, jumping back into the fray with halfhearted sarcasm. He dropped back down into his chair and crossed his arms. "Mitch Holt never saw the face of the man he was chasing. Agent O'Malley never saw the face of the man who tortured her. I'm told the suspect was wearing a ski mask. My client was not wearing a ski mask when he was tackled."
     
    "But a ski mask was found in the woods along the trail," Ellen reminded him.
     
    "What about the gun?" Enberg challenged. "The paraffin test taken Saturday night revealed no traces of gunpowder on my client's hands."
     
    "People generally wear gloves in the winter," Cameron offered with his own twist of sarcasm.
     
    Denny shrugged dramatically. "So where are they?"
     
    "Disposed of during the chase, like the hat," Ellen said. "They'll be found."
     
    "Until they are, and until you can prove they were on my client's hands, they don't exist."
     
    "You can pretend they don't exist, Dennis," she said. "The same way you can pretend your client is innocent. Your denial won't change the fact that he's as guilty as sin and, barring new developments, will be going away for the rest of his life with no hope of ever setting foot outside the walls of a prison."
     
    She turned her attention back to Garrett Wright as she gathered her notes. "As for your story, Doctor, I've seen sieves with fewer holes. I suggest you do some hard thinking tonight. Though I won't make promises, I think it's safe to say the county attorney's office would view this situation in a kinder light if you were to tell the truth."
     
    "Is it really the truth you want, Ms. North?" he asked quietly. "Or is it another conviction for your record? It's no secret you're a very ambitious lady."
     
    "It's always news to me." Ellen snapped her briefcase shut and rose, giving him a look as cold as steel. "What I want, Dr. Wright, is justice. And make no mistake—I'll get it."
     
    Denny Enberg watched the pair of prosecutors leave, a sick heaviness resting like a stone in the pit of his stomach. Whether it was the prospect of losing the forthcoming battle or the idea of fighting this fight at all that made him nauseous, he didn't know. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
     
    He could feel the weight of his client's gaze on him and felt compelled to dredge up some scrap of wit.
     
    "You always know where Ellen stands on a case," he said, busying himself scooping his notes together. "Just to the right of your jugular." "Do you think I'm guilty, Dennis?" Wright asked. Color touched Enberg's cheekbones. "I'm your attorney, Garrett. I told you up front, the only thing T ask is that you don't lie to me. You agreed. If you tell me you're innocent, you're innocent. I'll do everything I can to make the court believe it, too."
     
    The jailer came in then, granite-faced, and led Garrett Wright through the door to the cell block. Denny watched him go, listened to the rattle of the leg irons, that weight in his gut growing