Shameless

By William Bernhardt

When her shocking new case hits too close to home, can Kenzi prevent a miscarriage of justice?

Kenzi Rivera wants her day in the sun. Now the highest-earning name at her father's firm, the spitfire attorney is furious her brother was chosen to manage the practice. But she steps up anyway to handle her dad's mes

• Language: English
• Publisher: Babylon Books
• Release date: Mar 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781954871373

William Bernhardt

William Bernhardt (b. 1960), a former attorney, is a bestselling thriller author. Born in Oklahoma, he began writing as a child, submitting a poem about the Oklahoma Land Run to Highlights—and receiving his first rejection letter—when he was eleven years old. Twenty years later, he had his first success, with the publication of Primary Justice (1991), the first novel in the long-running Ben Kincaid series. The success of Primary Justice marked Bernhardt as a promising young talent, and he followed the book with seventeen more mysteries starring the idealistic defense attorney, including Murder One (2001) and Hate Crime (2004). Bernhardt’s other novels include Double Jeopardy (1995) and The Midnight Before Christmas (1998), a holiday-themed thriller. In 1999, Bernhardt founded Bernhardt Books (formerly HAWK Publishing Group) as a way to help boost the careers of struggling young writers. In addition to writing and publishing, Bernhardt teaches writing workshops around the country. He currently lives with his family in Oklahoma. 

Book preview

1

Sandy gazed into the mirror on the wall. His image stared back at him, accusing, glaring, challenging him to explain how he’d made such a mess of his life. Was that him or his evil twin, a doppelganger he could no longer control? His life seemed defined by doubles—double life, double-crosses. But, he tried to convince himself, if he just doubled down on this operation—double time—he might survive. One more day.

Maybe he should change his name to Gemini. Given his current situation—double trouble? double jeopardy?—he should change his name to Tantalus. No torture could exceed the pain he experienced now. Except perhaps what lay ahead if this sting failed to deliver its venom.

His heart hammered as if he were dangling off the edge of a cliff. Prometheus, then? Sisyphus? He was hanging by a single finger and if he screwed this up, he could face his final plummet. He had to get the job done and he needed her help to do it. But she was not cooperating. If he couldn’t get her in that chair, he would have to resort to…whatever was necessary. Otherwise, he was dead. Charon. Hades. Or worse than dead. Given who he had breathing down his neck, worse than dead was an all-too-real possibility. He’d studied mythology extensively during his school days because he loved it—not because he expected his life to become a reflection of it. Another hero missing his highest and best potential, felled by hubris.

He took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around her, hoping she wouldn’t notice that his hands were trembling. You really turn me on, baby. He nibbled her neck.

She hovered over the stove. I’m busy.

C’mon. You know you want to.

She reacted with a simultaneous eye roll and pursed lip. I don’t know that at all. She had two pots on the stovetop, one cooking the spaghetti, the other warming the marinara. I told you, I’m busy.

Dinner can wait.

It really can’t. The sauce will burn.

Turn off the heat.

She slapped her hands down on the kitchen counter. Cool your jets, okay? I’m in the middle of something.

It can wait. He pulled her tight against him. His hands started roaming.

She blew dark hair out of her eyes. She still held a wooden spatula, which made it hard to deflect his advances. Have you not heard a word I’ve said?

My brain isn’t working, honey. Another part has taken control.

You need to improve your listening skills.

Your body is talking. And I hear it loud and clear.

Are you for real? Do you hear words of consent? Because there haven’t been any. She whirled around and shoved him back. What is it with you lately, anyway? You never get enough.

He grinned. That’s ’cause my sweet-assed babe is such a hottie.

Is that supposed to flatter me? Because it doesn’t.

This was not going the way he wanted. The way he needed. He didn’t have the option of playing the sensitive male who put her desires first. And he didn’t have the option of waiting. She might get tired. She might go out on a job. She might decide she needed to conserve her energy. Seems like you don’t mind it too much once we get started.

She shook her head, eyes closed. What women do to stroke male egos. She waved the spatula at him. Just let me finish dinner. Then…maybe.

He grabbed her hand. I need it now, baby. I can’t hang around here forever.

I get it. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, and you’re out on the street. Maybe visiting the next woman on your list.

It isn’t like that. I want you.

She turned back to the stove. Fine. Have at it. You can thrust while I cook.

It’s gotta be over there. In the chair.

Why? I can multitask.

It’s best in the chair. You sitting in my lap, totally in control. Hot as hell.

I’m plenty hot cooking, too, she said, slicing the mushrooms.

I do love watching that perfect butt of yours wiggle. He placed his hands on her hips. You have the tiniest waist. Compact little body. Not an ounce of fat on you. Fantastic package. Especially from behind.

Especially from behind? Like, you prefer it when you can’t see my face?

Why was this going so wrong? He was saying and doing everything that had worked in the past. But when he really needed it, nothing seemed to please this cut-rate Helen of Troy.

He caught another glance of himself in the mirror. Five foot ten, bearded, barely a wrinkle. Still young. He should be building, not crumbling. He should have a stable life with a home and a business with actual clients. He was well past thirty and what did he have to show for it? No fortune, no friends, just a random assortment of losers sporting the mythological nicknames he gave them. And all his sins closing in on him.

How did this happen? How did everything go so wrong?

And what would be the inevitable climax? Would there be a deus ex machina? Or a final fall from grace?

You’re not listening to me, she said, her shrill voice recalling him from his reverie. You’re using me.

Doesn’t everyone?

I’m sick of it. Totally, completely sick of it.

He stepped forward, pinning her against the stove. Stop resisting.

No, for once, you listen to me. You—

He clapped his hands over his ears. I don’t have the time or inclination.

She stepped around him, freeing herself. Stop shutting me out. You need to treat me like a human being, not your personal puppet.

I don’t want to hear this!

You’re gonna hear it, like it or not. You—

"Shut up! Shut. Up!" Without even thinking about it, he thrust his elbows back—and hit something solid. Followed by a sickening crunching sound.

He spun around. She clutched her nose with both hands. Blood streamed from her nostrils, trickling through her fingers.

She stared at him, unblinking. Stunned.

Oh my God. Oh my God. He reached out, horrified. Honey, I didn’t mean—I—I—

She pushed her hands between them, backing away. Her nose, still bleeding, looked as if it had been flattened.

Baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Let me help.

She tried to speak, blood slicking her mouth and chin. Stay…away from me. She reached for the phone in her pocket. I’m calling the police.

Don’t do that. He took a tentative step forward. You can’t do that.

Watch me. Her eyes seemed to have trouble focusing. She fumbled with her phone, unable to unlock the screen.

Honey? Are you okay?

Her knees buckled. She reached toward the nearest wall for support, but instead hit a shelf loaded with his souvenir beer cans. All at once, the cans came crashing down. She frantically flailed, trying unsuccessfully to grab something for support. She lost her balance and tumbled backward. The back of her head hit the wall.

She cried out in pain. Her eyelids fluttered.

Did she have a concussion? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t think he’d hit her that hard, but she seemed barely conscious. Sweetie? Damn, damn, damn. He didn’t need this. And he definitely could not afford to be hauled off by the police.

She recovered, at least a little. She brought her phone back to eye level. Be…quiet. She punched the screen and this time managed to get to the phone app.

He’d tried to be patient, but this was her fault. First she wouldn’t cooperate. Then she wanted to turn an accident into a prison sentence. With his record, even a minor arrest could take him off the streets for the rest of his life.

Look, just rest for a moment, okay? I’ll get something to stop the bleeding. Sit in the recliner.

She managed to stumble to her feet but still wobbled, lurching with each step. She made it to the chair, but as soon as she was situated, dialed 911.

"What is the nature of your emergency?"

I told you not to do that! he bellowed. He jerked her up by her hair, ripping strands out by the roots. Once she was more or less upright, he punched her hard in the stomach. She buckled over like she’d been hit by a speeding car. The phone clattered to the floor. She raised her hands, trying to fend off the next blow.

Why wouldn’t you listen to me?

His mind raced. What now? She’d become a liability. But if not her, who? It would take so long to set everything up again. And time was one thing he did not have much of…

To his surprise, she started limping toward the kitchen. He didn’t know what to do, but he couldn’t let her escape. He grabbed her again by the hair, yanking back hard. He swung her around and she slammed into the wall face first. Her nose bled even more. She staggered like a top at the end of its spin, wobbling out of control.

She’d been beaten before. He knew that. She could take a punch. But maybe not like this. He was bigger than her and much stronger. He could do anything he wanted.

He never wanted this! But he could feel his options draining away…

Double trouble. double jeopardy, double exposure.

Double whammy.

You can’t leave it like this, he told himself. You have to finish the job.

She clutched her stomach. Had he broken her rib? She started crawling toward the door, so he kicked her. Hard. He felt the crunch. Something bad was happening in there…

He squatted down to her level. Her eyes seemed glazed as if she were barely there.

He gripped her tightly, one hand around her neck. She tried to squirm but didn’t have the strength. He pinned her down on her back. He leaned in, putting his full weight on her throat, pinching off the airway. She raised her hands, trying to push him away. He ended that with another punch to the gut.

He closed his eyes and squeezed. In just a few moments, it would be over…

Or so he thought. He was completely unprepared when her fist hammered between the legs.

The blow electrified him. His eyes ballooned. His groin burned and sharp daggers of pain raced up and down his body.

Before he fully understood what had happened, she’d squirmed out of his grasp.

Had she been faking? Misleading him? Making him overconfident?

If she got outside, into the hallway, someone might hear.

He pushed to his feet just in time to feel her fingernails scrape his face.

He screamed. His hand went to his cheek. Blood bubbled to the surface. He wiped it away but still felt the stickiness between his fingers.

Damn. This girl could fight.

Son of a bitch! she gasped. Did you think you were going to knock me out, then have your way with me? Then kill me? You’ve got another think coming.

She wasn’t going for the door. She was going for the kitchen knives. The wood block beside the oven held five big ones. She grabbed the largest and pointed it at him.

Serrated blade. Slightly bent, but that wouldn’t make it any less effective.

She crouched like a tiger, a fierce expression on her blood-streaked face. You’re not the first man to lay a hand on me. There was an unmistakable growl in her voice. But you’re gonna be the last.

2

Kenzi peered at the man on the witness stand. She didn’t delude herself into thinking her steely gaze would make him come clean…but then again, it never hurt to try.

Kenzi typically practiced in family court, where witnesses tended to be nervous and unaccustomed to being grilled by lawyers. But today she was in civil court representing the plaintiff in a suit alleging breach of contract, medical malpractice, and intentional infliction of emotional distress. The judge was hearing a pretrial discovery motion, and the man in the witness chair was Emil Anderson, CEO of the Washington State Center for Reproductive Wellbeing which, despite its altruistic name, was a large and prosperous for-profit health-care corporation.

Do you know the plaintiff? Kenzi asked.

Anderson sat up straight, a bit stiff. He kept blinking, as if something were in his eye, or a contact lens was about to slip. She knew from the company's annual report that he was over forty, but he looked at least a decade younger. I do. Julia and her husband came to my office seeking help conceiving a child.

Why did she come to you?

Their prior efforts had been unsuccessful. They wanted to try in-vitro fertilization.

Could you please explain to the court what that is? Just in case there’s some uncertainty about it.

Anderson pivoted around to face Judge Dugoni. The judge’s facial expression suggested he already knew everything there was to know, but experience had taught Kenzi that it never hurt to make sure. Dugoni was a relatively new appointee and probably had been assigned a slew of unwanted administrative duties. Sometimes even the most experienced judges didn’t have time to do as much prep as they would like.

Of course, Anderson replied. In-vitro fertilization is a complex, lengthy process in which an egg is extracted from a woman, fertilized in the clinic, then implanted in the woman’s uterus.

Does this always result in a pregnancy?

Not always. We have an eighty-percent success rate. Julia had to undergo extensive hormone treatments so she could produce multiple eggs.

But she did get pregnant, right? Julia Battersby was Kenzi’s client, the fair-haired woman sitting at the plaintiff’s table beside her husband with a pained expression on her face. Every time Kenzi looked at her, she wanted to cry. Pregnancy was supposed to be a blessed event. For Julia, it had been nothing but misery.

She did. And she delivered a child. Just as she dreamed of doing.

You’re aware that there were…subsequent problems?

That’s why we’re here. But we very much dispute the plaintiff’s claims. Anderson inhaled deeply, a signal that he was about to become expansive. Pregnancy is a stressful time when many new hormones rage through a woman’s body. Sometimes the woman’s behavior is not entirely rational, whether you’re talking about something as simple as late-night cravings or something more serious like postpartum depression. I believe Julia is experiencing what is called dissociation. A feeling that she lacks a connection to her newborn.

You realize it’s been over six months since the baby was born.

I do. These conditions do not clear up overnight.

Or ever, in the present case. We’re here today because you’ve resisted our request for records pertaining to other embryos you implanted at or about the same time as my client’s procedure. Why won’t you produce the documents?

I can’t. Anderson spread his hands wide. We owe a duty of confidentiality to our clients. That’s part of the written contract we sign. I have no problem producing documents pertaining to your client’s case, but we absolutely cannot produce records relating to others. These are delicate, sensitive, private matters. Records are sealed and restricted for a good reason. No one wants strangers poking into their private matters. And we’re bound by HIPPA regulations.

Wouldn’t you agree that my client has a good reason for asking?

I do not. I mean no disrespect…but Julia doesn’t need our private records. She needs counseling. Therapy.

Even though she believes the baby you gave her is not her own?

As I said before. Dissociation.

Kenzi frowned. She wasn’t going to get anywhere with Mr. Spock. He resisted all attempts to inject human emotion into the matter. Better to put someone on the stand who would acknowledge that bringing babies into the world was an emotional experience, not a cold business transaction.

She tugged at the bottom of her Alexander McCourt gabardine double-breasted jacket. She’d accessorized with a rose-red scarf and matching hair pin to add a splash of color. She was barely five-feet-five and sometimes felt she had to be loud to be noticed.

Would Judge Dugoni see the case the way she did? She ran her hands through her side shave, flipping the top hair to the left. Probably best not to overthink this. She had a plan. Stick with it.

She sidled beside her client and whispered, Ready to take the stand?

Julia looked if she would prefer almost anything else in the world, but she nodded. She was in her early thirties, slender, obviously distraught. Her husband, Carl, had one arm around her. He was almost as fair-haired and fair-skinned as she was. They could easily have passed for a Nordic couple. I’ll do whatever it takes.

Great. Kenzi ended her direct examination. No cross from the opposition. The judge directed her to call her next witness.

Julia Battersby. I believe she will be our last witness.

Judge Dugoni nodded. He obviously approved of the suggestion that this hearing would be over soon.

Julia took the stand and Kenzi walked her through her story. At trial, she would go into this in far more detail. But for a discovery motion, an expedited treatment was sufficient. There was no jury to sway.

Although it never hurt to remind the judge that there were human beings trapped in this legal conundrum…

About nine months after the implantation of the embryo, you gave birth, correct?

I did.

Any complications?

Nothing significant. The baby was born naturally.

Boy or girl?

Girl. We named her Ellie.

Kenzi took a step closer. Why are we here? What was the problem?

The problem was… Julia hesitated, licking her lips. My husband and I were…shocked. I remember seeing him step away from the birthing table. I expected him to rush forward, anxious to hold his child in his arms. But that wasn’t what happened.

What did he see?

He saw the baby’s jet-black hair, for starters. Far darker than his. Or mine. Or anyone in our family.

But those things happen, right? DNA is complex and—

It was more than just hair color. Ellie’s skin tone doesn’t resemble ours. I remember hearing Carl gasp, ‘She’s Asian.’ He doesn’t have a bigoted bone in his body, but he wasn’t expecting this. The baby looked nothing like either of us. Carl has a daughter by a previous marriage. And Ellie looked nothing like her.

How did this make you feel?

Objection. Brent Ellery, opposing counsel, rose. He was a graying man in his mid-fifties who’d made a career of defending doctors and hospitals. This is a factual inquiry. The plaintiff’s emotions are not relevant.

Kenzi responded. I totally disagree. It’s not possible to talk about something as sensitive as children and childbirth without touching on emotions. We’re not robots. And frankly, the defendant knows this. These fertility clinics would not be so profitable but for human emotions.

Judge Dugoni nodded. I’m going to allow it.

Julia answered the question. It made me feel terrible. Like somehow, even after all the extraordinary measures we took to become pregnant, I’d still wasn’t a real mommy. We’ve raised Ellie and I love her—but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. And it was my fault.

Did that worry you?

Of course it did. Carl was convinced the clinic made some kind of mistake. But if Ellie wasn’t my child…whose child was she? Julia’s voice choked. If I had someone else’s child…who had mine?

What did you do?

At first, nothing. I didn’t know what to do. There was no question of babies being switched in the nursery. I gave birth to her. I was fully awake and aware during the delivery. I contacted the clinic, but they insisted that no error had been made and babies don’t always come out looking like clones of their parents. That’s an exact quote. Clones. I asked for records pertaining to other births at the same time and they refused. She wiped her eyes. This was supposed to be the happiest moment of my life. But it turned into an enduring misery.

What did you do next?

Some time passed. I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I hoped that if I just rode it out, things would change. But of course, that didn’t happen. We couldn’t afford a laboratory DNA analysis, so I bought one of those test kits you can get online.

And?

The lab report was hard to follow. It said the results were ‘strange.’ But one thing was absolutely clear. Carl and I were not Ellie’s biological parents.

Your honor, I’d like to offer the DNA report as Exhibit Six. Kenzi distributed a document to the judge and opposing counsel. She returned her attention to Julia. I’m sure the defendant will claim those online tests are not one hundred percent accurate.

Maybe not. But to Carl and me, this was confirmation of what we already believed. This child was not ours. So I contacted a lawyer. You. She made a small smile. I knew about you from your Twitter livestreams. I thought you’d be sympathetic to a woman in an impossible situation. And I was right.

That’s why we filed this action. And in the meantime?

We’ve been raising Ellie, trying to be the best parents we can possibly be. But I can’t stop wondering where my child is. Carl and I are not rich. We spent almost everything we had to get this baby. We can’t afford to do it again. She leaned forward, her eyes pleading. I want to know what happened to my child!

Of course you do, Kenzi said quietly. And you believe the fertility clinic has the answers?

They obviously switched up the embryos somewhere in the process. Small wonder they’re stonewalling us. They don’t want word of this titanic screw-up to get out. But I have the right to know what happened. Let us see the records. There can only have been a few babies born during the same period. DNA tests could easily determine which one belongs to Carl and me.

Kenzi turned to Judge Dugoni. That’s all we’re asking, your honor. Please grant our discovery motion. Make this clinic produce the relevant records so we can learn the truth.

To which we object, Ellery said, a weary tone to his voice. We’ve submitted our brief. This is simple postpartum depression and dissociation. If every mother who doesn’t feel a connection to her child has the right to invade the clinic’s records, our promises of confidentiality are meaningless. Imagine if a mother came along and wanted to use this excuse to invade attorney-client privilege. I suspect the court would not be sympathetic.

Judge Dugoni stared into the distance, batting his lips with a finger. You’re probably right about that.

Kenzi jumped in. "But that’s not what this motion is, your honor. This isn’t even a case of doctor-patient privilege. This is a wealthy health-care