“He was such a nice boy,” Mom observes. Was he? Am I? Is anyone? Maybe once upon a time, but the detours of life divert a person in a direction he never intends to go. Sam is dead, and Lara apparently wants me to kill Barton. I should get in my car and head west. Americans have always gone west to pursue a new world. I should drive west and forever forget this sordid business. The world is dirty, and I cannot make it clean. But the current of fate is too strong. I drive north to Atlanta, back to the city that is now my home. The fatalist in me needs to see the story through. I have no attic in the city in which to slip away—no place to call all my own.
Staring out my office window at the fading afternoon sun, a wave of loneliness sinks my mood. The sad reality is that I have nothing to do and no place to go. I’m ready for the trial. The work I could manufacture requires conferencing with Ella, and that’s a non-starter. The condo means the tempest of Lara. The thought of home fares no better. I live in a museum filled with ghosts, and I feel like a stranger to its history. I consider a hotel. Instead I just sit. A wandering mind has no peace, and mine is no different. Trying not to think about anything leads to a torrent of random, unsequenced thoughts more fitting in a dream. I think of Otis Redding—another Georgia boy from the country. My father did legal work for him long before I was born. The possibility
of leaving my home in Georgia to sit on a dock of a bay 2,000 miles from here is tempting. Otis died in a plane crash three days after recording that song. He was 26. I try to recapture all the lyrics, but lose the thread somewhere before thinking about the next thing—the Battle of Antietam. Over twenty-two thousand Yankee and Rebel casualties of war in a single day. For what? The world is mad. The mind eventually settles on Erin Riggs—the first girl I ever kissed. Friday night. The football game. Underneath the bleachers. A cool fall night. Awkward. Clumsy. Amazing. She moved away the following spring, and I moped around town for a full two weeks. Never saw her again. I swivel toward my computer and search her out for a good thirty minutes, happy to have something to do. The hunt grows cold. She probably got married, changed her name. Would I even recognize her? Maybe she was on one of my juries along the way. Whatever she looks like now, the vision of her that night materializes before me as if she were in the room right now. Erin Riggs. Then I think of Sydney. I pick up the phone and call Chad Dallas. We go to the same church, except I don’t go anymore. As soon as he answers, regret at my impulsive action descends like a paratrooper. What am I doing? “Haven’t seen you in awhile,” he says. Chad is one of the most rock-solid Christians I know, and this comment is his gentle way of chiding me for abandoning church. “I know. Been busy.” “Uh-huh.” “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I was wondering if I could see Sydney.” “Right now?” “If that works for you.” “I don’t see why not.” I look at the phone accusingly as if it tricked me into making the call. The mind’s leap from Otis Redding to Erin Riggs to Sydney to reaching out to Chad happened with astounding swiftness. I head to my car questioning my every action. Work has been my crutch for so long that in its absence I’ve become unreliable in how I fill the void. Maybe that’s how Lara ended up in my lap. Having reached the limits of my physical endurance by working non-stop, I longed for another distraction. Now I’ve had my fill of her. Tonight it’s Sydney’s turn to aid and abet my war against emptiness. The drive over changes the feeling of uncertainty into one of anticipation. I haven’t seen Sydney in over two years. Will she even recognize me? As I park on the street, the thought that she might not remember freezes me in place. Experiencing that rejection would hurt. I get out of the car, put on a mask of happiness, and head to the house with slow steps. Chad greets me at the door, offers a hug, and says, “How are you, brother? We miss you at church.” “Been busy. Murder never sleeps.” “They’ll still be dead Monday morning, you know.” Chad’s gift is an ability to say seemingly innocuous things that nevertheless convey hard truths. The dead will still be dead no matter what I do, and using my job to avoid every other part of my life is a poor excuse for living. Chad’s wife, Olivia, joins us in the entryway. More small talk follows, and I fake friendly patience. At last, Chad calls out for Sydney. On cue, the sound of footsteps coming from the basement answers in obedience. Sydney enters the room and stops for a second before bounding toward me with unleashed enthusiasm. She remembers. Her meaty paws jump up at me, and I bend down to let her lick my face. When I kneel to get more on her level, she knocks me down in her excitement. Amber and I adopted Sydney as a rescue border collie and boxer mix shortly after we got married. We had just returned from our two-week honeymoon in Australia and named her after our new favorite city in the world. The trip was incredible—experiencing New Year’s Eve at the Opera House with a million other people, climbing to the top of Sydney Harbour Bridge, the revealing bikini Amber wore on Bondi Beach. On the flight back to the States, I looked at my sleeping wife and knew that God had given me a woman I did not deserve. Then we got a puppy. Sydney’s excitement at seeing me has yet to abate. I can’t help smiling in effortless joy at the spastic display of her devotion. I’ve watched touching videos of soldiers returning from war to reunite with their ever-loyal canine friends. Now I’m living out my own heart-tugging moment. The pureness of Sydney’s love humbles me. I gave her away after the murders because the pain was too much. She invoked too many memories—memories that I was too mentally weak to handle. Every time I looked at Sydney, I saw Amber and Cale. So I turned the page and found Sydney a happy home, convinced that I was doing the right thing. Chad, Olivia, and I make some obligatory small talk as required by the customs of the South. Chad brings up the trial next week, and I respond, “I pray that justice is done.” Olivia asks if I’ve met Lara Landrum. Et tu, Brutus? I never took her for the starstruck type. Yes, Olivia, I’ve met Lara Landrum, and I could tell you some things that would burn your ears off. I leave that last part out. Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I say my good-byes and give my ex-dog a parting hug. Chad encourages me not to be a stranger and even means it. But I am a stranger to everyone, most of all myself. The joy I felt moments ago gives way to deep sadness, and the night air judges me as I walk to the car. Reaching my door, I turn back toward the house and see Sydney staring at me through the window. I wave farewell to her and slump down in the driver’s seat. Giving away that dog is the single worst thing I’ve ever done in my life. I worried coming over here that she wouldn’t remember me. But her unbridled happiness at seeing me again hurts much more. Sydney doesn’t care that I gave her away. She doesn’t care that I haven’t visited her in two years. She doesn’t care about any of my faults. She loves me just as I am. And during the one time I needed unconditional love more than at any other moment of my existence, I gave it away. The buoyant man who held Amber under the December summer sky of Australia would never have exiled Sydney from his life. I hate myself. I turn again to the house, hoping to see Sydney still manning her post. But she is gone, and I am alone. The tears burst forth like a pent-up tsunami, sending me into convulsive heaves. I never cried when Amber and Cale died. I got the shakes and the chills. I vomited. I suffered in silent anguish. But I never cried. I couldn’t. The tears just wouldn’t come. Now I sit in a car on a street bawling over a dog. The release doesn’t make me feel better, only worse. I still hate myself.
~~~
Perhaps it's because I'm so disturbed by the lack of Law and Order at this time, that I've purposely sought out legal thrillers. I enjoy reading about or seeing court cases--which goes way back to when Perry Mason was a great television show... I still watch his shows if they are not reruns... In fact, Della Street might have been one of the reasons I chose to start working as a secretary...LOL
Chance Meridian, as the Deputy District Attorney for all murders was a busy man. But the position had soured for me when his wife and son were murdered and the case became cold. Worse, he blamed himself and his position, as the possible reason of their deaths. There was no way that a normal mourning period would suffice, even though he ultimately did go back to his job... But his Faith had been badly affected.
And the next call to come to the scene of another faced him again... But he wasn't expecting to recognize the woman who was killed. In fact, Chance asked if that was her... Lara Landrum was a major movie star... her twin Sara Barton was the woman who was on her back on the floor with a bullet in her chest, blood all over her body and her face so like Lara that it was impossible not to wonder whether this was the real Sara Barton... She was married to Bernard Barton, another lawyer. Interestingly she had been found by her divorce lawyer...
Before Scott and I even say another word, Sam launches into defense mode. “I know it looks bad. What lawyer visits a client’s house this late? But Sara wanted to file her divorce papers tomorrow morning, and she had to sign the verification to the complaint before we could file. She didn’t like meeting at the office, so she told me to come over at ten. I wouldn’t normally do that for a client, but there is a lot of money to be made on this case. Or there was. Now she’s dead. I can’t believe it.” Scott and I look at each other then turn back to Sam. He leaks nervousness. I tell myself that if I were innocent and in his spot, then maybe I would be filled with anxiety, too. But something about him still smells off. Sam gives me a peculiar look, and alarm bells clamor. A memory stored in an unused warehouse of my brain stirs from the distant past. Something significant just happened, but I have no idea what. Sam launches into another monologue. “I knew I shouldn’t have come over here. I should’ve insisted that she drop by my office. I didn’t want to come. I told her. I asked about her husband. She said he had to work and would not be back until after midnight, if at all. She was persistent like that, and I came over against my better judgment. The client is always right and all that. I rang the doorbell. No answer. I knocked. No answer. I tried the door. It was unlocked. I walked in, said hello, anybody here. Everything’s quiet. I went to the kitchen and there she was. Lying on the floor. It was awful. I cannot believe this is happening to me.” He pauses before adding, “I didn’t kill her.” Scott gives Sam a disbelieving look, and Sam wilts in the glare. Giving up on Scott, he turns toward me on the verge of tears. “You gotta believe me. I didn’t kill her.” Sam is embarrassing himself at this point. A lawyer should never ramble. Scott and I have yet to ask him a single question, and still he cannot shut up. Our silent treatment is by design. Most witnesses become uncomfortable with the quiet and rush to fill the void. Talking takes the place of the silence that judges them. Sam complains, “Are you guys going to say anything? I’m in the hot seat here.” Scott and I continue our quiet vigil. Sam pivots to Scott and then back my way, his anxious eyes begging me to speak...
“Sam, I want to help you, but I cannot help someone who refuses to help himself. You can’t lie to the police without repercussions. You’re part of a murder investigation. There’s a dead body in the kitchen. The good news is that Scott and I are close friends. I can fix what has happened in this room up to this point. You can start over fresh. Clean slate. But the truth needs to start coming out of your mouth. Now.” Without even looking at me, he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Becky Johnson.” The name confuses him for a moment. Then our eyes register mutual understanding, and he accepts my accusation without challenge. But I still need to hear the truth from his own lips. I emphasize, “I swear to God that if you lie to me now, I will prosecute you for obstruction of justice myself.” Sam straightens up and nods. Fear gives way to resignation. He asks, “Does Liesa have to know?”
~~~
And, of course, soon her sister arrives in town and all around, news reps began to be more and more involved as the investigation continues, and on into the trial... Hersister wanted to see the police so that she could tell them that her husband, Bernard, had killed her sister! She went on to say that Sara planned to divorce him--he was so controlling that she could not deal with it anymore...
Before we leave, Lara texts each of us the picture of her sister’s blackened back after Barton hit her. The photo speaks for itself. Barton didn’t hold back. I hate him already.
Sara screams into the phone, “My husband is trying to kill me!” I hear loud banging on a door as Barton tries to get into the room. Sara pleads, “He has already hit me. Please hurry.” The final sounds on the call tell the story without words—more thunderous banging on the door, yelling, a woman crying. The line goes dead. The call is chilling but evidentiary gold. I ask why Barton wasn’t arrested. The story is familiar. By the time the officer arrived, things had settled down. Both Barton and Sara were calm, and Sara did not want to press charges. No outward signs of physical abuse were present, which makes sense since Sara’s bruises were on her back. The officer departed, filled out his incident report, and left Barton and Sara alone to resume their dysfunctional lives. Scott announces, “Bernard Barton speaks to my policeman’s gut.” “The current does seem to be pushing that way.”
~~~
As the book moves forward, I began to see hints of the dialogue for which Robert B. Parker was known for in his Spenser series... It was a pleasure to read another writer with the skill to present tense, fast-paced words; but at the same time, writing about being in a courtroom...
But many times, having lots of evidence doesn't mean that the correct individuals are being charged. Readers will be kept guessing as more evidence begins moving the case from one way to another, and sometimes back again, until everything can be documented and proven... That's why I love legal fiction... Everything is always clear and quickly addressed to gain a prosecutorial judgment they are correct!
Doncha wish legal matters even were allowed to be addressed these days???
GABixlerReviews
No comments:
Post a Comment