Tammy is visibly upset and whines, “I don’t want to push the trial date. I want my trial now. I need to get out of here.”
“Don’t we all, sweetie,” one of her fellow inmates chimes in. They’re all staring at us and hanging on our every word. Seeing as there is no television in the cell I guess we’re the entertainment.
Tom ignores his fan club and reasonably explains, “You won’t be getting out at all if we don’t have adequate time to prepare your defense. But, as I said before, the judge is also anxious to set a quick date. Your case has been pending for two and a half years after all. He wants to clean up his docket.”
Clearly having said all he intended to, Tom makes a move for the exit. Tammy stops him in his tracks with, “You going to at least introduce me to your secretary?”
Tom and I are stunned silent, but Ethan steps toward Tammy and smoothly introduces me as his fellow senior associate Maeve Shaw. “She’ll be taking Nicole’s place on our team now that Nicole’s out on sick leave. Maeve is brilliant and already well versed in the facts of this case. I think you’ll find her a strong advocate for your innocence.”
As Tammy is still sulking, Ethan puts his hand over hers on the bar and amps up the charm. “I know you’re anxious to have some closure to this tragedy, but try to be patient. The trial will be here before you know it and we’ll be able to talk over our defense strategy on Thursday.” Ethan’s plan works. Tammy smiles adoringly at him as he releases her hand.
We begin to follow Tom back to the courtroom when a female inmate catches my eye. She looks to be about fifty and she’s seated away from the other inmates. Her hair is a pretty shade of brown with light red highlights and it’s styled in a fashionable bob. Her hands were recently manicured, but they are shaking. She’s also sweating even though the holding cell is quite cool. Classic signs of drug withdrawal. I can tell she’s doing her best to hide it, but her eyes are wide with fear.
A vision of my own mother flashes before my eyes. Having been caught forging scripts, she sat in a similar holding cell praying my father would use his influence to make the charges go away. I push the memory away and instead walk back to Tammy to give her a firm handshake. “I’m excited to join your defense team and look forward to talking with you more on Thursday.”
Tammy refuses to acknowledge me. Instead, looking at Ethan, she inquires anxiously, “How’s Rapscallion? Have you been to see him lately?”
Ethan’s cheeks flush pink with embarrassment. “He’s fine, Tammy. I saw him this weekend and took him a bone.”
“Thank you,” Tammy says breathily and adds, “you’re a peach.”
As we re-enter the courtroom, my curiosity gets the best of me. “So…who’s Rapscallion?”
Ethan tersely responds, “Her award-winning Papillon. He’s boarded at a kennel in nowheresville. Every couple of months I rent a car, drive down there, and bring back proof of life pictures.”
My interest has peaked. “So after Kyleigh stops winning trophies, she replaces her with Rapscallion? Dogs are probably easier to train than teenagers,” I concede.
Ethan lets my comment hang and we take our seat behind the counsel’s tables to wait for our case to be called. Tom turns to Ethan and gruffly admonishes, “I get you’re playing good cop to my bad cop, but we can’t set unrealistic expectations. There’s a good chance Tammy will see jail time from this. If you blow smoke up her ass until trial, she won’t be prepared for losing and could start throwing around words like”—air quotes—“‘inadequate representation of counsel.’ You can stay on her good side while ensuring she’s aware of the risks.”
Ethan just nods his head. I get the feeling this isn’t the first time he’s heard this lecture.
Tom then rounds on me. “As for you, Ms. Shaw. Learn to control yourself. I expect to witness no more childish outbursts.”
I nod my head as my face burns hot with shame. So much for schmoozing. I’m thankfully saved from any further scolding by the entry of Judge Timothy Howard. A middle-aged man of smaller stature. My guess would be no taller than 5’5, with a receding hairline. Judge Howard has the air of a veteran of the bench. He scans the rows of lawyers waiting for their cases to be called and nods at a few. His expression noticeably brightens when his gaze falls on Tom. Clearly they have history.
“Mr. Gaines, you brought your entire trial team for a simple scheduling hearing? Doesn’t Mulvaney Stewart have any billable cases these young associates can attend to?” Judge Howard taunts.
Tom stands in greeting. “Good morning, Your Honor. The hearing just gave us a chance to speak to our client. We wanted to introduce her to a new associate on our team, Maeve Shaw,” Tom says, indicating me. I nod nervously.
Judge Howard smiles at me while picking up Tammy’s case file. “Well, let's get you on your way then. Calling the case of The State of Illinois vs. Tammy Sanford.”
A tall, thin lawyer from the state’s attorney's office, whom I’ve been told is Al Porter, rises. Ethan said he has a hard-on for seeing Tammy behind bars for life. We all proceed to the bench. I’ve appeared at probably a hundred or so status hearings over the course of my twelve-year career and yet my stomach still tightens whenever approaching the formal wood desk behind which a judge looks down ominously. Even when, as today, I will no doubt play a non-speaking role. We wait a few moments for the deputy to fetch Tammy and bring her out to stand behind us. I venture to give her a sympathetic smile, but she continues to ignore me. Guess I’m no Ethan.
Once the deputy gives the thumbs up that the prisoner is secured, Judge Howard greets us, “Good morning, Mr. Porter and Mr. Gaines. As you know we’re here today to set a trial in this matter. I propose thirty days from today or April thirtieth. What say you?”
Mr. Porter is immediately agreeable. “That works for the State, Your Honor.”
Tom’s eyes widen to the size of saucers and he sputters, “Your Honor, the defense can’t possibly be ready in that short of time frame. Let me remind you, we only entered our appearance on behalf of Ms. Sanford in December. We’ve been reviewing evidence and contacting witnesses the last few months. We have yet to retain an expert to refute the findings of the medical examiner. We won’t be ready to proceed to trial before the fall.”
Now it’s Judge Howard’s turn to look outraged. “Let me remind you, Mr. Gaines, that this isn’t a multi-million-dollar civil case you can drag out for a decade. This case has been pending for two and a half years. During that time, Ms. Sanford has remained in custody without having her guilt established. I’m sure she’s more than ready to have her day in court.”
Tom is growing more agitated by the second. “And let me remind you, Your Honor, the reason my client has remained behind bars is because she was appointed a legal aid attorney who spent the first six months trying to convince her to plead guilty to first degree murder and, when it was apparent Ms. Sanford wouldn’t take the plea, spent the next year missing court dates and avoiding my client’s calls. It is unfair to punish Ms. Sanford’s current counsel for its predecessor’s unethical behavior.”
Tom’s depiction of prior counsel’s misconduct seems to strike a chord with Judge Howard. He takes a moment before proceeding more calmly. “Be that as it may, Mr. Gaines, you have the resources of one of the top law firms in the country at your disposal and a team of top associates to do the grunt work. While thirty days may have been a tough deadline, I will not keep Ms. Sanford in prison another six months. Trial is set for June ninth and no future requests for continuance will be granted. I trust that date works for the State, Mr. Porter?”
Mr. Porter, clearly enjoying watching Tom squirm, answers, “It does, Your Honor.”
“Good. Next case.” With a bang of his gavel, our hearing concludes.
Tom barrels past Tammy, grabs his briefcase from the benches, and storms out of the courtroom. Ethan gives Tammy a quick, “See you, Thursday,” before hurrying to catch up.
Seeing as I’m newest to the team, and probably the last person To
m wants to talk to at the moment, I linger while retrieving my purse. As Tammy is being led back to the cells she briefly turns her head toward the courtroom exit doors and I’m surprised to see a big smile across her face. Seems she got exactly what she wanted out of the hearing. When Tammy sees me watching, the smile fades and she turns away.
By the time I leave the courtroom, Tom and Ethan have both vanished. Once I’m safely inside my mom-mobile, the feelings I’d kept repressed all morning surface with a vengeance. My whole body is shaking, I’m sweating profusely, and I hurriedly re-open my door as I begin to dry heave. A middle-aged prospective juror sees me and offers help, but I wave her off. Another ten minutes pass before my stomach settles enough for me to get back in the car. Then another ten before my hands stop shaking enough to grip the wheel. My drive back to the office takes a bit longer than it should as I employ some meditation techniques I learned from my college counselor. At one time, I was employing these techniques daily, but over the years I find I need them less and less. Now I only need them when I’ve encountered a trigger…a prison for example.
I’m finally parking in the garage across the street from my building when I hear the pings of what sound like ten emails hitting my inbox at once. When I’m in park, I grab my phone and see a number of new emails all from Tom. As I start opening them, I realize they all comprise a big to-do list. He must be emailing tasks as they occur to him. The first email orders Ethan to call the four potential experts and schedule interviews within the week. The second one directs me to go through the evidence and gather all documents, photos, reports, etc. that the experts will need to form an opinion as to cause of death. The third item is again for Ethan and requests that he contact the prison where “the boyfriend” is currently incarcerated and schedule a visit. The emails go back and forth assigning Ethan and me tasks such as beginning to identify witnesses to subpoena, tagging helpful photographs for use at trial, contacting the head of support services and requesting a paralegal be staffed on the case. And on and on. The sheer enormity of work that remains to be done before trial begins to dawn on me. How am I going to get all of this done and still bill a hundred and seventy-five additional hours to paying clients? What have I gotten myself into?
As my stress level shoots from its normal “barely keeping it together” all the way up to “losing my shit,” I give Jeanine a curt hello and scurry into my office. The most time sensitive item on my to-do list is gathering the documents for the experts’ review. Multitasking, I eat my tofurkey sandwich I packed this morning, while re-reading the medical examiner’s report. Not exactly the best reading material when trying to enjoy a meal. If a few slabs of soybean conglomerate on wheat bread can even be described as a meal.
Doctor Lauren Fagen conducted Kyleigh’s autopsy. The report starts off in the usual way: “The autopsy is begun at 8:30 a.m. on August 5, 2015. The deceased is wearing gray Hanes boxer briefs and a pink, lace camisole.” The report goes on to note that the body is that of an undernourished twenty-four-year-old white female measuring sixty-four inches and weighing one hundred and five pounds. “Lividity is fixed in the distal portions of the limbs. The eyes are open. Petechial hemorrhaging is present in the conjunctival surfaces of the eyes.” That fits with what little I know about strangulation. Petechiae or tiny red spots in the eyes are the result of ruptured capillaries. Common in strangulation cases, but not conclusive. But what is noteworthy is what Dr. Fagen didn’t find. Namely finger marks or bruising around Kyleigh's neck. How did Tammy strangle her, but fail to leave a mark? Even if she used something like a belt or pillow case, it should still leave some marks or scratches. Also, Kyleigh’s hyoid bone remained intact. This small horseshoe-shaped bone in the neck is almost always broken in these cases. Why didn’t Dr. Fagen mention this anomaly?
The rest of the report doesn’t add much. Dr. Fagen notes recent abrasions to Kyleigh’s arms that could be indicative of a struggle. I posit they could have also been sustained by Kyleigh falling into furniture while high. My theory is bolstered by the fact that there are several minor contusions on Kyleigh’s shins and knees that Dr. Fagen’s states were sustained days prior to her death. Dr. Fagen also documented multiple needle marks on Kyleigh’s arms, feet, and alarmingly, neck. I recall that addicts try their feet after the veins in their arms collapse. But only the really hardcore ones can stomach sticking a needle into their jugular. Not surprisingly, the toxicology report came back positive for opioids. I note Dr. Fagen’s ultimate opinion, asphyxia due to strangulation, and drag the medical report into the file I’ve created cleverly entitled “docs for expert.”
I spend the next two hours dragging relevant crime scene photographs into the same file. I don’t want to overwhelm the expert with too many repetitive drug den pictures, so I include only a select sampling. All of the photos documenting how Kyleigh was found go into the folder. I then click open the police report of Detective Donald Myles.
Detective Myles arrived at the home of Simon Harr located on the 1300 block of Central Avenue at 10:13 a.m. He thoroughly documents the drug paraphernalia present in the home and notes that Simon Harr was known by the Chicago Police Department as a small time peddler of heroin and prescription drugs. Kyleigh’s body was found in the first bedroom Detective Myles entered. Interestingly, Kyleigh’s entire body had been wrapped tightly in a comforter. The police pulled the comforter off to attempt resuscitation, but quickly determined it was too late. Because of the police officers' haste in attempting to save Kyleigh, no photographs were taken of her while encased in the comforter. Still, how is the prosecutor going to explain that? Tammy jumps on top of a drugged-up Kyleigh and chokes her. Without leaving any marks, mind you. Then she climbs off and rolls her lifeless body into a burrito? For what purpose?
I glance at the time and am startled to realize I’ve spent six hours working on a non-billable matter with nary a billable hour to show for my day. I quickly close the Sanford file and open the document containing my second motion to dismiss for Elizabeth. I’ll need to work on it the remaining two hours of my workday and maybe two or three hours after the boys are in bed to ward off Jabba’s wrath.
Before opening Westlaw to locate a few cases supporting my lack of damages argument, I pick up my phone. An idea has been percolating since last night and I decide to run with it. I quickly text Zara.
If a girl is getting her first Brazilian what should she ask for?
I have always been staunchly opposed to waxing my nether regions. Partly because I’m afraid of the pain. Partly because I’m embarrassed. But mostly because I didn’t think I needed to do anything to make my vaginal area more attractive. In the past, I’ve found that men are pretty much always up for sex. I didn’t need to put a bow on my vajayjay to coax them into it. Now I’m not so sure. There has to be some reason Patrick wants Marcie’s punani and not mine.
Zara immediately responds.
You’re pathetic.
I’m grasping for what words to put into Google to elicit this information without summoning a tsunami of pornsites when I see the telltale three dots in our text string.
Tell them you want a full Brazilian but leave a landing strip.
Not sure what that means exactly, but trusting Zara’s judgment, I pull up the Avieve website and book an appointment for eight a.m. tomorrow.
Chapter 11
After going old school and working out to my Cindy Crawford: The Next Challenge DVD, I lie down next to my boys. I let Declan sleep with me last night to ensure he was feeling better and for easier access to the bathroom in case of emergency. Seamus, sensing the injustice, woke up screaming at midnight and so also snagged a coveted spot in our bed. Rubbing their backs gently, I attempt to initiate the wake-up routine. Declan in his fleece gingerbread man pajamas from Christmas and Seamus in his fire truck-footed pjs make me smile. As I tousle their identical chestnut brown hair, it hits me, not for the first time, that I would literally do anything for them. The intense love I feel would make me jump in front of
a car to save them without hesitation. Remaining in a potentially sexless marriage to give them the opportunity to grow up to be happy, confident adults is a no brainer. With that thought, I steel myself for this morning's unpleasantness and kissy monster the boys awake.
Waiting in the waxing room at Avieve, I’m a ball of nerves and anxiety. Kerrie has been my esthetician for the last six years, but until now that has only involved eyebrow waxes every six weeks. Nonetheless, Kerrie is a no nonsense, sturdy, middle-aged woman who has been at the salon for fifteen years. There is no one else I would entrust with my vaginal waxing virginity. As the door opens, I decide to lay it all out there:
“Kerrie, I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never even gotten a bikini wax before. You’ll have to talk me through it,” I blurt.
Kerrie professionally hides her shock, but tentatively questions, “If this is your first time, are you sure you want the full Brazilian? Maybe we should start with something easier and work our way up.”
“No,” I say adamantly, “I want the full treatment.” I need something drastic to get Patrick’s attention. Maybe he’ll even be inspired to try some oral action. Something he’s never really been into.
Swayed by my conviction, Kerrie gets practical. “Okay. Take off your jeans and put on this paper underwear. Then have a seat on the table and I’ll be back shortly.”
Sitting on the paper square in the middle of the treatment table with only the barest of coverage, I feel like I’m back in my obstetrician’s office. When Kerrie returns and starts describing the breathing method we will employ before each “removal,” the similarity is even more striking.
“Okay, now you are going to lie with your legs open in a butterfly position. Before each removal, I will ask you to take a deep breath in. I will pull the wax as you exhale. This breathing technique really does make it less painful,” she assures me.
I feel the warm sensation of wax being painted near my labia. After Kerrie lets it dry for a moment she instructs, “Okay, breathe in.”
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