“So, what did you do when Kyleigh offered to give up the son she loved so much for less than the price of a used car?”
Tammy’s eyes flash with rage. “What do you think I did? I tried to talk some sense into her. I didn’t have that kind of money. I worked at Walmart. Any money left over after paying my bills went to Garrett. I told her she should do the right thing for her son and left.”
No way this is the whole story. A person with Tammy’s temper doesn’t just “try to talk some sense” into Kyleigh and leave without a fight.
“Things never got physical?”
Tammy’s simmering temper begins to boil. “I already told you, she hit me when I told her I wasn’t giving her the money.”
“And you didn’t lay a hand on her?” After a deep breath, I take a calculated risk. “Even after she tore up the adoption papers in your face.”
Tammy throws down her cigarette and jumps to her feet. “That bitch thinks she can rip up my generosity and laugh in my face. I didn’t touch her, but, you want to know the truth? She got what she deserved.”
Two guards are on either side of Tammy within seconds. “This visit is over,” they needlessly inform us as they drag Tammy out the doors to her cell.
Before I can say anything or even begin to pack up my notebook, Ethan is in my face. “This doesn’t prove anything, Maeve. Yes, Tammy was pissed. Do I think Tammy might have given Kyleigh some of those bruises? Sure. But there are no physical signs of strangulation. No marks around Kyleigh’s neck. Kyleigh’s hyoid bone was intact. This doesn’t prove she killed her.”
I mull this over before finding myself agreeing with Ethan. If Tammy killed Kyleigh in the heat of a fight over Garrett’s adoption, she would have taken Garrett with her. And she wouldn’t have had the foresight to stage the scene with the comforter.
Chapter 18
It’s as if I’m swimming thousands of miles below the ocean’s surface. I hear voices, but the words come to me muffled and distorted as though from a great distance. I’m aware of bright lights above me, but my eyes are closed and I’m unable to open them. I’m also unable to turn away from them, my body no longer responding to my brain’s requests. I try to remember how I got here. Snippets of events flash before my eyes. I’m looking through a crack in the door to my parents’ bedroom. They are slewing vitriol at one another. My father lands a verbal blow and my mother spits in his face. He slaps her and she falls back on their bed. Then I’m in my own bedroom. I’m writing a letter at my desk. “I can’t live like this any longer. The hurt is too deep to bear.” A bottle of my mom’s Percocet sits across from me. The last thing I remember is lying on my bed to sleep, the pill bottle now empty in my hands.
I can feel a woman take my head and reposition it toward her. She brushes my hair away from my face and opens my mouth. I hear the words “gastric lavage.” A few moments later I feel a plastic tube being inserted into my throat. It scrapes my esophagus raw as it descends. I gag, but am helpless to stop it. My eyes are watering and I feel like I’m going to retch. Then something cool, like water, hits my stomach. But that same water is immediately sucked back out. This process continues over and over for what seems like an hour. Water hits my stomach and is then sucked back out again. I want to die. Finally, the tube is yanked from my stomach. My throat is on fire. Those same hands lift my head up and press a plastic cup to my mouth. I take a sip of what tastes like a bitter slushie and immediately begin to vomit. I keep vomiting and vomiting until it feels like there is nothing left inside of me. I’m just an empty vessel. Then I slip into darkness.
The next time I wake up, I’m in a hospital bed wearing the traditional gown. A white blanket covers my legs. An IV is inserted into my right arm and is connected to what looks like a saline bag. I hear the soothing beeps of the heart rate monitor next to it. I look around for my parents, but no one else is in the room. On the wall across from me is a white board. Across the top border it reads Ascension St Vincent’s Carmel. In the middle of the white board in red erasable marker, a nurse has written, “I’m Angie. How can I help?” Angie’s offer may be a bit late, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m searching for the call button when my parents enter the room carrying matching Starbucks cups. They freeze as our eyes meet.
My father, dressed in a gray suit and white oxford for work, is the first to recover. “Maeve, you’re awake. Thank God.” He looks genuinely relieved.
My mother is less impressed. “What in the hell were you thinking?” she seethes.
I try to respond, but my throat feels like it’s been rubbed raw with sandpaper. “Water,” I croak.
My father scans the room and finds a small pink pitcher on the windowsill next to a pink plastic cup. He hurries over, fills the cup, inserts a straw and hands it to me. Just a sip of the cool liquid provides much-needed relief.
My parents fidget nervously as I carefully continue drinking. My mother picking invisible lint from her lavender blouse. My father straightening his navy blue tie. But after a few more minutes pass in silence, my mother can no longer bear it. She rushes to take a seat at the foot of my bed and resumes her interrogation.
“Seriously though, Maeve, what were you thinking? You could have died.” She says it less out of concern and more out of offense.
I don’t know where to even begin. Then I remember the letter. “Did you read my note?” I rasp.
My mother looks stricken and steals a glance at my father. His expression is one of shock.
“What is she talking about, Joanna?” There is danger in his voice.
“Oh, Michael, it was nothing. The usual sixteen-year-old girl drama.” She then feigns what I assume is meant to be a stereotypical high school girl tone of voice. “My life is so hard. I can’t go on. My parents don’t understand me.” She drops the voice before concluding, “You know, the usual stuff.”
My father utters his next words in the very low, very slow pattern that usually preceded their screaming matches. “I’m sorry, Joanna. I’m not sure I’m familiar with what is ‘typical’ in high school suicide notes these days. You told me you found her in her room and you had no idea what she had done. You said she looked pale and her breath was shallow. What are you not telling me?”
My mother looks away and starts smoothing down the blanket around her. “I just didn’t want to upset you.”
“Didn’t want to upset me??? I watched my only daughter get her stomach pumped last night!” he explodes.
A nurse peeks into the room, I’m assuming it’s the helpful Angie. “Everything all right in here?”
My mother and father instantly compose themselves. My mother flashes Angie one of her signature happy housewife smiles before saying, “Everything is fine. Thank you.”
Angie looks in my direction, brightening “Oh, you’re awake. That’s wonderful. Let me come in and take your vitals.”
My father takes three giant steps toward the door and blocks her way. “Miss, can you give us a few minutes to speak in private?” It’s phrased as a question, but before Angie can respond, my father is closing the door in her face.
He rounds on us. “Maeve, where did you get the pills?”
I’m struck mute at the abrupt change in the conversation. I stare back at him open mouthed.
My father closes the distance between us. He is now next to my bed, one hand firmly on my arm, staring directly into my eyes. He demands, “Tell me where you got the pills.”
I don’t want to tattle, but my eyes betray me. I look directly at my mother. Without another word, my father storms from the room slamming the door on his way out. My mother slowly turns toward me making sure we have direct eye contact before unabashedly declaring, “I hate you.”
Chapter 19
I sit down at my desk on Tuesday morning feeling unusually alert and confident, having managed to fit in a thirty-minute jog down Fullerton Avenue to Lake Michigan and back after dropping the boys off at daycare. Running along the path watching the sun reflect off the waves and feeling th
e wind whip my ponytail gives me an instant mood reset. It even motivated me to apply eyeliner and don a skirt before catching a cab to the office.
I take a big sip of my Starbucks skinny vanilla latte before mentally going over today’s to-do list. Six hours revising and finalizing Elizabeth’s reply brief for her review will leave me with a little over an hour to start outlining the opening statement for trial. Tom emailed me last week that he thinks it would be the best optics to have a woman deliver Tammy’s defense to the jury. I jumped at the opportunity and want to get a good start on it even though the trial is still two months away. I’m rudely pulled from my reverie by the high-pitched ringing of my office phone. Tom’s name appears on the screen. Funny, he always emails.
“Morning, Tom. Is there something I can help you with?” I answer brightly.
“You can get your ass upstairs pronto,” he growls and abruptly hangs up.
What is that all about, I wonder. I mean he wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear we visited Tammy on the DL. But after we relayed the conversation, he agreed with our assessment that this wasn’t a heat of the moment killing and Tammy’s outburst about the adoption scam only lends credence to her claim of innocence. What could have happened in the last sixteen hours to get him fuming?
After taking the stairs two at a time to reach the forty-sixth floor, I breathe a small sigh of relief upon seeing Ethan enter Tom’s office only seconds before me. If I’m about to get reamed at least I have company. Immediately upon my entry, Tom bellows, “Shut the door.”
Seeing Tom standing over his desk slamming various folders and legal pads I get the distinct impression I’m not going to like where this conversation is headed. I strive for casual. “Morning, Tom, what’s up?”
Tom’s neck snaps to attention and his expression is undeniably furious. “What’s up?” he mocks. “You want to know what’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up. Judge Howard has skin cancer. He apparently had a biopsy of a spot on his neck this past Wednesday. His doctors say it’s stage three and has spread to the nearby lymph nodes. Judge Howard will be starting a chemo regimen shortly.”
While this must be troubling for Judge Howard, I’m at a loss to explain Tom’s impassioned reaction. I tread lightly. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say sympathetically before adding, “What does this mean for Tammy’s trial date?”
Tom rounds his desk, takes two giant steps in my direction and points his index finger aggressively at my chest. “That’s the million-dollar question, Maeve. It means we’ve been assigned a new judge.”
“What?” Ethan blurts out. “That’s terrible. Judge Howard was friendly to our side. He loved you. Who knows what this new guy will think of our big shot law firm taking on a pro bono case for training.”
“Or new gal,” I mutter irritably.
Tom ignores me, takes a pen from his pocket and whips it toward his desk. He misses his mark by a few feet and the pen buries itself into Tom’s abstract cream and grey area rug. This must be a common form of stress release for Tom as I notice several other pens lodged in various spots near his desk.
“Our new judge is Clarence Tyler and I’ll tell you what he thinks.” Tom advances on Ethan, now invading his personal space. “I just got off the phone with his clerk. He thinks Judge Howard has been too lenient with us. Granted us too many continuances. Trial is rescheduled to Judge Howard’s originally proposed date of April thirtieth.”
“What?” Ethan and I exclaim in unison.
Tom continues ranting. “That means we have less than three fucking weeks to write opening and closing statements, prep our expert, and draft cross examinations of the medical examiner and police officers. Not to mention identify any other witnesses we may want to call. I hope you two didn’t plan to sleep in the next twenty days because that’s out of the fucking question. You will eat and breathe this case, is that clear?”
Ethan and I exchange stunned glances before murmuring our agreement.
“Good. Get back to your offices and I’ll email your assignments.”
I descend the two floors in a state of shock. How will we prepare a winning defense in only twenty days? We’ll be lucky to clear the low bar of effective assistance of counsel. Roughly ten minutes after returning to my desk, I receive Tom’s list of assignments. The tasks seem Herculean at this juncture:
Confirm Dr. Smart is available - Ethan
Draft questioning of Dr. Smart - Tom
Set up a meeting with Tammy to discuss new trial date and strategy - Maeve
Rough draft of opening statement to Tom by end of the week - Maeve
Rough draft of closing statement to Tom by end of the week - Ethan
Draft cross examination of medical examiner - Ethan
Identify and prepare exhibits for jury - Maeve
Draft cross examinations of police at crime scene - Ethan
Identify any helpful witnesses to call for trial - Maeve
Draft motion in limine to exclude testimony about previous altercations between Tammy and Kyleigh - Maeve
Draft motion to exclude media from courtroom - Ethan
Prepare jury voir dire - Tom
By the time I reach the end of the list my palms are sweaty and my heart rate is over one hundred beats per minute. Tom is right. Between completing these tasks, finishing Elizabeth’s brief, and taking even mediocre care of my kids, there will be little time for rest in the next three weeks. What have I gotten myself into? I rise from my chair and walk across the hall to Jeanine’s cubicle. One thing I can always count on from my assistant is an ever-present supply of chocolate. Once having been given a large handful of Hershey kisses in exchange for showing Jeanine a couple recent photos of Dec and Shay, I’m ready to start chipping away at the tasks.
I’ve just secured a visitation appointment with Tammy for Thursday and am emailing the pertinent information to the murder squad, when my phone rings again. I thought we’d all collectively agreed to limit our forms of communication to texts and emails. I throw an annoyed glance at the caller ID and my heart skips a beat. It’s none other than Jabba the Hut. Today can’t get any worse.
I pick up the receiver and before I can even stammer hello, Chris commands, “Shaw. My office. Now.”
I feel like Sean Penn in Dead Man Walking as I slowly make my way from the lowly associate side of the forty-fourth floor to the large partner offices. Chris is finishing off what looks to have been a custard-filled donut when I cross the threshold into his kingdom. I notice a bit of filling remains on the right corner of Chris’s mouth and choose to make that my focal point for the remainder of this conversation.
“Maeve, long time no see,” Chris begins sarcastically. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I seem to remember us having a conversation about your hours expectation when you were last here.”
I give a slight nod of my head in response.
Chris continues, “Good, good. We’re on the same page. I was beginning to think I was delusional. Do you know why I might have thought that?”
This time a slight shake of my head in response. My eyes are laser focused on the custard glob which expands and retracts as Chris delivers his clearly rehearsed browbeating.
“Well, let me enlighten you then. You see, I remember being quite clear about a certain one hundred and seventy-five monthly billable hours requirement during our last conversation. And yet in the two weeks since our meeting, your billable hours have only declined. Were you somehow confused about my expectation?”
The small voice that I’m able to muster in response is pathetic even to my ears. “No, sir. I wasn’t confused. I’ve just been billing the bulk of my hours to Tom’s murder case. If you add those to my billable ones, I’m working over eighty hours a week.”
Chris slams his hand on his desk so hard the crumbs jump. “I thought I made it clear to you last time that I don’t give a shit about pro bono hours. I want you working for clients who pay their bills.”
Now I’m in full grovel mode. “Please, Chris. Just l
et me get through this trial and I’ll pull my billables up to where you want them to be. Our trial date was moved up to the end of April, so I just need three more weeks. Please.” Tears spring to my eyes and I change my focus to my feet. Chris remains unmoved.
Sighing, he responds, “Maeve, I’ll be honest. If I were you, I’d be updating my resume. You just aren’t Mulvaney Stewart partner material. Please close the door on your way out.”
***
The rest of the day I alternate between concocting a persuasive opening statement and dry heaving into my garbage can. Countless times I find myself reaching for the phone to call Patrick, but something always stops me. We used to be each other’s main confidants. In graduate school we’d lie for hours in bed discussing politics, television shows, books, and our hopes for the future. The only topic I clammed up about was my childhood, for obvious reasons. But after the boys arrived, we were both so busy just trying to tread water that we came to an unspoken understanding that the boys were the only real topic of conversation between us. Any work stress one of us might be under was for that person to resolve. Not shockingly, I’ve felt more alone in the last few years than I’ve felt since I left for college.
A wave of relief rushes over me when my phone alarm goes off at four forty-five reminding me of “parent teacher conferences” at daycare. First, it’s a ridiculous requirement given the boys’ ages of six years and sixteen months. The most they “teach” them at daycare is how to craft and play nicely with others. Second, Declan and Seamus are never any trouble for the staff, so this should be a breeze. After grabbing my things and hailing a cab, I manage to even arrive a mere five minutes late for my conference. Winning.
Miss Sarah takes the boys into the art room while I sit uncomfortably across from Miss Yolanda at a toddler-sized desk. Needing to get the boys fed and to bed quickly so I can get back to trial prep, I cut to the chase.
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