Zara turns to me with a serious expression. “Okay, Maeve. You have five minutes to play Nancy Drew and then we’re out of here. What are we looking for?”
That is more than fair. “Okay, let’s divide and conquer. Put on the kitchen gloves that I gave you and look in the trashcans. Simon said that Kyleigh tore up the adoption papers and threw them in the garbage. I’m just going to have a look in the other rooms to see if the police missed anything else important.”
“Gee, thanks,” Zara grumbles. “I love a good dumpster dive.”
I ignore her and walk off into the kitchen. I shine my light and disturb a family of rats who have made a home inside a decaying pizza box. After a cursory glance around the rest of the room I have to turn off the light and back away to stop from retching. There are still old takeout containers strewn around the kitchen, and I think I saw maggots feasting on something on the “dining room table.” The same table where Garrett had slept in his car seat while his mom lay dying in the bedroom.
“I found them,” Zara calls.
I make my way back to the living room and find Zara trying to read from scraps of torn papers. A look over her shoulder confirms she has found what looks like legal documents. Zara holds up a quarter sheet entitled, “Adopt-200 Adoption Request.” Next to the line labeled: “Your name (adopting parent)” is written in blue ink “Tammy Lynne Sanford.” Looks like Simon was telling the truth. I snap a few photos with my iPhone.
“Okay, I found it. Can we go now?” Zara asks.
Not quite ready to give up, I plead, “Just give me a couple of minutes to check in the other rooms and then we’re on our way to the 7-Eleven. I promise.”
Zara holds up three fingers. “Three minutes. I’m serious.”
I nod and hurry back toward the bedrooms. I briefly glance into the room where Kyleigh was found. It seems that someone has gone over this room with a fine-tooth comb. The bed is stripped. The closet is empty. Even the floor has been cleared of all the drug paraphernalia. I see some brown stains on the dresser and carpet that appear to be blood, but whether it is from Kyleigh on the night she died or from some random night when Simon was high is anyone’s guess. I remember cleaning up blood from various parts of our house from Mom’s drunken/drugged falls. Dishwashing detergent and water is really the best stain remover, I’ve found.
Knowing Zara’s clock is ticking, I venture farther into the back of the house. Maybe the police wouldn’t have searched the other bedrooms as thoroughly. The next room I come to doesn’t have a bed per se. Just a thin mattress tossed against the back wall. The mattress is covered in stains, which appear to have been caused by bodily fluids. I struggle to control my gag reflex as I use a gloved hand to lift the mattress high enough to shine my light under. Nothing except the expected dust and grime. My optimism begins to waver.
The next room on the right of the hallway is small enough to have been intended for a nursery, but Simon appears to have used it as his man cave. Some wooden crates have been stacked into what appears to be a makeshift desk. There is also a beanbag chair in front of a fifty-two inch flat screen TV attached to some gaming system. The floor is littered with empty Coke bottles and crumpled bags of Doritos and Lays. I walk over to the crates. The only items on top are a black pen and a highlighter. Giving the desk a last once over with my light, I notice a two-inch gap between the crates and the wall. On a whim, I pull the left crate back and look behind it. Nothing. I then pull the right crate. Duct taped to the back is a black College Rule spiral notebook.
Having detached the notebook from the crate, I start flipping through it. Turns out Simon is quite the conscientious businessman. Each page details what sales he made and to whom. Most of the customers are listed just by first name followed by the amount paid. Under January 12, 2015 is written “Tony - $130. Brittney - $540. Wayne - $100. Brandy- $300.” Next to a few entries there is an asterisk and a note to collect tomorrow. Each day’s entries end with a grand total usually of around two thousand dollars. Seems that Simon was a fairly small-time dealer. I flip through to the back of the notebook and notice the sales entries stop on August 3, 2015. The same day Kyleigh died. But scrawled across the top of the next page is the word “LadderLife” with a toll free number written underneath. Is LadderLife a rehab facility or a drug abuse hotline? Beneath the phone number, Simon has written the letter K followed by eight digits.
“Maeve, your three minutes is up and I just watched two rats make love on an AC/DC T-shirt. We’re leaving.”
I pull out my phone and call the toll free number. A prerecorded voice thanks me for calling LadderLife Insurance and asks me for my policy number. My heart is thumping in my chest as I read out K54930573.
“Thank you for your policy number. Our records show that your life insurance claim of fifty thousand dollars for Kyleigh Sanford was deposited into a Chase bank account on August 9, 2015.”
I drop my phone onto Simon’s notebook, blood rushing in my ears. Simon had taken out life insurance on Kyleigh. He’s the one with the motive.
Chapter 25
Tom and Ethan are waiting for me at the entrance of the Cook County jail when I pull into the visitor’s lot on Thursday morning. I’m dressed in black suit pants and a lilac tank barely visible under my black blazer. The look is completed by my most expensive (and only) pair of black Louboutin pumps and a full face of makeup. No way was I going to show up looking sad and haggard in front of my husband’s new boyfriend. Ethan, I notice, looks unusually unkempt, his basic black suit and white oxford are a bit wrinkled. He’s not wearing a tie and he looks like he could’ve used a few hours more sleep. My insides do a silent victory dance as I walk the concrete pathway from the parking lot to the front door to meet them.
I forcibly steel my emotions and downshift to professional gear. “Good morning, Tom. Morning, Ethan.”
Ethan is suddenly engrossed in inspecting his shoes as he mutters his greeting. Tom gives each of us a discerning look in turn before grumbling, “Morning, Shaw,” and walking up the stairs to the front door. Ethan scampers after him and I take my time pulling up the rear reveling in the fact that I’ve made Ethan uncomfortable.
After waiting for what seemed like an hour in the security line, we wait another interminably long period before our client is finally escorted into the visitors' room. With each visit, Tammy looks a bit more hardened and life-weary. I feel bad for her. Even if she has made some mistakes, maybe even some big ones, her life has certainly not been an easy one.
Tom clears his throat and takes control of the meeting. “Tammy, we’re here because we’ve been assigned a new judge and a new trial date. Your trial is now scheduled to begin two weeks from Monday.”
Instead of the anticipated gasp of shock, Tammy emits a sigh of relief and smiles. “Oh, thank Christ. I can’t take another three months in this place.”
Tom is momentarily startled by Tammy’s response, but quickly returns to his outline of topics and plunges forward. “Yes, while your feeling is understandable, this new date doesn’t give us a lot of time to prepare. We have confirmed our expert is available to testify that week. We’ve also begun drafting our opening and closing statements.” Tom pauses before nervously conceding, “Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to identify many positive witnesses to call in your defense.”
Tammy shrugs before offering, “There are no witnesses because no one else was there. Just put me on the stand and I’ll tell the jury what happened.”
Tom, Ethan and I all begin smoothing down our suits and shifting in our chairs uncomfortably. Has Tammy completely lost it? There’s no way in hell we’re putting her on the stand.
Tom is the first to recover and proceeds delicately. “Tammy, I understand why you would want the opportunity to tell your side of the story, but we advise against it.”
Tammy interrupts. “Wait, you weren’t planning on letting me testify? Do you want me to spend the rest of my life behind bars? Everyone knows that the only defendants who don’t testify
are the guilty ones.”
“Fake news!” Tom says adamantly. “Defendants rarely testify at trial. It can improperly shift the burden of proof. While the burden of proving guilt is always on the prosecution, when defendants take the stand, juries will unconsciously expect their testimony to prove their innocence.”
“That’s nonsense,” Tammy interjects.
“It’s not nonsense,” Tom retorts raising his voice, “it’s jury psychology 101. Moreover, in your case, given the emotional circumstances surrounding your daughter’s death, it would be too much for you to withstand on cross examination.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Tammy shouts.
Unable to bear anymore of Tom’s failing attempt at delicacy, I interrupt, saying, “It means Tom’s worried you won’t be able to control your temper on the stand. Which you won’t.”
Tammy guffaws. “Well, you might have a point. But who else are you going to call?”
All eyes return to Tom, who taps his pen against his notepad nervously. Pens really do seem to be his emotional support item. “Well…obviously we’ll call our expert. And we’re preparing strong cross examinations of the medical examiner and police officers at the crime scene.”
The three of us wait for more, but after a minute or two passes, we realize Tom has no other names to add to the list of defense witnesses.
Tammy is the first to process the implication. “That’s it? That’s all you have?” Tammy shouts rising from her chair. A stern look from the guard by the door brings Tammy back to her seat. She shakes her head and asks Ethan for a cigarette. While we watch Ethan locate the pack he holds for these visits, I throw caution to the wind.
“What about Simon Harr?” My suggestion is met with shocked silence.
“What about Simon Harr?” is Tom’s confused response.
“What if we call him as a witness?” I offer.
Now Tom fixes me with a cold stare before over-articulating, “And why on earth would we do that?”
I pounce. “To offer him up as an alternative suspect.”
More stunned silence. Never one to pass up a chance to argue, Ethan counters, “But there’s the security film from the 7-Eleven showing him leaving before Tammy enters the house and returning the next morning. He couldn’t have killed Kyleigh.”
“The 7-Eleven is down the street by at least a block.” I know because I walked it. “And it isn’t the only street leading to Simon’s house. This is Chicago for fuck’s sake, not Danville, Ohio.”
Tom cautiously enters the fray asking, “And why would Simon kill Kyleigh?”
I know I’m on thin ice, so I tread lightly. “Oh, I don’t know. A lover’s quarrel. Maybe something to do with money.” Innocently I throw out, “Tammy, do you know if Kyleigh had a life insurance policy?”
Tammy is thoroughly confused. She stutters, “Life insurance? Why would Kyleigh have life insurance? She was twenty-three and didn’t have a job.”
Tom knows something is up and does what any good lawyer would do, he shuts down the line of questioning. “I think that’s enough speculation for today. Tammy, we just wanted to let you know about the change in trial date and where we are in terms of prep. We will be back next week to conduct a more thorough strategy session.”
Tom rises and we all follow his lead. Once we’re in the hallway though, Tom rounds on us. “You two drive straight back and meet me in my office.” Catching my eye, he adds, “Shaw, I think you have some explaining to do.”
Chapter 26
Stunned silence pervades the office after my breaking and entering confession. Tom is standing looking out of his floor-to-ceiling windows toward Lake Michigan. Ethan and I are sitting at the round glass table tucked away in the far corner of the office clearly intended for partner/associate meetings such as this. Both of us have our arms folded across our chests with our gaze firmly rooted on the floor. Finally, Ethan breaks the tension.
“We have to turn this information over to the prosecution.”
Tom turns to face us and bellows, “Absolutely not,” at the same time I voice my agreement with Ethan.
“What do you mean absolutely not? It would be unethical to hide this,” Ethan vehemently responds.
“Look who is suddenly so interested in ethics,” I mutter. I feel Ethan’s eyes glaring at me from across the table.
“It’s not unethical,” Tom counters, shaking his head. “We are under no obligation to make the prosecution’s case for them. The police searched Simon’s apartment and failed to discover what Maeve was apparently able to locate in less than a half hour. The prosecution also had the same opportunity we had to question Simon and chose not to. That’s on them. You two are citing discovery procedures in civil cases where both sides produce everything relevant. That’s not how criminal law works.”
“But we have material exculpatory and inculpatory evidence here,” I remind him. “On one hand, the torn-up adoption papers certainly give Tammy a motive. On the other hand, the life insurance policy makes Simon a reasonable alternative suspect.”
“Oh, and look who is suddenly so interested in disclosing material information,” Ethan snarks.
I gasp and Tom clears his throat loudly before explaining, “Only the prosecution has a duty to produce material exculpatory evidence under the Brady doctrine. There is no corresponding duty on the defense. Now, if we were going to introduce the adoption papers or life insurance policy as exhibits during the trial, we would have a duty to turn them over to the prosecution in advance. But we aren’t going to do that.”
“How are we going to get it in then?” I question.
“We’re going to follow your advice, Maeve,” Tom says, walking over to the glass table and leaning on the back of the third chair. “We’re going to call Simon Harr as a witness for the defense. And you are going to conduct the direct examination,” he concludes, pointing his index finger in my direction.
Ethan is outraged. “So, we’re going to let the felon conduct the direct?”
“Better than the cheat!” I snipe before asking Tom, “You think he’ll just admit he cashed in on Kyleigh’s life insurance policy without any incriminating evidence?”
Tom sighs before admitting, “It’s going to be a tricky examination, but I think you can lead him to admit it. The harder task is drafting your opening statement to suggest to the jury there is another suspect while leaving us an out if he doesn’t admit to it. We can’t overpromise and then not deliver.”
I can feel my stress level rising exponentially with each passing moment. It must be obvious to Tom as well because he adds, “Maeve, you got us into this little predicament. It’s up to you to see it through.”
A wrinkle in this strategy occurs to me and I raise it. “We will have to turn over our witness list to the prosecution prior to trial. They’ll see Simon Harr’s name on there and might go question him in advance.”
Tom nods in agreement. “It’s a possibility. But with this tight schedule, I think it’s more likely than not that they won’t consider Simon’s testimony important enough to justify a trip up to Stateville. It’s a risk we’ll have to take.”
Tom returns his gaze to Lake Michigan and Ethan and I take this to mean the meeting is over. Just as we are about to cross the office threshold, Tom adds, “And one more thing, whatever is going on between the two of you, resolve it. A woman has placed her freedom in our hands. This is bigger than whatever spat you two are currently having.”
Ethan and I exchange a glance before turning in opposite directions toward our offices.
Back in front of my computer, I take a sip of Diet Coke and stare at the draft of my opening statement. How do I suggest the police didn’t consider all suspects without explicitly promising to produce this mystery suspect at trial? As I ponder this conundrum, my phone dings. A text from Patrick.
Hey, I know you’re avoiding my calls and texts. And I completely understand why. But I bumped up my flight. I can grab the boys from daycare and make dinner. Will you
join us?
A few seconds later Patrick adds:
Please.
In the last twenty-four hours, Patrick has sent twenty-seven texts and left five voicemails. I’ve read and listened to them all. They mostly consisted of Patrick saying he was sorry in a variety of different ways. He also added in a few that he hadn’t meant to hurt me. And they all ended with him begging me to let him explain. I hadn’t responded to any. But this involved the boys. No matter how angry I am at Patrick, it wouldn’t be fair to use the boys as punishment. It wouldn’t be fair to Declan and Seamus either. Hadn’t Declan told Ms. Feelings that he missed his daddy?
I have a lot of work to do. Why don’t you enjoy the evening with the boys.
A minute or two goes by with no response, and I start to return to my opening when I hear another ping.
Okay, but will you come home when you’re done so we can talk? We can’t avoid each other forever.
Ugh! I am so not ready to have the breakup conversation. The one where we both assign fault before discussing next steps. But then again, when is anyone ever ready to have this conversation?
Okay. I’ll be home around 9.
Patrick responds instantaneously.
Thanks, Maeve. I’ll have a glass of wine poured.
I laugh in spite of myself. Patrick knows me well. My laugh dies as an IM from Ethan appears on my screen.
Do you want to talk about what happened?
I close the Jabber window and change my status to offline. I’m not feeling that forgiving.
Chapter 27
I take a deep breath in through my nose and exhale out through my mouth before sliding the key in the slot and turning the knob. It’s a quarter past nine. The house is quiet so the boys must be asleep. I take off my Eddie Bauer black trench coat and hang it on my designated hook on the wall opposite the door. I climb the stairs to the living room and sit my bag down on the top step. Patrick is sitting quietly at the dining room table. He’s drinking a Lagunitas IPA and has a glass of red wine next to him. There’s a cheese and bread platter on the table as well. He looks up at me nervously.
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