by A R Kennedy
“Patrol what? Everyone is in their houses watching the news on Folley and the Gabbert murder.” Vinnie sat down in one of the office’s green cushioned chairs. Holden didn’t hide his annoyance. “And now we add celebrity attorney, Sewell, to the mix.”
Holden put his pen down. “Who?”
“Wyatt Sewell,” Vinnie answered, pronouncing the name slowly for emphasis.
“He took the case?” Owens knew that Clayton wouldn’t keep the case but he was shocked a high-profile attorney had been hired. And so fast.
“Yes! She must be scared!”
“Scared?” Owens asked. “Briscoe is the one who should be scared.” He could only hope Briscoe would come to his senses and drop the charges. At worst, work out a plea deal. He couldn’t picture Cecilia surviving in jail.
Vinnie shrugged. “Briscoe’s going to love this. Even more publicity,” he said.
Holden hated to agree that Vinnie was right. Which meant Briscoe wouldn’t be able to back down, he thought. Like a cornered animal, Briscoe would feel forced to attack. He had hoped once things settled down, Briscoe and Cecilia could agree on a plea deal. A calm and rational defense lawyer could convince Briscoe she hadn’t intended to kill Gabbert. Her only intention was to get him to leave, get off her property without causing her or Ferris any more harm. How could a city girl be such a good shot anyway?
He hoped hiring Sewell wasn’t a mistake. From all media accounts, Sewell wasn’t a lawyer who made deals. He made splashes. But he did always win.
“She is guilty,” Vinnie told Holden.
There was no point having this discussion with Vinnie again and Holden returned to his paperwork. He pointed for Vinnie to get out of his office. “She’s guilty of protecting herself.”
“The dog,” Vinnie corrected him as he got up and left. “She was protecting the dog.”
Owens left the station, needing a break from the buzz of the office. He pulled into the park’s parking lot, glad to see only a few cars. And none that he recognized. He wanted to go for a run and clear his mind. Jogging always helped clear Holden’s mind.
He stretched at his car before taking off on the trail around the lake. He pushed thoughts of Cecilia from his mind. He passed a fellow jogger, running with her chocolate Labrador retriever, and nodded hello. The dog reminded him of his dog.
Roles reversed, if Baxter were still alive, would he have acted differently? Holden couldn’t say he would. But he doubted Briscoe would have prosecuted the chief of police.
After a mile, Holden settled into a good pace. Thoughts of Cecilia, Ferris, and Gabbert were far from his mind. Until he saw Briscoe, jogging toward him, and it all flooded back.
Media coverage was increasing in Folley and the case. They’d both chosen this trail in hopes of avoiding people who would recognize them. Briscoe, like Holden, wanted to get in a workout without intrusion. While Holden wanted to keep the case out of his head, it was all Briscoe wanted to focus on.
Holden hoped he could nod a greeting and keep going. Those hopes were quickly dashed when Briscoe turned around and started running in Holden’s direction.
“Did you pick up the autopsy results yet?” he asked.
“Not ready.” Holden couldn’t understand the urgency. No one needed an autopsy to know Gabbert was killed by a gunshot to the head.
Holden noticed Briscoe stepping up the pace. He was always competitive. Holden easily kept up. He was tempted to up the ante but didn’t give in to the temptation. Holden watched as, more than once, Briscoe would give a wider berth to those joggers with dogs.
“Did you…send over all…the files?” Briscoe asked.
Holden hid his smile as Briscoe struggled to keep up the brisk pace. “Of course, whatever was ready was sent,” Holden answered, easily.
Instead of answering, Briscoe nodded and focused on running. Holden was grateful for the quiet but would be more grateful for solitude. Knowing his run was almost done, the car park about half a mile away, Owens increased his pace. Out of stubbornness, Briscoe kept pace.
They were both thankful when they got to the car park. Owens stopped and did his post-run stretching while Briscoe leaned over, hands on knees, struggling to catch his breath.
A walker, with a dog, approached. The friendly dog pulled the owner over to Holden, who patted him on the head. The dog lost interest in Owens and approached Briscoe. He scowled at the dog and stepped back, out of reach of the dog. The owner pulled the dog back and they went to the trail.
Owens finished his stretching and waved goodbye to Briscoe.
“You make sure I have everything I need ASAP,” Briscoe told him.
“It’s like any other case, Briscoe. You’ll get everything.” Another dog, and his owner, got onto the trail. Briscoe stepped several feet away from them. “Are you doing this just because you don’t like dogs?”
“Just get me what I need. I’m prosecuting a murderer.”
CHAPTER 18
When the phone rang again, Cecilia answered it. If she didn’t, her sister would just keep calling. Plus, Cecilia had some fact-checking to do.
“Wyatt Sewell!” she screamed. “Your lawyer is Wyatt Sewell!”
Janna began peppering her with questions but never paused long enough for Cecilia to answer. “Is he as handsome as he is on television?” Cecilia had no idea.
“Did he talk about Ginger Simms?” Cecilia had no idea who that was.
“Is he single?” Cecilia had no idea.
Cecilia spoke the moment Janna took a breath. “I’m fine, Janna. Thank you for calling.”
Remembering the manners their mother had taught them, she asked, “Oh, yeah, how are you?”
“Is our father dead?” Cecilia asked. It was odd that she had learned of this from a brief biography from her defense team, during Abigail’s recital of facts. It should be odder that she had no reaction when they told her.
“Yes, a couple months ago,” Janna answered.
Cecilia wasn’t shocked. Their father had looked terrible the last time she’d seen him. He was so strung out on drugs she’d known it was only a matter of time. “And you didn’t think to tell me?” Cecilia asked.
“I didn’t?” she responded. “Are you sure?”
Cecilia didn’t bother to answer her. Of course, she was sure Janna hadn’t told her. That was not something one would forget being told.
“Well, I posted it on Facebook,” Janna said.
“I don’t check your Facebook feed for obituaries, Janna.” Cecilia sighed and shook her head. She didn’t bother to remind her sister that she wasn’t on Facebook.
“Well, I didn’t think you’d care,” Janna explained.
Cecilia would have preferred to make the decision on how she would have reacted. Would she have gone to the funeral? Other questions floated through her mind. Was he buried with their mother? Who arranged the funeral? She couldn’t imagine Janna capable of such a task.
Before she could decide what to ask, Janna started again. “You need to tell me everything about Wyatt Sewell!”
“Check my Facebook feed,” Cecilia answered.
“But you don’t have a Face—” she heard her sister start, as Cecilia clicked the end button.
Ferris plodded over to her, hitting his e-collar on the coffee table. He made the most curious expression, having no idea what the collar was. He’d been wearing it for days, yet still seemed surprised by it. “I wonder if you have any brothers or sisters.” She patted him on the head. “Not that I’d want them here. I used to not want you.” He lay his head on her lap. “Couldn’t make it without you, though.”
Of course, she wouldn’t be in this mess if not for Ferris. She tried to push the thought from her head. It was really Joey’s fault. He had forced her to promise to protect their family with a gun. He had made Ferris a part of their family. He died and left her alone to protect themselves.
Nothing like putting the blame on a dead man.
She lay down on the couch, hoping to sleep. S
he hadn’t slept more than an hour since the shooting. She stared at the ceiling. Ferris tried to get his head comfortable on her stomach. He moved right and left, trying to flatten out the e-collar, while Cecilia tried not to scream in pain as it dug into her bruised skin. He sighed gently once he got settled, with her help.
She closed her eyes but could only see the flashes from earlier, when Abigail took pictures of her beaten body.
It was like a bizarre photo shoot. Instead of trying to get the most beautiful shot of a model, they were trying to get the most hideous shot of her.
Mr. Sewell sat in the living room, working on his phone, while Abigail and Michael directed her right and left to shoot every side of her. For fifteen minutes, they photographed every inch of her, starting with wide shots, then proceeding to close-ups. She wished Chief Owens were the one taking the pictures again. He hadn’t looked at the camera’s viewfinder and pointed and whispered, like Abigail and Michael had. She was forced to stand half naked in her dining room and wonder if they were marveling at the shades of purple her damaged back had become or at the cellulite on her thighs.
In five minutes, Owens took the same shots Abigail and Michael had taken in fifteen, but with Cecilia feeling less violated.
They showed the results to Mr. Sewell, who appeared pleased. She declined to look at the results when Abigail offered. If she had wanted to see, she could look in a mirror. She’d avoided mirrors and covered her skin with pants and long-sleeved shirts. Cecilia wanted to forget about the attack. But the pain reminded her.
Before Abigail put the camera away, Cecilia asked her to take photos of Ferris.
“Why?” she asked.
“Chief Owens said we should. Since he was attacked too.”
The two assistants exchanged a look.
“The chief of police told you take pictures of the dog? To strengthen your case?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Okay,” Abigail agreed.
Cecilia struggled to get the protective collar off of Ferris. With pain medication in his system, he was much calmer than usual. Cecilia gently held his head up and Abigail crouched down to get the shot. Michael held a ruler up as a reference for the photo. Ferris’s photo shoot was much quicker and less embarrassing than Cecilia’s. Exhausted, Cecilia stayed on the floor next to Ferris until the defense team left for the day.
As Cecilia tried to sleep, her imagination wouldn’t let her rest. Snapshots flashed in her mind of what she looked like in the photographs. She tried not to think about how the photos would be used. Large printouts at trial? The whole lot printed out and passed around for the jury to inspect? A few grizzly photographs provided to the media?
“Oh God,” she mumbled. The defense team would be back in the morning, for a full briefing of the night’s events. She could ask what their plans were with the photos but she knew she wouldn’t.
Joey’s voice echoed in her head. “They are the professionals, CeCe. Let them do their job. They’re my best guys. Don’t interfere.” He’d said it more than once to her as they renovated the master bath. And more than once, she had ignored him. In the end, he was right.
She was too tired to fight now with anyone. She’d been struggling every day to make it through life without Joey, and the intruder had beaten the last bit of energy out of her. She had to trust that Mr. Sewell knew what he was doing. Even if she was at full “CeCe force,” as Joey would say, Mr. Sewell appeared to be a formidable opponent.
Cecilia just hoped the prosecutor agreed.
CHAPTER 19
The Sewell defense team arrived at precisely nine. Mr. Sewell again held a brief meeting with the media on her porch, promising a press conference in the upcoming days. The media seemed appeased and they returned to their trucks.
Michael carried enough coffee and donuts to feed a team twice their number. Cecilia wondered for a moment if they were going to ask the media in. She closed the front door before they could.
As if they’d been there a hundred times, they proceeded to the dining room. Cecilia and Ferris stood at the dining room’s doorway and watched as they sipped their coffees, pulled out notepads, laptops, and pens from their bags and arranged their papers. Ferris approached Michael when he picked up a donut. He sat up at his feet, in hopes of a dropped crumb.
“Ready?” Mr. Sewell asked. Abigail and Michael nodded yes after setting up their devices and sitting down. Michael placed his phone in the center of the table to record the proceedings. Abigail propped her tablet up to video it.
Mr. Sewell pointed to a chair at the dining room table, across from them. “Cecilia, are you ready?”
She nodded and sat down. She felt as if she were on a job interview. A job she didn’t want.
“Tell me what happened,” Mr. Sewell instructed her. “Do not leave out a single detail.”
Cecilia nodded and tried to collect her thoughts. For days, she had flashbacks of the night, the attack, the aftermath. But now she struggled to put it into words. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She cleared her throat and tried again. She didn’t know where to begin. Ferris walked over to her. The donut was gone and so was his interest in Michael. He sat down next to her. He nuzzled into her hand, forcing her to pet him. She did and then found her voice.
“Usual night. I took Ferris out into the backyard. He did what he needed to. I checked all the doors were locked and the alarm was set and we went to bed.” That summed up her last night before she was arrested.
She started to recount the night, but made the mistake of using the word “out.” Ferris heard the word and started running around, hitting his collar on furniture several times. They paused the recordings as she got up to let him into the backyard.
Cecilia returned five minutes later and resumed the tale from where Ferris had interrupted her. She told them about Ferris waking her up and continued until she fired the shot. She took a deep breath and they allowed her to collect herself before she continued. They paused the recordings and she went out to get a drink of water. Ferris followed and did the same.
When she returned to the dining room, they were huddled talking to each other. Mr. Sewell was speaking. “I thought they arrested her because of the good shot. I thought it was a sexist case. If a man had made a shot like that, they’d state the Castle Doctrine and that’s it. But a woman, an outsider, with one shot, a kill shot, they arrested her.”
Cecilia sat down and Mr. Sewell looked up at her. “You killed the intruder to save the dog?” he asked.
She looked at Ferris and nodded her head. She looked back to Mr. Sewell and answered, “Yes.”
“Why?” he asked.
All three stared at her as she considered the question. “Why did I save Ferris?” she asked.
“Yes. Why did you shoot to save the dog?” Sewell asked.
“He’s Joey’s…He’s my dog.” She looked down at Ferris again. His big brown eyes looked up at her. Joey used to say those looks were Ferris “hugging you with his eyes.” She’d laugh at him and tell him he was out of his mind. But now she thought he was right.
It was the first time she had considered Ferris hers. She’d always regarded him as Joey’s. Even after Joey had died, she’d referred to Ferris as Joey’s. But he wasn’t. Ferris had been their dog. And now he was hers. Cecilia looked at Sewell before adding. “This is his house. His home. Our home.” Ferris poked her in the thigh with his e-collar and she rubbed his head. She looked down at him before admitting, “I love him.”
Mr. Sewell grinned from ear to ear. Michael and Abigail were typing on their computers furiously.
“Oh, this is good. This is real good,” Mr. Sewell said. “Better even. We do love our pets, don’t we?”
Officer Vinnie Pugliese sat in the station’s break room and considered asking the Chief the question that had been bothering him for days. He knew he should let it go. He thought Mrs. Chandler was guilty and should be convicted. But it nagged at him.
As a child, he had i
nundated his parents with questions starting with why. That often left his father asking aloud, “Why did we have you?” Vinnie would ignore him then and he was ignoring his better judgment now. He had to know.
He’d walked past the Chief’s office a few times but he didn’t want to disturb him. The door was closed during each pass. That was unusual and a clear sign of concern. Owens had been inundated with phone calls and paperwork. This small town police chief was unaccustomed to the scrutiny of a murder. Pugliese was born and raised in Folley and had never heard of one committed in the town.
The small town had small town crimes. The residents tended to police themselves. Except Bobby Gabbert. He was a frequent flyer in the station. Every officer knew him by sight. Anyone other than the mayor’s nephew would have been shipped to a juvenile detention center, or more likely the state penitentiary, by the time his rap sheet reached the second page.
Pugliese was contemplating his options, staring at his mug. He could ask the Chief, he could forget about it, or he could look into it himself.
“What is wrong with you?” Owens asked. Pugliese jumped, spilling his cold coffee. “Never knew you to not finish your cup.” Owens refilled his own coffee mug.
Pugliese got up and cleaned up the mess. Owens had enough problems on his plate and considered not asking. He had an open door policy with his staff—all the staff, police officers, and supplemental personnel—which he had ignored today. His door had been closed all day dealing with the Gabbert murder. “Something wrong, Pugliese?”
“I was just thinking…”
The hesitation signaled to Owens that he wouldn’t like what Pugliese was thinking about. He rarely hesitated when speaking, when he probably should always hesitate before speaking. Owens didn’t prompt Pugliese but waited for him to continue.
Pugliese finally uttered aloud the question he’d been mulling over for days. “Why would Bobby pick Cecilia?”
“What?” Owens asked. He was in the middle of pouring his coffee and lucky he didn’t spill it.