Saving Ferris

by A R Kennedy

  “Jeez,” Michael whispered.

  Vinnie didn’t want to cause a panic. He hadn’t even mentioned his concerns to anyone in the department. He wanted them to be vigilant. “I’m just saying, keep a close eye on him. I wouldn’t let him out loose. I’d walk him around. Make sure he doesn’t get something he shouldn’t.”

  Cecilia nodded understanding and mumbled thanks. Pugliese made to leave, his objective completed. Cecilia started to speak but stopped. She bit her lip and considered telling Pugliese. But she didn’t want to get anyone in trouble.

  “Something you want to tell me, Cecilia?” Pugliese asked. “Have you had any unwelcome visitors?”

  “Well…” she started.

  “Cecilia!” Wyatt scolded her. “What aren’t you telling us?”

  “It was a few months ago,” she tried to explain.

  Through a clenched jaw, Wyatt asked, “What was a few months ago?”

  She hesitated but found her voice before he could yell at her again. “Mrs. Gabbert,” she told them.

  Michael cursed and Wyatt threw his hands in the air. “And you didn’t think you should tell us this?” Wyatt yelled.

  Vinnie’s jaw dropped. “Why didn’t you call the police?” he asked.

  Cecilia found the three men’s glares intimidating. “I…I didn’t want to get her in trouble,” she tried to explain to Wyatt. “I didn’t want to add to her problems.” She looked to Vinnie. “I really didn’t think the police would help me. You’d just arrested me.”

  Vinnie looked at each of them, realizing they probably didn’t know. “It was her son who shot at you today.” None of them were able to hide their shock. “Just keep a close eye on Ferris, okay?” They all nodded agreement. Vinnie made to leave again.

  This time, Michael stopped him. “You know Ferris heard something in the yard earlier. He attacked the door, trying to get out.”

  Cecilia couldn’t think of a time Ferris tried to attack anything other than his dinner, but she didn’t correct Michael. Maybe she was wrong and it wasn’t Holden earlier.

  “When was this?” Pugliese asked.

  Michael glanced at the microwave’s clock. “No more than thirty minutes ago.”

  “I’ll take a look around.” He looked to Cecilia and then Wyatt for approval. They both agreed.

  Pugliese stepped onto the patio and the backyard light turned on, illuminating most of the yard. He walked the perimeter, using his flashlight as needed. He found nothing suspicious until he got to the fence bordering the left middle portion of the yard.

  One boot print.

  Pugliese returned to the station at the end of his shift. He was surprised to find the chief at his desk. It had been a long day and tomorrow would be a longer one. Both were scheduled to testify in court tomorrow. Plus, the chief would have to coordinate with the sheriff’s office on the new security protocols.

  Owens hovered over the day’s paperwork. The gunman had confessed on the way to the station, plus again to him, and had already been shipped to the county jail. He shook his head in disbelief that he had gunned for Cecilia. Aiming for Briscoe he could understand.

  “You are not going to believe what I saw tonight,” Pugliese announced when he entered his office.

  Holden was already annoyed from his visit to Cecilia’s. He didn’t need Pugliese to annoy him further. He hadn’t heard about any peculiar calls during the night shift, so he doubted he could guess what Pugliese was referring to. He leaned back, waiting for Pugliese to explain, knowing he would need no prompting to do so.

  Pugliese plopped down in a chair on the opposite side of Owens’s desk and leaned in. “Mr. Wyatt Sewell, celebrity attorney, in a dressing gown.”

  “A what?”

  “A dressing gown. A robe for rich people,” he clarified.

  Holden furrowed his brows. There had been no calls at the hotel. All his staff had enough sense to contact him if there were any issues with Mr. Sewell or any of the media.

  “He was at Mrs. Chandler’s,” Pugliese added.

  This reignited Holden’s anger. He’d been at the station thirty minutes before he could put the image of the two of them out of his head. “You mean Michael,” Owens corrected him. He regretted it the moment it was out of his mouth.

  Pugliese shook his head. “No, Sewell was in the dressing gown. It was burgundy and silk. I think it had some pattern on it. I tried not to stare. Michael was wearing normal clothes. Some sweats, a robe.”

  “Why were they at CeCe’s?” Owens asked. “What are you even talking about?”

  Pugliese noted the reference to Mrs. Chandler as CeCe. “You know they got booted out of the hotel, right? They are all there. Too much media, the jury. No room at the inn,” Pugliese said, pleased with his timely quote.

  Owens could do nothing to hide his pleasure. He grinned and leaned back in his desk chair. He put his feet on the desk.

  Pugliese recognized the tread.

  CHAPTER 46

  Cecilia sat at the defense desk, staring at her navy skirt. It felt too short, grazing her knees as she sat. Maybe that’s what Abigail had wanted, to have her show a little skin. Cecilia gently pulled on the skirt to cover more skin but was unsuccessful. She pressed her fingers into her thighs, using all her willpower to not untie the bow on her pale pink blouse. She felt like it was choking her. Abigail had assured her it wasn’t when she fiddled with it in the car.

  Joey wouldn’t even recognize her in a getup like this—conservative style, subdued colors. He’d always liked her proclivity toward bright colors and bold patterns.

  Cecilia could feel every sensation on her body—the slight tightness at her toes from the pointed navy shoes, the pantyhose covering her legs, the clip pulling her hair back into a tidy ponytail. She wondered if this was what an anxiety attack felt like.

  Her fingers were tapping her thighs, in no rhythm she could control. Wyatt put his hand over hers. “You look nervous,” Wyatt said.

  “I am.”

  He smiled at her and she waited for reassuring words. “Well, stop,” he said.

  He turned his attention from her to the jurors as they filed in. Most were well dressed again. The best-dressed juror remained the eldest, again wearing a suit and bowtie.

  Briscoe wasted no time and called his first witness. “The prosecution calls Officer Vincent Pugliese to the stand.”

  After Briscoe established who Pugliese was, Folley police officer for seven years, he asked, “Can you please tell us what happened on the night you were called to the Chandler home?”

  “I received a call from dispatch. Shots fired on Floral Lane.” He maintained eye contact with Briscoe, afraid to look anywhere else. Pugliese found himself nervous. He’d been on the stand before but not in any case of this magnitude. Most of his testimony had been at traffic court. “I arrived on the scene at 2:23 a.m. and found Mrs. Chandler on the floor of the kitchen. She was in no immediate distress and I looked into the backyard. The deceased, Mr. Robert Gabbert, was outside.”

  “Why did you look outside?” Briscoe asked. “Is that where Ms. Chandler told you to look?”

  “She didn’t answer my initial questions. I looked out the door because the gun was lying by the sliding door.”

  “Was the sliding door closed?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened next?”

  Cecilia listened as Pugliese recounted police procedures taken at her home—most of which she was unaware. The photos taken, the search of her home for other weapons, the removal of the body.

  “Did you have reason to revisit the Chandler home later that day? With the chief of police?” Briscoe asked.

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Sewell said. “You’ve already ruled on this matter.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Lowe ruled. He glared at Briscoe.

  Briscoe’s attempt to get the confession in thwarted, he walked back to the prosecutor’s desk. “I’m finished with this witness,” Briscoe announced, sitting.

  Sewell go
t up to cross-examine Officer Pugliese. He stood at the podium, set up for either attorney to use for their questioning of witnesses.

  “Good to see you, Officer Pugliese. How are your holiday preparations going? Shopping done?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Briscoe said.

  “Sustained,” Judge Lowe answered.

  Pugliese laughed and answered without registering the judge’s ruling. “I’m more of a Christmas Eve shopper.” A few people in the gallery laughed.

  “You said Ms. Chandler didn’t answer your initial questions. Why not?”

  Pugliese glanced at Cecilia before he answered. “She appeared to be in shock.”

  “But you said she was in no acute distress?”

  “Yes.”

  Sewell pulled out a crime scene photo, an eight-by-ten photo, of the kitchen. The white floors and white cabinets were covered in blood. He walked in front of the jury, ensuring each juror saw the photo, before standing in front of Pugliese.

  “Is this where she was sitting?” Sewell asked, pointing to an area on the floor with no blood.

  Pugliese looked and nodded his head. “Yes, she was leaning against the kitchen cabinets.”

  “That’s a lot of blood, don’t you think, Officer?”

  “Well”—Pugliese looked at the photo again—“yes.”

  “But you said she was in no acute distress.”

  “She was breathing but was covered in blood.”

  “Her own blood?”

  “It appeared so. And the dog’s.” He turned to the jury, doing the best he could to defend himself. “The paramedics were there quickly and they attended to her. They took her to the hospital.”

  Sewell walked back to the podium and put the photo away. “Do you have a dog, Officer Pugliese?”

  The officer swung his head from the jury to Sewell, surprised by the question. “No.”

  From the podium, Sewell asked, “Where did you find Mr. Gabbert’s car?”

  Pugliese was puzzled by Sewell’s line of questioning. Briscoe’s had been straightforward, sequential. Sewell was all over the place. “A few blocks away,” he answered.

  “And what did you find in it?” Sewell asked.

  Pugliese rattled off the itemized list of the car’s contents. None of it was of note, except the last, which Sewell asked him to repeat. “An overnight bag.”

  Sewell glanced as his paperwork on the podium before asking, “And what did that overnight bag contain?”

  “Binoculars. Duct tape. Rope. A towel.”

  Sewell pulled out a photo of the bag found in Bobby’s trunk. He showed it to the jury. “What did the officers at the station call that?”

  “Objection,” Briscoe said.

  “Overruled,” Judge Lowe ruled.

  Pugliese could feel Briscoe’s glare before he answered. “A two-six-one bag.”

  “Please explain to the jury what that means,” Sewell asked.

  Pugliese glanced at Briscoe for help. He had none to offer and was looking at his notes. “Two-six-one is police code for rape.”

  Sewell nodded and put the photo away. “Do you buy your mother a Christmas gift?”

  Briscoe was fuming and didn’t object fast enough. “Of course,” Pugliese answered.

  Sewell continued his cross-examination, returning to the far end of the jury box. He liked to take peeks at the jurors, to monitor their attention and reactions. “You said you received a call that ‘shots’ were fired.”

  “Yes.”

  Sewell began rapid-firing questioning. “How many shots were fired?”

  “One.”

  “And how did you ascertain that?”

  “Only one round was missing.”

  “Have you investigated any other shootings?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many times do most people shoot?”

  Pugliese shrugged and answered, “Depends.”

  “How many times are you taught to shoot an attacker?”

  Pugliese straightened his posture, in preparation to defend his profession. Contrary to popular belief, police officers were not trained to shoot to kill. “We’re not taught to shoot an attacker, sir.”

  “What are you taught?” Sewell asked.

  “We are taught to stop the threat.”

  “So if you need to use your gun?”

  “You use it until the threat is stopped.”

  “So, that could mean you use all the bullets in the gun?”

  “Yes.”

  Sewell nodded and moved on. “Do you get called out on neighbor disputes?”

  Pugliese found Sewell’s cross-examination dizzying. He answered simply, “Yes.”

  “Are any of these shootings?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Any of them fire a warning shot?”

  “On occasion.”

  “And how many times will they fire their weapon, as a warning?”

  “Once.”

  “And again, how many times did Mrs. Chandler shoot?”

  “Once.”

  Sewell nodded. “When you got to the Chandler residence, how did you get in?”

  “Front door.”

  “Was it opened? Unlocked?”

  “No.” Pugliese pursed his lips. He despised Sewell’s smug tone. He knew where Sewell was headed and answered before the defense attorney asked. “There was no answer so I kicked in the door.”

  “Do you do that a lot?”

  Through a clenched jaw, he answered, “When necessary.”

  “I’m sorry, Officer Pugliese. I meant the Chandler house in particular.”

  “Objection!” Briscoe yelled.

  Sewell smiled at Pugliese, before saying, “Withdrawn.”

  Mr. Sewell headed toward the defense desk and everyone waited for him to say he was done with this witness. Instead, he turned and asked, “Do you buy a Christmas present for your car?”

  Officer Pugliese shook his head no while Briscoe yelled, “Objection.”

  Sewell was smiling when he sat down. Pugliese waited to be excused by the judge.

  “Redirect, Your Honor?” Briscoe asked.

  Judge Lowe nodded and ruled, “Go ahead.”

  Briscoe stood up and walked to the witness stand. “Where did you find the bag?”

  “In the trunk.”

  “So this bag was not on his person?” Briscoe deliberately didn’t refer to the bag as a rape bag.

  “Correct.”

  “Typically when a person plans to commit a crime, do they not carry their tools with them?”

  “Yes but—”

  Briscoe stopped him from continuing. “Thank you, Officer. That is all for this witness.”

  “Redirect,” Sewell said. Judge Lowe signaled for Pugliese to stay in the witness stand. Small beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead.

  “But what, Officer?” Sewell asked.

  “But if he were only casing the house, he wouldn’t have the bag on him.”

  “Does Mr. Gabbert have a history of this type of crime?” Sewell asked. He knew what would happen next and he headed back to the defense desk.

  “Objection,” Briscoe yelled.

  “He opened the door, Your Honor,” Sewell retorted, as he sat.

  “You’ve ruled on this matter, Your Honor,” Briscoe reminded him.

  “Sustained,” the judge ruled.

  Sewell smiled at Briscoe, who thought he had won.

  Chief Owens was standing on the courthouse steps monitoring the situation. He’d never seen so many people in Folley before.

  “Judge wants to see you,” the bailiff told him. Owens followed him to the judge’s chambers.

  Judge Lowe was sitting at his desk, drinking a cup of coffee. “Want some?” he asked, pointing to the half empty carafe of coffee.

  “No, thanks,” he answered. He didn’t need anything else to get him hyped up.

  “You’re up next,” Judge Lowe told him.

  “Yes, sir.” Owens didn’t need the reminder.

/>   Judge Lowe took a sip of coffee and looked out his office window. “How’s it going out there today?”

  “Still as crowded but more orderly. The sheriff sent a lot of officers to help.”

  Judge Lowe took another sip of his coffee. “You’ll have them for the length of the trial?”

  “Yes,” he answered, nodding his head. “At a high expense.”

  “Mayor Townsend is going to flip about that.”

  “I left him a message this morning.” He’d been glad Mayor Townsend hadn’t been available. He would have more questions than Owens had answers. “Do you know how long the trial will last?”

  “Based on the witness list, about a week.” Owens nodded and breathed a large sigh of relief. “Tell me about it!” The judge was also thankful. His colleagues had presided over murder trials that extended months. “How’s the town doing?”

  “Pretty good. All the businesses are loving it. Selling more gas. All the area hotels are booked. Restaurants getting more diners. CB’s Diner wanted to know if I had a reservation when I stopped by for breakfast this morning.”

  “Geez. I better not need a reservation later. I always have their Wednesday lunch special.”

  CB’s Sloppy Joe’s were legendary but not good for the uniform. For fit or for look. The sandwich lived up to its “sloppy” name. Holden only had it on rare occasions.

  “Plus, it’s bringing out people’s entrepreneurial spirit,” Owens added.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re setting up stands outside their houses. Selling things.”

  “Like…”

  “Placards, water, snacks. Some are renting out their garages or land to park.” He laughed before telling the most unusual thing for sale. “I saw one charging to use their bathroom. He had quite a line too.”

  The judge laughed. “Is that legal?”

  “Briscoe’s too busy with the trial.”

  Judge Lowe nodded and his smile slowly faded. His mood turned sober. “You’ll have extra security for the verdict, right?” Owens nodded. Sheriff Wilkins and him had already discussed it. “You know this could destroy a town. Right?”

  Of course Owens did. But right now, he was only concerned that his testimony could destroy Cecilia’s life.