by Gin Jones
Helen sat on the bed and bounced a little to make it squeak, as if she really were lying down to nap.
Melissa's footsteps headed back to the kitchen, followed by the sound of the refrigerator opening and a soda can opening. A moment later, one of Melissa's stupid talk shows blared from the radio. For once, Helen was grateful for the noise. It was more than enough to cover the small sounds of her escape.
Helen stood up carefully and retrieved a spare walking cane from her closet. She opened the window as quietly as possible and removed the screen before tossing her cane outside. She waited a moment to make sure Melissa hadn't heard the sounds and then placed several books against the wall beneath the window to serve as steps. She climbed up them and managed to get herself seated on the window sill with her feet dangling outside. After several minutes of trying to make herself push off the safety of her perch, she finally turned over onto her stomach and, after taking a deep breath, slid down the side of the house and then to the ground.
Despite the shortness of the drop, the impact jarred her hip, and the sudden pain left her unable to move. The bit of her brain that wasn't focused on breathing through the worst of the muscle spasms was praying that Melissa hadn't heard her fall. Not only would it be embarrassing and frustrating, but if Helen was found like this, unable to breathe easily, let alone stand up, it would be persuasive evidence to convince her nieces that she couldn't be trusted to live on her own.
Eventually, though, the pain subsided and Helen was able to use her cane to maneuver herself back onto her feet. She made her way to the nearest neighbor's house, one slow, painful step at a time. Her anger at Melissa kept her going whenever she felt like giving up.
Helen knocked on the door of the nearest house, but no one was home. Helen worried that she might have to walk miles before she found someone at home, but at the second house, there was a stay-at-home mother. She was reluctant to open the door to a stranger, and insisted that Helen remain outside, but she did agree to let Helen use her phone to call Jack.
She sat on the neighbor's front porch until she saw the black luxury car approaching the driveway. She pushed herself to her feet, just in time for Jack to emerge from the Town Car and open the passenger door for her.
"What are you doing here?" he said. "You don't look so good."
"I need to go see that lawyer Tate again."
"You've got a scratch on your face," he said. "Did your nurse do that?"
"Not directly," Helen said as she settled into the car's plush seat. "Do you keep drinks in the car for passengers?"
"What did you have in mind?"
Helen couldn't actually drink anything alcoholic, because of the drugs she was taking, but she needed something bracing. "Anything except Diet Pepsi."
"There's orange juice in a cooler in the trunk."
"That'll have to do."
Jack went around to the back of the car. Helen heard the trunk open, and a moment later Jack handed her a large plastic bottle of orange juice, which he'd opened for her.
"Thanks."
"Anything for you, Ms. Binney."
"As long as I've paid up the two-hour minimum, anyway."
"You wouldn't stiff me," Jack said. "Not like some people. Just last week, I drove these sales reps to an event with their clients in a limo, and I made sure the mini-bar was stocked and the limo was immaculate, and I got them to their sports event on time, despite all sorts of construction detours and traffic back-ups, and you know what they did? They contested the bill through their credit card company. I knew they were jerks when they only left me about a one percent tip. How rude is that? One percent. Of course, I'm never going to see even that much, since it was part of the credit card charge that they contested. I mean, they musta' spent thousands on the tickets for the game, but they couldn't spare chump change for a poor working stiff."
Helen had known too many people like the passengers Jack had encountered. In fact, her ex-husband was like that, except when she'd intervened. He'd spent fortunes on sporting events and restaurants and transportation, but when it came to recognizing the people who'd made those things enjoyable, he couldn't be bothered. He wasn't a bad person, not really. In theory, he cared about people, and that was why he'd become a politician, but on a day-to-day level, he'd been oblivious to the people he was hurting. "There are a lot of jerks in this world."
"The worst thing is, there's nothing I can do when passengers are jerks," Jack said. "Not without getting fired or arrested."
"I know what you mean," Helen said. "My nurse is being a jerk, and getting rid of her is going to be complicated. It would be so much simpler if murder were legal."
"Ain't that the truth." Jack's sigh held the weight of the unfairness of the world. He closed the door and climbed into the driver's seat. "Are you sure you're all right? I could take you to the emergency room, if you want."
"It's nothing."
"I knew you were going to say that." Jack took the turn that led into the center of town, where Tate's office was located. "Some people don't complain about anything, and other people complain about every little thing. Just last week, one of my passengers bumped his head while getting out. It was his own fault—he'd gotten drunk while he was at the event I took him to—and it wasn't much of a bump, but he spent fifteen minutes yelling at me and threatening to sue the limo company."
"I hope they've got a good attorney."
"They did," Jack said. "Until Tate retired."
She'd forgotten about that little complication. "Let's hope he taught his nephew everything he knew."
* * *
With the help of Tate's nephew and a retainer that was considerably higher than what a small-town firm could reasonably command for a simple domestic matter, Helen convinced Tate to stop packing and postpone his retirement for a couple hours. He dug a battered briefcase out of one of his moving boxes and conferred with Jack before climbing into the back of the car to sit beside Helen. "Your driver knows where the courthouse is. It'll only take a couple minutes."
"The sooner you can get rid of Melissa, the better."
"Don't expect any miracles," he said. "I'm just doing my job. The job that I'm supposed to be retired from."
Jack stopped the car in front of the courthouse to let Helen and Tate out. Helen hesitated at the foot of the steep stairs into the building. She couldn't climb them, not the way her hip felt right now, at least not with any grace or confidence.
A sign with the standard wheelchair icon caught her attention. Perhaps there was another entrance she could use. The sign beneath the wheelchair icon read, "This courthouse is not wheelchair accessible," and gave a phone number to contact for more information.
Helen didn't need information; she needed an elevator.
She couldn't wait for it to be built, so she swallowed her irritation and slowly, painfully followed Tate up the stairs and into the clerk's office.
There were three people already in line at the counter, where only one clerk was working. Three other clerks sat at desks in the background, intent on their work, which apparently didn't include dealing with people at the counter.
"It may take a few minutes to arrange for the hearing. Monday mornings are usually busy with the arraignment of everyone who was arrested over the weekend, and the other scheduled matters run over to the afternoon session." Tate gestured at the battered and rusty straight-back chairs lining the wall across from the counter. "You might as well have a seat while you wait. Make yourself comfortable."
Helen looked at the battered straight-back chairs lining the wall across from the counter. No one could get comfortable in them, let alone a person with a damaged hip.
Helen feigned interest in the bulletin board beside the clerk's office doorway while she watched Tate do his job. There were three people in line before him, and while he waited, he greeted passing court officers and a few fellow lawyers, all by name and with every indication that he considered each and every one of them among his closest and dearest friends. Her ex
-husband had done the same sort of thing when he was working a room. Her ex had obviously been successful with the schmoozing, since he'd been governor for a record-setting number of years, but he still wasn't half as good at it as Tate was.
Melissa didn't stand a chance against him.
Helen ignored the curious glances from the young man reading the notices on the bulletin board until he said, "Excuse me, but you're Helen Faria, aren't you? The governor's wife."
"It's Binney now. We're divorced."
"Oh, yeah," he said. "I read about it in the Boston Globe. I'm Geoff Loring, by the way, and I work for the Wharton Times. If I'd been covering your divorce, I'd have been more even-handed, given you a fair shake, showed your ex for the bastard he was."
Helen was tempted to simply ignore him, the way she'd always done with the more annoying members of the press corps surrounding her husband. The rest she'd been polite to, while still not making any on-the-record statements. She'd actually liked quite a few of the regulars, the ones who truly cared about the people they interviewed or were extraordinarily insightful. But she'd known better than to trust them with anything she didn't want plastered across the front page of a newspaper or website.
He was blond and had a nice smile in an otherwise bland face. It couldn't have been too many years—ten at the most—since he'd been writing stories for the local high school's paper instead of the grown-up edition. He didn't seem like one of the vengeful, vigilante reporters who enjoyed wallowing in human misery. It was more likely that he just had an over-sized ego, which was almost a pre-requisite for the job these days. He just wanted a story that would get him a front-page by-line, maybe picked up for syndication, to validate his opinion of himself. In a small town like Wharton, he probably didn't have that many opportunities for a story that would appeal to readers across the state. The governor's ex-wife was automatically front-page material, at least for the local paper, so she was going to have to deal with Loring as long as she lived here. There was no point in intentionally antagonizing him. At the same time, she couldn't let him think there was any chance she'd give him some sort of inside story about the governor. He'd never leave her alone if she held out the least little bit of encouragement.
"My ex-husband wasn't a bastard," she said flatly. "We just wanted different things for the remainder of our lives."
"Right." Loring's hand strayed to his smartphone, obviously tempted to take notes. "I heard you had a vacation house here. I suppose you're just staying here while you decide what to do next?"
"It's a lovely little cottage," Helen said with intentional vagueness. Where was Tate, anyway? How long did it take to fill out a few papers and ask for hearing? She glanced at the counter, where he was still chatting with the clerk.
Loring either didn't pick up on her disinterest or pretended not to. "Perhaps I could stop by the cottage sometime and have a chat."
"I don't have anything to say to the press."
"Sure you do," he said. "Just because you're not the state's first lady anymore, that doesn't mean you've got nothing interesting to say. I'm sure the local citizens would love to hear your opinions."
"I believe the weather has been unusually mild recently," she said. "Is that what you had in mind?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of discussing why you're here in the courthouse today."
She might not want to antagonize him in ways that would reflect badly on her husband, but she didn't care whether he liked her or not. "I'm trying to get people to leave me alone."
He laughed, believing, like everyone else, that she was joking. "Are you planning to get restraining orders against everyone in town?"
"If necessary," she said. "Excuse me while I go ask my lawyer to amend the paperwork."
CHAPTER THREE
The reporter didn't try to stop her from joining Tate at the counter. By the time Helen had signed the application for a restraining order, and turned to leave the clerk's office, the reporter was gone. She doubted she'd scared him off permanently, so she wasn't surprised to see him waiting for her when she entered the courtroom.
Helen had attended a few high-profile hearings in Boston courthouses. They were grand high-rise buildings, with elevated benches for the judge, and extensive seating for the press and the curious public. There was nothing grand or elevated or extensive about the county courthouse. The courtroom was about the size of a high school classroom, and most of the space was taken up with rows of chairs for parties waiting for their case to be called. In front of them was a rickety, waist-high divider that separated the observers from the judge and the attorneys. The attorneys' tables were plastic veneer, and looked like they'd been purchased at the local discount store. The judge's bench was made of solid wood, but far from the weight and pomp of the city courtrooms. It was only raised a single step above the floor level, making it a little too easy for the parties to look down on the judge instead of the other way around. The judge would have to rely on the strength of his own personality, rather than the trappings of authority.
Tate led Helen past the railing and offered her a seat at one of the front tables. She heard the reporter, the only other person in the room, move so that he was sitting directly behind them. "It may be a while until we're called," Tate said. "The morning session went longer than usual, and the scheduled hearing for this afternoon was postponed to another day, so we're the only case on Judge Nolan's docket today. She may make us wait, just to see how serious we are about this."
"I'm serious."
"You don't need to convince me. I know what you're spending to be here." He pulled an issue of Woodworker's Journal from his briefcase, and immersed himself in it.
Helen tried to find a comfortable position on the cheap chair, a match to the ones she'd disdained in the clerk's office, without fidgeting so much that Tate would notice her discomfort. Tumbling out the window this morning really hadn't done her hip any good, but she wasn't inclined to seek any sort of medical opinion at the moment. Certainly not with Melissa on the loose. Much higher on her priority list was finding a locksmith to replace all her locks at the cottage, so Melissa couldn't just let herself in before she was served with the restraining order.
After a few minutes, Helen tried reading over Tate's shoulder. Fascinating as he obviously found the tips for lathe maintenance, she couldn't get past the second sentence without her eyes crossing.
Helen was about to give in to her hip's demand that she stand up for a few minutes, when the uniformed bailiff entered the room, admonishing everyone to rise for the entrance of Judge Samantha Nolan.
Except for her official black robe, the judge looked like Hollywood's idea of a stay-at-home grandmother: perfectly permed white hair, rounded face with a hint of jowls, and a chunky necklace offering a bit of color along the collar of the robe. She was at least ten years older than Helen, but she walked briskly and didn't hesitate at the single step up to where she presided. No one forced a visiting nurse on Judge Nolan or expected her to take a nap, Helen thought.
The judge's clerk, a chubby middle-aged blonde in clothes that were too young and too tight for her, settled at an ugly little desk next to the judge. The clerk called Helen's name and recited a case number, before saying, "You may approach the bench."
After a final glance at his copy of Woodworker's Journal, Tate tossed the magazine onto the table and escorted Helen up to a spot a few inches in front of the judge's bench.
Judge Nolan glanced briefly at Helen before focusing on Tate. "Don't even bother. I've read the papers. You don't have grounds for a restraining order."
The judge might look like a sweet old grandmother, but she obviously wasn't a soft touch. Helen had to admire her strength, even if it was inconvenient under the circumstances.
"I know it's unusual, judge," Tate said, "but there's more to the situation than appears on the surface. There's a power dynamic here, between nurse and patient, that's clearly being abused."
"Not a bad argument," the judge said. "I mi
ght have bought it if your client's actions hadn't made it clear that she dislikes everyone in this town, not just her nurse. She's been living here in Wharton during the summer season for as long as I've been on the bench, and she's never so much as said hello to any of the local citizens before today. I'm sure our esteemed reporter, Mr. Loring, will confirm that fact."
Helen turned around to see the reporter nodding in response to the judge's statement. He was also keying notes into his smartphone furiously, apparently trying to record every single word spoken.
The judge continued, "I seem to remember that another local reporter tried to interview her a couple years ago, and the next thing he knew, he was being called in to have a chat with his boss about being demoted to writing obituaries."
"That's not in evidence," Tate said.
"I'm taking judicial notice of a commonly known fact," Judge Nolan said. "Your client doesn't like anyone, so it's hardly surprising she dislikes this particular person she's complaining about."
"Hermit or not, Miss Binney is entitled to privacy in her own home," Tate said.
"Only from governmental intrusion. Not from other citizens, by way of a restraining order." The judge looked at Helen, adding, "Not unless she's afraid of her nurse."
Helen stiffened. She wasn't afraid of anyone. She was angry and frustrated, not scared.
After a moment, the judge focused on Tate again. "All you've shown me is that Ms. Binney is annoyed with her nurse, who may have overstepped her boundaries somewhat. You haven't offered me any evidence that the nurse offered Ms. Binney any physical harm, and I'm quite sure that Ms. Binney won't perjure herself by saying she's afraid of Ms. Shores or anyone else."
The judge turned to Helen again. "Well?"
Helen suppressed a sigh. Too bad Judge Nolan hadn't risen higher in the judiciary, leaving this job to someone who would have rubber-stamped the request for a restraining order, someone who wouldn't have put Helen in the untenable position of having to admit—in front of the note-taking reporter, and thus, indirectly, in front of the entire town—that she'd been bullied by a silly woman wearing clothes embellished with children's toys. Helen's nieces would never let her forget it.