Dying Declaration

by Randy Singer

  She was losing him; she knew that. But this would be a start. And it would be worth the effort. This marriage, no matter how imperfect, was all that she had left. There would be no kids and no career. There was only Sean, and tonight she would begin the long process of winning him back.

  She made it through the shower by steadying herself against the tile wall. She even shaved her legs, though there was no earthly reason to do so. When she stepped out of the long, hot shower, she felt better. And she felt clean.

  She would go casual, jeans and a pullover—the blue one that Sean said matched her eyes. A few minutes with the blow dryer to get the hair ready. Then the makeup. It had been a while. A little foundation brought the color back. Blue eye shadow, blush, mascara, and a light gloss on the lips. The wrinkles and the crow’s-feet near the eyes remained but were minimized. They showed character. She was a woman of character.

  And she was ready. In fact, she had not felt this ready in weeks, maybe months. She would surprise Sean, and he would love it.

  With trembling hands she grabbed the keys to her Lexus, picked up her cell phone and purse, and shuffled out to the garage. On her way to the hospital she made two stops: one for a warm cinnamon roll at a late-night deli she and Sean had frequented before the disease, and a second at a Barnes & Noble for a specially flavored Colombian cappuccino that Sean absolutely loved. Thus prepared, and with near-perfect timing, Erica Armistead pulled into the hospital parking lot at precisely 11:00 p.m., just in time for the start of Dr. Sean Armistead’s second shift. She held her hand out before moving from the car and noticed with pride that it was barely trembling. Getting out like this—surprising Sean—had done her more good than a megadose of levodopa.

  She climbed stiffly from her car, imagining the look of surprise on her husband’s face.

  She had parked in the handicapped spot—the only good thing to come out of the disease—and was grabbing the coffee and roll when she happened to look over the hood of her car toward the emergency room. Sean, big as life, was walking through the automatic doors, talking to another person—a woman—and removing his white lab coat. Something stopped Erica from just calling out. Maybe it was the intensity of the conversation. Maybe it was just a sixth sense. But instead of calling to him, instead of taking her bounty to him, she slowly settled back into the front seat of her Lexus and watched him walk across the shadows of the parking lot.

  Sean and the woman parted ways. Good! What a relief! Then why is my heart still racing? Why am I feeling nauseous? Why don’t I trust this man I’ve been married to for nearly eleven years? He probably found out he doesn’t have to work a double after all. He probably didn’t want to call and wake me. He’s probably just heading home.

  She was sure Sean hadn’t seen her. She was also sure that for some reason—she really didn’t understand why—she needed to follow him. She had a bad feeling about this, a premonition that comes from living with someone all that time. Perhaps it was woman’s intuition; perhaps it was just paranoia. Whatever it was, when Dr. Sean Armistead pulled out of the Tidewater General Hospital parking lot at a few minutes after eleven, he was discreetly followed at a distance of about fifty yards by his own wife.

  She hung back, two or three cars behind him, as he pulled onto Interstate 264 and headed toward the beach. Several miles later, the interstate ended at a T intersection with Atlantic Avenue. Still a few cars behind, Erica hung a left, following Sean as he merged into the throngs of vehicles cruising the beach. She had been delayed at the turn onto Atlantic, and several more vehicles had inserted themselves between husband and wife. She was now about seven cars back and having a tough time keeping him in sight. She was also exhausted. And mad.

  He turned into a small parking lot on the side of a large ten-story beach-front condo building. On the bottom floor was a T-shirt shop, a taffy place, and a bar—The Beach Grill. Erica turned in as well, now cruising no more than fifty feet back in the same parking lot, looking for a spot like her husband. Why do I feel so guilty? I’m not doing anything wrong. He’s the one who’s sneaking around.

  Maybe he’s just meeting a few of his buddies for a drink before he comes home. Maybe I should just leave. Why can’t I bring myself to trust him?

  Sean found a spot, and Erica kept cruising. She pulled over at the end of one of the rows, far enough away so he wouldn’t see her. She watched as he got out of his car and walked toward the bar. Her heart dropped. A quick look around by Sean—a guilty glance just to make sure no one was watching. She had married this man, lived with him eleven years, and knew his look of guilt. She had just seen it.

  She waited for him to go inside and then found an empty parking spot. She walked along the shadows of the building as she headed for the front door. The stiffness in her legs intensified, making her slump forward a little more. But something inside propelled her toward the door. She had to know. She had to answer these unbearable doubts.

  She walked inside the front door, feeling vulnerable as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was a typical beach bar thronged with people on a bustling Saturday night. A second-rate band played in the far corner. The side of the bar toward the ocean opened onto a patio area with an overhang, and patrons were spilling out toward the boardwalk. The place pulsated with people and the relentless beat of the music. They lined up two-deep at the bar, the first row on stools, the second standing behind them and ordering drinks. There were couples and groups of women gyrating on the dance floor. And at the booths lining the walls there were more couples—some trying to talk, others all over each other—oblivious to the masses around them.

  She should be one of them, Erica thought. At her age, she should still be dancing and drinking and catching men’s eyes even as she clung to the arm of her husband. Instead, she felt like a grandmother at a college frat party. She straightened her back as much as she could but kept her head low. Slow movements would keep her from limping. Don’t grimace, she reminded herself.

  Erica wove her way through the crowd, small and hesitant steps like a frail old lady, wondering what she would do if she saw him. She found a spot near one of the corners, shielded by the broad shoulders of a young male on the prowl. She steadied herself and glanced around the place, booth by booth, then the dance floor, then the outside tables near the boardwalk. She finally saw him, his back toward her, sitting at one of the patio tables, his chair pulled snugly next to a woman, his arm draped comfortably over her shoulder.

  The two of them ignored the band and the people around them, talking comfortably, their legs propped up together on another chair at their table. She felt sick as she watched the woman take a sip of her drink, then rest her head comfortably on Sean’s shoulder. They sat there, a picturesque couple staring out at the ocean, and Erica’s stomach began to churn unmercifully.

  Her shield—the broad-shouldered student—moved, exposing her to this couple if they should turn around. She didn’t care. She just stood there for what seemed like forever—was it five minutes? ten? fifteen?—watching her husband share his heart with a woman she had never seen before. Erica was transfixed—hurt, sick, boiling, betrayed—all the passions of the heart engulfing her at once. She wanted to cry but was too stunned for tears. It was the openness of it, not just the betrayal itself, but the open flaunting of the wedding vows that hurt the most. When the feelings settled out, she was angry, pure and simple. And that anger gave her a sense of courage she had not known before. A courage to stay and face the truth.

  Then, suddenly, the woman stood and stretched. She turned and glanced toward the band, then toward the bar. She had looked, just for a second, directly at Erica. Or had she?? The seducer turned back around, leaned down and gave Sean a kiss. A kiss! On the lips! And then she headed right toward Erica.

  Embarrassed, ashamed, angry, and scared, Erica turned and shuffled quickly toward the door. Her hands shook as she navigated her way from one object to the next. She bumped into a man, almost spilling his beer. As she approached the front door, she g
lanced over her shoulder just in time to see the woman turn for the ladies’ room. But in that instant, the split second when the woman passed under one of the dim lights and headed down the hallway, Erica got a perfect look at her profile.

  She looked to be midthirties, nice looking but not a knockout. She had short, layered blonde hair (probably bleached), a dark tan, narrow eyes, and full crimson red lips. She had the serious look of a career woman on a mission.

  It was a look and a face that Erica would never forget.

  She felt her anger boiling over, her stomach catching fire. She lost her focus on the seductress and things went into a spin. She had to get out of this place and get some air. She had to get home.

  She staggered to her car and sat there in silence, her eyes closed, while she waited for her head to clear. After a few minutes she knew it wasn’t going to get much better. She could make it. She would have to. With trembling hands—the hands she had learned to hate—she dumped the cappuccino on the ground, put the cinnamon roll right behind the front tire, then started the car, put it in reverse, and backed out of her parking space.

  A few minutes later, after she reached the interstate, the tears began to flow.

  29

  IN NIKKI’S HUMBLE but informed opinion, this hearing was not Harry Pursifull’s finest hour. He had arrived fifteen minutes late, causing Judge Silverman to “drop the hearing down half an hour” while he tended to other matters.

  When Harry did show up, he looked even more disheveled than usual. Due to a relentless breeze outside, Harry’s greasy hair, which he parted just above the ear and then threw over the top of his balding pate, had come unglued from the top of his head and hung in greasy strands well below his left ear. To fix this, Harry would self-consciously reach up and smear the hair back into place. It fell back down a few minutes later. Adding to the effect, Harry’s shirt was unbuttoned around the neck, and his plaid suit coat appeared to have shrunk even since the last time he wore it. His pants, as always, were too small at the waist and too short in the inseam. He had pulled his belt tight, too tight, and formed his round little body into the shape a balloon takes when someone squeezes his hands around it, causing parts of the balloon to bulge out in all directions.

  Harry had a hard time finding the thin Hammond case file in his overstuffed briefcase, and he had not read the report from the Child Protective Services caseworker. Nikki tried to fill him in on the details before Judge Silverman called the case, but Harry was no quick study. “I’ll just wing it,” he told Nikki.

  And wing it he did.

  Once the hearing started, the Barracuda strutted and preened around the courtroom, making all manner of accusation against Thomas and Theresa Hammond, which Harry made no effort to rebut. Thomas himself took it all in stride, sitting stoically at the defense counsel table adorned in his standard-issue orange jumpsuit. Theresa sat next to him, much more emotionally involved in the proceedings, her body language revealing her deep distress at the accusations the Barracuda flung her way. She would lean over and whisper vigorously into Thomas’s ear, and he would calm her down with a nod of understanding or a word of comfort.

  Mercifully, the kids had stayed in school. Nikki knew it wouldn’t help for them to witness this fiasco.

  The Barracuda submitted the Child Protective Services report and carefully built her case through her examination of Dr. Isabell Byrd. Throughout Byrd’s testimony, Harry employed his classic bump-on-the-log strategy, not making any objections despite repeated urgings from Nikki, who positioned herself directly behind him.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Nikki would whisper, loud enough for Harry to hear. “Don’t let her get away with that! Object, for goodness’ sake!”

  But all of this running commentary was lost on Harry, who showed an amazing ability not to be motivated by his clients or Nikki or even angered by the Barracuda’s cheap shots. Harry just sat there like a rock, immobile and uninspired.

  “Dr. Byrd, were your opinions regarding the unfit nature of Mr. Hammond as a father reinforced by the events of these last several days in the Virginia Beach City Jail?” the Barracuda asked.

  “Oh yes, they were,” the witness chirped.

  “In what way?”

  “Well, according to information I obtained from my interviews with jail personnel, Mr. Hammond has been in at least two serious fights since being incarcerated just a few days ago.” Dr. Byrd spoke rapidly, wringing her hands as she talked. “This is consistent with the opinions I formed from interviewing the children—that Mr. Hammond has difficulty controlling his temper and that he physically abused the children when his anger got out of control.”

  Nikki glanced from the rounded back of Harry—the man was barely breathing—to the back of Thomas Hammond. She saw the color rising in Thomas’s neck; his ears seemed to be on fire. I even warned him! How dumb is this man? “Don’t get involved in anyone else’s business,” I told him. “Take care of yourself. . . . Trust no one.” Instead, the big man apparently decides to turn the jail into his own private boxing ring. Maybe he deserves this.

  But the kids sure don’t.

  “And did your interviews with the children tell you anything further about the fitness of either parent to maintain custody pending trial?” the Barracuda asked.

  “Yes, they did.”

  The Barracuda lifted her eyebrows and motioned with her hands, prompting the witness to continue.

  “Well, Your Honor,” Dr. Byrd said, turning her attention away from the defendants and looking directly at the judge. “There is some evidence that indicates possible sexual abuse.”

  A gasp went up from Theresa Hammond. Even Thomas seemed startled by this accusation.

  “I’m not prepared at this point to say such abuse has occurred,” the doctor clarified, “but I would not risk putting the children back in that type of environment.”

  “What’s the basis for your suspicion?” Silverman asked. He leaned forward, deep ruts of concern lining his forehead.

  “The little boy, John Paul, said that his father would frequently come into his bedroom in the middle of the night and lie down with him. This caused my initial concern. I could tell the young man was very nervous and intimidated when he tried to talk about this, so I gave him some anatomically correct dolls to play with. We then role-played with them, involving him, his sister, and his parents. Judge, he described the types of activities that I see time and time again described by children of abusive parents. The larger dolls, the parents, would fight with and harm the smaller dolls, and so on.”

  “Did he describe any sexual activity?” Silverman asked skeptically.

  “Not at that time,” the witness said. “But it is not unusual for children to suppress that type of information, even when using the dolls as proxies, until much later in the process. I first have to develop a higher level of trust with this child. That’s why I said I’m concerned, but it’s not conclusive.”

  Silverman leaned back in his chair and gazed toward the back wall. “Okay,” he said at last. “Anything else?”

  “One further question,” the Barracuda responded. “Do you have an opinion, Doctor, as to whether leaving these kids in the custody of their mother might impact the ability of the commonwealth to get a fair trial in this case?”

  “Oh yes, that’s a major problem. You see, leaving the kids in the mother’s custody pending trial is a bad solution for two reasons. First, it’s my understanding that Theresa Hammond will have to work full-time to support the household so long as her husband is in prison. So putting the children in her custody really means putting them in the custody of a day care center as soon as school is out for the summer.

  “And second, I’m concerned about the effect this would have on their trial testimony. Theresa Hammond is only human. By living with her pending trial, the kids would be influenced by her recollection of the events surrounding Joshua’s death and by her subtle influences concerning what their own recollections should be. It’s inevitable. I’m
not saying that Mrs. Hammond would do this intentionally, I’m just saying that it’s bound to happen.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Byrd, that’s all I have. Please answer any questions from Mr. Pursifull.”

  “Nothing at this point, Yer Honor,” Harry said without standing. He leaned over to whisper in the ear of Thomas Hammond. Nikki slid forward so she could hear.

  “Her testimony wasn’t too bad,” Harry bragged. “Sometimes when you cross-examine an expert as sharp as her, it just makes things worse.”

  Thomas Hammond didn’t respond.

  “Does defense counsel have any witnesses?” Silverman asked. It seemed more of a plea than a question.

  Harry at least expended the energy to stand this time. “Not at this time, Yer Honor,” he said confidently.

  “All right then,” Silverman sighed, “if we are done hearing evidence, I’ll entertain arguments from both counsel. Ms. Crawford, why don’t we start with you?”

  For the next twenty minutes, the Barracuda laid out a powerful argument. Nikki fumed as she listened to the distortions, half-truths, and hyperbole that flowed so freely from the prosecutor’s mouth. And somewhere in the midst of that compelling argument, with Harry Pursifull sitting silently by and her blood running hot with anger at the hypocrisy and manipulations of this woman with the mesmerizing lips, Nikki decided to take a very personal interest in this case. Nikki herself would look after these kids, these little monsters who had stolen her heart. Nikki would get a lawyer for the parents, a real lawyer, who would give the Barracuda more than she bargained for. She would love to see her own boss, Brad Carson, defend this case, but she knew he was busy with high-paying personal-injury clients and didn’t have the time. But Nikki did have some other ideas. On her own time and free of charge, she would investigate this case and mastermind the defense.