The next few times, I left, walked to my car, and hit the steering wheel, trying to work out my anger before driving off, rightfully mad at him.
And then he finally saw me. I’m not going to say our relationship became stronger than ever—that’s not what happened. But I visited and we talked. I was the only family he saw, since my parents refused to visit. I think he grew to like my visits.
Until he killed himself. Can’t really blame him on that account either. I wouldn’t want to be in prison.
I truly hope Ryan won’t kill himself. I’m working hard to get him out, trying to prove Margaret framed him. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll prove it the right way, no cutting corners or prompting further investigations.
The guard looks at me, our unspoken signal that it’s time for me to leave. I’d stay longer, but short visits are probably best for both of us.
“I have to go,” I say, breaking the silence. We often sit in silence during my visits. Being in prison and all, I’d think Ryan would rather talk, have an outlet, hear stories from the world beyond these walls. Prison is never truly silent, though. Screaming inmates, guards barking orders, cells slamming shut, prisoners shuffling through hallways—there’s always some kind of noise, something going on. Perhaps that’s all to keep anyone from feeling safe when they’re locked up.
“Yeah,” he says. “I have to get back too. There’s some kind of party on cell block D tonight. It’s gonna be a rager.” We chuckle. “When will you be back?” he asks.
He’s never asked me this before. “Soon,” I say, trying to offer him comfort without committing to anything.
“I hope so.”
I stand and the guard lets me out. I watch through the glass as they handcuff Ryan and lead him back to his cell. I never thought things would turn out like this. Not in a million years.
Chapter 20
Margaret
I have to testify tomorrow. I’ve been present for every day of my trial, but tomorrow is the decision-maker, the deal breaker. Everything hinges on what I have to say. My freedom depends on me being able to convince the jury that I did not kill my daughter, even though I did kill my husband. That’s a difficult line to walk. I have faith in myself, though.
There will be another trial to determine whether I killed Dave. I’ve been charged with premeditated murder, but Stanley thinks it won’t be hard to get me off. This trial, right now, about Lana’s death, is the hard part. He’s already warned me it’s unlikely I will be acquitted. Even though he tells me this at every meeting, I think he’s just preparing me for the worst. A jury wouldn’t really convict me, would they?
To say it’s torture to sit and listen as character “witnesses” who barely know me destroy me is an understatement. Stanley is in full control, preventing me from being a part of the process or having a say in any part of my trial. Instead, I sit there and have to restrain myself from harming anyone else while my reputation gets dragged through the mud.
Our—I should say my—401(k) is basically empty now, all of the funds having gone to Stanley. I had plans for that money, lots of plans, but they are all slipping away as I write check after check to his office. It’s going to take a miracle and a fast-talking esquire to get me out of this mess. Also, my testimony. If there’s anything that can convince the people sitting in that box, wishing they could go back to their miserable jobs because they hate jury duty so much more than their typical nine-to-five, it’s my own words. Hopefully Stanley is qualified to prepare my defense.
The chance to share my story has me both nervous and excited, with butterflies flying around my stomach like I’m back in high school, preparing to give a speech, or behind the curtain on opening night in the student musical. Those are moments I miss, and getting back to that flash of panic followed by a rush of adrenaline and finally the roar of the crowd sounds rather nice. Not that experiencing those feelings again is worth what my life has become. It’s not. Clearly. But since I have to go through it anyway, I might as well find the brighter side.
Stanley told me to steer clear of any alcohol or drugs tonight. I intend to stay away from drugs at all times; I’ve never even smoked a joint. But come on, a little drink isn’t going to hurt me. I pour myself a tall glass of champagne and top it with orange juice, just the way I like my mimosas. I put the bottle of bubbly and its orange juice assistant back into the refrigerator so they’ll stay nice and cold when the craving for the second one strikes. And I know it will.
If I’m supposed to get the requisite amount of sleep, also per Stanley’s instructions, then I will definitely need the assistance of my beverage. The bubbles tickle my nose as I lean in close to catch a whiff. Then they meet my lips and finally tingle all the way down, comforting me with their fizzy goodness. I turn on the TV and put something on, it doesn’t matter what; I’m not thinking about what’s playing on the screen in front of me, as long as it’s not about me. The local news just can’t get enough of my story.
Instead of watching I’m going over all the sessions I’ve had with Stanley and his associates in my head, practicing so I don’t freeze on the stand. Stanley tried to get the judge to throw out discussion of the other case, but it didn’t work, so it’s been brought up many times. And it most definitely will be part of my questioning.
Doing the run-through sounds like it would be easy. I figured we’d go over a few softball questions to make sure my story lined up, not that it’s anything other than the truth, and then move on. I quickly found out that this was not the case. Stanley said the prosecutor will have even more difficult and upsetting questions than the ones he asked me, which, when combined with the pressure of sitting in the courtroom, in front of the judge, jury, and gallery, could quite simply crush me. I find this hard to believe, since I ended up in tears after only an hour of his practice questioning. I know my tale of woe inside and out, up and down, word for word. Nothing can surprise me. I have lived my life, and only I know the truth.
Unfortunately, everyone has a different version of the truth, and it’s my word against everyone else’s. Considering the jury already knows for sure that I killed another human being, they might not buy my version of the truth about Lana’s death.
The phone rings. I think about ignoring it, but heed Stanley’s warning, one of many, to answer the phone whenever it rings, no matter what I am doing. It could literally mean life or death, Stanley or one of his underlings calling to alert me to some tragedy or another. As if my life isn’t already tragic enough.
I look at the phone, convinced it’s going to be Stanley telling me there’s another death threat against me or something. Just because the death penalty isn’t on the table doesn’t mean I won’t end up dead, apparently.
It’s Beth. I only have seconds to decide whether to answer it. I pick it up, knowing it’s possible she has even worse news than Stanley might have.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hey, sis,” Beth says. “How you holdin’ up?”
“Oh, come on, this is no big deal,” I say.
I’ve convinced myself this is true, at least I think I have, but when my voice shakes as I talk, I know I’m lying to myself. I down the remainder of my mimosa.
“Yeah, the rest of your life only depends on it,” she says. “I wouldn’t be nervous either.”
I cradle the phone on my shoulder and get up to make myself another drink.
“It’s just another performance.”
“So the truth is a performance?”
“Of course it is. I’ve been trained to look like a dowdy suburban housewife, smile at the right moment, cry at others, look empathetic. That damn attorney made me take his associate and go buy the ugliest fucking clothes you’ve ever seen in your entire life.”
“I’m sorry you won’t look like a bitchy supermodel and make the whole jury hate you,” Beth says, more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
“Me, too.”
“You can change the moment you get home. Hey, what are you doing right now?”
“Nothing,” I answer. “Why?”
“It sounds like you’re tearing down the house or something.”
“I was trying to be quiet,” I say. “I’m making a drink.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Who are you—my mom?” I retort.
“Just want you at your best for tomorrow, despite the unfortunate wardrobe. Is it pink? Tell me the outfit’s pink.”
“Even worse: pink floral. And this white grandma shawl to put over my shoulders.” I make dry heaving sounds into the phone. “I swear I’m gonna throw up just at the sight of it.”
“You’ll live. Once the trial’s over you can burn it.”
For some inexplicable reason, other than the champagne going straight to my head, I panic. I see my life flash before my eyes. What if I can’t convince the jury to acquit me? What if I’m locked up for the rest of my life? What if this is it? It’s all over? The only thing I’ll be able to change into following the trial is an orange jumpsuit. Or worse, a striped one. Do they still have striped uniforms? I don’t know anything about prison. I don’t want to.
I can’t breathe. I can’t see straight. I grab my champagne flute and sink to the floor where I sit, legs out in front of me, leaning my head against the cabinet, my newly dyed hair blending into the cabinets—a shade of mousy brown, because no innocent housewife would have pretty hair.
“What if it doesn’t work?” I ask Beth.
She doesn’t say anything for a minute and I fear we’ve been disconnected. Then she breaks the silence. “You’ll appeal. Or get probation or house arrest. We’ll figure it out. We’ll hire a better lawyer.”
“I won’t be able to afford a better lawyer.”
“I’ll cover it,” Beth says, even though I don’t know if she really means it, or if she could even afford it.
“Will you be there tomorrow?” I ask.
“Where else would I be?” she says, and I feel better. Knowing Beth will be there means nothing bad can happen to me. Although that’s probably just another lie I’m telling myself.
We have a war room at the courthouse. I don’t know how Stanley managed to finagle it, but I suppose that simply shows the great power he has. We are gathered there, and instead of telling me everything will work out and I’ll do fantastic on the stand after so much preparation, they’re blasting questions at me. I’ve never been happier that I had that drink—or five—last night.
“What happened the day your husband died?” one associate asks. I swear she looks too young to be a lawyer, wearing a gorgeous black dress that makes me hate my Macy’s outfit even more than I already did.
“We’ve been over this a thousand times. I’ll be fine.”
“Answer the goddamn question, Margaret,” Stanley chimes in, reading over his notes.
He seems in his own little world, yet he still has an incredibly firm grasp on everything going on around him. He should have been a parent; he would have made a damn good one, and probably wouldn’t have ended up like me. I told him all of that once and he said if he was a parent he wouldn’t have been a good lawyer, and the latter was more important to him. I’m not sure if that comforted me or sent a chill down my spine. The answer will be clearer to me once we hear the verdict.
“He came home from work. He accused me of killing Lana. We got into an argument. We’ve had arguments like that before,” I say, tearing up. The tears are on call, just like a phony smile on a model. “I thought he’d just go to the bedroom and change his clothes. But then he suddenly grabbed my neck and started . . . he started to . . . to strangle me.”
“She’s ready,” Stanley interrupts, without looking up from his papers.
He’s right; I am. I’m going to put on the best show a jury’s ever seen, real or otherwise.
We file into the courtroom. The prosecutor and his team are already sitting at their table, chomping at the bit, totally convinced they’ve got me right where they want me. I flash a quick smile right at that prosecutor. Today’s not about Stanley and his team, nor the judge or the gallery; it’s not even really about the jury. It’s all about me and that prosecutor, and who can outsmart whom. I think I’ll win, but I’m sure he’s feeling exactly the same way.
In the blink of an eye, I’m on the stand. Stanley threw me a few softball questions to get me comfortable on the stand, but it’s so different actually being up here than it was in practice. Even when I was sitting in Stanley’s fake courtroom, his staff’s eyes on me, the pressure was nothing like this. I thought I’d be a rock star, and now I know I’m about to choke. I reach up to wipe my brow but feel Stanley staring at me and hear his words about never looking flustered echo in my ears. I put my hand down.
Before I know it, Stanley is done for now. He’s saving the big guns for redirect, when he’ll get to pick up the pieces of the mess I’ve been warned the prosecutor is going to make of me.
Stanley sits.
The prosecutor is standing and walking over to me. I flinch; I can’t help it.
“Ms. Moore. What were you doing before you found your daughter hanging in her bedroom?”
“Having coffee, catching up on the news. It was like any other morning.” I maybe expected a “How are you doing today,” but I suppose I should remember I’m on trial for murder, not at Starbucks.
“And then what happened?”
“My husband—”
“Your late husband?”
“Yes, my late husband found her hanging in her bedroom. I heard him yell and ran to him . . . and her.”
“Did you take her down? Perform CPR?”
“Dave did that while I ran to call nine-one-one. I wanted to get an ambulance to the house as soon as possible, so they . . . I thought they could save Lana.”
I get choked up a little, but don’t let the full waterworks start yet. I was commanded to save those for later in my testimony, preferably when Stanley is questioning me, but I have to turn on the tears when I have to turn on the tears.
“But they couldn’t?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t want an autopsy performed on your daughter. Why is that, Ms. Moore?”
I never knew that a simple question posed to the doctor in the heat of the moment after literally just finding out Lana was dead would come back to haunt me, but when you are on trial for murder and the doctor testifies, everything is up for grabs.
“Well,” I reply, “would you want an autopsy performed on your daughter if you were certain she had hanged herself, considering you were the one to find her in such a position? Would anyone?”
I’ve managed to calm down considerably since taking the stand. Now that I’m on my game, the gallery has become my adoring audience, waiting for me to hit the high note and take a bow. The judge has been transformed into my director. The prosecutor, my antagonist. My archrival. My enemy.
“I suppose not. What about the tip to the police?”
“What about it?”
“That tip was from your husband, is that correct?”
“Well, I’m not sure that’s ever been proven.”
“That’s not what this recording says.”
He picks a CD off the table in a shiny jewel case and waves it in the air.
“Objection!” Stanley shouts. “We never received that recording.”
“Where did you get that?” the judge asks.
“The police department. It’s public record. All tip lines are.”
“We were told they lost the recording, your honor,” Stanley says.
“And you believed that?” the judge retorts. “Stanley Harmon believed a recording was lost?”
He hangs his head. “I did.”
“Give Mr. Harmon a copy. We’ll
take a short recess while he listens to it and confers with his client.”
I don’t know much about the law, but I know that this recording needs to be thrown out, because if my husband thinks I killed Lana, so will the jury, and even I won’t be able to convince them otherwise.
Chapter 21
Margaret
“How the fuck did you let that happen?” Stanley yells at all of us as soon as he shuts the door to our war room.
“How did I let that happen? I couldn’t control my husband. That should be clear, considering I had to kill him so he wouldn’t kill me.”
“Oh, please, I don’t believe that for a moment,” he says. “You wanted to kill him. It’s fine; most of my clients are just as guilty as you, and I sleep fine at night. But I do not appreciate surprises.”
“That’s why you’ve got this team of goons at your beck and call doing things I’m not sure the judge would like to hear about.”
“Are you two done?” the associate in the pretty dress asks. “Because this isn’t helping us at all.”
She puts the CD in her laptop computer. She taps her red nails on the mousepad while it loads, then clicks a few times and Dave’s voice fills the room. The first hint of it sends a chill down my spine.
“Umm, I don’t think I have to say my name, but I have a tip on my daught—on Lana Moore’s death. I don’t think she really killed herself. I think she was murdered. Please investigate it. You need to investigate it.”
Stanley slams his hand on the table and the whole thing shakes. Water sloshes out of a glass filled too full.
“So we’re fucked,” he says.
“I don’t know what got into him. She killed herself.”
“Well, we all know that’s not the case now, so you can stop telling that story,” Stanley says, frustrated.
“What do you want me to say—that I thought he did it? Fine. I thought he did it from the moment I saw her body. I knew immediately she didn’t kill herself, so it was most likely one of us, and considering neither one of us was about to confess, we just pointed fingers at each other. Is that what you want to hear?”
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