by Joy Fielding
A father without a face. A daughter without a body. A mother without a clue. Some family.
And now Jake wanted to come home, to be a part of her life for however much of her life remained. He said it was because he wanted to do the right thing. But was it the right thing? And for whom?
“You’ll need someone to drive you places,” he’d argued, appealing to Mattie’s practical side when all other approaches failed.
“I can drive.”
“You can’t drive. What if you have another accident? What if you kill someone, for God’s sake?”
“Kim will have her license in a few months. She can drive me.”
“Don’t you think Kim will have enough to deal with?”
It was that question, startling in its simplicity, that forced Mattie’s capitulation. How could she ask Kim to be her sole means of emotional support, to pick her up when she fell down, to pick up after her when she was no longer able to pick up after herself, to pick up the pieces of their broken lives without breaking herself? Her beautiful little girl, Mattie thought, sweet little Miss Grundy. How would her daughter survive without her? “How can I tell you I’m leaving you?” she asked out loud, hearing the key turn in the lock.
“Mom?” Kim called from the front hall, the door opening and closing in one continuous arc. “What’s the matter?” she asked, as Mattie appeared in the kitchen doorway. “You look like you’ve been crying.”
Mattie opened her mouth to speak, but was distracted by the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.
Kim swiveled around, looked out the small window near the top of the front door. “It’s Daddy,” Kim said, clearly confused as she turned back to face her mother. “What’s he doing here?”
FOURTEEN
Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do.”
“Please state your name and address.”
“Leo Butler. One-forty-seven State Street, Chicago.”
“You may be seated.”
Jake watched from his seat at the defense table as Leo Butler, a balding and well-dressed man of sixty-two, withdrew his hand from the Bible and lowered himself carefully into his chair. Even sitting, he remained an imposing figure, his six-and-a-half-foot frame squeezed uncomfortably inside the small witness box, his shoulders broad beneath his brown cashmere jacket, his neck thick, his hands big and rough despite well-manicured nails. You can take the man off the football team, Jake thought to himself, but it wasn’t so easy to take the football away from the man. Not when the man in question was Leo Butler, former college running back, who’d inherited his father’s massive clothing empire at age twenty-five, only to run it almost into the ground ten years later. He’d been rescued by his wife Nora, who’d saved her husband’s ass shortly after their wedding thirty-one years ago, only to shoot him in the back on the eve of their divorce.
Jake smiled at the small, fine-boned, white-haired woman beside him at the defense table, her hands neatly folded in the lap of her gray silk dress, the pronounced blue veins on the backs of her hands competing with the blinding array of diamonds on her fingers. “I paid for the damn things,” she’d told Jake at their first interview. “Why shouldn’t I wear them?” Clearly not as delicate as she looked, Jake understood then, as now. Tough on the inside, delicate on the out—the perfect combination for a defendant in an attempted murder trial, where stamina was as important as appearance, and appearance often as important as evidence. Jake knew that a jury often ignored what it heard in favor of what it saw. And wasn’t one of the first things they taught you in law school that the appearance of justice being served was at least as important as justice itself?
In this case, the jury would hear about a bitter and unhappy woman, furious at having been abandoned by her husband for a woman younger than her daughter, embarrassed by the escalating openness of their affair, and desperate to retain her social standing in the community. The prosecution would show how she’d lured her estranged husband back to their home on New Year’s Eve just over one year ago, and pleaded with him to come back to her. They quarreled. He tried to leave. She shot him six times in the back. His girlfriend, waiting outside in the car, heard the shots and called the police. Nora Butler gave herself up to the arresting officer without a struggle.
Open and shut, the police proclaimed. Guilty as charged, the newspapers opined. Not so fast, said Jake Hart, signing on for the defense.
The assistant state’s attorney, Eileen Rogers, an aggressive and attractive brunette in a tailored navy pinstriped suit, was on her feet in front of the jury, asking the witness to describe his business holdings and current social status, guiding him quickly and expertly through the years of his marriage, detailing the couple’s bitter fights, the heavy drinking, the outright despair, right up until the day he asked for a divorce. Eileen Rogers then paused, took a deep breath, and lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Mr. Butler, can you tell us what happened the night of December 31, 1997?”
Jake swiveled around in his chair, quickly searching through the rows of spectators until he found the one he was looking for. Unlike the rest of the spectators, Kim sat slumped in her seat in the middle of the fourth row, looking tired and uninterested. Even those who didn’t know her could tell by her posture that she didn’t want to be there. Her dark blond hair was twisted into a tight little bun on top of her head, and her bow-shaped mouth was twisted into an equally tight little pout that all but screamed her displeasure. Although her bored blue eyes stared straight ahead, Jake knew she was aware of his gaze. Pay attention, Kim, he wanted to shout. You might actually find what I do interesting. You might actually learn something about your father.
Not that she was remotely interested in anything concerning him, Jake understood. She’d made that very clear in the three months since he moved back home, speaking to him only when he addressed her directly, looking at him only when he got in her way, acknowledging his existence with eyes that wished he were dead. She was as protective of her mother as she was dismissive of him, as if one posture dictated the other. Clearly, if Jake wished to have a relationship with his daughter, he’d have his work cut out for him. So when he found out that today was a professional development day at school, he’d seized the opportunity to ask Kim to accompany him to court. “I think you’d enjoy it,” he said. “It’s a high-profile case, lots of drama. I’ll take you out to lunch. We’ll make a day of it.”
“Not interested,” came the immediate response.
“Be ready by eight o’clock,” he insisted, still hearing the echo of Kim’s loud groan in his ears. Something about his tone must have told her not to give him a hard time on this one, or maybe it was Mattie who’d been able to persuade her. Whatever the reason, Kim was dressed, albeit in sloppy jeans and a sweatshirt, and ready to go at the appointed time. She’d feigned sleep in the car on the drive to the courthouse, which was fine with Jake, who used the time to mentally fine-tune his strategy for the day’s upcoming cross-examination. “Here we are,” he said, pulling the car into the parking garage adjoining the courthouse, gently tapping Kim’s arm. She pulled it away abruptly, and he felt as if his own arm were being torn from his side. Give me a chance, Kimmy, he wanted to say, running after her as she strode purposefully toward the elevators. “Kim—” he began, once inside the courthouse.
“I need to go to the bathroom.” She immediately disappeared behind the doors of the women’s washroom, not reappearing for a full fifteen minutes, until Jake wondered if she had any intention of ever coming out.
And now here she was, fourth row, fifth seat from the aisle, looking as if she’d been run over by a steamroller and was about to slide off the bench and disappear under the feet of the two middle-aged men sitting, ramrod-straight, to either side of her. I shouldn’t have insisted she come, Jake thought, wondering what he’d been hoping to accomplish.
“Nora called my apartment at about seven o’clock that night,” Leo But
ler began, the deep baritone of his voice even and strong. “She said she had to see me right away, that there was a problem with Sheena, our daughter. She refused to elaborate.”
“So you drove out to Lake Forest?”
“Yes.”
“And what happened when you got there?”
“Nora was waiting for me at the front door. I told Kelly to wait in the car —”
“Kelly?”
“Kelly Myerson, my fiancée.”
“Go on.”
Leo Butler forced a cough into his open palm. “I went inside with Nora, who was crying and carrying on, not making any sense at all. I could tell she’d been drinking.”
“Objection,” Jake said.
“Your Honor,” the prosecutor said quickly, “Leo and Nora Butler were married for over thirty years. I think he’s qualified to know when she’d been drinking.”
“I’m going to allow it,” Judge Pearlman said.
“Go on, Mr. Butler,” Eileen Rogers instructed.
“Nora admitted that our daughter was fine, that she’d just used her as a way of getting me to come out to the house, that she was upset because she’d received the divorce papers from my attorneys, that she was unhappy with my offer, that she didn’t want a divorce, that she wanted me to come back home, that she didn’t want me to go to the party with Kelly, on and on. She was becoming increasingly hysterical. I tried to reason with her. I reminded her that our marriage hadn’t been good for a long time, that we were only making each other miserable.”
That it was nobody’s fault, that she’d be better off without him, Jake continued silently, squirming uncomfortably in his chair.
“Suddenly, Nora stopped crying,” Leo Butler continued, his eyes reflecting his puzzlement, even now. “She got very calm, and this strange look came over her face. She said that as long as I’d come all the way out there, would I mind having a look at the fluorescent light over the kitchen counter because it had been making a funny noise. I said the light probably just needed to be changed, and she asked me if I’d do it for her. I thought, What the hell, change the damn thing and get out of there. I walked into the kitchen, and suddenly I heard this loud popping sound and felt a sharp tug on my shoulder, almost as if someone had pushed me. And then there was another pop, and another. Next thing I knew I was lying on the floor, and Nora was standing over me, with a gun in her hand and that eerie look on her face. It was then I realized I’d been shot. I said something like, ‘My God, Nora, what have you done?’ but she didn’t say anything. She just sat down on the floor beside me. It was weird. I asked her to call nine-one-one, and she did. I found out later that Kelly had already called nine-one-one. I passed out in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.”
“Exactly how many times had you been shot, Mr. Butler?”
“A total of six times, although, amazingly, all six shots missed my spine and vital organs. I’m only alive because my ex-wife was such a lousy shot.”
The courtroom chuckled. Jake listened for traces of his daughter’s laugh, was grateful not to hear any.
“Thank you,” the prosecutor stated. “No more questions.”
Jake was instantly on his feet. He walked toward the jury, which consisted of four men, eight women, and two alternates, also women. “Mr. Butler, you said your wife called you at approximately seven o’clock in the evening.”
“My ex-wife, yes,” Leo Butler corrected.
“Ex-wife, yes,” Jake repeated. “The one you walked out on after thirty-one years of marriage.”
“Objection.”
“Counselor,” the judge warned.
“Sorry,” Jake apologized quickly. “So, your ex-wife called you at seven, said there was an emergency regarding your daughter, and you rushed right over. Is that correct?”
“Well, no. Kelly and I were getting dressed for a New Year’s Eve party, and we decided to finish getting ready and stop at Nora’s on our way to the party.”
“So what time did you arrive at two-sixty-five Sunset Drive in Lake Forest? Seven-thirty? Eight o’clock?”
“I believe it was just after nine o’clock.”
“Nine o’clock? A full two hours after your wife called and said there was an emergency involving your daughter?” Jake shook his head in feigned wonderment.
“Nora had pulled this sort of stunt before,” Leo Butler replied, unable to keep the testiness out of his voice. “I wasn’t convinced there was any real emergency.”
“Obviously.” Jake smiled at one of the older women jurors. Has your husband ever treated you so cavalierly? the smile asked.
“And I was right.” Once again, Leo Butler coughed into his hand.
“I believe you said you were going to a New Year’s party in the area,” Jake said, suddenly shifting gears.
“The party was in Lake Forest, yes.”
“A party at a friend’s house?”
“Objection, Your Honor. Relevance?” Impatience played with the prosecutor’s thin eyebrows, lifting them up and down.
“I believe the relevance will be clear shortly,” Jake said.
“Go ahead,” the judge instructed.
“A party at a friend’s house?” Jake repeated.
“Yes,” Leo Butler said. “Rod and Anne Turnberry.”
“I see. Were the Turnberrys recent acquaintances?”
“No. I’ve known them for many years.”
“How many?”
“What?”
“How many years have you known the Turnberrys? Five? Ten? Twenty?”
“At least twenty.” Leo Butler’s neck flushed red above the collar of his pale yellow shirt.
“Am I correct in assuming that the Turnberrys were also friends of your wife’s?”
“They were friends of Nora’s, yes.”
“But Nora wasn’t invited to the Turnberrys’ New Year’s Eve party, correct?”
“Rod thought it might be awkward to invite both of us, under the circumstances.”
“The circumstances being that you were bringing your new girlfriend?”
“The circumstances being that Nora and I were getting a divorce, that I was starting a new life.”
“A new life that didn’t include Nora, but did include virtually all her old friends,” Jake stated.
“Objection, Your Honor.” The assistant state’s attorney was on her feet. “Still waiting for relevance.”
“Goes to the defendant’s state of mind, Your Honor,” Jake qualified. “It was New Year’s Eve, the defendant was spending it alone while her husband was going to a party with all her old friends. She felt alone, abandoned, deserted.”
“Objection,” Eileen Rogers said again. “Really, Your Honor. Mr. Hart is making speeches.”
“Save it for your closing statement,” the judge admonished, instructing the jury to disregard Jake’s later comments while overruling the prosecutor’s objection.
“So, Mr. Butler,” Jake continued, once again glancing toward the rows of spectators, trying to will his daughter’s eyes to his, “you stated when you finally arrived at your former home, you found your wife in a highly agitated state.”
“It had nothing to do with our daughter.” Leo Butler tried clearing the defensiveness out of his voice.
“No,” Jake agreed. “Your wife was upset about having received the divorce papers, you said. She wasn’t happy with the offer of settlement. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s correct.”
“What was the offer?”
“Excuse me?”
“What were you offering your sixty-year-old wife after more than thirty years of marriage?”
“It was a very generous offer.” Leo Butler’s eyes appealed to the prosecutor for help, but Eileen Rogers let the question stand. (He’s doing my job for me, Jake could almost hear her thinking. Establishing a motive for the shooting. Damned if I’ll object.) “She got to keep the house, her car, jewelry, fur coats, plus very generous alimony,” Leo Butler said.
“And the bus
iness?”
“I inherited my business from my father,” Leo Butler explained. “I didn’t think Nora was entitled to any of it.”
“Even though your business was falling apart when you married her? Even though she literally bailed you out of bankruptcy?”
“I think that’s overstating—”
“Do you deny she used virtually all of her own inheritance to pay off your creditors?”
“I don’t know the exact figures.”
“I’m sure we could find out.”
“Nora was very supportive,” Leo Butler reluctantly agreed.
“But what had she done for you lately?”
“Objection.”
“Withdrawn.”
“You said your wife had been drinking before you arrived.”
“That’s right.”
“You also stated she was a heavy drinker throughout your marriage. When exactly did she start drinking?”
“I couldn’t answer that.”
“Could she have started around the time you started beating her?”
The assistant state’s attorney all but fell out of her chair in her rush to object. “Really, Your Honor. When did you stop beating your wife?!”
“I believe the question was, When did you start beating your wife,” Jake said, as laughter filled the courtroom, “but I’m happy to rephrase that.” He took a deep breath. “Mr. Butler, how often would you say you beat your wife during the course of your marriage?”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“Do you deny beating your wife?” Jake persisted.
“Objection.”
“Overruled,” the judge declared, as Eileen Rogers plopped back into her chair with an audible thud. “The witness will answer the question.”
“I didn’t beat my wife,” Leo Butler announced, lowering his massive hands into his lap as if to hide them from the jurors.
“You’re saying you never slapped her around from time to time?”