by Nancy Moser
Watching her weight, no doubt. I’ll be happy to watch her weight.
As soon as they were settled at the only free table by the restrooms, Ken made introductions. “I’m Ken Doolittle. And you are?”
They shook hands over the table. “Deidre Kelly.”
“So. What do you think so far?” Ken asked.
“We’re not supposed to talk about the trial.”
He shrugged. “It was worth a shot. But now that I know you’re an honest woman, I won’t try to lead you astray again.”
“Are you married, Ken?” she asked.
“Divorced. You?”
“My husband is Dr. Sigmund T. Kelly.”
Though the name sounded familiar, he knew it would make for more interesting conversation if he pretended it wasn’t. “Sorry. I’m not familiar.”
Her face revealed an Oh, really? look. “He travels the world and operates on children, for free.”
“Do you go with him?”
She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “No. I have a twelve-year-old daughter. We have a daughter. She was mine before we got married.” She dunked her spoon in her soup. “We got married and then Sig operated on her. He cured her hip joint problem.”
“Marriage is one way to get a free operation.” When she didn’t smile, Ken realized he might have gone too far. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that.”
“I don’t know what we would have done if Sig hadn’t come along.”
Obviously, without meaning to, he’d hit the mark. Time to change the subject, though it was one he rarely visited. “I have a son.”
“How old?”
“Twenty.”
“Is he in college?”
A bitter laugh escaped along with a shake of his head. “I’d love to say he was busy finding himself, but the truth is, Philip isn’t that ambitious.”
“Maybe it’s just a phase.”
“Maybe.” Not.
For the rest of the meal they’d talked about safe subjects like travel and golf, and Ken was fine with the idea of avoiding further discussion about their families.
Odd thing, families.
***
Ken walked into his empty kitchen and saw that the light on the answering machine was pulsing. He hit the Play button.
“Hi. Dad. This is Philip. I…uh…how have you been? Anyway, I really need to talk to you. I want to talk to you. If you have a chance. I mean, if you want. Here’s my number…”
Ken did not pick up a pen to write the number down, and it wasn’t because he knew it by heart. He opened the fridge.
Odd thing, families.
***
“So?” Sig met Deidre at the door.
“Can I at least set my purse down?” she asked.
Sig stepped back, finding the edge of the counter for support.
She looked past him. “Where’s Nelly?”
“She’s at her piano lesson. Karla took her.”
It took Deidre a moment to remember what day it was. And the time. It was four-thirty. “Why are you home so early?” she asked.
He sighed. “I can’t work. I can’t concentrate on anything. Tell me what happened at the trial.”
Although his interest was a bit desperate, she enjoyed owning control of the moment, enjoyed it enough to prolong it. “I need some iced tea.”
She poured herself a glass and added a packet of Equal. She stirred, letting the dink-clink-plink of the spoon against the glass ring a moment. “Would you like a glass?”
“Deidre, please.”
She’d pushed it far enough. She strolled into the family room. The television was on the evening news. She shut it off. Having Sig’s full attention was a luxury she was going to milk without distraction. “They gave opening statements and we listened to one witness.”
“Who’s going to win?” he asked.
“We don’t know yet. We haven’t heard all the evidence.”
He sat on the edge of his favorite leather chair. “Which lawyer is the best?”
“The prosecution. By far.”
The kitchen door sprang open and Nelly and Karla came in.
“Hey, Mom.” Nelly stopped at the edge of the room. “Dad? Why are you home so early?”
He huffed. “You’d think I was never home.”
“You’re never home this early,” Karla said. “But lucky you, because now you’ll be able to partake of my famous lasagna hot out of the oven instead of warmed up.”
“And garlic bread?” Nelly said.
“A ridiculous, decadent amount.”
Nelly headed for her room upstairs. “Tons and tons of cheese, please.”
“You got it.”
The three adults looked at each other an awkward moment; then Karla said, “You’re not talking about the trial, are you? Because from what I’ve heard, jurors are instructed not to talk about it.”
Deidre looked to Sig. She wasn’t sure what to do. She had been instructed not to talk about it.
“I’m her husband. She tells me everything.”
Not everything,
Karla put her fingers in her ears and chanted, “I’m not listening. I’m not listening.”
Sig waved a hand at her. “That’s your choice. But I want to hear, so if you’ll excuse us?”
It was not like Sig to be rude to Karla. They got along amazingly well considering they weren’t even related.
Her mother-in-law seemed unsure how to react. She made a face, then retreated toward the front hall. Probably going downstairs to her apartment.
Sig sighed. He looked wiped out. “Finally. Now go on. Tell me everything.”
So much for milking the moment. Deidre gave a quick recap of the day’s events, including a description of the lawyers. “Looks do matter in these things.”
Sig nodded. “You mentioned a witness?”
“The coroner.” This was her drama card for the day. “Brett died of drowning.”
He sat forward. “Not from being hit over the head?”
“It was implied the bonk on the head dazed him and made him sink into the water. Where he drowned.”
Sig sat back against the soft leather of the chair. “Oh.”
Deidre’s attention was drawn toward the front hall. There, against the marble floor, she spotted a shadow—the shadow of Karla? Listening?
Sig needed to stop talking. Loose lips sink ships.
She stood and said, “I’m going to work on dinner.” She pointed toward the foyer and mouthed “Kar-la.”
Sig offered another defeated sigh but grabbed the remote and turned on the news.
Deidre could certainly teach her mother-in-law a thing or two about being sneaky.
THREE
I replied, “But my work seems so useless!
I have spent my strength for nothing
and to no purpose. Yet I leave it all
in the Lord’s hand; I will trust
God for my reward.”
ISAIAH 49:4
She reminds me of Mama.
Bobby Mann was surprised by the thought. But as he sat in the courtroom on the second day of the trial and looked at petite, fragile Patti McCoy, the present raced back to collide with the distant past.
He hadn’t seen his mama since he was fourteen. Actually the last time he’d seen her...
He squeezed his eyes shut against that particular memory: looking up from raking the leaves in the side yard, only to see his mama walk down the front walk of the house, her arms cradling herself as if she was cold.
Get a sweater on, Mama.
He remembered thinking that. He’d been brought up to be a practical and caring boy, aware of the needs of others. Mama was always after him and his two brothers and three sisters to get a sweater on—most likely because she was cold. She was always cold. There wasn’t enough meat on her to keep her warm in any weather below sixty.
But on that day in the fall of his fourteenth year Mama hadn’t worn a sweater. She hadn’t really needed one, because she wasn’t ou
tside that long. Just long enough to walk down the front path, walk between two cars parked on the busy street, and walk out into the ever-present traffic.
He’d never forget the sound of it, the awful thump as car met flesh.
Bobby shook his head. Mama couldn’t help herself. She’d been distraught over the death of her husband who’d accidentally died while walking in front of other traffic, on another busy street. But Daddy had been drunk. Mama was sober.
Drunk with grief?
Bobby knew the feeling. Losing his dad, then his mom, then having all the kids get split up was like getting run over. He’d only seen his siblings a couple times since. But now, double the age he was then, even if they did miraculously find each other they’d be strangers, like playmates who were conjured up only in snapshots and snippets of memories.
Bobby had gone to live with his grandpa in Branson. Teddy Mann had been a crotchety old cuss. The best man Bobby had ever known.
Suddenly, Bobby was yanked back to the courtroom as Patti McCoy looked directly at him. She smiled just a little, her expression changing from fear to…
Bobby looked away. She reminds me of Mama.
***
Finally. The good stuff.
Ken crossed his legs, getting comfortable for the first witness of the day. Officer Carter, the first officer at the scene.
The prosecutor began. “What did you find when you answered the 911 call to 1248 Bonham?”
“I answered the call with my partner, Officer Randy Moore. Actually, we weren’t far away when the call came, so we got there within a couple minutes. My partner was driving, and when we pulled up, I saw a woman open the door to a car which was sitting in front of the house. When she saw us, she bolted. She ran down the street, between some houses—they are acreages out there—and I ran after her.”
“What did your partner do?”
“He yelled that he was going to check the house.”
“Did you apprehend the woman?”
“I did.” He nodded toward Patti. “It was the defendant, Patti Jo McCoy.” He smiled. “She may be small but she was feisty.” He seemed to catch his smile and got serious. “Feisty for a moment. I got her calmed down soon enough.”
“Did she say anything to you?”
“She kept saying, ‘He’s dead! I can’t believe he’s dead!’”
“Meaning Mr. Lerner.”
Carter nodded. “Of course I didn’t know that at the time, but yes. That’s the only DB we came upon that night.”
“DB. Dead body?”
“Yeah. Yes. Sorry.”
“What happened next?”
“I took her back toward the house and secured her in the back of the squad car. By then my partner, Randy, was coming to the front to get me. He led me round back.”
“What did you find there?”
“I saw the victim, Brett Lerner, floating in a hot tub. There was blood on his head and in the water.”
“Was the water still or bubbling?”
“Still.”
“What else?”
“There was a broken wine bottle beside the hot tub, a toppled wineglass, and a rumpled towel.”
“Dry or wet?”
Officer Carter looked to the ceiling. “Dry.”
“Anything else? Anyone else at the scene?”
“A man in jogging shorts and a T-shirt came around the house, into the backyard.”
“Who was that?”
“The neighbor who’d called 911, who’d heard the defendant scream. And he said—”
Cummings held up a hand. “We will call the neighbor, Bill Daltry, to the stand to make his own testimony, Your Honor.”
The judge nodded.
“What happened next?”
“An ambulance came, and Lerner was pronounced dead. Then the crime unit showed up to process the scene.”
“What happened to the defendant?”
“We were going to question her more right there at the scene, but she was in a bad state, hugging herself, rocking, shaking her head. It was getting crazy at the house too—TV cameras had showed up; we don’t have that many murders in Branson, you know—so we took her to the station for questioning. For her own good.”
“Was she a suspect?”
“Not officially. Not yet. But a person would have to be dumb not to see the connection and—”
“Objection!”
“Sustained.”
It was obvious Officer Carter didn’t like being cut off. Ken agreed with what he was going to say. Patti had been trying to escape the scene in her car, and when the cops came she ran. Yes indeed, a person would have to be dumb not to see the connection. She was guilty. Of something.
“What happened at the station?”
“First off, we fixed her hand up. It was bleeding. Not bad, but she’d cut herself on the wine bottle when—”
“Objection!”
Officer Carter didn’t wait for the judge to rule. “She told us that herself. About how she’d been cut.”
“Overruled,” the judge said.
“Continue,” Cummings said.
“After she told us about the cut, we had no choice but to consider her a suspect, so we read her her rights.”
“Did she waive those rights?”
“Yes, sir, she did.”
Cummings moved to the evidence table and held up a bound stack of paper. “Your Honor, I would like to offer the transcript of that interview into evidence.”
“So noted.”
Cummings held the transcript but returned to the place in front of the prosecutor’s table. “In short, what did the defendant say happened?”
Officer Carter took a deep breath. “She said Lerner was her boyfriend and she’d gone over to his house after work, wanting to talk to him about something important.”
“Which was?”
“She was pregnant.”
“He was the father?”
“Well, that’s what she said.” Carter’s voice was skeptical.
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“Sustained. No embellishments, Officer. However subtle.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” He cleared his throat. “She knocked on the front door. When he didn’t answer she went around back because she knew he liked to get in the hot tub most evenings, it didn’t matter how cold. She didn’t see him, but the hot tub was bubbling. She saw the broken wine bottle and picked it up. Then the timer on the hot tub stopped and when the bubbles cleared, she saw him.”
“Did she call 911?”
“No, sir. The jogger did that.”
“If she was innocent, why didn’t she call for help?”
“Objection, Your Honor! Calls for conclusion.”
Cummings waved a hand. “Withdrawn.” He stroked his chin a moment. “How many years have you been on the force, Officer?”
“Nine.”
“In those nine years have you ever apprehended a suspect who was running away from a crime scene?”
Carter snickered. “They don’t just stand there and wait to be arrested.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes. Many.”
“Have you personally apprehended an innocent person who was running away from the scene of a crime?”
Stadler rose. “Your Honor…”
The judge nodded. “I’ll allow it.” He turned to Officer Carter. “In your personal experience only, Officer.”
Carter nodded. “In my experience, no. If they were running, they were guilty.”
“Nothing further.”
Stadler rose for his turn. “When you encountered Ms. McCoy, did you cuff her?”
“No, sir.”
“But if every person who runs from a crime scene is guilty, shouldn’t you have assumed she was guilty?”
“We didn’t know there was a crime yet. The 911 call said there was a woman screaming.”
“In your vast experience as an officer of the law, do people scream for no reason?”
“No.”
&n
bsp; “So why didn’t you cuff her? Obviously something frightening or bad had happened at that house.”
Officer Carter squirmed in the wooden chair.
“Officer?”
“It was just that... she was just so little.”
“So drawing on your vast experience, she didn’t look like your usual criminal?”
“Well, no.”
“And when she said ...” Stadler turned to the court stenographer. “Can you read me back Officer Carter’s quote of what the defendant said, please?”
The stenographer read, “‘He’s dead. I can’t believe he’s dead.’”
Stadler nodded. “Not ‘He’s dead! I can’t believe I killed him!’ but ‘He’s dead. I can’t believe he’s dead.’” Stadler looked at the officer. Waiting.
The officer looked at Stadler. Waiting.
Cummings stood. “Your Honor, is there a question?”
“Get to the point, Counselor.”
“Excuse me, Your Honor.” Stadler turned to Carter. “Could it be that the main reason you didn’t cuff her—even after you discovered there was a dead body involved—is that you knew she didn’t do it? She was a witness, not a criminal?”
“I didn’t know any such thing. As an officer of the law, I have to take into account everything—”
“I’m through, Your Honor.”
As the officer stepped down, Ken was very confused. If she was innocent, why had she run? Yet Patti McCoy did not look like a killer.
***
Once again, the prosecutor, Jonathan Cummings, looked classy, this time in a dark suit, a starched shirt, and a red tie sporting gold fleurs-de-lis. He was definitely easy on the eyes and Deidre realized he looked slightly familiar. She wasn’t sure whether it was from the media attention from some previous trial or whether they’d met at a social event. Either way she found comfort in his presence. They were on an equal social plane. The other people on the jury were another matter. Although the jury hadn’t gone into deliberations as yet, and they hadn’t had a real chance to introduce themselves and talk, Deidre remembered enough of the voir dire questions to know that the majority were middle-class working people. Not that there was anything wrong with that, not that Deidre hadn’t lived in that social stratum—or lower—during all but the past three years. It was just an observation.