She sat up in bed, covering herself with the sheet. “Then let me take a guess. You’re afraid that if Lily knows that life with you will include me, she’ll want to live with the Moons.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “You aren’t Mary Crow for nothing, are you?”
“It doesn’t take much to put that together.”
He came over and sat on the edge of the bed, ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t know what to say.”
Suddenly, she loved him more than she ever had and then with equal suddenness, she realized how impossible everything had become. He loved his child without reservation. He loved her, too, but within certain parameters. “Maybe there’s nothing to say,” she whispered.
“Koga,” he used the old Cherokee word for crow as he lifted sad eyes to meet hers. “I love—
“It’s okay,” she said, interrupting him, not wanting to hear about who he loved. She knew that, already. “Maybe it’s better not to talk anymore tonight.”
“Maybe not,” he said, leaning over to kiss her again. “Anyway, I’ll see you in court tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you take the day off?” she suggested quickly. “Take Lily fishing. You’ve heard everything I have to say, a hundred times over.”
He shook his head, his expression growing hawkish. “I wouldn’t miss you taking on Fred Moon for the world. I want to watch you put the lie to his shit, once and for all.”
She started to tremble, knowing that she should tell him about Fiddlesticks, knowing that Alex wanted no surprises in court, but she couldn’t do it. If she told him that now, all their lovemaking would become farce. “Okay, then,” she finally said. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He kissed her once more, then he let himself out the door. She listened as his footsteps padded down the hall, then she reached over and turned on the light. She sat up in bed and listened to the thudding of her own heart, every beat bringing her a little closer to tomorrow, when she would raise her hand and swear to tell the truth about all the things she’d lied about today.
Thirty-Two
She awoke with the memory of his body—his fingers on her skin, his breath tickling her neck, his long warmth enveloping her. She reached across the bed for him from years of practice; finding it empty came again as a surprise. She opened her eyes, saw tousled sheets, an anonymous motel room. For an instant she felt adrift in strange surroundings—then it all came back. Jonathan. Lily. Oklahoma. Court.
“Dear God,” she whispered, remembering the night before. She’d planned to tell him about the Fiddlesticks case, had started to half a dozen times, but each time he would make love to her again, and then he’d left to go to Lily. “I didn’t tell him. He still doesn’t know.”
She closed her eyes, imagining a courtroom, a rabbit-faced attorney waving a copy of the Snitch with her picture in it. Aren’t you involved in this case, Ms. Crow? Aren’t you defending a man accused of mutilating this girl? Doesn’t that dump your oh-so-noble promise to Mr. Walkingstick in the garbage can? The lawyer would wave the tabloid in front of the judge, snidely paint her as a liar. She knew she would—it was exactly what she would do, were she representing the Moons.
She grabbed the phone, called Jonathan’s room. Maybe he can get away for five minutes, she thought, and leave Lily with the woman who’s taking care of her. The phone rang, but no one answered. She finally gave up and called Alex.
“Hey,” she said when her old friend picked up the phone. “Do you know where Jonathan is?”
“He took Lily out for breakfast,” she replied. “I think they wanted some father-daughter time, alone.”
“Oh.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” said Mary. There was no point in revealing any of this to Alex. She had enough on her plate already.
“Well, I’m taking Jonathan to court early. Sam Hodges will pick you up about quarter to nine. He wears one of those Cherokee turbans, so don’t freak out.”
“Okay—see you later.” Mary hung up the phone, tempted to laugh. A man wearing a turban was the least of her worries.
She made a pot of coffee and took a quick shower. As she soaped her body, she again remembered the feel of Jonathan, next to her. “This will be okay,” she tried to convince herself. “He’ll see you were just doing your job.”
Which was true, up to a point, she decided as she toweled off. And that point was Lily. If her involvement in the Fiddlesticks case hurt his chances of keeping Lily, then he would never forgive her.
“And what then?” she asked her reflection in the mirror. “Do I beg for mercy and go back to writing wills for the next ten years?”
The answer came swiftly, just as it had yesterday when she and Alex were having lunch. But now she had no time to deal with it. Instead she brushed her teeth and started dressing for court.
Twenty minutes later, someone knocked on her door. Hoping it might be Jonathan, she answered it quickly. A short, broad-faced man in a red and black turban stood in the hall, smiling.
“Sheeoh,” he greeted her in Cherokee.
“Hi,” she replied in English. She was sick of Cherokee, sick of the Moons, sick of this whole business. “You must be Sam.”
He nodded. “Ahyol diza?”
“Fine, thanks. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Don’t you speak Tsalagi?”
“Not before court,” she snapped. “Catch me some other time, and I’ll Tsalagi your ear off.”
“Sorry.” He shrugged. “Are you ready to go?”
“Just about.” She walked over and grabbed her purse, checking herself in the mirror. Sapphire blue suit that brushed the tops of her knees, modest heels, and pearls. It was pretty in an afternoon tea sort of way, but so unlike her usual sexy court suits that she felt odd walking out the door in it. Mary Crow as docile little help mate, she thought, fighting back another laugh. If anybody in that courtroom bought that, she’d put on a turban and whistle Dixie.
They drove to Tahlequah, Sam filling her in on the trial.
“So how did Jonathan come across?” Mary asked him.
“Good, for the most part. Good provider, caring to the point of being a bit over-protective, but who’s going to blame a father for that these days?”
“Nobody I know,” said Mary.
“I actually thought the judge was going to rule Friday, for you guys. But Bagwell wanted to continue. Alex was already beginning to feel like you were the missing piece, so she jumped at the chance to get you out here.” Sam looked at her. “Looks like it’s all up to you, now.”
They finally reached Tahlequah. Sam dropped her off in front of the courthouse and she rode the elevator up to the third floor, where Cherokee County family court was held, the Honorable Diane Haddad presiding.
She peeked in the door before she went inside. The Moons’ half of the courtroom was filled with short, broad people wearing everything from suits to cowboy outfits. On the other side of the aisle, Jonathan and Alex sat alone. She opened the door. Though she’d planned to walk in a demure, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly gait, she changed her mind, walking in her regular, take-no-prisoners stride. She noticed heads turning as she passed, a low murmur going up from the Moons’ side of the courtroom.
“I knew that was you.” Alex stood up and hugged her when she reached their table. “Only Killer Crow would walk in here like that, spurs jingling.”
“Old habits die hard.” Mary hugged Alex, then turned to Jonathan. “How are you doing, Mr. Walkingstick?”
He wrapped her in a fierce embrace. “Ready to come back to you,” he whispered.
“Me, too,” she told him. She considered pulling him aside, telling him quickly about Fiddlesticks, but just as she started to take his arm, Judge Haddad swept into the room. The rest of the courtroom stood up as round two of Moon v. Walkingstick began.
Alex called her to the
stand first, asked her the questions she wanted the judge to hear. Mary went on how much she loved Lily, how devoted she was to Jonathan and his child, how they had a good life in North Carolina. Then it was Laura Bagwell’s turn. A skinny, beige woman with weak-looking eyes, she began her questioning from the plaintiff’s table, as if she feared getting too close to Mary Crow.
“It’s nice to see you, Ms. Crow. We’re glad you finally decided to join us,” she said, her sarcasm biting. “Just so I’m clear—how long have you and Mr. Walkingstick been married?”
“Mr. Walkingstick and I are not married. We’ve lived together for the past seven years.”
“So doesn’t that make you his common-law wife?” Laura Bagwell made it sound as if they lived in a dump and kept pit bulls chained up in their front yard.
“Actually not,” said Mary. “North Carolina no longer recognizes common law marriage.”
“So that would mean you’re not married at all?”
“No, we are not.”
Bagwell frowned. “Well, you just testified that you’re quite devoted to Mr. Walkingstick and his daughter. Is there any reason that you two haven’t married? Or you haven’t petitioned to adopt Lily Walkingstick?”
“No,” said Mary, unflustered. “It just never seemed necessary.”
“Really?” Laura Bagwell made a note on a piece of paper. “So you think it’s proper for a child to be raised by parents who feel that marriage and adoption are just silly formalities?”
“I believe there are more important factors in child-rearing than a marriage license,” said Mary.
Laura Bagwell smiled. “And what would you consider those factors to be, Ms. Crow?”
“Love. Kindness. Meeting a child’s needs.”
“And you think you’ve helped Mr. Walkingstick meet Lily’s needs?”
“Yes, I do. Until a few weeks ago, Lily was a happy child who was comfortable with her family and friends.”
“And what do you think happened that made Lily change?”
Mary looked directly at the tubby little Cherokee couple seated next to Laura Bagwell. If she could get this next testimony out on the table, Alex might gain some ground with it on cross. “Lily spent the month of June with Fred and Dulcy Moon. She returned home convinced that nine years ago I killed her mother in a fit of jealousy, and that I have ever since hidden the true nature of my actions. Lily was, when she came back home, a changed and troubled child. ”
Laura Bagwell fumbled with her papers, flustered. Mary gave Alex a quick smile, knowing she’d just taken Bagwell’s lead away—now all she could do was follow where the witness led. Sister, you have messed with the wrong Indian, Mary thought gleefully.
“Uh, okay.” Bagwell tried to recover. “Ms. Crow, do Mr. Walkingstick and his daughter live with you, in your house?”
“Yes.”
“And you supply health insurance for them?”
“I do.”
“And I assume you provide clothing for Lily, food for the family as well?”
“Partially. Mr. Walkingstick shares in those expenses.”
“So Mr. Walkingstick does contribute something, to the family?” Bagwell’s tone implied laziness on Jonathan’s part, as if he slept till noon, then drank beer until suppertime.
“Mr. Walkingstick contributes quite a bit,” said Mary. “He is Lily’s primary caregiver.”
“So in your family, the traditional roles are reversed—you go out and work, while Mr. Walkingstick tends the home front.”
“Mr. Walkingstick’s work is seasonal, so it’s a successful arrangement for us.”
“And you have a law firm?” asked Bagwell.
Here it comes. Mary’s heart beat faster. “I’m in partnership with Sam Ravenel.”
“And what sort of practice do you have?”
“A general practice.”
“Wills, real estate closings, that sort of thing?”
“Yes.”
“But no criminal work?”
“Rarely.”
“Rarely?” Bagwell pretended to check her notes. “According to Mr. Walkingstick, you agreed not to do any criminal work as long as Lily lived with you.”
“I did make that promise.” Mary shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She knew where Bagwell was going.
“Do you recognize this, Ms. Crow?”
Mary’s heart sank as Bagwell held up the issue of the Snitch that showed Mary and Nick Stratton fending off reporters. She showed the paper first to the judge, then to Jonathan and Alex. Alex’s expression did not change, but Jonathan looked as if every drop of blood had evaporated from his body.
“Well, Ms. Crow? I ask again, do you recognize this?”
“Yes,” Mary replied.
“Though this tabloid does, regrettably, refer to you as Pocahontas, is this not your picture?”
Mary swallowed hard. “It is.”
Bagwell paused, holding the paper in front of Jonathan. “This is one of the most grisly murders I’ve ever read about, Ms. Crow. And they quote you on page 33, as saying, ‘My client is innocent of all charges and looks forward to exonerating himself in court.’”
“I’m not quite as familiar as you are with the Snitch, but that sounds like something I probably said.”
“That’s a pretty strange quote for someone who claims to do only will and estate closings.”
A smug, gotcha rumble went through the Moons’ side of the courtroom. Mary sat still, tamping down the growing panic she felt inside.
“In fact, Ms. Crow, for someone who made a promise not to take criminal cases, I’d say you’re either a sneak or a liar.”
Alex leapt to her feet. “Your Honor, we don’t need Ms. Bagwell to start name-calling.”
The judge shot Bagwell a warning glance. “Be respectful, Ms. Bagwell.”
Bagwell turned the Snitch to the page with Lisa Wilson’s body and slowly walked it in front of the courtroom. “Just for the record, Ms. Crow. Are you or are you not representing the man who’s been indicted for this murder?”
“Until the accused’s chief counsel returns from Israel, yes,” Mary said calmly. “I am.”
Suddenly, Fred Moon stood up and pointed a finger at Mary. “All you are is death, Mary Crow. First to my Ruth, next to my Lily!”
The room erupted. Alex jumped up, objecting, then the court officer moved to restrain Fred Moon. Smiling at the ruckus she’d caused, Laura Bagwell dropped the Snitch on the table while the judge banged her gavel. Mary turned her gaze toward Jonathan, hoping to find some understanding in his eyes, but all she saw was his back as he walked down the center aisle of the courtroom, striding toward the door.
Thirty-three
Mary was desperate to follow him and explain. Nick Stratton is innocent, I couldn’t turn him down. I’m turning the case over to Dave Loveman. I have emails to prove that. But she couldn’t leave. Court was still in session, and though Laura Bagwell was currently finished with her, she might be recalled to the stand. Reluctantly, she took Jonathan’s seat at the defendant’s table.
“Where did he go?” she leaned over and whispered to Alex.
“Out for air, probably. Don’t worry—Sam will take care of him.”
That calmed her a bit. Jonathan would need to walk off his anger, settle his nerves. Sam would bring him back when he calms down.
She returned her attention to court, where Bagwell was about to start her summation.
“Your Honor, I think we’ve painted an extremely clear picture of this case. On one hand, you have Fred and Dulcy Moon—two decent, hard-working, long-married people who want to raise their daughter’s only child in a healthy environment of love and honesty.” She walked over and pointed toward Mary. “On the other hand, you have Jonathan Walkingstick and Mary Crow—two people who have scoffed at marriage, scoffed at adoption, scoffed at bei
ng honest with Lily about her mother’s tragic death. Even now they scoff—Ms. Crow by flaunting a broken promise in a national tabloid, Mr. Walkingstick by storming out of court when the most important decision of his life is about to be rendered.”
Damn, Mary thought, why did he have to leave?
Bagwell walked slowly back to the plaintiff’s table. “True, Fred and Dulcy have had their difficulties in the past. But they realized their mistakes and they’ve struggled hard to overcome them. For years they’ve been sober, upstanding members of their church, their tribe, and their community.” Bagwell held out her hands, pleading. “It seems particularly unfair that these good, hard-working citizens must not only grieve for their daughter, but must also live, every day, with the knowledge that their daughter’s killer is now raising their only grandchild.”
“I didn’t kill Ruth!” Mary whispered to Alex. “The woman had a gun pointed at my heart!”
“I know.” Alex grabbed Mary’s arm in a death grip. “Shut up!”
“All we are asking is that Fred and Dulcy Moon be allowed to bring up this beautiful little girl in a stable environment of love and respect, rather than the duplicitous, secret-ridden world of Jonathan Walkingstick and Mary Crow.”
Bagwell went on for a few more beats, extolling the virtues of the Moons, the proximity of other close relatives, the sense of tribe Lily would enjoy in Oklahoma, then she sat down. Now, it was Alex’s turn. Mary watched, nervous, as her leggy friend rose from her chair. She walked straight over to the Moons, and gave them a brilliant smile.
“Your Honor, I have absolutely no doubt that Fred and Dulcy Moon are people who have sought to better themselves. It takes an enormous amount of courage to dry out and remain sober, if you’re an alcoholic. An equal amount of discipline to start resolving conflicts with your words rather than your fists. I can empathize with their grief at losing their daughter at such a young age; I can also understand their desire to raise their grandchild in what they consider a healthier atmosphere. What I don’t believe the Moons have is the wisdom to discern what is best for this child.”
Music of Ghosts Page 24