He glanced at his watch, then kissed her on the cheek. It was only seven. Bryce’s arraignment wasn’t until nine. “You’re amazing. If I wasn’t already married to your daughter, I’d be on my knees proposing.”
Lizzie threw her head back and laughed. “You can’t marry Nana, Daddy. Besides, I’m gonna marry you when I grow up.”
Feeling another rush of happiness, he yanked on one of her ponytails. “That’s right, Lizzie, girl, but a man can’t have too many wives.”
She batted his hand away from her hair. “Mommy would be mad if you had another wife.” Her brow furrowed as she thought for a moment, then added, “Unless it was me.”
Cynthia slapped him on the shoulder. “And I’d be mad, too. It’s taken me years to get used to having a detective for a son-in-law.” She handed him the breakfast tray.
When he carried it into the bedroom, Gracie was propped up in their king-sized bed, her dark hair fanned out against the stack of pillows behind her back. Her pajama top was unbuttoned, exposing the bandages around her chest and a drainage tube that stuck out from the gauze just under her right armpit. It had a bulb on the end to help suction out excess fluid.
“How’s my beautiful wife this morning?”
Her eyes got glassy and she gave him a closed-mouth smile that didn’t reach them. “I hurt. Feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest.”
“Do you want me to drain off the fluid?”
She nodded toward a small glass measuring cup on her bedside table half filled with a murky liquid. “I already did.”
He set her breakfast tray on her lap while he carried the cup into the bathroom, recorded the quantity of fluid on a chart the surgeon provided, and poured the opaque and strong-smelling fluid into the toilet and flushed. After rinsing out the cup, he hurried back to his wife.
“I can get that prescription filled McCarthy gave you for pain pills.”
She shook her head, fiddled with the hem of her pajama top. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “No. They’re bad for the baby.”
The doctor had warned him she might be depressed after the surgery, might think losing her breast had made her less of a woman—and would make her less of a mother to their new baby.
Radhauser set the tray on the bed and carefully put his arms around her. “The horses miss you. Mercedes was so unhappy she nipped at me when I tried to rub her neck.”
Gracie swallowed and took a deep breath, as if trying to get herself through the pain and back to composure. Her breath smelled like toothpaste. “That’s just her way of saying ‘hurry up, I’m hungry’.”
He reached down and gently rubbed her swollen belly. “How’s Jonathan Lucas Radhauser this morning?”
She smiled for real this time. “Happy to be home. And hungry.”
He tucked a napkin around her neck. “Looks like your mother is intent on fattening up all three of us.”
They ate for a few minutes in silence.
Gracie’s brush with cancer had given him a new awareness of what she meant to him. It seemed as if everything in his life was so different now. And so much more than he expected it to be again after the loss of Laura and Lucas. Sometimes, like now, he didn’t recognize his own life—like he awakened to find himself seven feet tall and wealthy beyond all measure. Now, he was the one who swallowed.
“How’s your case going?” Gracie asked. It was her attempt to take the focus off herself and he went along with it.
“I’m worried. I’ve never investigated a murder when I was so sure the man I arrested was innocent.”
“Do you have any other suspects?”
“No one new. I’m still looking at the mother, Dana Sterling, and her ex-husband, Reggie Sterling. And Henry Evans, he’s the son of the man who owns the Lasso.” Kendra had called earlier to report that Henry had taken the bottle of apple juice into the bedroom for Skyler, while Reggie read to Scott. Bryce claimed Henry liked to play with the boys and visited them often. He enjoyed pretending he was their daddy—and loved to deliver the nighttime bottle to Skyler.
“Have you talked to him?” Gracie asked.
“Once. But he wasn’t much help. Henry suffered a traumatic brain injury and has the mind of a seven-year-old. The chances are pretty slim he’d have access to a drug like Haloperidol. And he really liked Skyler. I can’t imagine a motive. But I now know Reggie was in the bedroom with him. Maybe Henry saw something.”
“Lizzie’s only four,” Gracie said. “But she can sure tell you what she saw.”
Time to re-interview Henry Evans.
When she squeezed his hand, her fingers were icy. “I know you feel terrible. I wish Murphy hadn’t pushed you so hard to make an arrest.”
“As far as he’s concerned, our job is over, except for helping the prosecution convict.” He shrugged. “Boss doesn’t know it, but I’m working with Bryce’s attorney.” He told her about Kendra Palmer, how young and relatively inexperienced she was. How much he hoped she inherited some of her father’s legal instincts. “I’m nervous about it. But I keep telling myself I have to trust that somehow if I keep gathering and examining it, the evidence will eventually lead me to the truth.”
* * *
A confusion of flashbulbs and reporters with tape recorders and video television cameras greeted Radhauser as he walked up the Jackson County Courthouse steps for Bryce’s arraignment. He hurried past them, opened the door into the courthouse and passed through security, then up the stairs to courtroom 3-B. When he opened the door, the room was packed with reporters and cameras. A huge mirror, with a gold-leaf frame, hung on the west wall of the courthouse. Radhauser looked into his own eyes and made a promise. You will get Bryce out of prison. And while it was in violation of his sacred rule: don’t get personally involved with a suspect, he never meant any statement more.
Court wasn’t due to start for another fifteen minutes, but Kendra was already seated at the defense table. He wanted a moment to talk with her before the DA arrived and became suspicious. He touched her shoulder. She turned to face him, wearing a pair of dark-rimmed glasses he suspected she didn’t need. They gave her a studious, slightly older and more professorial look.
“Judge Shapiro is going to deal with the Bryce case first thing because he fears we’re going to have a media circus,” she said. “They brought him over from the jail about a half hour ago. He’s in a holding cell. There are already two television cameras in here and a half dozen newspaper reporters. Not to mention the ones on the courthouse steps.”
Radhauser took a seat behind her and leaned forward. “How is he doing?”
“Not good. Spectators and reporters were waiting in the parking lot by the prisoner entrance. When he got out of the county van, they shouted things like ‘baby killer’ and threw plastic rattles and stuffed toys at him. The police finally broke them up. Sometimes I think Bryce has given up. He believes Skyler’s death is his fault since he was the adult in charge. And to make matters worse, we got Marshall’s statutory notice informing us the state is seeking the death penalty.”
“Give him an attitude adjustment. We need him pissed off at the injustice and ready to fight for himself.”
“Believe me, I’ve tried. Something isn’t right. I want him to see a forensic psychiatrist. I suspect there’s more to his hearing loss than he’s telling us. He strikes me as a man who suffered a lot of abuse and neglect in his childhood.”
“Fine,” Radhauser said. “Poor Bryce. We might be able to make the jury feel sorry for him, but not sorry enough to forgive a kid murder.”
“Maybe it’s got nothing to do with the case,” she said. “But there is that 9-1-1 call. The prosecution is going to have a field day with the way he kept referring to Skyler as ‘she’. They’ll claim he meant Dana—that she’s the one he wanted dead, and killing Skyler was his way to get even with her for leaving. But all my instincts tell me there’s another reason for his confusion. And I plan to find it.”
Radhauser was impressed by her conviction, b
ut suspected the underfunded Public Defender’s Office wouldn’t spring for the fee. “Women’s intuition, huh? Is your office prepared to pay for the psychiatrist?”
“If they aren’t, I will.”
He had no doubt the daughter of Kendrick Huntington Palmer, III could afford to pay the psychiatrist, but why would she want to? He thought about that for a few seconds. This was her first case. And she was determined to get justice for Bryce. Was it to impress her famous father? Or was it something else? Something like her sharing his belief that her client was, indeed, innocent.
While he examined her motives, he took a look at his own. In general, once the DA charged someone, the police stopped looking for another suspect and worked with the prosecution as a conviction machine. And they wouldn’t stop until they got either a guilty verdict or a plea.
Why was he helping the defense? As the investigating officer, he would be called as a witness for the prosecution. Radhauser might even lose his job if Murphy knew his detective thought Bryce was innocent. But Radhauser believed in justice more than he believed in keeping his job. And that little voice inside his head said justice would not be served by convicting Caleb Bryce of a murder he didn’t commit.
But why was he so certain Bryce didn’t kill Skyler? It was a rare suspect who didn’t claim he was innocent regardless of the evidence against him. There was something gentle and decent about Bryce. What was the old saying? Still waters run deep. Either he was the best con man in the business, or innocent. Radhauser would put his money on the latter.
A reporter stuck a microphone in Kendra’s face. “Is this your first case, Ms. Palmer? Does your father plan to help you win?”
At first Kendra looked away and said nothing, but then she raised her shoulders, took off her glasses and faced the reporter head on. “I’m a Harvard-educated attorney. I passed the bar and clerked for a year. I don’t need my father or anyone else to hold my hand. I will represent my client to the best of my ability,” she said, her cheeks reddening. “I’m convinced he’s innocent and my responsibility is to prove to the jury that I’m right. Now get out of my face. I’ve got a job to do.”
The reporter backed away.
Radhauser couldn’t restrain his smile. She looked young enough to be carded in bars, but Kendra Palmer was tougher than she appeared. Still, he wished for a way to keep the reporters and cameramen away from the arraignment.
Judge Steven Shapiro, a devout Christian, was usually at his most intractable when there were cameras in his courtroom. He believed in the Ten Commandments and thought the public wanted judges who were tough on criminals, especially murderers. Add the fact that the victim was a toddler, and there were people ready to lynch Bryce on the plaza—you had a formula for chaos. When the media was present in the courtroom, Shapiro made it a point to live up to his hard-earned reputation.
Four uniformed Jackson County sheriff’s deputies flanked the corners of the courtroom. The gallery was nearly full. Many of the occupants were other criminal defendants, charged with lesser crimes, whose arraignments would follow Bryce’s.
The door to Judge Shapiro’s chambers opened, and he seemed to float through it. His salt-and-pepper hair was freshly cut, not one strand out of place—as if he used hairspray. He was about fifty, with strong, chiseled features, and looked almost otherworldly, his black robes flowing behind him. Radhauser supposed Judge Shapiro was handsome. Based on all the mirrors in his chambers, the judge certainly thought he was.
The bailiff stood and faced the crowd. “All rise,” he commanded. “The criminal court for Jackson County is now in session, the Honorable Steven J. Shapiro presiding. Please come to order.”
Judge Shapiro climbed the steps to his bench and took his place in the high-backed leather throne. He was a slender man and the robe hung loosely over his shoulders.
Everyone sat.
“Good morning,” Judge Shapiro said.
Nearly the entire courtroom responded. Many of them nodded their heads like a row of bobble-head cats in the back of a 1955 Chevy Bel Air.
“The first case we are going to address this morning is the state of Oregon versus Caleb R. Bryce.” Judge Shapiro turned to the prosecution. “And I see that Assistant DA, Andrew Marshall, will be prosecuting the case.”
Marshall’s face flushed a little and he looked down at his shoes.
Judge Shapiro turned to Kendra. “And who might you be, Ms. Kendrick Huntington Palmer IV?” Judge Shapiro raised his eyebrows, as if recognizing the famous name. But to his credit, he didn’t comment.
“Please call me Kendra,” she said. “I’ve recently joined the Public Defender’s office. I’ll be representing Mr. Bryce.”
Shapiro turned toward the deputy closest to the door. “Bring in the defendant.”
The deputy disappeared for a moment, then returned with Bryce beside him.
The shackles on Bryce’s ankles forced him to shuffle with each step. Every camera was pointed toward him. It was so silent in the courtroom the clanking sound of the chains on Bryce’s waist and wrists as he moved toward the defense table were audible.
Radhauser thought it was overkill, forcing Bryce, beaten almost beyond recognition, to wear shackles and a waist chain. So much for the presumption of innocence. Bryce had never been arrested before, never had a speeding or parking ticket. But defendants accused of murdering children were shown no mercy.
He looked scared, battered and bruised, as if beaten half to death. The gash above his eyebrow was still covered in gauze.
Kendra stood.
Bryce took his place beside her.
The judge studied the charges, then handed them to the bailiff. “Give this to Ms. Palmer. And let the record show the defendant’s counsel has been provided a copy.”
“Caleb Bryce, you’ve been charged with one count of child abuse of the four-year-old child, Scott Sterling. And murder in the first degree for the October twelfth death of nineteen-month-old Skyler Sterling in Jackson County, city of Ashland. How do you plead?”
Bryce lifted his battered face, glanced at Kendra Palmer, then stared straight into Shapiro’s eyes and declared, in a loud and muddled voice, but as if he really believed it, “Not guilty to both charges, Your Honor.”
The judge looked at Kendra. “What about scheduling?”
An advantage of a small town like Ashland was there weren’t many murder trials. That meant an inmate’s right to an expedient trial was more likely to be accommodated.
“My defendant would like a speedy trial,” she said. “And we request bail be set at $25,000.”
Shapiro gave her a look that could have melted wax. “In a capital murder case involving a nineteen-month-old? You must be dreaming, Ms. Palmer.”
“My client does not have the financial means to post any larger bond. He maintains his innocence and wants a trial as soon as possible. I believe I can be ready in four weeks.”
Marshall stood up. “There’s no way the state could be ready in less than three months.”
“If our good Lord, as is stated in Genesis, created the heavens and the earth in less than one week, I think you should be able to get ready for a pretty standard trial in four times that amount, Mr. Marshall.”
Shapiro turned back to Kendra. “How long do you anticipate the trial will last?”
“A week. Maybe a little more.”
The judge turned the pages of his calendar. “I have an opening November fifteenth. That’s just a little less than four weeks from now, Mr. Marshall, and I expect you to be ready.”
“Mr. Bryce,” the judge said. “When you’re brought into my courtroom on November fifteenth, I personally guarantee you a fair trial. It will be your responsibility to wear civilian clothing. The jury will not see you restrained in any fashion as long as you behave yourself. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Bryce said. “Thank you, sir.”
The bailiff took him by the arm and led him toward the door. Bryce’s face was a deep red, as if hearing his name and t
he word murder in the same sentence had set him on fire.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was around noon when Radhauser arrived at the Lazy Lasso. The restaurant was crowded. He waited on the lobby side of the swinging oak bar doors until the crowd thinned out, then passed through them and stood in front of the hostess podium until the couple ahead of him was seated. As usual the place smelled fabulous. Nothing like the sizzle sound of prime meat over an open grill to make a man’s mouth water. How long had it been since he and Gracie sat down to a normal dinner? Once she felt up to it, he planned to bring her here for a steak.
Angela smiled. “Detective Radhauser. Dana’s not here yet. She’s got the three to eleven shift today.”
“I’m here to see Henry Evans.”
A look of concern swept over her face. Her smile faded. “Wait a minute, I’ll call Bear.”
“I don’t want to talk to him. It’s Henry I need to see.”
Across the restaurant, Henry was sitting alone at a table by the window, drinking a soda and eating a hamburger and fries.
“Bear said I should call. He doesn’t want you to talk to Henry again unless he is there, too.” Angela picked up the phone.
Radhauser darted over to Henry’s booth and slid onto the bench across from him. “Hi, Henry, do you remember me?”
“Sure,” he said, his mouth filled with French fries. He wore a lightweight gray hoodie with elastic at the wrists. “You’re the policeman that talked to me at the place where Skyler was in the pretty white box. My dad says it’s a coffin. I never saw a coffin before.”
“Yes,” Radhauser said. “You’re right. I was there. But let’s talk about the time you went over to Mr. Bryce’s house with Reggie.”
“I do that a lot. We go there before Reggie takes me to the car lot to wash the cars.”
“I want to know about the last time. You gave Skyler his bottle of apple juice that night. Am I right?”
Henry bobbed his head up and down three times. “I like to pretend I’m the daddy and Skyler and Scotty are my boys.”
A River of Silence Page 18