Puppet

by Joy Fielding

  “Did you have sex with the defendant after the incident on August the sixteenth?” Amanda asks the witness at the start of her cross-examination. She rises from her chair as she is speaking, buttoning the top button of her tailored black jacket, and walking briskly toward Caroline Fletcher, who looks imploringly at the prosecutor.

  “Objection,” he offers obligingly.

  “On what grounds?” Amanda scoffs.

  “Relevance.” Tyrone King approaches the judge. “Your Honor, the issue here is what happened on the morning in question, not what might have happened later.”

  “On the contrary,” Amanda argues. “My client is facing some very serious charges. The witness claims that on the morning of August sixteenth, she was raped; Derek Clemens insists the sex was consensual and offers as evidence the fact that they made love again later that same day. If this is true, it’s not only relevant, it goes to the witness’s credibility.”

  “The objection is overruled,” the judge agrees, directing the witness to answer the question.

  “Did you and the defendant make love again after the incident on August the sixteenth?” Amanda repeats when the witness hesitates.

  “We had sex, yes,” Caroline Fletcher answers.

  “That same night?”

  “When I got home from work.”

  Amanda turns toward the jury, carefully plucked eyebrows lifting in well-rehearsed confusion. “Why?” she asks simply.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Frankly, neither do I. I mean, you claim Derek Clemens raped you earlier in the day. Why would you willingly consent to have sex with him only hours later?”

  “He said he was sorry,” Caroline replies earnestly.

  “He said he was sorry?”

  “He can be very persuasive when he wants to be.”

  “I see. So this isn’t the first time this sort of thing has happened.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “I’ll rephrase.” Amanda takes a deep breath. “How would you characterize your relationship with the defendant, Miss Fletcher?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Would you say it was stormy?”

  “I guess.”

  “You fought a lot?”

  “He was always yelling about something.”

  “Did you yell back?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And had these fights ever gotten physical before the morning of August the sixteenth?”

  “Sometimes he’d hit me.”

  “Ever hit him back?”

  “Just to protect myself.”

  “So, the answer is yes, you sometimes hit him back?”

  The witness glares at Amanda. “He’s a lot stronger than I am.”

  “Okay. Just to be clear: you and Derek Clemens had a very stormy relationship, you fought often, and those fights sometimes got physical. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Caroline agrees reluctantly.

  “Did these fights often end with sex?”

  The witness fidgets in her chair. “Sometimes.”

  “So isn’t it possible that Derek Clemens thought it was simply business as usual on the morning of August the sixteenth?”

  Caroline Fletcher crosses her arms stubbornly across her inflated chest. “He knew exactly what he was doing.”

  Amanda pauses, checks the notes in her hands, although she already has them committed to memory. “Miss Fletcher, when Mr. King questioned you about what happened that morning, you said that Derek Clemens threw you on the bed, flipped you over onto your back, and had sex with you.”

  “I said he raped me.”

  “Yes, but your original words were that he had sex with you. And you admitted it wasn’t until after you spoke to the police that you decided you’d been raped.”

  “Like I said, I wasn’t sure about my rights until Sergeant Peterson told me.”

  “You needed someone to tell you you’d been raped?”

  “Objection.”

  “Sustained,” the judge says. “Move on, Ms. Travis.”

  Again Amanda glances unnecessarily at her notes. “And after the alleged assault, you called the hairdressing salon where you worked.”

  “To tell them I’d be late.”

  “You didn’t call the police,” Amanda states.

  “No.”

  “In fact, you didn’t contact the police until two days later.”

  Caroline Fletcher scowls.

  “So, at the time Derek Clemens said he was going to ‘kill your ass,’ you didn’t feel seriously threatened, did you, Miss Fletcher?”

  “I felt threatened.”

  “You recognized it was just a figure of speech, didn’t you?”

  “I felt seriously threatened,” the witness insists.

  “So threatened you returned home right after work?”

  “I had a baby to take care of.”

  “A baby you had no problem leaving alone with a man you claim beat and raped you. Not to mention threatened your life.”

  “Derek wouldn’t hurt the baby.”

  “Oh, I’m quite certain of that,” Amanda agrees heartily, smiling toward the defendant. “In fact, Derek Clemens is a wonderful father, is he not?”

  “He’s a good father,” the witness admits with obvious reluctance.

  “He’s Tiffany’s primary caregiver, isn’t that right?”

  “Well, he was the one home during the day.”

  “And now?”

  “Now?”

  “Now that you and Derek Clemens are no longer together, who takes care of Tiffany?”

  “We both do.”

  “Isn’t it true that she lives with her father?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “And you’re now living with another man?” Amanda checks her notes. “One Adam Johnson?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “You broke up? Why is that?”

  The assistant district attorney is instantly on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. I don’t see how this line of questioning is relevant to the proceedings at hand.”

  “I believe I can show relevance with my next question, Your Honor.”

  “Proceed.”

  “Is it true Adam Johnson has a restraining order out against you, Miss Fletcher?”

  “Objection.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Why did Adam Johnson take out a restraining order, Miss Fletcher?”

  The witness shakes her head, begins nervously chipping at the polish on the middle finger of her left hand. “Adam Johnson is a liar. He just wants to make trouble for me.”

  “I see. It has nothing to do with the fact you attacked him with a pair of scissors?”

  “They were just manicure scissors,” Caroline Fletcher protests weakly.

  “I have no more questions of this witness.” Amanda returns to her seat at the defense table and tries not to smile.

  The phone is ringing as Amanda walks by her secretary into her small office. “I’m not here,” she says in passing, closing the door behind her, and flipping through the stack of messages on her desk. She takes off her jacket, kicks off the black canvas pumps that have been pinching her toes all afternoon, and falls into her black leather chair. She’s tempted to stretch her legs across the top of her desk in triumph, the way men do in movies when they’re feeling especially smug, but it’s a little premature. The trial is far from over just because the prosecutor’s star witness delivered a less than stellar performance. There’s still the matter of those gruesome bite marks on Caroline Fletcher’s back. Will Derek Clemens really be able to persuade the jury to overlook the evidence of their own eyes?

  Another reason Amanda is reluctant to put her feet up: there’s no room. She needs more space. Her eyes skip from the blank computer screen in the middle of her desk to the various files and papers piled high along either side. Dozens of black, felt-tipped pens are strewn among a haphazard collection of paperweights and miniature pieces of crystal—a small poodle, an open bo
ok, a gold-plated quill in a tiny inkwell. Strange purchases for someone who normally disdains clutter, she thinks absently, looking toward the window of her third-floor office and wincing, as she always does, at the sight of the bright, bubble-gum-pink building across the street. Not that she is in any position to throw decorative stones, she decides, having failed in her attempt to persuade the powers that be at Beatty and Rowe to repaint their canary-yellow building a more palatable white.

  The door opens after a gentle knock, and Amanda’s secretary peeks her head inside. Underneath the shock of orange-red hair, Kelly Jamieson is vaguely cross-eyed, despite corrective surgery and heavy glasses. A long, thin nose sits in the middle of a moon-shaped face; her chest is flat; her legs are short and slightly bowed. Curiously, these flawed parts make for an oddly endearing whole. “That was Ben Myers again,” she announces, her voice crackling like logs in an open fire.

  Amanda lifts a file from her desk, pretends to be reading.

  “I told him you weren’t back from court yet. He left his home number, said you can phone him as late as you want.”

  Amanda drops the file to the desk, plays with the corner of another. “It’s late now,” she says. “Why don’t you call it a night?”

  Kelly hovers in the doorway. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Amanda lifts her eyes to her secretary, finds herself holding her breath.

  “Who is this guy?”

  Amanda conjures up half a dozen lies in the space of several seconds, abandons them just as fast. “He’s my ex-husband.”

  “Your ex-husband?” There’s no disguising the surprise in her secretary’s voice. Her eyes squeeze against the bridge of her nose. “I thought Sean Travis was your ex-husband.”

  “Him too.”

  “You have two ex-husbands?”

  Amanda hears the silent addendum—And you’re only twenty-eight!

  “What can I say? I’m a very good lawyer and a very bad wife.”

  Amanda waits for Kelly to protest—Oh, no. I’m sure you were a wonderful wife—but no such protest is forthcoming. “What do you think he wants?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “He said it was really important.”

  Amanda nods, feels her body tense.

  “Are you going to call him later?”

  “No.”

  Silence. Her secretary sways from one foot to the other. “Okay, well, I guess I’ll go home now.”

  Amanda nods her approval, even as Kelly remains rooted to the spot. “Is there something else?” Amanda ventures warily.

  Kelly approaches, extends a small piece of paper toward her boss. “His home phone number,” she says, depositing the pink memo slip carefully on Amanda’s desk. “In case you change your mind.”

  THREE

  THREE reasons why Amanda knows Carter Reese is married even before he admits it: number one, the little out-of-the-way spot he has chosen for dinner is so little and out-of-the-way that Amanda, who knows the area well, drives twice through the nondescript strip mall in which it is located before finally spotting it cramped between a pet store and a discount shoe outlet; number two, it is so dark inside the windowless space that she can barely see what she is eating, although she notices her companion glances nervously toward the front door every time he hears it open; number three, he is constantly touching the ring finger of his left hand, as if to make sure he remembered to remove his wedding band, a nervous habit and dead giveaway.

  “It’s okay,” she tells him finally, finishing the last of her mussels and deciding to put him out of his misery. “I have no problem with your being married.”

  “What?” Even in the dim light, the shock is clearly visible on his face.

  “It doesn’t bother me that you’re married,” Amanda says earnestly. “In fact, it makes things easier.”

  “What?” Carter Reese says again.

  “I’m not looking for a serious relationship; I have a very demanding career; I’ve got a million things on my plate at the moment; and it’s much less complicated this way. So you can relax. You don’t have to lie to me. Most of the time, anyway,” she adds with a smile.

  There is a moment’s silence while Carter Reese tries to decide if this is one of those times. The candle in the middle of the table flickers precariously as he exhales. “Is this some kind of test?”

  Amanda laughs. “I’m just saying it’s not important, that’s all.”

  Carter leans back in his chair, shakes his head, folds his muscular arms across his chest, stares off into the darkness.

  “Is there a problem?” Amanda asks.

  “To be honest, I’m not quite sure how to take this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He laughs self-consciously. “Well, truthfully, I don’t know whether to be ecstatic or insulted.”

  Amanda reaches across the table for his hand. “It was certainly never my intention to insult you.”

  Another deep exhalation. “Okay, then.” A smile that wavers precariously between I must be the luckiest guy on earth and There’s got to be a catch here somewhere. “Okay, then,” he repeats, squeezing her fingers. “Ecstasy it is.”

  Amanda laughs. “Good. Now that that’s out of the way, maybe we can order dessert.” She looks around for their waiter, but sees only vague shapes moving in the background.

  “Is there anything you’d like to know?” Carter asks.

  “About what?”

  “About my marriage.”

  Amanda gives the question a moment’s thought. Clearly he feels he owes her some sort of explanation, but truthfully, there is nothing about his marriage she wants to know. She senses, however, that he will be hurt if she says this, so she settles for the obvious: “How long have you been married?”

  “Fifteen years. Two kids. A boy, Jason, he’s thirteen, and a girl, Rochelle, who’ll be eleven in March. Sandy’s an artist,” he continues unprompted, as if his wife were standing at his side, waiting to be introduced. “She paints. She’s very talented.”

  Amanda does her best to look interested. She hopes he isn’t a purger, one of those men so relieved to have been found out that they spend the entire evening regurgitating all their guilty little secrets.

  “She’s really a very nice woman.”

  “I’m sure she’s lovely.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my marriage. Just that, you know …”

  “You’ve grown apart,” Amanda volunteers. She’s seen this script before. She knows everybody’s lines.

  “It’s nobody’s fault. It’s just, well, you know.”

  Amanda slides her hands away from his and adjusts the plunging neckline of her black sweater, hoping to distract him.

  “The kids take up a lot of her time and energy,” Carter continues, seemingly oblivious to Amanda’s impressive cleavage. “She’s not very interested in sex anymore. Says she’s too tired. You know.”

  Amanda nods, although she can’t imagine ever being too tired to have sex. She finishes what’s left of the wine in her glass in a single gulp.

  “So,” he says, sensing perhaps it’s time to move on. “Tell me more about you. How did such a beautiful woman end up in such an ugly profession?”

  Amanda shrugs. “I thought it would be fun.”

  “Fun?”

  “Interesting,” she amends, although fun is the more accurate description.

  “And is it?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Depends on the criminal, I guess,” Carter offers.

  “No,” Amanda counters. “Generally speaking, criminals themselves are a pretty dull lot. They’re amazingly similar. Most of them aren’t very bright or imaginative. It’s only their crimes that make them interesting. And the fact that none of them ever thinks he’s going to get caught.”

  “He?”

  “Usually. Especially in crimes of violence.”

  “Women aren’t violent?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she said, thinking of Caroline Fletcher.<
br />
  “Sandy once threw an omelet at my head.”

  Amanda blanches at the casual reference to Carter’s wife. For a woman who didn’t even exist a few moments ago, she is suddenly very much a force to be reckoned with. “An omelet?”

  “She was making breakfast and I mentioned that I thought she’d put on a few pounds recently. Next thing I knew this omelet came flying across the room, caught me smack in the middle of the forehead.”

  Assault with a deadly egg, Amanda thinks. Aloud she says, “Probably wasn’t the best thing to tell her first thing in the morning.”

  Carter chuckles at the memory. “Is there ever a good time?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You ever been married?”

  “No,” Amanda lies, deciding it’s easier this way. Two ex-husbands would be too much of a distraction for Carter Reese, who is having enough trouble trying to figure out what to do with his wife. Besides, she has no interest in rehashing the boring details of why each marriage fell apart. Simply put, the first time she was too young; the second time he was too old. Well, maybe not quite so simple as that, but what difference does it make? She doubts Carter Reese will be around long enough for it to matter. Surprise me, she finds herself thinking, smiling at the man across the table, silently urging him to deviate from the script. I will if you will, her eyes try to tell him. He pats her hand and looks anxiously toward the door.

  The waiter suddenly materializes at the side of their table, startling Amanda, who didn’t see him approach. “How was everything?” he asks, clearing away the dishes.

  “Delicious.”

  “Thank you.” He says this as if he has cooked the meal himself. “Dessert for anyone? We make a mean key lime tart.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Decaf cappuccino,” Carter tells the waiter. “And an extra fork.”

  Amanda stiffens. She’s always hated sharing her food, dislikes another person’s hand reaching into her plate.

  “So, what brought you to Florida?” Carter asks.

  Amanda suddenly becomes aware of how quiet it has become, as if everybody in the room has stopped talking and is waiting for her answer. She peers through the dim light at the several other people in the restaurant, but all are busy eating and seem reassuringly unconcerned with her presence. “I came here on a holiday eight years ago,” she tells him. “Liked what I saw, decided to stay.”