Puppet

by Joy Fielding

  “Sam,” Ben calls after him. “Everything all right?”

  The man shakes his head, continues walking backward as he speaks. “Seems my esteemed client went berserk last night and almost killed the poor sucker sharing his holding cell. The usual crap. You?”

  “The usual crap,” Ben agrees, before turning his attention back to Amanda.

  “Well, that was flattering.”

  He smiles, his eyes crinkling. “You were saying?”

  Amanda hesitates. “Where do you think I should stay for the next few days? I’ve already called a few hotels. Seems they’re all filled up.”

  “I don’t see a problem.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I would think the solution’s pretty obvious.”

  “Tell me.” I’ve never been very good with the obvious, she thinks, hearing the silent invitation to stay at his place, and immediately wondering if this would really be such a good idea. She doesn’t want to start something she has no intention of finishing. A casual fling is one thing, but Ben has proved himself less than adept at casual.

  “You already have the key,” he tells her, interrupting her inner dialogue.

  “What?” How does he know about the key? “How do you know?”

  “What do you mean, how do I know? I was there when she handed it to you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Corinne Nash.”

  “Corinne Nash?”

  “Amanda, are you okay?”

  The truth slams against Amanda’s brain like a surprise left hook. “You’re talking about the key to my mother’s house?”

  “What other key would I be talking about?”

  “I can’t stay there.”

  “What other key would I be talking about?” Ben repeats, the pressure of his hand on her elbow increasing, directing her to a stop. “Amanda, what are you talking about?”

  “I found a key to my mother’s safety-deposit box,” Amanda admits.

  “What? Where?”

  “In a shoe box in my mother’s closet.”

  Ben’s face registers confusion, understanding, confusion. “And you didn’t tell me about it because …”

  “Because I put it in my pocket and forgot all about it.” Not quite a lie, Amanda decides. She had put it in her pocket. She did forget about it.

  “Why do I think there’s more to this story?”

  “Because I went to the bank yesterday. And I opened the safety-deposit box.”

  “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  “And you won’t believe what I found.”

  “What I don’t believe is that you did anything this stupid.”

  “I found money, Ben.”

  “You broke the law, Amanda.”

  “A hundred thousand dollars, Ben.”

  “What!”

  “A hundred thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. What do you think it means?” she asks the silence that follows.

  Ben shakes his head. “I haven’t got a clue.”

  “There she is.” Amanda points with her chin as her mother comes into view at the top of the stairs. Gwen Price is standing in the middle of a small group of women prisoners, all wearing the same ugly dark green sweat suits with the hot pink trim. The female police officer in charge carefully removes the handcuffs from each of the prisoner’s wrists. “Can you believe it?” Amanda murmurs, watching the scene as if it were part of an unpleasant dream. “She’s smiling.”

  “She’s rich,” Ben reminds her, guiding Amanda through the beveled-glass doors to the area where the prisoners are gathered and waiting. “Ben Myers,” he announces to the attending officer, offering the woman his identification. “I’m Gwen Price’s attorney. This is Amanda Travis. We’d like a few minutes alone with our client.”

  Not quite a lie, Amanda thinks again, as the officer directs them to a private area within her viewing range. Ben is Gwen Price’s attorney. She is Amanda Travis.

  “You look lovely,” her mother tells her, brightening noticeably when she sees her. “That’s a wonderful color on you.”

  Amanda opens her mouth to speak, but no words emerge. Who is this woman? she is thinking.

  “How are you today, Mrs. Price?” Ben asks.

  Gwen Price rubs her wrists, still red with the imprint of her handcuffs. “I’m fine, thank you, Ben. Although it’s a good thing I’m not claustrophobic. That paddy wagon, or whatever it is they call it, has no air whatsoever, and we’re all so squished together, it’s hard to breathe. Is something wrong, dear?” she asks Amanda.

  “Wrong? What could possibly be wrong?” Amanda’s voice registers her incredulity. She’s thinking of the old movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers, where creatures from outer space take over the bodies of human beings while they sleep. You’re too late, she is thinking, directing her thoughts to the alien behind her mother’s eyes. You came too late.

  “We have to go over a few things, Mrs. Price.”

  “I really have nothing more to say, Ben. Other than to enter my plea.”

  “This is a bail hearing,” Ben tries to explain. “We’re here to try to get you out of prison, at least until the trial.”

  “But there isn’t going to be a trial. I intend to plead guilty.”

  “Which is just one of the things we have to talk about.”

  “Then we have nothing to talk about,” Gwen Price says stubbornly.

  “Mother,” Amanda interrupts.

  “Yes, dear?”

  Dear?! Who is this woman? “What are you doing with a hundred thousand dollars in a safety-deposit box in North York?”

  Her mother’s skin turns ashen against the dark green of her prison uniform. “What?”

  “I found the money, Mother.”

  “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t give a damn.”

  At last, Amanda thinks. The woman I know and loathe.

  “I found the key in the shoe box you keep in your closet. The same shoe box, incidentally, where I found—”

  “What were you doing going through my closet?” her mother interrupts angrily.

  “What are you doing with that kind of cash?”

  Her mother’s response is to turn toward the window at the end of the hall, fluff out the back of her hair with her hand.

  “What’s all that money doing hidden in a bank vault halfway out of the city?”

  Amanda feels the pressure of Ben’s hand on her shoulder, a silent warning to keep her voice down.

  “I believe I’m entitled to keep my money anywhere I please,” her mother says.

  “And what do you think the police will do when they find out about that money, Mother?”

  “That money is none of their business,” her mother says evenly. “Or yours.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Does it have anything to do with why you shot John Mallins?”

  “Ben,” her mother says, ignoring Amanda, “shouldn’t we be going inside?”

  “Did someone pay you to shoot that man?” The question shocks Amanda almost as much as it shocks her mother. Is she seriously suggesting her mother is a contract killer?

  “Of course not,” Gwen replies with a laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Not as ridiculous as shooting a man for no reason at all.”

  “No one paid me to shoot John Mallins.”

  “Then where did you get the money?”

  Her mother sighs, says nothing.

  Amanda looks toward the high ceiling, throws her arms into the air in a gesture of defeat. “You’re unbelievable.”

  “And you’re getting yourself all worked up over nothing. Please, can we just go inside and get this over with?”

  “They’ll call us when they’re ready,” Ben tells Gwen.

  “Who’s Turk, Mother?” Amanda asks.

  Her mother’s complexion goes from
ashen to deathly white, as if she is being rapidly drained of blood. Her eyes widen, her chin drops, then quivers. Her lips open, as if to speak, remaining open even when no words emerge.

  “Who is he, Mother?”

  Her mother’s eyes suddenly snap back into focus. She takes a deep breath, then another, before bringing her lips together, forcing them into a smile. “I’m sorry. What was that name again?”

  “Turk,” Amanda repeats wearily, understanding further conversation is futile, that she has played all her cards, showed her hand, exhausted all elements of surprise. After a momentary shock, her mother is now firmly back in control. There’ll be no startling revelations here.

  “I don’t think I know anyone by that name.”

  “I think you do.”

  Her mother’s eyes narrow in mock concentration. “I don’t believe so, dear.”

  If she calls me “dear” one more time …, Amanda thinks, her fists clenching at her sides. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I guess that’s your prerogative.”

  “Not only do I think you know who Turk is,” Amanda continues, her voice a hoarse whisper, “I think he’s the man you shot in the lobby of the Four Seasons hotel.”

  Her mother tries to laugh, but a catch in her throat turns the laugh into more of a howl. “And I think you must have read too many Nancy Drew novels as a child.”

  “How would you know what I did as a child?” The sudden, unleashed rage in Amanda’s voice bounces off the walls and echoes down the hallways.

  “Amanda …,” Ben warns.

  “How dare you,” Amanda stammers, tears filling her eyes and dropping down her cheeks, disappearing into the powder blue turtleneck of her new cashmere sweater. “How dare you presume to know anything about me?”

  “I’m sorry,” her mother offers, her gaze dropping to the floor.

  “Amanda,” Ben says gently, “this isn’t the time or place.”

  “Trouble here?” the attending officer asks, approaching cautiously, signaling for a nearby colleague to join her.

  “Everything’s fine, Officers,” Ben says.

  “Everything’s a fucking mess,” Amanda counters under her breath.

  “You’re sure there’s no problem?” The policewoman looks from Ben to Amanda to her mother and back again.

  “I think we’re finished here,” Gwen says.

  “I think we’re just getting started,” Amanda counters.

  “Just a few more minutes,” Ben instructs the officers, who back away, making no secret of their continuing surveillance.

  “She’s a very pretty girl, don’t you think?” Gwen says, as if this were the most natural of follow-ups.

  “What are you talking about, Mother?”

  “The police officer. Her name is Kolleen, with a K. You’d never guess she was a cop if she weren’t in uniform.”

  “Mrs. Price …”

  “You always have this picture of police officers being these big, burly guys with big, thick necks, and then you meet someone like Kolleen, who’s not nearly as tall as you are, Amanda,” Gwen continues without looking at her daughter, “and she’s this skinny little thing, not very muscular at all, although you can tell she’s strong. She probably has a black belt in karate, or some such thing.”

  “I don’t give a shit about Kolleen,” Amanda interrupts, furious at herself for being unable to stop the steady flow of tears falling down her cheeks.

  “And I don’t give a shit about some guy named Turk,” her mother says.

  “But you do know who he is.”

  Gwen Price spins slowly toward her daughter, smiling sadly, and taking several steps toward her. Gentle fingers reach out to wipe the tears from Amanda’s face. “I’m sorry I was such a bad mother to you, Amanda,” she says softly, her own eyes welling up with tears.

  Amanda pushes her mother’s hand abruptly aside, falls backward, as if she’s been punched. “Who the hell are you?” she asks.

  The door to Courtroom 102 opens and a large man with a surprisingly high-pitched voice steps into the hall, craning his neck in their direction. “Gwen Price,” he calls out, his gaze skipping across the various prisoners.

  Gwen nods in his direction. “That’s me,” she answers cheerily, turning toward Ben. “Well, now. Shall we go inside?”

  TWENTY

  THE courtroom is much like the one she was in yesterday, Amanda thinks, as she follows her mother and Ben inside. Maybe a little smaller, a little less crowded. The same serious faces, the same serious lack of air. “Are you going to call me to testify?” Amanda asks Ben as they take their seats in the front row of the spectator benches.

  “Are you kidding?” comes the reply out of the side of his mouth. “You said it yourself—I put you on that stand, the next thing I know, they’ll be bringing back capital punishment.”

  “I’ll be good,” Amanda assures him. “Put me up there.”

  “What are you two whispering about?” her mother asks as, once again, her name is announced. Ben leads Gwen toward the defense table at the front of the room, pulling out her chair and waiting while she sits down.

  “Proceed, Counsel,” the judge directs. Amanda makes a mental note of his large head, his receding hairline, and that his features are all squished together in the middle of his face, as if he were permanently trapped inside closing elevator doors.

  “Your Honor,” Ben begins.

  “I plead guilty,” Gwen states, rising to her feet.

  “Excuse me?” The judge’s eyebrows arch toward the bridge of his bulbous nose. He regards Gwen with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

  “Sit down,” Ben tells his client.

  Gwen remains stubbornly on her feet. “I want to plead guilty, Your Honor.”

  “Be that as it may,” the judge informs her, “this is not a venue for entering pleas, but rather a bail review hearing to determine whether you—”

  “I’m not interested in bail, Your Honor,” Gwen insists.

  “Counsel, perhaps you’d like a minute to consult with your client?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Your Honor,” Gwen tells the judge. “I don’t want bail. I’m guilty, and I should be in prison.”

  “Your Honor,” Ben pleads. “With the court’s indulgence. If I could request a five-minute recess—”

  “I don’t want a recess,” Gwen says. “I demand to be put back in jail.”

  “Seems like your client already has her mind made up, Mr. Myers.”

  “Your Honor, my client is going through a very difficult time.”

  “That’s a lie,” Gwen says.

  “Sit down, Gwen.” Ben’s voice is gruff, bursting with frustration.

  Gwen shrugs and reluctantly resumes her seat.

  “Counsel, your client is charged with murder. She says she’s guilty. I say if she wants to go back to jail, let her.”

  “Your Honor, despite the heinous nature of the crime with which she’s charged,” Ben interjects quickly, “Mrs. Price is not a flight risk, nor is she a threat to society—”

  “I shot a total stranger,” Gwen interrupts. “You don’t think that makes me a threat to society?”

  “Mother, for God’s sake—” Amanda is out of her seat and marching toward the front of the courtroom as the judge bangs on his gavel and an officer of the court moves to restrain her.

  “This is the defendant’s daughter, Your Honor,” Ben says. “She practices law in the state of Florida, and she’s put that practice on hold in order to be with her mother until everything can be resolved. She’s prepared to stay and look after her—”

  “I don’t need looking after.” Gwen’s face reddens with alarm.

  “You need to be quiet,” the judge tells her. “You’re not helping your case any with these antics.”

  “That’s just the point, Your Honor. I don’t want to help my case. I want to plead guilty. I want to go to jail.”

  “Fine with me.” The judge bangs decisively on his gavel. “Bail is denie
d. Bailiff, please remove the prisoner.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Gwen Price smiles as the officer approaches to lead her from the courtroom.

  “I’ll be up later to talk to you,” Ben tells her.

  “Not necessary,” Gwen says over her shoulder. “Nice to see you again, Amanda. Have a safe trip back to Florida.”

  “Shit,” Amanda swears into the palm of her hand.

  The judge shakes his head, as if to say, Now I’ve seen everything. Then he laughs. “Good luck, Mr. Myers,” he tells Ben before instructing the bailiff to call the next case.

  “Now what?” Amanda asks as she follows Ben out of the courtroom and down the long hall.

  “I think we may have just run out of options.”

  “We’re onto something, Ben,” Amanda tells him, feeling it in her gut. “That’s why she’s so eager to wrap this whole thing up. You saw her face when I mentioned the name Turk. That name means something to her, Ben.”

  Ben stops before they reach the side exit. “So what?” he says plainly.

  “So what?”

  “John Mallins, Turk, William Shakespeare. What difference does it make? A man is dead, and your mother is only too happy to take the credit. You saw her in front of that judge. She’s bound and determined to go to jail, and frankly, I don’t see that there’s much we can do to stop her. She doesn’t want our help. Her little performance today proved that.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Amanda, I don’t think you’re listening.”

  “I’m listening. I’m just not agreeing.”

  “I don’t see where we have any choice.”

  “There’s always a choice.”

  “Yes, and sometimes somebody else makes it.”

  “So, what are you saying?” Amanda asks stubbornly.

  “You know what I’m saying. I’m saying that maybe it’s time for you to cash in that return ticket and go back to Florida. You didn’t want to come here in the first place. I practically had to drag you down here.”

  “Yes, and now I’m here, and—what?—you’re just going to throw in the towel? You’re prepared to let my mother rot in jail for the rest of her life?”

  “A few days ago, you were looking forward to letting that happen.”