by H. M. Ward
Manwhore, Vol. 1
The Ferro Family
H. M. Ward
Laree Bailey Press
Contents
Copyright
Volume 1
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by H.M. Ward
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.
H.M. WARD PRESS
First Edition: October 2015
ISBN: 978-1-63035-087-1
Volume 1
This trial is becoming a nightmare. Even as I sit across the aisle from a man accused of doing horrendous things to his wife, I find myself questioning whether he really did them or not. Like the rest of the opposing counsel, I've seen the crime scene photos and, no matter what I do, I can’t erase them from my mind. That beautiful man with his dark hair and blue eyes sits across from me day after day, expressionless, his hands folded serenely in his lap. He shows no contempt, no remorse.
Nothing.
I've combed through his past, spoken to his previous lovers--all women from before his marriage to the deceased--and they tell me this man is not the Sean Ferro they knew. The Sean Ferro they knew was kind and compassionate¸ full of life. He laughed easily and gave his love freely. Their version of him does not mesh with the shell of a man that I've studied across the courtroom these past months.
Mr. Ferro is clean-shaven, his hair smoothed back into a perfect frame for his vacant blue eyes. There's something about him that's utterly intimidating, but the vibe I get when I'm around him is off. It’s as if I can sense the two men living within that gorgeous hollow shell.
The counselor sitting next to me is convinced that weird vibe implies guilt. All of my coworkers are way past wondering if he's guilty. They believe, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he is. I'm not so sure anymore.
During our preparations for the trial, I played the role of devil's advocate. Basically, my job was to anticipate the defending counsel's strategy for making the jury believe Sean Ferro is innocent. It turns out I was excellent in that role--so good, in fact, that I began to believe in the possibility of his innocence.
Is the man sitting across the aisle from me guilty of murdering his pregnant wife?
"Objection." David Cunning sits in the first chair to my left. He jumps to his feet, making a passionate plea while waving his hands in the air as if this is a matter of life and death. "She's leading the witness."
Before the judge can reply, the opposition says, "Withdrawn."
Susanna Titleman is a named partner at the most prestigious law firm in New York City. She's a tall, thin woman with jet-black hair. She wears it slicked back into a neat chignon that rests at the nape of her neck. The slim skirt of her charcoal gray suit forms perfect leading lines down her long, lean legs. Coupled with a pair of Armani pumps, she looks like she walked straight off the Harvard Law school billboard.
While in law school, we all thought we'd change the world--and that, like Susanna, we'd look awesome while doing it. We also thought we'd get paid enough to live off of, maybe even enough afford things like that suit. It's ok, though. I've since learned the good guy isn't supposed to be rich. Working for the District Attorney's office means I rent an apartment I can barely afford and own a closet full of bargain basement suits. My heels are designer irregulars from Nordstrom Rack. My makeup is Maybelline. Despite my frugality, it's still been hard to repay my loans and afford to live. Nobody said any of this in law school. We were so focused on saving the world that we missed the fine print--you can't be a good guy without taking a vow of poverty.
It's been hours since we stopped for lunch. The sun is setting behind the tall glass and steel buildings, causing their shadows to creep across the marble courtroom floor. In all this time, Mr. Ferro has not moved. Others have also noticed and speculated it's because he's incapable of grief. They think he sits here day in and day out, not feeling a thing.
But sitting second chair has given me a front-row seat, and I know that's not true. Whether he committed murder or not, the man can feel. If I hadn't been sitting here I wouldn’t believe it either, but here I am, close enough to observe his ice blue eyes thaw when they exhibited pictures of his dead wife and child. His mouth didn't move. His jaw didn't tighten. He never loosened the grip of his hands, and he never stopped staring straight ahead. Sitting this close and studying those eyes, I could see the pain of loss and the desolation of grief. His refusal to move isn’t callousness--it’s a survival instinct. He’s frozen himself in time, locked himself in that night, and he can’t escape.
Since I noticed these things, I've watched him more carefully. As I’ve played devil’s advocate during preparations, I've become increasingly intrigued by the man sitting across the courtroom from me. Sean Ferro has erected walls of steel around himself. He'll never let anyone in again. I know that, I can see it, and as I sit here, day in and day out, I'm unconvinced that I'm on the right side.
Everyone thinks he's guilty--and I mean everyone, from random people on the street, to Amanda's parents, to his own mother. I thought he was guilty, too--until I started to notice things about him.
The gavel slams down and echoes through the courtroom, interrupting my thoughts. "That's all for today."
The judge is an older man with dark gray hair, a round face, and a big nose. He's highly educated, but when he speaks he sounds like a sanitation worker. A lot of people think this is intentional, as his political values lean toward defending the common man. His political values do not make him more lenient in his decisions, though, and he's earned a reputation for being a hard-ass.
A guy like Sean Ferro doesn't stand a chance in this courtroom, but attempts to obtain a change of venue, a change of judge, a change of anything were all denied. Being privileged may be enjoyable for Mr. Ferro on the outside, but in this courtroom the judge will fault him for it.
David looks over at me and smiles widely. He lifts his case notes from the desk and taps them down into a neat stack before slipping them into his attaché case.
"That went well. I don't know how you do it, Paige, but your insight has been priceless in this trial."
I smile and nod, accepting the praise with grace as I slip my notepad into my bag. It's a Vera Bradley, also an irregular. I couldn't figure out why until I put it on my shoulder and realized one strap is longer than the other. If I stand slightly lopsided the bag looks right, and it makes me look impatient and annoyed, so I blend right in with the other New York City residents.
"Sure, no problem."
I don't know how I do it either, and the whole thing is starting to take a toll on me. To see things from Sean Ferro’s side means I need to get inside his head. It's not just a matter of arguing from the opposite side of the courtroom and pretending to be the defense. The rest of my associates think it's easy, that all I need to do is put my feet into the opposing attorney’s shoes--but it's so much more than that.
Once I slip into Sean Ferro's mind, my argument is bulletproof, my plan of action is ironclad. I'm the one who suggested using his blank stare against him. I'm the one responsible for him being labeled a monster. When the press spoke to David about the shock seen on Mr. Ferro's face, it was me who suggested it was arrogance instead. The press took my subtle suggestions and ran wild. Suddenly my words are everywhere, flowing fr
eely from the mouths of every news anchor in the city. Mr. Ferro was deemed a monster beyond comprehension, showing absolutely no remorse for his wife and child. Since Mr. Ferro refuses to speak on the matter, even to defend himself, the hype surrounding the trial grows bigger and bigger.
Even as he stands up, our day in court concluded, the defendant doesn't look around the courtroom. He acts as if the other people aren't here. A sympathetic person might believe this man is dying inside, but there are no sympathetic people here. Everyone around him now believes the story I created. They believe he is a cold and distant husband who killed his wife and unborn child on a whim. They see his contempt as indifference and think this man doesn't care about life at all. Even if Sean Ferro manages to escape jail, he's already been given a life sentence by society. This city will never forget what he did. He will live the rest of his life alone, disgraced, and feared.
David stands there watching me. He clears his throat, loosens his tie and asks, "How about drinks? You and me blowing off some steam? Maybe you can tell me what's going on inside that prim and proper little head of yours?"
My jaw drops open, and I make a strangled noise. The last thing I am is prim and proper, but they don't know that. I laugh it off and act like he's joking.
"You know the rules, no fraternizing is allowed. If you haven't noticed, I really need this job."
David smiles and runs a hand through his blonde hair. "Drinks with a colleague is okay, Paige. What we do beyond that is up to you."
David is a few years older than me, with a long, lean body, sandy blonde hair, and bright green eyes. He thinks everyone we prosecute is guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt, and he wants to nail their asses to the wall. Everything is black and white to him. There are no shades of gray, no room for the law to be unclear. I wish I had his certainty because everything seems gray to me.
I laugh and wag a finger in his face as I pass him. "Nice try, Romeo, but you're not my type."
David feigns hurt as he follows me down the aisle. "Even if not with me, you should take tonight off, blow off some steam. We’ve been working our asses off, and there's no way this deviant is going to walk. Seriously, give yourself a break."
"That sounds good."
"I mean it, no work." David disappears down the hallway weaving amongst people without another word.
* * *
I find Jess draped over the arm of the sofa, blonde hair cascading to the floor where it pools. She's tapping her foot and singing along with music I can’t hear. Kicking off my shoes, I pad across the worn carpet and plop down next to her head.
Jess screams and jolts upright, taking a swing at me as she moves.
“Get off!” Her fist connects with my hip as she rounds on me.
I shriek and jump back as another fist comes flying my way. I grab it before it can connect and jerk her arm forward, making her faceplant against the couch. Before she can regroup, I swing my leg up and straddle her back. She’s laying facedown in the cushions and swearing up a storm. Breathless, I yell, “It’s me, dumbass!”
She shrieks something I can’t make out, but relaxes enough for me to know I'm safe from attack. I roll off of her, yank down my skirt and smooth my blouse. Jess sits up. Her hair covers her entire face making her resemble a golden version of Cousin It.
“You suck!” She huffs and bats at her long hair until it flips over her shoulders and falls down her back.
I laugh. Surprising Jess is easy and happens too frequently to count.
“Yeah, well, that’s debatable.” I pick at the run in my stocking and frown.
Jess takes a calming breath the same way she teaches her students in yoga class. People who know us both think she’s the crazy one. If they knew what I do to blow off steam, they'd reconsider. But that's my secret--even from Jess.
Jess sits Kumbaya-style, placing her hands palms up on her knees. She breathes in, holds the breath in her lungs, and then dramatically releases it. After repeating the process several times, she looks over at me with a lethargic smile.
“So, how was your day?”
“Lovely. I single-handedly crucified a man’s reputation, had the DA hit on me, and got punched in the hip by my yogi roommate who never hits anything except me.”
“You snuck up on me!” She drops her hands and her back curves like a sulky teenager. “Fine, I was spaced out, but you know how Journey affects me! I get lost in the glorious haze of 80’s music. I can’t stop believing, Paige. I gotta hang on to this feeling!”
I snort-laugh and grab a pillow before sinking back into the couch. “You’re a dork.”
“You need to go out." Jess shoots a worried smile in my direction. "I can hear your aura screaming for attention. It’s freaky. What’d you do today?” She scoots closer to me and starts swatting at my aura as if it were visible. I stare at her. She’s like a human cat. I want to tape a laser pen to the topside of the ceiling fan and randomly turn it on just to see what she would do.
“Jess, you can't just swat away the invisible crap that’s messing with my force field. I’m still going to be moody.”
She stops, drops her hands to her lap, and shakes her head.
“Then you do it. Visit your happy place--though you might need to bring ID just in case they don't recognize you.”
I grin. “Shut up. And it’s not my happy place.”
“Well, call it whatever you want, but when you come home, you are always way happier. Where do you go anyway?”
She tucks her bare feet under her pink yoga-panted butt as she watches me. I try to act like it’s not a big deal. I shrug and grab a magazine off the coffee table. Opening it, I sit back and scan the pages. “Nowhere special. Even if I did have a so-called happy place, I'm too tired to go there right now.”
“And grumpy. And mad. And maybe even,” she reaches up over my head and snatches something invisible out of the air. She holds it in her hand as if it were real and grimaces. When she meets my gaze again, she adds, “remorseful? That can’t be right. You enjoy making people miserable for a living. I’m the one who patches them up. We’re yin and yang. I’m light and fluffy bunnies, while you’re black holes and grunge.”
“Grunge?” I laugh and point to my suit. “What about my outfit says grunge?”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about your spirit, your soul. That thing inside you that you abuse day in and day out. That thing is getting beaten beyond recognition. The case you’re working on right now is about a wife killer. You should want to make him suffer, so what’s with the pity?”
The last word is like an icy spike in my spine. I sit up and pull away from her, wishing I could run. I laugh nervously, knowing she sees through me.
“I don’t pity him. He deserves everything coming to him and more.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I feel her gaze on the side of my face. When she talks again, her voice is soft and careful.
“That may be true, but after everything you went through with your mom I'd understand.”
“You’d understand what?”
“How much you want to make sure guys like that don’t hurt anyone else. How much it stings when some of the guilty ones still walk away. How much it hurts to remember your mom, and—”
I cut her off, unable to hear it right now. I stand and snap at her, “Don’t go there.”
But she doesn’t stop. “--and how she died. Her death rules your life, Paige. She wouldn’t want that.”
“You didn’t know her.” My voice is quiet and gruff, nearly a growl. My eyes narrow to thin slits, and it’s taking everything in me not to lash out at her. Jess is my friend, but she has no idea what it feels like to see her mother crying on the floor, covered in blood, gasping for air but unable to breathe. I can still hear Mom begging, and that agonizing gurgling sound fills my head, even now. I helplessly watched her die, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do to stop it.
Jess stands slowly and lifts her hands, palms toward me.
“I don’t
want to fight. I just know how invested you are in this case. I can see you're worn thin, and I don’t want this to destroy you. I love you, Paige.”
Now I feel like an asshole. My lips twist into a scowl because she’s right. I hate it when she’s right.
“Fine, I get it, okay. You need to realize there’s more to it than that. Life isn’t so simple, and things aren’t that black and white.”
“I know, and I get it." She nods and offers a careful smile. "I just don’t want to see you suffering like this.”
“This topic isn’t open for discussion. Drop it.”
“Paige.”
“I said stop!”
“You can’t keep pretending that your past has no bearing on your future. It does!” She’s pleading with me now, and I can’t bear it.
Without a word, I head for the door. I grab my shoes with one hand and my purse in the other.
“Stop running! You need to talk with someone, Paige. If not with me, then someone else. Anyone!” She follows me to the door and calls after me, but I don’t look back.
There’s a cab parked at the curb, waiting for a fare. I jump in and give the address. He nods and pulls into traffic. My stomach sinks into my shoes. I’m not ready for this.
Not tonight.
* * *
Maybe I’ll just sit at the bar.
Maybe I won’t go back there.
I push through the door with my heart beating hard. Every time I walk through those doors is just as intimidating as the first time. On the outside, I’m confident--hard, even. On the inside, I’m falling apart. Maybe I should do it. I need to stop thinking for a while, stop feeling the fear that strangles me.
Jess’s words bounce around in my head like drunk Ping-Pong balls. Their movements make no logical progression. I just see them hopping from my mother’s memory to Sean Ferro, and it disturbs me. I don’t know why I’m comparing them, but for some reason I see a connection. I wish I knew why.