Her sister-in-law gave her a long hug. “Chin up,” she whispered. “We’re pulling for you.”
Finally, there was nothing left but to give instructions to Doreen. “Just in case,” she said.
But the housekeeper was having done of it. “I’ll be right here,” she said. “Just like I always am. And I’ll see you later.”
Clare darted out of the house and into David’s waiting car, just ahead of the paparazzi.
“Hey Clare,” one of them called out, “where do you think you’ll be sleeping tonight?”
“People can be so cruel, without even realizing it, can’t they?” she said with a sigh.
“Or perhaps without caring,” David suggested.
***
The courthouse was a madhouse. Employees scurried around like rabbits, directing the spectators, positioning the media. Spectators overflowed corridors and scrambled for seats, pushing and shoving one another in their haste to be one of the lucky few. Members of the media, deliberately of course, stood in everyone’s way, and got in everyone’s face.
After all, this was it. This was what the whole past six weeks had been about -- from the first day of jury selection, through all the testimony, through final deliberations -- this all-important moment, when the verdict was read. No one wanted to be left out. No one wanted to miss a word of it, or a reaction, or even a facial expression. No one wanted to be the one that got to hear about it secondhand.
The pundits had been remarkably divided, as many sympathizing with the defendant as condemning her. As a result, the public was equally divided. The one thing everyone agreed on was that this was not your run-of-the-mill case.
For starters, not many women in Seattle killed their husbands. And not many of the few who did then claimed they did it because their husbands were trying to kill them. It was a complex defense, really, a remarkable defense, actually, and for those not particularly interested in the intricacies of the legal system, the whole case had provided a tantalizing peek inside the lives of the rich and famous.
“Don’t want it anymore -- just kill it off,” one pundit remarked. “Like a dog or a cat or a hamster. Mark my words, folks, however this case is decided, it will give our image of being a throwaway society a whole new dimension.”
***
Clare and David were ushered into the little room next to the courtroom where they had already spent so much time, and two guards took up positions outside the door.
“How much longer?” she asked.
David glanced at his watch. “Not much,” he told her. “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”
“What do you think?”
“Hard to say. Four days of deliberation generally means they had a hard time getting to unanimity. It probably means they were forced to compromise.”
“Compromise how?”
“Instead of an acquittal,” he said, “they might have opted for a lesser charge.”
“Which one?”
“Hopefully, manslaughter.”
“What would that mean?”
David shrugged. “First-degree murder gets you life. Second-degree murder gets you twenty-five to life. For first degree manslaughter, you’re probably looking at eight to fifteen years.”
Clare shuddered, and then raised her chin. “It would be dreadful, of course,” she said, “but at least it would mean it would finally be over. I really need this to be over. I need the children to be able to get on with their lives. They’re victims here, too.”
David didn’t know what to say. In his experience, four days to verdict didn’t bode well for his client. Not when the jury had compromises to fall back on. And while a manslaughter conviction was certainly better than a murder conviction, it wasn’t exactly what he would call a victory. And, too, it may not be manslaughter. It was very possible that there were only one or perhaps two holdouts for acquittal, and it just took time to bring them around.
Of course, he knew, it was equally possible that the holdouts were for conviction.
He wanted to say something reassuring, but reading a jury was always the hardest part of the job he did. You could think you picked the right ones only to have them jump up and bite you in the backside, just as easily as you could discover that ones you thought would never go your way had stepped up to champion your cause. You just never knew what dynamic would surface when twelve strangers locked in a room had to get together and speak with one voice before they were allowed out. In the end, it was anyone’s guess.
***
The spectators were packed in and restless, shifting around in their seats, murmuring to one another.
Mark Sundstrom and his assistant, Tom Colby, seemed to be brimming with nervous energy, fully anticipating a verdict in their favor. The court clerk flitted anxiously from one busy work chore to another. Even the jurors appeared to be on edge. They entered the courtroom nervously, with tentative expressions on their faces, and they did not look at the defendant.
But none of them could be as unsettled as Clare, who alternated between wanting to laugh, and cry, and vomit.
The judge sat implacably on the bench. This was her show and she was in no particular hurry to have it begin. It was not until the hour hand on the wall clock clicked onto the four that she banged her gavel and called the court to order.
“I understand the jury has reached a verdict,” she said, more of a formality than a question.
“Yes, Your Honor, we have,” the foreman, a slight man in his fifties, said. Clare thought she remembered David telling her the man was an electrical engineer.
Like a well-rehearsed play, the court clerk walked over and took the verdict form from the foreman and passed it up to the judge. Naomi Lazarus opened the form, read the contents, and without a single muscle in her face revealing a hint of what it said, passed it back to the clerk who then returned it to the foreman.
“The foreman will read the verdict,” the judge instructed.
The courtroom held its collective breath.
The foreman pulled a pair of eyeglasses from his jacket pocket and peered at the verdict form. “We the jury,” he read, “in the matter of the People versus Clare Durant, on the charge of murder in the first degree, find the defendant . . . not guilty.”
Everyone in the gallery started talking at once.
David felt his heart lurch in his stomach.
Mark Sundstrom shrugged his shoulders.
Clare was numb. What did it mean, she wondered. She didn’t know what it meant.
The judge banged her gavel for order.
“We the jury,” the foreman continued, “in the matter of the People versus Clare Durant, on the charge of murder in the second degree, find the defendant . . . not guilty.”
This time there was an audible gasp from the spectators, and then silence. They knew there was only one charge remaining. What they didn’t know was that it was the one the prosecution had not wanted to include from the beginning.
David held his breath. Manslaughter was the charge he had worried most about, but he had fought to include it, if only because it would give the jury a viable option if they felt they needed it.
“We the jury, in the matter of the People versus Clare Durant, on the charge of manslaughter,” the foreman read, pausing to glance up at Clare before he continued, “find the defendant. . . not guilty.”
It didn’t matter which side anyone was on, there was pandemonium in the courtroom.
Mark Sundstrom sank back in his chair, dumbfounded.
David Johansen couldn’t believe his ears.
Clare appeared disoriented.
“What happened?” she asked her attorney.
“I really don’t know,” he told her honestly. “But you’re going home.”
***
“In a remarkable turn of events,” the local anchors on the evening news broadcasts began, “Clare Durant, heiress to the medical giant Nicolaidis Industries, was acquitted of all charges today in connection with last year’s shooting death of her hus
band, Richard Durant, former CEO of the conglomerate.
“After four days of deliberations, it was generally assumed that the jury had reached a compromise verdict in this case that has had much of the city riveted for over a month. But if there was any compromise, it wasn’t evident in the results.”
***
If the jurors were surprised by their instant notoriety, they managed to hide it well. At least half of them were more than happy to step before the cameras as soon as the judge had dismissed them, and tell all about the trial and the verdict. They stretched out their fifteen minutes of fame as long as they could.
“I felt she was innocent right from the start,” one of them said, “and I waited for the prosecution to prove otherwise. They were doing a pretty decent job of it, too, until we found out about what her husband was trying to do to her.”
“You believed her husband was trying to kill her, did you?” a reporter asked.
“At the very least, I believe she believed it,” another juror said.
“I was on the fence most of the time during the trial,” admitted a third. “I could see it going either way. But after going back over everything and analyzing each piece of evidence, I’m pretty confident we ended up in the right place.”
Still another signed a book deal and even chose the title: Why I Changed My Vote. “Maybe what took me so long to come around was that I just wanted to believe she was guilty,” he said.
“If you’ve ever been on a jury,” a fifth told reporters, “you know it’s different from just about anything else. It’s like a war, only without any real weapons, except words, of course, and you know one side is going to win eventually, but you don’t know which side it’s going to be. So it goes back and forth until you just get worn down, or worn out. We had two strong people in there, one battling for guilt, and one battling for innocence. They were both very persuasive. That’s why it took so long.”
***
People flocked to Laurelhurst, those that Clare was close to, and those who now wanted to be close to her. Doreen did her best to fend them off, and pretty much succeeded, until a week after the verdict, when it was Erin Hall who rang the doorbell.
“I just thought you’d want you to know, we tracked down the black truck,” the detective told Clare. “It traced back to a man who grew up in the Lacey Trailer Park at the same time your husband did. Apparently, they were friends. From what we could piece together, he was doing a favor for a friend when he ran you off the road. He took the fifty thousand dollars, did what he was paid to do, and by all accounts, took off for Mexico.”
Clare shook her head. “It doesn’t really matter,” she said. “It’s over, it’s done. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather just put it behind me and get on with my life.”
Erin nodded. “Good idea.” She turned to leave and then stopped and turned back.
“I guess I also wanted to say I’m sorry,” she said, and Clare could tell her words were sincere. “I’m sorry you had to go through all this. And I’m sorry for the part I played in it. I wish you’d told us about your husband. I’d like to think we’d have believed you. I’d like to think we could have helped.”
Thirteen
It took almost three weeks before the reporters and the photographers and the so-called legal experts finally called it quits, before fresh stories with fresh villains cropped up to fill airtime and newspaper space, before the public’s attention waned, before Clare could blow her nose and feel confident that no one was lurking in the shadows, waiting to snap a picture of the indelicate act, or dig in her garbage for the discarded tissue.
The tutor was dismissed with gratitude, and the children returned to school. No one hassled them. Rather, their classmates seemed more to be in awe of them.
Henry Hartstone called. “I don’t know what your plans are,” he said directly, after a moment or two of polite conversation. “But some of us over here are thinking that this might be a good time for you to come on board.”
“Henry, I’m flattered,” she said, and meant it, “but I hardly think I’d be an asset to the company right now.”
“On the contrary,” the chief financial officer responded in his no-nonsense way. “The stock actually got a nice little boost from the trial, and I think, as Gus’s heiress, and with Richard out of the picture, you should consider it.”
Clare gave a little chuckle. “You know, I don’t think it would ever have entered my father’s head that I would one day actually work at Nicolaidis.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Hartstone told her. “He might have put Richard in charge, but he wasn’t as old-fashioned as you think. And he was nobody’s fool, either. He always said, in the end, you’d realize that editing wasn’t your true calling in life.”
“Did he really say that?” she breathed. Gus had started teaching her the business before she was even able to walk, but he had certainly never come close to suggesting anything like that.
“He did, on multiple occasions,” Hartstone assured her.
“In that case, let me get back to you after the holiday,” she said. “Perhaps then, we can sit down and take a look at what the options are.”
***
Thanksgiving dawned clear and cold.
Doreen took her first day off since the beginning of the trial, and went to her sister’s in Yelm. Clare and the girls went to Ravenna to eat turkey with Elaine and her family. They sat down to dinner at two o’clock, and afterwards, Elaine and her husband had planned to take everyone to a special performance of Cirque du Soleil at the Tacoma Dome.
Clare begged off. “Take the children,” she said. “Keep them overnight. It’ll be good for them.”
“You should come,” Elaine insisted. “It’ll be good for you, too. You need to start getting out. This is a perfect opportunity. It’ll be fun.”
“Too public, too soon,” Clare said. “I’ll only spoil it for everyone else. Let the children enjoy themselves for a change. I’ll come get them tomorrow.”
Elaine tried, but couldn’t change her sister-in-law’s mind, and Clare drove home by herself.
It felt odd, but good. Nobody followed her. Nobody lay in wait for her. She couldn’t recall the last time she had been truly alone, without anyone peering at her or hovering over her, without someone wanting something from her. For a few precious hours, anyway, she could be herself, by herself, and the opportunity was irresistible. It was heady stuff, this concept of being free, she decided.
She took a long hot bath, put on a pair of fleece pants and a long-sleeved fleece shirt, and went downstairs to raid the refrigerator. Coming away with a tall glass of orange juice, she wandered into the library. Doreen had laid a fire, and all Clare had to do was light it, making sure the kindling caught, and then wait for the flames to begin licking and curling along the logs. She curled up in one of the deep leather chairs, pulled a throw over her knees, and raised her glass.
“To life,” she said to the ceiling, to the bookcases, to the fire. In a matter of minutes, she was fast asleep.
The sound of the doorbell ringing woke her up. Frowning, Clare padded into the foyer, glancing at the clock on her way. It was a few minutes past nine. She peered out the side window. A delighted smile replaced the frown when she recognized the figure outside, and she quickly unlocked the door and pulled it open.
“What a nice surprise!” she cried.
“Hello,” James Lilly said shyly. “I’ve been wanting to stop by, but I just didn’t know whether you’d feel like seeing anyone.”
“Come on in,” she invited. “You know you could have come anytime. A friendly face is always welcome.” She led him into the library. “What can I get you?”
“Oh, I don’t need anything,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“Never mind,” she said. “I know just the thing.”
She took her empty orange juice glass back into the kitchen, and exchanged it for a bottle of champagne that had been sitting in the refrigerator since the verdict. “I’ve b
een waiting for someone to enjoy this with,” she said as she popped the cork and poured. “I can’t think of a more appropriate way to mark the end of one life and the beginning of another, can you?” She handed him a glass and raised her own.
“To life,” she said. They both emptied their glasses in one long gulp, and Clare promptly refilled them.
“To life,” James echoed.
“How is it you’re not off in Texas, spending the holiday with family?” she asked.
He shrugged. “All that’s left are a couple of cousins,” he told her. “They invite me every year, of course, they’re very good about that, but this year, I don’t know, I guess I just didn’t feel like going all the way down there.”
“That’s odd,” she mused. “In all the years I’ve known you, I think this is the first time you’ve ever mentioned anything about them.”
“I guess it just never came up.”
“I guess not.” She took a sip of her champagne. “Where are your parents?” she asked.
“My dad is dead,” he said. “I never really knew him. He’s been dead a long time. He died in Vietnam. I was four.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said sincerely. “And your mother?”
James blinked behind his glasses. “My mother was never around a lot, either,” he said. “She was very young, and I guess being a widow with a kid wasn’t exactly her idea of having fun. She’s been dead a long time, too. I think the story goes that there were two guys outside some bar down in Laredo who squared off over who was going to have her for the night. No one was exactly sober, and she got caught in the crossfire. I was nine. Her parents raised me for a while, and then, after they got killed in a car accident, my cousins took me in. I was twelve.”
It was a terrible story. “Now I’m really sorry,” Clare said. “No one should have to lose their family like that.”
He looked around suddenly. “Speaking of family, where are the kids?” he asked. “Where is your housekeeper?”
“The kids are having some well-deserved fun for a change with their aunt and uncle and cousins,” Clare replied with a smile. “They’ll be back tomorrow. Doreen is at her sister’s. She’ll be back tomorrow, too. And I’ve been enjoying a little time by myself.”
In Self Defense Page 25