The Bad Daughter

by Joy Fielding

  “You get that often?” Robin asked Blake, almost grateful for the diversion the blonde had provided.

  “Get what?”

  I love you, thought Robin.

  Two men came bounding down the corridor, one with a camera.

  “Keep your head down and don’t look up,” Blake advised, guiding Robin to a nearby bench and sitting down beside her. “Pretend they’re not there.”

  They sat in silence, Blake scrolling his phone for messages, Robin staring at her feet. She looked up several minutes later to see Jeff McAllister approaching. “That’s him.” She jumped to her feet as the lawyer drew nearer, the reporter and his photographer nipping at his heels.

  “Excuse me, Mr. McAllister,” the reporter shouted as the photographer began snapping pictures.

  “I must ask you to back away,” McAllister said. “I’ll have a statement for you later.”

  “Do you think there’s any chance your client will get bail?” the reporter asked, ignoring the lawyer’s directive.

  “As I said, I’ll have a statement for you later. Now, if you don’t mind…”

  The reporter and his cameraman reluctantly withdrew. Outside Courtroom One, a small crowd was gathering.

  “My brother will get bail, won’t he?” Robin asked, reworking the reporter’s question.

  “Highly doubtful,” McAllister replied. “But I’ll do my best.” He looked at Blake. “You are?”

  Robin introduced the two attorneys, Blake towering over the shorter man. Despite the outside heat, McAllister was wearing a dark blue three-piece suit, a white shirt complete with cuff links, and a paisley tie.

  “How is Alec?” Robin asked. “Have you seen him?”

  “Not this morning, no. But they’ll be bringing him over shortly from the jail.”

  Robin felt tiny bubbles of panic bursting like champagne inside her chest. “What kind of jail has two hundred and twenty-seven inmates?” she asked, hoping that the sound of her voice would keep her panic in check. “I mean, who came up with that number? Why not two hundred and twenty-five or two hundred and thirty? What genius decided on two hundred and twenty-seven?”

  “Robin,” Blake said, “are you all right?”

  “It just seems stupid to me, that’s all.”

  “Maybe you should wait out here,” McAllister said, as the bailiff unlocked the courtroom doors.

  “No,” Robin insisted. “It’s important for Alec to know we’re here, that we believe in his innocence. My brother is innocent,” she announced to the reporters now crowding the doorway.

  “Did you know about your brother and Tara?” one asked as they made their way into the courtroom.

  “Is it true they were having an affair?” asked another.

  “Did Cassidy identify your brother as the man who shot her?”

  “My brother is innocent,” Robin repeated, her voice a full octave higher and multi-decibels louder than it had been just seconds ago.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” McAllister cautioned, although Robin wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to the reporters.

  Blake led Robin to a bench at the front of the visitors section. Her eyes scanned the judge’s podium, the witness stand, the court recorder’s desk, the jury box, the long tables used by the prosecution and defense teams, and the five rows of benches reserved for spectators. Just like on TV, she thought. Maybe a little brighter, since the wall opposite the jury box was mostly windows. There was a lot of impressive-looking wood, but little color save for the large American flag on prominent display at the front of the room. The walls were beige, as was the floor. There was no carpet. The rest of the room was a blur, like a photograph that was slightly out of focus.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Blake asked.

  “I’m not sure of anything.”

  Blake took her hand and held it as the bailiff announced that court was in session and directed everyone to stand for the arrival of the presiding magistrate. The judge’s name was Robert West and he was appropriately white-haired and distinguished-looking. A pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses were balanced low on the bridge of his nose, completing the picture of a folksy, fair-minded grandfather.

  “He’s looks nice,” Robin said, her voice hopeful.

  The judge directed the bailiff to bring in the first of the accused, a man charged with robbing a local 7-Eleven. He pleaded not guilty and was released on bail to await trial.

  “That’s good,” said Robin, watching as the second prisoner was brought before the magistrate. The charge was simple assault, and he, too, was granted bail while awaiting trial. “Good,” Robin said again. Two out of two.

  Her brother was escorted in next. He was wearing the same orange jumpsuit as the two previously accused prisoners. And after he spent all that money in Walmart, Robin thought, noting the defeated slump of his shoulders, so similar to Melanie’s. She rose slightly in her seat, lifting her right hand into the air, fingers fluttering, trying to get his attention. Only the pressure of Blake’s hand on her arm brought her back into her seat.

  If Alec saw her, he gave no sign. His back was to her, and he stared straight ahead as Jeff McAllister joined him in front of the judge. The charges were read, and Alec was asked for his plea.

  “Not guilty, Your Honor,” he replied.

  Just like on TV, Robin thought again, wondering suddenly if this could be another of the strange dreams she’d been having since her arrival in Red Bluff. Please let me wake up. Please let this awful nightmare be over.

  But, of course, she wasn’t dreaming and she knew it. This nightmare was real and wouldn’t end until Alec was exonerated and the men who’d murdered Tara and shot her father and Cassidy had been apprehended and brought to justice.

  “The prosecution is seeking remand,” the prosecutor argued. She was a woman of about forty, with short brown hair that emphasized the heavy bags beneath her eyes. She was wearing a black A-line skirt and a pale yellow blouse that Robin remembered seeing on the cover of a Brooks Brothers catalog. She wore little makeup beyond her coral lipstick, and her voice all but shook with righteous indignation. “The defendant is charged with murder and attempted murder, as well as breaking and entering, robbery, and vandalism. He killed his former lover in cold blood, and severely wounded her husband, a pillar of this community, who remains in the hospital in critical condition, not expected to survive. He also shot a helpless child. If he were to be granted bail, we have no doubt that he would attempt to flee the country, given that he has already tried once to do so.”

  “Your Honor,” Jeff McAllister began, “the defendant is not a flight risk. He has long-standing ties to this community, having lived here most of his life. He is currently staying with his sister, and his car and passport have already been seized.”

  “His car and passport were seized during a failed attempt to flee to Canada,” the prosecutor interrupted, “and he left Red Bluff more than five years ago after his father, whom he stands accused of shooting, married his then-fiancée, whom he stands accused of murdering. He’s refusing to cooperate in any way…”

  “Application for bail is denied,” the judge pronounced before the prosecutor could finish. “Defendant is remanded for trial.” He banged his gavel, and Alec was escorted from the room.

  “Oh, no,” Robin cried. “Poor Alec.”

  “Getting bail was always a long shot,” Jeff McAllister reminded her. In the background, reporters hovered, waiting for the statement McAllister had promised them earlier.

  “What happens now?” Blake asked McAllister.

  “We meet next week, set a trial date, get a look at their evidence. From what I can gather, the case against your brother isn’t very strong, and it’s entirely circumstantial. There’s nothing physical linking him to the crime scene, no DNA, no eyewitnesses, except for a traumatized twelve-year-old girl who isn’t even sure how many men were in the house. Your father had no shortage of enemies. I think a good case can be made for reasonable doubt.”

  H
e repeated essentially the same account to the press, downplaying both motive and opportunity while emphasizing the prosecution’s lack of hard evidence. He said that since Alec had been denied bail, he would insist on his client’s right to a speedy trial.

  “Which means what, exactly?” Robin asked Blake. “Are we talking weeks? Months?”

  “My guess would be nothing happens until the fall.”

  “The fall?”

  “At least.”

  “Oh, God. We can’t let that happen. He’ll die in there. We have to find out who did this.”

  Blake took her arm, led her toward the front door of the courthouse.

  The sheriff was waiting beside it. “Robin…Blake,” he said, tipping his hat. “I was hoping I might be able to stop by this afternoon—”

  Robin neither slowed down nor looked in his direction. “Go to hell,” she said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The sheriff showed up at their door at just after two o’clock that afternoon.

  “We don’t want any,” Melanie told him, about to shut the door in his face.

  “I’m here to see Cassidy.”

  “She doesn’t want to see you,” Robin said, coming up behind her sister, their bodies forming a human barricade.

  “I have a right to question the girl.”

  “She has nothing to say to you.”

  “Is that Sheriff Prescott?” Cassidy called from inside the house.

  “It’s all right, sweetheart,” Robin called back. “You don’t have to talk to him.”

  “No, that’s okay. I want to see him.”

  “I think that’s my cue.” The sheriff waited for Robin and her sister to step aside before taking off his hat and entering the house.

  “I’m in here,” Cassidy said.

  Robin and Melanie followed the sheriff into the living room where Cassidy was sitting on the sofa, Blake beside her, watching an afternoon soap opera on TV. She was wearing the outfit that Robin and Blake had purchased at Trendsetters the day before. Her feet were bare.

  “Sorry to bother you,” the sheriff said. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything too important.” He motioned toward the big-haired, big-bosomed actress on the screen who was almost drowning in tears, lines of black mascara trailing down her cheeks.

  “It’s my favorite show. Bleeding Hearts,” Cassidy informed him. “That’s Penny. She just told her twin sister, Emily, that their father’s been molesting her for years, and now poor Emily doesn’t know what to believe.”

  I know exactly how she feels, Robin thought, sitting down beside Cassidy and taking the child’s hand in hers.

  “How are you feeling today?” the sheriff asked, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.

  “Pretty good.” Cassidy clicked the remote on her lap, and the television screen went blank.

  “I brought you your phone.” The sheriff removed it from his pocket and handed it to her.

  Cassidy hugged it to her chest as if it were a stuffed toy. “Thank you so much. I wondered what happened to it.”

  “You had it in your hand when the paramedics found you. We cleaned it up…” He didn’t bother finishing the sentence. “They treating you well here?”

  “No,” Melanie said from the doorway. “We’re torturing her. In fact, until seconds before you got here, we had her hanging by her thumbs from the ceiling.”

  “Perhaps Cassidy and I should talk in private,” the sheriff said.

  “That’s out of the question.” Robin looked to Blake for support.

  “Afraid you’re stuck with us, Sheriff,” he said. “The girl’s a minor.”

  “Yes, she is,” Prescott concurred. “And I could call Child Welfare Services, I suppose. I was hoping not to get them involved, but…”

  “What do you mean, Child Welfare Services?” Cassidy asked, glancing around the room with a look of panic on her face. “Why would you call Child Welfare Services?”

  “If I’m being prevented from doing my job, if you’re being coerced or pressured in any way not to talk to me…”

  “I’m not being pressured,” Cassidy said. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Please don’t call them. I don’t want them to take me away.”

  “You feel safe here?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well, Alec has been arrested.”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “Did someone ask you to say that?” The sheriff looked from Robin to Melanie, then back to Cassidy.

  “No. No.”

  “What did they say to you about Alec’s arrest?”

  Cassidy paused to consider the question. “They said you think Mommy and Alec were having an affair, and that Alec killed her and shot Daddy and me. But it’s not true.”

  “How can you be sure? He fits the description of the men you gave us—tall, muscular—”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But?”

  “I just know it wasn’t him. He’s Robin’s brother,” she said, as if this was all the evidence she needed.

  He’s also Melanie’s brother, Robin thought, knowing that the sheriff was thinking the same thing.

  “And besides, even if it was him,” Cassidy added as Robin felt her heart drop into the pit of her stomach, “then I’m safe here because he’s in jail. But it wasn’t him,” she added quickly, seeing the look on Robin’s face. She glanced toward the ceiling, where a faint rocking could be heard. “Landon fits the description, too. He’s tall and muscular. But it wasn’t him either,” she added quickly.

  “Why are we talking about Landon?” Melanie asked, her voice stretched as tight as an elastic band.

  “I was just saying he fits the description,” Cassidy said. “The same as Alec.”

  “The same as a lot of people,” Robin said, sensing that in spite of Cassidy’s best efforts, by linking Alec and Landon she’d only made things worse. There’d been at least two men in the house that night, two men matching the general description of her brother and her nephew. “Any other questions, Sheriff?”

  He smiled at Cassidy. “I was wondering if you felt strong enough to accompany me to the house—”

  “We’ve already discussed this,” Robin interrupted. “She’s not going anywhere near that house.”

  “No, I want to go,” Cassidy said. “All my stuff, my clothes…”

  “We’ll get you new clothes.”

  “But I might remember something,” Cassidy insisted. “Something that could help Alec.”

  Or hurt him, Robin thought. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Cassidy took a deep breath, exhaling audibly. “What about Mommy?”

  “What about her?” Melanie asked.

  “Where is she?” Cassidy asked the sheriff. “Can I see her?”

  “We’ll be releasing her body for burial in another day or two,” Prescott said.

  “Then I’ll need something to wear.” Cassidy nodded several times to emphasize that her mind was made up. “We should go soon.”

  “How’s tomorrow morning?” the sheriff asked.

  “Tomorrow morning is good.”

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” Robin asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  * * *

  —

  The sheriff arrived at precisely nine o’clock the next morning. Cassidy was waiting in the front hall, Robin and Blake on either side of her. “How are you doing today, Cassidy?” Prescott asked. “You ready to do this?”

  Cassidy nodded, grabbing both Robin’s and Blake’s hands for support.

  “I take it you’ll be joining us.” Prescott’s tone indicated that he was resigned to their presence.

  “We will,” Robin said.

  “Then I must instruct you not to interfere in any way.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “And Melanie?”

  “Staying right here,” she called from the kitchen.

  “My lucky day,” Prescott muttered, not quite under his bre
ath. “Shall we?” He opened the door, and they stepped into the warm morning air. “We can walk or take my car.” He motioned toward the end of the driveway where his patrol car was parked.

  “The doctors said I should get as much exercise as I can,” Cassidy said.

  “Fine. If you think you’re strong enough.”

  “I’m strong enough.”

  Robin smiled proudly. Cassidy was one of the strongest people she’d ever met. She wondered where that kind of fortitude came from. Tara probably. God knows I’ve never had it, she thought, squeezing Cassidy’s hand as they proceeded slowly up the driveway and along the side of the road to the house next door.

  “Ready?” the sheriff asked when they reached the front door, where a deputy was waiting.

  Cassidy nodded, the deputy unlocked the door, and they stepped inside the large circular foyer. Robin followed Blake’s gaze from the high ceiling and huge crystal chandelier to the two staircases off the center hall. She saw his lips form an unspoken “Wow.”

  “How you doin’ so far?” the sheriff asked Cassidy.

  “Okay,” Cassidy said, although the slight wobble in her voice said otherwise. Her fingernails dug into the back of Robin’s hand.

  “I thought we could start by going over the events of that night again.” Prescott paused to let his words sink in. “You woke up to loud voices and came down the stairs to see what was happening…”

  Cassidy’s eyes glazed over, as if she were watching the scene play out before her. She let go of Robin’s and Blake’s hands and, as if she were sleepwalking, moved toward the staircase on the left side of the hall, the others following close behind her. “It sounded like arguing,” she said, stopping at the base of the staircase, “so I got out of bed and tiptoed down the stairs to see what was going on. The voices got louder.” She began inching toward the living room. “This one guy was yelling. He was really mad.”

  “Can you hear him now?” the sheriff asked. “Do you recognize his voice?”

  Cassidy tilted her head, as if she were listening. “No.” She stopped, gasping when she saw the blood covering the living room rug and much of the furniture. “Oh, God.”