“Not really fights,” Jessica said. “I mean, yes, there were things that happened, but I think they were more one-sided. Bullying.”
Helen smiled. It wasn’t a warm or pleasing smile. “Good. The wrestling captain was a bully. That’s good to know. If this ever goes to trial, it’d be nice to let the jury know that the star athlete was also a star asshole. That’d go a ways toward undercutting the state’s case.”
Blaming the victim, Jessica thought—is that where we’re at now?
The attorney went on. “The DA will probably use that as motive. And then there’s the evidence. Not much of it, but there it is, and it’s all coming down to your husband’s shotgun.”
Jessica shuddered. “I’ve never liked that in the house, never.”
“What did Ted use it for?”
“Some hunting—duck, pheasant,” she said. “Mostly up in New Hampshire. With clients or other realtors he was friendly with.”
“Do you know what kind of shotgun it is?”
Jessica said, “Kind? There’s a kind?”
Helen nodded, turned over another newspaper clipping. “Lots of kinds. Single-shot, pump-action, semiautomatic. And different sizes, called gauges. Ted owns a twelve-gauge Remington pump-action shotgun, which poses two problems for the state.”
“What’s that?”
Helen said, “What Ted told me and what the police haven’t. So far.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t you remember?” Helen asked. “When Detective Rafferty seized the shotgun, he told you and Ted that it had been recently fired.”
Jessica nodded, wiped at her eyes. “There . . . there was so much going on. Yes, now I remember. He said it smelled like the shotgun had been recently fired.”
The attorney said, “That was just a sniff test, I’m sure. At this moment I can guarantee you that your husband’s shotgun is at the state police forensics lab over in Maynard and they’re running tests to confirm the detective’s nostrils. They’ll probably come up with a date range of when the shotgun was fired. It won’t be good news if it’s about the time the boy got shot. Then again . . .”
Somewhere nearby two people walked by, talking loudly, and Jessica had an urge to get up, open the door, and scream at them to shut up, shut up, just shut the hell up!
“Then again,” Helen repeated, “the crime labs here in Massachusetts and the coroner’s office haven’t covered themselves in glory these past few years. Thousands of drug cases had to be tossed because of processing errors or outright fraud, and the coroners are usually overworked and underpaid, meaning they can’t attract top staff. Not to mention the overtime and corruption scandals from the Mass. State Police. That will work in Ted’s favor.”
“You said there were two problems. What was the other one?”
Helen smiled. “Ah, this is going to be key. You see, whoever killed Sam used a shotgun, which meant he was hit by a number of shotgun pellets. That certainly wasn’t good for Sam but is very good for your husband.”
“Why?”
“Because if Sam had been hit by a bullet from a handgun or a rifle and the bullet was recovered and was in decent shape, forensics could tie it to a specific handgun or rifle.”
“Meaning . . .”
“Don’t you see?” Helen asked. “There’s no way that forensics can link the pellets that killed Sam to your husband’s shotgun. Even if they recovered five or ten or twenty pellets, there’s no way to link them to your husband. Which leads to reasonable doubt, and that, Jessica, can lead to an acquittal.”
She could only nod. What this lawyer knew, what she had learned, what she was capable of, and—
“Excuse me?” Jessica asked. “I didn’t hear what you just said.”
Helen smiled, and this time it felt like it had genuine warmth behind it. “Dear me, you have so much going on, that’s entirely understandable. Now. Alibi time. I had a brief conversation with Ted before coming over here, and he told me that you could provide an alibi for him, at the time of the boy’s murder.”
“What time would that be?” she asked.
Helen paused for two seconds, and those two seconds seemed heavy indeed. She spoke clearly and slowly. “The preliminary information I managed to crowbar out of the Warner police is that the boy was murdered between six P.M. and midnight. Ted said that he was at home with you, beginning at six P.M. Is that true?”
True. What was truth, now?
Ted had been out that night, has not been with her, had not been with his son or stepdaughter. No, he had been out, and he wasn’t out with his business partner Ben, like he claimed. He was out with that big-titted slut from the real estate office, and now he was asking his wife—his wife!—to provide him with an alibi to save him.
Those same damn talkers were now walking back again, out there in the hallway. Just shut up!
“Mrs. Thornton?”
She took a deep, bracing breath and said, “No, I can’t.”
Helen suddenly scowled. “What?”
“I said, I can’t provide Ted with an alibi.”
Helen looked like a cobra about to spit venom in Jessica’s face.
“What the hell are you telling me, Mrs. Thornton?”
All right, Jessica thought. No more friendly first names.
“I’m telling you that I can’t provide an alibi for Ted.”
“Your husband told me that he told the police he was home with you that night, watching . . .” Helen flipped through some sheets of paper and said, “Ah, here. Yes. Ted said that he was watching one of the Real Housewives television shows on Bravo.” She glared at Jessica.
Jessica felt fine.
Helen said, “Are you telling me that Ted lied to the police?”
“Yes, he did,” Jessica said.
“And you . . .” Another frantic flipping through some papers. “You told the police, Detective Rafferty to be specific, that you could verify that Ted was with you all that evening. Is that a lie as well, Mrs. Thornton?”
“It is.”
Helen placed both of her hands flat on the conference room table. “Mrs. Thornton, was your husband home that night?”
“No,” Jessica said. “He got home at about eleven P.M.”
Helen slowly shook her head. “Do you have any idea where he was?”
A cliche to be true, but, yes, he was in the arms of another woman. And am I going to bail him out? Am I going to help my cheating husband?
“No,” Jessica said.
Partial Transcript of Recorded Conversation Between Jessica Thornton and Theodore H. Donovan, Inmate Number 4512283 Middlesex County Jail Billerica, Massachusetts
INMATE: “You need what?”
GUEST: “Twelve thousand dollars, Ted. As soon as possible.”
INMATE: “She didn’t tell me that earlier! I can’t believe she . . . ”
[Cross talk]
GUEST: “Maybe it slipped her mind when she was asking questions about your—”
INMATE: “Jess, please, you know this is being recorded. All the goddamn signs say it.”
[Pause]
INMATE: “Sorry. I . . . damn it, this is such a goddamn nightmare. The noise—I didn’t sleep last night, I’m always on guard in case some shithead wants to pick a fight, the food is—”
GUEST: “Ted. The twelve thousand dollars.”
INMATE: “Christ, Jessica, I don’t think we even have a thousand in our checking account.”
GUEST: “We don’t.”
INMATE: “The mortgage. A second mortgage might do it, but shit, who’s going to approve a second mortgage with what’s going on and—”
GUEST: “Nobody, that’s who.”
[Cross-talk]
GUEST: “We need to go to Ben Powell. The money he’s getting from—”
INMATE: “For God’s sake, stop that! Don’t talk anymore!”
[Pause]
INMATE: “Jessica.”
[Pause]
INMATE: “Jessica.”
[Pause]
> INMATE: “I’m sorry. We can’t approach Ben.”
GUEST: “Why not?”
INMATE: “Not here.”
GUEST: “Ted.”
INMATE: “Yes?”
GUEST: “If Attorney Wray doesn’t get her retainer, that means she won’t take the case. Which means a public defender.”
INMATE: “Then okay, I’ll get a public defender.”
GUEST: “Ted.”
INMATE: “Yes?”
GUEST: “Think it through. You get a public defender, you’re announcing to Warner and the world that you don’t have the money to hire an attorney. That means you’re broke. You’re out of money. Is that the message you want to get out there?
[Pause]
GUEST: “Ted.”
[Pause]
GUEST: “Ted.”
[Pause]
INMATE: “All right. Get a hold of Ben. I . . . he was expecting me to meet with him. I’m sure he’ll . . . do what’s right. Oh boy. They do let us make outgoing calls here. I’ll do it.”
GUEST: “Okay. Good.”
INMATE: “Okay. When can you come back?”
GUEST: “I don’t know. Attorney Wray was able to get me in here tonight on short notice by calling in some favors.”
INMATE: “How’s Craig?”
GUEST: “I think he’s okay. He’s over at the Bormans’ for the night—and probably for the next few days.”
INMATE: “Good.”
GUEST: “All right.”
INMATE: “I don’t want him coming here. All right? I just don’t.”
GUEST: “Okay.”
[Pause]
GUEST: “Ted?”
INMATE: “Yes?”
GUEST: “Why didn’t you ask about Emma?”
INMATE: “What?”
GUEST: “You asked about Craig, how he was doing. Why didn’t you ask about Emma? Your stepdaughter?”
INMATE: “I . . . come on, Jessica. I’ve got so much going on and—”
[Cross-talk]
GUEST: “All right, Ted, I need to leave.”
INMATE: “Jessica.”
GUEST: “Yes?”
INMATE: “You still believe, me right? That I didn’t kill Sam Warner.”
GUEST: “I’m sorry, Ted, I’m late. I’ve got to go.”
[Cross-talk]
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
After her visit with Ted at the Middlesex County Jail, Jessica entered her house, again pushing that damn squeaky door, and picked up the mail from the floor, which she had ignored yesterday during the chaos following Ted’s arrest. At least no one from the news media was out there waiting for her, and it looked like Attorney Wray was right: eventually the press did go on to something else.
Good for them, she thought, and walked through the empty house, dropped her purse on the dining room table, and then threw the mail—a flyer from Hannaford’s, a plea from Boston Children’s Hospital, a checking account statement in her and Ted’s name from her own place of business—across the room, making the pieces fly and scatter like baby chicks being kicked out of the nest.
Jessica looked back at that damn squeaky door. Remembered all the times Ted had promised to fix it. She went to the door leading to the cellar, opened it, went downstairs, grabbed a tool kit, and went back to the front door. She took out a screwdriver and pliers and went to work. It was good to have tools in her hands, to get something done. Jessica remembered the times back in high school, taking computers apart and putting them back together, sometimes fixing small things around the house.
A while later she put the tools away and tried working the door.
The damn thing still rubbed and squeaked. All that work had been for nothing.
She put both hands up to her face, took a deep sigh, wondered and waited, and then put the tool kit away, washed her hands and face, and went upstairs.
The door to Craig’s room was closed. Big surprise.
The door to Emma’s was slightly open and she walked in.
A mess, but why not? Emma was fifteen years old, had her entire future ready for her, from running track to having her mom get access to that trust fund when she turned twenty-one, to getting the whole thing when she turned thirty. All Jessica had to do was take care of her little girl.
She stepped over to the bed, kicked off her shoes, plopped herself down, and stretched out on the blanket, taking Emma’s pillow and wrapping her arms around it, bringing it close to her chest. Taking in the scent of Emma brought back so many memories, just tumbling in, one right after another, including the night she had gotten the phone call from the Maine State Police that Bobby had died in York.
Long after the phone calls, the trip up to the Maine State Police barracks, coming home and relieving her neighbor—sweet old Mrs. Miller, a retiree from a tech firm out on Route 128—she had taken young Emma to bed with her, held her, whispered to her, brushed her hair. Emma had struggled and whined while in her mother’s insistent arms but had fallen asleep, not knowing then that her daddy was dead, and in the new darkness Jessica had said, “I will always protect you, my little girl. Tonight, tomorrow, and forever. And you will never know what I’ve done for you.”
Now, alone in her girl’s room, she wondered how Emma was doing tonight.
Emma Thornton was at her friend Kate Romer’s house and was enjoying her time until her phone tinged with an incoming text. Kate’s parents, Doris and John, were loud, talking, arguing, laughing, and hugging each other in the crowded kitchen and living room. Kate’s younger twin brothers, Paul and Peter, raced around, knocking things over, and Emma found the place fun and happy. Not like her own home, with Mom coming home from the bank, moaning about her sore feet, her stepdad Ted bitching about the soft real estate market, and Craig being Craig.
Which is why she swore when she saw the text she got on her iPhone:
need to see u RIGHT NOW
And she typed back
later
And in seconds,
NO!!! or I go to the cops NOW
She shook her head, let her fingers fly, and then went out to the kitchen, where Kate was drying the dinner dishes with her mom, laughing and flicking dishwater from her fingers, and Emma said, “Mrs. Romer? I need to go out for some fresh air.”
Kate’s mom, who was plump, florid-faced, wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, wiped her hands on a dish towel and touched Emma’s cheek.
“Everything okay, sweetheart?”
Emma said, “I just need some fresh air. That’s all.”
Kate said, “I’ll come along.”
“No, that’s okay,” Emma said. “I just want a few minutes by myself.”
Kate started to speak, but her mom gave her a soft glare, and that was that.
“Be safe, all right?”
Emma nodded.
Safe, sure.
Luckily the Romers lived near the Bormans, where Craig was hanging out with his equally weird pal Mark. Via text, he had agreed to meet her at the town common. The walk was quick enough. She walked with her head down and hair tucked up under a wool cap, hoping she wouldn’t be noticed. Not that she had anything to be nervous about, but the fewer eyes on her, the better.
She went across the marked crosswalk to the common and over to the Minuteman statue and the bandstand, right where it seemed about half the town had gathered the other night for the sobfest over Sam’s death.
Craig was leaning against the bandstand, hands in his coat pockets, knapsack on the grass before him. He was wearing a long denim coat that for some reason the geeks at high school had taken on as their uniform, not knowing that it made them better targets whenever they got in somebody’s way.
“Hey,” Emma said.
Craig said, “Don’t fucking ‘hey’ me, Emma.”
Emma said, “I’ll say anything I want.”
Craig stood there looking at his perfect stepsister, wondering why, with everything she had going for her—a free ticket to college, lots of friends, solid B-plus work at school, a trust fund he
r mother could tap when she turned twenty-one—she had to have this wicked crazy streak that nearly always got her into trouble. She was like one of those Hawaiian surfers you saw on ESPN, those hot-looking blondes in their red spandex two-pieces, riding on top of a wave so freakin’ high, pushing it and pushing it, always just a few seconds away from tumbling into disaster, a wild-ass crazy grin on their faces. Emma was just like that, except in her case, if she was going to tumble, she was going to take Craig and Dad along with her.
Not going to happen.
He said, “My dad’s in jail, and you’re bitching to me about what you can say?”
“Stop being so dramatic,” she said. “He’s just been arrested, that’s all.”
“That’s all!” he nearly yelled back at her. “You don’t think that’s enough?”
In a cool, controlled, and slightly contemptuous tone, she said, “He’s been arrested. Where’s the evidence?”
“The cops must know something.”
“They know shit. They got your dad’s shotgun, and they got evidence that his poor widdle son was being teased by the big bad wrestling team. That’s all. In a few days he’ll be out on bail, when his new lawyer gets him sprung.”
“You don’t know that.”
“It makes sense. You know it does.”
When Craig had first met Emma a few years back, when his dad had started dating Jessica, she had seemed impossibly beautiful and perfect, like one of those crystal-like dolls sold downtown at Warner Gifts and Collectibles. But now all he wanted to do was to punch that smug face, make her hurt like he was hurting.
“I don’t know what makes sense,” he finally said, blurting out the words he had been practicing to say for the last hour. “All I know is that I’m going to the cops tomorrow. Let them know what happened. I gotta protect my dad.”
Emma stared at her idiot stepbrother and said, “You can’t—and you won’t—do that.”
“Oh, yeah? Why not? You going to stop me?”
“You bet I am,” she said. “You go, and our deal—it’s done.”
He shook his head. “Some fucking deal. You were never going to keep your end of it, were you?”
The thing was, Craig was right. She was never going to go through with it, but this wasn’t the time or place to bring that up. Him going to the cops!
You Will Never Know Page 17