Suspicion of Vengeance

by Barbara Parker

  "No. In fact, don't mention we talked about any of this, okay? Promise?"

  "Ten-four."

  "Thanks, Diddy." She helped him up by an elbow and kissed his cheek. "Go to bed."

  He patted her shoulder. "You're a good girl, Jackie."

  Her apartment was a single large room and a bath over a wood-frame, two car garage. A screen set off the sleeping area and a tiny kitchen took up one corner, but the rest of the space was open.

  Jackie picked up the coffee table and set it upside down on the sofa, then pushed her lounge chair out of the way. Her boots sailed toward the bed—thud, thud. She pulled her shirt out of the waistband of her jeans, getting comfortable.

  Her plan was to lay the photographs out on the carpet in a way roughly corresponding to the Dodson house. It took her a while to open all the envelopes and figure out which group of photos went where. The exterior shots had all been taken at night. Front yard. Street. Rear of house, view of woods. West side of house. Bedroom windows. Old air conditioners through the walls. Driveway and carport. Kitchen door.

  Coming in closer. Interior of kitchen. White cabinets, white tile floor. Blood smears and spatter on floor. They'd used a six-inch ruler to show scale.

  Interior of living room, dining room. Dark wood chairs, all perfectly aligned. Family room. Sliding door to back patio. Close-ups of white rock fragments on carpet. The expert at the trial had said they were commonly found at construction sites. That was a joke. They were found everywhere.

  Jackie sat back on her heels. She'd been out to Rusty Beck's place. It was more like a hunting lodge than a proper house. There were pine trees. Hard ground, white rock coming through the pine needles. The samples taken from the Dodson house would still be in the evidence room. Would they match?

  Had Rusty still owned his dark blue pickup truck the day of Amber Dodson's murder? Could it have been the truck the fisherman saw at the park that morning?

  Would Rusty have committed murder for Whit McGrath? Would he have done it to keep from losing a $600,000 deal? No doubt.

  He carried a hunting knife on his belt. He had held the point of it against Vivian Baker's breast.

  "Stop that," Jackie said aloud. She got up and went over to her refrigerator and opened a soda. "No preconceptions."

  A speaker at a seminar had preached to the attendees about that. So many cases screwed up because the cops had an idea going in. Best keep an open mind. Just use your eyes. Pay attention to the evidence. It will speak to you.

  She walked around the room looking down at the photographs, which already were taking up most of the floor. Making more room, she moved a stack of books to her desk, where she saw the snapshot taken on Uncle Eddie's boat, Fourth of July, 1988. Louise Bryce, laughing. Her arms around her children.

  Tears burned Jackie's eyes, and her throat tightened. She hadn't cried for her mother in a long time. She quickly wiped her cheek on her shoulder, grabbed a pushpin, and stuck the photograph to her bulletin board where she could see it. She stood there looking at it awhile.

  She'd hated her mother for leaving. Hated her, when she should have grieved.

  Whit McGrath came into her mind. He had destroyed her mother, had seduced and used her. Jackie stopped herself from thinking about him. Anger wasn't good. It could affect your judgment.

  Jackie put a frozen dinner in the microwave and went back to the photographs.

  Bending from the waist, she laid down the series going from the kitchen toward the master bedroom. The hallway. Bathroom. Baby's room. The crib. Close-up of mattress. Jackie picked that one back up. There were two bottles in the crib. Her first thought was that Amber had wanted to sleep, but she reminded herself: no conclusions. Another close-up, pool of soured milk. The baby had caught itself between the mattress and crib rail, then choked on its own vomit.

  Down the hallway. More blood. Some hair. Blood smears on doorjamb, on back of door. Views of bedroom. Light wood furniture, white curtains belling inward at windows, dresser with jewelry box knocked over. Nightstand on its side.

  Bed pushed out of its casters. The victim, lying on white sheets, blue comforter. Blood seeping out from body. Red silk panties. Legs parted. No semen, Jackie remembered. Panties had been pulled down postmortem, according to the blood smears. Red silk top pushed up over breasts.

  Blood on chest, dark red and clotted. Many slashes, bone exposed. One cut directly through right breast, laying it open.

  Clock cord around victim's neck, pulled tightly. Blood on clock, white plastic case. 10:23.

  Close-up on face. Mottled gray. Camera flash in her eyes. Blond hair matted with blood. Gleam of a gold chain, disappearing where it sank into her neck.

  Violence. The kind of violence that enjoys itself, feeds on itself. A violence beyond cold calculation.

  No conclusions, Jackie reminded herself. Let the evidence speak.

  Irene was in her bathroom brushing her teeth. She looked in the mirror at Gail, waved with her other hand, then bent over and rinsed her mouth. A terry-cloth band kept her auburn curls off her face, which gleamed with cold cream. Her bright blue eyes seemed undefined without their usual coat of mascara.

  "Hi, Mom." Gail leaned against the door.

  "Have you eaten? There's some pot roast. You look like you could fall over."

  "I went through a McDonald's drive-through on the way home."

  "Please don't tell me that." Irene pulled some cotton balls out of a crystal dispenser on her vanity. "Did you speak to Karen?"

  "She's asleep. Was she awfully mad at me for deserting her tonight?"

  "I tried to explain, but it's difficult when there's a list of things I'm not supposed to mention." With quick, sure movements, Irene cleaned her face. "Jackie made the wisest suggestion to me last weekend. She says you should tell Karen what's going on. I agree with her. You don't have to be too explicit, but she should know. Darling, it's not just for Karen. It would take some of the worry off your shoulders. This isn't your death row appeal, it's affecting all of us." Leaning closer to the mirror, she patted under her chin. "I think it's time for a little tuck."

  She swept the band off her head and turned out the light.

  Gail sat on the end of the chaise longue while her mother got into bed and arranged her pillows. A biography of Maria Callas waited next to the lamp.

  "I'm overdrawn on my office account," Gail said. "The bank is getting nervous."

  "Oh, no. How much?"

  "It's hovering around three thousand dollars. It would be higher, but I got a cash advance on a couple of my charge cards."

  "Darling, don't do this. Ruby said she would take care of everything. She told me she had plenty of money. You have to give her a bill."

  "She doesn't have anything left. Your and her conceptions of 'plenty of money' obviously differ. Mom, I hate to ask, but if you could help me with this, I’ll pay you back when I get things straightened out."

  "How much do you need?"

  "Five thousand?"

  Irene hesitated only a moment. "I'll go to my bank in the morning. Are you sure that's enough?"

  "It had better be."

  "Does Anthony know about this?"

  "Oh, please. He would rub it in so deep."

  "You don't give him much credit."

  "Yes, I do. He's helping more than I could have expected. If I can just get past the next three weeks."

  "You will." Irene patted her cheek. "I'm so proud of my girl. This is war, and you're just as valiant as any soldier. Kiss me good night, I'm going to read for a while."

  Gail had not raised the topic of Aunt Louise's signature, nor did she plan to until she knew for sure whether the Mendoza deed was genuine, or coerced, or a complete forgery. And perhaps not even then would she bring it up. Her mother had only good memories of her sister, and Gail thought they were worth preserving. Not everything had to be revealed.

  And yet her mother's advice replayed in her mind as she passed the door to Karen's bedroom. She had tried to protect her da
ughter and had only built a wall between them. She turned around. The door was open a crack, and she pushed it open far enough to see inside.

  The shape under the blanket was absolutely still, as if it were holding its breath.

  She went in and sat on the edge of the bed. "Karen?" She waited. "Sweetie? I want to apologize. I'm sorry for not being here tonight or the night before, and working all the time when we went to Stuart last weekend. It's going to be like that for the next few weeks, and I want you to know why. I should have explained before this, but... I still think of you as a little girl, and I shouldn't.

  "You know about my client, Kenny Ray Clark. You know he's on death row for killing a woman. He didn't do it, but people believe he's guilty. I have to change their minds, but it's so hard, and there isn't much time because the governor signed his death warrant. When you asked me what that was, I avoided telling you. A death warrant gives a prisoner about a month to live, then they put him to death for his crime. Kenny has about three weeks left, and unless I do my best, he's going to die for something he didn't do. Do you understand? I can't let that happen.

  "I'm going to Stuart next week to explain to the judge, and if he says no, then I have to fly to Tallahassee to speak to more judges. I hope they'll say stop, let's not kill this man until we're sure he's guilty. Then I'll have more time to find proof that he didn't do it. But the next three weeks are going to be very, very hard, and I won't be home as much. Grandma is going to be here for you. I need your help, Karen. Please do what she asks you to and be good so I don't have to worry. I've, got to think about Kenny Clark right now. It won't be for much longer.

  "We can't go to Key West for your spring break. I know I promised, and I'm really sorry. When all this is over I want to take you somewhere special, just you and me. Not even Anthony along, okay? Just us. I love you more than anything. Think about what I've told you. Please try to understand."

  Karen lay there until she was sure her mother had gone away. She rolled over. There was no one at the door. She heard the shower go on in the bathroom down the hall.

  Today she had called her father. She'd asked him if he could fly to Miami and take her somewhere for spring break. He'd said he would think about it. Karen had decided not to tell her mother anything. She would pack a suitcase, and when her dad showed up, she would just leave.

  That was what she had planned. Now she wasn't sure.

  The shower went off. A minute later she saw her mother walking down the hall in her robe with a towel around her head, and she quickly closed her eyes.

  Karen had already searched death penalty on the computer at Molly's house, so she knew very well what it meant. They'd found a picture of a gurney. It looked like something in a hospital except it had leather straps. Molly had wanted to do a pretend execution. She'd wanted to flip a coin to see who got to die first. Karen had said no.

  She heard her mother's door close. A little while later, her voice. Karen couldn't tell what she was saying, but at this time of night, there would only be one person she'd be calling.

  Karen swung her legs off the bed and at the hall looked both ways. No light came from her grandmother's room. Her mother's voice was soft, then louder, then soft again, like she was walking back and forth.

  She tiptoed to the door and listened. Her mother was talking about Aunt Louise. An affair. A man so evil he had destroyed her without a second thought.

  Karen put her ear to the crack.

  "... can't tell Mother. Seeing Jackie's face was bad enough ... what he did to Vivian Baker. Oh, God, that poor woman...."

  Karen shifted to get closer.

  "... not irrelevant, the Mendozas are my only chance to find the person who killed Amber ... she was murdered for a reason... .What do I have? Tina Hopwood's and Vernon Byrd's testimony, and basically that's all there is...."

  "... have to get his signature on the motion. Would you go with me to the prison? ... I don't want Hector, I want you.... Dammit, don't tell me you don't have time. You want someone with no time, look at Kenny Clark, they're going to kill him in three weeks.... I am calm. I am fine. . . . No. No, I'm not fine. Oh, God. . . . Anthony, it's really bad. I need your help. I am so overdrawn I can't pay my bills, and Miriam is working for nothing. I didn't want to tell you, and I would rather die than ask you for money, but I have to. I'll pay you back, but I can't begin to say when. Mother's going to lend me five thousand dollars, but it won't be enough. The evidence isn't enough, nothing's going to be enough. I'm running out of time, and I keep having these nightmares that they'll kill him because I missed a deadline by one day or forgot to cite one case. . . . No, don't come over. Please, it's all right.... Really."

  She started crying again, and Karen couldn't stand it anymore. She went back to her room and closed the door and sat in bed looking out the window at the street. She would see Molly in the morning at school and tell her about this. No. Molly wouldn't get it. Nobody in the world would understand. Nobody.

  After a long time not hearing any noises at all coming from her mother's room, Karen began to be afraid of what might have happened. She had seen a movie where a woman was so upset she fainted and fell down some stairs and broke her neck.

  Karen hurried down the hall and opened the door.

  Her mother was lying across the bed in her robe with papers all around her. A pencil had fallen out of her hand. Her hair was still damp from the shower. She was asleep.

  Karen quietly gathered the papers and put them in a stack, which she set on the desk. She found a spare quilt in the closet.

  "Who is it?" The words were all run together, and her eyes barely opened.

  "Me." She pulled the quilt over her. "Night, Mommy."

  Her lips moved. Good night.

  Karen turned off the light, but instead of leaving, got into bed and curled next to her mother's side. She whispered, "I'm sorry for being a pain."

  There was no answer, only her mother's soft breathing.

  CHAPTER 20

  Thursday, March 22

  It was early when Anthony arrived at his grandparents' house. Digna was still asleep in her room. Ernesto's ancient sister, Fermina, who always rose before dawn, took Anthony to the back patio, where his grandfather sat in a lawn chair reading the newspaper. The nurse had pushed his wheelchair out of view so the old man wouldn't have to see it.

  Fermina brought them café con leche and guava pastries. The light came through the trees in shafts of mist. The coral rock fountain bubbled and splashed on the ferns that had sprouted at its edge. The air was still cool.

  Anthony said, "I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have no choice."

  Ernesto gazed through his glasses toward the golf course, visible through the ironwork window in the heavy wooden gate. "People say that when they have made their choice. When I saw your face, I had an idea what you were going to tell me. I considered being angry about it. I tried to build up the energy to yell at you, but..." His hands went outward in a shrug. "My brain is so moth-eaten that everything leaks out. Even so, I can't say I'm not a little disappointed."

  "We can go in May," Anthony said. "I made some calls. It could be arranged."

  The old man sighed. "Maybe I should stay home. If I went back to Cuba, would it still be there? I don't know. The older I get, the less I know. When I was your age I had all the answers. Things seemed so clear to me then. Those values in which I believed—the Tightness of our position, the evil of theirs, the honor in shedding blood— Where are they? I tell you, old age is a strange place to be in. Everything becomes gray. Everything."

  He leaned over to pull a weed from between two of the paving stones. "If the man is innocent, I suppose you have a duty."

  "It's Gail who needs me," Anthony said, "not her client. I am sorry for him, but there is little anyone can do. Gail can't accept that. I tried to persuade her to give this case to another lawyer, but she wouldn't. I can't force her, and I was wrong to think she would listen to me."

  "They never do. Your grandmother pr
etends to, but she does what she wants. Years ago, she would lie to me. Now she doesn't bother." Ernesto laughed. "The old girl has her spurs in my ribs now." He reached over and patted Anthony's knee. "Go. If she needs you, go to her. It isn't weakness that draws you, I can see that."

  Ernesto finished the last of his café. "May isn't such a bad month to be in Cuba. I will try to last that long."

  At 10:30 a.m., in the clerk's office of the Martin County courthouse, Anthony filed a notice of appearance in State v. Clark. Gail had not asked him to do this; it had been Anthony's idea. Seeing the clerk time-stamp the document, he murmured to Gail, "It feels like getting married. I'm stuck with you now."

  She squeezed his hand.

  Next they went to Judge Willis's office to inquire about resetting the hearing date for the 3.850 motion. His judicial assistant said the judge would have to approve, and to come back at noon, when his honor came off the bench.

  The postponement had also been Anthony's idea. With what they had now—a new alibi witness and a retraction of testimony by a jailhouse snitch—he put chances for success at less than fifty percent. They needed more, and Gail thought she had found it. She had drawn a dotted line from the victim, Amber Dodson, to a forged deed, then to a multimillion-dollar real estate project. Amber had known too much; she had been murdered to insure her silence. The theory relied on the assumption that the deed was in fact a forgery and that Amber had known about it Aside from Whitney McGrath or Rusty Beck only one person had the answers: Gary Dodson. Gail wanted to talk to him again. Anthony doubted he would cooperate. The other source was the Mendozas. Jackie Bryce had found a traffic citation for Ignacio Mendoza on January 4,1988, still unpaid. No later information appeared. Hector Mesa was talking to other Guatemalan families in the area to see if any had known the Mendozas. So far, nothing. Gail had said she feared finding them. If they were alive, and the deed was genuine, there was no crime, no motive for murder. No alternate theory of who had killed Amber Dodson. No way to save Kenny Ray Clark.