***
I slept off and on most of Sunday while Mom brought me my meals on a dinner tray. I would wake up long enough to eat a bite, and then it was back to sleep. It was as if my body was craving rest from all of the crying I had done the first twenty-four hours. I thought I might have trouble sleeping Sunday night, but it was no trouble at all, especially with a little help from one of Mom’s tiny blue sleeping pills.
Monday morning, I woke up, padded into the bathroom, and climbed into the shower. Letting the warm water run over my body, I debated on whether to go to work or call in sick. After all, my husband had just been murdered two days prior. Who goes to work that quickly? On the other hand, I enjoyed my job and it was the only thing I could think of to take my mind off the fact that I was now the prime suspect in my husband’s murder.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. I hadn’t looked at myself since Friday, and it was just as bad as I had feared. While I’d finally gotten a chance to wash my hair, the roots were terribly obvious. Dark semi-circles had taken up residence under my hazel eyes from lack of sleep, and my typically smooth, cream-colored skin was all blotchy and rough looking. I immediately wished I had my makeup kit with me, but that too, was at my house.
After drying off, I pulled on a pair of black business slacks, a silk purple shirt with purple sequins and slipped on a strappy pair of black sandals, just like I would any other work day.
When I made my way down the stairs, Mom was sitting at the kitchen table sipping coffee.
“Where are you going so dressed up?” she asked.
“I’m going to work.”
“Are you sure about that? After everything you’ve been through? Do you really think it’s wise, honey?”
“I have to do something, Mom,” I said with a shrug of my shoulders. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing all day.”
“Well, I guess I can understand that. But take it easy, okay?”
“I will. I promise. Can I borrow your minivan?”
“Of course you can.”
I thanked her, grabbed my purse and Mom’s keys, and headed out the front door.
It took about forty-five minutes to make it to the parking garage of the Big Blue Building in Lexington, thanks to morning rush traffic. I parked Mom’s minivan on the third level and walked through the garage until I came to the double doors that opened up to Logan and Logan. I stood there for a moment, willing myself to open the door. I wondered if I had made a mistake. Could I really walk in there and act like nothing was wrong? Would I be able to concentrate on my cases knowing my husband was lying on a slab in the morgue and that I was quite possibly responsible for him being there? I was about to find out.
I lay my hand on the door handle and pulled open the glass door with Logan and Logan written across it in gold stenciled letters. The cool air conditioning juxtaposed against the stifling hot air of the parking garage nearly knocked me over. But it felt cool and refreshing. I straightened my back, pulled my purse up higher on my shoulder, and began walking confidently toward my office.
The receptionist wiggled her fingers at me as I walked past her desk. Logan and Logan employed about fifty people, and my office was in the back, near my boss, Mark Logan. As I did every other morning, I stopped at his door and poked my head in.
“Good morning, Mark,” I said.
He looked up from his computer and smiled. “Good morning, Libby. How was your weekend?”
I had only seconds to decide if I was going to tell him what had happened or try to hide it. I decided he would find out about it soon enough and that not mentioning it would be weird.
“I have some bad news, actually.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Not really. My husband died this weekend.” I tried like hell to keep from crying, but the tears came nonetheless. I wiped them away and suddenly felt a bit embarrassed for displaying my grief in front of my boss.
His face became white as a sheet and his mouth gaped open. “Libby, are you serious?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What on earth are you doing here? You should be at home.”
“I just couldn’t sit there all alone. The walls were closing in on me.”
“Libby, I’m so sorry. How did it happen?”
I explained everything to him, but left out the bit about being interrogated by Nicholasville police.
“Libby, I’m sorry, but I really think you should go home. Of course, my main concern is your well-being, but beyond that, I don’t think you could concentrate on your work. Don’t you have a funeral to plan?”
“I have to wait until the autopsy is complete. They sent his body to Frankfort. They said it could take several days.” Tears fell down my cheeks again. “Plus, I really need a distraction. Please let me at least try.”
“Well, if you insist. But the minute you feel overwhelmed, I want you to go straight home. Are we agreed?”
I nodded my head. “Thanks, Mark.”
I walked a few feet to my office and sat down in my chair. I logged on to my computer and instantly saw that I had fifty new emails in my Outlook inbox. One by one, I began answering emails and before I knew it, an hour had gone by and I hadn’t thought of Ryan.
My friend Amy appeared in my doorway suddenly, causing me to jump a little in my seat.
“Libby! Oh, my God! I just talked to Mark. He told me what happened to Ryan. Why on earth are you here?”
I explained to her, just as I had to Mark, that I needed a distraction and that sitting at Mom’s house all alone with nothing to eat away the time, would have just driven me mad.
She nodded. “I guess I can understand that. Is there anything I can do?”
“I’ll let you know if there is. For now, I just need to focus on work. Keep my mind off everything.”
“Okay, well, you know where I am if you need me.”
Amy walked away and I returned my attention to my inbox. It took me another hour and a half to read and respond to the rest of my emails. Next, I looked to the edge of my desk where the mail clerk had apparently set my mail without me even noticing. I used my letter opener to open each piece of mail, one at a time. There were medical records and cell phone records I had subpoenaed from various victims and witnesses. There were letters from prosecutors responding to certain discovery requests I had made. I went through them all and put them all in the appropriate files. The last envelope I opened was from the Fayette County Coroner’s office. For a split second, I thought it might be Ryan’s autopsy report. Then I realized it was too soon and that it wouldn’t be coming from Fayette County. I opened the envelope and slowly unfolded the papers inside. It was the coroner’s report in one of my cases where our client was accused of killing his boss after he was fired, one year shy of his retirement.
I read through the report and felt a cold chill up my spine. It was too similar to what happened to Ryan. The victim, our client’s boss, had been shot behind his right ear with a .22 caliber pistol. The report went into a detailed description of the extensive damage the bullet had done to his brain and then finished with a graphic description of the exit wound. I felt nauseous. I could see Ryan’s head, or what was left of it, vividly in my mind.
Typically, I was not bothered by such gruesome details. In fact, I was usually enthralled. But this hit too close to home. The room began to spin around me and I couldn’t catch my breath. I’d never had a panic attack before, but was quite certain this was what I was experiencing. I stood up, but as soon as I did, I nearly fell over. I had to place my hand on the wall to keep from passing out. What had I been thinking, coming back to work so soon after Ryan’s death? Reading and responding to emails was a welcome distraction, but reading an autopsy report of a gunshot victim was more than I could handle.
After taking a few deep breaths, I was able to steady myself enough to walk out of the office. I grabbed my purse, slung it over my shoulder, and walked out into the hallway. A few steps later, I came to Mark’s office.
He was looking at his computer when I appeared in his doorway.
I shook my head and fought back tears. “I thought I could do it…I just can’t.”
“Go, go,” he said, waving his hand as if to shoo me away. “Call me if you need anything.”
I nodded and kept walking down the hallway. I heard Amy’s voice calling after me and I turned to see her standing just a few feet behind me.
“Are you okay, sweetie?” she asked with a look of genuine concern.
“I came back too soon,” I admitted. “I just can’t do it.”
“I understand,” she said. “Everyone understands. We couldn’t believe you came back today in the first place.”
“I just couldn’t sit at home,” I explained.
“I know,” she said. “But maybe you just need some time alone. My God, Libby. Your husband was just murdered three days ago. Go home and grieve. It’s healthier than ignoring it.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m going home now.”
“Good decision. Call me if you need me,” she said. “For any reason. Any time.”
She reached out her arms and pulled me into a tight hug. It felt good to have someone’s arms around me, so I melted into her embrace. Eventually, she pulled back and looked me straight in the eyes.
“I mean it, Libby,” she said earnestly. “Call me anytime. I’ll be here for you.”
“Thanks, Amy,” I said. “It means a lot.”
And it did. I had worked with Mark, Amy, and the rest of the people in the firm for over two years. They felt like a second family to me.
I waved goodbye to the receptionist and walked out of the office, through the garage, and to my car. I slid behind the wheel into the driver’s seat. After I shut the door, I laid my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes. Now what? I couldn’t sit at home. I couldn’t be at work. What on earth could I possibly do? Not only was my husband dead, lying in a morgue in Frankfort, but I was the only suspect in his murder. It wasn’t in my nature to sit around and do nothing. I had to do something to occupy my time. The only thing I could possibly do was to fight back. I was a paralegal, damn it. I helped prove people’s innocence for a living. Surely I could do the same for myself. Which meant my next step was to begin working on my defense. But I couldn’t do it alone. I had to have an attorney, just like Mom said.
There was no way I was going to hire Mark to represent me. Even though he was probably one of the best criminal defense lawyers in Kentucky, I knew from experience all the digging into my personal life he would have to do, and I didn’t want my boss knowing my secrets. Not that I had anything to hide, but I wanted to keep my personal life and my work life completely separate.
I thought about calling another big shot from Lexington, but they were too expensive for one, and two, I worked in Lexington and just didn’t relish the idea of my boss at Logan and Logan getting wind of my possible murder charges. Most of the attorneys in town knew each other, and I was afraid it would get back to them. Confidentiality is bullshit when it comes to lawyers swapping war stories.
That left Dave Rogers, my boss from nearly ten years ago. He was a small-town lawyer from Nicholasville with little to no experience with murder cases. But he was the best criminal defense attorney in Nicholasville, plus he had experience working with the Nicholasville Police Department, Detective Dorne, and the Commonwealth Attorney’s office. He would know all the right people and would have established relationships that might benefit my case.
I felt so confused and conflicted, I didn’t know what to do. I just knew I had to make a decision, and soon.
Chapter 5
The more I thought about it on the drive home, I was sort of surprised people from work hadn’t already heard about Ryan’s murder on the news. They would eventually hear about it, though, and my fear was how the media was going to spin the story. Would they automatically hint at my guilt? As soon as I walked in the door, I decided to turn on the television and see if the story had been released yet.
Sure enough, about ten minutes into the broadcast, the reporter announced they had “breaking news” out of Nicholasville. The body of a thirty-six-year-old man had been found in his home early Saturday morning. Police had yet to comment on a cause or manner of death, but News Channel 18 had learned that the victim had been shot in the head and that the victim’s wife had escaped with her life. The man’s identity had not yet been released. Please stay tuned to Channel 18 for updates.
There was no denying now that I needed an attorney—immediately. I picked up my phone, Googled Dave Rogers’s number, and then clicked “call.” It was now close to noon, so unless he was at lunch or in court, he should be there. A nasally voice answered the phone.
“Law office of David Rogers, how may I help you?”
I asked for Dave and explained I used to work for him, hoping that would be more likely to get him on the line.
After a brief hold listening to saxophone-filed soft rock, Dave picked up the line.
“David Rogers,” he said in that questioning way people do when they answer the phone with their full name instead of “hello.”
“Hi Dave. It’s Libby Carter. I’m not sure if you remember me or not, but I worked for you about ten years or so ago. My last name then was Barrett.”
“Oh, yes, Libby Barrett. How the heck are you these days?”
“Not well, I have to admit. Listen, I need to talk to you about something. Do you have five minutes?”
“For you, I’ve got all the time in the world. What’s going on?”
I explained everything that had happened since I woke up early Saturday morning, including my “interview” with Detective Jim Dorne. I explained that I had no memory of anything after going to sleep Friday night and that I woke up dizzy with a pounding headache only to find my husband dead beside me in the bed.
“Well, it sounds to me like Detective Dorne has already decided you’re guilty, and if that’s the case, you’re in for a long road, I must tell you. I’m sure you’re aware of his reputation. He charges big, and if he thinks you’re really guilty of something, he’s like a pit pull on a poodle. He won’t let go.”
“That’s why I’m calling you,” I informed him as politely as I could. “I’m afraid. I think he’s going to charge me with Ryan’s murder. If so, will you represent me? Please?”
“I can almost guarantee he’ll charge you. And as long as you’re aware of the fact I have never argued a murder case before and you still want to proceed with me as your attorney, I’d be more than happy to help you. But are you certain you don’t want a Lexington attorney? They might have more experience.”
“No, I want you,” I said. “I trust you. And I know you’re good at your job. What would the retainer be?”
“Oh, wow,” he said, sounding caught off guard. “I don’t know. I’d probably need at least twenty thousand. And that’s not including any potential experts down the road or the trial. Are you okay with that?”
Ryan and I each had about ten thousand in our 401(k)s, if I could get to them, and I knew Mom would pitch in to help if it came down to it, so I agreed to his retainer, and we made arrangements for me to pay him ten thousand up front and ten thousand when and if I was indicted.
“What happens next?” I asked him once the retainer situation was settled.
“Well, now you just wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Most likely, Detective Dorne will gather as much evidence as possible against you and then he’ll take the case to the prosecutor. If the Commonwealth attorney agrees there’s enough evidence, they’ll submit the case before the grand jury, which meets every two weeks here in Jessamine County. The next meeting is this Thursday.”
“They can do it that quickly?”
“Especially in a small town,” he answered.
“And if the grand jury indicts me?” I asked with a lump forming in my throat.
“If the grand jury indicts you, then you’ll likely be arrested. I
can try to make a case with the prosecutor for you to self-surrender, but either way, you’ll have to go to county jail until bail is determined and set. If we’re lucky, bail will be set around one hundred thousand dollars, which means you’ll have to have ten thousand to post bond.”
“Ten more thousand dollars?” I asked incredulously. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Let’s just take everything one step at a time, why don’t we?”
“Okay, what do we do while I wait?”
“I’ll contact Detective Dorne. Tell him I’m representing you. I’m sure it’ll raise his suspicion toward you even more, but at this point, you have to think about what’s best for you, and I’ll remind him that everybody has a right to counsel in America. Even innocent people. I’ll see what he’s got so far by way of evidence, and then we’ll go from there.”
I thanked Dave for everything and hung up the phone. I found Mom in her sewing room, working on a quilt she’d been making for the past month or so, and told her all about my conversation with Dave Rogers, including the bit about the retainer.
I never asked my mother for money, even in the early days of my marriage when Ryan and I were falling behind on our payments, because neither one of us were making much at all. But she always knew when I needed it, and this was one of those times. She smiled and said she would pay my retainer, if I was arrested and needed a lawyer. That’s my mom for you. Optimistic even in the face of brutal reality. I just hugged her, thanked her, and asked to borrow the minivan so I could run to Walmart to pick up a few things. My car was all the way down in Nicholasville at the crime scene that used to be my house. I wasn’t even sure if I was allowed to go get it. I made a mental note to look into getting my car back later on.
Mom’s minivan had over one hundred thousand miles on it. Even though she had plenty of money to buy a new one, as a successful children’s book author and illustrator, she said there was no sense in taking on a new car payment when the minivan ran just fine. I think secretly she was afraid getting rid of the minivan meant giving up on her dreams of becoming a grandmother, and she just wasn’t ready for that.
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