by Harry Kraus
“Interesting theory. But, unfortunately, not the angle I was pursuing.”
“Help me,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest, “and I’ll help you.”
Randy sat down and leaned forward. “Okay, I’ll play your game. You pretend you don’t know anything. I’ll tell you what you already know.”
“I know nothing. What makes you think I killed my father?”
“We found the morphine vial from your office.”
She lifted her hand to her mouth. “Someone overdosed him?”
Randy rolled his eyes.
“What else? You’ve got to have more on me than that. Anyone could have gotten narcs from my office. The magistrate would have never given you a warrant just because of that.”
“Give it up, Claire. Why don’t you tell me how you rigged the backdoor and dismantled the emergency exit so you could come in undetected?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m tired of this game. We have you on the home’s surveillance tape.”
“There’s another explanation.”
“Which is?”
She didn’t have it. She shrugged. “I don’t know. It wasn’t me.”
“Okay, now you help me. Whose body is in the back of your Volkswagen?”
“I don’t know.”
He huffed. “When did you drive it last?”
“Saturday. I drove it to Pleasant View Home to show Daddy my wedding dress.” She lifted her wrists to her face so she could scratch her nose. “I left it unlocked in the driveway at Mom’s so Ray Brown could inspect it. The limo took me to the church.”
“And I’m to believe you know nothing about this.”
“Yes. You tell me. Who is it?”
“We will find out. If you help us, things could be better for you.”
She felt like crying. “Just leave me alone. I tell you the truth, but you don’t believe me.”
Randy stood, shaking his head. “I wish I could believe you.” He walked to the door and knocked. In a moment, he was allowed to leave, and Claire was left to cry alone.
Chapter Thirty
Early Wednesday morning, Judge Atwell looked at the morning schedule and called for his secretary. “Anita, did you pencil this in?”
“Yes. William Fauls insisted on being before the bench first thing.” She set a file on his desk. “Wally McCall’s memorial service is today. His daughter wants to attend.”
He shook his head. “This is a waste of my time. There’s no way I’m going to put the family through that.”
“But what if she’s innocent?”
“Doesn’t matter. The family deserves a quiet service. If I send in a prisoner in shackles, the media will eat it up. Garland Strickler is likely to make a stink. The story will be everywhere, and then Fauls will want the case moved to another court, saying the jury pool in this county is biased against his client. I won’t have it.”
“What should I do?”
“Call Fauls. Tell him I’m going to rule against him if he insists on bringing the question before the bench.”
She nodded. “I know him. He’ll do the right thing.”
Thirty minutes later, the PA system in the female pod produced an electronic crack followed by the monotone female voice: “Attorney visit for Claire Cerelli.”
Claire looked at the others sitting in the common room. “Looks like I might get to attend my father’s funeral after all.”
She walked to a door and looked up at the camera and waited. After a moment, she heard the door unlock and she proceeded into the chamber room. There, a female guard put her in handcuffs as the door locked behind her. Then the guard unlocked the door exiting the chamber room and led Claire down the hall to the visitation room.
“You know the drill. When you’re done talking to your attorney, signal central control by sliding the red paper under the door. They’ll see the paper and radio for me to come get you.”
Claire nodded and stepped into the visitation room. She took a seat on the stool bolted to the floor and looked through the windowpane at her attorney, already seated with his hands clasped in front of him. “So how’d it go? Will they let me out for the service?”
William Fauls shook his head. “I’m sorry, Claire.”
“What?”
“Judge Atwell thinks your presence will be disruptive. He won’t allow it.”
“You told him I’d cooperate, that I’d sit quietly, didn’t you? How is that disruptive?”
“Look, Claire, I didn’t even argue it before the bench. I — ”
“But you promised! You needed to be there for me. How can — ”
He raised his hands and interrupted. “Look, Claire, let me explain. A lot of decisions are made in backrooms around here. The judge wanted me to be able to save face by not arguing the point. He let me know in advance that no argument I could make would change his opinion. Arguing it in court would have been futile.”
“I wouldn’t have disrupted anything!”
“Photographers would have been there. It wouldn’t have been in your best interest to have your picture all over the Daily News Record with you in your orange jumpsuit.”
“But my family would have wanted me there.”
“Put yourself in their shoes, Claire. There are people out there who think you killed your father. It would be awkward for them if you attended.”
“I’m not believing this,” she said, shaking her head. “This doesn’t have a thing to do with the truth.”
“Exactly,” he said, standing up. “It’s all about perception.” He reached for the door. “I thought I should tell you in person.”
With that, he opened his door and disappeared. Claire felt her heart sink.
Then she took the red slip of paper, slid it under the door, and waited.
John Cerelli gathered with Claire’s relatives and a small crowd of members at Community Chapel and listened as Pastor Phil eulogized Wally McCall.
Every few minutes, he turned and glanced over his right shoulder, hoping to see Claire. Every few minutes, he was disappointed. She should be here by now.
A few minutes later, John turned again at the sound of the back door opening. This time it was William Fauls. His eyes met John’s. The stern look was all John needed to know. Fauls had failed to convince the judge to let Claire out for the funeral.
After Pastor Phil sat down, they sang a hymn, “It Is Well with My Soul.” Then John stood and went to the microphone. “I’ve known Wally McCall since Claire first introduced us when we were at Brighton University together. One of the things I appreciated most about the Wall-man was his sense of humor.”
A chuckle rippled across those gathered, as John’s use of the nickname resurrected memories from Wally’s life.
“I remember the simple joy Wally experienced from a shared joke or a gesture as small as a kiss from his bride.” He looked up at Della as he spoke. “I don’t know if any of you ever watched Della kiss Wally in the last few years, but it always seemed to bring a smile to his face. Kissing Wall was a dangerous experience. I think Della has had a few black eyes to prove it. But over and over I watched as Della would kiss him good-bye, leaning over him, positioning herself to ward off any unexpected blows from Wally’s dancing hands. She would pin his cheeks in her hands and plant a wet one right on his lips and then make a break for it before she could be hit.”
The crowd laughed at the collective memory.
“But the joy was mine, just seeing Wally’s grin, knowing he had the love of a good woman.
“Many people could look in from the outside to see a man whose days were marred with suffering, a man stricken in his prime with debilitation, and accuse God of playing a cruel game.” John shook his head and fought back tears. “But Wally understood that his life was not his own, that his life hung by a thread of God’s sovereignty. Yes, he went through down times, he got discouraged, but he didn’t shrink from the pain in his life, and he didn’t shrink from
his own death. I think he understood that what awaited him on the other side was glorious.” He felt his voice thickening. He unfolded a paper he’d prepared to read.
“Those of you who have walked close to the McCall family know of our recent hardship. Claire’s relationship with her father has been marked by significant pain. I cannot stand here today and say only positive things about a man whose life was marred by alcohol addiction. But I can say that even though Claire suffered under the hand of her father’s drunkenness, she made progress in recent weeks in coming to a comfortable place of forgiveness for Wally. Yes, there were issues between them, but the months since his diagnosis with Huntington’s disease have been predominately a time of healing between Claire and Wally. Was Wally a man to emulate in life? Perhaps not, but his longsuffering is admirable.
“Over the past months, Wally longed for his heavenly home. His attitude revealed his solid faith in God’s promise for eternal life.” John paused and cleared his throat. “And I will state publicly my dismay and disbelief at the recent allegations that Claire could have lifted her hand to hasten the death of her father.” He watched as those in the small crowd nodded their assent to his words.
A few minutes later, as the family gathered at the graveside, they watched as Wally’s casket was lowered into the ground.
Della leaned into John’s shoulder and whispered, “Claire is just like her father, you know, stubborn and headstrong. She’ll never run from pain, John, and she’ll stand with you till the end.”
That afternoon, Della was at the mailbox when she heard the familiar rumble of a Harley Davidson. Jimmy leaned into her driveway, the gravel crunching beneath his hog.
Della walked back toward the house as Jimmy idled up beside her. “Hi.”
“Want to go for a spin?”
She shook her head and walked ahead as he stopped.
He pulled off his helmet and put down the kickstand.
“It’s too early, Jimmy. I want to go.” She halted. “Just not yet.”
He walked with her up the sidewalk to the front porch. “How are things?”
“Crazy.”
“No one ever accused the McCalls of being dull.”
“I’d settle for dull.”
He chuckled. “Any news about Claire?”
“No.” She sat on the porch swing.
He sat beside her.
She looked away. “Do you think that Claire . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“What? You want to know if I think Claire’s guilty?”
She nodded without speaking.
“I think the only thing Claire is guilty of is trying to relieve Wally’s pain.”
“You assume that she helped him die.”
“If she did, I wouldn’t blame her.”
“It’s just so frustrating. We don’t even know what evidence they have against her.”
“What does her attorney say?”
“Only that Garland Strickler is acting like the trial is already underway. He acts like the case is already won for the commonwealth. He isn’t giving us squat.” Tears began to form at the corners of her eyes. “What if Claire did what all of us thought should be done, but were too afraid to — ”
Jimmy touched her hand.
She dropped her head to rest against his shoulder and began to sob. “She’s ruined her life, Jimmy. She had so much going for her.”
“Shh,” he whispered. “You don’t know what really happened.”
“I feel so helpless.” Della sniffed and wiped her eyes. “And angry. I haven’t even been able to talk to her.”
“Now you’re assuming the worst.” He lifted her chin to look in her eyes. “You asked me what I thought. Tell me what you think.”
“I wish I hadn’t been so afraid. Then my daughter wouldn’t be in trouble.”
Sally Weathersby was familiar with death. But murder was a foreigner. In the space of a few days, her orientation into willful harm had come in immersion baptism.
In the nursing home, she’d seen dozens of dead patients. But they were dead from the enemies of aging. Cancer, pneumonia, and Alzheimer’s stalked the halls of Pleasant View with swathlike stealth. That was normal. Death followed life in an unbroken circle. But this, this interruption of breath, was anything but normal.
Joel Stevens opened the door to the ME’s office and nodded to Sally. “Are you ready, Ms. Weathersby?”
She nodded as her stomach tightened.
“This way.”
She rubbed her bare arms. “Is it always this cold in here?”
“On purpose. Bodies decompose faster at average room temp.” He hesitated and tilted his head toward a table in the middle of the room. “This body was found in the back of Claire McCall’s VW Beetle. How long has your employee been missing?”
“Since Saturday.”
They approached the metal table with a long gray zippered body bag lying on the surface. Joel peeled back the zipper to reveal the man’s face.
Sally put her hand to her mouth. “It’s him,” she said. “Sol Diaz.”
“Are you sure?”
She willed herself not to breathe and moved closer. “It’s him, all right.” She stepped back and made a joke. It bubbled from her discomfort before she could analyze how crass she may have sounded. “Guess I’ll forgive him for not showing for work.” She halted, and her nervous smile faded. “Who would want to kill Sol? He was such a good worker.”
Joel zipped up the bag and shook his head. “This man is not Sol Diaz.” He paused. “At least that’s not his real name.”
Sally didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”
“Fingerprint data from the ME shows this is Tyler Crutchfield, the man who tried to rape Claire McCall.”
Back on the female pod, Claire surfed a new wave of respect which grew from saving Maria’s baby. For a day, Claire thought she’d figured out just why God allowed her to be accused and sent to such a place. Maria’s baby would have died without her. Okay, she thought, that job’s done. Now get me out of this place!
But her pleas for deliverance seemed destined to rise no higher than the concrete ceiling, bouncing back unanswered. She wanted out. But God must have had other plans, because one night turned into two, and then another, and then the judge made it clear that she’d spend the next six weeks bunking with Tamika rather than nestling in John Cerelli’s arms like she’d dreamed.
I’ve had enough, God. I’ve done nothing to deserve this.
Thoughts emerged from childhood Sunday school and checked her defense. Hell is what we all really deserve. Okay, okay, I concede. I know I deserve hell. But I don’t deserve to be in the county jail.
Tamika made Claire tell her the story four times. Riding in the ambulance. Going with Maria all the way into Brighton University Hospital’s operating rooms. Maria being put to sleep, her swollen abdomen being washed and draped. The uterus cut, its muscular wall separated, the surgeon’s hand sweeping down into the uterus over the baby’s head, and all the while Claire never stopped pushing back the baby until she felt the gloved hand of the surgeon from the inside.
Tamika had a new hero. “No girl in this jailhouse has ever talked to Bonnie that way.” She weaved and juked to emphasize her words. “ ‘Now,’ ” she imitated. “ ‘I’m not leaving Maria!’ ”
Tamika was medium brown, wiry, and tough as cheap steak. No one messed with her, at least not more than once. She walked with Claire to the showers. She hung with her during the afternoon hour on the rooftop courtyard, and she sat with Claire at every meal. Tamika the protector. The convicted drug dealer. The abused child. The friend.
“How’d you end up here?” Claire asked during a boring afternoon.
Tamika stared off, her eyes lighting somewhere just above the razor wire on top of a fifteen-foot fence. “I didn’t come from privilege, like you.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you’s a doctor and doctors come from privilege.” She salted her sentences with
curse adjectives. It was as if basic words like very, mostly, or extremely didn’t exist in the language she knew.
“I grew up poor, the daughter of an alcoholic. I dropped out of high school.”
Tamika nodded like they were from the same ’hood.
Claire smiled. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t come from privilege. I made my own privilege.” She halted. “Or maybe God had other plans for me and I just tagged along.”
Tamika finally turned her face to Claire’s. “Did you really off your father?”
“Kill him? No.”
“That’s not what Channel 4 reports. They talk like you killed him because of his suffering.” The corners of her mouth turned up with the hint of fascination. “They also mentioned that you might be inheriting some money.”
“Channel 4 doesn’t know — ” Claire stopped herself. She’d been in jail less than a week and already, she was tempted to slip into the language of her new peers. “They don’t know anything. You know the news. If it’s juicy, even if it’s speculation, they say it.”
“I’d kill my father if he was still alive.” She bobbed her head.
“How’d he die?”
“Overdose.” She shrugged. “So I didn’t have to kill him.” She leaned forward and touched Claire’s arm. “We know what it’s like in the real worl’. None of us would blame you if you laid out your ol’ man.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
Tamika looked around and spoke softly. “Don’t tell that to anyone around here. Everyone’s fine with thinkin’ you offed him.”
Joanne Phillips looked at her counseling appointment book and groaned. She dialed Ami Grandle’s new number and waited. Six rings before she picked up.
She sounded sleepy. “Hello.”
“Ami, Joanne Phillips here. I called to see how you are doing. You missed your last appointment.”
Joanne listened as Ami sighed. “I moved back to Stoney Creek.”
“Your mother said you’d lost your job in Brighton.”
“I quit. It was too hard working for my boyfriend.”
“Are you taking your medications?”