Redress of Grievances
Brenda Adcock
Prologue
SHE DROPPED TO her knees behind a row of bushes on the embankment overlooking Interstate 20 near Dallas. Taking a deep breath, she watched the stream of vehicles flow by. The cool night air ruffled her hair as it was swept upward by the passing cars and trucks, and despite the wind, nervous sweat trickled down her neck and into the hollow of her spine. She pressed the barrel of the rifle against her cheek for a moment, savoring the feeling of the cold, smooth metal against her skin. She was filled with a sense of comfort as her fingers gently caressed the curves of the walnut stock. She felt as powerful as the sleek weapon itself.
This was a good place, affording her an unobstructed view of the west-bound lanes. She glanced over her shoulder at her car parked in the shadows of the underpass behind her. She shifted forward and lay on her stomach to observe the traffic a few more minutes. Yes, this was a very good place, just far enough from the city to be isolated and without the trashy gas stations and convenience stores that seemed to be everywhere. She settled into a comfortable prone position, wrapped the rifle sling around her left forearm, and positioned her elbows to form a secure tripod, the rifle stock pressed firmly in the hollow of her shoulder as she looked through the scope. Her finger tapped restlessly against the trigger guard as she waited for the perfect target to come into view. She ignored cars with a front seat passenger. Tonight the driver had to be a woman, which seemed fitting considering how a woman had humiliated her only a few hours earlier.
Oh, there she is. Alone in that smart little sportster and superior looking in her dark power suit; arrogantly talking to someone on her hands-free cell phone. She closed her finger over the trigger and squeezed it steadily until the bullet erupted from the barrel of the rifle, hitting its target no more than a hundred yards away. As the windshield shattered, she smiled and felt the tension that had been building inside begin to dissolve. You're not in control now, are you, bitch? she thought.
She saw the woman's panicked expression before rolling onto her back, hugging the rifle against her chest. She lightly, lovingly stroked its length, waiting for the climax. As she scanned the stars in the clear night sky she heard the sound of metal screaming as the sports car careened into another vehicle. Her breathing came more quickly with each sound. She smelled the scent of her own arousal as it traveled through her body, reaching its peak at the unmistakable sound of metal colliding with the concrete abutment of the nearby overpass. She felt the final shudders of release course through her as vehicles began braking to avoid the twisted wreckage.
When her breathing began returning to normal, she loosened her grip on the only lover she trusted to satisfy her. She sat up and scooted calmly down the embankment toward her car. She didn't want or need to watch the activity around the site. Even though some drivers had survived in the past, denying her the revenge she sought, she was certain the woman in the power suit had not. She laughed, knowing the next time could be even more satisfying.
Chapter One
HARRIETT MARKHAM GLANCED briefly at the legal pad in front of her before rising. Casting a reassuring smile at the woman seated beside her, Harriett unbuttoned the single button on her navy blue blazer and moved forward. As she reached the jury box, she paused and removed her glasses, holding them loosely in one hand. "Ladies and gentlemen, you are charged with an awesome responsibility in judging the merits of this case," she began with a soft West Texas accent. "You have listened attentively to the evidence presented by both Mr. Davidson of the District Attorney's office and me, and we both appreciate the time you have given up from your jobs and families to hear this case."
In the midst of Harriett's closing remarks, the courtroom door opened, and a well-dressed woman in her mid-fifties slipped into the room and took a seat in the last row. She had heard Harriett Markham address juries many times in the past. But this was the first time in eleven years. When she saw the glasses Harriett held in her hand, she couldn't restrain a slight smile. Harriett's prop, her security blanket, had remained unchanged.
"Mr. Davidson has presented an admirable case on behalf of the State, and indeed, we should all be disturbed when a person loses his or her life before God intended. It isn't a part of the normal pattern of life for most of us. But neither is being repeatedly beaten by a person who assures you he loves you with each blow he delivers.
"The State has presented the physical evidence to you, and the facts of this case are not in dispute. Lawrence Bowers is dead. Carol Bowers shot him. Those are facts. However, the difference between what the State believes and what I believe is a matter of interpretation. My job has been to convince you that my interpretation of the events leading to the untimely death of Lawrence Bowers is the correct one.
"In all cases like this, the burden of proof lies with the State. They must prove to you, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Carol Bowers killed her husband for no other reason than that she wanted to. She thought about it, planned it, and then executed Lawrence Bowers, a defenseless six foot three, two-hundred-fifty-pound man."
Pausing for effect and turning slightly toward the prosecutor, Harriett continued. "Remember what you have heard during the last four days. Despite what Mr. Davidson would have you believe, if you consider the testimony of witnesses presented by the defense, you will find that the attorney for the People has failed to meet his burden.
"Friends of the deceased testified to his violent temper that intensified when fueled by alcohol. Douglas Sanders testified that Mr. Bowers was, in fact, drunk and disorderly before he was physically ejected from the Longhorn Tavern on the evening of his death. Susan Castro and Dr. Hector Rivera have given testimony as to numerous occasions when Mrs. Bowers arrived at either their home or clinic for comfort or treatment due to injuries received at the hands of Lawrence Bowers. We have presented physical evidence which documented a long trail of abuse against Mrs. Bowers for at least five years."
Moving slightly away from the jury, she leaned against the wooden railing surrounding the court stenographer's desk and crossed her arms across her chest.
"I know what you're thinking, ladies and gentlemen. Carol Bowers should have left her husband five years ago, and I couldn't agree with you more. But she didn't. She stayed, for reasons none of us will probably ever understand. Why does a whipped dog stay with an abusive owner? Why do you stay at a job you hate? I don't know the answers to those questions, either. But I'm not here to delve into the psychology of abused wives, abused dogs, or abused workers. It isn't your job to determine whether Carol Bowers was abused physically by her husband. That fact is also undisputed. You're here to decide whether she had a right to stop the abuse when she became afraid that failure on her part to react this time could result in her own death. Would there be something worse about this beating than the others? Perhaps not, but did Carol Bowers believe Lawrence Bowers would kill her this time? Eventually, ladies and gentlemen, even a whipped dog will turn on its master.
"The evidence shows that Mr. Bowers was shot at extremely close range. There was gunpowder residue on his clothing at the point of contact. But gunpowder residue was also found on Mrs. Bowers' clothing at a place that would be consistent with a weapon being discharged during a struggle. The prosecution is not claiming that Mrs. Bowers lay in wait for her husband, and they concede she had been an abused spouse. What Mr. Davidson expects you to believe is that based on one or two punches or slaps, Mrs. Bowers had not yet reached the point where deadly force for the protection of her own life was necessary. How many punches or slaps would have been enough? Five? Ten? Twenty? I submit that once you have been knocked unconscious, you are no longer capable of defending yourself.
"Mr. Davidson has pre
sented a vast array of statistics dealing with spousal abuse for you to digest. What those statistics have done is cloud the issue you are considering. The prosecutor has attempted, in essence, to throw a handful of feathers in the air, hoping a duck will fly out. The evidence and testimony do not support any contention of premeditation. This is simply a case of self-defense on Carol Bowers' part and nothing more. Lawrence Bowers is dead, and that is regrettable. But I submit to you that Lawrence Bowers' own actions were the proximate cause of his death. If Lawrence Bowers hadn't been in the habit of drinking heavily and then beating his wife, he'd be alive today, and you wouldn't be sitting in that jury box."
She pushed herself away from the railing and slipped her glasses back on. Looking into the eyes of each juror, Harriett concluded softly.
"The simple truth, ladies and gentlemen, is that once you have considered all of the evidence and the testimony of the witnesses, you have no choice but to return a verdict of not guilty to the charges against Carol Bowers. Thank you."
She returned to the seat next to her client and patted her hand as she sat back and waited for the prosecutor to present his closing argument to the jury. In the back of the courtroom, the woman left as quietly as she had entered.
NINETY MINUTES LATER, Harriett walked through the beveled glass front door of Markham and Lazslo. She had spent the early part of her career in a towering glass office building and had hated the impersonal atmosphere. Eleven years earlier, she had purchased an older home in Austin and spent six months refurbishing it to house her new private legal practice. For the first few years, it had served double duty as her office and home. But six years later, she had taken on a partner, and that coupled with a steadily growing clientele, had finally forced her to live elsewhere.
Waving at her receptionist briefly, she continued past a small, homey waiting area and down the carpeted hallway toward her office. Phyllis Schaeffer, her secretary for the last eleven years, was at a large file cabinet near her desk. Harriett opened her briefcase and dropped a thick manila folder on Phyllis's desk. "Any messages, Phyllis?" she asked.
"A couple," Phyllis answered over her shoulder. "Strike another blow for the underdog?"
Harriett glanced through her messages. "Hope so. By the way, I appreciate the overtime you've put in on the Bowers case. Why don't you take off early, and treat your husband to dinner on me? Put it on the office credit card, and I'll authorize it."
"I was just doing my job, Ms. Markham."
"Never turn down free food, Phyllis. Nick in?"
"I don't think he's back from lunch yet."
Harriett performed the same ritual every time she won a case in court or felt confidant of a win. Entering the bathroom that connected to her office, she looked in the mirror and winked at herself. "Way to go, kiddo," she said to her reflection in the mirror.
Following the greeting to herself, she undressed, changing from the business suit, heels and pantyhose she hated into comfortable gray slacks and a loose fitting black, gray, and white striped man-tailored shirt. Rolling her shirtsleeves up, she ran warm water in the sink and washed her face, removing most of the makeup she had worn for court. She patted her face dry and reapplied only a thin line of eyeliner and a light coating of lipstick before running a brush through her hair. Gazing at herself in the mirror once again, she smiled. "Much better."
There were a number of advantages to having an office in a house, not the least of which was the kitchen. A side door from her office led into a small kitchen area with a well-stocked refrigerator. She rummaged around and a few minutes later returned to her office with a sandwich and a glass of iced tea. Propping her feet up on an overstuffed hassock, she leaned back on an early American couch and bit into a delicious sandwich. She was relieved to have finally reached closure on the Bowers case.
Her thoughts and sandwich were interrupted by the buzz of her intercom. "Could you pick up, Ms. Markham?" Phyllis asked.
Barefoot, she dragged herself up from the couch and went to her desk. She placed her sandwich on a piece of paper and finished swallowing her last bite as she sat and picked up the sleek beige receiver. "What's up, Phyllis?" she asked, looking longingly at her sandwich.
"You have a visitor, Ms. Markham. She says she's an old friend."
"Does she have a name?"
"Alexis Dunne."
For a moment, Harriett was speechless trying to imagine why her former lover would be in Austin and wanting to see her. Memories flooded her mind, not all of them pleasant.
"Ms. Markham?"
"Uh, I'm sorry, Phyllis. Could you ask Ms. Dunne to wait a few minutes and then show her in?"
Replacing the receiver on its cradle, she looked around her office but didn't know what she was looking for. In what seemed more like a few seconds than a few minutes, there was a knock at her office door.
Phyllis opened the door, and Harriett stood as Alexis Dunne entered the office. A tall, slender woman, she seemed to glide effortlessly into the room.
"Is there anything you need, Ms. Markham?" Phyllis asked.
"No, thank you, Phyllis, unless Ms. Dunne would like something to drink?"
"I wouldn't mind a cup of coffee, if it's not too much trouble." Alexis smiled at Phyllis. If anything, Alexis was more stunning than Harriett remembered. After eleven years, the only difference in her appearance was a slight graying at the temples of her short, dark hair, giving her a decidedly distinguished appearance. Even her hair was styled the same way Harriett remembered, sweeping across her forehead, tapered along her neckline and cut over her ears to reveal small gold hoop earrings. She was casually dressed in tan corduroy slacks and a brown sweater.
"How do you take your coffee, Ms. Dunne?" Phyllis asked.
"One teaspoon of sugar and plenty of cream," Harriett answered before Alexis could reply.
Phyllis looked questioningly at her employer as she left the office. Alexis waited until the door was closed before turning her head toward Harriett.
"Nice office," she smiled. "Very homey. Very you."
"It meets my needs."
"May I?" Alexis asked, pointing to a chair across from Harriett's desk.
"Of course."
Leaning back in the chair, Alexis crossed her legs and glanced around the office.
"What can I do for you, Alex?" Harriett asked.
"I have a case I'd like to refer to you."
"Really?"
"It's a criminal case, and I know you're the right attorney to handle it."
"Have you given up criminal practice?"
"No, but I can't take this one." Alex shrugged. "Conflict of interest."
"So why am I the lucky attorney you want to palm it off on? Winston and Dunne must have a dozen excellent criminal associates."
"This client needs your particular expertise, Harriett. It's a very delicate case. However, Winston and Dunne is prepared to provide whatever support you might need."
Their conversation was interrupted as Phyllis returned with a mug of coffee and set it on a small table next to Alex's chair. Smiling the smile that Harriett had seen many times, Alex picked up the cup and took a sip.
"Perfect," she purred, looking at Phyllis.
As soon as Phyllis left the office, Harriett leaned forward slightly.
"I'm afraid I wouldn't be interested in taking on a case that would take me away from Austin, Alex. I have too many cases pending here."
"I'm prepared to offer you the use of our corporate jet, which would allow you to move more easily between Austin and Dallas."
"This must be some case," Harriett said as she pushed light brown hair back from her face and took a deep breath.
"It is. What I'd like to propose, Harriett, is that you meet this evening with the client's brother. He has suggested dinner where you would be able to ask him whatever questions you need to about the case."
"I'd really like to help you out, Alex, but-"
"Don't turn the case down before you talk to the gentleman tonight."
"Yes. He's engaged to my sister, Paige. She's a legislative assistant to State Senator Parker Collins. They became engaged over the Thanksgiving holidays."
"And the accused is...?"
"His sister. The Senator believes she would feel more comfortable with a female attorney, and naturally, I thought of you. I agreed to contact you on behalf of the family and arrange a meeting to discuss the case."
"There are hundreds of good attorneys who would be much more delighted than I to receive a referral like this."
"He wants you, Harriett," Alex said firmly. "He's aware of your excellent reputation."
"Uh, huh. Why can't he come here?"
"He prefers to meet outside your office. I can warn you that this will probably be a very high profile case. Potentially a media circus. He doesn't want people following him around to see what he's going to do."
"It sounds like I'm preparing to make a drug buy."
"It's not quite that bad," Alex chuckled, sipping her coffee. "I'm surprised you remembered. About the coffee."
"Just one of those annoying miscellaneous pieces of trivia that seem to stick with you," Harriett frowned. "Where and when?"
"Seven at the Austin Country Club."
"I suppose that means I'll have to wear something more appropriate than this," she said looking down at her clothes.
"Only if you feel you need to. I'll send a car for you."
"I think I can find my way. Is there anything else?"
"No. You can cover everything else this evening," Alex answered, setting her cup down. "We'll see you about seven then?"
Harriett stood and walked around the desk preparing to escort Alex to the door.
Alex smiled as she glanced at Harriett's bare feet, "I seem to remember a little piece of trivia myself. You still talk to yourself in the mirror, too?"
"Sometimes," Harriett said, blushing slightly.
"I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, Harriett," Alex said as she followed her to the door. "And by the way, I saw you in court this morning. You still have a special way of connecting with juries."
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