The Arrangement

by Robyn Harding

  It was. Even as laymen, Nat and her mother could see that.

  “And we don’t like your chances with a jury. The fact that you were in a paid, sexual relationship with the victim casts you in a negative light. The jury, especially the women, will consider you a person of low moral character.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’s a murderer,” Allana said, her indignation colored by doubt. Would a jury be able to distinguish between a girl who would sleep with an older man for money and one who would kill him when it all turned sour?

  “You’ll have to allocute,” Hawley continued. “That means you’ll plead guilty to second-degree murder in front of the judge, the press, and Gabriel Turnmill’s loved ones.”

  A bubble of sick rose into Nat’s throat. She would have to admit to murder. In front of her parents, the media, Gabe’s wife, maybe even his daughter. Please, not Violet. It would be too perverse. “Go home and think about it,” Hawley instructed, gathering his files. “Give us a call when you’ve made a decision.”

  “We’ll sleep on it,” Allana said as they all stood. But it was a platitude only. Everyone in the room knew that Nat would accept the deal.

  She had no choice.

  53

  * * *

  The Revelation

  They slept in the same bed that night, Natalie and her mom, cuddled together like they had when Nat was little, after her father had left. It was nostalgic and comforting and Nat was able to sleep, despite the decision hanging over her. She woke in the wee hours of the morning to her mom’s muffled sobs, Allana’s body shaking with contained emotion. Her mother was crying with loss and, possibly, relief. Her daughter would spend five years behind bars. But Allana would get her life back.

  In the morning, they rose, showered, and dressed, neither of them mentioning the call they would soon make. The call that would have Natalie stand before a judge and confess to a murder she couldn’t be sure she committed. A call that would send her to prison.

  “Shall I get us coffees?” Allana offered.

  “I’ll come with you.” Buying a coffee at the corner deli would soon be a freedom Nat could not enjoy. She was slipping into her shoes when her cell phone rang. It was her lawyer.

  “I need to see you,” he said, his tone clipped and agitated. “It’s urgent.”

  Forgoing the caffeine, Natalie and her mom rode the subway to Midtown. They were hustled into another conference room where they were soon joined by Hawley and his attractive team.

  “Some new evidence has come to light.” The unkempt lawyer was businesslike, but his cohorts looked almost gleeful. “It changes things.”

  “What is it?” Nat asked, her throat dry, voice scratchy.

  “Gabe Turnmill had hired someone to kill you.”

  “Oh my god!” It was her mom’s voice. Nat was mute with shock. A tornado of emotions whirled inside her: confusion, hatred, and anger—at Gabe and at herself. Gabe Turnmill had wanted her dead. He had never loved her. She had meant nothing to him. She’d been so stupid.

  “Mr. Turnmill’s personal driver has come forward.” Matthew looked at his journal, “A Mr. Oleg Ryback.”

  Oleg. He had liked Natalie. He had been kind to her, hadn’t judged her, understood her even.

  “According to Mr. Ryback, Gabriel Turnmill asked him to arrange a hit on you.”

  A professional hit. So cold, so cowardly.

  “The driver set up a meeting between Mr. Turnmill and Ryback’s cousin.” The lawyer’s eyes were on his notes. “Five thousand dollars was exchanged. Ryback’s cousin had no intention of harming you, but Mr. Ryback felt he had to play along or Mr. Turnmill would hire someone else to do the job.”

  Oleg had protected her.

  Hawley looked up. “As I said, this changes things.”

  Nat’s voice was little more than a croak. “How?”

  “In light of this evidence, the DA has offered a new deal. Second-degree manslaughter. She’ll recommend two years in jail, five years probation, with mandatory psychological counseling.”

  When Nat was first arrested, she’d been locked up for less than two days. It had been hell. Could she survive two years? But it was better than five.

  “You’ll still have to allocute. And you’ll still have a criminal record, which could have long-lasting repercussions.”

  Her mom asked, “What kind of repercussions?”

  The handsome male associate elaborated. “It can make it hard to get a job, or go back to school, or qualify for housing.”

  “My god,” Allana muttered.

  “There is another option . . . ,” Matthew Hawley said. “We could go to trial. With this new information, we might have a chance at an acquittal on the grounds of self-defense.”

  Nat felt her heart lighten in her chest. It was hope, that fleeting, ephemeral feeling.

  “We’d have to prove you knew your life was in imminent danger when you shot Gabe Turnmill. I know you have no memory of that night, but we might be able to build a case for it.”

  Might.

  “But if the jury doesn’t buy it, you’ll be convicted of second-degree murder. That means a minimum of fifteen years.”

  No one spoke for a moment, allowing Nat to process the information. If she went to trial and won, she’d be a free woman. She could pick up where her life had left off—with school and friends and dreams for the future—before Gabe Turnmill destroyed everything. Or she could start over, do something completely new, in a new city where no one knew her sordid history.

  But if she lost, she’d be behind bars until she was nearly forty.

  Her attorney continued. “The prosecution will come down hard on you at trial. Your paid arrangement with the deceased will be dragged into court.”

  “There will be a lot more media interest, too,” the female associate added. “You and your family will be put under the microscope.”

  “And trials take time,” Hawley continued. “They take money. We’ll need months to build a case. It could be a year until we go to court. It could be more.”

  The strangled noise that came from Allana’s throat was barely audible, but Nat heard it. And she sensed her mother’s inner turmoil. Her mom would be weighing her daughter’s chances of acquittal against the damage her long absence would do to her marriage, her young children, her bank account.

  Nat couldn’t make her mother put her life on hold any longer. It was too selfish, too damaging for her young siblings. She couldn’t take any more of her father’s money. Because the revelation that Gabe had hired someone to kill her had clarified things. Gabe had hated her enough to want her dead, and she him. They had loved and loathed each other with the same ferocious passion. Despite the stained T-shirt she couldn’t explain, despite her clouded memory, she knew that she was capable of shooting Gabe in the face. And she knew that he deserved it.

  “I’ll take the deal,” she said. “I’ll confess to manslaughter.”

  54

  * * *

  The Return

  When Celeste first heard that her husband’s murderer had accepted a plea deal, she was in France. She and Violet had flown to Nice to visit Celeste’s sister. After a few days there, they’d moved to an old, stone house in a medieval mountain village in the Alpes Maritimes. It was less than a two-hour winding drive from the Côte d’Azur, but they rarely returned to the bustling tourist area. They stayed in their cliffside community, shopping at the weekend farmers’ market, where they bought ripe tomatoes and oily tapenade and chewy fougasse. Celeste cooked for them, simple, wholesome comfort food. They read, swam in the nearby river, napped, and talked.

  Violet had been despondent when they’d first arrived. Her father’s death, in such a gruesome, violent manner, was distressing. Learning about Gabe’s affair with Natalie, the girl Violet had fallen for, was disgusting. Celeste’s only child was struggling to process Gabe’s murder and his betrayal. It would take time. But Celeste was confident that—with love, support and therapy—her daughter would be okay.<
br />
  The ADA had called Celeste’s cell phone, interrupting an idyllic afternoon of rosé and cards with Violet. The defense had learned that Gabe had hired someone to kill his sugar baby. Celeste’s husband was not only adulterous and duplicitous; he was capable of murder to cover his tracks. With this new information, the prosecution felt that amending the plea deal was the safest choice. Natalie Murphy would plead guilty to second-degree manslaughter.

  If the case had gone to trial, Celeste knew it would have turned into a media frenzy. “The Sugar Daddy Murder,” they’d have called it, splashing the gory and salacious details across websites, newspapers, even television shows. Violet already knew that her father had been shot down in the street, that the woman he’d paid to be his girlfriend had been charged with the crime, that the very same girlfriend had been fostering a relationship with Violet. But there would be more . . . intimate, personal, sexual details that would tear her daughter apart. The plea deal was a relief.

  Celeste was tempted to stay away permanently, to hide away with her daughter and forget about their life in America. But now, she was on a plane bound for JFK. Her husband’s killer was going to be sentenced, and Celeste had to be there. In two days, she would stand up in court and she would read her victim-impact statement. She knew the power that crime victims held in sentencing hearings. The DA could recommend a punishment, but it was ultimately up to the judge to impose a prison term. If Celeste’s words were powerful enough, her pain well articulated, she could influence what happened to Natalie Murphy.

  Judge Amanda Wollner was presiding over the case. Celeste knew the petite septuagenarian professionally from her time serving the court. Wollner was tough, a feminist. Celeste wasn’t sure how that lens might color the judge’s view of Natalie Murphy, if it would impact the judge’s sentencing decision. But Celeste was a passionate and convincing orator. She’d had to be, as defense counsel for the racially profiled, the unjustly accused. Her words would affect the punishment doled out to Gabe’s murderer. She was sure of it.

  Celeste had been loath to leave Violet alone as she traveled. Luckily, her sister, Claudette, and her brother-in-law, Pierre, had offered to stay with Violet in the old stone house. Celeste’s daughter would be doted on, fussed over; she didn’t need to worry about her. And this trip to New York would allow Celeste to handle some financial issues and meet with a real estate agent. She was going to sell Gabe’s city apartment. Though her husband had been murdered blocks from his Upper East Side pied-à-terre, the place had an evil, toxic energy. Had Gabe entertained Natalie there? Made love to her in the bed Celeste sometimes shared with him? How many other women—girls—had he serviced in that apartment? She’d keep the farmhouse, for now. It had been a happy home for Celeste and her daughter, punctuated by her husband’s tense weekend visits. If Violet wanted to start over, somewhere else, they would . . . France or Switzerland or back to Quebec. They could go west, to California or British Columbia. They could move to Iceland or Denmark. Celeste would go to the ends of the earth to heal her daughter.

  The pilot’s voice came over the PA system. “We’re beginning our descent into JFK,” he said. “Expect some turbulence.”

  Celeste did. She fastened her seat belt.

  55

  * * *

  The Sentence

  Natalie stood before the judge, a dark-haired woman of about seventy with sharp, aquiline features. Judge Wollner was tiny but imposing as she asked Nat to confirm that she understood the nature of her guilty plea, that she freely admitted to committing manslaughter, thus causing the death of Gabriel William Turnmill.

  “Yes,” Nat replied, in a voice that sounded unfamiliar and faraway.

  “And are you currently under the influence of any substance that would affect your ability to enter this plea?” the petite magistrate continued.

  Nat responded, “I’m not.” But she felt high, disconnected from her body. It was not she who was standing in the crowded courtroom, admitting to murdering Gabe. It was another girl, a stranger, who would soon learn if the judge would accept the sentence recommendation, if she would spend the next two years behind bars for killing her lover.

  “And are you entering this plea after full consultation with your attorney?”

  “I am.”

  “You may be seated, Ms. Murphy.”

  Obediently, Nat returned to her seat next to her lawyer. Hawley gave her a slight nod of approval. Her job was done. Now, she just had to sit and wait as Hawley and the prosecutor addressed the judge, discussing their sentence recommendations in legal terms. A presentence report was submitted by the parole officer who had interviewed Natalie, a heavyset, jowly man who’d asked her about her family, her work history, her emotional well-being, her use of alcohol.

  And then the judge made an announcement. “I will now invite victim-impact statements.”

  Natalie’s stomach lurched. This was the moment she’d been dreading above all others. Gabe’s loved ones would stand up and vilify her for what she had done. They would articulate their horror, pain, and loss. It was their right. Natalie would have to sit there and take it, while regret and self-loathing withered her soul.

  When she’d entered the courtroom, Nat had briefly scanned the spectators, spotting her parents seated together, their faces pale, expressions grim. On the opposite side of the aisle, she had clocked Celeste. Gabe’s wife was seated alone; no parents, no Violet, no friends to comfort her. But she didn’t appear tearful and distressed this time. She looked calm, aloof, determined.

  It was Violet’s statement that Nat had truly feared. She was haunted by the memory of their flirtatious banter, the girl’s adoring eyes on her, that sweet, tentative kiss . . . She regretted that fledgling relationship almost as much as she did the relationship with Gabe. It had been cruel and wrong to toy with the girl’s emotions, to use her to upset Gabe. Natalie deserved whatever vitriol was aimed at her now.

  But the girl’s mother would speak for her. Celeste was moving toward the microphone mounted on the podium, so calm, so composed. She would not subject her only child to this painful process. The woman had been an attorney. Her words would be carefully chosen, thoughtful, impactful. Nat didn’t look at Gabe’s wife; she kept her eyes on the table before her.

  “Thank you for coming today,” the judge said, her tone distinctly warmer than it had been when addressing Nat or her counsel. “Please state your name for the court.”

  “My name is Celeste Bernier.” She spelled it for the court reporter.

  The judge said, “You may read your statement, when you’re ready.”

  Celeste began.

  “On May twentieth, I lost my husband of twenty-nine years, and my daughter lost her father. Our lives will not be the same without him, and we may never fully recover from the violence that was perpetrated on our family. Gabe Turnmill was my partner, my provider, my coparent. But I now believe he was also a sociopath.”

  Nat’s head jerked up. Had she heard Celeste correctly?

  “The man I married twenty-nine years ago ceased to exist. I’m not sure when or why, but at some point, Gabriel Turnmill stopped being a loving husband, a caring father, and a kind, honest man. He became adulterous, duplicitous, and cruel.”

  Incredulous murmurs rippled through the courtroom. Nat didn’t move, didn’t turn her head, barely breathed. If she did, reality might come crashing into this dream.

  “My husband paid Natalie Murphy a significant allowance for a romantic and sexual relationship. He made her believe that he was single and available; that he truly cared for her. And then, he abruptly cut her off: physically, emotionally, and financially.

  “When Ms. Murphy learned about her lover’s betrayal, I don’t believe she had the emotional or mental maturity to handle it appropriately. She lashed out in a childish, obsessive manner. She became a nuisance, a threat to Gabe Turnmill’s reputation, his relationship with his daughter, and, indeed, our marriage. So my husband hired someone to kill her. But it was he who ended
up dead.”

  Celeste paused then—for breath or effect—then continued.

  “I don’t know Natalie Murphy, but she appears to be insecure, naive, and emotionally fragile. I suspect a personality disorder and alcohol abuse. While I abhor violence in any form, and do not condone her actions, I feel that Ms. Murphy’s greatest crime was falling in love with a manipulative, narcissistic man thirty years her senior. In a way, she is a victim here, too.”

  Natalie’s emotions churned: shame, incredulity, and a glimmer of optimism. Celeste was trying to save her.

  “My daughter and I do not believe that Ms. Murphy should be incarcerated for her actions. We feel that justice would be better served by offering this defendant the psychological counseling and support she needs, so she can heal and go on to be a functional, contributing member of society.”

  The tall, confident woman folded her papers and then leaned into the microphone. “I thank the court for its time.”

  And with that, Celeste left the room.

  56

  * * *

  The Gift

  Natalie Murphy was sentenced to a year in jail plus three years of probation, during which she would be prohibited from drinking alcohol and receive mandatory weekly psychological counseling. Despite the recommendations of the prosecution and parole board, Judge Amanda Wollner suspended the sentence. This meant that Nat was free. If she followed the rules and stayed out of trouble, she would remain so.

  Her probation had been transferred to Blaine, allowing Natalie to live with her mom, Derek, Astrid, and Ollie. The town that had once felt so stifling and confining was now her refuge. But in a way, Nat was still imprisoned—by gossip and judgment; shame and ridicule. She endured the sneers and whispers . . . even the abuse (Cole’s cousin, a girl of seventeen, had spat in her face at the grocery store). Nat could handle a lot now. And being the town pariah was far preferable to actual jail time.