Paper Castles

by Terri Lee

  No more pretending. No holding her head high. Her family would be destroyed as her paper castle came crumbling down.

  “IT’S SO nice to finally meet you.” The young woman held out a slim hand and Savannah shook it, reminding herself to close her mouth.

  “You’re Cecil?” Savannah asked.

  “Only to Phil,” she said, laughing. “Most of the time, I’m Cecily. Cecily Berringer.”

  When Phil talked about his female assistant, he made it sound like she was one of the boys. Savannah had been expecting to meet a middle-aged frump.

  The stylish young woman standing in her front hall was no frump. She was tall and slender, with a sleek dark bob. Modern and chic. Her gaze confident, but not unnerving.

  Savannah glanced at Phil, who shrugged a silent “What?”, then said, “It’s crunch time, so Cecil and I will be working around the clock.”

  “Well, I’ll try not to get in your way.” Savannah stepped aside as the two of them marched into Price’s old office, carrying their briefcases like shields into battle. Cecily reached up to smooth her already smooth hair and Savannah noticed her ring finger was glaringly bare. Phil closed the door and Savannah stood there, shut out. In her own home.

  Nice to meet you too, Cecily.

  Cecily was actually a terrific assistant: funny, yet capable and smart as hell. If Neenie were here she’d call her a tough cookie and begrudgingly, Savannah had to agree. She supposed the tough exterior was necessary, as Cecily had to make her way in a man’s world wearing high heels. Savannah would’ve preferred to hate her. But Cecily kept including her in conversations with Phil, and soon the young woman’s wit and intelligence won Savannah over.

  Besides, she herself had no claim on Phil Hannigan. He’d kissed her. So what? They weren’t in seventh grade. One kiss didn’t mean they were going steady. Her heart begged to differ. It wasn’t only about the kiss; it was about everything that came before. The weeks and months the two of them had been building...this. Whatever this was. She was afraid to name it, afraid it might be a one-sided structure. Phil had a life in Philadelphia. A good life. He had better things to do than be a convicted felon’s pen-pal.

  Even if he felt the same romantic stirrings in his soul, Savannah knew he’d set them aside to focus on the trial. She would step out of the way and let him do his job.

  He had his work cut out for him. After several long sessions around the table with Kip and her father and Phil, the decision had been made to refuse the plea bargain.

  Phil delivered the message personally to Nate Briggs, “Not a chance.”

  Briggs’s red-faced dismissal was worth the trip across town, Phil said.

  Today they were going over the jury selection process. Cecily was standing in front of several poster-sized sheets of paper taped to the wall, with notes scribbled along the top.

  “This is Cecil’s field of expertise,” Phil said. “I say picking the jury is nothing more than a game of Russian Roulette.”

  “Wrong, Boss,” Cecily said, not turning around. “It’s a science.”

  “I’m sorry.” Phil glanced at Savannah. “It’s a science.” He leaned over the desk, continuing in a stage whisper. “Although I’ve yet to see scientific data backing up her claims.”

  “I can hear you,” Cecily said.

  Savannah smiled, but kept her eyes on the posters. She was fascinated.

  “We want as many women as possible,” Cecily said, turning around. “Preferably married, with children. Women who would be reluctant to send a mother away for life.”

  Phil frowned at Savannah. “Did I mention Cecil can be blunt?” He drew out blunt, into two syllables.

  “We don’t have time for anything else.” Cecily eyed Savannah and Savannah didn’t blink. “Women jurors could just as easily work against us in this case, because our client is beautiful.”

  She said it with no more emotion than if she were stating Savannah lived on Gaston Street.

  Phil nodded in professional agreement. “That could be a major factor. I’ve seen it before. We’ll be walking a fine line.”

  “It’s important women on the jury be able relate to you,” Cecily said. “Not have their bitch claws come out.” She eyed Savannah like a Chanel suit in a shop window. “We’ll go over your clothes before trial. Nothing too expensive-looking. Minimal jewelry.”

  “Cecily will be taking notes during my questioning of the jurors,” Phil said “As well as studying their body language.”

  Savannah could read body language too. There was no sign of catty jealousy in Cecily’s demeanor. Her fingernails were neat and unpolished: no sign of bitch claws. She was a professional young woman, hard at work, and Savannah realized she admired her.

  And watching Cecily had Savannah wondering what it would be like to wake up every day with a purpose.

  “We only get nine peremptory challenges, to dismiss without prejudice. Which isn’t many.” Phil was tapping his pencil on the desk and staring past Savannah.

  For the first time she sensed a bit of worry behind his words. His bravado slid to the side and she saw him with her fate in his hands and the weight of it on his shoulders.

  All the detailed talk about jury selection bubbled like a thick pea soup in Savannah’s brain. She left the two of them to their work and wandered outside to stare at the neglected garden beds.

  In one season, weeds had overtaken years’ worth of hard work. Some of the heartier flowers and bushes were carrying on without her. The rest had given up, as if they knew she wouldn’t be back next year.

  She sat at the patio table, trying to write a letter to PJ and Angela. Doodles filled the margins as words failed her. It was hard to keep the tone upbeat. She constantly second-guessed her decision to have the kids stay in Florida, and was sure her doubt was evident between the lines.

  She sighed over the page and its pathetic attempt to hide the obvious. She thought about starting over, but didn’t have the energy. She folded the stationery in half, doodles and all. Hopefully, the kids would recognize her in the little pictures.

  She smiled as she remembered getting in trouble in school for drawing on her homework. She couldn’t help herself, unable to leave spaces blank. An inch-wide margin was an irresistible temptation. The back of a receipt, a canvas. Her hands found pens, pencils, or paintbrushes and colored in the world around her. As she got older, adults started encouraging her talent instead of scolding her.

  Art had been her second chance. Her ticket to college. Her voice. Now, painting had helped lead her to her downfall. Cruel how life could turn in circles until it became one big knot.

  WHAT A woman wore to her murder trial was a matter of serious concern.

  Pleats?

  “Too fussy,” Cecily said.

  Red?

  “Too bold.”

  A tasteful suit?

  “Too expensive.”

  Thus, a dozen outfits were pulled from Savannah’s closet and dismissed for being too this or too that.

  Ultimately, they settled on a pale-blue, sleeveless shift. With her hair swept back in a clean ponytail, and only pearl earrings for jewelry, Savannah looked cool and crisp.

  Phil’s gaze was approving as she came downstairs. “Nice,” he said. “Good call on the hair.”

  “I’ve learned to listen to you,” she said. Yesterday, Phil pointed out her tendency to play with her hair when she was nervous—a distraction that could affect how the jurors saw her.

  “Remember, nervous equates with guilt,” Phil said now. He looked down at her. “It’s important you show no reaction to anything said in the courtroom. Good or bad. You need to remain as unaffected as possible. Bite the inside of your cheek, doodle on a piece of paper, but don’t react. Especially to anything negative.”

  “I shouldn’t have thrown out all of my valium.”

  “Funny.”

  She wasn’t trying to be funny. If ever there was a time for a crippling anxiety attack, this was the moment. But anxiety rarely showed u
p when you expected it. Rather, it dropped by when you thought everything was fine. It attacked. Like a solitary assassin, sneaking around the edge of your life. In the church pew on a Sunday morning. Watching TV with the kids after dinner. Over lunch with a girlfriend. Always watching from the wings just outside your peripheral vision.

  As soon as anxiety saw you relax, it pounced.

  It was hard to breathe this morning, but it was regular nerves, not panic. Savannah could tell the difference. The hard knot in her stomach had a reason to be there. Her shaking hands barely able to handle a cup of coffee this morning. After a few sips, she pushed the cup away. Across the kitchen table, Phil took her hand.

  “One more rule,” he said.

  She sighed.

  “Believe in your innocence. You didn’t do this. It makes a difference in how you walk into the room. How you sit, how you look at the jury, and how you hold yourself.” He lifted her chin in his hand.

  “And if you can’t believe in yourself, then believe in me. Because I believe in you. Hold onto that. “

  Savannah clutched it tightly in her fists. This hotshot lawyer who never lost a case had taken her on as a client. He only took on cases he felt he could win. It was worth remembering.

  The courthouse steps were crammed with reporters, photographers, and curious bystanders. Flashbulbs popped and reporters shouted for Savannah to look their way as Phil manhandled her through the throngs, elbowing their way upstream to the heavy wooden doors.

  “Vultures,” Phil said as he ushered her upstairs. “Thank God Judge Houser denied the petition for cameras in the courtroom. Briggs was pushing for it, of course. Thinking about his re-election.”

  They had a private space on the second floor which Phil was already calling the war room. Catching her breath, Savannah stood at the bank of windows and peeked through the blinds at the crowd below. What would make ordinary people stand in a noisy crowd, just to catch a glimpse of her walking into the courthouse?

  “Ordinary people love stories of beautiful people gone wrong,” Phil told her once. “They smell scandal like sharks smell blood.”

  They wouldn’t stand around in the heat of an August morning unless they were sure of a good show. They wanted a firsthand account to go with the news stories about the Socialite Murderer.

  I watched her coming up the courthouse steps, they’d say. You could see it in her eyes. Cold-blooded killer.

  Savannah moved to one of the chairs and sat, before she fell down. Phil and Cecily were poring over notes. Kip came into the war room and drew his sister into a tight hug.

  “We’re going to get through this, Savvy,” he said.

  “Dead or alive?”

  Phil came over, straightening his tie. “It’s time. Ready?”

  Savannah could only nod.

  Phil nudged her elbow. “Remember. You’re innocent. We’re about to prove it. Try not to look at the jurors too much. It’s fine to let them see your face, but don’t engage their eyes. All right, let’s go.”

  He walked into the courtroom, as if he were escorting Savannah to the best table in a five- star restaurant. Moving up the aisle, he was Moses parting the Red Sea. Both sides of the courtroom were filled to overflowing. People stood up and craned their necks to get the first look.

  All those years of pretending, Savannah thought. Finally put to good use.

  She walked with all the confidence she could muster through the little gate separating the litigants from the onlookers. She took her seat between Phil and Cecily, glad to have her back to the crowd.

  Almost immediately she felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning around she saw her support team, lined up and ready for duty. Her father, Beverly, Kip, Cheryl, Rebecca and Ben. All of them there, for her.

  Daddy. She mouthed the word without sound as she looked into his gray eyes. She’d balked at the idea of having her family at the trial, instinctively wanting to shelter them.

  But her father was adamant.

  “What kind of parents would we be if we weren’t standing beside you?” Jack said “You’re overruled, Daughter. Your family will be right there in the courtroom, showing the world and each and every juror we believe in you.”

  Next to him sat Congressman Kipling Kendall, nodding to his constituents as if there were nothing unusual about a relative being charged with murder. To hell with career concerns and pictures splashed all over national papers and TV news. He was here to support his little sister. Kip winked at Savannah when she caught his eye, Rebecca blew her a small kiss and Beverly reached out and patted her shoulder. Savannah was lifted up on the love of this family. They were hers.

  The jurors filed in from a side door, the weight of their task dragging behind them. Phil and Cecily weren’t thrilled about the final make-up of the jurors: too many men.

  Faces of the jury looked at Savannah, anxious to get a first impression. She looked back. Her peers. Twelve people who would listen to two stories and decide which one they believed. Their call would send Savannah to prison or send her home.

  The bailiff’s deep voice rose above the noise. “All rise.”

  IN HIS opening statement, Nathan Briggs stood before the jury box, assuring them in plain language how he was going to prove Savannah Palmerton had murdered her husband. Twelve pairs of eyes followed his finger when he pointed to her. Savannah caught her breath and Phil gently nudged her foot under the table.

  Nathan Briggs was so persuasive she wondered why there was any reason for a trial. His words fell around her in a cold rain. Savannah Palmerton, spoiled...pills...drinking...cheating on her husband...temper... murderer. He took bits of truth and twisted them into unrecognizable shapes. When he told the jurors Phil would ask them to look the other way in the face of common sense evidence, Savannah was ready to give up.

  But then it was Phil’s turn. This was the first time Savannah had seen him in action. He was brilliant. She managed to sit up a little straighter, watching, fascinated, even proud, as he worked the jury like a hypnotist. She could tell they were skeptical at first, wary of this Yankee lawyer with his funny accent. He kept his opening statement brief and his confidence spilled into the jury box. By the time he walked back to the defense table, several people were nodding with much warmer expressions.

  Briggs came back swinging at the first bell with enlarged photos of the murder scene. Savannah felt like she was at a drive-in horror movie. After one glance, she stared down at the table, afraid to look up and see Price staring back at her in a pool of blood.

  Every inch of the crime scene was painstakingly detailed by Briggs, followed by expert testimony. Forensic professionals explained the process of identifying fingerprints—matching up whorls, ridges, arches, and loops to confirm the fingerprints found on the murder weapon belonged to Savannah Palmerton.

  “Mrs. Palmerton’s fingerprints weren’t found on the trigger, is that correct?” Phil said at the cross-examination.

  “That’s correct,” the forensic examiner said.

  Savannah nodded to herself, remembering when Price let her hold the gun. She cupped her hands around the cold metal, loathe to place her finger around the trigger. Price laughed at her as he retrieved the gun from her awkward grip.

  Phil looked over his documentation. “And several unidentified smudged and half prints were found as well, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And there’s no way to tell if a fingerprint is three months or three hours old, is there?”

  “Well…not at this time, but—”

  Phil dismissed him. “That will be all.”

  Next the cleaning ladies testified they’d done a thorough job cleaning Price’s office the night of the murder. None of them had seen a diamond and pearl earring on the floor. Phil didn’t even bother cross-examining them.

  The jeweler, Murray Feldman, attested to his jewelers mark on the back of the earring found at the scene. He confirmed it as one of a set specifically designed by Price Palmerton as a Christmas gift for hi
s wife. Phil didn’t have questions for Feldman, either.

  Pictures of Savannah at the New Year’s Eve country club dance were submitted as further evidence. In them, she smiled and laughed, Price on one side, Kip on the other, and the diamond and pearl earrings flashing at her ears. Unfortunately no pictures proving she wore gold heart earrings the night of the murder existed. In the face of such damning evidence the most Phil could do was, ignore it, get them off the stand, and deal with it in his closing argument.

  On and on it went, with Briggs lining up witnesses and grilling them for hours, followed by Phil asking one or two pointed questions.

  Each time Nathan Briggs got up to speak, she felt doomed. The roller coaster ride was doing a number on her nerves.

  So was the heat. August in Georgia was Mother Nature at her bitchiest, her hot breath rolling up from the center of the earth and melting city streets. Even the natives had a hard time in her unrelenting glare. Philadelphia Hannigan didn’t stand a chance. Every break in the war room was a backstage wardrobe change: one of Cecily’s jobs was having a large stack of dress shirts at the ready.

  Perception was everything. A lawyer in a sweat-drenched shirt, wasn’t the impression Phil wanted to leave with the jury.

  “I don’t know how you people live down here,” he said drinking his second glass of ice water. “It’s a sauna.” He’d donned a crisp white shirt but not buttoned it yet.

  “It’s purely scientific, Philadelphia,” Savannah said, picking at a ham sandwich. “A true southerner is a product of evolution. We’ve evolved over time to adapt to our tropical surroundings. It’s a clear case of survival of the fittest and those who can’t handle it are expected to crawl back up north.”

  Phil rolled an ice cube around his mouth. “I’ll let you have that one. I’m too hot to argue. Besides I don’t know how you can look so cool in this anteroom of hell.”

  Cecily came into the room. “Five minutes.”

  Phil took a huge bite of sandwich, buttoned his shirt and took the tie Cecily handed him.