by Joy Fielding
The smile disappeared abruptly from Susan’s lips. “Yes.”
“Didn’t you ask me what possible reason Tracey would have for killing her mother?”
Susan squirmed in her seat. “I might have.”
“So it seemed inconceivable to you that Tracey could have done such a thing?”
“At first, yes.”
“And now? Don’t you still ask yourself why?”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“I’ll rephrase the question,” Vicki said quickly. “The prosecution has suggested that Tracey killed her mother because she was jealous of her mother’s new relationship with Howard Kerble. Had Tracey ever said or done anything to give you that impression?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Michael Rose said again. “The witness isn’t a psychiatrist.”
“Overruled,” the judge said. “The witness is perfectly qualified to answer the question.”
“No,” Susan admitted.
“Had Tracey ever said anything that made you think she was unhappy with her mother’s engagement?”
“No.”
“In fact, she seemed happy for her mother, did she not?”
“She seemed happy.”
“Wasn’t she excited about being the maid of honor at her mother’s wedding?”
“I guess.”
“You had no reason to suspect otherwise, did you?”
“No.”
“Had Barbara ever expressed any concern that Tracey might be jealous or unhappy?”
“No.”
Vicki turned a puzzled face toward the jury. “You testified that you’d known Barbara Azinger for fourteen years. How often did the two of you get together?”
“It varied.”
“Were you together twenty-four hours a day?”
“Of course not.”
“What then? A few hours every day?”
“We tried to get together at least once a week.”
“I see. A few hours once a week. And yet you’re able to swear with absolute certainty that Barbara never molested her daughter.”
“Yes,” Susan said stubbornly.
“Did Barbara ever discuss her sex life with you?”
Susan glanced at the assistant state’s attorney as if appealing for help. He dutifully rose to his feet, made his objection.
“I’ll allow it,” the judge said.
“Occasionally.”
“Had she ever told you she found her sex life with her former husband unsatisfactory?”
“Yes.”
“And that during her marriage, she regularly faked her orgasms?”
“Yes, but so what? Millions of women fake orgasms. It doesn’t make them child molesters. Barbara was a normal woman. She liked normal sex.”
“Barbara liked sex with men; therefore she had no reason to molest her daughter. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes,” Susan said warily, her voice wobbling, her eyes flitting skittishly from side to side, as if she might have stepped into a trap.
“Thank you, Mrs. Norman,” Vicki said with a smile. “I have no further questions.”
Thirty-Three
The following Monday, the prosecutor called Ron Azinger to the stand.
Ron, who’d grown less dashing and more beefy-looking in the last several years, testified that, despite their divorce, Barbara had always been an exemplary mother, that she and Tracey were exceptionally close, and that Tracey had never said anything to him about her mother abusing her in any way.
“She never complained about her mother?” Vicki asked on cross-examination.
“No, never.”
“A teenage girl who doesn’t complain about her mother? Didn’t that strike you as odd?”
The jury laughed. The prosecutor objected to the question.
“Get to the point, Counselor,” Judge Fitzhenry instructed.
“Mr. Azinger, how often did you see Tracey after the divorce?”
“Every Wednesday evening and every other weekend.”
“What sort of things did you talk about when you were together?”
Ron cleared his throat, crossed one arm over the other, lifted one palm into the air. “I’m not sure. The usual, I guess.”
“Did Tracey talk about school?”
“Yes,” Ron said, though he looked far from certain.
“Her friends?”
“I guess.”
“Does Tracey have a lot of friends, Mr. Azinger?”
“I’m sure she does.”
“Name three.”
“What?”
“Can you name three of your daughter’s friends?”
“Well …”
“How about one? Can you tell me the name of one of your daughter’s friends?”
Ron looked to the ceiling. “I think there’s a Lisa.”
“Ah, yes,” Vicki said with a smile. “There’s always a Lisa.”
Laughter broke out among the spectators, as well as in the jury box.
“The truth is that your daughter doesn’t have many friends, isn’t that right?”
“Tracey never seemed to need a lot of people around her.”
“Because she had her mother?”
Vicki saw Michael Rose hesitate in his chair, not sure whether to object. Such questions might actually help his case, Vicki could hear him thinking.
“Isn’t it true, Mr. Azinger, that you used to complain that Barbara was too wrapped up in her daughter’s life? That during your marriage you often felt excluded and shut out?”
“Tracey and her mother were very close.”
“Unnaturally close?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“Didn’t you urge your former wife to see a psychiatrist?” Vicki asked.
“I may have.”
“Specifically, didn’t you once tell her she was a sick woman who needed her head examined?”
How did you know that? Ron’s eyes questioned.
Have you forgotten she was my friend? Vicki’s eyes asked in return.
Have you? the ensuing silence demanded.
“I was very angry when I said that,” Ron said.
“Did you or did you not tell your wife she was a sick woman who should have her head examined?”
“Yes.”
Vicki swallowed, took a deep breath, debated whether to do the unthinkable, to ask a question to which she wasn’t 100 percent certain of the answer. She looked at Ron looking at his daughter, knew he’d rather be anywhere but where he was. He loved his daughter. He had no loyalty to his ex-wife. He was a sociology professor, for God’s sake, she could almost hear him thinking. A proud, upstanding member of his community. No way could he have produced a cold-blooded sociopath.
Vicki felt a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Who said she didn’t know the answer? “Mr. Azinger,” she said with confidence, “do you think it’s possible Tracey was being molested by her mother?”
There was a long pause. “It’s possible,” Ron said.
Howard Kerble made a much better witness for the prosecution. A less imposing figure than Barbara’s former husband, he nonetheless radiated quiet authority. He spoke movingly of meeting Barbara, of falling in love, of their plans for a future together. Their sex life was wonderful, he said when asked. Barbara was a normal woman with normal sexual desires. She wasn’t into anything remotely kinky. The assertion that Barbara had molested her daughter was beneath contempt. Barbara was a devoted mother. Tracey always came first.
“So Tracey had no reason to be jealous of your relationship with her mother,” Vicki stated when her turn came to cross-examine the witness.
“You’d have to ask Tracey.”
“I intend to,” Vicki said, allowing the witness to step down.
“The state calls Christine Malarek.”
It was the beginning of the third week of the trial when the rear doors of the large courtroom opened and Chris walked briskly up the center aisle, looking neither to her le
ft nor right. She was wearing a mauve sweater and gray slacks, and her blond hair fell to her shoulders in soft layers.
She looks more beautiful than ever, Vicki thought, catching sight of Tony in the same seat he’d been occupying every day since the trial began, directly behind the two rows of seats reserved for the press. Would he make a scene? Vicki wondered. Would he whip out a gun and start spraying the courtroom with bullets? Thank God for metal detectors, she thought, noticing Susan in the back row as Chris was sworn in. Michael Rose asked Chris some perfunctory questions regarding her age and occupation before getting to the heart of the matter.
“Could you describe your relationship with Barbara Azinger?” he asked.
“We were friends for fourteen years. Best friends,” Chris clarified.
“And are you also acquainted with her daughter, Tracey?”
“I’ve known Tracey since she was two years old.” Chris looked toward Tracey, her eyes connecting briefly with Vicki’s before turning away.
“Would you describe Barbara Azinger as a good mother?”
“She was a wonderful mother.”
“Did you ever see her strike her daughter?”
“Barbara didn’t believe in corporal punishment.”
“She never lashed out in anger?”
“Never. Barbara was a very loving mother. She adored Tracey.”
“Did you ever, in all the years you were friends, see Barbara touch her daughter in an inappropriate manner?”
“Of course not.”
“Did she ever confide in you an unnatural interest in her daughter?”
“No. That’s absurd.”
“Thank you,” Michael Rose concluded, nodding in Vicki’s direction. “Your witness.”
My witness indeed, Vicki thought, rising slowly to her feet. Could she really do this? she wondered, tossing such concerns aside with a shake of her head. Did she have a choice?
“In what way was she loving?” Vicki asked.
Chris hesitated. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Did you ever see her stroke her daughter’s hair?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever see her kiss her daughter?”
“Of course.”
“Hug her?”
“Yes.”
“And how did Tracey respond to her mother’s caresses?”
Chris tried to remember the many times she’d seen Barbara and Tracey together. “There was never any problem, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“You never heard Tracey object?”
“No.”
“Were you shocked when you heard that Tracey had been arrested for her mother’s murder?” Vicki waited for Michael Rose to object, almost smiled when he didn’t.
“I thought there must be some mistake.”
“Were you shocked to learn that Tracey had confessed?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Chris repeated.
“Why were you shocked?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that.”
“Were you shocked because you couldn’t imagine Tracey doing such a horrible thing?” Surely the prosecutor would object to that one, Vicki thought, waiting.
“Objection,” Michael Rose dutifully called from his seat. “The witness’s opinions in this matter are irrelevant.”
“Sustained.”
“Had Tracey ever said or done anything to indicate she was unhappy with her mother or her mother’s recent engagement?”
“No.”
“So, as far as you knew, everything between Barbara and her daughter was fine.”
“Yes.”
“And yet Tracey killed her mother. How can that be?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“Wouldn’t you agree there has to be a damn good reason for a daughter to kill her mother?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained. And watch your language, Counselor.”
“Did Tracey have a bad temper, Mrs. Malarek?” Vicki asked, ignoring both the prosecutor’s objection and the judge’s warning.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“And to your knowledge, had she ever struck her mother before that fatal night?”
“Not to my knowledge, no.”
“And yet, this young girl who was, by all accounts, a model daughter suddenly rose up in the middle of the night and killed her mother. Does that make sense to you?”
“No,” Chris admitted before the prosecutor had a chance to object. “Nothing about what happened that night makes any sense.”
Vicki took a long, deep breath. It’s now or never, she thought. She took another breath, then pushed the next question from her mouth. “Were you and Barbara Azinger ever lovers?” she asked, listening as a series of hushed whispers somersaulted across the courtroom floor.
“What!” Chris’s face had turned a ghostly white.
Michael Rose was on his feet, storming toward the judge’s bench. “Objection, Your Honor!”
“Your Honor,” Vicki countered, already at Michael’s side, “we’ve heard testimony that the victim was a normal woman with normal sexual appetites. The district attorney didn’t object then. I think I should be allowed to show proof that Barbara Azinger was not always what she led others to believe, and that included the range of her sexual proclivities.”
“She’s right, Counselor,” the judge told a dejected Michael Rose. “I’m going to allow the question.”
“Were you and Barbara Azinger ever lovers?” Vicki repeated immediately.
“No!” Chris said.
“I remind you, Mrs. Malarek, that you’re under oath.”
“I don’t need to be reminded.”
“Objection, Your Honor. The witness has answered the question.”
“Sustained.”
“Are you married, Mrs. Malarek?” Vicki asked, quickly shifting gears.
Chris looked as if she were about to tumble from the witness stand, her eyes darting around the courtroom, stopping on her ex-husband. “Divorced,” she whispered as Tony smiled, leaned forward in his seat.
“Sorry,” Vicki said. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I’m divorced.”
“You left your husband when exactly?”
“A little over two years ago.”
“Could you describe for this court what happened the night you left your husband?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Michael Rose sneered. “Relevance?”
“I believe I can show relevance in due course,” Vicki stated.
“Hurry up,” the judge instructed.
“On the night you left your husband, you went to Barbara Azinger’s house, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“In fact, you showed up in your underwear, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, but that was because Tony had locked me out of the house.”
“So you went back to Grand Avenue, to see Barbara Azinger.”
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
“What time was this? Nine o’clock? Ten?”
“It was around midnight.”
“So you showed up at Barbara’s house around midnight in your underwear,” Vicki recited. “What happened then?”
Chris shook her head, as if reluctant to recall the details of that night. “I don’t remember exactly.”
“You don’t remember?” Vicki asked incredulously.
“I think Tracey made me some tea.”
“And Barbara poured you a bath?”
“I was freezing cold. She was trying to make me warm.”
“Is that why she invited you into her bed? To make you warm?”
“Objection!”
“Where did you sleep that night?” Vicki asked instead.
“In Barbara’s bed.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
“Barbara slept there too?” “Yes. But nothing happened.”
“You didn’t kiss?”
“Did you and Mrs. Azinger share a kiss?”
Chris looked helplessly around the room, as if she couldn’t believe the words coming out of her friend’s mouth. “Why are you doing this?”
“Could Your Honor direct the witness to answer the question?” Vicki turned away from her friend. She already knew the answer. Tracey had seen the two women together, then run back to her bed and pretended to be asleep when her mother had come to check on her moments later. What would she do if Chris denied it?
“We kissed, but …”
“On the lips?”
“Yes.”
“Was it the kind of kiss you normally exchange with a friend?”
Chris said nothing. Tears filled her eyes, ran down her cheeks.
“Mrs. Malarek, was it the kind of kiss one normally exchanges with a friend?”
“No.”
“What kind of kiss was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“A lover’s kiss?”
“Yes,” Chris said softly, as Michael Rose buried his head in his hands. “But nothing happened. We kissed. That was all.”
“Are you gay, Mrs. Malarek?”
“Objection, Your Honor. What possible relevance could this have? The witness is not on trial.”
“Your Honor, it is our assertion that Barbara Azinger and Chris Malarek were engaged in a lesbian affair,” Vicki countered, “which would prove that Tracey’s mother was not averse to having sex with a woman. The witness’s sexuality is very much an issue.”
“I’ll allow it,” the judge ruled after obvious thought.
“I have three children,” Chris whispered.
“Are you gay?” Vicki repeated, hating the sound of her own voice.
“Please don’t do this.”
“A young woman’s life is on the line.”
“So is mine,” Chris said softly.
Judge Fitzhenry leaned forward, directed the witness to answer the question.
Chris closed her eyes, released a delicate trickle of air from her lungs. She sat this way for several long seconds as Vicki wondered again what she would do should Chris deny the allegation. Could she actually confront her with the findings of the private detective she’d had shadowing Chris for weeks, the photographic proof of her ongoing affair with a woman in her office? Please don’t make me do that to you, Vicki urged silently, feeling Susan’s fiery contempt burning a hole into the back of her dark blue cashmere jacket, hearing Tony’s malignant chuckle metastasizing its way through the courtroom.