by Rose Connors
Senator Kendrick straightens, walks around the chair he’s been leaning on, and drops into it. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I know I should have told you sooner. But I kept thinking we’d hear from Michelle.”
His eyes meet mine when I look up and the emotion in them is genuine. He’s beyond worried; he’s terrified. “I just didn’t think anything bad had happened to her,” he says. “But now I’m afraid I was wrong.”
Chapter 13
The neighbor isn’t blind, as it turns out. She’s deaf. Helene Wilson greeted me at her kitchen door with a broad smile, a notepad and a pen. When I started to explain my uninvited appearance on her doorstep, she shook her head at me. “I’m deaf,” she said, handing the pen and paper to me. “You’ll have to use this.”
I wrote my name, then a short message explaining my role as her neighbor’s attorney. She invited me inside at once, and the clarity of her speech took me by surprise. It gave no hint that her world is silent.
“My deafness,” she says now, as if reading my mind, “is relatively new. Until a few years ago, my hearing was perfect.”
What happened? I write on the notepad.
She takes my parka and scarf, hangs them on a hook to the side of the door, and shrugs. “I’m what’s known as a late deafened adult,” she says. “There are more of us around than most people realize.”
This is news to me. Again, she seems to read my mind.
“There are so many of us, in fact, that the Association of Late Deafened Adults has fifteen chapters throughout the United States. Our most famous member is King Jordan, the president of Gallaudet University. But all the members are like me: folks born into the hearing world, enjoying the pleasures sound brings to life—music, laughter, rainfall—and then it all starts to fade. The process gains momentum until—poof!—one day sound is gone. Completely.”
Look out, King Jordan. Having known her all of three minutes, I’m willing to bet Helene Wilson will be the association’s most famous member before long. She delivers her history without a shred of self-pity, with an “ain’t that the darnedest thing you ever heard” expression on her face. A fifty-something, blue-eyed blonde who’s probably five feet on her tiptoes, she’s got hot ticket written all over her. She leads the way through a galley kitchen and into a softly lit living room, then directs me to the sofa with a sweep of her hand.
Her place is compact—smaller than my Windmill Lane cottage, even—but it’s huge on charm. I’ve noticed this bungalow from the outside many times, even before I got the first worried phone calls from the Senator next door. It has access to all the same outdoor amenities of the Kendrick estate—the drop-dead views, the stilt-legged shorebirds, the salt-laden winds—all with a fraction of the upkeep. My kind of real estate.
The living room is richly decorated in a colorful Southwestern motif, warmed by a crackling fire. A pair of glasses sits on top of an open hardback on the coffee table, a half-filled goblet of red wine next to it. “Can I get you anything?” Helene gestures toward a wet bar at the other end of the room. “A cocktail, maybe?”
I shake my head. It’s late; I want to get home, put on a pair of old sweats, have a snack and a glass of wine on my own living room couch. I won’t stay long, I write on the notepad. Thanks for seeing me.
The sofa is upholstered in a soft, taupe corduroy. Helene joins me on it, her eyes openly curious. “What can I do for you?” she says.
I hesitate for a moment. For some reason, having to pen my words makes me want to choose them more carefully. I’m looking into the disappearance of Michelle Forrester, I write at last.
Her bright expression darkens as she reads. “A terrible thing,” she says, shaking her head. “Her people must be worried sick.”
I nod.
“If I can help,” she adds, “I certainly will.”
Time to face the music. I’ll never get the answer if I don’t ask the question. And it’s why I came here, after all. When was the last time you saw her? I scrawl.
Helene Wilson’s hesitation speaks volumes. She knows at least as much as any of us, perhaps more. “You’re his lawyer,” she says finally, “so whatever I tell you stays between you, me, and the Senator, is that right?”
Technically, it’s not; the privilege exists only between attorney and client. It doesn’t extend to communications with third parties. I shake my head and Helene looks surprised. I can’t guarantee that, I write. But remember, I’m Senator Kendrick’s lawyer. Nothing you say that’s adverse to his interests will go anywhere else. Not if I can help it.
She hesitates again, considering my written message, and I’m touched by the depth of her loyalty to her neighbor. “Michelle was here last Thursday night,” she says at last. She points out her side window, toward Senator Kendrick’s estate. “Next door.”
There it is. And it’s only a matter of time before some Chatham detective is sitting where I am. Two, probably. Did you see her arrive? I write.
“Not exactly,” she says.
I arch my eyebrows.
“She got here around seven,” Helene continues. “I remember because I’d just finished watching the news and Michelle had been on it. She and the Senator had held a press conference at Four Cs that day.” Helene points toward a distressed-pine corner cupboard that houses a modest TV. “Closed captioning,” she adds, smiling. “It’s not perfect, but it usually gets the job done.”
She’s two steps ahead of me. Not exactly, I write. You didn’t exactly see her arrive. What do you mean?
She shrugs. “It was dark,” she says, “so I didn’t see Michelle pull in. But her car passed in front of my house.” She points over her shoulder, out the window behind us.
I’m still for a moment, and Helene seems to sense my questions, one of them anyhow. “Michelle’s car has been here before,” she says, “many times. She always keeps her headlights off when she travels this lane, but I know when she comes and goes. She drives a sporty, foreign number. I know the feel of it.”
I’m not sure how to ask her what that means. My pen is still.
“Not for a while, though,” Helene adds. “Until last Thursday, it had been months since Michelle Forrester had been here. Not since the end of the summer.”
Helene Wilson knows what she’s talking about; her time line dovetails with the Senator’s. I still don’t get it, though. How? I write on a new page. How did you know a car was driving by in the dark? And how did you know it was Michelle’s?
Her grin tells me she’s been asked questions like this one before—more than a few times—and she expects a healthy dose of skepticism from her listener. “I have five senses,” she says. “Just not the same five you have.”
None of my five is particularly keen right now.
“I know when an animal passes by in the dark,” she continues. “And I usually know what kind of animal it is—long before I grab my flashlight to check. On occasion, I confuse a coyote with a dog, but I never misidentify a deer. Automobiles are much easier by comparison. It’s all about vibration. Sound is vibration, after all.”
I know that—and I believe what she’s telling me—but I still don’t understand. I hold up my hand so she’ll pause. Are you saying you can tell the particular type of car that’s driving by? I write. Even if you don’t see it?
She laughs. “No,” she says. “I’m not that good. But I do know when it’s the Senator’s. That Humvee of his is no ordinary car. Talk about vibration.”
I stop her again. But you said you knew Michelle’s.
“Only because I know her pattern,” she says. “She keeps her headlights out, comes and goes in total darkness.”
I’m quiet for a moment, digesting the fact that Michelle Forrester’s cover is what gives her away—to this astute neighbor, anyhow.
“The Senator pulled in at around five-thirty that afternoon,” Helene says. “Michelle arrived just after seven.”
My pen is paralyzed again. It won’t take much longer for the Chatham cops to unearth this inf
ormation. Once they do, they’ll take it straight to Geraldine. And though she already knows about the affair, I’m certain she has no idea Michelle was with the Senator the night before she disappeared. When that fact comes to light, Charles Kendrick will have some explaining to do.
“She left early the next morning,” Helene adds. “And I saw her little hot rod that time. She left a bit later than she normally does. It was starting to get light already.”
I’m still wordless, written or otherwise, but a wave of relief washes over me. My client faces an outraged wife and a political scandal. But this last piece of information from Helene Wilson should ultimately shield him from our District Attorney, at least. I pull a business card from my wallet and hand it to her. If you think of anything else, I write.
She puts a hand on my forearm to stop me. “I’ll let you know,” she finishes for me. “And I mean it,” she says, tucking my card into her sweater pocket. “I will. I’m not the least bit afraid to get involved.”
I don’t doubt that for a minute. Something tells me Helene Wilson isn’t afraid of much.
Chapter 14
Thursday, December 16
Big Red hustles out the side door as soon as Judge Gould’s eyes give him the go-ahead. Derrick Holliston has made up his mind. He’ll represent himself. He’s every bit as determined this morning as he was in chambers yesterday.
“Mr. Holliston,” the judge says as the door clicks shut behind the bailiff, “you’re absolutely certain about this?”
At least Holliston has the good sense to stand as he replies. “Hell, yeah,” he says. Geraldine groans.
My bet is that’s the first of many groans we’ll hear from Geraldine Schilling during the next couple of days. No prosecutor wants to take on a pro se defendant; it’s a lose-lose proposition. If she hammers on Holliston for every mistake he makes, he’ll rarely finish a thought; the jurors will likely think she’s a bully. If she doesn’t, he’ll muddy the record—and the jurors’ minds—with all sorts of information that doesn’t belong there. To add to her conundrum, any objections Geraldine forgoes here will be waived for good. If she decides to let a few of Holliston’s mistakes slide—to avoid looking like a bully—those issues are lost once and for all. The Court of Appeals won’t consider an argument that isn’t raised in the trial court first.
Harry and I pack up and move to the bar, where the half dozen chairs reserved for attorneys are empty. They’re the only seats in the house that are. Every row in the gallery is packed, even the pair of deacon’s benches in the small loft at the far end of the room. And, according to Big Red, a sizable spillover crowd is already assembled in one of the basement conference rooms, where the proceedings will be aired on closed-circuit TV.
Holliston stands, wheels the two chairs Harry and I had been using away from the defense table, and parks them against the side wall. He centers his own chair and then settles into it, neither a pen nor a shred of paper in front of him. He’s sculpting a scene for the jurors, one with a message: The world is against him. And he’s all alone.
“Crazy like a fox,” Harry whispers.
Big Red returns, the jurors single file behind him. Most look surprised as they enter the courtroom, their eyes wide as they take in the sea of spectators. I twist in my chair to absorb the scene with them, and I spot dozens of familiar faces. The front benches are peppered with press. The whole room is sprinkled with Chatham residents, many of them undoubtedly St. Veronica’s parishioners. And dead center in the front row, directly behind Harry and me, sits Bobby “the Butcher” Frazier.
The Butcher’s straight black hair is slicked back, and the top half of his white dress shirt is unbuttoned, the collar spread wide. He wears no undershirt, despite the December cold. And there’s a reason, I realize after a moment. A few inches of his scar are visible, below the right shoulder, bisected by a solitary gold chain. The scar is raised and uneven, lighter in color than the rest of his swarthy skin. My eyes move to his and he meets them with a steady gaze. The Butcher would like to be a part of this trial. He’d like to be Exhibit A.
Judge Gould bids the jurors good morning and they all return the greeting. Most look more relaxed today than they did yesterday, their surroundings not quite so foreign now. Robert Eastman and Alex Doane, the investment banker and nursing home administrator, have traded their suits for more casual attire. Eastman sports a front-zip gray sweatshirt, Doane a black turtleneck. Neither of them has any delusions about making it into work today.
Cora Rowlands seems more at ease too, her coatdress replaced by navy blue slacks and a cream-colored tunic. Her silver bouffant is freshly teased and the large satchel she carted around yesterday is nowhere in sight. Big Red probably found a secure cubby for it, putting Cora’s concerns about the close contours of the jury box to rest.
Maria Marzetti looks downright sultry in a low-cut maroon sweater and black skirt, a fact not lost on the thirty-something general contractor in the back row. He stares at her profile while she and the others give their undivided attention to the judge. They’re ready to get to work. Thirteen of them, anyway.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Gould says, leaning forward on the bench, “there’s been a change in plans.”
Gregory Harmon is the only juror who seems to have noticed already. He’s dressed as he was yesterday—jeans, flannel shirt, and work boots—and he looks comfortable in the number-one seat. He glances at our ex-client alone at the defense table, then back at Harry and me, and then at Cora Rowlands beside him. Harmon’s expression is curious, nothing more.
“The defendant has chosen to represent himself,” the judge continues, “and he’s entitled to do so. You’re to draw no inference from his decision, entertain no speculation about it.”
All of them look at Holliston now, then at us. No doubt they’re wondering why Harry and I are still in the courtroom. The judge won’t tell them—he won’t say anything to draw attention to the safety net he’s provided—but they’ll figure it out. And Geraldine will remind them of our presence every time Holliston gives her an opening. My gut tells me he’ll give her more than a few.
“At this time, ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Gould takes his glasses off and leans back in his tall, leather chair, “the defendant will deliver his opening statement.”
Holliston stands and runs both hands down the front of his suit coat, then starts toward the jury box. I can’t see his face from where we’re sitting—he’s walking away from us—but the jurors’ expressions tell me he’s making eye contact with them, one by one, as he crosses the room. He’s given his performance some thought, it seems. He stops a couple of feet from the box, squares his shoulders and clasps his hands behind his back. “I was lookin’ for work,” he says.
“Here we go.” Geraldine’s up and headed for the bench.
The judge pounds his gavel. “Mr. Holliston,” he says, beckoning with one hand, “approach.”
Judge Gould frowns at Geraldine while they wait for Holliston to join them. An objection was in order. “Here we go” wasn’t.
The room grows noisy while the three of them huddle at the side of the bench farthest from the jury. Sidebars always ratchet up the volume in the courtroom. Jurors don’t like to be left out; spectators don’t either. They’re not missing much this time, though. No doubt the judge is instructing Derrick Holliston on the ABCs of opening statement; teaching him that the word I doesn’t belong in the room right now; informing him that the only way he gets to tell the jurors he was looking for work is by taking the witness stand. They’ve already heard that particular tidbit, though. It can’t be taken back.
Harry clears his throat and leans close to me, his eyes on the trio at the bench, his expression almost amused. “This little development is going to wreak havoc with the game plan,” he says.
He’s right, of course. The game plan calls for two days of witness testimony, less if the defendant doesn’t testify. At that point, the jurors will be sequestered until they return their verdic
t. And though no one can predict how long deliberations will take in any case, Judge Gould fully anticipated sending them all home in plenty of time to decorate for Christmas. That’s open to question now.
“What do you think?” I ask Harry. “New Year’s Eve?”
He shakes his head, his hazel eyes on Holliston’s back. “Nope. I’m thinking little pink hearts.”
The judge wraps up his instructions and directs the defendant back toward the jury box. Holliston looks smug when he turns; he seems certain he just digested three years of law school in six minutes. He’ll probably expect his sheepskin by the end of the day.
Geraldine shakes her blond bangs as she returns to her table and takes her seat next to Clarence. She’s disgusted.
Harry pulls a yellow legal pad from his schoolbag and draws three hearts on it, an elaborate arrow piercing each one.
“It’s like the boss lady said,” Holliston tells the panel, pointing back at Geraldine. “You’ll hear it from the cop.”
Geraldine turns and looks at Harry and me, then rolls her green eyes to the ceiling. She’s flattered to be incorporated into our ex-client’s opening, she telegraphs. And she’s downright delighted to be known as “the boss lady.”
“Not just any cop,” Holliston continues. “The top dawg. He’ll tell you what went down that night. He’ll tell you all about it.”
Geraldine stands, anticipating the pretend lawyer’s next transgression. Judge Gould fires a silent warning at her. We’re getting nowhere fast here, and Holliston hasn’t crossed the line this time. Not yet, anyhow.
“He’ll tell you that priest hit on me.”
So much for not crossing the line.
“He’ll tell them no such thing!” Geraldine’s chair topples backward and Clarence catches it. She’s halfway to the bench, both hands in the air.
The gavel descends.