A sad silence settled into the room. All of us looked down at the round, fake-wood table, thinking of the Mar tin Bristol we knew—the powerful Martin, the sharp Martin, the firmly-in-the-present Martin.
Valerie exhaled loud. “It doesn’t sound like he’s coming back to the case.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Maggie reached out a hand and patted Valerie’s. “I’m sorry.”
Valerie gazed down at the table. But then she looked up at Maggie with a grateful expression. “It’s all right.” She looked at me. “I think you’re both doing a good job. I’m very glad to have you. Thank you.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” I said. I looked at my watch, then moved a little bit closer to her. “Because we need to talk about what Zavy said.” I took a breath. If Martin really wasn’t coming back, Maggie and I had to step it up.
“Why do you dislike Zavy?” I asked Valerie.
Her eyes flashed with intensity, then something faded. “I can’t…I can’t talk about it.”
I touched her forearm lightly. “Let me ask you something different. Did you like him before the trial, or does your dislike of him have to do with the case?”
I glanced at Maggie. The concerned look she’d had for the conversation with her grandfather stayed in place. But she looked at Valerie to answer, too. Valerie’s face turned away from both of us. She stared out the small window where white clouds danced in the powder-blue sky like a painting, looked very much like someone who wanted to escape.
“Valerie,” I said, “I have to go back to the original question. Please tell me why you dislike Zavy.”
She turned back to me. “Why do you think I dislike him?”
“It seemed obvious to me from the way you were staring at him.”
“He cheated on Amanda.”
“Oh.” I understood that. If Bernard cheated on Maggie, I’d be pissed.
“With whom?” Maggie asked.
Valerie shook her head roughly. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Was it you?” I blurted the question before I even knew I was thinking it.
Maggie groaned.
“No!” Valerie said. “It was not me.”
“Did Amanda know about this affair?”
Valerie’s eyes filled with anguish. “Yes.” She said the word yes like a hard kernel.
“Does this have anything to do with Amanda’s death?”
Valerie shook her head, her mouth pursed, as if holding back words, causing the skin around her face to tighten more than it already was. She was such a beautiful woman, but now she looked contorted with…what was it?
When she didn’t answer, I asked, “Is there anything at all about Zavy’s affair that I should use to cross-examine him?”
She shook her head firmly back and forth. “No.”
“Plus, we don’t want to go after a grieving widower,” Maggie said. “Even if he isn’t grieving as hard as we think.”
I thought of a friend of mine who used to have extramarital affairs. “Sometimes people cheat for different reasons,” I said. “He may be grieving more than we think.”
Valerie made a small sound. Was it a scoff?
“Does anyone know about this affair of Zavy’s? Like the prosecution?” I left unsaid, Because that would be one hell of a motive—not only did you want your friend’s hus band but you wanted to keep him away from the woman he was sleeping with.
“No,” Valerie said emphatically. “No one knows.” She cleared her throat. “Amanda wanted it that way.”
Silence in the room.
I glanced at Maggie. She was staring at Valerie with narrowed eyes. She looked at her watch. “We don’t have that much time. Let’s move on.”
I gave Maggie a nod. “All right, well, even if you didn’t have an affair with Zavy, we need to talk about whether you tried to kiss him that night.”
More silence.
Maggie cleared her throat but said nothing. This was my witness, so she was letting me take the lead on the prep.
Valerie stared at the table again. I thought maybe we’d have to prompt her, but finally she nodded.
“So you did try to kiss him?”
“Have you ever watched someone you love die?” Valerie asked. Before we could answer, she kept talking. “Brian was young, too young. The disease was killing him. And watching that was killing me. I wasn’t doing well mentally. I was getting only a few hours of sleep at night. At the most. Many times, I never slept. Even when Amanda or Zavy came to help me, I often couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t relax. I was just mentally…not good.”
“What happened that night with Zavy?”
She shook her head. “It was momentary insanity. I didn’t want Zavy. I never have.” She shuddered as if the thought of him repulsed her. “I was bleary from lack of sleep. I couldn’t tell up from down. I wanted some kind of comfort. I wanted to obliterate everything.”
I knew what she meant. I nodded at her to continue.
“We were in the hallway, and suddenly, I was trying to kiss him.”
“And he didn’t return the kiss?”
“No.” Her mouth formed a bitter, straight line for a moment. “It took a second, but he pulled back and then I realized what I’d done. I turned away. Right away. It was nothing like what he said. I never told him I loved him.” Another shudder. “I didn’t keep trying to kiss him, and he didn’t push me gently. He just pulled back, and I was relieved that he’d stopped me. I told Amanda the next morning.”
“What was Amanda’s reaction when you told her you had tried to kiss Zavy?”
“It didn’t make her happy, but she knew what my life had been like. She knew I was losing it slowly.” She made a small, rueful smile. “Or maybe not so slowly. Things were uncomfortable for a little bit, but Brian was going downhill fast. As I said, it was horrific to watch him die, and Amanda forgave me. She kept helping me. She was my friend.” Her eyes seemed to come alive then. She looked at Maggie and me. “Like you two. I see what kind of friendship you have. I am envious of it. I miss Amanda so much.”
“What about Bridget?” I asked. “Are you still friends with her?”
Her mouth formed another rueful shape. “No. Because she believes I might have killed Amanda.”
I looked at her. It was exactly what I was wondering.
42
Because our client didn’t want us to discuss Zavy’s affair, and because it was, as far as we could tell, irrelevant to the trial, I had little to work with for the cross-exam of Zavy Miller. Still, when court resumed, I stood and took him through various questions, mostly for clarification. Also, it might not look good to the jury if we had no points to make, even if that was the truth.
“What pharmacy did you go to for medications on the night the decedent died?” I asked.
“CVS.”
“Where is that located?”
“At the corner of State and Division.”
“And is that the pharmacy your family normally used?”
“Yes.”
I looked at my notes. “You said your wife was exploring her depression with a professional, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Was that with a psychiatrist or a psychologist?”
“Objection,” I heard Ellie call from behind me. “This is irrelevant.”
“I’m just exploring the issue of the decedent’s mental state, which is within the scope of the direct as counsel herself raised it.”
The judge gave me a nod. “Overruled.” He looked at Zavy. “You may answer.”
“Both,” he said. “She was seeing a therapist and also a psychiatrist who she had seen before. The doctor who prescribed the Propranolol.”
I didn’t want to talk about the Propranolol so I moved on. “Sir, you have a neighbor named Dominick St. John, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you and your wife have had disagreements with Dr. St. John, is that right?”
“Yes, I guess you could call them that.”
“What would you call the incidents?”
A pause. “I guess ‘disagreements’ would be right.”
I took him through the basis of the problems with Dr. St. John, and in doing so, Zavy described the issues they’d had. Essentially, the main disagreement had to do with some properties in the neighborhood that were being zoned for business use. Dr. St. John had vehemently opposed the zoning, wanting the neighborhood to remain strictly residential. Amanda was the board president of the neighborhood association, and she wanted to bring money to their area in order to make a host of luxury improvements, things like old-time streetlamps, benches, sculptures, small parks, all of which cost money.
“Some of your neighbors said the disagreement had gotten so heated, they called it a ‘feud.’ Is that right?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I’m not sure what they called it.”
“Well, on more than one occasion, Amanda and Dr. St. John were seen and heard screaming at each other, is that correct?”
“I’m not sure.”
I decided to take a stab in the dark to make Zavy understand that I had solid info. “You were with your wife when she got in a shouting match with Dr. St. John at a neighborhood meeting, weren’t you?”
“Oh. Well, yes, I was.”
“And there were other occasions where the two were seen yelling at each other, correct?”
“I wasn’t always present, but yes, I did hear about that.”
It was about all I could do for the time being. Reluctantly, I gathered the few notes I had. “Thank you, Mr. Miller. Nothing further.”
Court was adjourned for the day due to issues the state was having scheduling their witnesses. I looked immediately to the gallery, but Sam was gone. I felt a pang in my belly at the loss of him. Was I willing to give him up entirely?
Maggie had dodged to another courtroom to take care of something on a different case. The state’s attorneys had already gone to their offices, the judge to his chambers. And Valerie and I found ourselves alone at our table.
I turned to her, and I brought up Zavy’s direct testimony. I told her honestly that it had hurt our case.
She nodded, digesting the information.
I put my notes in my bag, then looked at her again. I thought about the talk with my dad. I wanted his opinion of Valerie but I also wanted to form my own. “Valerie, could you bring me in a little bit? You were telling me the other night about something you were going to divulge to Bridget and Amanda. Could you finish the story? If it helps with this trial at all, I want to know.” I paused. “I need to know.”
Valerie moved her seat away a little, not saying anything. She reached back and grasped her long, dark hair, untying it from the knot it was in, pulling it over one shoulder. She then twisted the length of hair with both hands, as if turning over the thoughts in her head, spinning them around and around, trying to decide where they should land, what she should reveal.
“I’m not sure,” she said finally. She closed her eyes and opened them again. “There is so much to tell, but I don’t know what is important to this case.” She looked around the room. “To this trial…”
“Mom,” I heard someone call.
I turned and saw a striking young woman making her way toward us. She reminded me of a deer. She had thin legs and big, brown eyes. Her hair was the color of Valerie’s but longer, with a wash of copper-color over it. Her skin was lighter than her mother’s, making her look delicate despite her height. Her clothes contributed to the delicate look—a short ruffled skirt made of a diaphanous gray and a pink, baby-doll T-shirt.
“Izzy,” Valerie said, “have you met my daughter, Layla?”
I stood and shook her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s nice to meet you.” Valerie had told me that Layla had graduated high school a year or so ago and she was doing well at DePaul University.
“You, too.” She held my eyes for a minute, then, as if it were uncomfortable to do so, they dipped down. It was the same thing I’d noticed in some of Theo’s friends. But then, those friends were probably only three years older than Layla.
I thought of Sam, age-appropriate Sam, in the courtroom earlier, then forced the thoughts away for now.
“Layla,” I said. “It’s a beautiful name.” I glanced at Valerie. “Is that like the Layla from that Eric Clapton song?”
“Actually, it’s an African name,” Valerie answered. “My mother’s, originally.”
“Grandma La,” Layla said. She and Valerie smiled at each other.
Layla looked at her watch then. “Are you ready, Mom?” she asked. “I have to meet the group for my 3-D Animation class.”
Valerie nodded. She looked at me. “Layla is a digital media major.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah.” Layla smiled big. “It’s really cool.”
“Good for you.” I didn’t know the girl but I felt relieved that she had something to make her happy, especially when her mother faced a murder charge. The thought made me feel cold. I felt bad suddenly that I had been pressuring Valerie to tell me more than she was ready to.
“Gotta check something,” Layla said, holding up her cell phone. “I’ll meet you outside, Mom.”
Valerie watched her daughter leave the courtroom, a concerned look on her face. I couldn’t blame her. We both knew Layla could lose her mom. And very soon.
Then I thought of Valerie saying she was envious of Maggie and me, of our friendship. It was so sad, that statement, which made her sound as if she didn’t have a friend in the world. I suddenly counted myself very, very fortunate. Whatever mistakes I’d made in my life, whatever low points I’d hit, I always had my friends and family. What’s more I always knew I had them—people I could call, people I could fall apart with—and sometimes that knowledge was the best thing of all, a life vest to buoy me through choppy seas. No matter that her father was a murderer, no matter what she had done, Valerie deserved that, too.
“Valerie,” I said, facing her. “I am your lawyer. But outside of trial, if you ever just need a friend…” I shrugged, not knowing how to say it. “Well, I can be that. I’d like to be that.”
She blinked. I thought she might cry. Then she just said simply, “Thank you,” and then again, “Thank you.”
43
The yelling. The shouting. It started as soon as Maggie and I reached the street outside the courthouse. I’d found Maggie in the courtroom she’d gone to and when she was done, we left together.
“How dare you!” we heard now. “How dare you!”
Both of our heads snapped to the right. We saw a man with too-dark hair, like a wig, a large paunch and a very angry red face. He wore a suit, so he looked like he could be a lawyer, but what was this?
The man stormed up to us. “How dare you come into my neighborhood and malign me to my neighbors? You have ruined my reputation with your sordid accusations!”
Maggie held up a hand. “Whoa, whoa. Who are you?”
“I am Dr. Dominick St. John.” He emphasized the word doctor. He shook a finger in our faces as his voice rose again. “And I am the one who will be suing you for slander! Your people have come into my world, into my neighborhood and implied that I might have killed Amanda Miller. I’ve been getting calls from journalists! If they put anything about this in the newspapers or on the internet—anything—I will also be suing you for libel!”
His voice grew louder with each word, and spit flew from his mouth. Behind him, I saw a bunch of young guys stop to watch the show.
I wanted to say, Gee, you must have a nice bedside manner, but the man was starting to freak me out. “Doctor,” I said, “please calm down.”
His eyes veered to mine. “Do not tell me to calm down. I will not calm down!”
“Yes. You will,” we heard an authoritative voice say from behind us. My dad.
Christopher McNeil stepped up to us. The good doctor, in what seemed an instinctive manner, immediately stepped back. My dad was someone to be careful of. That muc
h was clear. It was something everyone could feel.
“Sir,” my father said in a low voice, “in no way have you been slandered. In no way have you been libeled. And if you persist in speaking to these young women in this manner, I will walk in those doors—” he pointed at the courthouse “—and grab one of the numerous police officers. And then the papers will have something very specific to write about. Your arrest.”
Dr. St. John looked flustered.
My dad jumped in with two more words before he led us away. “Goodbye, sir.”
“He’s not a bad guy,” my dad said as we drove out of the parking lot.
“Dr. St. John? Are you kidding me? That guy seems mental.”
“He is mental. In a sense. He’s under the care of a psychiatrist. But that’s not who I’m talking about.”
“Wait, how did you find out confidential information like that—that he’s seeing a psychiatrist?”
“He’s being treated for an anxiety disorder. There’s no history of violence in his record.”
I noticed he hadn’t told me how he got the info, and I could tell he wasn’t going to. “He’s going to be even more mental when he gets served with a subpoena to testify in this case.”
My father looked at me through his copper-framed glasses, concerned. “You and Maggie are calling him as a witness?”
I nodded.
“I’ll keep an eye on you two when you’re out of the courtroom.”
It was something I was getting used to, so I just nodded again. Then, “So who were you talking about when you said he’s not a bad guy?”
I fiddled with the vent, looking for more air-conditioning, which wasn’t seeming to make a dent in the heat. My father didn’t look hot, though. Maybe it was from all his years in humid Italy. Or maybe he was just a master of the never-let-’em-see-you-sweat mentality. Both were probably true.
“Sam,” he said.
I looked at him. As usual, his face was placid.
“That was the guy I was engaged to. And all you can say is ‘He’s not bad’?” I laughed.
My father didn’t.
I stopped. “Just as an aside, do you laugh at any thing?”
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