I used the restroom outside the courtroom to clean myself up. By the time I’d done that, the Benadryl was taking effect, making my body temperature slide back to normal, introducing coolness and calm, for which I’ve never been more grateful.
When I walked into the courtroom, reporters lined the first few rows, but there were no cameras since they weren’t allowed in Illinois courts.
The judge wasn’t on the bench. I didn’t see Maggie or Valerie or Martin. But my father and Mayburn were in the last row, right next to each other, like two friends who’d worked together for a long time. They were talking when I first walked in, speaking low, but they didn’t look at each other when they did so. The sight almost made me giggle.
I wanted to tell them what I learned from Martin, but not until he told Maggie and Valerie. I suspected the three were in the order room, and that conversation was happening right then.
I dodged over to my dad and Mayburn and asked them for an update. They whispered fast, speaking over one another, talking about how they were still looking into Dr. St. John, the nanny and a few other leads.
“Can you two fit in one more assignment?” I asked when they were finished.
They nodded.
I reach in my bag and pulled out the document I took from Sam. I showed it to them. Both read it, showing no expressions. Finally, my dad handed it back.
“Will you investigate that for me?” I asked. “It looks current, but I need to know if that’s accurate. And I need to know if it means what I think it does.”
Mayburn had worked with me through Sam’s disappearance. And my dad, although I didn’t know it at the time, had been watching from the sidelines. So they both knew about the possible importance of the document. Yet both seemed to know to hold their comments until they had further information.
“Okay?” I asked.
They both nodded again like silent twins.
Just then one of the reporters noticed me and made a beeline. Others followed and soon the lot of them were hurrying toward me. But the sheriff appeared, and quickly he escorted me away from them with a few pointed elbows and a gruff, “Step aside! Officer of the court.”
He led me through the Plexiglas door, past the counsel tables, and to the order room. The judge wasn’t on the bench. Clearly, Maggie—or Martin?—had convinced the judge to continue the break.
I opened the door to the order room, and slipped inside. No one turned to me. I looked at Martin, could see that he was clearly in the midst of telling Maggie and Valerie his story.
And then Valerie’s voice rang out, louder than I’d ever heard her. “So you just let him die?”
55
Silence. I heard myself inhale and exhale. I shot a look at Maggie, who appeared stunned by the whole scene.
Valerie stared at Martin, her eyes confused, a little wild. “You just let him die?” she asked again.
We heard a burst of discussion from outside the room, then silence reigned again.
Martin’s face was lined with what looked like absolute grief. I noticed again how much weight he had lost over the past few weeks.
But then he sat taller, rolled his shoulders back. “I did.”
There was a gap in the room, a pocket of quiet and uncertainty; none of them seemed to know how to fill it.
Martin spoke up. “I wasn’t as certain then as I am now of Javier’s innocence, but I had a sense about the case. I thought the evidence against him was underwhelming. And although I couldn’t have stopped it at that point, I let him die without doing anything else. And I will go to my grave with the guilt of that.”
Maggie put a hand to her mouth, but she was surprisingly quiet. Even she could be stumped into silence, I supposed.
Valerie glared at Martin, but then the anger drained from her expression. “I don’t want you to live with that,” she said. “It’s not your fault he was arrested. It’s not your fault they believed he was the one.”
“I’ve spent years since then collecting evidence of his innocence. I became fairly certain after I learned about a man named Mickey Harwick.”
“Mickey Harwick,” Valerie repeated, recognition and surprise coming over her face. “He was a handyman in our town. He would go house to house looking for work. He used to do a lot of work at the Travises’ house.”
“That’s right,” Martin said. “And he was arrested for killing two teenage girls in the town next to yours. The murders took place about ten years after Marilee died, and he wasn’t arrested until much later, but the weapon was a construction knife used to cut around pipes and doors. It had a rounded edge.” He paused. “And he’s discussed other murders while in jail. One sounded exactly like Marilee’s.”
No one said anything.
“Almost right after that,” Martin continued, “I saw that you had been arrested. It was like God had given me a chance to absolve my guilt by helping you, Javier’s daughter.”
“What happened last week?” Maggie said, finally speaking up, “when you suddenly didn’t feel good?”
Martin gave her a small smile. “Margaret, I know you think I’m capable of anything. I appreciate that. I thought I was, too, but apparently we were both wrong. I worked so hard on this case, and my body betrayed me. I suppose this is what happens with age—the body gives up before you want it to. It wouldn’t let me go forward anymore.” He sat a little taller. “I am feeling better, though. It’s why I had the energy to leave the house today, to go to the law library.”
“Does this mean you’ll come back on the case?” Valerie said.
“I think it would be negligent of me to do so. I’m still not myself. My energy is still minimal, I’m having a hard time thinking. I keep going over and over your father’s case. I want to make sure that evidence is compiled both on your father and Mickey Harwick, and all my doubts are in writing, so I can turn the case over to an innocence project, someone who will see if there is any DNA evidence available, any new evidence or witnesses who were missed. Someone who might exonerate your father. That is what I have to do before I die.”
Maggie looked wounded. “Don’t talk about dying.”
“C’mon, Magenta,” he said. I remembered Maggie telling me he used to call her that when she was a kid. “We’re Irish. We don’t fret over dying. Normal part of life.”
Maggie’s brow furrowed. I could tell she was thinking hard about all this. “Do we have to tell the judge this? I mean ethically?”
I thought about it. “I don’t think so,” I said. “The reason a lawyer is given work by a certain client, or why a lawyer goes after that work is only relevant if there’s a conflict with the underlying lawsuits.”
“I believe Izzy is right,” Martin said. “We need to go forward with the trial.” He looked at Valerie. “We need to get you out of this mess. Especially if you truly are innocent.”
Valerie didn’t hesitate before she said, “I am.”
56
There’s nothing worse than a witness on the stand who is slaughtering your case while you have to keep a straight face, giving the impression you couldn’t care one whit about what they’re saying. Inside your stomach, the contents heave. Inside your head, you scream Shit, shit, shit! And yet the placid, almost bored look you force onto your face says to the jury or the media, Not impressed. Not a bit. And you shouldn’t be, either.
That’s exactly what happened when Bridget Shanahan took the stand for the state.
At first, it was simple enough. Tania Castle, looking very pleased with herself, asked Bridget to introduce herself. Tania then took great pains to draw out Bridget’s history as a surgical nurse, making her seem like an angel of mercy who would never, never, never tell a lie. And she did a good job of it. Bridget appeared to be a sweet, kind, smart woman. She had light brown hair that was thick and full, and made her medium-size self seem smaller. She had a quick smile that she shot at the jury whenever she was nervous, which seemed to endear her to them.
When Tania asked whether Bridget had an occasion to speak to Val
erie a week before Amanda died, she looked pained. “Yes.”
My pulse picked up. Was this the conversation Valerie had started to tell me about over the weekend at my mother’s?
“And what did you talk about on that day?” Tania asked.
“The poison lady.”
Many of the jurors developed confused expressions. I tried to hide mine.
“Can you explain what you mean by the poison lady?” Tania said.
“I’m writing a mystery novel in my spare time. Or I’m trying, anyway. I’m kind of lazy.” She shot a chagrined face at the jury and a few chuckled appreciatively. “Anyway, I met this woman they call the ‘poison lady’ at a mystery writers’ conference. She’s a pharmacist, and apparently she helps authors figure out causes of death for their plots. I saw her speak on a panel called ‘How to Kill Your Character.’”
“What is the name of this pharmacist?”
“Betty Payton.”
“And you had discussed this woman, Betty Payton, with Ms. Solara before the conversation you’re talking about, right?”
Maggie stood. “Objection.”
“Basis?” the judge said.
“Leading.”
“Granted.” The judge looked at Tania. “This is your witness, counsel. No leading questions on direct.”
Tania wasn’t as good as Ellie at acting like a ruling against her was a good thing. She stalled for a second, then faltered trying to ask another question. Finally, she said, “Have you ever spoken to Valerie Solara about the woman you call ‘the poison lady’ after that conference at which you saw her speak but before the conversation we’re talking about?”
Maggie sat and made a tiny laugh at Tania’s clumsy attempt to get her question free of objections.
“Yes.”
I glanced at the back of the small courtroom. People had flooded into the gallery. Spectators crowded themselves onto the benches, even packed themselves around the edges of the courtroom, jammed against the walls. The back of the gallery was at least two rows deep of standing-room-only people, most of them craning their necks.
Everyone in the front of the courtroom tried to ignore this, but it was nearly impossible. I’d always known that a trial was a theater production of sorts, but now it truly felt like that; all of the players waiting for their cue to take the stage; members of the audience ready to be entertained.
Bridget testified about how, at one of their Tuesday-night get-togethers, she’d told Valerie and Amanda about the poison lady because she’d found her fascinating. “I told them, ‘Can you believe this woman knows about a million ways to kill someone?’ But neither of them had seemed interested at the time.”
“Did that surprise you?” Tania asked.
“No, I was always going on and on about the book I was trying to write and the conferences I went to. Just like Valerie and Amanda would go on about their kids. That’s how it is when you’re best friends, you’re like family…” She paused and sent a heartbroken look Valerie’s way. “You listen to all that. That’s what you do for each other.”
At the mention of “family,” I glanced at my father again, sitting alone in the third row of the gallery, wearing a tailored light gray suit. No sign of Mayburn. I wondered about my dad’s opinion of Valerie, the psychological opinion that he’d said he needed more time to form.
I often found myself looking at him over my shoulder when something new happened at trial—some new bit of evidence introduced—to see what he thought. I knew if he dipped his head to the side in a grudging way, that meant Maggie and I had done simply okay handling that part of the trial. But when he closed his eyes and nodded in a long, solemn fashion, I could tell we’d scored big points. Maggie had begun to rely on him, too. He’s better than any jury consultant I’ve ever had, she’d said.
As Bridget talked about the poison lady and Valerie, I kept looking at my dad. When his gaze met mine—with no reaction of any kind—I raised my eyebrows. Anything? I asked him with my eyes.
He gave a slow shake of his head. Nothing yet with this witness, he seemed to be saying.
Suddenly, I found myself wondering what he did during the times he wasn’t in court, the times when I didn’t see him. Did he ever venture into his new city for his own pleasure? Had he made any friends? I seriously doubted that second one. It made me sad.
“So, bringing your attention back to the conversation you had a week before Amanda died, why were you talking about the poison lady?”
“Valerie asked me about her.”
Uh-oh.
“Were you surprised when Ms. Solara mentioned the poison lady?” Tania asked Bridget.
“I was. It had been a while since I’d gone to that conference, and I hadn’t spoken about her since.”
“What did Ms. Solara say when she mentioned the poison lady?”
Maggie stood. “Objection. Hearsay.”
The judge looked at Tania for her response.
“It goes toward the present state of mind of the declarant, Ms. Solara, at that time.”
The judge looked back at Maggie.
“Your Honor,” she said, “Ms. Solara mentioning a woman whom her friend had discussed previously does not indicate anything about her state of mind.”
But apparently the judge wasn’t sure about this objection because he looked back at the state. Tania had moved to the state’s table, and she and Ellie had their heads together, Ellie whispering something.
Tania stood. “The present state of mind exception can also be offered to prove future conduct.”
“I’ll allow it,” the judge said.
Tania smiled and stood a little taller, looking at her witness. “What did Ms. Solara say when she mentioned the poison lady?”
“Valerie asked whether I knew her real name and whether I knew how to get ahold of her.”
Maggie groaned, but when I glanced at her, her face was bland, almost bored, like the good trial lawyer she was. I dialed up my own fake-boredom, ignoring the pound, pound, pound in my chest. So this was what Valerie had wanted to reveal? That she was looking for information about poison? Or at least someone who could bring her that information? Not good. Not good at all.
Some of the jurors had raised their eyebrows at the testimony, others leaned toward the witness.
“And what did you say to Ms. Solara when she brought up the topic of the poison lady?”
“I told Valerie that the woman’s first name was Betty. I didn’t remember her last name at the time. I told her she could probably find her on the internet.”
“And the week after your conversation, Amanda Miller was dead, is that right?”
Bridget sighed loudly. She looked pained, as if she didn’t want to have to answer the question. “Yes.”
Ouch.
“No further questions.”
Maggie only had a few points to make, so she walked toward the witness, hands behind her back to further her nonchalance. “To your knowledge, Ms. Shanahan, did Valerie Solara contact this pharmacist, Betty Payton?” Maggie was smart not to refer to her as “the poison lady.” It had too evil a tone.
“I have no knowledge that she ever did.”
“Thank you.” She took another step toward her. “Ms. Shanahan, you and Amanda and Valerie, you said that you three were best friends, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“You were almost like family.”
“Yes.” She nodded fast.
“You never saw Valerie make any advances toward Xavier Miller, did you?” It was a stab in the dark, I knew, and I hoped it would go our way.
“Objection,” Tania Castle said. “Covers material not raised on direct.”
We all looked at the judge, but he was staring nervously at the gallery.
Finally, the silence seemed to register, and the judge looked back to the state. “I’m sorry, counsel,” he said to Tania. “I didn’t hear your objection.” It was a failure few judges would admit in open court while a court reporter sat in front of them a
nd media jammed the gallery. His eyes went back to the gallery, on all those reporters and spectators. We all stopped to follow his gaze. People continued to push in through the doors. Tania repeated her objection.
“Overruled,” the judge said, without waiting for argument on the point. Then he looked at Maggie. “Counsel, how much examination do you have left?”
“Just a few questions, Judge.”
He nodded. “Ask them.”
Maggie shifted back and forth on her feet. I sensed she didn’t feel as good about her stab-in-the-dark question, now that so much time had passed, but she asked it again anyway. “Ms. Shanahan, you never saw Valerie make any advances toward Xavier Miller, did you?”
“No,” she said emphatically. “Never.”
“To your knowledge, Valerie loved Amanda Miller very much, correct?”
“Oh, yes. They were as close as two people could be.”
Maggie paused, and I knew she was thinking. Then she glanced at the gallery, looking to the third row at the end, looking to my dad. He gave her a single nod. Ask it.
“Ms. Shanahan,” she said, turning back to the witness, “do you believe that Valerie Solara could have killed Amanda Miller?”
“No,” she said quickly, a shot of relief in her eyes, as if thankful someone was finally asking her the question. “No, I really don’t. I believed it at first, I suppose, because the police said it was true. But there has to be some other explanation.”
“No further questions. Thank you, Ms. Shanahan.” As Bridget stepped from the witness stand, the judge gestured to his sheriff and whispered something. The sheriff, the new one who had been kept in his quiet box for most of the trial, stepped from the bench with his chest puffed out. He walked in front of the bench and declared in a booming voice, “This honorable court will adjourn to new quarters!”
The murmurs from the gallery were so loud we could hear the collective grumbling through the Plexiglas.
The sheriff continued to boom, explaining that the trial would be taking a break and would move to a larger courtroom upstairs, which could accommodate everyone. “And all members of the press are required to register with the clerk of this court, Ms. Beverly Hannah,” he added, his voice ringing. He paused to gave a steely stare to the reporters.
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