by D. J. Palmer
“I can’t even tell you how relieved I am to hear you say those words,” she said, her voice rife with emotion. “We need you on our side, Mitch, and now I feel like you’re really with us all the way.”
Despite the praise, Mitch’s expression remained downcast.
“Even with a diagnosis of DID, Grace, I cannot say in court that Penny was suffering a psychotic break when the murder took place.”
“I don’t think you have to now,” said Grace. “How could she have killed Rachel if her hands were bound?”
“You still think she’s innocent?” Mitch sent a hand running through his mane of silver hair. “Grace, how do you explain her being covered in blood, holding the murder weapon?”
“She was there,” Grace said. “Penny was there, of course. But she was tied up. Then … well, she was untied. Simple as that.”
“And she was standing close to Rachel when someone else killed her,” Annie added. “That’s how the blood got on her.”
“After the murder,” Grace clarified. “And that’s when Penny went into a fugue state, like she did the night her father died … no memories for us to access.”
“Or she has trapped memories,” Annie said. “Memories she’s parsed out to her alters and we’re getting them from her in dribs and drabs. You’ve said that’s a possibility.”
“Right,” said Mitch. “But that still doesn’t answer: Who did the killing?”
Mitch was looking at the board that Grace and Annie had constructed, with the cards and yellow string connecting various suspects with different theories.
“Either Vince or Maria,” said Grace with definitive authority.
“Motive?”
“Vince to stop Rachel from blackmailing him. Maria because … well, she’s the firebrand psychotic,” said Annie, who had her answers at the ready.
“What about these?” Mitch tapped a finger on the cards with locations written out. Places like Topeka, Alaska, and Chicago. Grace had all the names memorized. All in all, Penny had listed off fifteen unique locations while in a dissociative state of mind.
“We don’t know,” said Annie. “They mean something to Penny. Jack thinks they could have something to do with drugs. Locations where Penny went as a kid when Rachel was plying that trade, or they could be places she and Rachel talked about on the night of the murder. We just don’t know.”
“Same as with the book,” said Mitch.
At ten past the hour Navarro showed up. He draped his suit jacket over the back of a bridge chair at the foldout table that Grace had helped Annie assemble. Grace wasted no time getting right to it.
“She was tied up that night,” she said, showing Navarro the report and pictures from Mitch’s medical examiner contact. “It changes everything.”
Navarro, who had been preparing for an entirely different defense, looked as though someone had sucker punched him in the gut.
“This is potentially great news,” he said, not sounding at all elated. “But I don’t think it’s the game changer you think it is.”
“Why?” asked Grace.
“A jury won’t go for theoretical,” he said. “They’ll follow the evidence. She was tied up, so what?”
“Who tied her?” asked Annie, hitting her closed fist against the table. “Someone else was involved. Had to be.”
Navarro did not look convinced. “Maybe Rachel tied up Penny, Penny escaped, and then she killed Rachel. Possible? Justification for murder? I think not. Either way, a rope mark isn’t going to convince a jury this was self-defense, not with all the forensic evidence to the contrary, and we don’t have another suspect on trial.” Navarro’s hands went to his hips as he struck a defiant pose. “Is that enough reasonable doubt to acquit? That’s what you’re after now, right? This is not an insanity defense. You’re talking about going all the way to a not-guilty verdict. She was covered in blood, holding the murder weapon. I don’t see how we get there.”
“Grace raises a good point: How could Penny have untied herself, with rope marks like those? Hard to believe. And how could she have killed the way she did if she was bound?” asked Mitch. “It was a violent, frenzied murder. Hard to pull off if you can’t bend your wrists.”
“I don’t know,” Navarro admitted with a shake of his head.
Grace’s whole face lit up as a thought came to her. “We have to show it,” she announced excitedly.
“Show what?” asked Navarro, trepidation entering his voice.
“Show that she couldn’t have killed with her hands bound.”
“And how do we do that?” Navarro’s eyes widened.
“Simple,” said Grace. “We need a demonstration like they did at the OJ trial.”
“If it doesn’t fit, you must acquit,” said Annie in a singsong voice.
“That’s right,” said Grace. “If we put Penny on the stand, show her hands tied up with rope, do it in a way that would leave these marks.” She pointed to the photograph on the table highlighting Penny’s discolored wrists. “Hand her a prop knife with her hands bound. Give the jury that visual. She couldn’t be the killer if she couldn’t wield the weapon. Then we’ll play the videos of what Penny’s alters each revealed, talk about how she’s parsed out her memories of the real killer for safety purposes—that’s a defense mechanism, it’s what the brain uses DID to do—and we hope for the best.”
Navarro appeared utterly shell-shocked. Dazed. Face slack.
“You want me to put Penny on the stand? Tie up her hands? Holy shit.” He turned to Mitch. “What’s your take on this?”
“The rope marks suggest to me that Penny’s not engaged in any sort of deceitful make-believe. These are real, repressed memories that are coming from different personality states. Not only can I testify to her dissociative states and a DID diagnosis,” Mitch said, “I can also speak to the possibility of a fourth alter, one we haven’t accessed, an avenging type that could have been unleashed during a psychotic break when she saw Rachel for the first time, releasing a torrent of painful memories that triggered the attack. Perhaps Rachel tied up Penny to try and save herself and somehow Penny got free. No matter the scenario, I’ll testify that she has no memories from her dissociative states and I can provide a medical explanation as to why she has no memory of the murder.”
Navarro lifted his head out of his hands, still looking agitated. “Mitch, without us documenting it—without proof, some recording, something—pitching a fourth alter nobody has met is going to look like we’re grasping at straws here,” he said.
“We have recordings of Penny when she goes into those trancelike states,” Mitch countered. “Even if it appears she can conform to the law, she’s still extremely fragile. You can see it on the recordings. Given that, I’d be willing to testify that Penny, or any one of her alters, could have experienced a psychotic break under the stress of meeting her birth mother for the first time.”
This seemed to please Navarro.
“That’s our win,” he said, nodding vigorously. “You being on board with DID, talking about her emotional fragility … saying it’s possible that there was a snap, a break—that’s our best shot at the verdict we’re after.”
“Why not say there are two possible versions of events for the jury to consider,” Annie suggested. “Someone else killed Rachel and the rope marks prove it, or Penny was in an altered state and unable to conform to the law. Either way, she’s not guilty.”
Navarro looked seasick at the thought. “You’re trying to have your cake and eat it, too,” he said. “This is one or the other. Besides, you don’t put defendants on the stand in a murder trial. She’ll be utterly eviscerated on cross. She’ll fall apart. I know Jessica Johnson. She’s a bloodthirsty prosecutor.
“If Penny’s nervous, which she will be because her life is on the line, it’ll put doubt in the jury’s mind,” Navarro insisted. “A nervous defendant is a guilty defendant. You want the jury to remain unbiased, not the other way around. We’ll be handing the DA’s office a vic
tory if we do this.”
Grace stood up and pressed her palms firmly against the table. She glared at Navarro and spoke with her teeth clenched.
“Penny is innocent. She wasn’t alone. She was tied up. She was afraid for her life. Someone was going to torture her with chemicals. I want the jury to acquit my daughter,” she said. “If you don’t put her on the stand and argue for an acquittal, I’ll find a lawyer who will.”
Navarro bowed his head. When he looked up again, he saw the fierce determination in her eyes.
“Grace … listen to me, listen to my words very carefully.” He spoke in a soft voice, pausing to give her a second to settle. “We argue it’s a rope, she couldn’t have done the deed with her hands bound, the prosecution will get their expert to say handcuffs could leave a similar mark. They may have to ask several experts before they get the answer they want, but somewhere out there”—he pointed to a window—“is someone in a position of authority who will contradict us under oath, and in the minds of the jury it’ll be a push. There were no fibers taken from Penny’s wrists to bolster our case. None. So it’s all based off a picture. Believe me, Grace, it’s not enough evidence to hang an entire defense on. We will lose, and we will lose big.”
“Wait, Grace, Greg.” It was Mitch who spoke up. “I think we can do both.”
Navarro winced. “Both? How?”
Mitch said, “If you put Penny on the stand, the jury will see one of two things, I’m certain of it. They’ll see Eve, who will be ice up there, not one bit of nervousness. And seeing icy Eve up there will add credibility to your claim. Or…”
Mitch held up a finger as a point of emphasis.
“Or she enters a dissociative state while she’s on the stand, not saying it’ll happen, but it could, and the jury can see for itself what I have on video. Seeing Penny out of her mind, not really cognizant of her surroundings, will be an even more convincing demonstration than a rope would be. It’s a win/win either way.”
Mitch folded his arms across his chest in a “case closed” gesture. Grace nodded emphatically.
“Yes, yes, that sounds good to me,” she said, that determined look still in her eyes. “I want Penny to take the stand, Greg. Let the jury see what Mitch just said. Fine. We can’t go for an acquittal. But Penny on the stand could be the make or break we need. I’m not beyond my threat of going to the court to try and get another lawyer here. This is my daughter’s life at stake. The judge may not like it, but I’m sure she’ll listen.”
Tense moments passed in silence.
“Okay,” Navarro said with a huff of air. “Penny testifies. We’ll put her on the stand. Defendants can always testify on their own behalf. But Grace…” He fixed her with a cold stare. “If she gets convicted, if she gets life, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
CHAPTER 43
GRACE CAME TO A stop in front of her house, her body a jangle of nerves, a mix of highs and lows. She’d gotten her wish, got Navarro to agree to her demand, but now the implications were setting in and the weight felt heavy on her shoulders. What if the plan backfired? What if the jury came back with a guilty verdict because Penny testified? She’d never know if Navarro’s approach might have been enough on its own.
Still, the rope marks were proof that Penny couldn’t have committed murder, not one as violent as the attack on Rachel had been, not with her hands bound tightly enough to cause ligature marks. Penny was bright, but she wasn’t Houdini. Someone else was there that night. She believed it. Mitch believed it. But if Navarro was to be believed, it wasn’t enough to convince a jury. Grace vowed to fight on appeal. Someday, somehow, she promised herself, Penny will be acquitted.
As was her habit in the warmer months, Grace parked in the driveway instead of the garage, where Arthur’s car remained during all seasons. It was the same car Penny had taken without permission on the night of the murder, the one that had been impounded and eventually returned, and soon it would be sold to a dealer to help fund her daughter’s defense. At least she didn’t have to hurry up and get a new lawyer.
Tomorrow, Grace, Jack, and Annie—Ryan too, if he wanted to come—would go to Edgewater together to tell Penny, tell Eve, tell all of her alters, about the new plan. Tonight, however, was for resting and recharging.
Grace exited into total darkness, having forgotten to leave any house lights on, inside or out. She couldn’t see the paving stones of the walkway beneath her feet. No stars out tonight. She managed to get the key into the front lock and open the door. The alarm beeped to be disarmed. She keyed in the code, using the illuminated buttons as her guide, before turning on a hall light, sending a blaze of brightness into her eyes. Her vision quickly adjusted. It was quiet inside.
Ryan was at the restaurant. Jack was back at school. Annie was home cleaning up after the meeting. And Grace was alone again. These were the moments when she felt Arthur’s absence most profoundly. The hole he’d left behind in her life followed her like a cruel shadow. What would Arthur tell her to do about the trial? Take Navarro’s advice? Hope for the best?
No, he’d say what she said to herself: Trust yourself. She’d pushed Mitch on accepting the DID diagnosis, and he did. Pushed Navarro to put Penny on the stand, and he did. She’d been pushing hard every minute of every day, just like her marathon training, only this race never ended.
She’d call Navarro in a bit to make sure there were no hard feelings. First though, she needed some tea.
Some thirty minutes later, Grace still hadn’t picked up a phone. She’d changed into her pajamas and put her hair up in a loose bun before finding a comfortable spot on the couch from which to watch, of all things, a nature show. It made her think of happier times, of Arthur and a much younger Penny doing the same.
Eventually, Grace shut off the television. She sat on the couch a few minutes longer, drinking her tea and finally thinking about nothing at all. If the house hadn’t been so quiet, Grace might not have heard someone turn the knob on the front door and bump it hard, twice.
She sprang up from her seat, heart lodged firmly in her throat. The noise had startled her. Was it Ryan? Had he forgotten his keys? How had she not heard his car coming down the driveway? Seen his headlights?
She pulled back the living room curtain. In her distracted state, Grace had forgotten to turn on the front porch lights for Ryan as she usually did, so when she peered outside she could see nothing but darkness. She heard another loud bang, someone at the front door. There was a Stay mode on the alarm, meaning any open door would trigger it, but she didn’t set that mode until Ryan got home. She’d left her phone somewhere in the kitchen, and there was no way to summon help from the TV room. Is there time to run to the kitchen?
Gingerly, Grace closed the curtain, not wanting anyone to know she was at home. Alone.
Another bang.
Fear and hope made her cry out, “Who’s there? Ryan? Is that you?”
Her heart thumped wildly. He forgot his keys, she told herself encouragingly. It’s nothing. She had all those thoughts as her eyes raked the room, searching for something she could grab to use as a weapon. She tensed, her breathing shallow and quick. Moving away from the window, Grace sought some kind of cover behind Arthur’s favorite armchair, hoping and praying the noise would go away.
Instead she heard a loud pop, along with a scrape of metal on metal. Her eyes weren’t deceiving her when she saw the front door swing open. She always engaged the deadbolt when she set the alarm, but she hadn’t done that yet, and the flimsy lock built into the doorknob was easy for someone to breach.
Two large men, both dressed in black, hoods covering their heads, entered her room like panthers on the prowl. The men split up. One went left, toward the TV room and Grace’s location, while the other headed down the hall to the kitchen. It would be seconds before she was spotted. Instinct sent Grace scurrying out from behind the armchair to her left, heading for the living room and the glass doors that opened onto a stone patio. If she could get outside, Grace thoug
ht she could sprint across the lawn, maybe reach a neighbor’s house.
A presence loomed behind her as Grace bolted for the patio door in slippery socks. “Get out!” she screamed, her voice drenched in panic. Her house was set far back from the road, so the chances someone would hear her desperate plea stood at slim to none.
With a hurdler’s stride, Grace leapt over the coffee table fronting her plush brown sofa. As she went up and over, her right foot clipped a vase, sending it to the hardwood floor with an explosion of glass in every direction. Choking on fear, she glanced to her right, only to see one of her attackers coming at her from the kitchen.
A black bandana covered his face right up to his ice blue eyes—eyes like a husky’s. She didn’t need to waste one second checking behind her to know the other man was closing in fast. Her best hope, really her only hope, was to get outside, where her screams might have a chance at being heard and her legs might carry her to safety.
The brown sofa was all that stood between Grace and the patio door. She couldn’t hurdle the sofa, but she could get over it faster than going around, saving two steps, maybe three. Grace’s right foot sank deeply into a plush cushion. The cushion functioned as a springboard of sorts, launching her up and over the back end of the sofa, but with too much velocity. Momentum carried her forward, sending her shoulder first into the patio door. She heard a crack, but the glass held. The force of the impact sent her reeling backward, and her lower half connected hard with the couch’s solid back, which sent her forward again like a ricocheting pinball. She hit the glass door for a second time, stabbing her abdomen on the doorknob. Her head banged the glass hard, and down she went to the floor in a heap.
Footsteps thundered in her ears, and she heard both men grunt loudly as they landed on her, pinning her to the ground. A blur of black fabric swam in and out of Grace’s vision. One man seized hold of Grace’s arms, yanking them over her head almost hard enough to pull her shoulders from their sockets. Grace yowled in pain when his gloved hands clamped over her wrists—strong, so strong that she feared he’d break bone.