The Copy
Page 9
At 9:00 AM Judge Lemar's courtroom was electric with anticipation. The gallery was filled to capacity with reporters, leaving not a square inch of space for the general public, save for Camilla Bartell and a handful of law students and undergrads who'd been ushered in ahead of the masses. The spaces beyond the bar were, however, empty. No briefcases or legal pads gave testament to occupation of either the defense or prosecution tables. The court reporter station stood vacant of even the stenotype machine. Of singular exception in the space was the old bailiff who somberly held his post by the far door leading to the chambers beyond.
By 9:30 AM the electricity had escalated into a near frenzy. Law students debated excitedly the possible conclusions. Reporters yammered into cell phones as they interpreted, in weighty words, the sheer sense of foreboding emanating from the silent courtroom.
At 10:05 AM the door opened and the District Attorney stepped through, closely followed by his deputy, then James Scott May and Geoffrey Bartell. A smaller door opened on the far side of the bench and a middle-aged woman hurried through clutching a stenotype under one arm. She settled in to her station, adjusted the height of her machine and then, with fingers poised on the keys, went completely still. A few moments later the chamber door opened and the bailiff bellowed, "All rise for the Honorable Grayson Lemar!"
The judge assumed his bench and looked out over the room with a sense of finality. He cited the case number and convened court with a tap of his gavel - but did not call in the jury. Instead he inclined his head at the DA, who rose and strode quickly to the bench and handed up papers. The stillness in the room was absolute as the judge perused the small sheaf. When he spoke, he addressed Geoffrey Bartell directly. Bartell and his attorney both came to their feet.
"Mr. Bartell, the prosecution has filed an information charging you with felony count of attempted suicide. You are aware of this?"
"Yes, Your Honor, I am."
"And, Mr. Bartell, you are also pleading guilty to this one-count information as you are in fact guilty of the crime charged here?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"All right. Prosecution please state the factual basis for the offense."
Alton McBride stood. "Judge, we believe that has been established by evidence as presented in this trial and believe the defense will concur." McBride turned his head to James Scott May, as did the judge.
"The defense will stipulate that factual basis for this charge has been established, Your Honor."
Judge Lemar nodded at him. "Mr. Bartell, do you agree with Mr. May on that?"
"Yes, Judge."
"All right," Lemar said, looking back at the papers in front of him. "This has been an extremely complex case and I believe the resolution presented here to be just and within the definitions of the law."
He set his hands flat atop the papers and straightened to his full height.
"The court accepts the plea of defendant Geoffrey Bartell the Third to one count of felony attempted suicide. The indictment of murder in the first degree is hereby dismissed with prejudice. Mr. Bartell, you are hereby remanded to the custody of the State Department of Law Enforcement for a period of six months. Court adjourned."
He tapped his gavel once and the room exploded into pandemonium.
As the Sheriff's Deputies approached Geoffrey Bartell he turned to face Camilla across the wooden railing. Words failed him as he fell into her eyes, which were moist yet resolute. She reached out a hand and he touched the tips of her fingers just long enough to feel the warmth of her through the lace glove before they took him by the shoulders and marched him away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FOUR MONTHS LATER...
THE aroma of coffee teased Camilla from slumber. Her eyes came gradually open as they adjusted to the dappled sunlight falling across the room. She was clutched by a moment of disorientation at the unfamiliar surroundings. Whitewashed wooden beams spanned the ceiling above her and below it a weathered turquoise-painted fan of indeterminate age swung lazily, its rhythmic muted chirp combining with the cries of gulls that filtered through the louvered window.
Camilla closed her eyes and breathed the air. It was cool and moist and briny and carried the promise of a temperate summer. She let the sounds of the village drift in to her on the breeze: the sing-song of hawkers in the market, the swish of lines being cast off and throaty gurgles of ancient marine engines, and the ever-present clanking of goat bells. From within the cottage came another far more intimate sound: the tinkle of children's laughter. Camilla rolled over to find the bed next to her empty. She stretched, running her hands across the cool wrinkled surface, then wriggled free of the tangle of sheets and got up.
She padded across painted cedar floors following the smell of coffee and the sound of her children's voices. As she approached the kitchen the voices fell to a conspiratorial whisper.
The three of them were crowded around the stove. Lilian held center position, one fist gripping the handle of a large cast-iron frying pan and in the other, a spatula. Patch was on a step-stool to her left, his shoulders - which stood just barely above the stovetop - hunched as he stared fiercely into the pan. Leaning against the counter to their right was Geoffrey. He wore nothing but a pair of boxers, a frayed and faded St. Barts Yacht Club t-shirt, and an expression of amused satisfaction.
Camilla stood silent for half a minute taking in the tableau. Then Geoffrey looked up and caught her eye, and smiled a smile that she felt in her heart.
"What are you maniacs up to?" she said.
Patch's head snapped around, his eyes like saucers. "Mom, we're making Shrek pancakes!"
Camilla smiled. "What pancakes?"
"Look!" he said, pointing at the pan with enthusiasm.
Lilian put down the spatula and used both hands to heft the old pan up on edge. In the pan was one large pancake with two small appendages on top, a shape vaguely reminiscent of the cartoon ogre, and pastel green in color.
Camilla walked over to them and ruffled both of their hair. "I hope you're making enough for me," she said.
Patch stepped down from his stool and bent to peer inside the oven door. He pressed a finger on the glass and said breathlessly, "We've got more."
Camilla laughed and bent to kiss him on the head. Then she straightened and turned to face her husband.
"Tell me you didn't use green food coloring," she whispered.
Geoffrey broke into a lopsided grin and shook his head. He leaned in close and whispered back, "Spinach and kale blended in with the batter." Then he kissed her quickly on the neck below her ear and leaned back with a finger held to his lips. Camilla shook her head at him. Her heart felt so full she feared she might burst into tears. Pushing onto her tiptoes she kissed him on the lips, then went to the coffee maker.
She poured herself a cup and walked back to the door, turning before she exited.
"I'm going to take a quick shower and then I'll be back for my ugly pancake." She waggled a finger at them. "Anyone eats him and they'll get pitchforked."
It seemed to Camilla that she should have felt a sense of loss, or bitter entitlement for the evils that fate had visited upon their family. Perhaps she should harbor some regret for the destruction of her husband's life's work. Or embarrassment at their fall from grace, their faces on tabloid covers as the lawsuits, senate hearings, and bankruptcies fell like so many dominoes in the months following the trial. But as she stood under the shower jets the only thing she felt was contentment.
Camilla leaned her head back into the spray and worked shampoo through her thick hair, enjoying the feel of the hot soapy water down her back and the sound of it cracking in waves against the tile. She looked down to watch the frothing stream eddying around the floor grate before disappearing forever into the drain.
A fitting metaphor.
She straightened and let the water run to ensure a complete rinse. The steam rose off the tiles and the glass began to fog. By degrees she watched a symbol appear at eye level where the oils from
an earlier fingertip now denied the steam traction.
A circle with two waves across, and a forward leaning slash intersecting the whole.
A smile flickered across her lips as she ran her fingertips over the mark. She recalled his impish grin the first time she'd asked him about its significance. He'd shrugged and said: 'It's just a cool shape'.
But to Camilla it meant more.
To her it signified the return of the man she had fallen in love with so many years ago. The man that had been lost to her for almost a decade but who had now, by whatever strange twist of fate or science, found his way home.
~~~~~~~~~~
Coming in Spring 2015:
DEATHBOOK
A Novel by Grant Boshoff
A killer stalks the social networks, leaving a trail of bodies and no clues - except for a final, gruesome status update from each victim’s phone. At a dead-end, the FBI turns to an unlikely source for help: New York City con man, Jack Stanton. But with his own instinct for self-preservation can Jack afford to immerse himself into the mind of a lunatic and, if he does so, can he yet retain his own sanity?
Sign up for pre-release updates and publish alerts at:
GrantBoshoff.com
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GRANT BOSHOFF lives in Florida with his gorgeous wife, a dog, two cats, and an empty nest big enough to accommodate family gatherings and sleepovers by the grand-niblets. He is currently at work on his debut novel, Deathbook. When not writing he burns off excess energy riding dirt bikes or racing cars on the Florida club racing circuit.
www.grantboshoff.com