A Meeting In The Ladies' Room

by Anita Doreen Diggs

  The courtroom erupted and Ruth Champ shouted “Objection!” over and over again as Keith demanded an answer.

  After Judge Veronsky sustained Champ’s objection, Keith said, “I have no further questions for this witness,” and sat down beside me. His face was unreadable, and my taps on his hand to elicit some reassurance that we were off to a good start produced nothing.

  Champ’s next few witnesses were Annabelle’s mother, aunt, and some cousins. She led them through their paces, and they talked about her upbringing in Scarsdale and the Vassar education. How funny, intelligent, well-read, pretty, and kind she was . . . what a loyal friend and wonderful mother she was . . . how she hoped to have another child someday, and the hole her absence had left in their lives.

  By the time they were done, tears were coursing down my cheeks, some members of Annabelle’s family were sobbing openly, and even my own lawyer appeared grief-stricken. He declined to cross-examine any of them.

  Mama had a doctor’s appointment and Paul had to go to work, so they skipped the afternoon session. Keith and I had lunch at an out-of-the-way burger joint. He ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, fries, and a cup of tea for himself. I picked at a salad that had lettuce leaves as limp as I felt.

  Keith patted my hand for a moment. “I know this morning was rough, but keep your chin up. It ain’t over till it’s over.”

  “What about this afternoon?”

  “Jackie, this whole thing is going to be tough, okay? Let’s just hope that the outcome is favorable.”

  He ate silently and with gusto until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Keith, why do I have a mostly white jury?”

  He poked at the slice of lemon bobbing up and down in his cup. “Because there hasn’t been a case this big since O.J. Simpson. The next predominantly Black jury on a huge celebrity case involving a Black defendant will vote to convict, just to avoid criticism.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  His face tensed. “The whole race thing is crazy, Jackie, but I didn’t create it.”

  “This sounds very risky.”

  “We have a full-time jury consultant. He says that the next high-profile Black jury will convict just to prove to whites how impartial they can be.”

  “And this person thinks a predominantly white jury will vote in my favor?”

  He shrugged. “We stand a better chance with them . . . particularly since she was cheating on her husband with a poor, Black man.”

  “Victor isn’t poor.”

  He sighed. “Still coming to his defense, eh?”

  “All I meant is that Victor probably makes about $100,000 a year . . . the same amount I was earning at Welburn.”

  “Baby, that’s poor.”

  “Well, excuse me,” I answered huffily.

  He ignored my testiness. “This is going to be a relatively short trial. I give it two weeks at the most. Champ will walk the husband through what he knows about the morning of the murder, she’ll call the taxi driver who says you were rushed and agitated when he picked you up shortly afterward. She probably doesn’t want to put Sarah Jane on the stand since the press has asked what the victim’s sister was doing for fifteen minutes, but she has no choice. Sarah Jane is the one who found the body. I’ll call character witnesses and a private investigator for you. We’ll pray that the jury believes me and wait for their verdict.”

  Keith didn’t have to say the rest. If they didn’t, I would be found guilty and spend the rest of my life in the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women.

  35

  A FIFTEEN-MINUTE GAP

  Sarah Jane Welburn Rizzelli took the stand that afternoon. She didn’t look anything like her sister. Her hair was dirty blond, the face thin, its nose narrow and twitchy. She looked like a dried-up mouse sniffing around for cheese.

  Louise Champ smiled warmly at her after the swearing-in. “Mrs. Rizzelli, I’m sorry to add to your troubles by bringing you here today.”

  “I understand.” Her voice was thin, a cross between a whisper and a rice paper Japanese fan.

  “I will not keep you here a moment longer than necessary.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mrs. Rizzelli, have you ever met Jacqueline Blue?”

  “No. I only know that my sister, Annabelle, was afraid of her.”

  There was a hissing sound from the jury box.

  “Did Annabelle tell you that she was afraid of Jacqueline Blue?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did she tell you that?”

  “The night before she died.”

  “Please go on.”

  “Annabelle said that after she turned down Blue’s request for a promotion, the woman made a fist at her and stalked out of her apartment without even saying good-bye. She called me and asked if she should notify the police. I said no.”

  I whispered to Keith, “I never made a fist at my boss and I don’t believe for a second that Annabelle ever said I did. The woman is lying through her goddamned teeth. I feel like pulling her off the witness stand and pummeling her into the floor.”

  Keith motioned that I should be quiet.

  Sarah Jane sobbed into a handkerchief.

  “When was the last time you spoke with Annabelle?” asked Champ.

  “The morning she died. I called while she was getting ready for work. We chatted for a few minutes, and then the doorman called from downstairs to say she had a visitor. I told her I was coming over to pick up some photos and hung up.”

  “And when you got there?” prodded Champ.

  Sarah Jane began to cry loudly. “When I got there, my sister was dead!”

  The judge, looking shaken, agreed to a brief recess and gave Keith a look that warned him not to cross-examine the witness too closely.

  Keith didn’t even pretend to be sympathetic when the court reconvened.

  “What time did you arrive at Mrs. Murray’s apartment on January 27, 1997?”

  Sarah Jane looked confused. “About 9:15, I think.”

  Keith shook his head and picked up some papers from the defense table. “No. Jacqueline Blue left The Dakota apartment building at exactly 8:55 A.M. You came through the door at precisely 9:00.”

  She said nothing.

  “At 9:15, you ran into the lobby and told the security guard at the front desk that your sister was injured. He called 911 and the police arrived on the scene at 9:25.”

  She waved her tiny hands. “It’s all such a blur. I’m sure you can understand that, Mr. Williams.”

  “I certainly can,” Keith answered cordially. “What I can’t understand is the fifteen-minute lag time. Do you have a key to your sister’s apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “In case of an emergency.”

  “What kind of an emergency?”

  “In case Annabelle lost her key and couldn’t get in.”

  Keith searched his notes as though he were confused. “But didn’t her husband also share that apartment with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Craig Murray know that you had keys to his home?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okay. Did Annabelle unlock the door for you or did you let yourself in?”

  She neatly sidestepped the trap. “My sister could not unlock the door because she was lying dead on the bathroom floor.”

  Keith was unperturbed. “So, you let yourself in. Then what?”

  “I found her lying on her back and . . . and . . . oh, I can’t go on!” She began to cry again.

  Keith’s voice hardened. “Did you go into the kitchen first? Her bedroom? The library? Another bathroom? Did you call her name as you walked through the apartment?”

  “Objection!”

  “Sustained. One question at a time, Mr. Williams.”

  “Would you like me to repeat the questions, one by one, Mrs. Rizzelli?”

  “No.”

  “Then walk us through those minutes, please.”

  She rambled on about callin
g Annabelle’s name as she walked through each room. The pink bathroom was the last place she checked and made the shocking discovery.

  “Why didn’t you call the police?”

  Sarah Jane’s voice cracked again. “I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times.”

  “And the answer is?” Keith persisted.

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know.”

  Keith bowed from the waist. “Thank you.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. Do you know the identity of Dora Murray’s biological father?”

  Sarah Jane looked wildly from Judge Veronsky to Ruth Champ and back again. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Yes, Counselor,” Judge Veronsky spoke sharply from the bench. “What is the point of your question?”

  “I have reason to believe,” Keith said smoothly “that Annabelle Murray knew that her husband did not father their little girl, Dora. It is also my understanding that the witness quarreled with her sister about this very issue during a phone call on the morning of the murder.”

  “May I approach the bench?” Ruth Champ yelled.

  There was a fifteen-minute delay while Keith and Ruth argued in front of the judge. When it was over, Keith had lost.

  “The jury will disregard that last question,” instructed Veronsky.

  Keith nodded. “Did you quarrel with your sister by phone on the morning of her death?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the argument about?”

  “Annabelle had some old family photos that were rightfully mine.”

  “Did she know that you were stopping by that morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “To get the pictures?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Keith sighed. “Let me rephrase the question. Why did you go to your sister’s house on the morning of the murder?”

  Sarah Jane shifted uncomfortably in the witness chair. “Because Annabelle asked me to.”

  “What did she want that could not wait until a less busy time? After all, you were both heading off to work.”

  “Annabelle wanted me to take the pictures right away so we wouldn’t have that argument again.”

  “Isn’t it true that there was someone in the apartment with Annabelle when you spoke to her on the phone that morning?”

  Sarah Jane hesitated. “Craig wasn’t home. He left the night before and didn’t come back.”

  “I’m not talking about your sister’s husband,” Keith said softly. “Who was the man who made Annabelle cry only minutes before she died?”

  Champ objected and the judge agreed. Keith let Sarah Jane go. Craig was next. His hair, dress, manner, and posture were confident and fit neatly with his new job as Chief Executive Officer of a major New York publishing house. His testimony was brief, sad, and inconsequential.

  Paul had to stay late at the office and didn’t get home till nearly eight. I was already in bed, just lying there trying to figure out whether Keith and I were winning or losing.

  He crossed the threshold without saying a word and dumped a manuscript on the floor.

  He sat down beside me and rubbed his temples.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I’m exhausted,” he answered.

  “Have you had dinner?”

  “A slice of pizza on the way in.”

  “Are you still hungry?”

  He stood up and started to undress. “No. I just need some sleep.”

  “Paul?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are the powers-that-be giving you a hard time at work?”

  He unzipped his pants. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  Although Paul’s tone was flippant, I knew that things had to be pretty serious—he hadn’t even kissed me. The tabloids had been running his photo, hinting that he was my lover, right along with mine ever since my release from jail. No company wanted one of its key employees to be linked to an accused murderess. This awful mess was going to cost Paul his job.

  “I’m sorry,” I told him softly.

  He was standing in his drawers now. “Don’t worry about it, baby. How was court this afternoon?”

  I told him about Sarah Jane’s testimony and the change in Craig.

  “What does Keith make of all this?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Paul crawled up on the bed beside me and kissed me three times—on the forehead, nose, and lips. “The brother definitely doesn’t show his hand.”

  I sighed. “Not at all.”

  His hand snaked under the nightgown and started rubbing my thigh. “We’re both all stressed out. Maybe there’s a way to work off some of this tension.”

  My nose wrinkled. “Man, you didn’t even take a shower yet.”

  He groaned and hoisted himself back to a standing position. “After that water hits me, I won’t be good for anything.”

  “That’s okay,” I smiled. “We have hundreds of nights ahead of us, right?”

  He paused in the doorway and our eyes locked. “You’re worried that I’m having second thoughts about all this, aren’t you?”

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  “Well, I’m not. Nothing is ever going to come between us.”

  I blinked back tears of relief. “You’re the greatest.”

  “I love you, too, Jackie.” He winked and left the room.

  36

  THE SHOWMAN, PART I

  Paul and Mama insisted on coming to court the next morning even though I told them that it wasn’t necessary.

  Ruth Champ was grinning like a Cheshire cat, and the sight made my stomach drop. What did she have up her sleeve?

  And then Joe Long took the stand. He was wearing a gray suit, white shirt, and gray tie.

  Champ had him state his full name and occupation.

  “Mr. Long, how well do you know Jacqueline Blue?”

  Joe shrugged. “We’re not what I’d call friends. She is a fellow editor and we saw each other at business-related gatherings.”

  “What is your opinion of Miss Blue?”

  “I think she is mentally unstable.”

  Keith let this testimony go unchallenged, and when I tugged frantically at his sleeve, he pushed my hand away.

  “What makes you say that, Mr. Long?”

  “Because she pursued my best friend relentlessly for a year. There are laws against stalking someone who doesn’t want to be bothered and I told him to get the police involved, but he refused.”

  “What is your friend’s name?”

  “Victor Bell.”

  There was a rustle among the reporters. The media had been chewing over the Dora’s Dad angle like a dog with a meaty bone.

  “Do you like Miss Blue?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “She was never friendly to me, even though we saw each other every week at our networking group.”

  Champ gave the jury a summary. “So, in your opinion, Jacqueline Blue is a cold woman who does not know how to take no for an answer.”

  “Exactly.”

  Champ smirked in Keith’s direction. “Your witness.”

  Keith stepped up to the plate and went straight for the jugular. “You love him, don’t you, Mr. Long?”

  Joe started coughing and the proceedings came to a halt as Keith waited for him to drink some water.

  “I don’t understand the question, sir.”

  “Do you love Mr. Victor Bell?”

  “He is my best friend. I care about him.”

  Keith laughed and the sound was nasty. “Okay, have it your way.”

  I remembered my confusion when Dallas said that Joe was jealous of me. Now it made sense. Joe was in love with Victor and was only playing the buddy role to stay close to a man he could not have.

  “Did you ever meet Annabelle Murray?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever talk to her on the phone?”

  Joe hesitated.

  �
�You are under oath, Mr. Long.”

  “Once.”

  “Tell us about it, please.”

  “I was at Victor’s apartment once and she called to speak with him. I answered the phone.”

  “Do you know what she and Victor talked about?”

  “No. He took the phone in the bathroom.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “The night before she died.”

  “Did you and Victor have a conversation about Annabelle after he came out of the bathroom?”

  “No. I went straight home.”

  Keith looked at the jury and then back at Joe. “What if I told you that there is a witness who says you and Victor had a terrible argument that night?”

  “I’d say this person is lying.”

  Keith continued as though Joe had not spoken. “This witness overheard Mr. Bell arguing in his apartment with someone he called Joe on the night before Annabelle Murray died.”

  “So what? I’m not the only Joe on earth. Maybe Victor had someone else over after I left.”

  Keith rubbed his forehead. “Hmmmm. I guess it’s possible. What time did you leave Mr. Bell’s apartment?”

  “About ten.”

  “Did you walk out of the building alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “The neighborhood watch has a surveillance camera on that corner,” Keith said gently. “I’ll ask you one more time. Did you walk out of that building alone?”

  Joe dropped his head. “No.”

  “Who was with you?”

  “Victor.”

  Keith paused. “Did Victor take you home?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ask Victor to walk out with you?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Sure you do,” Keith yelled. “Isn’t it true that Victor Bell said that he was going to Annabelle’s house?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Champ shouted, “Objection! The question has been asked and answered.”

  The judge sustained her objection.

  Keith’s voice became sympathetic. “You’re a good friend, Joe. Too bad Victor doesn’t appreciate you. I think you’ve been trying to keep Victor away from Annabelle for a long time. Am I right?”