I kept these thoughts to myself. While Chloe was a lawyer, and, sitting beside me, was very perspicuous, I didn’t want to create a downcast, frightened-to-death witness who might come across as resigned, guilty. So she heard none of my fears. I never burden my clients with my worries anyway because, hey, there’s nothing they can do about my angst when it’s all said and done. That’s my job, to make the whole thing work, to scale that hill, to summit, to walk her out of the courtroom a free woman.
After the detective and the CCTV video wrapped up, the prosecution then called the usual witnesses to testify: the medical examiner, the crime scene techs, and even a human factors expert to prove that a woman could, indeed, overwhelm a large man and stab him to death.
They flew detective Joe Davidson out from Alton to testify. He appeared in the courtroom blinking and looking around for a familiar face but there were none, not in California. He summarized the steps he and Rabinowitz had taken in establishing Chloe’s identity from her days at the hospital, up to the time Reno took her home. After that, he’d lost track until he went to Chicago. He didn’t find Chloe there, but he found Reno and he was about to arrest him when the guy up and flew off to San Diego. At that point in the trial, they turned Joe over for cross-examination. I was gentle with him, which was a good thing because he ended up helping our defense case with his testimony about Chloe’s injuries and all she’d been put through by Reno, including his attempted murder of her when he ran her down in the crosswalk. I spent more courtroom time laying out all the injuries and pain Reno had cost her. Plus, the jury took note when I snuck in the fact Reno was also being hunted by Joe for the attempted murder of Marcel Rainford. That was a freebie, making Reno look just that much worse. Then Joe was excused so he could return to Illinois.
When the prosecution rested its case, they had met the burden of proof, a prima facie case that the court would not throw out no matter how hard I argued outside the presence of the jury. Judge McClintock sat back in his high-up chair, arms folded on his chest, and gave me all the time I needed to argue the People hadn’t made their case, but I knew it was a losing battle. It was very rare that defendants got cases dismissed without first presenting their own witnesses.
I knew I was trying to punch holes in titanium—an impossible task even when your witnesses are the twelve apostles. My motion for a directed verdict in favor of the defense was a big plate of fail. Judge Roy denied my motion, and we adjourned for the day. In the morning the defense case would begin. In the morning, I would earn my pay for real.
I walked out of the courthouse that day to Marcel’s waiting Escalade, wondering whether Maddy and Justin would show up or whether I would be shooting blanks once I had Chloe on the witness stand and asked her to allow the alters to testify.
Unnerved, I tossed and turned all night. By sunrise, I was up, in my hotel room, doing my stretches and dressing to hit the hotel fitness gym. At least that part of my day I could control. Because once we hit the court, it would be every man—and alter—for him- or herself.
Chapter 59: Trial
My first witness that Thursday morning in San Diego was the defendant, Chloe Constance. We had provided her with a plain black dress and a fine gold necklace, with a cross, low black heels, and a light patina of makeup that, we had learned over the years, fared best beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the courtroom. When I called her name to testify, she stood up beside me at counsel table. I noticed both hands shaking. My heart went out to her; I was feeling almost as frightened for her. Anything could happen from that point on, and the whole rest of her life depended on it.
She took the elevated witness platform and remained standing while being sworn in. Then she sat down, smoothed the hem of her dress, and nodded at the jury. A slight nod, not fawning over them and currying favor. Just a quick hello.
Then I launched in. I didn’t immediately go for the testimony of an alter; I wanted Chloe to get comfortable with telling her story first, so I asked her about her younger years. I knew that she had been put through the mill as an older teen and I wanted the jury to hear that story, to know where she came from in order to help them better understand about her alters and how they came to be. Especially I wanted to work up to the sexual abuse she had suffered, the sexual abuse that had first caused her personality to fragment. The abuse that first produced Justin Maybe.
She began with high school graduation, the day she left home.
“I had the usual growing-up problems for an attractive, large-breasted teen, an uncle with secret hands, and a stepfather who left no doubt whose property I was. My high school hell: groped in the front seat, full-court press in the back seat. A tangle of unbuttoned clothes and sweaty hands of young boys getting their kicks, when all I wanted was to be loved for who I was. Wasn’t going to happen. Senior year, I could hardly wait to get out of high school, go to college and law school and have a beautiful family.
“Then came the day I graduated—when suddenly I belonged only to myself. Time to move far, far away, get a job and get enrolled in school. I left home that same day, stopping by only to change from my graduation gown to jeans, sandals, a gold LSU sweatshirt, a book bag stuffed with makeup and the few dollars I’d saved from two years behind the counter at the local Dairy Queen. Oh, and the pill. That was one thing that went with me everywhere, like air.
“I walked off—literally walked out to the highway and put out my thumb. I held my head high. There was no shame in launching in an Alert Level Red.”
“How were you feeling inside as your left your parents’ home?”
“Excited. And a little bit scared.”
“Tell us about the first ride you scored as a hitchhiker.”
“Right. The first ride was an eighteen-wheeler steered by a crazy, pill-popping twenty-two-year-old from Muscle Shoals. He gave me some pills I’d never tried before. They were supposed to help me stay awake, so I could keep him awake. It turned out they were Ecstasy. We listened to Johnny Cash on the CD player and climbed in back when we parked in a Walmart parking lot. I came to with him inside me in the sleeper compartment. He exhausted himself on me and said he loved me. Sure, I’d heard that before. Even my stepfather had said it.
“At that point, I decided to swear off sex forever. So I created my own rules to live by.
“Rule 1: When a man said he loved you, he meant you belonged to him. I knew better than to mistake that for real love. I just didn't know what real love felt like, but I did know it wasn’t heavy panting in my ear, hearing someone else's name whispered in the throes of passion.
“Rule 2: No sex. It didn't work anymore. Everything inside me was broken, head to toes, and I felt nothing.
“Rule 3: It was time to heal.”
Forty hours later, Chloe and the trucker rolled into Chicago.
She slept in the Amtrak waiting room that first night as if she were waiting for a train. Only she had nowhere else to go. Chicago was two days away from New Orleans, and that would have to do. So she spent the night plastered against the wall in a plastic chair, nodding off and coming to, nodding off and coming to. She awoke once to find a five-year-old girl with blond curls standing right at her knee, dipping into a bag of Corn Nuts and staring at her face. When she opened her eyes a second time, the little girl wiped her nose with the back of her hand and held out the bag to her.
“Some?” Curls asked.
“No, thank you, I’m full up to here,” she said, making the up-to-my-neck-full sign. Chloe was struck by how much Curls looked like her in Chloe’s younger days. And the sharing and inquisitiveness was exactly like the young Chloe—she never knew any strangers and made friends of everyone—at that age. It hadn’t taken her long to outgrow that innocence, however, given the uncle and stepfather always lurking.
“Thank you,” Curls said and ran for the other end of the waiting room. Then they played peekaboo for a half hour before Chloe nodded off again. This time when she came to, there was a two-person-crew pushing mops and nudging peo
ple awake so they'd lift their feet. She was next; she got nudged. Just for a second, she was back in New Orleans, and Daddy was looking for her. She was hiding in the shower with the water off, hoping to God he wouldn't pull open the curtain. He didn't. And then she awoke. She lifted her feet and folded her legs under her bottom. Now they could mop on by, and they did. She stretched, yawned, and checked Mickey Mouse. It was five-thirty in the a.m., time to find a local paper and run down a job. The newsstand had a fresh stack of Tribunes.
Back in Chloe’s chair, Curls was kicking her feet and smiling. “Saved your place,” Curls said.
“Bless your heart,” she told her when Curls popped up. Nice of her, the little girl had saved her a place as the room had all but filled with people headed out of town.
“Will you save my seat while I get coffee out of that machine?” she asked Curls when the girl skipped up to her a minute later.
Curls was only too happy to help. Chloe now had coffee and a newspaper. It didn't take but a minute to skim the Tribune employment ads. A minute later, she'd found jobs, jobs, and more jobs. She could look at doing just about anything from out-call massage to legal secretary. She knew what a hand job was worth, but she was full-up done with that crap, so she looked at office and clerical.
Chloe was medium height, about five-four, no hips, big boobs, and skin like satin. Chloe was broke, born with perfect teeth, and she sported blond locks kept in a bob.
An insurance company in Northbrook jumped off the page. The qualifications fit Chloe:
High school: yes
Military: no
Arrests: none
Bankruptcies: no (no one had ever been crazy enough to give her credit)
Marital status: single
She hit the pay phone and made a call. They took her application over the phone—very odd, very today. The Good Hands people. They said they would call her. She asked if she could call them back since she didn't have reliable phone access, and that was fine.
She scouted the area around the train station and checked into a flop-tel for $39 a night. She called The Good Hands people back and, to her huge astonishment, she was hired. Could she start next Monday? Doing what? Pounding a keyboard. Starting salary was enough to go halfsies with a roomie at a decent place. She was all over it. Eight o'clock sounded perfect, she told Good Hands.
She was giddy. So she strolled down to the 7-Eleven and picked up a quart of beer, a bag of pork rinds, and Fritos. She passed by all the Dolly Madison stuff. She had no hips and planned to keep it that way.
Chloe was walking the two blocks back to the flop-tel when it happened. The same guy that had given her a ride up from Louisiana pulled his eighteen-wheeler across three lanes of traffic, almost killing two people in a minivan, and hit the Jake brake. He motioned her over and told her to get in. She said no, she was staying in Chicago. He got pissed and blasted the air horn. She started walking again, but he followed right behind, hitting the air horn, creeping along. Then he started yelling obscenities at her. By that time, people behind him were honking like mad (this was Chicago; they'd just as soon run you over as look at you) but he wouldn't speed up. He stayed right beside her, leaning on the air horn and calling her names.
Which was when a guy on a Harley pulled up in front of him, hit the brakes, and stepped off the bike. The truck shuddered and stopped. The biker put down the kickstand and walked over to her.
But before the biker got to her, the trucker screamed, “I’m gonna run over that piece of shit if you don't move it!”
“Knock yourself out,” the biker yelled back. “I’ve got your license plate, and I’ve got insurance. My lawyer belongs to HOG and eats truckers for breakfast!”
The biker approached Chloe. Illinois must have had a helmet law because she couldn't see his face with the dark faceplate down. But when he yanked off the helmet, this beautiful flop of blond hair fell below his ears and the most intelligent crystal-blue eyes she had ever seen pierced right through her.
“Wanna ride?”
She was stunned; this guy was so incredible.
“What would I have to do?” she managed to ask. Her voice cracked, and she was sure she had pork rind in her teeth. Mor-ti-fied.
“Like the Boss says, wrap your arms around my engine!”
“I’m just a block up. See that green sign with the smiling cowboy up there?”
He turned and looked. “The Rodeo Motel? What, you on your way down or on your way up? Wait, don't answer that. Climb on before moron man has a cow.”
When they were seated on the bike, she could smell his leather coat. She hugged up to him and breathed in the scent of his neck. He smelled like sunshine and faint aftershave. But there was a beard, so he didn't shave, must have been deodorant. Whatever, she was immediately in a swoon. She gripped him tighter than necessary and laid the side of her face against his back.
He gunned it, and they pulled away. When he hit the brakes ten seconds later, they were already there.
She didn't want to let go, but then he was turning in the drive and asking for a room number.
She told him, and he pulled down four doors. The motor was still running as she hopped off, and the faceplate was down again so she couldn't get another look at those eyes. Then it was like he could read her mind because he slid the faceplate up so she could see those two robin's eggs again. Perfect pale blue, crystal pure and friendly. In fact, his eyes dazzled and danced, as if he had this huge secret she was dying to know.
“Why are you laughing at me?” she asked.
“I’m smiling because it's a beautiful day, and I just did my good deed.” He revved the Harley. The engine popped and roared.
“So are you going to buy curtains for the place? Fix it up?” He was pointing beyond her at the door to her room.
“Not exactly. It's just for a few nights. I just got to town.”
“Can I bring a housewarming gift by?”
“Like I said, it's very temporary.”
“So that's a no?”
“That's a no,” she told him and immediately kicked herself. Still, she had promised herself: no more sex, no more fooling around. She'd had it with men and their hungry hands and didn't even want to think about going there, hunk or not. She turned away and took out her key.
“Welcome to Chicago,” he called after her. He revved the bike again, then swung around and lurched for the driveway.
“Thank you!” she yelled, but he was already gone. She listened to his straight pipes rumbling down the block until she couldn't hear them anymore. Gone, just like that. She missed her chance, but she didn't regret it. First, she’d do it on her own for at least a year; then she'd come up for air.
But Mr. Motorcycle was adorable. There might need to be adjustments to the sex rule.
If she ever saw him again…
Monday morning, she was off to work at Good Hands in Northbrook.
There were no seats on the Metro. Every car was full: old men, old ladies, dudes, collegiate-types, high schoolers. Everybody either looked out the scuzzy windows or had their nose stuck in a newspaper. Chicago Sun-Times and train travel, right size newspaper, right price, disposable news. She had her backpack and a Tribune someone had left behind.
She’d received a letter from her mom, a single paragraph. In that paragraph were four smiley faces. Four!
Thank you for calling. Thank you for telling me where you are. How are you?
I miss you. :-).
Daddy sends you his love. :-) :-) x0x0x0x0x0.
Please call. :-) Mom x0x0
Mom still had no clue about her husband. Chloe was so grateful she didn’t have to call him Daddy anymore. At least if he'd been a Sugar Daddy, she’d have had something to show for his attention.
She pushed open the door and stepped into the noisy little no-man's-land between two train cars. It lurched and thundered, clack-clack-clack, and everyone hung onto the bars and handrails and looked out the windows at Chicago whizzing by. She was only one of many on the
ir way to work, but it was good. She was on her own. She was doing this for herself.
Then she felt it. Some guy behind her. He had his boner pressed up against her ass. She was wearing a black skirt, a white button-down blouse, and a waist-length winter coat. Plus leggings. But there was no doubt. A girl knew a hard-on when she had one in her ass crack. So, she moved away.
But he followed. Full up, pressing, pressing, and then moving. He was jacking off against her through their clothes. Suddenly, she swung around and brought her fist up and smacked his crotch. He fell back and uttered a profanity accusing her of having sex with her mother. But another guy saw all this and grabbed the pervert from behind.
That’s when she realized it was Mr. Motorcycle. Crystal blue eyes. He had the guy’s head in an armlock and was dragging him backward.
“That ain't right,” Mr. Motorcycle said to dick man. “How would you like it if I stuck my—”
“Hey,” she broke in, raising her hand. “It's not necessary. I’m okay, and he's chagrined.”
“Chagrined?” asked Mr. Motorcycle. “Who says 'chagrined'?”
She shrugged. “I do, I guess. It was on my SAT's or something. So throw me off the train.”
Mr. Motorcycle shoved dick man's face up against the sliding door leading to the next compartment. “You go in there, and you can ride without me sitting on you. Now!”
Dick man hit the door release and hopped inside the car. Last she saw of him, he was trying to claim a seat next to two high school girls, but they weren't budging. Good riddance.
Which was when Mr. Motorcycle turned to her. “I thought that was you on the platform at Arlington,” he said. “I’d know you anywhere.”
Then he moved into Chloe’s space, and she could smell the aftershave again. And those eyes! Good grief, she wanted to jump his bones right then and there.
But she didn't. After all, she was dressed nice and felt pretty, and she was on her way to her job. A job she needed to keep if she didn't want to live on the streets of Chicago. So she kept it together and gave him a little smile.
The Fifth Justice (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 10) Page 22