Dear Anna

by Katie Blanchard

  “Miss Samantha Davis, can you kindly tell us about the relationship your friend, Anna Trayor, had with the accused?”

  “Yes, she was his mistress so to speak. She liked saying that she was his girlfriend, but he was married, so I think that falls under a mistress title.”

  “Did Anna work for Mr. Moore?”

  “Yes, sir, she did. That’s how they met.” She nods her head like a period at the end of each statement.

  “That was going to be my next question.” The lawyer smiles at her. “Was Anna known for manipulating material things out of men like the defense claimed in their opening statement?”

  “Yes. It was the second married guy she was fooling around with, I think his name was Bill, but anyway, she blackmailed him with photos of themselves in compromising positions if he didn’t give her his wife’s Mercedes Benz.” Samantha doesn’t flinch.

  “Did she continue and follow through with this plan?” The prosecutor casually leans against his desk now; his case is in the bag.

  “Well, up until her death she drove a white Mercedes Benz SUV, so what do you think?” Some of the crowd laugh.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Davis, but we have to be clear for the record here with no speculation.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, Anna did follow through with the plan and ended up having the vehicle transferred into her name.” Samantha smooths her hair down, feeling a little uneasy that she slipped up.

  “Did she ever mention a plan to manipulate Mr. Moore?”

  “No, sir. She always told me she loved John.” She glares over at John.

  “Yet, they couldn’t be together.”

  “No.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because he is married, and he didn’t want his wife to be able to gain access to any part of his money if they divorced.” She looks toward me apologetically — I breathe out a sigh. The lawyer follows her sight and offers me a sad smile.

  “Did Anna come up with any plans to have John to herself?”

  “No, but John did.” The crowd gasps as she stares him down. “He told Anna one night that his wife was taking anti-depressants because her father murdered her mother. In my mind, it was reasonable for Mrs. Moore to be upset over that, but Anna said that John wanted to use it to get rid of her.”

  “Get rid of her; how?”

  “He told Anna that he had contacted a place out of curiosity asking about the facility to see if it would be a good fit for his wife. They told him what the base level of acceptance was and John decided to try to get his wife committed. Anna got on board with it because it meant she got to be with John.”

  “What kind of place was this?”

  “A home for the mentally ill, sir.” She shies away from his gaze.

  “That seems like a pretty nasty thing to do to a person, did you try to stop her?”

  “Yes, sir. I told her at every turn that it was a terrible idea and she needed to realize she was the mistress.”

  The lawyer walks over to his desk and retrieves an audio device. “If you will, Miss Davis, listen to this recording and tell me what you make of it.”

  Over the scratchy audio of the recorder, the courtroom hears Samantha’s voice. “Listen, Anna. I’m done. You and John are sick for what you’re trying to do to his wife. If you don’t like the fact that I told you the truth, then I’m done with it. You deserve John if you’re going to be that nasty of a human being. His wife deserves nothing but all of his money in the divorce, and I hope she gets it. You’re proving yourself to be no better than your mother.”

  When it’s done, Samantha grabs a tissue and dabs her eyes.

  “That’s me,” she chokes out. “I left that voicemail for Anna. I didn’t know she stood me up because she was dead.”

  “Your tone is nothing but of a concerned friend,” the lawyer attempts to soothe her. “Did she ever mention to you that John had a violent temper?”

  “Not in an angry way. In the bedroom sense, she did make mention that he was into some crazy aggressive stuff.” Samantha glances toward John and wills his death with those eyes. I bite my tongue to suppress a giggle. Jane grips my hand, trying to hold her own laughter in.

  “Like what?” The prosecutor looks over at John. No fear. Ballsy.

  “Oh, gosh ... this is embarrassing to talk about, but she said he liked to choke her and scream names at her in roleplaying.”

  “What kind of names?” The prosecutor continues to stare straight at John as he questions Samantha. John squirms.

  “Whore. Bitch. Cunt. He had a colorful vocabulary.”

  “John wasn’t the only person that Anna was seeing at the time of her murder, was he?”

  “She was dating Thomas, a guy I set her up with hoping she would forget all the foolishness of being with a married man, but she never left John.”

  “Do you think Thomas could be the one who killed Anna?” he questions with his head tilted toward the crowd.

  “No, things weren’t that serious between them, and besides he left for vacation the day before she was murdered. He wasn’t even in town.” Samantha shrugs. She knows it was John, no doubt in her mind.

  “How was her relationship with Thomas?”

  “She didn’t love him as much as John, but she clung to him more each time John ran back to his wife. She wanted better for herself. She and John had a huge fight after his birthday party, and I thought John was out of the picture, until one day when she confessed that he kept texting her and she might meet with him to see what he wanted. I told her it was a bad idea, but she went anyway. The next thing I know, she winds up with her throat slit.” Samantha slams her hand on the railing of the witness box, boring holes into John’s head.

  “Thank you. I have no further questions.”

  Now it’s time for John’s attorney to question Samantha. He’s been messing up every time he’s up there, and you can feel everyone in the room cringe when he clears his throat for questioning. What kind of a disaster are we going to watch this time? John places his head in his hand and hides his face.

  “Miss Davis, would you say you were great friends with Miss Anna Trayor?”

  “Yes, I would.” She shakes her head; he doesn’t meet her level.

  “How can you be such great friends if you are telling her deepest secrets?” He leans in toward her, and she leans back. I imagine he has terrible breath.

  “Secrets don’t count when your friend ends up murdered, sir.” She holds back an eye-roll so hard I think she may need an exorcist.

  “What do you mean? Aren’t secrets the true bonds of friendship?” He leans in onto the witness stand as best he can at his short stature; it ends up being more comical than intimidating.

  “No, the true bonds of friendship are honesty. Anna was my friend because she appreciated how blunt I could be about things. And I didn’t mind how blunt she could be at times. We balanced each other and didn’t want either to fail. No one around her took the time to tell her when she was making a mistake or that she was worth more than the paths she kept choosing. I did that for her. I told her the truth no matter if it hurt because I wanted the best for her,”

  “Did you want to hurt your friend, then?”

  “No, sir. I wanted her to know the truth. I told her John wouldn’t leave his wife for her, not to hurt her feelings, but to give her a push in the direction of leaving him so she could start fresh with someone who didn’t have strings attached.” Samantha smacks her hand down on the banister close to the lawyer’s hand.

  “So, John wasn’t the only man that could have killed Anna in a jealous rage?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You mentioned she had a boyfriend. What was his temper like?”

  “Just how I said it was earlier in my testimony. Thomas is a nice guy.” Samantha is getting annoyed. She isn’t the only person in the room that wishes the gavel would fall on his whole charade of playing lawyer. I’m glad I refused to research a better lawyer for John’s defense. This is what happe
ns when you have limited resources behind bars.

  “Are you sure he was? What if he was mean and cold? Did you set up their meeting because you were jealous of Anna and wanted her gone?”

  “Oh, my god. Are you delusional?”

  “Objection, your Honor. Accusing the witness.” The prosecutor jumps out of his seat to a standing position.

  “Sustained. That’s enough, counselor,” the judge booms.

  Samantha answers anyway. “No, I wasn’t jealous of Anna. I didn’t want that lifestyle. I don’t condone being an adulterer. It doesn’t mean that I wanted Anna punished for it. I wanted her to choose better in her life, to quit giving in to people who just wanted to use her. That’s why I introduced her to Thomas. Whatever kind of painting you’re trying to make won’t work.”

  The judge almost claps. No more objections are yelled out because she shut them all down. John’s lawyer has no further questions. Samantha loves the truth as I love clinging to lies. I adore every twist I can make out of them and the lives I have ruined because of the redemption I have found. She finds her safety in the truth; I find mine along with my freedom in the lies.

  The next to the stand is my therapist, Dr. Janson. He is here to prove that his notes during our discussions led him to believe in John’s ability to gaslight me. Hearing his professional opinion of what was being done to me in my home, under my nose, is hard to swallow. I almost walk out for fresh air.

  “She had reported several times that her husband felt she needed to increase her medication. She would also make mention of the oppression in her household, not being allowed to have a job or friends because of her husband’s rules. Hiding her friendship and feeling the need to hide her job as well. When it came to light that she was working, Mr. Moore immediately told her to quit.”

  “So, in your professional opinion, does the motive that Mr. Moore was attempting to create mental instability in his wife hold water?”

  “Yes.”

  They call one of the arresting officers to discuss John’s previous arrest record that includes a history of violence and the bruise on my cheek at the time of the arrest. He speaks of my confession on how it got there, and also the gun in John’s possession which because of his past he was not legally allowed to own — driving the nail in deeper.

  John throws his head down on the table before him. It’s over for him.

  Medeia’s Journal

  Dear Anna,

  Your friend Samantha loves you even though you are nothing but a wreck inside. I admire her, and I wish to be more like her. She gave you the answers to your problems, but you chose to ignore them. On some level, I think you liked playing dangerous games with your life, hoping for someone to save you.

  I did that for you.

  It wasn’t in the way that you were hoping for or imagined that you deserved, but I cut you free from John. I created this attention that you’re receiving. I made your mother love you even if it is just a show for the cameras desperately grasping to get the behind the scenes story. They all want to hear your name and story. They all want justice for your death. You are the innocent victim to them no matter your contribution in all of this.

  I did that for you.

  You’re welcome.

  Forty-Seven

  As the jury deliberates, Jane and I take a walk around the block. The February air is frigid and threatens to seize our lungs, but the air inside the building is too stifling, making the outside feel welcoming.

  “I should confess.”

  “What?” Jane is shocked. “Absolutely not.”

  “I did all of that. I made that scene in there. I’m a monster, Jane. I am the reason they’re tearing him apart.” I kick some snow piled off the curb.

  “Then what, Medeia? What does jail hold for you? Better yet, if they can go with the psych story you might get sent to one of those places instead, then John wins,” she taunts.

  “Shut up,” I hiss.

  She kicks the snow next to me and tightens the scarf around her neck. “You can’t have everything in black and white; there is gray floating all around us. It’s what makes up most of our soul. You were drowning and found a life raft. You can’t just throw it back because other people might drown. You need to save yourself sometimes.”

  “Yeah, except I’m making someone drown so that I can float.” I walk down the street. One more block might do it. “I’m no better than John or Anna.”

  Jane falls into step next to me. “My ex-husband struck me one time they had to take out an ovary. An ovary. Can you believe it? Can you imagine hitting someone repeatedly with such force that they lose an ovary?” Jane talks to the cement and not to me.

  “Jesus, Jane. That’s awful.”

  “Not as awful as the fact that I lost my right ovary to an ectopic pregnancy years before that day.” Silence falls on our lips, nothing but the busy hustle of people not involved in this case or our lives going about their day around us, driving in their cars, and living far removed from two murderers talking on the sidewalk.

  “His mistress got pregnant. I was so pissed. He took away my last chance at ever becoming a mom, and he gave it to her.” I watch the tears sting Jane’s eyes as she fights them away. “Then he took away where I lived because he had a baby on the way, and he took away my right to any money because he needed it for the child.”

  “He was a monster.”

  “So, I took it back.” She stamps her foot and forces me to look into her eye. “Should I tell the world my sin? I’m just as awful as he was.”

  “No. Jesus, no. He deserved it.”

  “John deserves this.”

  I deflate. “Jane.”

  “No, you can’t see it because you’re the one right in it, so let me tell you on the outside you aren’t the one who is alone in the fault. You didn’t start this. He should clean it up.” She grabs my arm and steers me toward the building again. “And now we are going to watch him get his judgment, and then we will drink tonight until we are drunker than we have ever been because even though we’ve committed the worst of sins, it doesn’t mean we don’t feel.”

  Back inside, the jury has finished deliberating. It only took them an hour to decide John’s fate.

  “We, the jury, find the defendant, John Moore, to be guilty of the charge of first-degree murder.”

  Cheers are surrounding us in the back row. John’s mother cries in the front row behind him. I can’t see John anymore. His head has bowed too low, and I’m no longer in the position back here to see his reaction. I watch Anna’s mother hoot and holler her joy, bouncing up and down. I look for an honest response ─ something that describes the weight.

  Samantha.

  She’s bowed her head in graceful prayer, shedding a tear that she quickly wipes away. She’s talking to Anna and telling her the results and that she misses her. Justice doesn’t take away what was done here. It doesn’t bring Anna back or replace the last ten years of my life.

  I head toward the door to the courthouse. I can’t breathe anymore. Hands all around me, touching my arms. Some cruel with their touch accusing me of not being a good enough wife. Others offer comfort telling me they’re sorry for what I’m going through. It doesn’t matter what side of the fence you stand on someone will disagree.

  I burst through the front doors and slam my body into one of the concrete pillars at the front of the building. My body shakes with tears. I’m free.

  Medeia’s Journal

  Dear Anna,

  The end.

  Epilogue

  John was sentenced to life in prison, a decision he didn’t take lying down, and he set out for an appeal.

  Our court date for the divorce proved to be another loss for him. His assets are now all mine. He’s left with nothing because what is a man without the possibility of parole going to do with anything outside the walls of a prison? Nothing. So, the judge granted everything to me.

  I put the house up for sale immediately and sold everything that I could. Jane and I s
pent one night there when we were boxing things up to ship to buyers. The house no longer felt anything more than cold. Nothing like the life I am living now, and Jane agreed.

  Jane put her house on the market at the same time, and when they both sold, we used the money to move to Louisiana. New Orleans. A fresh start for two girls who needed to have new memories to scare away the demons of the past. We took turns waking and comforting each other from our nightmares, but the incidents lessened when we finally made a move.

  Word from Pittsburgh still travels down this way. I clutch the newspaper article in my hand as I search for Jane out on the back deck.

  “Jane?”

  “Yeah?” She brushes the dirt off her hands from flowers she was tending. “What’s that?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Who’s dead?” I watch the dirt smear on the corners of her mouth when her hand comes up to it. “No. Give me that.” She rips the paper from my hands and begins to read out loud. “John Moore was found in his cell dead of an apparent suicide by hanging. Mr. Moore’s appeal in the murder case of mistress Anna Trayor was recently denied. It is led to believe that this was the reasoning behind Mr. Moore’s ultimate decision to end his life.”

  “Jesus,” I say. Hearing it out loud feels weirder than in my head.

  Jane grabs my arm and leads me into the house, tracking mud and dirt all over the wood floor until we finally reach our small kitchen. She lets go of me and reaches for the shelf above the fridge and grabs a bottle of tequila, twisting the cap off and taking a shot before handing it to me. I follow suit.

  “He’s dead,” I say as I drink from the bottle, a large chug that burns my throat but does nothing to wake the new numbness inside. I’ve killed again.

  “What do we do? Celebrate? That feels wrong,” she says, grabbing for the bottle to take her turn.

  “Commemorate?” I offer.

  She shakes her head. “Even worse.” She chugs the bottle.