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Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Twenty-Three

January 24, 2014/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Good morning,” Judge Tomlinson beamed at his courtroom. “I trust everyone had a good weekend.”
Sarah smiled in return as she stood at the defendant’s table with Bob Metcalf dressed in another ill-fitting suit, but she noticed that Tara Jacobs on the plaintiff’s side with Preston Baldwin, remained taughtly grim-faced. Probably because her surgeon had eliminated any possibility of smiling a couple of facelifts ago. Everything about Tara was so sleek she looked plastic. Her dark hair was pulled into the tightest bun on record. Her cobalt blue suit appeared to have been steamed within an inch of its life to remove every wrinkle. She was so thin Sarah doubted she ever touched food. Her French manicured nails were so long she could barely pick up a pencil. Every bit of her screamed she was trying too hard to be sleek, chic, and expensive.
“Let’s see, we’re here this morning on a motion Ms. Jacobs filed to quash Ms. Knight’s subpoenas for Ronald Brigman and Michael Reed’s bank records. Is that right?”
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Baldwin, this isn’t your motion. I’m not even sure why you’re at this hearing.”
“Well, Your Honor, the state is opposed to disclosure to the defendant of the sensitive personal documents of the victims.”
“They aren’t going to be disclosed to Mrs. Reed, Mr. Baldwin. Ms. Knight as counsel of record will receive them. And I’m still not sure what your interest is in this hearing.”
“The state represents the victims –”
“The state is seeking justice on behalf of the People, Mr. Baldwin.”
Sarah suppressed a smile. It was fun to watch the arrogant Preston Baldwin being raked over the Monday morning coals even if she guessed her own turn was coming.
“Well, of course, Your Honor, but – ”
“No ‘buts,” Mr. Baldwin. I’ve heard more than enough from you. Ms. Jacobs scheduled this hearing. If you don’t sit down and be quiet, I’ll ask you to leave.”
Preston Baldwin folded his lawyer tail between his legs and sat down next to Tara, who was still standing.
“Now, let’s see. I neglected to have you enter your appearances. Ms. Knight, obviously you are here on behalf of Mrs. Reed. I hear she’s doing better at the hospital?”
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“We like to hear every bit of good news we can get on Monday morning. And you have a gentleman with you whom I see is not your investigator.”
“That’s correct, Your Honor. This is Bob Metcalf, who represented Mrs. Reed in the family court proceedings. He may or may not be called as a witness.”
“Very good. Welcome, Mr. Metcalf.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
“Now, Ms. Jacobs, as to your appearance. Who are you here to represent?”
“Ronald Brigman and Michael Reed.”
“Hm.” Judge Tomlinson’s kind gray eyes studied Tara’s taught eagerness intently. “Don’t you have a bit of a problem, there?”
“Problem, Your Honor?”
“Yes, a problem of “standing.” You remember the legal concept of “standing,” Ms. Jacobs, from first year civil procedure in law school? You have to have “standing” to bring a matter before a court. You have to be an eligible party as the law defines ‘eligible party to a legal proceeding’ before you can ask the court to hear your position.”
Tara pursed her haughty collagen filled lips with utmost derision for the mild, rotund civil servant looking down at her from the bench. “Ronald Brigman and Michel Reed have standing to oppose disclosure of their personal bank records.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Jacobs, but you are wrong. They are both dead. That means they no longer have standing to oppose anything. The representatives of their estates can offer an opposition on their behalf, but Mr. Brigman and Mr. Reed are no longer able to be litigants in a court of law.”
“Yes, but I represented Michael in his family law matter.”
“Right, but you aren’t the executor of his estate nor do you represent the executor of his estate. And you’re not in family law court this morning. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“And I was not aware that Ronald Brigman was ever your client. If he had been, the State Bar would doubtless have been concerned about your conflict of interest since he was appointed to evaluate a number of your family law clients.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah saw Bob’s eyes widen as he struggled to keep the rest of his face lawyerlike and impassive. She guessed no judge in family court had ever talked to Tara this way. On the other side of the courtroom, Preston Baldwin was visibly shrinking in his chair as he began to understand the scope of the legal problem Tara’s ignorance had created.
“I – I well, Dr. Brigman was not a client. He was a friend.”
“Right. I understand that, but when has the attorney-client privilege applied to communications between friends?” Judge Tomlinson was enjoying watching her squirm because she was so obnoxious in her ignorance, Sarah thought.
“I – I – well, the privilege applies to Michael’s confidences to me. And some of those were disclosed to Dr. Brigman in the course of his work in this case.”
“And that gives you an even bigger problem, doesn’t it, Ms. Jacobs?”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor. How does telling a court-appointed evaluator information provided by my client create a problem?”
“Think hard, Ms. Jacobs. First-year law school again. Your first class in professional responsibility. What happens when you disclose a client’s confidences to a third party?”
Tara was bright red. “Well, they’re waived, of course. But, Dr. Brigman was a court-appointed evaluator.”
“Can you show me some authority that says court-appointed evaluators aren’t third-parties when it comes to attorney-client privilege?”
“I – I – no.” Tara looked stunned.
“Well, then. I think this hearing is over. You don’t have any standing to move to quash Ms. Knight’s subpoenas.”
“But Your Honor!” Preston Baldwin leapt to his feet and threw himself into the breach Tara’s incompetence had created.
“Mr. Baldwin, I thought I asked you to sit down and be quiet.”
“Please, Your Honor. At least hear Ms. Jacobs on the public policy issue.”
“Public policy issue?” Judge Tomlinson frowned.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Tara gave him the smile that apparently won judicial hearts and minds in family court. Only it wasn’t working here, Sarah thought.
“Okay. It’s Monday morning. I’ve had a nice weekend. I hear Mrs. Reed is recovering. I’m in as good a mood as I’ll probably be in all week. Tell me these ‘public policy’ reasons of yours to quash Ms. Knight’s subpoenas.”
Judge Tomlinson settled back in his chair and kept his eyes on Tara Jacobs.
“May it please the court.”
“Ms. Jacobs, I’m not pleased, in case you haven’t noticed. And this isn’t first-year law school moot court, nor are you in the court of appeal. This is superior court where I am vastly underpaid and very overworked. Just get to the point.”
“Sorry, Your Honor. The points is Alexa Reed should not profit by her decision to kill her husband and Dr. Brigman. Mrs. Reed is a lying, devious, manipulative individual with a psychopathic borderline personality disorder, whose only goal in life was to live off her husband’s money. She – ”
“Wait, Ms. Jacobs. Just wait, please.” Judge Tomlinson held up his hand. “No one, particularly a criminal defendant who is presumed innocent until proven guilty, is going to be called lying, manipulative, or psychopathic in my courtroom by an attorney, unless an expert has first testified to that based on authorities reasonably relied on by experts in the field. I am not persuaded by character assassination. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor. If I might finish?”
“You’re finished, Ms. Jacobs. I did my tour as a judge in family law court a few years back. The kind of language you are using disgusted me then, and it does now. I feel like levying a hefty sanction on you for wasting my time this morning. If you’d done your legal research, you’ve have known you had no standing. If you will kindly fold up your papers and exit now, I won’t impose the $2,000 fine I’m considering. Your motion was frivolous, and it is very, very denied.”
Sarah thought she heard a slight whimper from Tara as she swept her legal pad into her Louis Vuitton brief case and headed for the backdoor. She could see Bob was still working hard to suppress a grin of delight.
Fortunately, he continued to be successful because the judge turned to him next, “Mr. Metcalf. Again, thank you for spending part of your Monday with us. I’m going to let you go now, because I need to talk to Ms. Knight and Mr. Baldwin about scheduling in Mrs. Reed’s case.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Bob picked up his well-worn briefcase and headed for the exit.
Judge Tomlinson frowned at Preston Baldwin as the door closed behind Bob.
“Did you know that was going to be her motion?”
“No, Your Honor. I thought she was going to say she represented the estates of the two victims.”
“If I hadn’t been on the bench in family court and seen the way they practice over there, I wouldn’t have believed anyone who had passed the California Bar would have pulled a stunt like that. Anyway, that’s not why I kept the two of you. I understand Ms. Knight wants Mrs. Reed out on bail when she leaves the hospital.”
“That’s correct, Your Honor.” Sarah willed herself to be calm and not to give away too much of her case for Alexa’s release.
“Your Honor, Ms. Knight is as out-in-left-field as Ms. Jacobs. There’s no right to bail in a capital case.”
“True, but she has a right to a bail hearing. And you’ve calendared one for October 1, haven’t you?” Judge Tomlinson looked at Sarah.
“I have, Your Honor.”
“I was just putting out some feelers to see if the two of you might reach an agreement on Mrs. Reed’s custody status to save us the trouble of the hearing.”
“The people want her in jail. Period.”
“Then I think we’re on for October 1. You do know, Ms. Knight you have to show facts that demonstrate she may not be guilty?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“I just want you to be aware I’m not going to be any happier than I was today if you waste my time.”
“I understand, Your Honor.”
“And now I believe you wanted to talk to me about hiring the experts you need for Mrs. Reed’s defense?”
“That is correct, Your Honor.”
“Very well. Mr. Baldwin, you may go. I need to meet with Ms. Knight in my chambers for a few minutes.”

Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Twenty-One

January 10, 2014/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mid-September days in San Diego are mild and soft and wrap around you like the arms of a lover, Sarah Knight reflected on the third Monday of the month as she got out of her car in the UCSD parking lot in Hillcrest at ten o’clock. August’s fiery blasts were gone, and the breeze was light and crisp with the promise of fall. She wished she could escape work for the day and sit on one of the craggy bluffs overlooking the Pacific, thinking of nothing but the steady rhythm of the tide rolling in. She wanted to escape her life, and Jim, and Alexa Reed with every fiber of her being.
But Jim was already in Alexa’s room waiting for her because their client had finally recovered her voice enough to talk to them. Since Alexa had come out of her coma a week ago, Sarah had let Jim take the laboring oar at the hospital. She told herself she sent Jim without her because she needed to focus on pulling together the evidence that would keep Alexa from going back to jail. But in reality her overwhelming guilt kept her away. She had not slept a night through since the dark small hours of that Saturday when she’d called Alexa back in the name of her children. And now she was wracked with guilt because she had drawn Alexa’s spirit away from the threshold of eternity with a promise she could never keep: reunion with Meggie and Sam.
Sarah took a deep breath before pushing open the door to Alexa’s room. She seemed to grow smaller every time Sarah saw her. Her client was sitting up, propped against a number of large pillows; Jim occupied the chair next to her bed. He was entertaining her with small talk about Georgetown. Sarah saw the first-ever smile on Alexa’s face and felt that familiar unwanted pang of jealousy. Alexa and Jim had gone to the same law school, and they’d naturally become friends in the last week while Sarah had stayed away.
They both looked up as the door opened, slightly startled by her interruption. But Jim recovered impeccably, quickly standing to offer her the chair closest to the bed and pulling up another for himself some distance away.
Sarah looked over at the tiny figure watching her expectantly and suddenly felt awkward and unsure of how to begin. “I’m Sarah Knight, your attorney.”
Alexa nodded. “Yes.” Not surprisingly her voice was low and raspy. She took a sip of water from the covered plastic cup in her hands.
“I thought we’d start with the police report. You told Officer McColly Meggie phoned you at 11:15, upset because her father was in an argument with a woman.”
Alexa nodded.
“And you drove to the house to find Michael dead and the children crying.”
She nodded again.
“But you didn’t tell the police you had arrived at Ronald Brigman’s earlier that night at 9:00 p.m.?”
She frowned. “I don’t remember being at Dr. Brigman’s.”
“He had a surveillance camera focused on his front door. It shows you going in at 9:00 p.m. It doesn’t show you leaving.”
She looked upset and confused. “Then I must have been there. But I don’t remember it.”
Jim looked up from his notes and gave Alexa a sympathetic smile that registered in Sarah’s midsection as an acute pang of jealousy. “We’ve talked this week when she’s felt like it,” Jim sid. “There’s a lot she can’t remember. The doctor warned us about memory loss.”
Sarah nodded politely, trying not to show her irritation over his obvious bond with their client. “Well, then, let’s work with what you do remember. Tell me about that night.”
Alexa fixed her beautiful blue eyes on Jim as if Sara hadn’t asked the question. “I was driving in the car. I remember that. It was dark, and it was late. I don’t know why I was driving in the car. My cell phone rang, and it was Meggie. She was crying. She said Michael was arguing with a woman, and she and Sam were scared. She wanted me to come and get them.”
“Is that all you remember?”
“I remember walking into Michael’s house and seeing him lying in a pool of blood. Meggie and Sam were hiding in the closet in Meggie’s bedroom. I took them home, and called the police.”
“So you don’t remember being at Ronald Brigman’s at all?”
“No.”
“What about seeing Brigman dead on his living room floor?”
“No.” She frowned as she struggled to remember. “It feels as if there is something I should remember. But I can’t. I must have been very upset to have been driving around in the car alone at night.”
“In the vicinity of Michael’s and Brigman’s, too.”
Her lovely blue eyes seemed to have a mist over them. “Yes, right. I don’t know why I was there before Meggie called. I think I used to know. But I don’t remember now.”
“Do you remember having your gun with you that night?”
“No. I know I didn’t have the gun then.”
“Why?”
“Because it had been stolen.”
“When?”
“In March. Or maybe it was April. It was not long after Brigman announced he was going to give Michael eighty per cent custody of the children on June 1.”
“Did you remember why you had the gun?”
“Bob told me to get it. Michael kept threatening to kill me, and Bob said I had to take the threats seriously.”
“Were any of the threats in writing or in front of witnesses?
“No. Michael always bragged he was too clever to get caught. But Bob said even if we couldn’t prove them, the threats were real, and I needed to protect myself.”
“Where did you keep the gun?”
“I kept it locked in the trunk of the car. I was afraid to have it in the house because of the children.”
“How did you find out the gun was missing?”
“I checked on it several times a week to make sure it was secure. One Sunday afternoon, I opened the trunk and it was gone.”
“Did you make a police report?”
“Yes. I called Bob, and that’s what he said to do.”
“Did you know Trevor Martin says there was no police report?”
“He told me that. But I did talk to an officer that same afternoon, and he said he was going to write a report.”
“Do you remember his name?”
Alexa shook her head. “No. I’m pretty sure I didn’t write it down. It never occurred to me anyone would think I would lie about contacting the police.”
“Michael filed for divorce in January 2009?”
“Yes.”
“Were you surprised?”
Alexa sighed. “That’s not a simple yes or no answer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I found out early in our marriage Michael was unfaithful. By now you’ve heard about the paralegal he got pregnant during our first year at the firm. After I realized what was going on, I tried to get him to go to counseling with me. That’s when he started to hit me.”
Alexa focused on the blank wall opposite and went on as if reciting from a book. “Michael enjoyed his affairs, but what he enjoyed even more was humiliating me with them. He made sure I knew about every one. He liked to hit me while he bragged about them.”
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“I going to, but then I found out I was pregnant with Meggie. Michael stopped hitting me while I pregnant, and I thought he wanted to save our marriage. But I was wrong. He just didn’t want to take any chances my doctor would see bruises and ask questions.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he told me. He started hitting me again when Meggie was six weeks old, when I had finished my post partum visits. I wanted to leave, but I had nowhere to go. My grandmother was my only family; and she died in 2005, the year I married Michael.
“I figured if I were pregnant again, Michael would stop hitting me, so I got pregnant with Sam when Meggie was six months old. And I was right; he did stop until after Sam was born.”
“Did anyone at Warrick, Thompson know?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. But I missed a lot of days of work because I didn’t want anyone to see the bruises. Michael stepped up the beatings after I went back to work after Sam was born. I didn’t want to leave the firm because I didn’t want to be isolated with Michael. But coping with two babies and never knowing when Michael would come at me again was very hard. It was almost a relief when Alan Warrick let me go because my billable hours were too low. The firm wasn’t making any money off of me.”
“When did you leave the firm?”
“October 2008. Alan called it a ‘leave of absence.” In theory I would come back when Sam was a year old.” Her voice cracked, and she took a sip of water from her cup.
“Did things get better after you stayed home with the children?”
“I wish I could say yes; but no, they didn’t. Michael wasn’t afraid of anyone seeing the bruises.”
“Why didn’t you leave Michael, then?”
“I was planning to. I saw a divorce attorney in November. I put my resume together to try to get a teaching job at one of the law schools in town. I talked to Alan about it, and he offered to be a reference. He had some connections at Cal Western, and he thought he might be able to get me a job teaching Constitutional Law.”
“But you didn’t file for divorce.”
“No, the family law attorney told me the court would not order supervised visits with the children for Michael even though he’d been violent with me. He wasn’t with them much, and he wasn’t patient, and they were so little. I was afraid for them to be alone with them, so I decided I’d better stick it out until they were older and could speak for themselves if Michael went after them.”
“So what led Michael to file for divorce?”
“I don’t know when Michael found out that I had seen the family law attorney. I never told him. But he confronted me about it when we got home from the big Warrick, Thompson Christmas party. He hit me so hard, he broke my left arm. He took me to the emergency room; but on the way he said I if I told the truth about how I’d been hurt, he’d file for divorce, and I would never see the children again. So I told the ER doctor I slipped and fell.”
“Did the doctor believe you?”
“I’m not sure. He seemed suspicious because Michael wouldn’t leave the room when he was talking to me. But if you pull those hospital records, you’ll see I didn’t tell the truth.”
“Are you sure no one else ever witnessed what Michael did to you?”
“There was someone, but she’s been deported.”
“Who?”
“I had a nanny named Guadalupe Caballero who helped out with Meggie and then later with Sam, so I could go back to work. She lived with us, so she not only saw the bruises, she heard Michael hitting me, too.”
“Where is she now?”
“She was undocumented, and Michael had her deported when he filed for divorce.”
“Did Bob Metcalf ever try to find her?”
“No. He didn’t know how to, and honestly, I don’t think she would have cooperated anyway. She was terrified when the INS came to get her.”
“What happened after Michael broke your arm in December?”
“Coleman got involved. He’d been unfaithful to Myrna for years and had been physically abusive, so he thought nothing of what Michael was doing to me. But he knew I had options to leave that Myrna didn’t have, and he didn’t want the world to know his or Michael’s secrets. He called me the day after they put the cast on and offered to pay me what amounted to a monthly income if I wouldn’t leave Michael.”
“A bribe?”
“Yes.”
“And you said?”
“No, of course. I was insulted.”
“How did Coleman react?”
“He was very angry. He told me that was the best offer I’d ever get, and I’d rue the day I turned it down. Then he helped Michael hide all of the community property in offshore accounts, so I wouldn’t get any.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s an educated guess. Just before Michael filed for divorce, all our bank accounts suddenly went down almost to zero. Coleman liked to use offshore accounts for his various clients, so I think he used his expertise to help Michael hide the community property.”
“Was Coleman involved in money laundering?”
“You’d have to ask Alan Warrick since he was the one who monitored client finds in the firm’s trust account. But if Coleman was up to anything illegal, I doubt he would have let Alan know because Alan is very by-the book-follow-the rules, no exceptions.”
“Still, Alan might have known,” Sarah insisted.
“A pretty slim possibility,” Alexa whispered as she sipped from her cup, her eyes on Jim.
Her voice had dropped to a deep whisper, and her face was gray with fatigue. Sarah needed to ask a lot more, but she wanted out of that room at that moment more than anything else on earth. She wanted to be away from Jim’s steady quiet eyes on Alexa and his encouraging smiles as she answered Sarah’s questions.
“We’ve covered a lot of ground, and I think you’re too tired to go on right now. I’ll come another day when you’ve had a chance to rest.”

Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Twenty

January 3, 2014/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

CHAPTER TWENTY
Alexa Reed was swimming upward from the bottom of the darkest ocean. Her eyelids felt like lead as she tried to force them open to see if she had surfaced yet. She worked to move her lips to speak, but she was still deep under water.
Her mouth was dry and her throat hurt. As she struggled through the darkness hoping to reach the light, she imagined ice water tingling on her tongue. She concentrated on the weights on each eyelid, willing them to vanish so she could see how much farther she had to go before she’d break free of the dark. But then there’d be the problem of swimming to shore. Her limbs were heavy, and she couldn’t imagine having the strength to keep going much longer. Something was pushing on her chest. Was she wearing scuba gear? But a scuba tank didn’t push the air into your lungs. Was she still alive or was this death?
* * *
Around 8 a.m. on Sunday morning, Jim saw Alexa’s eyelids flicker. He held his breath as he waited to see if she’d open them. His back was stiff and sore from the makeshift cot and from being in the chair by her bed for so many hours. The stubble on his chin itched, and he longed for a hot shower and a razor. He had been about to go for a brief walk in the hallway to limber up, but now he stayed put and tried to pray.
Religion, like the Bureau, had wedged itself between him and Gail. His parents had given God short shrift, and he was pretty sure neither of them believed. His maternal grandmother had taken him to her Lutheran services when he was very small. Jim liked the clean smell of the church, the ever-changing flower arrangements on the alter, and the sense of peace that reciting the words of the liturgy with everyone else gave him. But she died when he was twelve, and that was the end of his brush with God until he married Gail in a long Catholic mass, heavy with ritual and incense.
His grandmother had convinced him God was real, despite his parents’ obvious indifference; so when Gail became pregnant with Cody and told him how much it meant to her to have all three of them in the church, he’d been very willing to go along. He’d agreed to everything: Cody’s baptism, suitably Catholic godparents of Gail’s choosing, attendance at Mass every Sunday and on required holy days. He’d been ready to convert until those divorce papers came his way, and he’d found out his already Catholic partner was taking his place in his family.
The bitterness of that moment never ceased to sweep his lungs clean of air. As he watched Alexa’s eyes, hoping for some concrete sign she had decided to soldier on with life, he struggled both to find the words to a prayer and some air to pump into his own now empty lungs.
And then in a flash, Jim was looking at Alexa’s deep blue eyes; and they weren’t blank the way they’d been while she’d been lying on the jail cot. They were a mixture of confusion and anxiety. The doctor apparently had been right: her memory was gone, and she had no idea how she’d wound up here.
Jim got up and hurried over to the bed.
“Alexa?”
Her eyes met his, and tears began to flow. They streamed down her face, a torrent of unchecked emotion. He sat down on the side of the bed and did what he could to gather her into his arms. She was attached to so many machines, he couldn’t hold her very close, and he doubted the professional propriety of what he was doing, anyway.
But professionalism wasn’t the point, he reminded himself. Alexa Reed needed human contact at that moment, and fate had put him there to provide it.
“It’s ok, it’s ok,” he whispered over and over, patting what was left of her thin little body. “You’re going to be ok, now.”
But, of course, that wasn’t true.
The door opened and Sarah appeared, her eyes puffy from lack of sleep, her short hair sticking up wildly, and her clothes wrinkled from being slept in. Jim wasn’t sure if her eyes went wide with shock because Alexa was awake or because he was holding her in his arms. He felt even more uncomfortable.
“She just woke up.”
Sarah nodded, but said nothing.
“We’d better call the nurse.”
She remained silent but reached for the call button.
Jim eased Alexa back onto her pillows and awkwardly dabbed at her eyes with the end of the sheet.
“Here.” Sarah handed him a wad of tissue from the box by the bed.
“Thanks.”
Alexa’s eyes were now fixed on Sarah’s face as if she were seeing her for the first time. Jim’s heart sank. Significant memory loss for sure.
A crisp, newly on-duty morning shift nurse answered their call and quickly shooed them out of the room while she took Alexa’s vital signs and summoned a doctor. Once again, they stood in the corridor outside Alexa’s door and waited for news.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“She had just opened her eyes. When she started to cry, I didn’t have time to think.”
Jim’s empty stomach knotted because Sarah looked skeptical.
They stood in awkward silence in the corridor, waiting for the doctor to come out.
Finally, he emerged from Alexa’s room. His name badge said Dr. P. McMillan. Sarah notice Dr. McMillan was ten years younger than Dr. McCord of the previous evening but no less jaded and not particularly optimistic.
“Dropping her sedation has allowed her to wake up.”
“So is she going to be ok?” Sarah demanded.
“Too soon to tell. We need to wean her off the ventilator.”
“How long will that take?” Sarah had never seemed to be in a hurry before, Jim thought.
“I can’t say. Some patients can breathe on their own in six to eight hours. Others, it’s a long process.”
“When can she talk to us?”
“Not for several days, and that’s assuming the weaning process goes quickly. She’s going to have a sore throat and the tracheotomy has to heal.”
Jim saw Sarah’s shoulders sag.
Dr. McMillan noticed, too. “Look, these things take time.”
“I know. I know.” Sarah frowned. “But I really need to talk to her.”
Jim was disappointed she’d said “I” and not “we.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Jim faced Sarah over bacon and eggs in the cafeteria.“I’m pretty sure these started life as powder in a tin and not as yolks and whites in shells,” he said.
But Sarah was already digging in. “I’d probably eat cardboard right now if you put it in front of me.”
He smiled. “When this is all over, I’m going to cook you the best brunch in San Diego.”
“Thanks, but I’m not sure how we’ll know when it’s over.”
Her eyes darkened as she reached for a slice of limp toast and began to butter it.
“You knew when the Menendez case was over.”
Sarah dropped the knife, and it hit the plastic plate so hard that the occupants of adjacent tables looked up. Her eyes met his, full of dark fire. “I don’t want you to mention that case again! I can’t talk to you about what happened because it’s covered by attorney-client privilege. And Alexa Reed’s situation is very, very different. If you mention Menendez one more time, even though I think you’re the best, I’ll get another investigator.”
The force of her fury startled him. “I’m apologize for bringing it up. I don’t want you to hire someone else.”
She sighed and took a long sip of coffee before picking up the knife and going back to buttering the toast. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
“It’s ok. We’re both exhausted. I was going to suggest going home and getting some sleep.”
“Do you think we can leave her now?”
“She’s going to be watched pretty closely while they try to get her off that ventilator. I say we go get some sleep and meet here again at six to see how she’s doing.”
“Agreed.”
“What are you going to do if she does come off the ventilator quickly? Sending her back to the jail isn’t safe.”
“I’m thinking about that. She has no right to bail because she’s charged with capital murder. She has the right to a bail hearing, but bail can be denied if the facts of guilt are ‘evident’ or the presumption of guilt is ‘great.’ Since we don’t yet have enough facts to know what our defense is going to be, I’m not sure how I can show that the facts of guilt aren’t ‘evident.’”
“You could call the night nurse who told me about the jail’s request for her medical records before they gave her the Lexapro. And you could call the EMT who did the tracheotomy that saved her life.”
Sarah listened thoughtfully. “That would prove they tried to kill her, but I’m not sure that would prove she might be innocent.”
“Bob Metcalf could testify about the war Michael Reed waged on her.”
She frowned. “That wouldn’t give us a Battered Woman’s Syndrome defense. We only have her statements to Bob that she was beaten, and those are hearsay and covered by the attorney-client privilege.”
“But the brutality of the court proceedings – you saw how thick that file was. Michael hauled her on the carpet every chance he got. She might have finally snapped that night and killed both of her tormentors.”
“True. That would be a manslaughter defense and would mean she’s not guilty of capital murder. I’m just not sure I want Preston Baldwin to know the defense theory of the case this early in the game.”
“Maybe you could try it with just the nurse and the EMT and not call Bob unless you have to.”
“That’s a thought. Did you get any contact information for the nurse?”
“Of course. And I wrote down the names of the EMT’s, too. I’ll contact them both tomorrow, although I can see if Tammi is on duty tonight when we come back.”
“I’ll go home and start drafting a motion for the hearing.”
“Don’t you think you should go home and get some rest first?”
“I’m trying to save her life. I haven’t got time to rest. I’m pretty sure if she goes back to jail there won’t be a trial.”

Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Sixteen

December 6, 2013/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Hospitals are white and barren at night, Sarah thought, as they headed down the wide linoleum corridor on the third floor where she’d been told she would find Alexa’s room. She matched her step to Jim’s long stride and raced along, praying the news wouldn’t be bad. Her heart was hammering hard in her chest. A big circle of clock pinned to the white tile wall said it was 11:30.
A deputy sheriff in his khaki uniform was on guard outside Alex’s room. He stopped them as they tried to enter.
“You can’t go in there.”
“Yes, I can. I’m her attorney, Sarah Knight, and this is my private investigator, Jim Mitchell.” They flashed their bar cards at the grim deputy as if they were light sabers, and went in.
Her breath caught the minute she entered. In the dim light, she could make out Alexa’s tiny form in the big hospital bed. They had tubes down her throat and an IV ran into one arm. The other was handcuffed to the bed. A machine was obviously breathing for her.
White-hot anger boiled up in Sarah like a monstrous dragon rising from the depths of the earth. She turned and pulled open the door and barked at the deputy, “Come in here, right now!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t – ”
“Yes – you – can!” Sarah formed each word with insulting clarity.
The deputy shifted his head from side to side to see who was watching, and then obeyed her.
“Take those handcuffs off right now!”
“I can’t, ma’am. The prisoner is being held for double murder.”
“I said, Take them off! There’s no possibility Mrs. Reed is going anywhere!”
The deputy frowned but obeyed. “You’re responsible if she escapes.”
“Gladly!”
After the deputy had shuffled back to his post in defeat, Sarah took some long breaths to calm down. Her pulse was racing as if she’d just run a marathon. Jim, who was standing beside her, laid a hand on her arm as if to remind her she wasn’t alone.
“It’s worse than I pictured,” she said.
“Agreed.”
The door opened and a fortiesh woman in dark gray scrubs with tired eyes and wisps of hair escaping what had started her shift as a bun came in. “Who are you? You can’t be in here.”
“I’m Alexa’s attorney, and this is my investigator. She doesn’t have any family that anyone knows of. We came to see what happened and how she’s doing.”
“She had a reaction to the drugs the jail gave her.”
“What were they?”
“Lexapro and Depakote.”
“Did they check for medical allergies before they prescribed them?”
“I have no idea. I work here. You’ll have to ask the people downtown in the jail what they knew about her medical history. Look, don’t give me a hard time, ok? I’m just supposed to check her vitals and fill in her chart and note that she’s still alive. Barely.”
Sarah frowned but said no more, bowing to the frazzled nurse’s exhaustion.
After she left, Sarah tired to sit down on the side of the bed, but because of all the machines close by there was no space. Jim pulled up a chair for her.
“Here.”
“Thanks.” Sarah sank into it as she reached for Alexa Reed’s lifeless hand.
“Do you want some time with here alone?” Jim asked.
“Yeah. I think so. Those handcuffs really set me off.”
“And they should have. As much as I hate to say it, she’s not looking as if she’s going to come out of this.”
Sarah sighed. “Agreed. They’re such bastards, they’d let her die without a priest.”
“Is she Catholic?”
“Pretty close. Episcopalian. I read it in her file. Brigman made a big stink about her wanting to raise the children in her church supposedly to alienate them from Michael who wasn’t religious.”
“I’ll go see if there’s any kind of priest on duty.”
“Even a Catholic one would do.” Sarah touched the lifeless form on the bed. “She deserves a better send off to the next world than she’s had in this one. How I wish I still believed in God!”
* * *
Sarah sat in the dim room with Alexa’s lifeless form for a long time. The respirator mechanically and rhythmically pushed her lungs up and down as if Alexa herself were resisting continuing to live.
Why save her for the purpose of killing her, Sarah wondered. What would happen to me if I pulled the plug on the machine? I could say I tripped. I could end all of this in a split second. She stared at the tangle of wires under the bed, trying to decide which one to disconnect to free Alexa Reed forever. She had a feeling Hal Remington and the San Diego legal community and Coleman Reed would be so grateful, she’d never lack for court-appointed work. Not that she cared about that.
This is when you pray, Sarah reminded herself. But she had prayed once. No, not once. She had prayed every day for hundreds and hundreds of days. She had worn out her knees proving there was no God because if there had been, her prayers would have been answered. But God was merely a figment of suffering peoples’ imaginations. He was no more than an effort to explain the unexplainable horror of unbearable suffering. The nightmare of those hundreds of unanswered prayers had altered her life forever. She would always be alone.
Suddenly and almost silently, the door swung open, and Jim appeared with a thirtyish man in a priest’s collar and black suit.
“Sarah, this is Father Richard Morely. He’s a Catholic priest, but he’s on duty right now as the night chaplain.”
“She needs the last rites, Father,” Sarah said. “She’s Episcopalian. Can you still do that for her?”
“Of course. Do you know if she was ever baptized? That’s more the important sacrament.”
“No, we don’t know. I’m her attorney. We don’t think she has any family. Her file says she grew up Episcopalian, so I’d bet she was baptized. I know her children were.”
“I’ll do both, just to be very sure,” Father Morley said. “I’ll need to fetch some holy water from the chapel and anointing oil. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
Jim’s kind eyes met hers, and she struggled to keep her face impassive. “Thanks for finding him.”
“Of course. I didn’t know you were religious.”
“I’m not. But Alexa is. Or was.”
Jim looked over at the little form on the big bed. He walked over and gently stroked the tangled blonde hair as if she were a child. Sarah marveled at the compassion in his touch.
As he smoothed Alexa’s matted curls he said, “I was religious once. Gail wanted Cody to be raised Catholic because she is. I went to mass with them every week. I thought of converting. But then Gail hit me with those divorce papers; and I lost what I loved best in the word. I wondered why God didn’t at least send me a warning. After that, I wasn’t so sure about Him anymore.”
“A benevolent God would have Alexa Reed home safe and sound with her children right now.” Sarah could see the bitterness in her voice had startled him. “I’m sure it’s a pretty safe bet that heaven is the empty hole we think it is.”
The door swung open and Father Morely came back with his priest’s stole, holy water, and anointing oil. Sarah was surprised when Jim suddenly left the room as if he didn’t want to watch what was about to take place.

Dark Moon, A Work In Progress, Chapter Thirteen

November 8, 2013/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jim drove Jordan to the train in Solana Beach that afternoon. Despite her protests she didn’t need any help, he carried her overnight bag across the parking lot to the gunmetal gray, half-cylinder station, surrounded by red, white, and blue Amtrak kiosks and a single coffee vender under a green umbrella with gold fringe.
“Thanks for putting me up,” Jordan said. “You were right about the breakfast. Michelin would give you six stars if they knew about you.”
Jim grinned. “For that I have to buy you coffee. You’ve got time before the train, and Amtrak isn’t stellar in the coffee department.”
They stood by the chain link balcony overlooking the tracks below, basking in the mild afternoon sun and the cool salt breeze as they sipped lattes from paper cups with lids shaped like toddlers’ tippee cups.
“Sarah is taking this loss pretty hard,” Jordan observed.
“I haven’t worked with her long enough to know how she usually reacts.”
“She’s normally unphased. Actually, sometimes I think she’s too unphased. She doesn’t seem to show much emotion except when she’s in front of a jury.”
“Some people aren’t upset easily.”
Jordan shook her head. “This is more than that with Sarah. It’s as if feelings bounce off of her. Or as if they are embedded so deeply inside her, she can’t experience them.”
“Any idea why?”
“No. She never talks about her past. As far as I know, she grew up here, went to Yale, and spent all her days and nights at Craig, Lewis, and Weller until she came back to San Diego in January. I will say, she seems more tightly wound since she came back. She was more relaxed in New York. I’d say something was bothering her in this town even before she took Alexa Reed’s case.”
“Most likely the stress of starting her own law practice. I suppose she told you she signed up to take cases like Alexa’s to generate business here in San Diego. All her work was coming from Los Angeles.”
“Maybe business stress is the answer.”
“And then, too, I suppose you know about David Scott?”
“The millionaire married realty tycoon? Well, I will admit that has gone on longer than her usual very-short lived relationships.”
Jim tried not to show any emotion, but Jordan was too quick for him. “Look, we’ve already established you have an interest in her. You don’t have to pretend the David Scott business doesn’t make you unhappy.”
“Ok, busted. It makes me unhappy. Have you met him?”
“I have. Picture stereotypical west coast over-forty male trying to look late twenties. The wife is a plastic surgeon’s version of blonde Barbie, boob job, nose job, and Angelina Jolie lips. No kids. I’m sure she wouldn’t want to spoil her figure for nine months.”
Jordan downed the last of her coffee and tossed it into the trash can. “The train will be here soon. I’d better get down on the platform, so I can get a good seat in business class. Why don’t you stop by Sarah’s place tonight and check on her? I’ll text you the address.”
* * *
He waited until 7:30 to drive to the cottage in La Jolla Shores where Sarah lived. She was three streets from the beach in one of the small stucco houses that had been built in the forties and probably had all of fourteen hundred square feet. Hers was the same shade of beige stucco as its neighbors, but the windows had deep terra cotta shutters that gave it a personality of its own. Land values had made these tiny homes worth millions; and every one, including hers, was an expensively landscaped gem with strategically placed potted palms in clay pots, pink bougainvillaea vines trailing up the walls, and a jungle of feathery maiden hair ferns in the flower beds.
He was as nervous as a kid on his first prom date as he stood on her front stoop in his jeans, loafers, and yellow knit shirt after ringing the bell. No one answered. The butterflies in his gut began to swoop and soar. This had been a stupid idea. What if she was tucked up with that Scott character? He didn’t embarrass easily, but he’d not get over that one in a hurry, especially because they worked together.
But he wanted to see her, so he threw caution to the wind and rang again. This time, he heard someone shuffling toward the door and felt himself being scrutinized in the peep hole before he heard the click of the deadbolt’s release.
She was barefoot, wearing black yoga pants, a black camisole, and no makeup. Her pixie hair was tousled as if someone had run fingers through it. Jim thought of David Scott once more with foreboding.
He licked his dry lips and tried to sound nonchalant. “I thought I’d come by and offer to take you out for a drink. I was thinking you might want to unwind after the hearing today, and I’ve got some new information on Michael Reed.” He wished he could add, “Are you alone,” but, of course, he couldn’t.
“Thanks, but I’m pretty exhausted.” His hopes fell. But she went on, “Besides, we can’t talk about the case in public. Why don’t you come in though and have a drink here, and you can tell me about Michael. I’d like some good news after today.”
The butterflies had left his stomach and were flying around his heart. He was weak with gratitude and relief. She was alone.
He followed her down the hall, his loafers clattering slightly on the polished, golden hardwood floor. She led him through the living room, where no lights were on and where he had a quick glimpse of casual but sophisticated white slip-covered Pottery Barn furniture. She led him through mahogany French doors that were opened onto a miniature stone patio surrounded by palms and bougainville mixed with more ferns and bright blue morning glory vines and red hibiscus.
She had been sitting on one of the redwood lounge chairs covered in crisp white linen cushions, apparently killing a bottle of expensive California red zin by herself in the soft pink twilight. She motioned to the other lounge chair and said, “Sit down. I’ll go get another glass. And another bottle of wine.”
“Have you eaten?”
“I’m not hungry.”
She’d been thin when they met, but she’d lost weight in the last month. Another reason to worry about what this case was doing to her.
“If I cook, you’ll be hungry.”
“But there’s nothing here to cook. I – I haven’t had time to go to the market.”
He bet she kept little in the house to eat as a general rule. “I’m a food wizard. Let me take a look.”
She led him back through the living room to the miniature but very modern white tile and stainless steel kitchen. He opened her Sub Zero refrigerator to find butter, eggs, cheese and some port wine salami.
“One of my amazing omelettes will fix you right up.”
She opened the second bottle of wine and poured him a glass. She watched in silence as he transformed her scant variety of ingredients into two omelettes that they ate on the patio in the deepening, brine-scented twilight.
“I like it here,” Jim said, as he put his empty plate on the table between the two chaise lounges where the bottle of wine now also stood.
“I wanted to be close to the ocean. The previous owner remodeled just before I bought it. Everything’s new. I was lucky.”
“You never asked how I found your address.”
“You’re an ex-FBI agent turned private investigator. I didn’t need to ask.”
“I hope you don’t mind that I came by. I thought you might want company because today was a tough loss.”
She shrugged and sipped her wine. “But not unexpected. Although, I will admit Judge Tomlinson got my hopes up when he wanted time to think it over. Jordan did her usual brilliant job. She’s believable because she’s honest.”
“Unlike the opposition.”
“True. But we have one more crack at this at the next hearing in thirty days. Meds may not bring her back enough to stand trial. The judge didn’t count out that possibility.”
“True.” He could smell her gardenia perfume across the small space that separated them. Like a high school kid, he wished they were side by side on a sofa where he could casually drop his arm across the back, hoping for skin-to-skin contact.
“Great food, again, by the way.”
“I have the feeling you need a personal chef.”
“I can’t cook. I burn everything. No patience.”
“Patience to do complex legal work but not to follow a recipe.”
“Yeah, go figure.” For the first time, she let her eyes meet his, and she smiled. His heart was like a runaway freight train on the downhill.
“You had news about Michael Reed? Evidence he beat his wife, I hope.”
“No, I haven’t found that yet. But interesting evidence, nonetheless.”
Sarah polished off her wine and poured another. “So tell me.”
“Okay, Michael, like his father The Honorable Coleman Reed, was chronically unfaithful to his wife.”
“Ah, chip-off-the-old block syndrome.”
“Exactly.”
“So as you’d expect, Michael had tons of affairs.”
“Did Alexa know?”
“Well, we won’t know that, of course, until she talks to us. But there were so many she must have known. He thought everything in skirts was fair game. She may even have known he got a Warrick, Thompson paralegal pregnant during their first year at the firm.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure. I have a copy of the payment to the abortion clinic from Warrick, Thompson.”
“Are you telling me, the law firm paid for her abortion?”
“Yep. I have a copy of the cashier’s check they used.”
“Who is your source?”
“Unfortunately, not someone we can call as a witness. A friend of mine is chummy with Warrick’s nonlegal personnel director. He managed to get me the names of all the women paralegals who were at the firm the year Alexa and Michael came to work there. When I was in D.C., I had heard rumors about Coleman’s infidelities. It was just a hunch that the apple wouldn’t fall far from the tree.
“Most of the women on the list don’t work for Warrick, Thompson anymore. But a Lisa Miller is still there, and she was willing to talk to me. She likes Alexa and thinks she was treated unfairly when they fired her. She’s a stunning redhead, about the same age as Alexa and Michel. And, of course, Michael had come on to her more than once.
“She said the woman Michael got pregnant was named Toni Anders. The firm paid for her abortion and gave her a big severance check. Toni gave Lisa a copy of the firm’s checks, one for the clinic, the other for the severance pay, in case something happened to her. If Lisa got word that Toni had been killed, she was to take them to the police to prove Warrick, Thompson’s involvement.”
“Any way to find Toni Anders now?”
“No luck so far.”
“Too bad. It would be interesting to know if Michael was violent with her. If I were a betting woman, I’d say yes.”
“Agreed. I’m going to keep looking, of course.”
“I don’t understand why the firm paid for an abortion. That’s not the kind of thing Alan Warrick would do. I know he and his wife have an arrangement like David and Tessa’s, but Alan would never use firm money for something as personal as that.”
Jim winced when she mentioned the real estate mogul. “I would bet Coleman Reed forced them to do it.”
“But he was on the Supreme Court by 2005.”
“Right, but he left his clients in the hands of Warrick, Thompson’s attorneys didn’t he? And he had a reputation as quite a rainmaker.”
“So you think he could somehow force Alan to pay for Michael’s mess up?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder if Alan would admit to that.”
“I still think we need to pay him that visit in Paris.”
“No time now. There are people here we need to see more urgently than Alan. I was going to call you to let you know her family law attorney, Bob Metcalf, agreed to meet with me tomorrow at two.”
“Do you want me along?”
“Yes. He might, indeed, be a witness in this case.”
His heart raced with joy.

Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Twelve

November 1, 2013/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

CHAPTER TWELVE
September 2013
Sitting at the defense table with Jim next to her on the Tuesday after Labor Day, Sarah stared up at The Honorable John Charles Tomlinson and tried to quiet the butterflies in her stomach. Judge Tomlinson was the opposite of Judge Tyler, who had been thin and sharp. He appeared to be around Sarah’s age, and he had no angles. He was slightly portly, with an open, round face, kind gray eyes, and a thatch of light brown hair sparsely streaked with gray. He treated everyone in the courtroom with the utmost politeness. He had been more than willing to listen to Jordan Stewart’s testimony although Sarah had entered the hearing very worried about whether her witness would be allowed to take the stand.
As expected, Percy Andrews had opined only psychotropic drugs would render Alexa able to stand trial. And he lied through his teeth about being biased when Sarah tried to impeach him with his loyalty to Ronald Brigman.
Then Jordan’s turn came, and she explained why, even if Alexa were given drugs, she still wouldn’t be competent to assist in her defense.
“She’s been through too much trauma. She lost custody of her very young children, and that was a shock. And then she was the one who found Michael dead that night, and that was a shock.”
“But it was a shock only if she didn’t kill him.” Judge Tomlinson broke in.
“At this point, Your Honor, we have to presume she’s innocent,” Sarah reminded the judge. “She reported finding Michael to the police, didn’t leave town, and went in voluntarily for questioning.”
“Okay. For the moment, I’m going to make that assumption. But haven’t you also testified, Dr. Stewart, that she’s so depressed it will require medication to get her even to talk to a counselor? Why put her in the hospital if meds will make her able to talk to her attorneys and assist with her defense?”
“Because there’s no guarantee medicating her will restore her to competency. She can only be competent after she heals from the underlying trauma. Drugs might make her able to talk again, but healing requires being able to talk about the traumas and working through her emotions. Right now she’s so overwhelmed by her feelings, she’s completely nonfunctional, and she will still be overwhelmed even if she’s no longer too depressed to talk.”
“I see.” Sarah watched the judge make notes on his yellow legal pad.
He continued to scribble furiously after Jordan stepped down. After a few more minutes of writing, he looked directly at Sarah.
“Ms. Knight, I have a few more questions for Dr. Andrews. Would you object to allowing Mr. Baldwin to recall him briefly?”
I object with every fiber of my being, Sarah thought. But she could tell Judge Tomlinson had taken Jordan’s testimony seriously, and she didn’t want to risk making him angry by saying no. “That’s fine, Your Honor.”
Percy Andrews slithered from the back of the courtroom and wrapped himself around the chair on the witness stand after being resworn.
“Dr. Andrews,” the judge began, “you’ve heard Dr. Stewart’s opinion. She believes medication alone will not restore the defendant. In Dr. Stewart’s opinion Alexa Reed needs counseling. Do you agree?”
“Not at all. A good drug like Lexapro will have Alexa Reed ready to assist her attorneys in her defense within two weeks. I’ve already said she’s faking mental illness to avoid being tried. She’s a very bright, clever young woman.”
Judge Tomlinson frowned. “I’m not seeing evidence of faking on this record.”
“That is my professional opinion,” Andrews insisted.
“Very well. I need a few minutes in chambers to look over the expert’s reports before I decide.”
Sarah watched Tomlinson’s round figure waddle off the bench. She and Jim stood up, and Jordan came from the spectator section of the courtroom to join them.
“I’m pleased he didn’t buy the ‘faking’ it line from Andrews,” Jordan said.
“I’m holding my breath.” Sarah was a taught as a wire.
“Whatever happens, I thought both of you did a great job,” Jim observed.
“Thanks,” Jordan smiled, but Sarah didn’t look at him. She was staring at the bench with a dazed look in her eyes as if she were reliving some horrible memory.
“Are you all right?” Jim asked.
“Of course.” She turned to him and smiled although he thought it was forced. “I’ve got to make a phone call. I’ll be out in the hall. If the judge comes back, let me know.”
“She’s letting this get to her,” Jordan remarked as Sarah vanished through the courtroom doors. “I’ve never seen her this worried about an outcome.”
“Were you involved when she did the Joey Menendez case?” Jim asked.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“She got a very big crime boss off. No one thought she had a chance in hell of succeeding.”
“And you’re thinking this is like Menendez?”
“Well, it’s certainly a case that looks hopeless on what we have now.”
* * *
Thirty minutes went by before Judge Tomlinson resumed the bench. Sarah had paced in the hallway the entire time, hoping against hope the delay meant a favorable ruling. Jim, who had remained in the courtroom, came to tell her the judge was ready to rule on Alexa’s competency to stand trial.
“Everyone can sit down,” Judge Tomlinson said. “You don’t need to be standing as if the clerk were reading the jury’s verdict.”
Sarah was grateful to feel the chair under her. She was so nervous her legs were shaking.
“Your expert makes out a good case for hospitalizing Mrs. Reed.” The judge’s mild gray eyes met hers. “Whatever the truth is about the night of June 2, she suffered a significant trauma. And being separated from her children certainly has to be a factor in her breakdown.
“I think from a medical/psychological stand point, Dr. Stewart has the better recommendation. But the trouble is, the law isn’t asking what is best for Alexa Reed from a medical/psychological point of view. The law is asking how to make her able to assist in her defense and to understand the proceedings at trial. And from that point of view, Dr. Andrews’ opinion better answers the question. So I’m going to adopt Dr. Andrews’ recommendation and find that there is no less intrusive procedure.”
“Your Honor, I have a request,” Sarah spoke up.
“And that would be Ms. Knight?” His mild demeanor never changed even though it was clear she was going to challenge him.
“I want to take this up to the court of appeal on a writ.”
Again Judge Tomlinson was unphased. “I’m not surprised. You’ve very set against using these drugs on her, aren’t you?”
“She’s on trial for her life. It’s not fair to put her in front of a jury looking like a drugged-up zombie.”
The judge looked over his half-glasses at Percy Andrews, who was sitting next to Preston Baldwin at the prosecution’s table. “Do you agree the drugs will alter her demeanor?”
Sarah expected him to lie through his teeth and deny they would have any effect. To her surprise he didn’t. “I can’t say for sure, but patients on these meds do have a rather flat affect. They don’t seem to feel anything, and they can appear distant and detached. On the other hand, not every one of these medications has that effect on every patient.”
“Okay.” The judge looked back at Sarah. “Here is my ruling, Ms. Knight; and I’m taking into consideration your concerns. I’m going to order the jail psychiatrist to prescribe the appropriate medications for Mrs. Reed. We’ll have another hearing in thirty days to hear from Dr. Andrews to see if, in his opinion, she is competent to stand trial. And I will be happy to hear from Dr. Stewart, too, if you want to bring her back. That is my order.”
* * *
The woman with the beautiful face with the terrible scar and the man with the kind eyes had come to see her. They had been coming for many days, Alexa knew, and she thought there might even be a pattern to their visits. Maybe every other day or every two days. Floating in her protective bubble dissolved time, so she wasn’t sure.
For the last several visits, they had talked about a hearing to decide if the jail could give her drugs to lift the depression, so she could talk to them and stand trial. The woman didn’t want that. She wanted Alexa sent to the psychiatric ward of the state hospital to talk to the doctors about everything that had happened.
“You need to be well before they put you on trial,” she said.
But Alexa had thought, “I will never be well because I’ve lost Meggie and Sam.”
Now they were here again, but the woman’s eyes were even sadder than before. And the man with the kind eyes squeezed her unresponsive hand just a little tighter and looked sad, too.
“We lost, Alexa,” the woman said. “The jail psychiatrist is going to prescribe antidepressant medication for you. Then there will be another hearing to see if you are able to stand trial. I’m so sorry. I wanted to win this one as much as I’ve ever wanted to win anything.”
But Alexa smiled inside because she could not smile outside. God hadn’t let the beautifulwoman win because He had other plans. He knew Alexa hadn’t killed anyone, and He had not forgotten her.

Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Eleven

October 25, 2013/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

CHAPTER ELEVEN
The man and the beautiful woman with the unexpected scar on her cheek kept coming to see her. It must be every couple of days. Alexa wished she could talk to them and explain how much she wanted to die. They spoke in soft, concerned voices when they came, urging her not to give up hope, begging her to talk to them. But the words stayed in her head and refused to go into her mouth. Besides, if she spoke, she’d wake up in hell instead of drifting in the out-of-body world she had managed to retreat to.
Sometimes she could hear Meggie and Sam’s voices calling to her. “Mommy, Mommy. You said you’d come after us, Mommy.”
Was it real or a hallucination? Either way, her heart broke all over again every time she heard them. Did Coleman hit them? She couldn’t bear to think about it. Coleman had been responsible for turning Michael into the monster she’d married.
Mary Moreno had warned her. “I know the Reeds appear very normal and successful on the outside, Alexa. But something isn’t right there. Coleman has a temper, and I think Michael does, too. Watch Myrna when she’s around either of them. She’s afraid. You’re too bright and gifted to get involved with Coleman and Michael Reed. They’ll destroy you.”
Alexa pictured her final appeal as a large stack of documents in front of Justice Moreno. She’d look down at them and stamp “Denied” in enormous capital letters on the top. “Alexa Reed is a fool who deserves to die.”
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound. Wait, what was the next part? Alexa tried to remember how it felt to share the hymnal with Gramma Beth at church as they sang the hymns. Ah, there it was. That saved a wretch like me. Justice Moreno would say, a blind, foolish wretch who refused to be warned and who didn’t deserve to be saved.
But grace seemed to be coming to her aid. A tall, thin blonde woman with patient green eyes had started appearing with the man and the woman. She, too, begged Alexa to talk to her; and when she didn’t, the woman looked at the man and the woman with sad eyes who wanted to save her and said, “I think they might have to give her meds.” And the man and the woman always, said, “No! No!”
But Alexa knew the answer was yes, yes. But not for the reason the kind blonde woman thought.
* * *
On the last Thursday of August, Jim, Sarah, and Jordan met in the Sarah’s conference room to put the final touches on their preparation for the competency hearing on Tuesday. Sarah sat at the head of the table with Jordan on her left and Jim on her right. They had just come back from their last meeting with Alexa.
“Nothing changes,” Jordan began.
Jim liked her for being a straight shooter, even if she didn’t say the things he and Sarah wanted to hear. Sarah had been right: Jordan knew her stuff and had integrity in a world where many expert witnesses did not. She was tall and lean, in her mid-forties with blonde hair and green eyes that invited confidences. Her husband taught psychology at UCLA, and they had three teenage daughters.
“Agreed.” Sarah sighed. She had dark circles under her eyes, and she wasn’t eating. Jim wondered how many nights she’d spent with David Scott but knew he couldn’t ask.
“I think Alexa is suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” Jordan began. “When the mind encounters more than it can process, it shuts down.”
“I’m not sure I can use that,” Sarah said. “She kills two people and develops PTSD. Not much of an argument.”
“What if she didn’t kill anyone?” Jim said.
Sarah turned from Jordan to him. “And how am I going to argue that?” She tried not to think of Jim holding Alexa’s tiny, unresponsive hand on all those jail visits. Jealousy was a highly unprofessional emotion, and she didn’t intend to feel it.
“The police report. According to Officer Brent McColly, who was the first person to interview Alexa, she said that she received a phone call from Meggie at 11:15 on June 2. She said Meggie was upset because her father was arguing with a woman, and she could hear blows being struck. Alexa rushed over to Michael’s to find him dead and the children crying. She called 911, and told the dispatcher her children were there and upset, and she was taking them home to Pacific Beach. She gave the 911 operator her address where the police could contact her. She never mentioned Brigman or indicated she knew he was dead. And she made no attempt to leave town. She doesn’t sound very guilty to me.”
“What about the bullets from her Glock in Brigman and Michael?” Sarah frowned.
“That doesn’t prove she killed them. Remember she told the police the gun had been stolen a month before the murders. And according to the ballistics tests, two of the bullets in Brigman didn’t come from Alexa’s Glock.”
Sarah waved her hands impatiently. “You’re grasping at straws. The ballistics report said three bullets in Brigman matched Alexa’s gun. The other two were too deformed to make a judgment about.”
“Will all due respect boss, I have almost twenty years of firearms experience. And there are new reports that say traditional ballistics testing is unreliable.”
“I know all about that.” Sarah’s tone said don’t-tell-me-how-to-do-my-job. “That’s what cross-examination of the state’s expert is for.”
“I think you need to get a defense ballistics expert, too.” Jim realized he was challenging her judgment.
Sarah paused and took a deep breath. “We aren’t here to talk about trial strategy. We’re here to talk about the hearing on Tuesday. Are you willing to give an opinion, Jordan, that she should be committed to the state hospital for treatment until she regains her competency to stand trial?”
“I am,” Jordan said. “I know you said Percy Andrews will insist she can go to trial on psychotropic drugs; and honestly, she is so depressed, they might have to use those to even get her to speak to a psychiatrist. But I do think she needs counseling sessions, in fact, a lot of them, before she can stand trial. Drugging her is only putting a tiny band-aid on her condition.”
* * *
Jim drove Jordan to Solana Beach to meet her 5:10 train to Los Angeles. Sarah remained behind to work on her cross-examination of Percy Andrews.
As Jim swung his black Range Rover onto the I-5 North, Jordan asked, “Have you known Sarah long?”
“Only a month. We ran into each other in a bar in La Jolla one night, and she happened to be looking for an investigator.”
“Sarah never gets involved with anyone.”
Jim glanced quickly over at her and then put his eyes firmly back on the road. “Am I that obvious?”
“I don’t think you are to Sarah. I’ve known her a long time. She’s the most work-oriented person I know. But, yes, I can see you’ve got a thing for her.”
“Has she ever told you how she got that scar on her cheek?”
“Nope.”
“And you’ve always had the good manners not to ask, right?”
“In my profession, we wait to be told. If the client doesn’t want to talk, we wait for her to be ready.”
“Except Percy Andrews isn’t willing to wait for Alexa Reed.”
“Sarah says you know this town. Fair isn’t fair here.”
“True. But I can’t stop getting angry about it at times. And Alexa is so helpless!”
“She brings out your knight in shining armor complex,” Jordan smiled.
“Does she?”
“You were arguing pretty strenuously she’s not guilty.”
“I don’t think she is. Call it a hunch, if you like. But it doesn’t add up. Why call the cops and give them your address if you had just murdered two people?”
“She might be a narcissist and convinced she’s invincible.”
“Even Brigman, who did the psych evals for the custody litigation, didn’t say she was a narcissist. And honestly, I can’t see a narcissist resigning a job at Warrick, Thompson to be a stay-at-home mother of two kids under two.”
“I agree. As the mother of three.”
Jim pulled into the parking lot at the train station and got out to help Jordan with her brief case and overnight bag.
“What time are you arriving on Monday? I’ll meet your train.”
“I’m coming down Sunday night, arriving at eight. I’m paranoid about being late for the hearing on Monday morning.”
“I’ll be here to pick you up. I have a guest room. Want to use it? I make a better breakfast than a five-star hotel.”
“Sounds great.”

Dark Moon, A Work in Progress – Chapter Seven

September 27, 2013/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

CHAPTER SEVEN
The jail was never quiet at night, but it was quieter than in daylight. Alexa Reed shifted on her cot so she could see the single star shining through the tiny window of her cell. She guessed it must be midnight. Everyone seemed to be asleep except for someone crying softly down the hall. Probably a new prisoner. Everyone cried at first until the sheer futility of grief became apparent.
Someone had come to see her today. Or was it yesterday? All the days ran together, and she couldn’t remember which was which. A woman with deep dark eyes and a scar down one cheek. A ragged, unexpected scar in a beautiful face. And she’d had a man with her. Tall, warm hands, and the kindest eyes she’d ever seen. They said they’d come to help her. If anyone could help, they looked as if it might be them. But no one could end the nightmare she was awake in.
If she thought too long about Meggie and Sam, she’d start to cry like the lost soul down the hall. She hadn’t seen them since the third of June. It must be July by now. No, probably more like August. Wrapped in her semi-conscious state, she had lost the ability to speak, so she could not ask what day it was. There were words in her head, but none of them would come into her mouth to be made into sounds. Grief had left her mute, but it didn’t matter. No one had believed anything she’d told them about that awful night. Mute was better than being called a liar.
She wished she could wake up and find herself back in the rented cottage in Pacific Beach with Meggie and Sam. She would have given anything to be following the old routine of supper, bath, bedtime story, prayers, and goodnight kiss. She was glad she’d never taken even a minute of it for granted.
She could see Sam’s chubby little hands playing with the cut-up bits of fish sticks on his Winnie The Pooh plate. He was out of the high chair now and into a booster seat at the table, but he had to stretch just a little to reach his food. He loved to wipe the bits of fish through the ketchup at least twice and then stuff them in his mouth, giggling at Meggie because he knew he was supposed to use his fork. Meggie, who took her older sister status very seriously, alway frowned and reminded him about that fork. Then Sam would look at Alexa and giggle some more because he’d gotten the hoped for rise out of his sister.
Alexa missed bath time, too. Meggie and Sam loved to play with Sam’s shiny black plastic submarine. Sam scooted it across the water, making what he imagined were boat noises even after Alexa reminded him subs ran silently. Meggie, who was endlessly patient and precocious, liked to take the red, green, and yellow baby subs out of the mother ship and line them up on the edge of the tub coming up with new patterns every night.
Alexa didn’t mind if they splashed a little. Michael, who had much stricter rules, was never there to complain. If he was in town, he was at the office until after midnight. But more often he was on the road for weeks at a time. Meggie and Sam never saw him; and they were both a little bit afraid of him. But she shouldn’t think about that.
After the games in the tub and after trying to sing Row, Row, Row, Your Boat as a round, there was always that wonderful moment of lifting each precious little body out of the water, wrapping their chubby pinkness in big fluffy terry towels, and breathing in the smell of gentle soap and baby shampoo. Alexa marveled at each perfect finger and toe as she helped them into pajamas. At six, Meggie could do everything except button her nightgown in the back. But Sam, who was five, would dance naked down the hall to escape clothes altogether if he could.
They shared a room. When it was time for Sam to give up his crib, he’d been frightened unless he could sleep in Meggie’s room. Alexa always sat on Meggie’s bed with the two of them between her to read their bedtime story. Sam’s favorite was Goodnight Moon, but Meggie adored Runaway Bunny. She loved the part where the Baby Bunny asks the Mother Bunny what would happen if he ran away, and the Mother Bunny says she’d come after him. Meggie always asked, “You’d come after us, too, wouldn’t you?”
That was before Michael realized how effectively he could use family court to terrorize them. He had cemented them as a threesome by leaving them alone together. And then he launched his attack to destroy them. The star twinkled down at Alexa, reminding her to stop thinking about Michael and his scorched earth litigation tactics to preserve whatever remnants of sanity she had left. Since the horror of being arrested on June third and the even greater nightmare of the preliminary hearing, she could stay in her semi-conscious state, floating free from everything that surrounded her only if she didn’t think about Michael and Brigman. If those memories crept in, or worse yet if she talked about what they had done, it would bring her crashing back to the horror of being locked in this cell. That’s why she was glad she could no longer speak, and that’s why she was glad she couldn’t talk to the man and the woman who’d come today. Or yesterday. She wasn’t sure.
The man’s eyes haunted her. They were so kind. She hadn’t seen eyes like that since her father died. She’d been just Meggie’s age when her parents went off to church one wet Sunday morning, leaving her with Gramma Beth because Alexa had a sore throat. Her father’s mother lived with them, and she often stayed with Alexa when her parents went out.
Who would have thought a drunk driver would crash into their car at 9:30 on a Sunday morning? Gramma Beth said her parents skipped church that day and went straight to heaven where they became angels looking after her. The childhood fiction was still comforting. The star twinkled down at her, saying, yes, your parents are still watching over you, and now Gramma Beth is with them. You aren’t alone. She liked to think all three were standing right there in the dark cell with her. She hoped they’d come for her soon. People who went into the white tunnel and then returned always said your loved ones were there to help you pass over. Her parents and Gramma Beth would be there when it was time.
She had tried to endure the horrors so that she could get back to Meggie and Sam. She knew what it was like to have your parents vanish. The woman with the scar and the man with the kind eyes had been trying to tell her to hang on a little longer. But she already knew that was useless. Michael had done exactly what he’d threatened to do: he’d made sure she was separated from her children forever.
If she’d had Meggie and Sam with someone like the man with the kind eyes, they’d still be together. The four of them would have been a forever family. She had known Michael was a mistake as soon as she was pregnant with Meggie, but she had thought she could endure for her children. She’d been dangerously wrong.
Her precious star was nearly out of sight. A star was a sign of hope. When she was a child, the priest had always insisted God would never let his people give up hope. She’d believed that through everything Michael had done to her until the day they arrested her for double murder. She closed her eyes and wished she could be ten years old again, sitting with her grandmother in St. Michael’s Episcopal Church, wearing her perfect attendance Sunday school pin and singing the hymns. Sometimes now she sang hymns to herself. Not out loud because she couldn’t speak. But in her head. One was beginning to play over and over now. “Savior, like a shepherd le-ad us.” Alexa had always loved the way “lead” was drawn out by the melody. What was the next line? She couldn’t forget that; chanting hymns to herself kept her floating in her out-of-body world. Ah, here it was. “Much we need thy tender care.” She knew she wouldn’t forget.
Nothing could ever be more precious to her than Meggie and Sam. Since Gramma Beth had died, they were the only people on earth who needed her. The thought of them with Coleman and Myrna Reed was more than she could bear. So she wouldn’t think about it. The star was gone, and it was time to stop thinking about anything.
But thoughts are hard to stop. Another hymn began to sing to her: “When I tread the verge of Jordan, all my anxious fears subside.” You crossed the river Jordan to reach the promised land. Death was now her promised land. Coleman wanted her to die, and she wanted to die, too. But not his way. Not after twenty years in a cell like this one, waiting while the lawyers like the ones who’d come today tried in vain to save her life. Would Justice Moreno still be on the Supreme Court when her last death row appeal came before the justices? Mary Moreno had liked her; she’d warned her not to marry Michael.
But, of course, neither Coleman nor Mary could hear her case if they were still on the Court when the end came for her. More words of the hymn comforted her: “Guide me oh thou great Jehovah, pilgrim through this barren land. I am weak but Thou are mighty.” Alexa was weak, but God wouldn’t let her down. She’d die, but not Coleman Reed’s way. God would find her the dignified exit she deserved because He still loved her. And He loved Meggie and Sam, too. God wouldn’t want them saddled with the stigma of their mother’s execution. No, He’d find a better way out of life for her. She had first thought starving herself was the answer; but the guards threatened to force feed her, so she ate just enough to prevent that and nothing more.
For now, she could only lie on this cot, waiting for the star every night, and praying God would come and get her very soon. He could see she was still the ten-year-old in the perfect attendance Sunday school pin, holding her grandmother’s hand; and she knew He’d answer her prayer. She knew it as surely as she knew she hadn’t killed anyone.

Dark Moon, A Work in Progress – Chapter Six

September 20, 2013/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

CHAPTER SIX
Jim stood in the cool late summer night watching Sarah’s white BMW back out of his drive, then went into his kitchen, poured himself a stiff Scotch, and threw himself onto the sofa. You can’t do this to yourself, he thought. You can’t get emotional because she’s sleeping with another man. He hadn’t liked the way she’d dismissed him as “my investigator.”
But I can get emotional, he told himself. In fact, I’m powerless to stop the feelings. It’s exactly the way I felt when I realized Gail was sleeping with Josh after we separated. I hated knowing the woman I wanted was with another man.
He drank some more scotch and frowned at his glass. Wow, I’ve just admitted I want to sleep with Sarah, he thought. I knew she was trouble the first time I saw her at Trend. Well, I know I can’t sleep with her for a trillion reasons, not the least of which is her own rule against sleeping with co-workers. But I want to. That’s the awful part. I want to so much. He could smell the faint trace of her perfume that lingered where she’d sat on the sofa. A flower, he thought, possibly a gardenia. He wanted to know the name of it.
He closed his eyes and pictured Sarah’s slender body in the other man’s arms just as he used to picture Gail with Josh on some of the worst nights early in their separation. What did this David person look like? Was he handsome? Was he younger, older? Sarah had said no younger men, but he thought she’d been joking. Had she told this David character how that scar had come to be on her left cheek? Maybe it wasn’t a car accident. Maybe she’d been mugged at knife point coming home from her office too late in New York to be out alone. She was too fiercely independent; that was for sure.
He was going through his scotch too fast. He’d better slow down. He began to reorganize Alexa Reed’s photographs and put them back into the folder to take his mind off Sarah.
He paused to study a picture of her with her children when they must have been about two and three. The uptight lawyer clothes were gone. She was wearing a simple white t-shirt, outrageously flattering tight jeans, and her hair was wild and free around her shoulders. It was about the color of Gail’s. And she, too, had those blue, blue eyes. How had she slipped from a life devoted to over-achievement into the dark, murky world of homicide? She was obviously an exceptionally bright and clever woman. As much as Jim hated to admit it, there were ways to keep from being found out. Some people did get away with murder. And if anyone would have been good at creating the perfect crime, it would have been someone like Alexa Reed. Bright, capable, meticulous attention to detail. Then why had she been so clumsy? She clearly hadn’t wanted to get caught because that meant the loss of her children. So what had gotten into her the night of June 2?
He stared down at three innocent smiling faces in the picture. They’d had no idea the perfect storm was brewing to separate them. Sarah was so sure they’d lose this case. But she wouldn’t accomplish her goal of spiting Hal Remington if she lost. The Joey Menendez case had looked as lost as this one. They’d been celebrating in the U.S. Attorney’s office even before the jury went out. Sarah had come up with a last minute witness who had lied through his teeth and testified Joey didn’t give orders to the cartel. The guy had been some low-ranking drug dealer with one of those very common Latino names like Alvarez or Sanchez, or something ez. He’d come out of nowhere, and the U.S. Attorney, who had thought he knew everything there was no know about Joey Menendez, had been blindsided. Against all the odds, Sarah had persuaded that jury to believe her lying witness. Funny how she wouldn’t talk about a truly legendary victory. Well, she had worked miracles before; Jim was betting she could work one here.
He put the photo of Alexa and the children back in the folder and polished off his scotch. Tomorrow was Wednesday and then Thursday. Two days before he could see Sarah again. And at least three nights for her to spend with David Scott.

Dark Moon, A Work in Progress – Chapter Five

September 13, 2013/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

CHAPTER FIVE
Sarah studied Jim’s display of Cody’s pictures on the bookshelves on either side of the fireplace as she listened to him clinking dishes into the dishwasher. The photos took Cody from plump babyhood in an old fashioned pram to the most recent ones in a little league baseball uniform. He had Jim’s dark hair and dimpled chin, but blue eyes like his mother. He looked tall for thirteen, so she guessed he took after his father in the height department, too. He smiled unself-consciously at the camera as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
“That’s my boy,” Jim said as he entered the room, carrying a folder full of papers.
“Good looking. Takes after his old man.”
He smiled. “Thanks for the unexpected compliment. But I think he looks more like Gail.”
She heard the note of wistfulness that came over him whenever he mentioned his ex-wife’s name. It was like a theme song he played forever in her memory. For a moment, she wished someone would play a theme like that for her. But only for a nano second.
“I gather all that is information on Alexa Reed?”
“You are correct. Since our client wouldn’t tell us anything about herself, I did some digging. Here, sit down and let me show you.”
She would have preferred the seat across the room where she couldn’t smell the clean, spring smell of his soap and the light starch in his shirt, but he had laid the folder on the coffee table between them. She caught her breath when he opened it, and she saw Alexa Reed as she’d once been.
“That’s her engagement photo, taken in 2004, just after she graduated number one in her class from Georgetown. She was editor of the law review.”
Sarah couldn’t believe the exquisite little blonde with the enormous blue eyes, flawless complexion, and perfect cupid’s bow mouth was the woman they’d seen on the jail cot that afternoon. She felt Jim’s eyes on her as she stared at the picture.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” he said.
“She’s gorgeous.”
“She’s amazingly talented, too.”
Sarah felt that inappropriate stab of jealousy again. “How so?”
“She was born in Fairfax, Virginia, in 1980, making her thirty-three today. Her parents died in a car accident when she was six. She was raised by her grandmother, and had a habit of winning academic honors. She was the valedictorian of her class at Jefferson High and then went to Yale, your law alma mater, on a full academic scholarship. She graduated with honors in history and then went to Georgetown for law school where she met Michael Reed. They were engaged in 2004 when they both graduated from law school but didn’t get married until the spring of 2005. I assume they delayed the wedding so Alexa could spend that year clerking for Justice Mary Moreno, Coleman Reed’s colleague on the U.S. Supreme Court. Otherwise she’d have been stuck with a clerkship at the D.C. Circuit Court of Appeals like Michael because nepotism would have kept them both out of Coleman Reed’s court.
“In 2005, which was also the year Alexa’s grandmother died, they finished their clerkships, got married, and took jobs at Warrick, Thompson, Coleman Reed’s old firm. Michael went to work in litigation. Alexa was assigned to Chuck Reilly, their one and only appellate lawyer.”
Sarah continued to turn through the photographs of Alexa that Jim had found. She was a lawyerlike petite blonde, hair slicked into a tight bun and wearing an expensive dark suit next to Justice Moreno in one. In another, she stood between Justice Moreno and her father-in-law, Coleman Reed, still wearing a professional face. In another series of shots, she was the tiny, perfect bride in satin and white lace on a handsome Michael Reed’s arm.
“They were a good looking couple,” Sarah observed. Michael’s dark hair and eyes were a perfect counterpoint to Alexa’s light coloring.
“I think he was lucky to get her. She’s much better looking than he is.”
Sarah studied the wedding picture again. Although Michael had a Gerard Butler boyish charm, he had also inherited Coleman Reed’s too square face and stubborn jaw.
“He looks as if he could be a tough character.”
Jim nodded. “Heartless might be more to the point. Alexa had Meggie in 2007, after she’d been at the firm just two years. Six months later, she was pregnant again with Sam. She tried to go back to work, but by October 2008, she’d turned in her resignation. Three months later, in January 2009, Michael filed for divorce, seeking custody of the children. Sam, who had been born in March 2008, was less than a year old; and Michael wanted to take that baby away from his mother.”
“Callous, I agree. What is even more interesting is Trevor Martin’s claim that Alexa started the divorce proceedings.”
“All wrong. It was Michael.” Jim held up a copy of the divorce petition.
“Where’d you get that so fast?”
“I have my tricks. Don’t ask too many questions, and don’t worry, I know how to get copies through regular channels if we need them as court exhibits at trial. But in the meantime, I knew we had to have immediate information.”
“Wow, I can’t believe Martin got something as important as who initiated the divorce so wrong. I wonder what else he lied about? He called her a crazy manipulative bitch.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s going to turn out to be a lie, too.” Jim said, looking down at Alexa’s smiling engagement picture as Sarah fought back that stab of jealousy once more. Suddenly her phone began to ring, and she jumped up to fish it out of her bag. David’s picture appeared on the screen. She felt Jim watching her.
“I have to take this.” She pressed the accept button. “Hello? I wasn’t expecting to hear from you tonight. Oh, I see. Well, I’m just finishing up my meeting with my investigator. I can be at your house in, say, thirty minutes.”
She looked up to find Jim’s eyes still fixed on her, dark and unreadable.
“I take it that was your guy?”
“David. Yes.”
“How did he break free of the wife?”
“She decided to go to Cabo after all.”
“There are no flights this late.”
“David’s company has a private jet. She took that.”
“Ah, perfect for you, then.”
“Perfect.” Sarah was relieved to be leaving behind the conflicting feelings he aroused in her. Things were much simpler with David. Straight up sex, no strings attached. “Thank you for all the work you’ve done today.”
“My pleasure.” But he didn’t look at all happy she thought.
“So I’ll see you Friday at nine at Percy Andrews’ office. I’ll text you the address. Thanks for a lovely dinner.”