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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 Nine

October 11, 2013/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

CHAPTER NINE

Judge Jay Steven Tyler III’s court clerk, a harried middle aged woman in an ill-fitting black suit whose phone would not stop ringing, insisted between phone calls that Sarah would have to come back on Monday when she filed her ex parte motion to appoint an expert at one o’clock that afternoon.

“His Honor is presiding over a trial until four o’clock. He can’t hear your matter today.”
“It’s an emergency. It will only take five minutes of his time.”
“I can’t promise anything. If you want to sit in on his trial and see if he has a break when he is willing to hear you, you can do that. But, again, no guarantees.”
Sarah hated the idea of waiting three hours with no promise of any results, but she needed to get Jordan Stewart started on this case right away. So she tucked herself into a spot in the back of the courtroom watching a deputy district attorney and a public defender go at it over a gang shooting as she studied Judge Tyler. He was in his late fifties, with thinning gray hair, and a sharp face. His nose came to a point like a bird’s beak. He frowned a great deal at his computer screen as he observed it through the half-glasses perched on his nose. He barked at both lawyers from time to time, and Sarah decided she had her work cut out for her. Either this judge lived in a state of permanent irascibility, or he was having a bad day. Still, no one ever denied a motion to appoint a defense psychological expert when the issue was competency.
After an hour and a half, the court recessed for a break; and Sarah hurried up to the bench to make her request.
Judge Tyler gave his clerk a puzzled look. “Who’s this?”
“Sarah Knight, Your Honor. She’s here on an emergency ex parte motion in the Alexa Reed case.”
The judge stared down at Sarah, who was standing behind the lectern recently vacated by the other attorneys. He was sizing her up.
“You’re new in this courtroom.”
“I am, Your Honor.”
“Well, then, here’s some information. I only hear ex parte motions on the morning docket call. This is not the morning, and this is not a docket call.”
Sarah struggled to keep her anger out of sight. “I understand. But I’ve only been on this case a week, there are barely three weeks before the competency hearing, and I need an expert right away.”
Judge Tyler frowned. She could tell he was weighing his options. He would have to hear her motion; maybe he would just decide to get it over with.
“Well, not now. We are on a short break as you can see. If there is time at four o’clock, we can go in chambers, and I’ll listen. But no promises.”
Sarah suppressed a sigh and resumed her spot in the back of the courtroom. Waiting gave her time to wish she hadn’t turned Jim down for dinner and time to regret a weekend with David.
The gang expert finished droning on about “snitches” and “respect” at four fifteen. The judge apologized to the yawning jurors and sent everyone home. Sarah held her breath, hoping for the summons to his chambers to hear her motion. As His Honor stood up from the bench, he looked over the top of his glasses and saw her in the back of the courtroom.
“You’re still here.”
“I am, Your Honor.”
“Well, come into chambers. We might as well get it over with.”
The deputy district attorney and the public defender gave her sympathetic looks as she followed the judge out of the courtroom. They think he’s going to tear me apart, Sarah thought as she entered the judge’s chambers.
The room overlooked a parking lot at the back of the courthouse. It wasn’t well lit, and it was littered with books and paper from one end to the other. She thought of Hal Remington’s messy office and wondered if clutter was endemic to San Diego attorneys and judges.
Judge Tyler motioned for her to sit down, and she took the only empty chair. He hung up his robes and sat down at his desk. She said nothing while he read her motion through his half glasses.
After he had scanned through it, he said, “Put this together in a hurry, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Talked to Percy Andrews this morning, you say in here?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And obviously you didn’t like what he said.”
“He isn’t basing his opinion on the facts.”
“And you say the facts are you have a catatonic client who hasn’t spoken since June 17.”
“Actually the jail records and her medical records say that.”
Judge Rodgers heaved a world weary sigh. “Motion denied.”
Sarah’s blood ran cold. “I’m sorry, Your Honor, did you say ‘denied’?”
“In plain English. I’ve heard your motion, now I have to beat the Friday afternoon traffic to La Mesa.”
“But Your Honor–”
“You aren’t from around here, are you Ms. Knight?”
“I grew up here, but I moved to New York at the beginning of my legal career.”
“You were in one of those fancy Wall Street firms, weren’t you?”
“Craig, Lewis, and Weller, Your Honor.”
“Like I said, fancy Wall Street firm. Our legal community is different, Ms. Knight. Percy Andrews has been doing evaluations for thirty years. Any judge in this courthouse will trust his opinion.”
“But he’s biased. Ronald Brigman was his friend and colleague.”
“So what? It doesn’t matter because your client is very guilty. Motion denied, Ms. Knight. Have a good weekend.”
* * *
David had invited her for dinner at his mansion in Rancho Sante Fe at eight. She parked in the gravel circle in front of the mock-French chateau, done in ubiquitous west coast beige stucco instead of sandstone, and surveyed the acre of manicured lawns and imported palms that surrounded the house. Jim’s cheerful red begonias were on her mind. Did he garden in his spare time? How had he chosen that particular shade of green for his house? Why didn’t he turn all his father’s money into a grand estate like this one? But she knew the answer: because he didn’t need ostentation to be happy.
David met her at the front door. He was tanned, fifty, and in top shape because his personal trainer worked him out six days a week. His close cropped blonde hair refused to go gray. He was handsome in the older Robert Redford way. When he met her in the marble entrance hall and gave her his signature Hollywood-style greeting, a hug and kiss on both cheeks, she noticed he didn’t reach Jim’s six feet.
“Hey, babe. Missed you. Come have a drink on the terrace while Michelle finishes up dinner.”
Sarah followed him outside where a bottle of champagne waited, wondering how David’s personal chef would stack up to Jim’s cooking.
“No champagne tonight. It hasn’t been a celebration sort of day.”
David arched an eyebrow, another annoying trait. She assumed he used it to intimidate his business staff, but she was beyond those kinds of tactics. “Scotch, then?”
“A good cabernet would be fantastic.”
David summoned his butler to fulfill her request and poured bubbly for himself.
“Well, I’m going to celebrate Tessa finally deciding to leave for Cabo. I thought she’d never go.”
“Do you think she called off the trip because she knows about us?” Sarah gratefully took her glass of wine from the long suffering Sam and took a big sip.
David shrugged. “Who knows? Who cares?”
“I thought you cared. Divorce would be extraordinarily expensive.”
He waived his hands. “Tessa hasn’t the guts to file for divorce, and she loves her lifestyle far too much. What we need to do is find her a boy toy to keep her occupied. Then we could spend a lot more time together.”
How did I get involved with this man, Sarah asked herself. But she knew very well. He was superficial enough to be someone she’d decided to have sex with.
Which was the subject on his mind at that moment. “Come on, baby. Let’s have a quickie before dinner.”
* * *
Sarah woke at midnight in David’s canopied four-poster guest room where he slept beside her. She refused to sleep in the bed he shared with his wife.
She got up, wrapped herself in a white silk robe, and crossed the room to the French doors, open into the cool, deep blue August night. She sat down in one of the chairs on the terrace that ran the length of the back of the house, and stared up at the stars and the newly waning moon in the soft night air. Her ghosts surrounded her, and she couldn’t push them away.
“I don’t want to be here,” she told the Universe.
“‘Here’ as in ‘here with David’ or ‘here’ as ‘at this point in your life’?” the stars responded.
“Both.”
“Well, the David part you can fix in a heartbeat. The other part is going to take some time.”
“I don’t want to go through that.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
She heard the sheets rustle, and then David called out, “Where are you, babe?”
“Out here.”
He got up and pulled on his own robe and came outside. He looked puzzled. “What are you doing outside? Come back to bed.”
Sarah shook her head. “Not yet. I need time to think.”
“About what?” He pulled her to her feet and tried to kiss her, but she turned her head away. He wasn’t happy. “Hey! What’s this? Don’t waste the little time we have by being moody.”
“I’m not moody. I’ve just gotten this new big case, and there was a hearing today that didn’t go well. I’m upset.”
“Hey! Remember the rules. No wife-talk. No work-talk.”
I remember, Sarah thought. I made those up. And now I regret them because I need someone to talk to. And you are not that someone.
“Come on, back to bed.”
She let him lead her out of the cool night, away from the friendly stars and the moon, into the bedroom where she didn’t resist when he went through the motions of sex one more time. She wanted to go home, but it would upset more apple carts if she did than if she just stayed until morning. It was what he expected, and it was easier just to go along. When he was quiet at last and ready to sleep again, Sarah lay awake and watched the stars through the open doors and thought about Jim.

Dark Moon, A Work In Progress, Chapter Eight

October 4, 2013/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

CHAPTER EIGHT
Percy Andrews kept them waiting on Friday morning. Sarah was not amused.
Jim had met her promptly at nine at Andrews’ sterile glass and chrome office on the eleventh floor of the Ximed Building next to Scripps Hospital. He was way too attractive in a dark suit with a maroon tie, smelling of fresh shaving cream and laundry starch, and Sarah wished that two nights with David had done more to put him out of her mind.
“Looks like the court-appointed expert business must be pretty good,” Jim observed as they sat in Andrews’ glass and chrome waiting room gazing out at North San Diego, stretching flat and brown in the August heat toward the blue Pacific on the horizon.
“Agreed. Nice digs. These guys all practice the black arts for a considerable sum.”
He grinned and his eyes twinkled, and her heart flip flopped like a teen’s. This, she told herself, was not good. The implacable Sarah Knight, toughest defense attorney on Wall Street, had to return at once and banish the dangerous idiot with the school girl crush on the ex-FBI agent.
“I thought defense attorneys swore by hired guns.”
“No, you’ve got that wrong. I’ve met a few psychs with integrity, but not many.”
Percy appeared at the door to summon them to his inner sanctum. As they crossed the waiting room, Sarah heard Jim mutter under his breath, “Why do I think we are about to meet one of the latter?”
Percy Andrews, a thin balding man in his fifties wearing the cliche gray cardigan and baggy brown trousers associated with psychs, led them to his inner office which was cozier than the wasteland of his waiting room. He motioned for Sarah and Jim to sit on the large down sofa in the middle of the room, while he stretched out like a snake on a modern reclining chair opposite.
Did digging your heals into a thick, shaggy brown carpet make a patient want to spill his or her most private secretes Sarah wondered as her Jimmy Choos sank into the deep pile. She noticed a package of Rorschach test cards on his desk, and a sand box in the corner of the room, filled with dozens of tiny plastic people and animals, with sand spilled on the floor all around as if the childish exuberance of play with sand indoors could not be contained. Had Brigman used sand play to lure Alexa’s children in Michael’s direction?
“I’m Sarah Knight, and this is Jim Mitchell, my investigator.”
“I know. Let’s not waste anyone’s time here. I’m going to testify she’s competent to stand trial.”
“What?” Jim nearly lept out of his chair, and Sarah thought he was going to throttle Andrews. She pictured him standing next to Alexa’s cot on Tuesday and tried to extinguish the wave of jealousy.
“I said, I’m going to find her competent.”
Unlike Jim, Sarah had retained her lawyer cool. “On what basis? She’s practically comatose, and she hasn’t spoken a word to me or to Jim. In fact, we don’t know if she can speak.”
“Oh, of course, she can.”
“And she spoke to you when you evaluated her?” Sarah wished she could tell Jim to be silent and let her lead the interview.
“No, she was curled up on the cot, like she was when you visited, I bet.”
“Then how can that be competency to stand trial?” Sarah hoped Jim would take the hint and become the observer he was meant to be.
“Meds. Give her some Lexapro and she’ll be right as rain.”
“But there’s a very strict United States Supreme Court test for ordering medication. And Alexa doesn’t meet it.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass. She killed my colleague of more than twenty years, and she’s going to die for that.”
“But only after a fair trial in which she understands the nature of the proceedings and can assist in her defense.”
“What defense? Her cell phone puts her in the neighborhood at the time of the murders that were committed with her gun. She hasn’t got a defense, Ms. Knight. Ronald took her children away because she was a crazy lunatic, and she proved him right by killing him and Michael.”
“Obviously you aren’t familiar with the correct legal test.”
“I’m familiar with Sell v. United States. I’ve been a forensic psychologist for twenty-five years.”
“Then you know she doesn’t meet the test. You can’t show that less intrusive procedures such as counseling wouldn’t produce the same results as forcing her to take Lexapro or some other drug.”
“That’s a pile of crap, if you’ll excuse me for being blunt. Look, Alexa Reed is faking incompetency big time. She graduated first in her class from Georgetown Law School. She knows if she becomes a comatose blob, she’ll get sent to the state hospital, which is a lot cushier lifestyle than death row where she belongs. And she knows the state can’t execute her while she’s incompetent. She’s counting on me to say she has to go to Patten for treatment until competency is restored, but I’m not going to play her game and let her live out her life in a medical facility when she belongs on death row.”
“It’s not a game,” Jim spoke up.
“Excuse me?” Andrews raised his eyebrows as if Jim were an intruder without a right to speak.
“I said, she’s not playing a game. She’s mentally ill and unable to communicate to help us provide a defense.”
“Too bad for her, you aren’t the court appointed expert. She killed a close friend, and I’m not going to do her any favors.”
“You mean you are biased and you aren’t going to be fair,” Sarah said.
“Save your name calling for the hearing. It won’t do you any good.”
* * *
They were silent in the chrome elevators as they slipped effortlessly from the eleventh floor to the marble lobby of the XiMed building. When they got out, Sarah led the way to a quiet corner where they could talk undisturbed.
“That was not what I expected,” Jim began.
“I wasn’t surprised after my interviews with Hal Remington and Trevor Martin.”
“In other words, the legal community in this town is massed against her.”
“The criminal bar is, at least. I wonder how Alan Warrick feels about Alexa Reed.”
“Want me to go find out?”
Why did he sound too eager, Sarah asked herself. And why did that irritate her?
“I know Alan personally. Better that I approach him. The only problem is he’s on a three-month sabbatical right now. His wife is an artist, and they are in Paris until early October.”
“Jets take off for Paris every day.”
“He wouldn’t like being tracked down when he’s on a holiday. Besides, we’ll have plenty of time to talk to him when he gets back.”
“So what’s next, boss?”
“I’m going to go ex parte this afternoon and request appointment of a defense expert to evaluate her.”
“Got anyone in mind?”
“Jordan Stewart in L.A. I’ve used her before in cases that I tried in New York. She’s an international expert on battered women’s syndrome.”
“Do you think that’s going to be our defense here?”
“No idea. But Jordan knows her stuff, and she’s one of the few who won’t give an opinion just for the money. If she can’t testify favorably for the defense, she won’t get on the stand and perjure herself. According to Trevor Martin, Alexa told Brigman Michael had abused her, but Brigman refused to believe her.”
“Looks like I’d better do some digging on Michael, then. See if there are any police reports for domestic violence or hospital visits.”
“Would it be terrible if I said I hope you find some?”
“Not at all. What about dinner tonight to talk over what I find?”
“Plans, tonight. Sorry.”
“Wife still in Cabo?”
“Until Monday. We can talk about whatever you find on Michael in my office at nine on Monday morning.”
He tried to conceal his disappointment. “Okay. See you then.”

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.”

Dark Moon, A Work on Progress – Chapter Four

September 6, 2013/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

CHAPTER FOUR
A jail is nothing but gray, Sarah thought on Tuesday afternoon. She and Jim had been sitting in gray metal chairs at the gray metal table in the attorney-client interview room for a half hour without any sign of Alexa Reed. Sarah looked around to keep from being mesmerized by Jim’s gentle eyes, studying her from his seat at the end of the table. He looked good in a suit. She’d never seen him in one before. Feelings would complicate things; she couldn’t have feelings. But his eyes tempted her to have them. She needed a night with David and soon to make her forget about Jim. Hadn’t he said his wife was in Cabo this week? She’d call him after work, and see if he was free that evening.
She took in the dust-gray walls, the gray chairs and the table where they were seated, the gray door they had come through and the metal bars over the peek-hole window. A guard in a gun-metal gray uniform peering at them through the large glass security window directly in front of her completed the set. Sarah hadn’t been in a jail in a long time. Her clients were all wealthy business executives who bypassed lockup with millions of dollars worth of bail.
“I think she’s standing us up,” Jim said.
“Maybe. Trevor said she’s been curled up in a fetal position and hasn’t spoken since the preliminary hearing.”
“So she’s incompetent to stand trial.”
“I’d say yes for sure, but there’s a hearing September 3 to make that determination. I’m going to interview the psychologist who’s evaluating her as soon as I can get an appointment.”
“You’ll want me there in case he lies on the stand at the hearing.”
Despite her best judgment, Sarah’s eyes darted to his and remained fixed on their brown depths longer than she’d intended. “Yes, I will. Definitely.”
The gray metal entrance door began to slide to the right, extremely slowly, creaking as it moved. She and Jim turned toward it, thinking Alexa was about to appear. Instead, they saw only a portly fortiesh woman guard with a sour look on her face.
“Are you Sarah Knight?” she demanded. “Where’s you bar card?”
Sarah tried to stifle her annoyance, knowing a rise from her was what this nameless jail official wanted; but she’d shown her state bar identification card more times in the last half-hour than she had ever displayed it in her entire career. She was tired of dragging it out of her wallet.
But she did, and the guard scanned it for several minutes as if she thought it was counterfeit.
“And you? “ she demanded of Jim. “Where’s yours?”
Without a word, he patiently handed over both his California bar card which showed he was on inactive status as a lawyer, and his private investigator’s license. Sarah noticed he fumbled with his ex-FBI agent’s association id card for the grumpy guard’s benefit.
“You used to be an agent?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why are you working for defense lawyer scum?”
“Have to make a living.” Jim gave her a half-smile and put his credentials away.
“Well, bad news. Your client won’t get up to talk to you. She’s lying on her bunk, eyes open, saying nothing.”
“And this has gone on for some time?”
“Since they brought her back from the prelim on June 17. Somehow she eats enough to stay alive. But that’s it.”
“I’d like to go down to her cell and introduce myself,” Sarah said. “She’s never met me.”
“It’s against jail policy.”
“I can get a court order if you’d rather.”
The guard frowned at them both, delaying the moment when she’d have to admit defeat.
“You don’t have to. I’ll escort you down there.”
The interior corridors were even grayer, Sarah reflected a few minutes later as she and Jim followed the woman to Alexa’s cell. They twisted and turned through narrow hallways with the astringent smell of lemony disinfectant until they reached the tiny space Alexa Reed occupied.
Their sour guide dialed a combination lock on the door of the cell, and then used a key to complete opening it. Sarah and Jim stepped inside when it swung open, but there was barely room for both in the tiny dark space lit only by a three by three window high up on the outside wall.
She was a tiny bag of bones, Sarah reflected as she looked down at the woman in the navy blue prison scrubs curled up on the single cot. Her blonde hair was matted and uncombed, and apparently unwashed for weeks. Her large light blue eyes stared straight ahead, unfocused and distant. She was about five feet tall, Sarah guessed, and must have weighed all of ninety pounds.
She knelt by the cot. “Alexa, I’m Sarah Knight, your new attorney. And this is my investigator, Jim Mitchell. We’ve come to hear your side of things. Will you go down to the interview room with us where we can talk?”
No response. Alexa’s blue eyes remained blank and fixed on the opposite wall.
Jim leaned over and took one of Alexa’s small hands in his much larger one. Sarah couldn’t explain why she didn’t like that. She thought she saw a flicker in Alexa’s otherwise vacant blue eyes when Jim took her hand, but it might have been her imagination.
“She isn’t going to talk to you,” the hostile guard announced. “You’re going to have to leave.”
Jim let go of Alexa’s tiny fingers and stood up. He really did look good in a suit, Sarah thought once more, and then wondered why she was thinking about Jim’s looks and Alexa’s hand in his.
Sarah stood also and turned toward the door. Suddenly, on impulse, she paused and fished one of her business cards out of her brief case. She pressed it into Alexa’s unresponsive hands.
“Here’s my card, Alexa. We’re here to help you.”
* * *
That night, Sarah found herself standing in front of Jim’s olive green bungalow at seven thirty. He’d insisted on making dinner again to give them a chance to talk over the day’s events. She had called David as soon as she’d gotten back to her office, ready to cancel the evening with Jim if he was free. But his wife had unexpectedly backed down from her Cabo trip, so seeing him was out of the question. Had Tessa guessed about their relationship? That possibility nagged at Sarah as she thought of calling Jim to set up a meeting at a restaurant where she would feel more in control. But the need for confidentiality trumped her scruples about being alone with him.
He put a glass of cabernet in her hand and motioned for her to take a seat on one of the tall stools around the island in his kitchen.
“I was in the mood for burgers, although not the ones you burn over a gas grill. Feeling the French bistro vibe tonight, so I’ve made grilled onion confit and Bearnaise sauce and shoestring sweet potato fries.”
“I’ll have to work out tomorrow for sure.”
He turned from stirring the onions and gave her a once over. “I doubt that. You look very Audrey Hepburn tonight in those black skinny pants and black shirt with your hair cut short like hers. Do people ever tell you that you look like her?”
“Once in a while. When they don’t otherwise know my ‘day job.’”
“I have to admit you had me fooled that night at Trend.”
Was it really less than a week since they’d met, Sarah reflected. Why did she feel as if she’d always known him?
“That was tough today at the jail,” Jim observed, turning back to his onions.
“Yes, it was.” Sarah paused to take a long drink of her wine, wondering if she should have asked for scotch instead.
“She’s barely alive.”
“Trevor Martin warned me, but it was much worse than I’d pictured.”
“She’ll be declared incompetent to stand trial. She’s completely incapable of assisting with her defense.”
“Yeah, that’s blatantly obvious. Still, I want to interview Percy Andrews to find out what he’s going to say at that competency hearing. I’ve got an appointment with him on Friday at 9 in the morning.”
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
* * *
They ate in Jim’s small dinning room at a small antique maple table. He dialed the lights down, and lit candles in clear glass holders. Sarah wondered if he considered the evening a business or personal occasion.
“How long have you been in San Diego?” He asked as he put the plates on the table and motioned for her to take the seat opposite his.
“Since January. What about you?”
“Two years, now. It’s easier being on the opposite coast.” His eyes darkened as he spoke, but he gave her that gentle, honest smile that she found hard to resist. “Do you miss New York?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why didn’t you go with a big firm here like Warwick, Thompson?”
“I thought about it. I talked to Alan Warwick. In the end, I was tired of working for someone else.”
Jim smiled. “I can understand that. Any broken hearts left behind in New York?”
“Only the ones I mentioned the other night, the dry cleaning delivery boy and the Chinese food messenger. But I doubt they miss anything but the tips. I was always generous. What about you?” Why was she picturing him holding Alexa Reed’s tiny fingers?
“I’ve tried. No luck. Still head over heels for Gail.”
Jealousy was an inappropriate emotion Alexa reminded herself as he refilled her wine glass. “What is she like?”
“Funny, smart, beautiful. Taffy hair, big blue eyes. Knockout figure. Grew up in Boston. She teaches third grade and loves it. Cody has a half-sister, Brittany, whom he adores.”
Sarah studied him across the table. A white knit shirt tonight with navy linen pants. Such a kind, gentle face. Hard to believe he hadn’t found someone else by now.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
“My hourly rate is a lot higher than that.”
“Guess I can’t afford them, then.”
“I thought you were a trust fund baby.”
He laughed. “I tend to forget about the old man’s money. I did without it all those years. Ok, I’ll pay your hourly rate if you tell me why you’re looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“As if you were reading my mind.”
“Now that would be a useful skill for a defense attorney. But I don’t do mind reading. I was just thinking a guy like you should have hooked up with someone by now.”
“I could say the same about you.” The tone of his voice made her tummy flutter, and she decided this conversation had to end and quickly.
“I do see someone. From time to time.”
Did he look disappointed? She wasn’t sure.
“Lucky him. What’s he like?”
“A busy important, CEO of a commercial real estate firm. His brother, who works for him, had a minor problem with the Securities and Exchange Commission last winter, just after I got here.”
“And you took care of it for him?”
“Made it all go away.”
Jim studied her in the candlelight. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Sara traced the circle of the bottom of her wine glass. “Now you’re reading minds.”
“I’ve interviewed hundreds of witnesses. I know when someone’s holding back.”
Her dark eyes met his, and she smiled. “You’re really good. I’ll give you credit. David Scott is very married.”
“Ah, I see.” He crossed his knife and fork on his plate in a gesture of finality before bringing his eyes back to study hers. “Then why waste your time?”
“He’s witty, well educated, and charming.” And I can’t fall in love with him. But Sarah would never say that out loud.
“Does the wife know?”
She frowned as she thought of the defunct Cabo trip. “I don’t think so.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“She was supposed to be in Cabo tonight.”
“And he was supposed to be with you?”
“But she cancelled. I don’t think it had anything to do with me and David.”
“Well, my luck that she stayed in town.” He leaned over and started to refill her glass, but she put her hand over the top.
“I’m driving, remember?”
“And I’ve got that guest room, remember? This was a tough day. You need it. Let me put the plates in the sink and then join you in the living room. I’ve learned a lot about Alexa Reed since this afternoon. I think you’re going to be interested in what I’ve found out.”

Dark Moon – A Work in Progress, Chapter Three

August 30, 2013/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

CHAPTER THREE
Trevor Martin had done well for himself, Sarah reflected, as she sat opposite his massive mahogany desk on Monday, sipping the coffee his assistant had brought in. He could afford a three-office suite on the thirtieth floor of 600 West Broadway to house himself and his two associate attorneys. The associates were tucked into the interior spaces, but Trevor’s office overlooked San Diego Bay, now sparkling in the August morning as if the sun had thrown handfuls of diamond dust over the gray-blue waves.
“You aren’t going to like what I have to say about this case,” Trevor began.
“Try me.”
“Well, to get straight to the point, your client is as looney as they come. The court declared a doubt about her mental competency to stand trial a week after the preliminary hearing. Basically, she went straight back to her cell at the jail after the prelim, curled up on her bunk, and hasn’t spoken a word since.”
“Wouldn’t it be a bit of a shock to be held for trial on two murders, knowing she’s facing the death penalty?”
Trevor shrugged. “She’s a lawyer, herself. She had to know what was going to go down from the minute she pulled the trigger on Brigman.”
“Did she tell you she did it?”
“Of course not. She claims she left Brigman’s at 9:30 and went home to Pacific Beach. But that can’t be true because her cell phone shows her in Brigman and her ex-husband’s neighborhood at 11:15 p.m. Alexa had just enough time to kill Brigman and then drive over to Michael’s and shoot him.. She was between murders when Meggie called. And, as you probably know, the Glock .9 used to kill them both was registered to her.”
“How did she explain the cell phone evidence?”
“Not very well. She says she was driving around because she couldn’t sleep and was missing her children.”
“Isn’t that possible? They were little. She’d be likely to miss them.”
“Oh come on!” Trevor leaned back in his chair and shook his head at her stupidity. “In what universe does a woman with motive and opportunity just happened to be driving around the neighborhood of the two men she hates above all others at the very same time someone is using her gun to kill them?”
“What does she have to say about the gun?”
“That it was stolen. She claims she reported the theft to the police, but there’s no record of a police report.”
“How can you be sure there’s no report?”
“Preston Baldwin is the deputy district attorney who’s prosecuting the case. He’s the number three man in that office, and we go back a long way. He’s turned over all the discovery, and no police report.”
Sarah studied Trevor until he began to squirm in the silence. If you put an ill-fitting, thousand-dollar suit on a donkey and turned it into a person then added a beer belly, you’d get Trevor Martin, she reflected. He was thin, except for the paunch, in his late fifties, with a bulbous nose, and squinty dark eyes of an undefined color. He combed his sparse gray locks over Donald Trump-style and wore a suit that matched his hair. Everything about him said mediocrity. Sarah reckoned he’d earned his high-class address based on cunning and deceit and not on legal talent.
“You mean you’re conducting your investigation into your client’s defense relying solely upon the word of the man who’s prosecuting her?”
“Look, you’re making way too much out of this. I told you, Preston and I go way back. We’ve tried probably a hundred cases against each other. We socialize. In fact, I was at a barbecue at his house the night after the prelim. If that report had been in his file, he’d have turned it over.”
Sarah tried to keep her face impassive, but she could tell Trevor was becoming more and more agitated by her disapproval. He leaned over his desk and hissed, “Don’t waste your time on sympathy for this woman. She’s a consummate lying, manipulating bitch.”
“I’m sorry, did you just call your client a ‘bitch’? What about fiduciary duty and duty of loyalty to the client? Did you tell her you were partying with opposing counsel the night after she was bound over to face the death penalty?”
Trevor was incensed. “Don’t quote the Rules of Professional Conduct to me. I know them. But I also know how to survive in this town. My relationship with Preston Baldwin has lasted for twenty years. Clients come and go. As will Alexa Reed. No, I didn’t tell her Preston and I are friends. That’s my private life, and I’m not bound to reveal my private life to clients.”
“But that’s not how it works,” Sarah said. “Our duty of loyalty is to our clients, not to the attorneys we try cases with. If you had a social relationship with opposing counsel, you should have told her.”
Trevor shrugged. “I can see you’ve got a lot to learn. This isn’t New York, Ms. Knight. We do things our own way.”
“This is beginning to sound like my meeting with Hal Remington.”
“Better not cross Hal if you want to work in San Diego.”
“Funny, that’s exactly what he said.”
Trevor leaned back in his padded leather executive chair and adopted a paternal tone. “If you want to go on some sort of crusade, claiming we’re all unethical, you’re welcome to do it. But remember, we’ve all been here more than twenty years, doing our jobs, and not getting into any trouble with the state bar. If you start accusing us of shafting our clients – even if we do – you won’t get to first base. Who do you think the state bar is going to believe? You and a string of convicted felons, complaining about their trial attorneys? Or us?”
“That’s the speech Hal Remington gave me.”
“And he was right on the money! Look, Ms. Knight. Alexa Reed was a washed up associate at Warwick, Thompson, and Hayes. She got herself pregnant twice without much time between babies to hide her incompetence and to give herself an excuse to leave the firm. Michael, on the other hand, was a brilliant young lawyer who made partner in four years.”
“Was he brilliant or just the son of a sitting United States Supreme Court justice who was a former Warrick, Thompson partner himself?”
“If I have to answer that question, you haven’t heard anything I’ve said so far. Anyway, Alexa gets herself knocked up twice. The firm lets her go; and then she files for divorce, claiming Michael beat her and persuaded the partners to fire her. Ronald Brigman did her psychological evaluation in the custody case and found she was lying about the beatings and about why she was fired. Based on those findings, Brigman decided to give primary custody of the kids to Michael. Not less than a month later, Brigman and Michael are dead, killed with the gun registered to Alexa, who claims she was just driving around aimlessly in the neighborhood when someone else used it. Come on, Ms. Knight. How much time do you think anyone should waste investigating this case?”
“As much time as it takes to get it right. Did you interview the children?”
“Meggie and Sam? Of course not. They’re only six and five.”
“And they were in the house when their mother supposedly shot their father. What if she didn’t shoot him, and the children are the missing to prove it?”
Sarah noticed Trevor Martin’s face begin to go dark red. Could he be on the verge of a heart attack? “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no way anyone can prove Alexa Reed is innocent. Interviewing the children wouldn’t change a thing. Besides, Coleman Reed and his wife Myra took Meggie and Sam to D.C. to live with them as soon as Alexa was arrested. Justice Reed requested a protective order from the superior court to keep people like you from bothering them. You want to talk to the children? You’d better have an airtight reason. Look, Ms. Knight. Remember what Hal Remington said: don’t try too hard if you expect to work in this town. Just file a few in limine motions to make it look good, do some cross examination, and accept the inevitable outcome. This client is a guilty nut job and them some. You’re here to make it look good and get paid. That’s all.
“And by the way, this case is going nowhere fast at the moment because Alexa Reed is curled up in that catatonic ball in her cell. She wouldn’t talk to me, and I doubt she will talk to you.”
“So I gather there’s a hearing coming up to determine whether she is competent to stand trial?”
“Right. On September 3, the day after labor day.”
“And who is the psychologist who is evaluating her for that hearing?”
“Percy Andrews.”
“What didn’t you request someone out of L.A.?”
“Because I didn’t need to. Percy Andrews has been doing court appointed evaluations in this town for twenty years.”
“And that’s my point. Isn’t it a conflict of interest to have him evaluating the woman accused of killing a colleague?”
His mouth became a tight line and he stood up abruptly. “I’ve got another appointment coming in ten minutes. I’ve given you all the help I can. And I’ve warned you. If you have any questions after you go over the file, you can call me.”
But not bloody likely you’ll answer, Sarah thought as she shook hands and left his office.

Work in Progress: Dark Moon, A Novel – Chapter Two

August 16, 2013/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

CHAPTER TWO
Her second thoughts about Jim Mitchell began the moment she walked out of Trend, and they continued as she rang the bell at his Pacific Beach bungalow the following night. The house stood out from its beige stucco neighbors in a fresh coat of olive green paint with bright red begonias smiling from the flowerbeds. Not only did he seem strong and wise, seasoned in the ways of the world and his own man, he also appeared to have an artistic streak. She liked him; but, at the same time, she questioned her decision to hire him. This was a new experience for her. She had advanced in the competitive world of Craig, Weller because she was smart and because she had excellent judgment. She rarely had any reason to think twice once she’d made a decision.
But Jim presented a number of challenges beginning with his dark hair, decisively dimpled chin, and firm, square-jawed good looks. He was six feet, two hundred pounds of well-honed muscle that any woman would have found attractive, and she never dated or slept with anyone she worked with. It was a rule set in stone. And even though Jim’s background meant he knew his way around the tough world of criminal defense, he had the kindest brown eyes she had ever seen; and their empathy tempted her to open up about herself in a way she would never have considered with anyone else. But never looking back was another implacable rule. Finally, his honesty about his responsibility for the loss of his marriage and his love for his former wife, surprisingly tugged at her heart, an organ that was nearly impossible to touch after years spent turning herself into one of the toughest lawyers on Wall Street. So Sarah considered telling Jim Mitchell the deal was off as soon as they had settled down to dinner on his charming patio in the ocean-scented remnants of the soft summer evening.
But she hesitated. He was not the average private detective. Even his dress that night was not average California casual. No slouchy knit shirts and faded jeans. Instead, he wore an I-mean-business blue Oxford cloth shirt, sleeves rolled back to the elbows, and impeccable tan linen slacks. Everything about him broadcast confidence and professionalism. If she searched the entire west coast for an investigator to work on behalf of Alexa Reed, she couldn’t do better than Jim. And loyalty to her client was, according to the cannons of legal ethics, her top priority.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” She had just tasted the lamb chops in a delicate mustard cream sauce with tiny spring peas and braised leeks.
“You were expecting steaks from the butane grill.” His eyes teased her.
“Most definitely. You do not look like a sous chef.”
He grinned. “Thank you, I think. My mother came from old money. Her father was an investment banker and a Cravath client. She insisted on having a professional chef. I liked hanging out in the kitchens to learn about cooking. Drove my old man nuts because he was afraid I’d go to culinary school.”
“You’d have been very successful.”
“Doubtless. But in the end, I wanted to catch the bad guys more.” He smiled. “My cooking skills came in handy when I was living on a government salary and couldn’t afford five-star restaurants.”
“And now you can?”
“In theory. My father died three years ago and left me, his only child, his fortune along with my mother’s money. In trust, of course. But the monthly payments have made me financially independent. It’s unlikely I’ll ever need to touch the capital.”
“So why keep working? And on the side of the bad guys?”
“I keep working because I love doing investigations. Every one is a new story, with a new plot, and new characters. And the clients aren’t ‘bad guys.’ They’re innocent people I’m keeping out of prison. I’m still on the side of justice.”
“Well, then, you may not want to work on Alexa Reed’s case. She’s very guilty.”
“Tell me about it.”
Sarah sighed and traced patterns on the base of her wine glass with one finger. “In the interests of full disclosure, I should let you know that I didn’t want this case.”
“How’d you get it, then?”
“When I left Craig, Lewis and set up shop out here alone, I brought a few clients with me who are based in Los Angeles. One was accused of masterminding a Ponzi scheme, two others were indicted for insider trading, and the fourth was on the hook for racketeering.”
“Isn’t defending clients under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act a speciality of yours?”
She felt herself stiffen and hoped he didn’t notice. “I’ve done a few RICO cases, that’s true.”
“But you won one of the most influential and toughest cases of all time, the Joey Menendez case.”
Sarah’s mouth went dry at the name, and she gulped a sip of wine to make her tongue work. “How’d you know about Menendez?”
“It’s famous throughout law enforcement. You persuaded a jury to acquit the head of the Menendez drug cartel of six counts of murder for hire and twenty counts of extortion. No one ever thought that would happen, including the U.S. Attorney who opposed you. What’s wrong? You look upset.”
“No. Of course not.” But she gripped the base of the wine glass to keep her hands from shaking. He was violating one of her iconoclastic rules: don’t look back. She needed to change the subject quickly. “Anyway, I didn’t want the Alexa Reed case.”
“So how’d you become counsel of record then?”
“In a word: blackmail. Last month I settled all but one of the four cases I started with. I’ve picked up one or two new ones as I’ve gone along, but they are all out of L.A. I haven’t developed any business in San Diego. So I put my name on the list of attorneys willing to accept trial court appointments for indigent defendants. Yesterday morning, Hal Remington, who heads the appointments panel called and insisted I come to his office at 10 a.m.”
“He couldn’t offer you the case on the phone?”
“Apparently not.” Her hands had stopped shaking, and she paused to fortify herself with a sip of wine.
“So what happened?”
“I found his office in the basement of the old Justice Building on the third try. They’ve hidden it pretty well. Remington turned out to be a scruffy version of Ichabod Crane, slouched behind a desk so covered in paper, I doubt he’s ever filed anything in his entire career. He told me he was appointing me on Alexa Reed’s case, and I said no.”
Jim leaned over and poured more Australian Shiraz into her class as he asked, “And then?”
“And then he said if I didn’t take the case, I’d never work in this town. He’d personally guarantee it.”
“I didn’t know whether to believe him or laugh in his face.”
“I hope you believed him.”
“What do you mean?”
“People have their own way here. Money and influence talk.”
“But surely they follow the state bar’s ethical rules just like everyone else?”
“Some do. Some don’t. Have you ever heard of Patrick Frega?”
She shook her head.
“He was a San Diego attorney. Back in 1992, he was caught by us feds bribing two very willing superior court judges. They all three got disbarred and sentenced to federal prison. What did you tell Remington after he threatened to blackball you?”
“I told him I couldn’t take the Reed case because I’m not death qualified in California. Alexa is facing the death penalty because it was a double murder.”
“And then what?”
“Remington said my death qualification in New York was enough, and I’d better take the case. Then he leaned over his desk and said, ‘For a woman who graduated number three in her class from Yale, you’re kind of dense. You’re getting this case because you aren’t qualified, and you’ll lose it because that’s exactly what Coleman Reed wants. He wants the woman who killed his son to die by lethal injection as quickly as possible. You and twelve citizens of this city are going to oblige him. You were hand-picked because you look qualified, but you aren’t.”
“He actually said that?”
“I wish I’d been wearing a wire. I asked him what made him think I’d lose; after all, I did graduate number three, and I’m a quick study.”
“And?”
“And he said, ‘Yeah, you were editor of the law review at Yale. Big f’ing deal. That means nothing in this town. I’m It when it comes to handing out defense work. You want to survive professionally? Better not win Alexa Reed’s case.’
“When I reminded him that was unethical, he laughed and said, ‘Then go tell the state bar. You’ll never prove a word out of my mouth. There’s only me and you in this room, and I’ve been appointing lawyers for twenty years. Everyone knows me, but you’re some New York hot-shot who doesn’t belong here. It’s my word against yours, and mine will win. Why don’t you go back where you belong?”
“Wow. So you took the case?”
“He made me angry. I wasn’t going to let anyone treat me like that.”
“Who had the case before you?”
“Trevor Martin. He represented her at the preliminary hearing. I picked up her file from his office yesterday, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. I read his withdrawal motion. He claims his mother has inoperable brain cancer, but I think he just doesn’t want to lose a high-profile case.”
Jim reached over to refill her glass one more time, but she put her hand over it. “No, thanks. I’m driving.”
“You can stay here. I have a guest room.”
She looked through the open french doors into his living room, full of an eclectic mix of old and new furniture, antiques and Ikea pieces. Maple and mahogany and a few painted chairs and chests here and there. Cozy and comfortable. The kind of room you’d be tempted to put your feet up in and snuggle into a soft throw on the sofa. Jim was probably like that, too. Safe and comforting. She reminded herself she didn’t get close to men who were like that. She had one-night stands with married men like David, and men she’d never see again. But men like Jim, who were capable of relationships, were dangerous to the self-contained, tightly controlled world she had created.
Her dark eyes locked onto his mellow, softer ones. “No, thanks. And let’s get one rule very clear: I never sleep with anyone I work with.”
“I wasn’t inviting you into my room. There really are two.” He grinned, and the tension broke. “Now, tell me why we’re going to lose.”
She shrugged. “Simple really. She did it. June 2 was a Sunday night. Meggie, who’s six and Sam, who’s five, were with their father at his house on Mount Soledad in La Jolla. Alexa was alone in her rented place in Pacific Beach. Ronald Brigman, who lived about ten minutes away from Michael, had a surveillance camera recording traffic at his front door. The video footage shows Alexa arriving alone at 9:00 p.m. but doesn’t show her leaving. Brigman was killed around 11:00 that night and Michael was shot about twenty minutes later. Meggie called Alexa on her cell phone around 11:15, and the call pinged off a tower that shows Alexa moving from Brigman’s to Michael’s. The Glock .9 millimeter used in both murders was registered to her and was found next to Michael’s body. Ballistics show five bullets in Brigman, and four in Michael, all from her Glock.”
“A Glock magazine in California only holds ten rounds. So I’m assuming there was one left in the magazine?”
“No idea. I haven’t read anything other than Trevor Martin’s motion to withdraw. I’m going to look over the police reports and ballistics evidence tomorrow. I’m meeting with Martin at 10:00 on Monday morning.”
“Do you want me there?”
“No. I don’t expect him to be a witness in her case, and he’ll open up to me better if we’re alone. But I’m going to the jail to see Alexa Tuesday afternoon. I’ll need you then. Two o’clock.”

Work in Progress: Dark Moon, A Novel

August 9, 2013/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

I’ve spent the week writing blog posts for Dance For a Dead Princess for blogs that didn’t happen. Sigh. Oh, well. And I’ve been working on novel three (novel two being in the editing stages), so since I haven’t had time to write for my own blog, I’m sharing the first chapter of Dark Moon with you this week.
CHAPTER ONE
August 2013
She was sitting at the bar, staring at the full moon over the glass smooth, night-black Pacific. Her back was toward him, but Jim Mitchell could see her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Her dark hair was very short like a child’s pixie cut, and she was all eyes. They were the saddest brown eyes he had ever seen as they gazed through the window at the blank ocean.
Judging by her long elegant legs and graceful posture, he guessed she was a model or a dancer. But no, he told himself. Models and dancers don’t hang out at La Jolla’s exclusive Trend Bar in conservative black couture suits and impossibly expensive white silk blouses. She was obviously a business woman. A retired model, he decided who now ran her own modeling agency. He was glad he’d worn his business casual tan chinos and thrown his navy sport coat over his white knit shirt. She didn’t look as if sloppy have appealed to her.
She was lost in thought, and she didn’t turn when he slid onto the stool beside her. He wondered what such a beautiful woman was doing alone on a bar stool at 9 p.m. on a Friday night, and he wondered how many of the losers several stools away had tried to gain the seat he now occupied. And he wondered how long she would let him hold it.
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Help yourself.” Her eyes riveted on his, still sad but now guarded. He noticed a long scar snaking across her left cheek. He guessed it must have ended her career in front of the camera. She watched him glance down at her left hand.
“If I were married, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Me, either.” The bartender shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for his order. “Martini, two olives. And may I get something for you? Your glass is just about empty.”
“Another one of my usual.”
Satisfied the bar tender scurried away to earn his tip.
“If he knows your usual, you must come here often.”
“Not an original pickup line. Besides, you had me at ‘mind if I sit down.’ My office is just down the street. I like to come by on Friday night to wind down.”
“But happy hour is long over.”
“I don’t do happy hour. Too crowded.”
“Me, either.”
“Is you office just down the street?”
“No. I work out of my home in Pacific Beach.”
“Then why aren’t you in a bar in Pacific Beach?”
“Too loud. Too noisy. And I’m too old.”
He saw the first glint of amusement in her dark eyes as she appraised him. “You don’t look too old.”
“I’m forty-two. That’s too old for twenty-something coeds.”
She laughed, a deep honest laugh that he liked. “I know plenty of men your age who wouldn’t agree with that.”
“They have their preferences. I have mine. If I feel like a drink on Friday night, I drive up here. What about you? You could be down in PB with the party crowd.”
Her eyes darkened slightly, but her tone remained light.
The bar tender appeared with their drinks, and he noticed her “usual” was red wine.
“To Friday night! I’m Jim Mitchell, by the way.” He held up his glass.
“Sarah Knight,” and she lightly touched his glass with hers.
Afterward he said, “I’m not believing the ‘too old’ stuff about you.”
“Thanks, but it’s true. I’m four years ahead of you.”
“You look ten years behind me.”
She smiled. “I’ve finally reached the point in life where that’s an advantage. When I first started out as an attorney, no one took me seriously.”
“You’re an attorney?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. Lots of women are these days.”
“No, no. I didn’t mean that. I took you for a former model, now head of her own agency.”
Sarah threw back her head and laughed. “Now that’s a first. Thank you. I think.Ever heard of Craig, Lewis, and Weller?”
“Sure. They’re big time rivals of my old man’s stomping grounds, Cravath, Swain, and Moore.”
“Well, I went with Craig, Lewis out of law school– ”
“Which was Harvard, I bet.”
“Wrong, Yale. And I became a partner in their white collar crime section eleven years ago.”
“A woman who looks like a model and who does white collar crime.This has got to be a movie. I would never have guessed.”
She smiled. “I think looking like a kid gave me an advantage in front of juries, particularly with the female jurors.”
“So what brought you back to San Diego?”
“I grew up here, and I got tired of New York winters.”
“I can relate to that.”
“If your dad was a Cravath partner, you obviously grew up in New York.”
“Well, not in the city. We had the regulation big house in the Connecticut burbs.”
“And you are Jim, Junior, and your father wanted you to follow in his footsteps.”
“Now, I think you’re psychic. James Chapman Mitchell, III. He sent me to Andover because it was his prep school, and he sent me to Brown because it was his college, but then I rebelled and went Georgetown because it wasn’t Harvard, his law school.”
“And did you go to work for Cravath?”
“For one miserable year. And then I joined the FBI.”
“It’s difficult to see that as an act of rebellion.”
“As far as my father was concerned, it was.”
“Why’d you pick the FBI?”
“I wanted to put the bad guys away. I thought it would give some meaning to my life.”
“And did it?”
“Too much meaning as it turns out. I got very caught up in my work. Finding a lead in a cold case was like an addiction. But my partner, who was single, had no trouble leaving work at six o’clock to hang out with my wife, who was tired of sleeping alone. Seven years ago, Gail handed me the divorce papers and put Josh’s ring on her finger instead of mine.”
“Sounds tough.” Her eyes were unreadable again.
“The toughest part is being away from my son Cody. He’s thirteen, and I only get a few weeks with him every summer. He’s just gone back to Baltimore where his mother lives. What about you? Ex-husbands? Children?”
“No time. Remember I made partner at a Wall Street firm at thirty-five. I couldn’t date my clients, and I don’t like office romances. That left the dry cleaning delivery boy and the kid who brought Chinese takeout when I got home before midnight. And I don’t do younger men.”
“Darn. And I was just getting ready to proposition you.”
“An ex-FBI agent propositioning a criminal defense attorney? In what universe?”
“This one. I’m a private investigator now. I had to leave the Bureau after Gail married Josh. I saw and heard too much, and I couldn’t take it. I’m still in love with Gail, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I noticed.”
“I moved out here two years ago to get a fresh start. I literally closed my eyes and stuck a pin in the map. And San Diego it was. Here’s my card. I’m really good. You never know when you might need an outstanding gumshoe.”
She took the card in her long, graceful elegantly manicured fingers and studied it for a moment. She seemed to be thinking something over. Finally she said, “Actually, I do need someone.”
“I can’t believe my luck.”
“You might not think that when I tell you about the case.”
“Try me.”
“Do you know who Alexa Reed is?”
“Sure. The daughter-in-law of United States Supreme Court Justice Coleman Reed. She was arrested here in June for the murder of her husband, Michael, and a local psychologist, Roland Brigman. She and Michael, who was a partner at Warwick, Thompson, and Hayes were locked in a custody battle for their two children. Brigman seems to have been on Michael’s side. The papers say Alexa was losing custody even though she had given up her career at Warwick, Thompson to be a stay-at-home mom. She snapped and killed Brigman and her ex.”
“I was appointed to represent Alexa today.”
“Wow! That’s going to be a tough one.”
“You have no idea. There’s a lot more, but I can’t talk about it here in public.”
“Of course not.”
“Are you in?”
“Definitely. Hey, I know a great little restaurant where we can talk. Tomorrow night at seven.”
“Ok. And where would that would be?”
“My place. Here’s the address.”

What if Your Lawyer Wore Pajamas to Court – Or Don’t Leave Home Without Your Editor

August 1, 2013/in Uncategorized /by DeborahH

I started life as a listener, became a writer, worked as an editor, and drifted into being a lawyer. While a listener, I learned to love stories. While a writer, I learned to tell them. While an editor, I learned to tell them well.

It never occurred to me until I became a lawyer that the process of writing is a mystery to many people. Law schools have something called “law reviews” where students edit each other’s “case notes.” “Case notes” are not notes at all but are long deadly dull treatises on legal subjects not even a lawyer can love. The point of being on the law review is to learn how to pick a subject, write about it, and use a legal style manual to make sure all the citations and use of punctuation throughout the deadly dull case note are consistent. The theory is that later on, when lawyers write trial memoranda and appellate briefs (intended to keep the reader awake, unlike case notes), their written work will look professional instead of sloppy and haphazard. A legal brief with correct grammar and punctuation and consistent citation style is the equivalent of putting on a suit to go to court instead of appearing in your pajamas.

In the book publishing world, everyone knows traditional publishers have editors and proofreaders and copy editors. Their function is to make the fiction and nonfiction books the house publishes look professional. Like lawyers, publishers set standards for their written work by designating the style manual or manuals and the rules for punctuation, grammar, and citations that will make the house’s book internally consistent and appealing to readers. The point is not that every publisher uses the same style manual or follows exactly the same rules. Rather, the point is consistency within the works the house offers for sale.

One of the last steps in producing a brief for the court of appeal is editing and proofreading it. Proofreading yourself accurately is nearly impossible. Back in my editor days, we used to take turns acting as proofreaders for other editors’ projects because after anyone has read and re-read a document a number of times, the accuracy rate for proofreading slips into the toilet. Since I work without staff, I have to proofread my own work; and I have found that reading aloud and taking the sections of the brief out of order help me find my errors. And because I used to teach writing and grammar and punctuation, I do know where those pesky commas go. (They are logical little beasts; and no, they don’t go where you pause to breathe when reading out loud.)

This has always been my world. First, the story. Second, the writing. Third, editing the work. Whether writing poetry, fiction, non-fiction or legal briefs (a sometimes blend of fiction and non, but never mind), I never thought of deviating from this routine. And I’m not going to stop now.

But after I published my novel and began to read author discussions on various forums, I was surprised to discover that many who call themselves authors do not respect the process of editing. They see it as optional. That, in my mind, creates a problem in the world of self-publishing. Whereas a reader can rely on a traditionally published book to be edited and internally consistent, buying a self-published book can be a crap shoot. It might be presenting itself to the world in its professional dress. Or it might have been let loose still wearing its pajamas. I’ve downloaded a few of those books, and I haven’t gotten beyond page twenty-five in any of them. And failing to respect the editorial process leads to a divide among reviewers. A lot of them either won’t consider a non-traditionally published book, or they demand assurances a self-published book has been edited.

Treating editing as optional hurts everyone in the self-publishing community. Ignoring the editorial process is a mistake. A good editor has the art of cleaning up a manuscript while preserving the authentic and individual voice of the author. Good editing is never, ever optional. No reader wants to buy a book still in its pj’s.

The Grandaddy of Style Manuals

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Legal Style Manual: Dreaded Blue Book

California’s Answer to the Dreaded Blue Book