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Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Twelve

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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.
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Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Eleven

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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.”
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Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Ten

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CHAPTER TEN
He arrived at her office in La Jolla at eight forty-five on Monday. He Was carrying two grande Starbuck’s lattes and a paper bag containing two scrambled egg and bacon sandwiches. He wished his heart didn’t beat so fast at the sight of her in tight jeans and a simple black blouse.
“You’re early.”
“I thought you’d be hungry.”
Sarah smiled and took a fortifying sip of coffee from the covered paper cup. “I can’t argue with that.”
He sat down in one of the two chairs in front of her desk and opened the sandwich wrapper. Sarah noted his uniform of casual khaki’s and starched shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He saw her take in his attire.
“Real men do wear pink.”
“I wasn’t disputing that. It looks good on you.”
“Thanks. And I’m admiring those jeans.”
“I’m not headed to court today. Thank, God. I can get away with these out here.”
“But not back on Wall Street I take it. So what happened on Friday?”
She recounted the debacle in Judge Tyler’s chambers.
“That bad?”
“Yeah. And the funny part is, I didn’t expect it. I thought he’d play fair and say yes.”
“This isn’t ‘Play Fair’ world.”
“I’m beginning to understand that. Sometimes I feel like Alice in Legal Wonderland. I’m expecting the see the Red Queen sitting on the bench at any minute.”
“So what are you going to do? Take a writ to the court of appeal and demand an order to get an expert appointed?”
“No. As I was leaving, Judge Tyler reminded me he plays golf with the presiding justice of the court of appeal every Tuesday afternoon. I have a feeling I’m going to be up there seeking a writ before this case is over, so I’d better pick my spots.”
“Go up too often, and you look like a whiner.
“Exactly.”
“Well, I’ve got some more bad news for you.” He licked the last drop of ketchup off his fingers as he spoke and noticed she had eaten a third of her sandwich and put it down. “Don’t you like the chow, by the way?”
“No, its great. Thanks. Talking about Judge Tyler took my appetite away. What’s your bad news?”
“I didn’t find any incidents of domestic violence on Michael Reed. Nothing. Nada. Zip.”
“Wow, and I assume you’ve illegally checked the Bureau’s data bases. So we are big time out of luck on that one.”
“For now. You don’t know what Alexa is going to say when she wakes up.”
“Oh, you mean when they med her to make her talk to us.”
“Look, I agree they’ll be acting illegally. But at least she’ll talk to us.”
“Meds are not a cure-all. Sometimes the clients hallucinate, and when they talk to you, you can’t tell what’s real and what’s fiction. And meds make them zombie-like in front of the jury.”
“Sounds like more issues for the appellate attorney.”
“Do you read lawyer fiction?”
Jim smiled. “Some of it.”
“Know what Scott Turow calls an appellate attorney? ‘The designated looser.’ I hate to think my sole function as trial counsel is making a record for him or her to take up on appeal.”
“Got you. Well, I’ll keep digging on Michael. There are more places to look.”
“And I want to give you some work in another case, too. This is a proposed witness list in a mail fraud prosecution that may or may not go to trial in federal court after the first of the year. I need to know what you find out about them. Hopefully lots of stuff to make them look bad in front of the jury.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Will get on it.” Jim was happy because she was enlarging his involvement in her work, despite David Scott. “So what are we going to do about an expert for Alexa?”
“I’m going to hire Jordan Stewart out of my own pocket.”
“Wow, you do want to win this thing!”
“Guilty as charged. And if we do get the evidence to use a battered woman defense, I want Jordan on board. And at that point, the court will have to pay for her. I’m going up to Los Angeles to see her in the morning.”
“Need me with you?”
“No, get going on those mail fraud witnesses. There are a lot of them. I will need you when we go to the jail to see Alexa.”
“And when will that be?”
“I’m thinking we should go every few days. For one, it might turn her around enough to talk to us. For another, I think how often I’ve tried to get her to cooperate might be a subject at the hearing.”
“You mean they’ll say you didn’t try hard enough.”
“As you know, the defense trial lawyer gets blamed for everything.”
“I’d like to say you’re being paranoid, but you’re not. So when do we go to see her again?”
“Let’s meet at the jail at two o’clock on Tuesday afternoon.”
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Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Nine

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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.
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Dark Moon, A Work In Progress, Chapter Eight

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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.”
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Dark Moon, A Work in Progress – Chapter Seven

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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.
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Dark Moon, A Work in Progress – Chapter Six

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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.
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Dark Moon, A Work in Progress – Chapter Five

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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.”
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Exciting News for Dance For A Dead Princess

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Hi, Everyone, Two bits of exciting news for Dance For A Dead Princess this week. First, at long last, it is available in paperback at Amazon.com!
Second, below is a preview of the review of Dance For A Dead Princess that will be in the October edition of the Midwest Book Review!
Dance for a Dead Princess is a work of fiction loosely based on facts surrounding Princess Diana’s life, and opens with the premise that Princess Diana received a death threat shortly before her accident, recorded the phone call, and gave the information to a close friend in America who subsequently died under mysterious circumstances.
Diane’s close (and rich) friend Duke Nicholas, the second richest man in England, would seem to have more than enough resources to track down this missing information, (which seems to have wound up at a Wall Street attorney’s office), but though he can lure Taylor to England with the promise of selling his ancestral estate to one of her clients, he can’t force her to turn over the tape. Nor can he control the unexpected: his sudden infatuation with her.
On Taylor’s part, she views Nicholas as a spoiled, selfish rich man and only wants to represent her client as quickly as possible and return home. She’s recovering from a broken engagement and the last thing she needs is another romance. But then, the last thing she also needs is involvement with a piece of evidence that could and place her in jeopardy while providing the definitive word about Diana’s death.
The plot becomes even more complex with the discovery a document which relates a history that gives her more compassion for Nicholas, who is battling to save his drug-addicted ward. Add an arrest for murder and Taylor finds herself more than immersed in a wildly twisting affair that moves between romance and murder mystery.
Now, I almost hesitate to mention the romance factor: too many romance novels are insipid, predictable, and shallow writings. And I even hesitate to bill this as a ‘mystery’ (even as a ‘historical mystery’) because so much genre writing in this area is also too dry.
Not so Dance for a Dead Princess, which maintains a vivid set of protagonists, clearly outlines motivations built upon their realistic personalities, and adds the backdrop of romance and mystery to create a complex and ever-evolving story line that’s anything but predictable.
For one thing, the historical references run the gamut from past to present. This lends a realistic background to the novel which clearly shows connections between timeline events and what motivates the protagonists. British history is offered as a real force affecting not only past, but present events.
For another, motivations for actions are clearly drawn. Nicholas is drawn to investigate Diana’s death not because she’s a famous personality, but because she was his friend – and his last connection to his wife, also deceased. So his drive to investigate her death comes from a personal, not a political, connection: “How many nights had he spent talking to Diana about his marriage, about her marriage, about his guilt over Deborah, and about the impossibility of being in love? Too many to count. He ached to tell her now how empty his life had become without either of them.”
The connections between Nicholas and Taylor are forged from a number of motivators; from shared feelings to an overall event that ties them together, and are thoroughly explored in a plot ripe with high drama, tense scenes, and realistic twists and turns throughout.
Fans of good solid fiction writing will find Dance for a Dead Princess is clearly more than a cut above genre writing, and will relish the definitive conclusion which leaves nothing hanging and much to enjoy.
D. Donovan, Senior eBook Reviewer, Midwest Book Review
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Work in Progress: Dark Moon, A Novel

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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.”
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