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Chapter Twelve

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LOVE SONG

CHAPTER TWELVE

November 1994

Through her tears, she watched him vanish up the path toward the parking lot.  Go after him. Fight for him, her heart said. Show him you won’t desert him. Show him it’s safe to love you.

He had already left when she reached her car. She drove the few blocks to his loft at Fourth and G. By some miracle, there was an empty meter in front. She got out and hurried up the steps to ring the bell.

Answer. Please, answer, she prayed. Her breath came in short, harsh sobs as she stood waiting for a reply from upstairs.

None came.

Karen rang the bell, more insistently this time. She counted ten seconds and rang the bell again.

Then suddenly the iron security door swung open, and Stan was there. Without a word, he pulled her inside and into his arms.

* * *

December 2007

As the American Airlines jet began to taxi toward take off in the late December twilight, two days before Christmas, Judge Karen Morgan sat back in her first class seat and closed her eyes. One week since she had seen Stan at the Christmas party. Seven miserable days of coming home to the blank answering machine. No call. No message. So why did she expect one? She had told him the truth: Carrie Moon was dead. Why then did she think he would come after her and insist she wasn’t? Because she so desperately wanted him to? Because she had once fought for his love in an effort to rescue him from a life of numbness and emptiness, and now she wanted him to do the same for her? But the odds were against it. She ordered a scotch straight up and closed her eyes.

The jet sped east through the darkness, but Karen was back in the lift in Stan’s building as it creaked upward toward his loft. Her nostrils were full of the cool salty breeze, sweeping over her hot arms and face, damp with perspiration and desire. And she could smell the familiar dark, masculine scent of Stan, the mixture of sweat and sex that surrounded him after hours of performing.

Sometimes, Karen reflected, as she listened to the big jet engines labor, life brings you to a split second when you suddenly understand everything is about to change forever. In the twinkling of an eye, as you stand poised on the edge of the inevitable, you pause to burn into your memory what life is like at that moment – the moment before change engulfs you. That sliver of time before the future arrives to transform your life forever is as tiny as an atom, yet as wide and deep as a black hole in space. You stand poised for less than a breath upon the rim of this vast knowledge that all the events of your life have happened for only one purpose: to bring you to this moment of irrevocable change.

* * *

November 1994

Stan said nothing as he held her tightly against him as the elevator lumbered upward. When it stopped, he pushed aside the iron bars to allow them to exit.

He led her down the hall to his loft. As they stepped inside, he pulled her into his arms and brought his mouth down on hers in a crushing kiss.

* * *

Karen Morgan shivered at the memory of that night and downed a huge gulp of scotch. Where was Stan at that moment? It was Friday night, so he was probably playing another gig. The old stab of jealousy bit through her heart as she remembered him flirting with the blonde singers last week. Did he ever remember how they had made love over and over again that first night, each time more intensely than the last?

No, Karen answered herself. She was certain Stan didn’t remember. He had more than likely made love to so many women in the last twelve years that the details of his first night with Carrie Moon had long ago disappeared completely from his psyche.

But then, why had he called? If women were nothing more for him than interchangeable Lego pieces, why had he picked up the phone after twelve years? Curiosity, most likely. Certainly not to apologize. Stan would never apologize for what he had done to them both.

* * *

November 1994

On that first night, Carrie finally dozed just as the first tentative light filtered through the long loft windows. She tried to fight the impulse to sleep, knowing she had to be at her desk by seven a.m. to make up for not going back to the office at midnight. But the combination of exhaustion, satiety, and the joy of being surrounded by Stan and his warmth overcame her.

She woke to bright sunshine and Stan’s kiss.

“Wake up, sleepy head.” He pulled her close and made love to her yet again. But afterward, as she lay cradling Stan in her arms, she felt a rising tide of panic. What time was it? Would Alan have missed her?

Unlike last night when she had remained as close to Stan as possible after they had finished making love, she slid away from him and sat up.

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

The hands of the clock on the beside table were irrevocably placed at ten a.m. Carrie caught her breath. She had never arrived that late for work in nine years and two law firms.

He watched her eyes travel to the clock. “Late for work? Then I guess you don’t have time for one of my famous breakfasts?”
She shook her head and began to get dressed.

* * *

At ten thirty, Karen walked into her office, uncomfortably aware she was wearing yesterday’s clothes, had not showered, and smelled like Stan and sex. Alan sat behind her desk, going over the documents from the overnight secretarial pool. The knot in the pit of her stomach tightened.

He looked up and surveyed her from head to toe. Karen wanted the floor to open and swallow her.

“I see you didn’t make it home last night.”

“I – ” For the first time in her association with Alan Warrick, she didn’t know what to say.

“We were concerned when you weren’t at work by eight.” Every word was a nail hammered into her professional coffin. “We called your apartment and got no answer. I decided I’d better start going over these documents to keep the deal on time.”

A flash of anger surged through Karen. “My being late this morning isn’t going to delay the IPO. We still have two weeks before the sales date.”

“And Burnett keeps changing its numbers on its assets. I hope you are paying attention to the changes.”

Her anger deepened. She wanted to take Alan by the throat and scream that she was entitled to a life away from Warrick, Thompson and that sleeping with the man she loved didn’t mean her brains had become mush. Instead, she summoned her cool, professional tone.

“I’m quite aware of the changes, Alan. That’s why these documents were in overnight secretarial. I appreciate your pinch-hitting for me, but I’m here now and ready to look these over.”

Even though Alan was one of the name partners, that tone from Karen always made him back down. It reminded him she possessed the true securities expertise. He was merely a litigator who knew enough to get him through whatever trial happened to be the case du jour in his life. Even if she showed up late in last night’s clothes, she knew the securities code inside and out. She would be hard to replace. He didn’t want her to know that, of course, but he did.
Beaten by her commanding tone, Alan yielded her chair and headed for the door. He turned back, however, before he left.

She kept her eyes on the documents, hoping he’d take the hint and go. But his gaze remained on her until she looked up.

“I gather last night wasn’t about scouting properties for Waterfront Development?”

“Last night was not about anything to do with you, Alan. Or the firm.”

He frowned. Obviously he wanted the whole story, and obviously he wasn’t entitled to a word of it. Beaten again, he sent a parting shot across her bow as he turned to leave. “Remember what’s at stake this year, Karen. Don’t screw up.”

The entire ebook of Ride Your Heart ‘Til It Breaks is available for purchase at Amazon. com, http://www.amazon.com/Ride-Your-Heart-Til-Breaks-ebook/dp/B00RDJQB8Q. Deborah is also the author of the award winning novel, Dance For A Dead Princess, http://www.amazon.com/Dance-For-Dead-Princess-ebook/dp/B00C4HP9I0

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Ride Your Heart ‘Til It Breaks, Chapter Eight

/in /by

 BEGUINE

CHAPTER EIGHT

December, 2007

Next day, Karen tried to settle in her study to read the case file that would come before her the following week. Normally she would have been glad to see to see a civil trial on the docket for a change. The presiding judge kept sending her a steady diet of gruesome murder cases. But now the very thought of sitting on that bench every day for the coming week depressed her, no matter what she had to listen to. Seeing Stan had turned her world upside down again. She realized she was living a lie. But that was dangerous knowledge. At least living a lie as Karen Morgan wasn’t as painful as being Carrie Moon and loving Stan Benedict.

Around two o’clock that afternoon, Karen could not read another word. She put down the meaningless trial brief she had been staring at for a half hour and went into the den. The house was as quiet as death. And as empty. It was nearly Christmas, and she hadn’t bothered with a tree or decorations. Howard cared nothing for them unless they were giving holiday parties. But this year he had been too busy with the trial in Philadelphia to demand she play hostess.

She stood by the french doors and stared at her expensively landscaped backyard pool, shimmering in the December sunshine. All she could think about was Stan on stage last night. And the way he had put his arms around the singers and leaned down to joke with them. Which one was he sleeping with? But then, knowing Stan, he might not be sleeping with either of them. That was part of the hell of caring for him; he couldn’t be predicted.

* * *

October, 1994
After the Saturday night she stayed over at Stan’s, she had thought he would call. He had taken her home and work phone numbers Sunday morning just before he walked her to her car in the parking lot at Jazz By the Bay. She had hoped he would ask her to breakfast, but he had seemed very distant except for taking her number.

“I’ll call to make sure you get home all right.” He opened the driver’s door that she had just unlocked, and gave her his impish grin.

“Ok.” And she smiled. But the silent phone drove her slowly crazy all afternoon.

On Monday, she ploughed through the Burnett stock offering. She struggled to think about anything except Stan and how badly she had wanted him to make love to her on Saturday night. And she dreaded the moment when Alan would drop by to demand her final word on Jazz By the Bay. But fortunately he had been called out of town and would not be back until the next day.

That night, around eight, she struggled with her desire to go down to the club, just to hear him play. But she managed, instead, to get herself into her car and home, where she lay awake most of the night.

On Tuesday she jumped every time her secretary forwarded a call. But they were all from the Burnett accounting department. She worked at keeping the irritation out of her voice at each successive disappointment.

That afternoon, Alan turned up in her office.

“So, can we tell Harry Rich he’s in breach of his lease?”

Karen worked hard to keep Alan from seeing her rising panic. She couldn’t just hand Harry and the club over like trophies to be hung on Waterfront Development’s mantel. Truth was the best answer. “I honestly can’t tell what’s up with him. Some nights it’s standing room only. Others, no one is there.”

Alan shrugged. “I’m pretty sure we’ve got him.”

“I think you should ask to see his books before you make any assumptions.” As Karen spoke, she prayed his books would save Jazz By the Bay.

“Waterfront is getting impatient,” he objected.

“Probably, but they won’t be happy if we don’t do our homework. Write him and ask to see his books. It’s a term of the lease. I checked.”

“Ok, I’ll have my secretary get a letter out today.”

That night, she wanted to run to the club and warn Harry. But she couldn’t. She worked for the firm that represented Waterfront. She would break every ethical rule if she told him what was coming. She made herself go home to her empty condo and cried when she saw there was no call from Stan on her machine.

By Friday, she was worn out with waiting for the call that had never come and with overseeing the details of the Burnett deal. And her fantasies of making love to Stan would not go away, despite her best efforts to think about other things.

At eight o’clock, she handed off the documents to the overnight secretarial pool and decided to go to the club. Her hands actually shook as she locked her car and headed for the entrance.

Stan was on stage when she arrived, but instead of his usual friendly gaze he immediately averted his eyes to what was the Table of Five that night. Karen felt the knot in her stomach tighten. Even though he hadn’t called, she had thought he would show he was glad to see her.

As she made her way to her usual table, she noticed the club was only about a third full. Harry came over to take her order instead of the waitress.

“Where have you been?” he demanded, smiling. “Haven’t seen you in almost a week. Didn’t you like your steak last time?”

“No, it was great.” How did she tell him Stan was supposed to call and never did?

“Well, I’m glad you’re back. Your usual?”

“Red zin.”

“You got it.”

She sipped the wine slowly because she knew she had to go back to work in two hours to proof the Burnett documents. But she wanted to gulp it down to deaden the pain in her soul. Stan had meant it when he said he wouldn’t get involved with her. That’s what the silent phone had told her for the last week.

She lost herself in his music, crying inside and wondering what had changed since she’d driven out of the parking lot on Sunday. During the entire set she hoped for “I Can’t Get Started” but he didn’t play it; and she knew it was his way of letting her know she shouldn’t have come back.

During his break, an hour later, Stan took his scotch pointedly to the Table of Five, just giving her a friendly off-hand nod as he passed. He sat with his back to her, joking and laughing with the women as if she weren’t there.
Karen stared at her empty wine glass, knowing she should leave, but too upset to do anything except sit where she was and try to hold back the tears. Suddenly a full glass appeared beside her empty one, and Harry sat down.

“You need a refill.”

She smiled up at him, knowing her eyes had betrayed her. “I can’t, Harry. But thanks. I have to leave. I have to go back to work.”

“At eleven o’clock at night?” he stared at her. “Girl, what do you do for a living? You can’t be a hooker dressed like that!” He gestured toward her simple black suit.

She laughed in spite of herself. “I’m the next best thing: a lawyer.”

“Well aren’t the courts closed this time of night?”

“I’m not that kind of lawyer. Corporate law. Deals. That stuff.”

Harry shook his head. “And all this time I thought musicians and doctors were the only ones who had to work all night.”

Karen laughed again, but her eyes darted toward Stan and the Table of Five despite her efforts not to look that way.

Harry leaned closer and put his hand over hers. “If you want to tell me what happened between you two, I’d be glad to listen.”

“Last Saturday night, after you gave us dinner, I wound up sleeping over at Stan’s. I’d had too much to drink and not enough food that day. Nothing happened. I slept in his bed; he slept on the couch. But he said he’d call me during the week.”

“And he never did.”

She nodded. “That very first night when we walked by the bay after the show, he told me not to get involved with him because I’d only get hurt. I think he meant it.” Her eyes were fixed on Stan’s back at the Table of Five, now in an uproar over one of his jokes.

But Harry shook his head. “He’s just trying to scare you off. Don’t let him, honey. He doesn’t care a thing about those women. That’s why he’s sitting over there. Because he’s scared to death of what he feels for you.”

Karen stared at Harry, wanting to believe him but not sure if she should.
He patted her hand softly. “He’s terrified of being hurt again. But I know he’s been looking for you. I’ve seen his eyes every night when he comes on stage and you aren’t here.”

“But isn’t he sleeping with them?” she nodded toward the other women.
Harry let out a soft chuckle. “Sweetheart, do you think they’d be sitting together night after night if he was?”

Karen laughed. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

“Stan’s a world class flirt, that’s all. And he wants to see if he can drive you away.”

“But why?”

“Because everyone he loves deserts him, one way or the other; and he thinks you will, too. So if he drives you away now, he won’t get hurt later on.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve known Stan for seventeen years. Since he was eighteen, a skinny kid, blowing everyone in town away with his high notes. Cocky as hell about his music. But never sure anyone loved him or would stay with him until Deanna. But, then she died, and he changed. Not so sure about himself as a musician anymore and deathly afraid to get involved with anyone.”

“He really loved her,” Karen said.

“It was something to see them together. She was Stan’s world. Made up for the family he never had as a kid.”

“She was the only person who loved him and didn’t leave him.” She felt that familiar twinge of jealousy.

“But she did leave him,” Harry contradicted. “She died. And that just convinced Stan that for him loving anyone only ends in heartbreak.”

Karen looked over at Stan’s back, as he resolutely blocked her out of his world. “So what should I do?”

“Stay around. Show him he can’t drive you away.”

Karen smiled wistfully. “I wonder if I’m capable. Rejection hurts.”

“Oh, you’re capable, all right,” Harry said as he stood up. Stan was heading to the stage, throwing back the rest of his scotch as he passed her table, so he didn’t have to make eye contact with her.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because unlike those women over there, you really care about him. You’re the one who’ll always be there for him when things get rough.”

Instinctively Karen knew he was right. But she put on her lawyer-skeptic tone. “How do you know so much about me?”

“I watch you when you come in. I see the way you look at him when he plays. You know his secret.”

“And that is?”

“He gives away his soul with every performance. He wants the audience to love the music as much as he does.”

“And they do,” Karen added softly.

“The music, yes,” Harry agreed. “But they don’t love Stan. And that’s his dilemma. No matter how afraid he is of love, he wants to be loved. And you understand that, Carrie Moon.”

“Who told you who I used to be?”

“He did. I told you he misses you. He talks about you.” Harry studied her face as he stood by the table. Behind him, she could see Stan on stage setting up for the next set. “You and Stan have a lot in common besides music.”

“He told you about that, too?”

“Uh, huh. Why don’t you bring your instrument in one night. Play a little.”

“I couldn’t. It’s been too many years.”

“Hogwash! Bring it in. You need something in your life besides those suits and those documents. And you’re a long way from home.”

“How do you know?”

“Accent. I’m from Atlanta,” Harry said.

“Asheville, North Carolina.”

“Brothers and sisters?”

“None.”

“See your parents often?”

“No. They passed away when I was in college.”

“Then that’s another reason the two of you need each other. You both need a family. ” At that moment, Stan began to play “Somewhere Beyond the Sea.”

“Are you going to stay?” Harry asked.

Karen nodded. “Yeah. But bring me some coffee, if you don’t mind. I really do have to go back to the office and read those documents.”

However, Harry came back with more than coffee. He held out Alan’s letter in all its twenty-pound, engraved letterhead glory.

“I got this in the mail yesterday, and I don’t really understand it. Since you are a lawyer, would you mind explaining it to me?”

Karen reached for the letter, gingerly, as if handling a snake. Tell him, a voice in her head insisted. Tell him right now you can’t advise him. You represent his enemy. You are the enemy. “Oh, God, please no,” she thought. “Please, no.”

She stared down at the page, the words a blur. She didn’t need to read it; she knew what it said. “You have a new landlord, Waterfront Development. They want to see your books to see if you are in compliance with your lease.”

Harry’s face fell. “The six out of twelve months thing. I don’t think we’re ok on that one.”

“Are you sure?” Karen tried to keep the urgency out of her voice.

“Not completely. Hey, how come the old landlord didn’t bug us about that part of the lease?”

“They could ignore the condition if they wanted to. But I would guess Waterfront has plans for the property, and you’re in its way.” God forgive me for acting as if I don’t know the truth.

“They want to kick us out.”

“I would say yes, based on the tone of this letter.”

Harry looked away toward the bay, his face a mask of anxiety and anguish. “I can’t lose the club. It’s all Kristin and I have. We’ve put everything into it for the past ten years.”

And it’s all Stan has, too, Karen thought, but didn’t say it.

Harry’s face brightened. “Hey, maybe you’re the answer to a prayer. You do this suff for a living, right?”

“I do.” Tell him you can’t help him, she thought. Tell him now before you get in too deep. But then he’d know you were the spy, and there’d be no chance with Stan. Ever.

“Think you could come down early tomorrow night? Go over the books for me? Tell me what you think. Come around six thirty? I’ll make sure you get a free dinner.”

“It’s a deal. Now I better get out of here. I have documents waiting for me in my office.”

“At midnight on Friday night?”

“At midnight on Friday night. See you tomorrow.”

Karen got up and headed for the door without looking back.

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Ride Your Heart ‘Til It Breaks, Chapter Five

/in /by

BEGUINE

CHAPTER FIVE

October, 1994
And so for the next week, Karen Moon was back at Jazz By the Bay every night except Sunday when the club was dark. At work, she struggled to concentrate on the dry financial forms piled on her desk. She much preferred to picture Stan on stage in his white dinner jacket, eyes locked on hers as he played.

She grew to hate the bright October sunlight streaming through the glass walls of her office because it relentlessly reminded her hour after hour that she could not see Stan until dark. She longed for eight o’clock when the firm would be empty of everyone except the night secretaries, the janitors, and the associates trying to impress the partners with their super-human billables. At eight, she could slip into the ladies’ room and change into the demure black cocktail dress she had bought at Nordstrom on that first Friday afternoon after Alan assigned her spying mission She had been tempted by the plunging necklines that the Table of Four favored; but, in the end, she was afraid of appearing too obviously in competition with them.

Her dress was knee length, with a modest V neckline; but she added a set of very long and expensive rhinestone earrings to give it glamour. She bought body glitter to sweep over her throat and shoulders and silvery eyeshadow to highlight her eyes.

When she had transformed herself each night from Karen-the-Lawyer into Karen-the-Woman, she headed to Seaport Village, hoping for the most distant parking spot in the lot, so she could walk longer with Stan after the show. She loved hurrying along the Village’s winding paths, lit by the hundreds of white fairy lights, knowing she was leaving the real world and heading into an enchanted land full of possibilities.

On Saturday, following her week of nightly appearances at Jazz By the Bay,
Stan walked her out into the cool October night just after midnight and said, “Want to walk by the Bay for a little?”

“Sure.”

“Let me put my horn in the car.”

He unlocked the trunk of a pristine red ‘65 Mustang and placed his trumpet bag carefully inside. He started to put his white dinner jacket in, too; but noticed Karen shivering slightly in the night breeze.

“Here, put this around your shoulders.”

The jacket still carried the warmth and smell of Stan’s skin. Karen felt a hard, stab of pure desire as he draped it around her and took her hand, leading her down the path toward the water. The moon was full, and its silver light was almost as bright as daylight.

He looked over at her with his mischievous smile. “Like the show?”

“Of course.”

“You’re going to have to pick a new favorite tune. People are beginning to think I like you.”

“And do you?” She echoed his bantering tone, but her stomach tightened as she waited for the answer.

“A little.” His eyes still twinkled, but his voice reflected his discomfort at being asked. As they turned down the path that wound by the Bay, he moved the conversation in a different direction. “You don’t seem like a ‘Karen’ to me.”

“What should my name be, then?”

He stopped and studied her face in the moonlight. For a moment she thought he might kiss her, but he turned back to the path and began to walk again. “Carrie,” he said. “You look like a Carrie.”

Her stomach tightened again. Why did the moment when he decided not to kiss her feel like rejection? And yet, why did the next moment when he guessed her name feel so intimate? “I used to be Carrie,” she offered.

“When?”

“All my life, until I went to law school.”

“Where you Carrie when you studied music at Boston University?”

“Yes. What made you remember that?”

“BU is an impressive music school. What was your instrument?”

“Flute.”

He looked down at the hand he held and smiled ironically. “Flute fingers. I should have known.”

They walked in silence for a few moments. Then Stan said, “Why did you decide to become someone else?”

“I was afraid to go on being Carrie Moon.”

“Why?”

“Because she wanted to be a musician. She wanted to go to Julliard after college, and she was accepted.”

“So why didn’t she go?”

“Because she was afraid.”

Carrie stopped and studied the yachts bobbing on the moon-streaked water as she remembered the day she had put the letter in the mail telling Julliard she wasn’t coming. “All through college, my parents kept insisting music wasn’t a reliable career. I majored in music to please myself and in accounting to please them. Just before I graduated, I auditioned for graduate school in music and applied to law school. I got into Julliard and Harvard.”

“And you picked Harvard?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“My parents were killed in a car accident just after I got the acceptances. Honestly, the three of us were never all that close. They were so busy struggling to pay the bills every month, they didn’t have much time left over for me. But when they died, I was suddenly weighed down by how alone I was. And I kept thinking about how much they had wanted me to have a career outside of music.”

“So you let someone else choose your life?”

“That sounds so harsh, but in a way a I did. Still, my decision to leave music was not entirely because of them. Have you ever wanted something so badly you were sure you could never have it?”

He nodded.

“A career in music was like that for me. I wanted to play so much it hurt. But I was so afraid I’d fail if I tried to be a professional musician. I was afraid I wasn’t talented enough.”

“So you couldn’t fail if you didn’t try?”

“Or I failed because I didn’t try.”

“Didn’t you miss music?”

“All the time. I promised myself I’d practice every day. I didn’t mean to ever stop playing. But law school was overwhelming. Gradually, days went by when I never opened the case. I kept telling myself I could go back whenever I wanted. But deep down, I knew it was a lie.”

“But still, Harvard law.” She could see the idea intimidated him and put space between them.

She felt the now familiar flicker of fear that any sign of rejection produced. “Don’t be impressed. The way you play is a much bigger deal than going to Harvard. Where did you study?”

Stan shrugged. “Here and there. I grew up in a bunch of different foster homes in San Diego. My father split just after I was born. My mother struggled to keep me until I was five. Then she handed me over to Social Services and never came back.”

They had come to a bench, facing the bay. Stan pulled her down beside him. She wanted him to put his arm around her or take her hand, but he didn’t. He stared at the waves dancing in the silver light. “I picked up the trumpet when I was nine. The elementary school had a beginner band, and my foster father had played the trumpet. He let me take the instrument with me when I went to the next family.”

“How many homes were you in?”

“Five. Or was it six? I’d have to count up.”

“But somewhere you learned to play like that.”

He smiled. “I got a paper route to pay for my lessons. And I went to UCLA for a year. But I was getting gigs by then, and I thought I needed the money more than the stuff they were teaching me. I saved up and took lessons from Jimmy Stamp and Claude Gordon. You know who they are, right?”

She nodded. “So why aren’t you still in L.A?”

A shadow crossed his face. “I was there for about twelve years, mostly playing in a lot of rock and roll bands and looking for better gigs. Four years ago, my wife died. Harry knew I needed a change of scene, so he offered me a regular spot here at the club.”

Karen reached out and put her hands over his which were clenched together in his lap. He smiled but remained slightly away from her on the bench, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the water. “I’m sorry about your wife.”

“Thanks. We had six great years. I met her in Vegas after a gig. She was a dancer. I was twenty-five; she was twenty-one. Three months later, we got married.”

“What happened?”

“Crystal meth. She started using during the last two years we were married. I didn’t like it. I’ve always stayed away from the people in this business involved in drugs. I wish to God Deanna had. Anyway, she told me she’d stopped using, but I came home on Christmas Eve after playing a party in Beverly Hills and found her dead.”

Karen squeezed his tightly interlocked fingers again, but he still did not respond. He looked at her, his eyes masked, apparently oblivious to having rejected her comfort.

He said, “Don’t think about getting involved with me.”

The now familiar flicker of panic shot through Karen, but she kept her voice devoid of emotion. “Why not?”

“Because I won’t fall in love with you. Or with anyone else for that matter. Losing Deanna hurt too much. And, besides, attachments don’t work out for me. I learned that growing up. As soon as I’d get attached to my foster family, they’d send me away.”

“What if I stay around?”

“Don’t. You’ll just get hurt.”

His final rejection stung, and Karen felt tears begin to well up. She looked out at the bay and concentrated on making them go away, so he wouldn’t notice.
He pulled her to her feet. “Hey, it’s late. I’ll walk you to your car.”

The return trip was devoid of the magic Karen had felt earlier. She continued to struggle to keep her emotions in check. Beside her, Stan was silent.

He took her key and opened her door. He was in a hurry for the evening to end. She slid behind the wheel, wondering miserably if she would ever see him again. She couldn’t go back to the gray life she had led before he came into it.

Stan closed her door and stepped back. “Take care driving home. See you around.”

“Thanks for tonight.” She started the engine and backed out of the parking space, fighting the urge to stop and jump out and beg him not to shut her out of his life. She drove away, tears streaming down her cheeks.

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Lena Dunham’s “Girls” – Why I Didn’t Like It

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Up until last week, the only contact I’d had with Lena Dunham’s series “Girls” was reading various blogger posts about the different fashion statements the four female leads represent. I love fashion, although to be more accurate, I love style because style is timeless and individual, whereas fashion is a fickle friend of the moment. Based on my limited knowledge of “Girls” obtained through the style blogs, I was kindly disposed toward Lena Dunham because she insists on a personal style that is definitely not influenced by Hollywood’s unnatural picture of what women must be. And I admired her for succeeding in a difficult business at age twenty-seven.
Then a couple of weeks ago, I read a review of “Girls” written by a British blogger, Emma Woolf (the great-nice of Virginia herself), which made me curious about the substance of the show. Ms. Woolf, who could be a contemporary of Hannah Horvath and company, didn’t like “Girls” one bit. The title of her essay was “Why ‘Girls’ Is Bad for Women.” She described her experience watching the episodes in the first series on DVD as “uncomfortable and unforgettable.” (Did she mean “forgettable”?)
Curious, I ordered the same first season DVD from Netflix and on a night when I was too tired to do anything else, I settled down to watch. I began by wanting to like Hannah/Lena. I sympathized with her plight as a writer, struggling to get started. I felt for her when she was suddenly and without warning cut-off financially by her parents, and I sympathized with her decision to go plead her case to them – until I discovered her “novel” that was “nearly finished” consisted of all of ten pages. How could anyone who called a ten page draft a novel, expect to be taken seriously? What emotion was Lena Dunham trying to evoke in me? Laughter, disgust, complete bafflement?
I considered ejecting the disk after episode one, but I thought “Girls” might get better, so I punched “forward” and “play” and ploughed on. Pretty soon, I understood Ms. Woolf’s objection to “grubby sexual content.” As she put it, “If you want to watch strangers copulating, I imagine professional pornography would be more satisfying.” And she was right about the sexual content of episode two, which as she said “opens with Hannah and her reclusive boyfriend Adam having sex, in a scene so disturbing that it felt close to abuse.” I kept wondering if I was supposed to like Adam because I did not like him even a little. Any respect I had had for Hannah/Lena vanished. She insisted a man was her “boyfriend” who wouldn’t return her texts, yet would use her (there is no other word for it) for some very unattractive sex when she showed up at his door, reeking desperation and misery. Why, I wondered would a young woman depict the lives of herself and her contemporaries in such a squalid, hopeless light? Was Ms. Dunham trying to say that women are still required to have a man in their lives at any price despite the enormous strides women have made toward equality and independence in the last fifty years? I found the suggestion that women must or should put up with abuse – physical or verbal – as distasteful and disturbing as the generation of “romance” novels that encouraged women to put up with domestic violence in the name of “hopeless love” for an “alpha male.”
At any rate, I gave “Girls” the same chance Ms. Woof did. I watched all of the episodes in series one. It didn’t get better, and I was relieved when it ended although I wasn’t entertained by Hannah/Lena’s inane monologue about the “benefits” of contracting AIDS as she lay on an exam table with her feet in stirrups for her annual pap smear. Really, are these private details of women’s lives interesting enough to be on television? And what is “Girls”s is trying to accomplish by airing the mundane details of womanhood: comedy? satire? social commentary? Beats me.
Like Emma Woolf, I am not a cultural snob. I admit I did not watch “Sex and the City” in its heyday, but I saw all the episodes while happily bypassing the 11 p.m. doomsday evening news. The redeeming grace of “Sex” was its ability to create a fantasy world of clothes, clubs, rich men, and expensive shoes on a writer’s budget. And, best of all, the warmth of the attachment of the four female leads came across as real and heartwarming. I was willing to suspend my disbelief for “Sex,” knowing only too well that no Wall Street partner has ever in the history of the world had time to hang out in a coffee shop with her girl friends. Miranda, I love you, but you are a work of extreme fiction.
Now baffled by all the hoopla over a show that to me seemed depressing and even dangerous for the messages it is sending to and about women, I turned to an expert for advice: my daughter who is exactly Lena Dunham’s age. I offered her the DVD and asked for her thoughts after watching it. But her response was even more telling. She said okay the night I called, but when we got together for dinner the next evening, she politely declined. “Mom, I googled it. And from what I read, it’s not something I want to see.” “Wise decision,” I told her. And I smiled to myself, “Validated!”
Girls

Being an Author: Year One

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One year ago yesterday, I pushed the publish button on Amazon and Nook Press and became a published author. I knew I’d embarked on a journey that I’d always wanted to make, but I had no idea what was coming.
At first, Dance For A Dead Prinessc was an e-book only. I didn’t realize until months later how simple and inexpensive and indeed, imperative, it was to create a paperback on Create Space.
And I started the journey with a website under construction and quickly learned not having a website made me a second-class author citizen. Thus, when I wrote one blogger who offered two-day guest spots for authors, to secure two days to guest post, she replied, “Well, ok. But you only get one day because you don’t have a website.”
But the website lesson was trivial compared to the advertising lesson. For breathtaking amounts of money, I bought ads on Kirkus Reviews, thinking their favorable review of Dance For A Dead Princess would quickly produce a readership for the book. Wrong. Expensively wrong. Ads ran. No one seemed to notice.
Then I tried an all-romance website and had the book’s cover pasted up for a month for another quite tidy sum. Again, no one noticed. My book was simply embedded in a mosaic of other books – most with far racier covers. Since I was a new and unknown author, and readers were perusing this site for their favorites that involved shirtless men, Dance For A Dead Princess wasn’t a candidate for their attention. Another lesson learned.
After a certain amount of frustration, I managed to get Dance up on GoodReads. But since Amazon does not cross-post reviews on that site, all my reviews remained on Amazon.
Then I discovered the Truly Expensive Blog tour. I wonder if I thought it would be effective because it was Truly Expensive or because the owner of the business persuaded me she knew what she was doing or because I had read how some blog tours had put Indie books on the map (and the bestseller list.) But of all the money I threw at advertising in the first year of being an author, the Truly Expensive Blog Tour was the most wasted. The owner of the business and my tour director had more excuses than you can count for why the tour dates weren’t honored and why the reviews promised were never posted. To put it mildly, I’d been scammed, big time.
About this time, I decided to do Facebook ads and Kindle Daily Nation sponsorships, although I also sat up nights hunting for websites where indie authors could post for free or nominal sums. Oddly enough, although multiple indie authors claimed Facebook ads were useless, I found them more effective than anything else I’d tried. And they were happily quite low budget. I began to think that the more money I threw at the problem, the less success I had. Whereas, when I was being cheap, I seemed to get better results.
Another example of that principle was another blog tour organizer, who appeared on top of a Google Search one day. Her rates sounded too good to be true. But this time I was careful to research her company and to ask her bluntly if she kept her promises, telling her the horror story of the Truly Expensive Blog Tour. I was delighted to learn she was everything she claimed to be. Organized, honest, efficient, and trustworthy. And she was able to produce reviews, which are the gold standard for selling books. Almost all of the reviews on GoodReads came from her blog tour (which has now continued for months for a fraction of the cost of Truly Expensive.)
And then, just as the First Year of Being An Author was ending, I received some exciting news. Dance For A Dead Princess is a finalist in the Foreward Reviews Best Book of the Year Award for 2013, with the final results to be published in June. And Dance is the Finalist for the 2014 Beverly Hills International Book Award. That award has one winner and one finalist in each category, so I’m honored to be No. 2 in Romance.
Yesterday I started the Second Year of Being An Author by writing the first press release I’d ever written in my life and sending it off to local media. Whether it gets noticed or not, just doing it felt good. And I contacted local indie bookstores I’ve been meaning to contact for months.
Most of all, so many friends have helped out during Year One. They’ve written reviews, they’ve offered encouragement, they’ve stuck up for me and the book when the inevitable Vicious Reviewers surfaced. Launching a book into the world takes friends, and I am very grateful to mine and to everyone who as read Dance for A Dead Princess. And now Year Two Begins.
eauthor-ebook-e-book-humor

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

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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sarah hurried to her car parked in the drive and got in. She sat behind the wheel and took a few long breaths to calm herself before she started the engine and backed out. She shouldn’t have gone to Jim’s last night. It had only made seeing him with Alexa today that much more difficult.
She decided not to drive through the heart of Pacific Beach because even on a Wednesday night at seven o’clock, the partyers would be taking over the streets. Her nerves were like frayed electrical wires, snapping and arcing, and she was not in the mood to worry about hitting jaywalking drunks.
She navigated her way back to Felspar Street which led on to Mount Soledad Road. She decided it would easier to drive over the mountain and through downtown La Jolla to go home. As she swung up the mountain’s long steep grade, she considered stopping at Trend for a drink. The bar offered half-priced appetizers on Wednesday night, and it was a big draw for businessmen in the office buildings near by. Maybe she’d pick up someone to spend the night with, and maybe he’d be interesting enough to take her mind off Jim cooking supper in Alexa’s kitchen.
But that was the trouble with Trend. She couldn’t go in now without wishing Jim were there, too. The bar had always been one of her favorite spots for picking up the men who rotated quickly through her life. She hated to think her interest in Jim had ruined that forever.
She reached the top of the mountain and began her descent. The BMW purred happily along the sharp bends and twists on the downward slope. She steered into the curves and let herself admit the truth: she wanted off this case. The emotions it conjured up in her slammed her to the ground, day after day. It brought back the dark days of Joey Menendez, a place of horror that she never wanted to revisit.
She was now on the steepest part of the descent. Her feet reached for the clutch and the brake to slow the big car into the hairpin turn. The brake depressed, but her speed didn’t change. Automatically she pumped the brake. Craig, Lewis had required its high-profile criminal lawyers to learn advanced driving techniques. She felt confident even in the emergency.
But the brakes remained unresponsive. She still had the clutch engaged, so she pulled the stick back to third gear. But nothing happened. Suddenly she was covered in cold sweat without time to think. The brakes and her clutch were gone, and she was hurtling toward a hairpin turn at sixty miles an hour. She frantically pumped the brakes and tried to steer away from the stone wall directly in her path. At the last minute, the car somehow made it around the turn without flipping over. Another lay just ahead.
She continued to hold the wheel as she reached for her last hope, the emergency brake. But, it too, was gone. The car continued to pick up speed, and she braced herself for the coming turn. And then nothing.
* * *
Jim Mitchell left Alexa’s around 10:00 that evening. The long day of waiting and wondering if Alexa would really get to go home had left him exhausted. The tension of not having anything to use for her defense was wearing him down, inch by inch. He needed to find that nanny.
He hurried home, downed a fast tumbler of scotch, and fell into bed at 10:30. When his phone went off at 1 a.m., he opened his eyes long enough to see the call wasn’t from Alexa. He didn’t recognize the number, so he pushed the dismiss button and went back to sleep. But the phone shrilled again, determined not to let him rest.
“Hello.”
“This is Scripps Memorial Hospital in La Jolla. Someone whom we believe is a friend or relative was in a car crash tonight. The police found your name among her things. She’s here in the hospital. Sarah Knight.”
Panic seized him. How badly was she hurt?
* * *
She was sitting on the side of her bed, trying to sign something with her left hand. She had a white gauze bandage wrapped around her forehead and her right arm was in a sling. She looked angry and annoyed.
“What are you doing here?”
“Making sure you’re ok.”
“How’d you find out I was here?”
“The hospital called. My name was the only one they could find in the car. Apparently you don’t carry the names of your next-of-kin on you.”
“That’s because I don’t have any.”
“Well, I’m filling in tonight. Get back in bed. What are you trying to do?”
“I’m signing myself out and going home.”
At that moment the door whooshed open, and Jim remembered all the recent nights with Alexa in the hospital. He’d had enough of them, but he knew Sarah should stay put.
“I’m Tom Barrett,” the forty-something, square-jawed, salt and pepper haired doctor in the white coat strode in with a smile and an out-stretched hand. No wedding ring, Jim noticed, and the kind of George Clooney face women find irresistible.
“You must be Mr. Knight?”
“No, a professional colleague.”
Was that a spark of relief in the good doctor’s eyes? Jim didn’t want to think about it.
“Well, Sarah here has had quite a blow to the head. She’s lucky to be alive at all. Very lucky. She’s sprained her right arm; but more importantly, she’s got a mild concussion and shouldn’t go home tonight. Maybe you can get her to see reason.”
Tom Barrett turned to Sarah, who was frowning at his handsome face. “Put that down and let me take a look at you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine. Any nausea or dizziness? Double vision? How’s that headache?” He proceeded to shine a light in her eyes, in the face of her silence. He smiled, “You aren’t going to tell me, are you?”
“I’m going home.”
“You are not going home. You can’t drive.”
“I’ll call a cab. I’m going home.”
Tom Barrett sighed and turned to Jim. “See if you can talk some sense into her.”
Jim sat down on the chair beside her bed as the door closed behind the doctor.
“Hand me the paperwork.”
“Not, yet. Tell me what happened.”
“The car hit a wall going over Mount Soledad on my way home.”
“Were you drinking?”
“No, I’d just left Alexa’s.”
“So why did the car go out of control?”
“Don’t know. The BMW people took it to the shop. Ask them.”
“I will. But you know what happened. Tell me.”
“Hand me the papers.”
“Not until you tell me.”
“Ok, ok. The brakes failed.”
“And you have a manual transmission. Why didn’t you down shift?”
“I did.”
“So no clutch, either?”
“Right.”
“Someone just tried to kill you.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“And now you want to sign yourself out of the hospital and go home in the middle of the night?”
“Don’t argue with me. Hand me those papers.”
Jim studied her wiry determined form, swallowed by the white tent of the hospital gown. He watched her try to scribble with her left hand.
“Come to my place instead. I’d rather know you were in my guest room.”
“Nope. Going home.”
“So there’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay. Then I’ll drive you.”
* * *
She was fading, Jim noticed, as they turned into her drive. Her fierceness was no match for the medications Dr. Barrett had given her. He wondered if she’d fall deeply enough asleep to let him take her home with him. She had not been able to get her clothes on alone, so the hospital had let him wrap a blanket over the cavernous hospital gown.
She seemed to read his mind about taking her back to his place. Her eyes popped open. “Don’t even think about not letting me go inside.”
“You just seemed to have passed out here in the car.”
With a mighty effort, she heaved open the passenger side door with her left hand.
“Wait. Let me. Where’s you key?”
“In my purse.”
“Come on, then. Lean on me. If you don’t, you’re going to fall and send yourself right back to Dr. Barrett.”
She gave him a small, mischievous drunken smile. “I think he’d like to have me back.”
“He definitely would like to have you back. He knows you need to be in the hospital.”
“No, he liked me. I could tell. He liked me.”
“You’re on a lot of medication right now.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t know when an attractive man likes me.”
“Okay, okay. He liked you. Why don’t you let me take you straight back to the hospital then?”
“Because I’m tired, and I want to sleep in my own bed. He’ll call me tomorrow. He has to find out how I am.”
Jim suppressed his annoyance and helped her make her way up the walk in the chilly October morning dark. He realized the drugs were talking and exposing the lonely, vulnerable side of her life, something she kept expertly hidden.
She leaned on him while he turned the key in the lock. He stepped into the hall, drew her inside, and closed the door behind them. She smelled of antiseptic and her usual gardenia perfume. He put his arms around her and thought of a bird’s small bones as she sagged against him.
“Come on, then, let’s get you into bed.” He reached out and flipped the switch for the hall light.
“Oh, my God!” Sarah lurched toward the living room, which had been turned upside down. Lamps lay smashed on the floor. The end tables had been overturned. Someone had used a knife to rip open all the sofa cushions and scatter down everywhere.
Jim tried to grab her before she got beyond arm’s reach but was not successful. She stopped in the doorway, and Jim saw her legs sag as she grabbed the door frame.
He hurried to put his arms around her before she could fall.
“Turn on the light,” she commanded.
“No, don’t look.”
“I want to see.”
Reluctantly Jim reached out and switched on the overhead recessed lighting.
She shook her head in disbelief. He saw tears in her eyes. But his training immediately made him pull her close.
“We have to get out of here,” he whispered close to her ear.
“No.”
“Sh-h-h. We don’t’ know who did this. And we don’t know who might still be here.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but he picked her up and hurried out to the car. He didn’t have time to go back and clear the scene, and it would be dangerous to do that alone, anyway.
He bundled her into the car, and backed out of the drive quickly, still afraid someone might yet be in the house. Shock on top of the medications had silenced Sarah. She slumped against the passenger’s door and closed her eyes.
Jim’s mind raced through the possibilities of who could be responsible. Had the same person who’d cut her brakes been the one who’d gone through her house? And what about Alexa? He’d left her ready to sleep. Had they gone after her, too?
He drove through the dark, deserted streets wondering if he should swing by Alexa’s. But it was 2:30 in the morning, and she’d been instructed to call if anything seemed amiss. Right now getting Sarah to rest had to be his top priority.
He pulled into his garage, closed the roll-up door behind him, and got out of the car. Fatigue and fear had finally done gotten the best of her. He carried her into his guest room, pulled back the sheets and tucked her in. She smiled in her sleep but never woke up.
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Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Thirty

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CHAPTER THIRTY
“So we now know that Michael was bribing Ronald Brigman.” The last few rays of daylight were turning to long gray fingers of twilight as Sarah sat with Alexa in the living room of her tiny, two bedroom cottage. Alexa was curled up on the thread-bare sofa, a blanket over her legs. Sarah occupied the shabby overstuffed chair opposite. It was five thirty, and they were waiting for Jim to come back with provisions for Alexa’s empty pantry. They had only arrived a half hour ago.
It had been one of the most difficult days Sarah could remember. The probation department had not shown up at 10:30, nor did anyone call with any explanation for why they failed to appear. As the afternoon wore on, she, Alexa, and Jim had become increasingly tense as they wondered if the slender thread of Alexa’s impending freedom was about to be cut. Sarah eyed her cell phone constantly, bracing herself for word Preston Baldwin had decided to take his chances in the court of appeal after all.
Jim and Alexa whiled away the day-long uncertainty talking about studying at Georgetown and life in D.C. In the midst of her rising anxiety over why they weren’t leaving with Alexa, Sarah tried to tune out their patter about their favorite coffee shops, where to find half-price tickets to the Kennedy Center, and the best place to catch a cab in rush hour. They had led a similar life; and listening to them, hour after hour, made her wonder if they would one day live it again. Except this time, together. Jim had lost Cody. Deep down, Alexa knew she’d lost Meggie and Sam. If Sarah could save Alexa’s life, Alexa and Jim could start over. Sarah wanted to be happy that it might be possible, but the familiar jealousy demon griped her heart and squeezed until she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. Now she felt awkward, alone with Alexa, waiting for Jim to come back, so she could make her escape.
“Have you told Bob?” Alexa asked.
“Yes. He was happy to have his suspicions confirmed.”
“And I assume Tara was mixed up in it, too?”
“She was the one who orchestrated it. Jim says the bank records show payments to Brigman even before he was appointed on the case.”
“So Michael went to her because he knew she’d help him buy an evaluator.”
“That’s pretty much the story.”
Alexa’s large blue eyes were thoughtful in the deepening twilight. There were no street sounds to interrupt the silence. She lived in a little white cottage with bright blue shutters and a bright blue door on Crescent Court, a small cul de sac far from the main roads of Pacific Beach and the constant hum of its traffic. The tiny house was nestled among tall pine trees, surrounded by a white picket fence and had a curved stone path leading to the front door. Sarah had thought it was straight out of a fairy tale when she drove up.
But Alexa was no fairy tale princess. On unsteady but determined legs, she’d made it up the walk from Sarah’s car unassisted, smiled at Mary Hughes, her landlady who was there to let them in. She had crossed the front hall to the bedroom Meggie and Sam had shared, looked for a moment at all their belongings exactly where they had left them, and closed the door firmly and turned away, her face set resolutely.
Now she was looking at Sarah with that same expression. “I wish I could remember why I was at Brigman’s that night. It just doesn’t make any sense for me to be there.”
“It might yet come back to you.”
“Judge Tomlinson wants this to go to trial quickly.”
“Yes, he does. I’d bet he’ll set it within thirty days when we go in on Friday.”
“Is that enough time for you to get ready?”
“I’m going to do my best. Jordan and the ballistics expert have their results in.”
Alexa gave her a small, wry smile. “It’s not so much about being ready as I don’t have much of a defense. The bribe evidence doesn’t help.”
“I know. I wish it did.”
“I wish I could remember why I was at Dr. Brigman’s. I wonder if the truth would help or hurt.”
“It must have had something to do with your children.”
“True. I didn’t have any other reason to talk to him. But he’d just given the lion’s share of custody to Michael. So I can’t guess what I would have had to talk to him about that night. Maybe he called me in so he could gloat over how much it hurt to lose most of my time with them. He liked to do that. There was the humiliation of losing in the courtroom, and then there was the humiliation of being interviewed by Brigman for those so-called psychological evaluations.”
“Bob Metcalf mentioned that to Jim and me. By the way, there is something I should bring up about Meggie and Sam.”
“I think you’re going to say I have the right to at least speak with them on the phone.”
“Yes.”
“I know. I thought a lot about that when I realized I might not have to go back to jail.”
“I can get a court order for phone visits. You know that.”
“I do, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Her lovely eyes held Sarah’s, and she realized once more what a compelling presence Alexa Reed could be. “What could I say to them? They’ll ask when they can come home. You know I can see by their room, Coleman didn’t let them take anything but the clothes on their back. Meggie’s favorite doll and Sam’s beloved Mr. Wiggles, the bear, are still here. They would never have left willingly without them. He wants to obliterate me from their lives.”
“But that’s just it. If by some miracle the jury acquits you, it would take a custody fight to get them back. The court would want to know why you didn’t at least ask for phone visits now.”
Alexa looked away toward the fireplace that she’d filled with dried flowers in happier times. After a minute or two she said, slowly and carefully, “I know you are right. But the odds of me being acquitted are slim to none. The best I can hope for is prison time. And it would be a lot of prison time. I can’t do something now that would hurt them by getting their hopes up that I’m coming back when I know what the real story is.”
Sarah nodded. “I understand your decision.”
Alexa gave her a small twisted smile. “You’re lucky you never had children.”
Suddenly Sarah wanted to scream. She wanted to run out of the room and scream at the Universe for giving her this case.
But at that moment, Jim opened the front door and came in, carrying two large bags of groceries.
“What are the two of you doing in here in the dark?” He continued on into the living room and turned on a lamp.
“We were busy talking and didn’t realize the sun had set completely,” Sarah said.
“I was telling Alexa you’d confirmed the bribes.”
Jim nodded. “I wish we could do more with that evidence.”
“I know,” Alexa said. “It’s doesn’t help much, if at all.”
“Not so far,” Jim conceded from the kitchen where he was putting away the food. The house was so tiny it was almost one big room. “I’m making my favorite bolognese sauce tonight.”
Sarah felt as if one more minute in the tiny cottage with the two of them would suffocate her.
“Thanks, but I have to go home. I’ve got work to do.” She stood up as she spoke.
Jim left the kitchen and came into the living room.
“At least stay and for supper. I know there’s nothing to eat at your house.”
“I’m going to pick something up on the way home,” Sarah lied. In truth, she hadn’t any appetite after the stress of the day and knowing what was to come.
Jim frowned. “I think you should stay.”
“No, I can’t. Really, I can’t.” Sarah turned to Alexa who was observing the back and forth with Jim with calm blue eyes. She knows she has no reason to be jealous, Sarah thought. She knows he isn’t interested in me. She turned to Alexa. “I’ll pick you up at 7:30 on Friday morning. Get as much rest as you can.”
“I’ll pick her up on Friday,” Jim volunteered. “I’m closer than you are.”
Sarah studied him quietly for a moment before she said, “Ok, fine. I’ll meet the two of you there at eight fifteen. Get some rest, Alexa. You’ll need it.”
“I will. Thank you for everything.” Such sincerity in those eyes, Sarah thought. That would have helped with the jury if she’d had a story to tell. But she couldn’t remember anything.
She picked up her purse and her briefcase and turned toward the front door just as Jim stepped into her path.
“I think you should stay. You need to eat.”
“Not tonight.”
She’d started this case feeling as if she and Jim were on the same team, but now she was only a cumbersome third-wheel.
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Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Twenty-Nine

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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
She was afraid he’d gone to bed. She’d taken a desperate chance, driving over to his house at midnight just because she wanted to see him. He was wearing gray sweat pants and a white t-shirt and holding an empty glass that she guessed must have held scotch. It was the most casually dressed she had ever seen him. She had done her best to stay away ever since seeing realizing his growing feelings for Alexa, knowing as she did that even if Alexa hadn’t been in the way, nothing would ever be possible for her with him. But, she told herself, Jim had become her anchor in the swirling intrigue that surrounded this case; and she needed to be near him at least for that night to steady herself for what was to come.
“You haven’t been home to change since the hearing.” He was surprised to see her in the same dark purple suit.
“I went to the hospital to give Alexa the news, and then I had several meetings with prospective clients this afternoon. I went to Trend for a drink, and then I realized I needed to talk to you.”
“And I’m sure you haven’t had a thing to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Yes, you are.” He led the way into his dark kitchen, snapped on the light, and pulled out a stool for her at island in the center. Without asking, he took her briefcase and purse and began to unbutton her suit coat. He didn’t care if he was inappropriate. He was sailing on too much scotch, and he’d missed her, and right now nothing mattered more than having her here with him.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure you don’t dribble brie and mushroom quiche on your very expensive jacket. Chanel?”
“No.”
“Then designer Who?”
“Does it matter?”
“You were the best looking one in the courtroom this morning.”
Sarah gave him the first smile he’d seen that day. “Preston Baldwin is fifty and bald and Judge Tomlinson could use a few laps at the gym. As for the sheriff – ”
“Aren’t you going to make a crack about real men and quiche?”
“No. I’m going to be happy you let me into your house at midnight and are willing to feed me. The suit is Marc Jacobs, by the way.” I’ve had too much to drink, Sarah thought. I shouldn’t have come here. But I’m so happy to see him that it hurts. I only hope I don’t do something stupid.
“Should I pour wine or make coffee?”
“Wine.” Ok, Sarah thought. That was stupid. I’m already over my limit.
He opened a bottle of cabernet and poured two glasses. “Go slowly on this. The quiche will be ready in a few minutes. I had some for supper.” He told himself not to be distracted because she was wearing a lacy black camisole under the discarded jacket.
“So how was Alexa when you gave her the news?”
“Surprised. Happy. Didn’t you go by the hospital tonight?”
“No. I knew you’d been there. And I figured after the Judge reamed out the sheriff, they wouldn’t try anything tonight. Congratulations, by the way. This is an unprecedented victory.”
Sarah’s stomach tightened because she was afraid he was about to mention Menendez. But to her great relief he didn’t. “Probably illegal, as the judge said. But thanks.”
“Killing her in jail is also illegal.”
“Good point.”
“Have you decided how to handle things tomorrow?”
“They are coming to the hospital at 10:30 to fit the ankle monitor.”
“And you’re going to be there to make sure they don’t smear it with poison.”
“Something like that. I want you there, too.”
“Me?”
“Well, you’ve done the lion’s share of looking after her. She trusts you.” Sarah tried to keep her voice steady.
“And you, too. I’m just doing what an investigator does for his boss.”
And it looks like a lot more than that to me. But I’m not going to say it.
“Here, eat up.”
“Thanks.”
He watched her wolf down the quiche. Unlike the inedible stuff she brought home in saran wrap that she picked at, she always ate his food.
“That was fast. I bet you haven’t eaten all day.”
She looked up guiltily from the empty plate. “Do the pretzels at Trend count?”
“Definitely not. Here. One more piece.” He fought down the wave of feelings that washed over him as he sliced another serving of pie and heated it in the microwave. She needed someone to look after her. She needed him.
“Thanks.” Sarah attacked her second helping more slowly, savoring every bit. “It’s wonderful as usual.”
“I still say you need a personal chef.”
She laughed. “Wouldn’t work. My hours are too irregular.”
“There would at least be something in the frig for you to heat up when you finally do get home.”
“It’s a thought. What have you found in Brigman’s bank records?”
“Do you really want to talk about those right now?”
No, Sarah, thought. No, I don’t. I want to put my head on your shoulder and feel your arms around me and feel safe. I never feel safe, but I feel safe with you. “I was hoping for just a preliminary opinion.”
He was disappointed. He didn’t want to talk shop at one a.m. He wanted to hold her and tell her how much she meant to him. “I can give you more than that. I’ve found evidence Michael was, indeed bribing Ronald Brigman. There’s a pattern of transfers into Brigman’s account each month and stupidly Michael used the same account to write support checks to Alexa.”
Sarah’s face brightened. “So we can prove Michael was bribing Brigman?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t help us put together a defense for Alexa because although she and Bob Metcalf suspected something illegal, they didn’t actually know what Michael and Brigman were up to. So the bribes couldn’t have influenced Alexa’s decision to kill them. If she killed them.”
“Have you told Alexa her suspicions were justified?”
“No. I figured that was your job.”
Well, at least they weren’t quite as close as they’d seemed that night. Sarah took some comfort in that. She was suddenly overcome by the desire to go to sleep.
“Hey!” Jim caught her as she was slipping off the stool.
“Sorry. Food. Wine. I’m tired, now. I’d better go home.”
“Well, you can’t drive. And to be honest, neither can I. I’ve killed quite a bit of scotch tonight.”
Because you missed visiting Alexa, she thought. But knew better than to say so. “No, I’ll be fine,” she insisted.
“You will not be fine. Guest room, now.”
“No. I have to go home.” Because something will happen if I stay. And tomorrow at the hospital, when I see you with Alexa, my heart break all over again.
Jim sighed. “Then I’ll call a cab for you.”
Within ten minutes, he bundled her into the bright yellow taxi and then stood in the drive like a love-sick school boy watching it vanish into the dark.
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Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Twenty-Eight

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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
On the night of October 1, Jim sat alone on his patio watching the full moon rise over Pacific Beach and throwing back too much scotch. The night was crisp with fall dampness and musty with wood smoke from his neighbor’s fireplaces, and he pulled his chair closer to the outdoor gas heater and wished he could turn off his brain. He was overwhelmed by too many thoughts and too many emotions flooding him relentlessly.
He wanted to stop picturing Sarah as she had argued for Alexa’s bail at the hearing that morning, now rail-thin, wearing a deep violent suit that screamed expensive and so focused that she seemed unaware of his presence beside her at the defense table. She had studiously avoided him since the Friday night she’d come to Alexa’s room alone and had asked him to leave. He’d called her a dozen times since then, asking to help her prepare for this hearing, but she’d refused his assistance and told him to concentrate on his analysis of Brigman’s bank records instead.
Judge Tomlinson had listened thoughtfully to their witnesses, Tammi Linders and Greg Olson the EMT, whose tracheotomy had saved Alexa’s life. He quietly questioned Dr. Bruce Herbert, the head of emergency medicine at USCD, who had explained how the jail obtained Alexa’s medical records before their psychiatrist, Dr. Joe, Cox had prescribed the Lexapro.
Prosecutors are rarely on the losing side of a case, Jim thought, as another long sip of scotch sent fiery comfort through his veins. Preston Baldwin had been obviously reluctant to call Dr. Cox to the witness stand to explain himself. Tomlinson had questioned him sharply after Sarah had made him obviously uncomfortable on cross-examination. Hadn’t he read the records from USCD? Why had he ignored Alexa Reed’s previous problem with Lexapro? Why had the jail staff waited to summon an ambulance?
In closing argument, Preston Baldwin had harped on Alexa’s intelligence which Baldwin had insisted gave her the ability to fake mental illness, only to be sharply interrupted by Judge Tomlinson.
“Are you claiming, Mr. Baldwin, this woman faked the need for an emergency operation in the back of an ambulance after the administration of Dr. Cox’s prescription?”
“Uh, no, Your Honor.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that because for a moment I thought you had taken leave of your senses. Get to the point, Mr. Baldwin.”
Although as a former FBI agent, Jim had spent most of his career working on the prosecutor’s side, he enjoyed watching this particular one squirm. He sensed Preston Baldwin realized the need to hurry up and sit down.
“My point, Your Honor, is that Mrs. Reed should not be allowed to be out of custody. She is an extremely clever woman, and there is a high likelihood she won’t show up for trial if she’s released. And above all, Ms. Knight has not shown any possibility that her client may be innocent, and without that showing Mrs. Reed is not eligible for bail.”
Judge Tomlinson turned quickly to Sarah, after she replaced Preston Baldwin at the podium. “I’d like to hear you address that last point, Ms. Knight. What evidence can you point to that might acquit your client?”
“At the moment, the best evidence I have is protected by attorney work product, Your Honor. I’m not prepared to give away my theory of my client’s defense this morning.”
The judge frowned. “I am assuming you are referring to the bank documents from Ronald Brigman’s accounts that you subpoenaed.”
“Again, Your Honor, I cannot give away my strategy in this hearing. I will remind you we also have a ballistics expert, and Jordan Stewart is appointed to work for the defense. I will have a case to present at trial.”
“So am I just supposed to take your word for it that your client might not be guilty?”
“I’d suggest you look at the facts as we know them,” Sarah said. Jim marveled at the way her voice never wavered. “She called the police when she found Michael Reed, she notified them of her whereabouts, she went in voluntarily for questioning. She is a woman of considerable achievement as an attorney and is an officer of the court in multiple jurisdictions. She dose not fit the profile of a multiple murderer.”
The judge leaned back in his chair and studied Sarah thoughtfully for a few minutes. “Do you have anything else to add?”
“Only that the interests of justice are best served if my client survives to go to trial, and the jail has raised considerable doubts about its ability to make that happen.”
“What if I lift the medication order?”
“If you don’t, I’m going to take an immediate writ to the court of appeal, regardless of the outcome of this hearing. Alexa Reed should never have been given any type of psychotropic drugs. And ordering any more of them is just giving the state a second chance to accomplish what it failed to do this time.”
Jim could see her tough tone surprised the judge. He opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again. After a little pause, he said, “I’m going to retire to chambers to consider the evidence.”
Ten minutes passed while Sarah ignored him by reading over the notes on her legal paid and scrolling through the email on her phone. Was she looking for messages from David Scott? Jim tried not to think about that as he worked to resist the spell of her gardenia perfume. To take his mind off Sarah, he concentrated on Alexa’s face as he’d said goodby to her in the hospital last night in the dim glow of the little pink night light that seemed to bring her such comfort.
“Do you think we’ll win?” She looked wistful and sad. “I don’t know how I’d be able to handle another day in that cell.”
Jim patted her hand and tried to give her a reassuring smile, although he guessed she knew how uncertain he felt. “If anyone can get you out, Sarah can.”
Suddenly the door to the inner sanctum opened, and the clerk announced Judge Tomlinson was ordering the attorneys into his chambers. Jim saw Sarah’s hands shaking as she stood up.
“Do you want me to come?” he whispered, noting that Sheriff Dale Spencer, who had been sitting with Preston Baldwin at the prosecution’s table, was following him toward Judge Tomlinson’s chambers.
“Yes.”
The attorneys took the chairs closest to the judge’s desk. Jim and the sheriff sat behind them. Judge Tomlinson did not look happy with any of them. He frowned as he scribbled away on his legal pad, allowing the silence in the room to lengthen into palpable tension for everyone present.
Finally he whipped off his half-glasses, put down his pen, and rubbed his eyes with his chubby fists as if he was unbearably tired. Then he looked at them.
“I’m not happy with this situation.” Judge Tomlinson looked directly at Sheriff Spencer, who opened his mouth only to be admonished, “Don’t say anything. You had your time on the witness stand. I just want to make it clear that my job is not made easier by the obvious bias a segment of the legal community holds against Mrs. Reed. I didn’t enter that order for medication to have it used the way it has been. I don’t want anyone ever to think I knew this was going to happen or that I entertained any possible bias against a defendant in my courtroom. And if you think so, Ms. Knight, you know your job: recuse me.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Jim could see Sarah was gripping her pen to keep her hands steady.
“Judge, I hope you are not suggesting that I – ” Preston Baldwin began, but Judge Tomlinson raised his hand.
“I didn’t invite you to speak, Mr. Baldwin. Argument, like testimony, is closed.” Judge Tomlinson leaned over his legal pad, folded his hands and said, “This is what I am going to do, and I don’t like doing it. But I’ve been left with little choice. I’m going to release Alexa Reed on house arrest with GPS monitoring.”
“And the amount of her bail, Your Honor?” Preston Baldwin frowned.
“I’m not setting bail. She can’t afford any. I already know that because she has appointed counsel.”
“But you can’t do that.”
“Well, then go get yourself a writ from the court of appeal and tell the justices up there the jail nearly killed her before she ever got to trial because your expert insisted she be medicated and I listened to him. Go right ahead, Mr. Baldwin.”
Jim saw the prosecutor swallow hard as he realized he was out of options.
“Now, Ms. Knight. I don’t have to tell you about your responsibilities here.”
“No, Your Honor.”
“And I’m not going to be generous with continuances. I’ve had to let a defendant out of custody who probably should be in jail, so I’m going to keep that time to a minimum. That means if you ask for a continuance, you’d better have impeccable grounds to support your request. Do you understand, Ms. Knight?”
“I understand.”
“Your Honor?”
“Yes, Sheriff.”
“I’d like to have some of my deputies stationed outside Mrs. Reed’s residence.”
“And what will that get you? Another chance to put her in the hospital?”
“Your Honor – ”
“If it weren’t for your negligence – and I’m being polite when I use that term – we wouldn’t be here right now. And I wouldn’t be making an order that very well may be illegal, but that no one is going to take to the court of appeal because everyone is too ashamed of what happened. Now let me be very clear about this: for the rest of this trial, everyone – and I mean everyone – will operate by the book. Am I clear?”
Jim drained the last of his scotch, turned off the gas heater, and headed into the house. It was midnight. And someone was knocking at his door.

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Dark Moon, A Work In Progress, Chapter Twenty-Six

/in /by

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The phone woke her at six next morning instead of her alarm. She had drunk enough the night before to give herself a headache, and she thought about not answering. But it might be Jim. And it might be another emergency with Alexa. So she rolled over and picked up the receiver and said, with great effort, “Hello.”
“Good morning, Ms. Knight. I believe it’s morning where you are. It’s lunchtime in D.C. This is Coleman Reed.”
Sarah sat up and forced her hung-over self to concentrate. “What do you want, Justice Reed?”
“Well, first to congratulate you. I heard about Ms. Jacobs’ debacle yesterday. Clearly she did’t graduate in the top of her law school class.”
“Actually she managed to pass the bar after going to an unaccredited law school, so she isn’t stupid. I’m not convinced discussing Tara’s educational shortcomings is the purpose of this call.”
“You’re very acute, Ms. Knight. I remember you in oral argument in the Lewis versus New York case, three years back. Fourth Amendment. Illegal search. You won for your client.”
“No thanks to you, Justice Reed. You wrote the minority dissent in that case.”
“Like I said, you’re very acute. Talented, even. Your work in the Joey Menendez case is legendary. As you know. And you turned six of my colleagues against me in the Lewis case. Because of you, Myron Lewis, an international drug dealer, walked away a free man. It’s too bad they appointed you to defend my daughter-in-law. You’re going to lose and that will tarnish your considerable reputation.”
“I don’t think you called to discuss my standing in the legal community.”
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”
“Let’s get to the point.”
“You might not like that.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“You can’t win against me, Ms. Knight. Haven’t you figured that out, yet?”
“I have to do my job, Justice Reed. You know that.”
“And how do you define ‘do you job’?”
“This isn’t oral argument. I don’t have to answer that. Go read the Sixth Amendment.”
“‘A criminal defendant is entitled to the effective assistance of counsel.’ I know what it says. But ‘effective assistance’ doesn’t mean you have to commit professional suicide.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means don’t go prying into matters that don’t concern you.”
“As in your son’s bank records?”
“As in those and in Ronald Brigman’s.”
“You can’t stop me from seeing Brigman’s.”
“I realize that. And that’s why I’m calling you this morning.”
“I’m listening.”
“I could send a fleet of Alan Warrick’s best against you tomorrow to quash your subpoena for Michael’s bank records.”
“I’m not afraid of Warrick, Thompson attorneys, Justice Reed.”
“Of course, you aren’t. You cut your legal teeth with Hollis Craig and his partners.”
“Get to the point.”
“Okay. I can stop you where Michael is concerned. You know that. But I have no authority over Brigman’s financials.”
“And if I get Brigman’s, I’ll know about his dealings with Michael?”
“Right. So I’ve called to make you an offer.”
“An offer?”
“Withdraw your subpoenas. Leave the bank records alone. And stop defending Alexa like an angry pit bull. I don’t want her out on bail.”
“I don’t think the Sixth Amendment allows me to do that.”
“Of course, it does. Trevor Martin told you what to do in this case. Just go through the motions. File a few in limines that you will lose. Do some cross-examination. Make it look good. But don’t try to win. No one expects you to.”
“Throwing a case is not my job, Justice Reed.”
“What if your life depended upon it?”
“I’m sorry. Is that a threat?”
“You can call it what you want. No one will ever believe it came from me. Back off, Ms. Knight. I understand your business hasn’t grown much in San Diego. I can get you a partnership at Warrick, Thompson.”
“I’ve already turned down Alan Warrick’s offer of partnership in the firm. I like having my own shop.”
“Well, then, I still have a number of clients using Warrick who are loyal to me. I can send them your way. Alan and I aren’t seeing eye-to-eye right now over Alexa. I would love to damage his bottom line on your behalf.”
“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”
“It is right now because you’re representing Alexa. But you are not going to be her attorney forever, Ms. Knight. The sooner she’s tried and convicted, the better for all of us.”
“If you’re offering me a bribe not to look at Brigman’s bank records, it’s a safe assumption there’s something there that will help Alexa. If anyone found out I’d made a deal with you to ignore exculpatory evidence for my own financial gain, her conviction would be overturned on habeas corpus in a heartbeat. And I’d be disbarred.”
“You know, Ms. Knight, I’m going to have to give you some advice. You and Alan take the Rules of Professional Responsibility way too seriously. The Law Offices of Sarah Knight will go down in flames if you play by the ethics rules. You aren’t in a Wall Street firm any more where you can afford to dither about what the State Bar thinks. Things are different in the local bar as Hal Remington has probably told you. Business is based on who you know. If you don’t play the game right, no one is going to send you any work, and an attorney’s bread and butter is referrals from other attorneys. If you aren’t a team player in that community, you’re going to starve. What the State Bar wants you to do for Alexa Reed, and what the legal community wants you to do, are two very different things. I can make you rich beyond your wildest dreams, Ms. Knight. Your solo practice could grow into a firm as big as Craig, Lewis, or Warrick, Thompson. Or bigger.”
“In exchange for Alexa’s life?”
“She’s already a dead woman. Save yourself.”
“I’m sorry, Justice Reed, is that a threat?”
“It certainly is.”
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