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Dark Moon, A Work In Progress, Chapter Thirteen

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

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

/in /by

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