We’ve interviewed three experts today via video conference and none of them were promising. Sure, they all admit there are weak spots in the prosecution’s case, namely Kyleigh’s intact hyoid bone and lack of strangulation marks, but none of them put forth an alternative theory as to the cause of death. If the best we can get is an expert to point out inconsistencies in the autopsy report, Tammy better get used to life behind bars. Our last interview of the day is with a doctor from Wisconsin who is regarded as one of the country’s foremost experts on strangulation. If he offers nothing more helpful, we may need to reconsider our entire case strategy including whether to try to negotiate a last-minute plea rather than preparing for trial.
The phone in the middle of the twelve-person table rings, startling all three of us from our contemplation. I reach for it already knowing it is Tom’s secretary informing us the last expert is ready. Tom reaches for the remote to turn on the screen and Dr. Daniel Smart appears. Dr. Smart is a thin, balding, bespectacled, middle-aged man. He’s wearing a tan suit jacket over a plaid oxford shirt. He looks virtually identical to our last two experts, the third being our token woman. Tom, clearly frustrated, cuts to the chase.
“Dr. Smart, we’ve interviewed three potential experts today. While they agree the state’s evidence is weak, they can’t rule out Kyleigh died by strangulation. Do you share their opinion?”
Ethan and I both hold our breath as Dr. Smart considers Tom’s question. As much as I resisted being staffed on this case, I’ll be heartbroken if this is the end of my playing Nancy Drew. Dr. Smart seems to sense we are all on edge and decides to toy with us. He takes a long sip of what looks like tea. The mug cheekily reads “Please don’t confuse your Google search with my medical degree.” He then takes a deep breath before offering his opinion.
“Well, Tom, I can’t rule out strangulation entirely.”
Tom lets out an audible sigh and Dr. Smart is visibly irritated by the interruption.
“But, if you will kindly let me finish my sentence, I was going to say it is my expert opinion that it is more likely that Ms. Sanford died from asphyxiation.”
Tom, Ethan and I exchange confused glances. Tom then leans forward to clarify.
“Dr. Smart, are you saying Kyleigh choked to death?”
Dr. Smart leans back and smiles. He enjoys flaunting his expertise.
“No, Tom. While choking is a typical form of asphyxiation, it is not the only form. Asphyxiation describes many circumstances in which a person finds themselves deprived of a sufficient supply of oxygen.”
Tom does not appreciate the doctor’s apparent attempt to educate the team.
“Unfortunately,” Tom says, “arguing Kyleigh was smothered rather than strangled, doesn’t get Tammy off the hook for her murder.” His frustration elicits another condescending smile from Dr. Smart. I’m starting to hate this expert.
“You misunderstand me, I’m afraid. I don’t believe Kyleigh was smothered or strangled. My theory is Kyleigh died from positional asphyxiation.”
More confused looks from the murder squad. Dr. Smart continues.
“Positional asphyxia, also known as postural asphyxia, occurs when someone’s position prevents them from breathing adequately. This can happen by force, for example, when a police officer hogties a suspect. But this can also occur by accident.”
The good doctor is getting into lecture mode. He leans his chair back and rests his feet on the desk before continuing.
“People can die from positional asphyxia by simply getting themselves into a breathing-restricted position they cannot get out of. It can also happen to babies who are laid in their crib in a position where their mouth and nose are blocked or their chest is unable to fully expand. Hence the ‘back to sleep’ campaign.”
My patience is spent and I have kids to pick up from daycare, so I strive for brevity.
“You’re saying Kyleigh died of SIDS?”
Ethan laughs exaggeratedly at my apparent ignorance all the while looking to Tom for approval.
But Dr. Smart simply nods. “Essentially.”
Now it’s Tom’s turn to interject, “Dr. Smart, you are going to ask the jury to believe a twenty-plus-year-old woman died of sudden infant death syndrome?”
“Again, essentially.”
Dr. Smart can sense he’s losing his audience and plows on.
“Babies die of SIDS because they don’t have the muscle strength to turn themselves over into a position where their breathing is no longer constricted. While Kyleigh’s muscle tone was sufficient, she ingested an ample amount of heroin before rolling herself into a comforter and falling asleep. The heroin deadened the synapses in Kyleigh’s brain rendering them unable to signal to her muscles to unwrap herself. Instead, she remained cocooned in her blanket receiving increasingly insufficient oxygen flow until she perished.”
I sit back in my chair, astounded. This theory makes much more sense than the prosecution's version of events. Tammy didn’t jump on her daughter, strangle her ninja-style without leaving a mark, wrap her up for no apparent reason, and then leave her infant grandson to fend for himself. Kyleigh’s death was an accidental byproduct of her drug addiction. The jury will swallow this lock, stock and barrel.
Tom seems to agree. He is smiling for the first time today.
“This makes a lot of sense, Dr. Smart. We will want to retain your services for the trial.”
And now it is Dr. Smart’s turn to grin.
“I assumed you would. I’ve cleared my calendar for that week. But I must warn you, my testimony does not come cheap and I don’t work pro bono.”
Tom was prepared for this.
“I didn’t assume you did, Doctor. We work for a multinational law firm that invests heavily in its pro bono practice. Your hourly fee will not be an issue.”
“Glad we understand each other, Tom,” Dr. Smart acknowledges as he removes his feet from his desk and prepares to stand. “I’ll finish drafting my expert opinion over the weekend and will send a draft to your team early next week for review.”
“We look forward to receiving it,” Tom responds as he shuts down the monitor.
Tom then turns to me and Ethan, wearing a victory grin.
“This is excellent progress. Nothing more needs to be done on this case before Monday. Why don’t you take the weekend to catch up on your billable work.”
A relatively stress-free weekend is the best gift I can receive. I gather my things and am out the conference room door before Tom can change his mind.
Later, my spirit still buoyed by our retained expert’s ingenious theory, I pour myself a celebratory pinot noir and bring up the latest episode of John Oliver to watch. The boys, exhausted after a week in daycare, went down easy and I’m ready to relax. Of course, just then the front door opens. Patrick is home. I can no longer avoid the dreaded conversation sure to come.
“I’m downstairs,” I call.
“Okay, let me get changed and I’ll be down.”
About five minutes later, Patrick emerges in the basement wearing his Northwestern sweats and a white tee. He helps himself to a beer before joining me on the couch. He then takes a big sip before diving in.
“Are we going to talk about what happened?” he asks, straightforward.
I set my glass down and bury my head in my hands.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to show you I can be sexy, so I got a bikini wax and put on some lingerie to spice things up. Instead, I humiliated us both.”
Tears spring to my eyes as I keep my head buried. I can’t bring myself to face Patrick’s reaction. He must be so pissed. Patrick takes his job very seriously. A long minute passes and he doesn’t respond.
Then, “Wait, you got a bikini wax?” Patrick asks incredulously. “That must’ve hurt.”
I laugh in spite of myself and toss a throw pillow playfully in his direction.
“It did fucking hurt! I don’t know how women in Brazil do it more than once.”
Patrick’s deep laugh
is infectious. It’s one of the first things I fell in love with. Once our laughter subsides, he pulls me closer and wraps his arms around me.
“Maeve, you don’t have to try to be sexy. You’re naturally sexy. And you didn’t humiliate anyone. You just gave my coworkers something to be jealous about.”
I feel the tension in my chest dissolve as I allow myself to bury deeper into Patrick’s embrace. I nuzzle my way up to his neck where I can smell his Old Spice aftershave. Patrick is his father’s son. What’s good enough for Cormac is good enough for him. Patrick then leans down and gently kisses my forehead. I can’t remember the last time we’ve been this close and I’ve missed it terribly. Before I can help myself, I pull Patrick into a long kiss. The bitter taste of Revolution Brewing is still on his lips. As Patrick kisses me more deeply, I can feel his hands running up my side. Gently, he begins to massage the side of my breast. My breath quickens.
It’s been so long and I’m so turned on, I don’t need much foreplay. I’m aching for him. I want Patrick inside me. I lay back on the couch and pull off my nightshirt all in the same movement. Thankful I chose my cute red-and-white polka dot bikini briefs this morning, I reach for Patrick’s hand to pull him onto me when he freezes.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
Patrick gets up from the couch and walks toward the stairs. He listens for a moment.
“You should get dressed. I think I hear Declan.”
I’m confused, as I have excellent kid-dar and didn’t hear a thing. But Patrick has already started up to check on them.
I pull my nightshirt back on and Patrick returns a few minutes later. But the mood has definitely shifted. Patrick takes a seat on the far end of the couch.
“I could’ve sworn I heard something, but they are both asleep. I pulled the covers up and gave them both goodnight kisses.”
He glances at the television. “Oh, I haven’t seen this week’s episode of Last Week Tonight. Let’s watch.”
As John Oliver explains the massive impact of the Equifax security breach, I try my best to mask my disappointment. But my head is full of questions. I surreptitiously recover my phone from the coffee table while Patrick takes another sip of his beer. I need my BFF right now.
I know this is TMI, but Patrick and I were this close to doing it on the downstairs couch when he froze and went to check on the kids. WTF!
Zara’s response is immediate.
DUDE! My tofu pad thai just arrived and now I have no appetite!
Me: Hilarious, but I’m freaking out right now. Am I that hideous that the mere sight of my naked body sends Patrick running??????
I look up to see if Patrick is aware of my texting, but he’s too busy laughing at a dick pic joke.
Zara: Okay, how did this…intimate encounter happen? Did you go out to dinner? Do some serious talking?
Me: Ummmm…no. Patrick came home. I was in the basement in my jammies. We talked for a minute about my webcam fail and I kind of jumped him.
Zara: Jesus, Maeve. You reek of desperation. Maybe that’s what turned Patrick off. You’re coming on too strong.
I pause. Zara did have a point. I’d been avoiding Patrick all week and the second he comes home, I’m ripping off my clothes. Maybe I did come off as desperate.
Me: Point taken. What do you suggest?
Zara is never one to equivocate on her true feelings.
What I suggest is you grow some self-esteem and dump the guy…but since that isn’t going to happen, how about you stop throwing yourself at Patrick and maybe reconnect. Dinner? Movie? Normal date stuff.
I look up to see Patrick turning off the TV and starting to stand. The episode must have ended. I stow my phone in my nightgown pocket and follow him up the stairs. After brushing our teeth, we lie down side by side, both unsure where this will lead. As I roll over to lie on his chest, Patrick preemptively kisses my forehead, says goodnight and turns toward the far side of the bed.
I’m not sure any amount of dinner dates will be enough to bridge the abyss that’s somehow opened between us. The faded scars on my legs begin to prickle, begging to be reopened, but I push the idea out of my mind and roll back to my side of the bed.
Chapter 15
My school-books are spread out taking up half of the large wooden table in the back of the Carmel Public Library. I’ve studied chemistry for over an hour even though I already felt prepared for tomorrow’s test. Finding the mass percent to find the molecular formula of a compound is pretty basic. I grab my homework notebook and double-check, already knowing I’ve completed all the assignments due tomorrow. And I’m right. The only other assignment due was fifteen problems in precalculus and I’d completed those in study hall. So, I root through my backpack to find my copy of The Great Gatsby. Ms. Casterly has given us another week to finish the novel, but I’m almost done and might as well get it over with. I’m not particularly enjoying the classic Roaring Twenties story, but anything is better than facing the drama that awaits me at home. F. Scott Fitzgerald did have a way of aptly describing vain, self-centered people. I will give him that. Tom and Daisy destroyed lives, retreated to the safety of their mansions, and let others clean up the mess.
I gasp loudly when Mrs. Anderson puts her hand on my thigh. The pain is so intense, I stand up too quickly and the chair topples behind me.
She draws back confused. “What’s wrong, honey? I just came to tell you it’s closing time. Are you hurt?”
Flustered, I begin frantically grabbing books and jamming them back in my backpack.
“No, Mrs. Anderson, I’m all right. You just scared me.”
Her confusion soon turns to fear. She points and quietly says, “Maeve, there’s blood running down your leg. What happened?”
I pray that she’s wrong, but as I look down past my red plaid checkered skirt I see that she’s not. A thin trickle of blood is running from my thigh down my calf. My mind races for a believable story. I go for nonchalant, but my voice is shaking. “Oh, that’s nothing. Just cut myself shaving this morning.”
Not my best lie and I can tell Mrs. Anderson isn’t buying it. But I can also tell she’s unsure how much more she should press. My father is a big fish in a small pond. And no one likes to make waves.
I hurriedly pack my last book away and zip up my bag. “Goodnight.”
I see Mrs. Anderson steel herself and she grabs my skirt before I can stop her. We both freeze as not only the five fresh cuts on my right thigh are revealed, but also the dozens in various states of healing. When my parents’ fights escalate from screaming to glass breaking to slapping, I retreat in my bathroom with my razor. It sounds crazy, but the pain calms me down.
She puts her hand over her mouth and sounds as if she might cry. “Oh, honey. What have you done?”
Panicking, I grab Mrs. Anderson’s free hand and plead, “Please, don’t tell anyone. I’ve only done it a few times. I’ll stop. I promise!”
She is out of her league. A young wife with a small child. Her husband just recently graduated from law school and joined a local firm. Her father-in-law is a respected judge who has presided over many of my father’s cases. All three go to the same bar association events. She wouldn’t dare tell.
Now it’s Mrs. Anderson’s voice that’s shaky. “Okay, honey. You run along home now. And don’t let me catch you doing this ever again. You promise?”
My heartbeat slows. “I promise. Thank you.”
Looks like I’ll be finding a new place to study after school.
Chapter 16
I’m slightly embarrassed of my mom-mobile, as I pick up Ethan from his hip flat on Berwyn Avenue in Andersonville. This neighborhood is perfect for young, attractive singles. In a two-block radius, there’s Hop Leaf Brewery, a kitschy novelty T-shirt shop, a local bookstore, amazing Mediterranean, Mexican, and Italian restaurants, and no less than five boutique gyms to work off those calories. In the few minutes I’ve been idling, I’ve seen no less than two women walking with yoga mats and a man drinking
Intelligentsia coffee because Starbucks isn’t on trend in this hood. Lincoln Park, on the other hand, is Whole Foods, Target, Costco, family friendly restaurants, tutoring services, and gyms offering “mommy and me” classes. I take a moment to mourn the loss of my youth before refocusing on why I’m here at eight-thirty in the morning. Last night, Tom sent us an email directing us to go to Stateville Correctional Center this morning to interview Kyleigh’s drug dealer boyfriend. Simon Harr was charged with one count of possession of narcotics and one count of being a felon in possession of a weapon a week after the police catalogued the crime scene. He pled guilty in return for a five-year sentence. Simon is serving that time in Stateville, a maximum security men’s prison about an hour’s drive from Chicago.
I see Ethan emerge from the front door of the newly constructed three flat, an increasingly common style for condominium buildings in Chicago. Ethan has the top unit complete with hardwood floors throughout and a large master bedroom suite with a cozy gas fireplace. Perfect for romantic nights in. Ethan strolls to my van clad in a slim fit Hugo Boss navy checked suit with a light blue oxford shirt peeking out and coffee in hand. My embarrassment increases exponentially.
As Ethan is buckling his seatbelt, I decide to preempt his snide remarks. “I know my car screams suburban soccer mom and is covered in goldfish crumbs. Let it go.”
Ethan raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Whoa, whoa. Don’t shoot. I was going to say thank you for the ride since I don’t own a car, goldfish covered or otherwise. What’s got you so touchy this morning?”
My face flushes. Maybe I did start off a bit aggressively. I take a deep breath and try again. “I’m sorry. It was a crazy weekend. A response brief was filed in one of Elizabeth’s student loan cases, so I spent about ten hours on Saturday and Sunday nights after putting the boys to bed drafting the reply. I didn’t sleep much. How was your weekend?”
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