by Diane Capri
“Your honor, the issue of Mr. Newton’s homosexuality will be at the heart of this trial. He denies it, but he has put the truth of the matter squarely before the court. I think my client is entitled to know whether any homosexuals are on that panel. They should not be sitting in judgment on the decision to publish this material. I want them all dismissed for cause.” The rest of the defense team nodded on cue.
“Judge,” Newton responded, all pretense of the country bumpkin magically erased. “Assuming some potential jurors are homosexuals, the defendant would not be entitled to excuse them on that basis alone. If he tried, it would be objectionable and possibly even illegal. That last question should be stricken and no others like it should be allowed in the rest of the voir dire.”
Newton was hot and I didn’t really blame him. But he had to have known Tremain’s attack was coming. Like a lot of things, though, knowing and experiencing are vastly different.
“Do either of you have any law on this for me?” I looked at them both, sternly. They didn’t, which made me suspect that the defense knew what the law was and it wasn’t good for their side.
If Tremain had any support for his argument, he’d have been waving it in my face. In triplicate. Like so many issues that come up during any trial, I had to fly by the seat of my pants and hope for the best. That’s what judicial discretion was most of the time: careful application of the sophisticated wild ass guess method.
“I don’t know what the legal answer to the question is, but I found your question personally offensive, Mr. Tremain. On that basis, I will not allow any further questioning into the personal sexual habits of jurors.” I turned the doorknob to return to the courtroom. “And if any more questions like that are asked in violation of my order, I will declare a mistrial. Understood?”
To his credit, Tremain didn’t argue. His point had been made with the jury panel and we all knew it. Newton requested a curative instruction, which I agreed to give, but it wouldn’t help. The cat couldn’t be forced back into the bag.
I asked both lawyers whether they wanted a mistrial now, to start over. They declined.
We went back to the courtroom and finished up the jury selection without further incident. Not surprisingly, at the end, Tremain used one of his pre-emptory challenges to dismiss Mr. Bates.
When I glanced at my watch, I was amazed that we’d reached the late afternoon. Absorbed in the problems of others, I’d managed to forget about General Andrews for a while. We’d made good progress today. Our jury was sworn and I’d adjourned until the next morning for opening statements.
As soon as the gavel came down, my personal world flooded back into my thoughts, bringing back the unease I’d gone to sleep with last night.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tampa, Florida
Monday 5:30 p.m.
January 24, 2000
KATE AUSTIN, MY MOTHER’S best friend and the woman who has been like a mother to me since mom died when I was sixteen, lives in a bungalow, four houses from the Bayshore on Oregon Avenue. The house sits on an exposed corner lot and the kitchen looks out over the side street.
Both George and I worried about strangers being able to drive up and see Kate standing in the kitchen, but she said we watch too much television. She wouldn’t even put blinds on the windows. She says she moved to Florida for sunlight, but we know she moved here for me.
I pulled into the driveway and walked up to the back screen door, calling her name as I approached. I didn’t want to startle her, since I hadn’t called to tell her to expect me.
Kate was in the backyard working on her newest project, an English garden. As always in her presence, total calm washed over me and I felt more relaxed than I had in days.
I should have come here before now. It’s not easy for me to admit that the strength and competence I have as a judge when dealing with other people’s problems doesn’t always translate into taking care of myself. George had always understood that about me and been my advocate.
When I had to face the fact, I comforted myself with the old adage that the lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client. In my case, that was certainly true. I could fight the fiercest battle for someone else, but for myself . . .
I watched Kate for a few minutes, still flexible enough to get down on her knees in her garden easily. Kate had been doing yoga for thirty years and she was still as flexible as any twenty-five year old. The yoga was part of Kate’s New Age philosophy that seemed to serve her well at the same time that it annoyed my conservative husband.
Almost as if she knew I was there, Kate turned around and waved to me. Was she clairvoyant? She claimed to be. She said it was a skill anyone could develop. She did seem to be one step ahead of my emotions all the time, a trait that often annoyed me.
Kate put away her tools and suggested a glass of iced tea, the quintessential southern hospitality offering. We chatted about nothing in particular for a while in the kitchen as she washed up, poured the tea into tall glasses, added a sprig of mint and a slice of lime to each one.
Then she carried the glasses and cookies she’d made using an old family recipe on a small tray out to her patio. We sat, enjoying the companionable silence overlooking her wonderfully over grown flowers.
Kate’s garden is so wild and uncontrolled, like nothing else in my life. All the flowers are mixed together erratically, the colors both brilliant and subdued. Our gardens at Minaret are beautiful, too, but they’re perfectly ordered, weeded, matched and wouldn’t dare encroach on the brick paths or the grass. Kate’s garden was creative and free, a reflection of Kate herself.
After a while, Kate said, “Dear, why don’t you just ask me what you came to ask? The suspense is more than my heart can take on such a beautiful afternoon.”
My connection to Kate is intense, almost as if she were my real mother. She can sense my moods and can usually tell when I’m troubled. She says it’s because she’s a channel for the universe and she trusts her intuition. That may be true, and it comforts me to think so.
Or, it may be that I rarely come by just to chat anymore, so that every time I come over it’s because something is bothering me. That’s George’s theory, anyway.
Whatever the reason, whenever I’m in trouble, I go to Kate. She knows it and I think she likes it. Everyone wants to be needed.
Today, I wanted reassurance. I hoped George would return to normal. But what if he didn’t?
“It’s George,” I said.
“George? Mr. Wonderful? Your knight in shining armor? That George?” She teased. Actually, Kate thinks more of George than I do, if that’s possible. They are members of some kind of mutual admiration society that makes it useless to complain about one to the other.
“It’s not funny, Kate. George has been acting very strangely and I just don’t understand it. Now that this Andrews thing is behind us, I’m hoping he’ll be better. But I’m worried.” So I told her about his outburst at the restaurant and how he threw the Warwicks and Andrews out for good.
“Good for him.” She sounded almost as indignant as George had been. “It’s about time Tory started acting her age instead of like a thwarted toddler. Throwing crystal glasses, indeed. Are you alright now?” She reached over and moved my hair away from the right side of my forehead so she could look at the lump, which was a lot smaller, but the bruise was still slightly visible.
“I’m fine. It’s George I’m worried about. That night, I don’t know what time he finally came upstairs. The next day, he was out and gone before I got up. He made up some story about breakfast, but that’s not likely,” I said, continuing my litany of grievances, afraid to express the extent of my worry.
“Maybe the man wants a little privacy, Willa. He stays right where you can find him ninety-nine percent of the time. Isn’t he entitled to a little mystery? Once in a while?” Kate never accepted even the smallest criticism of George.
When we first married, she told me I should never tell her about arguments with my hu
sband. She said that he and I loved each other, so we’d make up, but she would not be able to forgive him if he hurt me.
So, I rarely complained to her about George. But in truth, there was seldom much to complain about at all in the seventeen years we’d been married. George was near perfect as far as I was concerned. Until lately.
George wasn’t a man of mystery at all. Never had been. But everyone was entitled to privacy. “Sure he is. But he could just say that. Why does he have to make something up that we both know is untrue?” As we discussed this, I became more upset, not less. “I’m not used to George lying to me.”
“Ok. George is protective of you and occasionally wants a little privacy. What’s so terrible?” She ate a cookie and offered the plate to me. I shook my head.
Then I told her about his temper tantrum at Deborah’s house with the reporters, his insistence that Andrews didn’t commit suicide and how interested Chief Hathaway was in George’s murder theory.
Kate seemed a little more concerned, now, but tried to reassure me. “Tell me what it is, exactly, that you’re worrying about,” she said. Solemnly. Seriously.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tampa, Florida
Monday 6:00 p.m.
January 24, 2000
HESITANTLY, I TOLD HER. “I think George is in some kind of trouble.”
Unlike the relief of turning on a light to expose the absence of the bogey man in the closet, voicing my concern seemed to make it more real.
Kate reached over and patted my hand. “Willa, you love George and you don’t want to lose him, which makes sense. You’ve just come from Deborah’s home, a widow, and the possibility of losing your husband has foolishly captured your imagination.”
“But it’s not foolish, Kate. I feel it,” I told her, voicing for the first time the truth. I did feel like I was losing George. I didn’t want to be melodramatic about it, but he seemed to be slipping away from me and I didn’t know how to hold onto him.
“You’re imagining things. And you’re worrying unnecessarily,” she said. I wanted to believe her. “Let me think about it and we can talk some more. But now that you’ve told me, don’t you think about it anymore or that will just confuse the energy.”
Kate poured another glass of tea and changed the subject, but I couldn’t concentrate on what she said.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t a child anymore. I couldn’t just decide not to think about George and wish my concerns away.
When I was younger, Kate had a worry box. She would have me symbolically put my worries in the box and she would lock them in with a small gold key that she wore around her neck. I’d forget about my troubles and she would tell me that she’d given them to the Universe to handle.
What worked when I was sixteen didn’t work as well at thirty-nine. But I was still willing to try it. At this point, I was willing to try anything. I felt that, on some level, my marriage was in trouble, and what made me so uneasy was that I didn’t know, couldn’t figure out exactly, what that trouble was.
When I arrived home, I learned that Kate’s worry box had flown open and let my anxiety out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Tampa, Florida
Monday 7:00 p.m.
January 24, 2000
GEORGE WAS WATCHING THE evening news rehash the General Andrews mess. When I turned my gaze to the television screen, a little “oh” escaped my lips when I saw George’s image, his voice repeating what Frank Bennett described off camera as “Prominent Republican strategist George Carson’s murder theory.” Just the title set my teeth on edge, but I couldn’t drag my gaze away.
Next, Frank cornered Police Chief Ben Hathaway. “Have you found any evidence to support a cause of death other than suicide?” he asked.
And Ben’s reply: “I can’t comment about an ongoing investigation beyond the official statement I’ve already given.”
Frank returned to the camera, and concluded. “Chief Hathaway did not deny the possibility that General Andrews was murdered.”
I sat down heavily beside George on the couch. “Why would
Frank air such a thing?” I said, breathless.
George replied, too calmly, “Frank has a responsibility to tell the truth, Willa. Andy didn’t commit suicide and we all know it. If Frank puts the real story on the air, the truth will come out, the killer will be found. Otherwise, Andy’s suicide will just be another speculative story for years, like Marilyn Monroe.”
He turned off the television and asked me if I wanted a drink. I wanted a dozen. He poured me a full glass of Sapphire and tonic.
Before I sipped the gin, I voiced my sober conclusion.
“Frank asked you if he could run the story before he did it, didn’t he? That’s the reason the story didn’t play last night.”
George was unperturbed. “Of course, he asked me. But I’m sure he would have aired the truth even if I’d objected. Frank is our friend, but not at the expense of his journalistic ethics.”
I felt my alarm rise another notch. “You’ve always thought ‘journalistic ethics’ was an oxymoron. When did you get to be so supportive of the media?” Anxiety injected my tone with unwanted sarcasm, but George just turned and walked out into the night air. Whether he heard me or not, I didn’t know.
I followed him out to the veranda and the dogs lumbered after us. We sat in our usual white wicker rockers. I took a big gulp of my gin and tonic and changed my approach. “George, don’t you see? This story makes it look like you know something. Like you have some inside information.” I took another swig, seeking an instant tranquilizer, but the comforting numbness didn’t come.
“I do have inside information,” George said quietly.
Not only was the gin not tranquilizing me, every nerve ending now buzzed throughout my body. Maybe this was the intuition or spirit guide Kate was always telling me I had. And maybe it was just years of experience as a lawyer and judge, but I knew, even before George explained it to me, that this was not good news.
“What inside information is that?” I squeaked out, past the lump in my throat.
“You’d better have a bigger drink. This will take a while,” he said. I didn’t argue. I handed him my highball glass and waited until he returned with a tumbler. He’d refilled the ice, Sapphire and tonic. We were out of lemons at the small bar in the den, so he’d substituted a lime.
George sat in deep reverie for a while. Because I feared what he would tell me, I didn’t rush him. I sipped my drink, watched the gentle lapping of the bay against our beach and concentrated on my breathing until I felt myself finally begin to relax.
Really, what could be so alarming?
As Kate had said just hours ago, this was George, after all. The man I’d been married to for seventeen years. I knew him better than he knew himself. What could he possibly tell me that would be so bad?
Finally, he began, in a quiet, slow way, as if he was telling a story around a campfire. “You know that before we met, I was in the army and I served under Andy overseas.”
He seemed to need me to acknowledge this, so I said, “Hmmm.” George’s army career was exactly the kind of thing that made me love him as I did. He’d joined the army right after college, even though he didn’t have to, because he thought it was the right thing to do.
George was always doing the right thing and he never had any trouble figuring out what the right thing was. Maybe it was his Lutheran upbringing, or that WASP noblesse oblige. Whatever it was, George navigated by a strong moral compass that was sometimes bewildering to me.
When we were dating, I thought dependable George wasn’t likely to throw too many curve balls at his wife and that was just what I wanted. After a lifetime of insecurity, my mother’s death, Dad leaving me with Kate, feeling adrift and alone, George’s brand of support and security was just what I’d craved.
Seventeen years later, I was still satisfied with it. The problem was, the shifting sands of George’s life were changing both him and our relationship.
The entire situation was baffling to me. I couldn’t understand it, and I didn’t want to.
George continued, “When I first met him, Andy was the best kind of officer the army could turn out. He was an honorable man who viewed his career as a calling. He insisted his men abide by the highest moral code he and the army could exact. There were so many examples of this during the time I served under him that I can’t name them all and I’m sure I’ve shared some of them with you before.”
Again, an affirmative response seemed to be called for. “Hmmm,” I said.
“Andy and I came to be friends. I didn’t make the army my career, but he didn’t hold my decision against me,” George smiled a little. “We had a connection regardless of how infrequently we saw each other. Whenever we could, we’d meet for dinner or drinks, but the years put distance between us.”
He paused again, sipped his Scotch this time, and added more firmly, “Until Andy was promoted to Colonel and stationed in Tampa not long after you and I moved here.”
I remembered the time well. We were new in Tampa then and the Andrews family was one of the few we’d known. We saw Andy and Deborah and their children as frequently as Andy’s busy travel schedule would allow.
That was when I’d come to like Deborah immensely, although she was drinking heavily, even then. She was a busy mother and I didn’t see her often, so we finally lost touch.
Even in those days, Andy was a bit too much of a man’s man for my taste and his views on women bordered on misogynistic. Mostly, in my presence, he simply behaved as if women didn’t exist.
I remembered several social occasions where Andy stood tall and straight, quiet and polite while women in our circle talked. He wasn’t listening and he rarely responded unless we asked him a direct question. It was more like he was waiting for the noise to stop.
When a quiet moment inevitably occurred, Andy would turn to one of the men and start a totally new conversation about something none of the women were the least bit interested in, such as the maintenance routine for the stealth bomber or something.
