by Diane Capri
I flipped the note open and read it quickly. Then, I closed it again, rubbing my fingers along the crease. I told the lawyers I’d hear the remainder of the argument tomorrow, adjourned and slowly left the bench.
If I hadn’t been so emotionally wired, if I hadn’t stayed up all night, if CJ wasn’t trying to bury me alive with work, I could have handled it. I know I could have.
As it was, I didn’t start to shake uncontrollably until I was safely locked in my office.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Tampa, Florida
Tuesday 3:15 p.m.
January 25, 2000
A COUPLE OF QUICK telephone calls to Tampa Chief of Police Ben Hathaway’s office revealed what I needed to know.
“George was arrested for the murder of General Andrews and arraigned this morning, Willa,” Hathaway said.
My heart skipped a couple of beats. “Do you know where he is now?” I couldn’t bring myself to ask if George was at the Orient Road jail. That was one of the many places I’d never expected to find my husband.
Hathaway’s tone expressed mild alarm to my practiced listening ear. “He was released after he made his own bail about an hour ago.”
I breathed a little easier. Homicide suspects aren’t usually allowed bail in Florida and George’s release in a matter of hours was unusual as well as quick. I gathered some small comfort from that, although I had no idea why his release had been allowed.
My silence lasted a couple of beats too long. Hathaway’s alarm notched up. “We told him not to leave the jurisdiction. Don’t you know where he is?”
No, I wanted to scream. I don’t know where he is and I don’t know what he’s been doing and I’m not even sure who he is anymore.
“Willa?” Hathaway said, a little more tension in his tone, “Do you know where George is or not? I convinced Drake to release him because I believed he wouldn’t leave town. Were we wrong?” I switched the receiver to my other hand before it slipped out of my sweaty palm. “No, of course not, Ben. I’ve been in trial. I just heard about all of this. I called you first. I’m sure he’s at home.”
Ben humphed, a sound that sort of escaped his lips too close to the phone, as if he’d been hit in his ample stomach. He spoke more quietly, but with more urgency, too. “If you find out he’s gone, Willa, you’d better call me right away. We’ve known each other a long time. I’ll be the only friend you’ve got if George makes Drake look like a fool for doing you a favor.”
His words had the opposite effect from what I’m sure he intended. They calmed me immediately. I blew out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
State Attorney Michael Drake wouldn’t have done me a favor on a bet. George either, for that matter. Drake hated us both.
If he’d agreed to release George, let him make bail, it was only for one reason: Drake didn’t have enough evidence to indict.
At least, not yet.
The realization provided a thin flicker of light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel. But I could travel toward it. I could see a little bit, and maybe, just maybe, figure this thing out.
I put as much reassurance and calm in my voice as I could muster. “Of course, Ben. I’ll call you right away if I don’t find George at home. But I’m sure he’s there. Don’t worry.”
I picked up my miniscule purse and my electronic car key and slipped quickly out the back exit of my office.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Tampa, Florida
Tuesday 3:45 p.m.
January 25, 2000
FOR THE SECOND TIME today, a media hive swarmed, blocking my path, ready to sting. I managed to get through the blockade of reporters and television vans posted on the Bayshore near the entrance to Plant Key Bridge, but they filmed my progress.
Knowing they probably had long lens cameras focused on Minaret’s front door, I had to sneak around to the back entrance of my own house.
The second I walked in the door, I heard the television playing in the den. George was home. A wave of hope flooded my body and I sat down heavily on a chair in relief.
George was watching the story of his arrest played out on national television. My gaze, too, was drawn to the pictures of a plain clothes detective I didn’t know escorting George out of an unmarked car and into the Orient Road jail. At least, they hadn’t put handcuffs on him.
Still, Drake must have tipped off the media that the arrest was coming. Drake never missed a media opportunity. Arresting George, a prominent businessman in the community and the husband of a U.S. District Court Judge would certainly qualify. Drake attempting to profit from our misery ratcheted up my anger a couple of notches.
“Are you so pleased with your celebrity that it wasn’t enough for you to live it, you have to watch it all over again?” I sniped at George. He was here; Drake wasn’t.
He patted the place on the sofa next to him and I vacillated between sitting down to watch and continuing with my outrage. I sat.
George put his arm around me and hugged me closer to him. He’s always been able to see through me and he had to know I was scared. “I want to know how they justified arresting me. The police won’t tell me anything, so I have to get my information the way the rest of America does. Watch with me and we’ll talk when it’s over.”
Again today, Frank Bennett had the local report and it had been picked up by the networks. I resented that someone I had counted among my friends would capitalize on the complete disruption of my life. When we’re down, I thought sourly, we learn exactly who are friends are, don’t we.
Outside the Orient Road jail, Frank read his story well, looking straight into the camera. “George Carson, local restaurateur, surrendered himself to authorities today at his home on Plant Key in South Tampa.”
I smiled at that. Our island is private property. At least the television cameras couldn’t camp out here.
“Mr. Carson was charged with the murder of General A. Randall Andrews who died early Saturday morning from a gunshot wound to the head. Although initially reported as a suicide, the police quickly discovered that General Andrews was murdered. In the face of increasing pressure on the State Attorney Michael Drake from outraged citizens and prominent politicians, Mr. Carson was charged with first degree murder.”
My lip curled. Prominent politicians. Now we know who that is, don’t we, I thought.
“Police ballistics reports confirm that the murder weapon, a .38 caliber hand gun, used to kill General Andrews was registered to Mr. Carson. We have very little additional information about Mr. Carson’s arrest, except that Police Chief Ben Hathaway told us Mr. Carson had means, motive and opportunity. In an unusual development for Florida courts, George Carson is now free on bond.”
What followed were the inevitable interviews with Andy’s family, his friends and anyone who would talk about George to the press. I was dismayed at the number of people who didn’t really know us, but were willing to talk about us just for their fifteen minutes of fame. I made a mental note to cross every one of them off our Christmas Card list.
They should have been more charitable toward George, who had never done anything dishonorable in his entire life. He was a pillar of this community, and this is how they repaid him. Altruism. Bah. Humbug.
When George began to rewind the digital recording he’d run on the story in preparation for replaying it again, I’d had enough. He’d turned off the phones, and the answering machine blinked like mad. I got up and unplugged the phone from the wall. With a glance back toward George, still immersed in Frank Bennett, I went into our room to lay down.
Later, I asked myself why I didn’t talk to George. Or why he didn’t explain things to me. But at the time, it was all just too much. I’d had no sleep the night before. Sleep deprivation is a form of torture and I wanted to believe that some of my emotionalism was attributable to sheer exhaustion.
The rest was fear.
I’d had enough experience with the feeling to recognize it for what it was: an all too he
althy fear of abandonment.
If I couldn’t deal with the world right now, at least I could escape it.
In less than five minutes, I’d fallen into a deep slumber. I slept through until the next morning, not waking even when George came to bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Tampa, Florida
Wednesday 8:00 a.m.
January 26, 2000
GEORGE HAD PUT ON the morning coffee and brought in the papers by the time I wandered out into the kitchen. Front-page news was his arrest yesterday.
Looking like he hadn’t slept in three days, George sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and eating a bagel. I filled my coffee mug and went to shower and get fortified for the day.
Tried not to think about the whole sorry mess until I was dressed in the professional suit of armor that gave me the judicial detachment I desperately needed.
Plugged the phone back in and called Margaret at home. I told her to advise the lawyers that we would begin with Plaintiff’s first witness, as planned, tomorrow. She wanted me to take the week off.
The idea appealed to me, except that I couldn’t imagine what I’d do with all of those empty hours. Work had always filled my life with purpose and importance. George had his politics and his restaurant. We lived separate lives together, and we liked it. We were more interesting to each other that way, almost like living with an exciting, mysterious partner instead of the rut many of our long-married friends had fallen into.
“No,” I told Margaret, “don’t reschedule anything on the calendar. I’ll see you as planned.” I heard the silence of her disapproval. “And Margaret?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t allow anyone to call me at home unless they have a life and death emergency,” I told her.
Like the one I was living in.
Then I squared my shoulders, took several balancing deep breaths and went into the kitchen to have a serious talk with my husband. The man I once believed I knew better than I know myself. The one who had been charged with murder.
George was still at the table, reading the papers, mainlining coffee. He looked wired. His eyes were bloodshot. Red veins not only in the whites but in the hazel irises as well; pupils dilated.
Deep wrinkles that weren’t there last week had appeared between his nose and the corners of his mouth. I’ve heard stories of hair turning white overnight and never believed them. I looked anxiously for grey hair and didn’t find any more than had been there last week visible on George’s beloved head, but that was the only thing missing from making him look twenty years older than when I’d seen him last night.
All my defensiveness melted away.
This was George. The man I loved, whom I’d loved for years, who had taken care of me and supported me since we’d first met. George, the pillar and strength of my life.
I knew he wasn’t a murderer and that was that.
Regardless of what Michael Drake said, no one would ever be able to prove something so patently false, I told myself, as if repeating the words would make them true.
I had no idea what was going on here, but I intended to get to the bottom of it and I intended to see George cleared.
God help anyone who stood in my way.
Gathering my strength of will, I said, “George,” as I sat down across from him at the table. He looked up at me and then through me. He didn’t appear to be listening at all. I reached over and touched his hand. “George. I need to talk to you. Okay?”
He said “Sure. What do you want to talk about?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Tampa, Florida
Wednesday 9:20 a.m.
January 26, 2000
FEAR URGED ME TO scream at him; my words were sharper than I intended. “I want to talk about how it is that I’m sitting across the table from a man charged with murder. I want to talk about how your gun got to be a murder weapon. I want to talk about what the hell is going on here.”
The volume of my voice had jumped up of its own volition with every sentence until I felt I was almost shouting the last question, losing control. My precious control. I wasn’t used to it and I didn’t like it.
Tried again. Consciously lowered my voice. Slowed it down.
“George, please. I need to know what we plan to do.”
He turned his vacant gaze toward mine. “What is there to do? I’ll wait until Ben Hathaway finds out who killed Andy. The charges against me will be dismissed and forgotten.”
He sounded as if we were discussing one of the dogs being sick on a rug he didn’t particularly like anyway. “In the meantime, I’ll continue with my life the same as I always have.”
In the reassuringly calm way he’d handled every crisis of our lives, he said, “What else would I do?”
But this was different. Literally life and death. If George was convicted of murder, he could get the death penalty. We kill murderers in Florida. All the time.
“You’ve been married to a lawyer in a family of lawyers for seventeen years and you can ask me that?” Too shrill. I’d tried to whip up some of that passion I’d seen him display when he was fighting against the Andrews nomination. He could be passionate in altruistic pursuits. How about in self-preservation? “We need to hire the best defense attorney we can find, for one thing.”
The look he gave me was genuine surprise.
“What for?” He patted my hand. “Calm down, Mighty Mouse,” he said, in his normally affectionate tone for the nickname he’d given me years ago. He thought it described perfectly my drive to help those who couldn’t or wouldn’t help themselves.
Yet he had never needed my help. Indeed, our relationship was exactly the opposite. George took care of us. He liked it that way; so did I.
“Willa, I don’t expect these charges to go beyond the stage they already have. Ben Hathaway assured me that they are continuing their investigation. I feel certain he’s being truthful with me.” His matter-of-fact belief in the justness of the system colored his perceptions an unrealistic shade of secure. “And the man who killed Andy will be found and brought to justice. Don’t worry.”
I ran splayed fingers through my hair in frustration. I was quickly losing what little sanity I had left. People think I’m not patient. But I am. It’s just that no one recognizes my patience when I’m exercising it.
As calmly as he’d spoken to me, I asked, “Has it ever occurred to you that what the police are looking for is more evidence that they have already arrested Andy’s killer?”
For the first time, he appeared shocked. Alive. Attentive. Thank God. “Willa, are you saying that you think I killed Andy? Because if you’re saying that, then we have a much more serious problem here than my arrest.”
How could he have misunderstood me so completely?
“Of course I don’t think you killed Andy,” I said. “But think like Drake. What questions will he be asking?”
I listed the ones I could come up with quickly. “How did your gun get to the scene of the murder? And where were you at the time Andy was killed? You were so determined that Andy would never be confirmed as a Supreme Court Justice. Unless you knew Andy was going to die, how could you have been so certain?”
Now, George was truly angry. At me. He stood abruptly and knocked over his chair in the process. “You let me know when you figure it out, Willa. In the meantime, I’m getting dressed, packing my things and moving to the club.”
He turned in the doorway for a parting shot. “I’m sure you don’t want to be sleeping with an accused killer. And I don’t want to sleep with a woman who’s supposed to have complete faith in me. But doesn’t.”
He stalked out and I didn’t go after him.
My head fell to the table as I considered his reaction.
Maybe some time apart was a good idea.
Maybe we both needed time to reflect.
This was the first serious test of our marriage. In seventeen years, we’d never had a disaster to weather together.
Could we d
o it?
I believed we could. I needed to believe we would. But was that enough?
He would calm down, come back to the kitchen, talk this all over, I thought.
But he didn’t.
I heard the front door to our flat close as George walked through it, shutting me in. I went back to bed to close out the entire world.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tampa, Florida
Wednesday 1:00 p.m.
January 26, 2000
THUNDERCLAPS JARRED ME AWAKE, dreams so fresh I saw them like a movie. I was sixteen again, spending the last year of my mother’s life as her constant companion. She was telling me that she’d never leave me, as her life was slowly ending.
In the dream, I saw her after death experience, saw her spirit leave her body and move toward the light.
As she vanished, she said, “Be brave. Take care of George for me.”
Then she was gone as the dogs jumped on the bed when the lightning and thunder started.
The dream left me badly shaken. I don’t often dream of my mother and when I do, it always upsets me. This was a new dream and completely unlike the last moments of my mother’s life.
In reality, mom died peacefully, when my back was turned. It was as if she’d waited until I wasn’t looking to leave me. She’d struggled with breast cancer for several years and finally gave up long before I met George.
My almost forty-year-old brain understands why mom died. I try to believe that her spirit lives on with me. But the young girl I was then still feels the loss deeply. In emotional crises, I often dream of mom.
But I’ve learned things about fear. Fear is always with us, lurking around the corner, waiting to jump out and scare us when we’re most vulnerable.
