Licensed to Thrill: Volume 3

by Diane Capri

  If you let it, fear moves into your head and takes over your life. The only thing to do with fear is to face it, deal with it, and dispose of it.

  What I knew now was that I could choose to be afraid and wait for the worst to happen. Or I could take charge of my life. I’ve done it before. I could do it again. I’d need to exercise what Aunt Minnie called pluck. Fear would not overwhelm me.

  Just then, the doorbell rang. Both dogs ran barking to the door. I wanted to ignore the caller, but I didn’t. When I looked through the peephole, I saw Kate.

  My resolve wavered. I invited her in, tempted to fall into her arms as she held me and let me cry. It was what I would have done as a girl, the solution that would be so much easier. Let Kate deal with it, retreat and wait for the worst to pass over.

  Self-pity was near the surface, too. Emotions I hadn’t known were buried in my psyche seemed to be bubbling up like the stench from the floor of Hillsborough Bay the low tide exposed. What had I done? Why was everyone in my life leaving me? Where did George go? Would he come back? My heart was truly broken and I could have allowed Kate to mend it, as she’d done so many times before.

  I did none of that, of course.

  Judges don’t cry.

  Except at sad movies, and funerals, and weddings, when small children are injured or someone sings the National Anthem beautifully.

  And when their hearts are broken.

  Kate calmly asked me what the problem was. Clairvoyance again? Probably she’d seen the same news reports we had and knew how upset I would be.

  “Am I the only person on the planet who believes being accused of murder is not the best way to live your life?” I said, sounding petulant to my own ears.

  Kate’s tone, as always, was gentle with me. “He’s accused of murder, Willa, not convicted. There is a difference.”

  Defensiveness caused me to be impatient. Weapons launched, like Patriot missiles, unerringly hitting their target. “Of course there’s a difference,” I said. “But neither one is all that desirable, in my view.”

  Kate looked at me closely for a long time. “Have you started writing in the journal I gave you at Christmas?”

  “For God’s sake,” I said, snidely. “My husband is accused of murder. Writing in a journal about my feelings on the subject is not going to change that.”

  Unperturbed, she said, “I was thinking you might try using it to figure out how to get yourself out of this mess you’ve made.”

  Something inside me snapped, then. For the first time in my life, I raised my voice to Kate.

  “I’ve made? You think I’ve made this mess? Is it my gun that killed an army general? Am I the one that now has mug shots down at the police station? Was it my face on the evening news describing how it wasn’t possible that Andy committed suicide? Are my whereabouts at the time of the murder unaccounted for? Am I the one who’s been making it plain to the entire world how I would never allow Andrews to sit on the court?”

  Kate seemed unmoved by my outburst, but I couldn’t stop myself. I just kept rolling on, letting out all the frustration even I hadn’t realized was inside.

  “Am I the one who told General Andrews that I’d kill him if he ever hurt my wife again the very night before he died?” I jumped up and turned to face her then. “You floor me, Kate. You really do.”

  When I’d vented my spleen, I didn’t feel better and Kate didn’t look the least upset.

  She sat quietly for a long while, waiting for me to stop staring at her like a pit bull.

  “Actually,” she finally said, “I was thinking more of the mess you’ve made of your relationship with George and whether you are going to be able to repair the damage before the rift between you becomes the Grand Canyon.”

  I collapsed onto the chair. As ever, Kate put her finger right on the pulse of my anxiety. I could love George while he served his time in prison, but I didn’t want to live without him and I wasn’t interested in finding out whether I could.

  “You know George didn’t kill General Andrews. Why don’t you prove that first, if that’s what it takes to get your life back in order?” She gathered up her things and gave me a hug before letting herself out of the flat. “I suggest, though, that you might use your journal to work on your priorities.”

  She left because she thought I had some serious soul searching to do. I was too stubborn to do it, though. Her comments had just made me more upset with George.

  How could he put us in this situation? If he ever came back, I might throw him out for this.

  Now there’s the Old Willa, I thought, a grin finding its way onto my lips. That scared, trembling female was someone else. Someone I didn’t have any intention of spending any more time with.

  My husband was not a killer. I knew it, and soon, everyone else would know it, too. But what game was he playing?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Tampa, Florida

  Thursday 8:00 a.m.

  January 27, 2000

  THE NEXT MORNING, I was in the shower when the telephone rang. Thinking it might be George, I nearly killed myself sliding from the shower to the handset in the bathroom. By the time I picked up, the machine had already kicked on.

  “George? Is that you?” I said, over the tape.

  “No, Willa. It’s Frank Bennett. Isn’t George there with you?”

  Shit! Now what should I do? Why didn’t I screening the call? Now what? It would make a bigger impression on Frank if I hung up than if I tried to give him some explanation that he would, hopefully, accept.

  I said, “No, Frank. He went out for some bagels and he’s not back yet. I thought he might have forgotten something. What can I do for you?”

  Frank accepted my explanation without comment, but he’d be more watchful from this point forward. George had to come home today, or it would look like we’d split up over his arrest. Which, of course, was what we’d done.

  But it wouldn’t help in the court of public opinion, which I didn’t give one whit about except that it would matter to Drake, the State Attorney. I crossed my fingers, hoping discretion would rule Frank on this issue until I could get George to see my point and come home. We have three guest rooms, if he wanted to keep pouting.

  “Do you want to comment on the latest information we’ve gotten on the Andrews killing? It concerns George.” Business as usual with Frank.

  Simultaneously wanting to know and dreading the answer, I asked, “What information have you got?”

  “Robbie Andrews is giving interviews. She claims George met with Senator Warwick and the President the night her father was killed and finalized their plan to defeat his confirmation.”

  Standing wet and naked in the bathroom, I almost convinced myself I was cold and that’s why my hand, holding the phone, was shaking.

  Hearing nothing from me, Frank went on, “Robbie says George was intent on defeating her father’s confirmation. She said George had allowed himself to be used as the front man by her father’s political enemies.”

  Now I was very cold, but that wasn’t what caused me to tremble.

  Frank concluded, “Robbie said George killed Andy because George and his friends were losing the confirmation fight and George couldn’t stand the public disgrace of that loss. She claims George’s entire personality was tied up in his stature with his chosen political party and losing the confirmation meant he’d lose that stature, too.” Still hearing nothing from me, he finished, “Would you or George care to respond to that?”

  I slammed down the phone.

  Frank would report my non-response as a “no comment,” and it was just as well. If I’d offered my comments, they would have done both me and George more harm than good.

  Feeling, in every sinew of my lawyer’s body, that the best defense is always a strong offense, I tried to work up some righteous anger.

  Talking to myself, I said out loud, “What business does Robbie Andrews have trying to put another nail in George’s coffin? And what the hell was George doing the
night Andy was killed?” I was on a roll now, so I kept giving myself the pep talk. “A secret meeting with the President of the United States? Come on! How likely is that?”

  Of course, I wanted to kick myself for ruining George’s alibi. I had only myself to blame for the fact that everyone in Tampa knew George hadn’t been home with me in the early morning hours when Andrews was killed, anyway. Why did I say that he’d gone jogging to all those people at the Blue Coat? It was information I couldn’t have been compelled to disclose because of the marital privilege, if I’d kept my mouth shut.

  But, at the time, I’d thought there was no harm in it. I realized after George’s arrest that what I hadn’t known last Saturday morning might very well hurt us both now.

  “Come on, Willa,” I said to my reflection in the mirror as I ran the blow dryer. “George didn’t commit murder.”

  But one of the others he’d been with could have done it. Presidential aides have done worse and lived to tell about it. I could name a few who are still in prison.

  Trying not to get distracted from the plan I’d made for myself sometime during the night, I dried my hair, applied minimal makeup and dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved, cotton shirt.

  I slipped on the flat shoes I hadn’t worn since our condolence visit to Deborah on my way out the door, drove Greta over to the club and entered the dining room, prepared to face the lion in his den.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Tampa, Florida

  Thursday 9:00 a.m.

  January 27, 2000

  JUST AS I’D HOPED, George was seated, fully dressed, having breakfast with the Wall Street Journal.

  The relief I felt to find him there, right where he should be, in the first place I looked, was palpable. He looked so perfect this morning. He’d rested well. He was shaved, dressed as he always is, and eating his usual breakfast. George’s steady behavior was comforting. Predictability isn’t always a bad thing.

  “Good morning, George,” I said, loud enough to get his attention away from the financial pages. Mindful that the wait staff was no doubt watching and unsure of his reaction, I didn’t go over and kiss him. But I certainly wanted to.

  He lowered the paper and smiled at me. My heart melted. He folded the paper, stood up, gave me a kiss, “Good morning, sweetheart. Breakfast?” He held the chair so I could join him across the table for two. “I tried to call you last night for dinner, but apparently you weren’t home.”

  He said this without an ounce of accusation in his voice and once again I accepted how much bigger a person he is than I am.

  “I was home. I saw the machine blinking, but I thought it was just reporters, so I didn’t pick up the messages.” I settled into my chair, placed the napkin on my lap, and accepted a cup of coffee. “I did try to call you around seven for the same reason,” I said, inviting him to explain his whereabouts.

  He didn’t.

  “I’m sorry I missed you,” he said. I heard genuine regret.

  The waiter came by to take my order. I asked for a three egg ham and cheese omelet with toast, orange juice and coffee. George raised an eyebrow. Usually, my breakfast consists of coffee with cream. George is the big breakfast man.

  “I didn’t have dinner last night; I’m famished,” I explained to him. I wanted to keep on the right track, not get off into any kind of bickering. I came here to convince him to come home and I focused on that goal.

  So I asked him about the stock market, always good for a half hour’s friendly conversation. Since George left the bank, he’s paid more attention to his investing. He says it’s the perfect occupation: very lucrative, you’re your own boss, and you can do it in your pajamas.

  I’ve tried to follow his stock tips, but I don’t devote enough attention to it. He’s always twenty-five to thirty percent up at the end of the year and I lag around ten percent. Not that we’re competitive about it. Much.

  We discussed his recent stock moves through breakfast and when the waiter had removed the dishes and freshened our coffee, George waited for me to come to the point in my own good time. Surprisingly, I found it hard to begin. I’d never been in this position before and I wasn’t used to apologizing.

  “George, I’m sorry we fought yesterday,” I told him. Insufficient as an apology for what had happened, but true. “I’d like you to come home.”

  Again, he raised his eyebrow at me, in a gesture so like Harry, our Labrador, I almost laughed.

  “I’d like to come home, Willa, but I just don’t think I should,” he told me.

  My heart sank. I had hoped he’d reviewed the situation and come to the same conclusions I had.

  “Don’t look so crestfallen,” he said. “It’s not that I don’t want to come home.”

  He placed his hand over mine on the table and continued sincerely. “It’s just not good for you to have me there at the moment.”

  He’d thought this through, maybe even rehearsed his speech. “The spillover publicity won’t be good for your career and you’re edgy and nervous about my arrest.”

  I pulled my hand away and put it back in my lap.

  “Think about how the CJ will use this against you, if he can,” he continued. “It’ll be better for you if we live apart until this is over.” He sounded so calm, so reasonable, so stupid.

  As with many other discussions we’ve had in the past seventeen years, he wouldn’t be persuaded to change his mind. No matter how wrong he was. He’d decided to do this for me, whether I wanted him to or not.

  His actions reminded me of that old story about the young couple who wanted to give each other a meaningful present. Each of them gave up the one thing the other loved best to get something neither cared about.

  “I’m sure you believe you’re doing the right thing. And I won’t tell you it’s easy for me to see you on the news and in the papers and have everyone we know willing to believe you’re a murderer,” my voice caught on the unfairness of those accusations.

  “Thanks for your concern, Darling,” he said dryly.

  I felt chagrined and I might have even blushed.

  “You know what I mean,” I faltered and lowered my voice. “Have you considered how bad it looks for you to have moved out of our house? People will think that I believe you killed him and that’s why you left. They’ll think I have no faith in your innocence.”

  I was distraught and almost pleading by this point. I knew how juries viewed a faithful wife and how they viewed an unsupportive one. Regardless of how George and I became separated, State Attorney Drake would feel more confident of winning if he could convince the jury that George’s wife had deserted him.

  But he remained undeterred. Like trying to push a determined elephant. I leaned forward, trying to make him feel how wrong he was, how much I was right about this. “They’ll think that if your wife won’t support you and stand by you through this crisis, I must know that you’ve done something wrong. Don’t you see? If you don’t come home,” I said, blinking furiously, “People will convict you before you’re even indicted.”

  The course of public opinion has never mattered to George. He feels his true friends will stand by him, will know his true character.

  As for the rest of the world, George just doesn’t care what they think. For himself, anyway.

  On my behalf, he was ready to choose pistols at twenty paces over the smallest perceived slight.

  In this instance, I knew, public opinion mattered. Maybe it always does.

  We discussed the situation for a while longer but he wouldn’t budge.

  “I can’t move back to our flat, Willa,” he said, as his final word on the matter. “Not until this whole issue is resolved. I just won’t put you in that position.”

  “Regardless of how I feel about it?”

  “Regardless of how you feel about it,” he parroted. “This is my decision to make, Willa. I’m doing what I think is right.”

  George has a lot more faith in the judicial system than I do, because he doesn’t see a
ll the times when it fails. He did not expect to be indicted or convicted. He wasn’t even considering the ramifications to himself or to me, and he would not turn from his course.

  He believed he was protecting me by leaving me until justice prevailed and he could return home, vindicated. Seventeen years of experience in this marriage convinced me that he’d stay the course, no matter how it hurt both of us. He thought his decision was the right thing to do.

  Men can be so stubborn.

  Awareness forced me back into the chair and kept me silent in the face of his determination. Now, I understood that if George was convicted of murder, he would divorce me. He didn’t realize divorce was an option right now because he didn’t think he could be convicted. But I knew otherwise. Unless something dramatic and unexpected happened, he would likely be convicted.

  And George would never allow me to be tied to a husband in prison.

  Now that I realized fully what was at stake, our life together, and George’s very existence, I knew what I had to do. I was a good lawyer once. Maybe even had the makings of a great lawyer, then. I’d won many cases during my career, but never one so important to me.

  So I stopped trying to convince him to return home and steered the conversation instead to the evidence against George. Since no human can be in two places at once, I started with the biggest question.

  “George, I have absolute faith in you. You know that. But Drake obviously doesn’t. Let’s just tell him where you were when Andy was killed, he can check it out, and this will all be over.” I took his hand across the table.

  “It’s not that easy, sweetheart.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I gave my word. I said I would not disclose that information.”

  “Even to me?”

  George looked right into my eyes and gave my hand a little squeeze. “All these years, you’ve never wanted to get involved in politics. Now that you’re on the bench, you’re supposed to be politically independent. I won’t compromise that and I won’t let you compromise it.” His stubbornness might kill us both. “You’ve kept many professional secrets from me and I’ve respected that. You have to respect my decision. I gave my word.”