Angel Condemned

by Mary Stanton

  She stared down at her yellow pad, which was frustratingly blank. “If the Cross is the key to both murders, Martin’s of thirty years ago, and White’s today, we have to figure out who had it, and when. First, Chambers uncovers it on the dig, thirty years ago.” She wrote that down. “Then, Jillian Chambers takes it. Then Leah takes it. My mother sees it here in Savannah just before I’m born. So Leah has it thirty years ago. At some point, the energy in the Cross passes to the necklace Leah left me. And the Cross is . . .”

  “Lost,” Petru said gloomily. “The Cross that Chambers gave White for authentication was indeed a fake. But Leah would not have mistaken the real one. It is not a matter of importance now. I have some interesting facts that may be. I would prefer to concentrate on that.”

  Ron set the tea tray down in front of her. She poured for each of them and then took a cup for herself. It wasn’t at all like Lavinia’s. She pinched her knee, hard, to regain control, and said, “Okay. Let’s have a look.”

  “Me first.” Ron handed her a printout. “I looked into the whereabouts of all the suspects for the last three weeks. There’s a timeline for Dr. Chambers, Professor Chambers, Bullet Martin, Alicia Kennedy, and Lloyd Dumphey.” He wrinkled his nose fastidiously. “There’s parts of Dumphey’s time line that are truly revolting.”

  Petru picked up the stack of folders and began to lay them in a neat row down the table length. “There is much of interest here, too.” He tugged a sheet of paper from a folder and laid it in front of Bree. “Professor Chambers’s personal balance sheet.”

  “Good grief,” Bree said after a moment. “He’s loaded.”

  “Was loaded,” Petru corrected. “He lost what you would call a bundle in the crash of 2009 and 2010.”

  “A lot of people did,” Bree murmured.

  “Now, this,” Petru said, “is a copy of the partnership agreement between the shareholders in the Indies Queen. May I draw your attention to the paragraph marked in yellow highlighter.”

  Bree read it.

  “Well,” she said, “this changes everything.”

  She jumped up. “I have to talk to Chambers again. I’ll do it at the Bay Street office, of course. I’ll see you all later, shall I?”

  Sasha nudged at her knee. She looked down at him and fondled his ears.

  Shower first?

  “You’re late,” EB said disapprovingly, nearly forty-five minutes later. “I thought you wanted to see Allard Chambers ASAP.”

  “I did. I do. I’m sorry.”

  “He’ll be here in another twenty minutes.” EB cocked her head. “You look like something happened.”

  “It has.” She drew the visitor’s chair up to EB’s desk. “You saw Lindy yesterday? About who had access to Cissy’s kitchen?”

  “I did. Her last name’s Hawthorne, by the way.”

  “I should have known that. I’ve known her for years.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Thankfully, EB didn’t make the point she should have; most people didn’t inquire closely into the names of the servants. “I taped it, like you said I should. Then last night, I transcribed the tape.”

  Bree looked at her assistant more closely. There were dark rings under her eyes. “I’m sorry. You put in a long day yesterday.”

  “It’s excitin’ tracking down a murderer.” EB tapped the printed sheets into a neat pile and handed them to Bree. “I did a summary. It’s at the top.”

  Witness stated that boning knife is one of a set that’s been in her kitchen since she started work there some twenty years ago. She send them out regular to be sharpened at Collard’s Sharpening Services down by Liberty Street. She noticed boning knife was missing when she went to carve a turkey for a buffet party on February 10. It was a Valentine’s Day theme to celebrate Miss Cissy’s marrying that Prosper White. Guest list attached. Suspects at party included that Alicia Kennedy. The time before that she remembered using the boning knife was about three days before when Miss Cissy asked for chicken on account of she was dieting. So for the three days between the chicken and the turkey, Miss Cissy had lots of callers, including Mr. White, Ms. Kennedy, and Professor Chambers, who came to try and get money from Miss Cissy but didn’t get any.

  “So we have a three-day window,” Bree said. “Very helpful, EB. Now look at this.” She pulled out Ron’s account of Jillian’s whereabouts for the past two weeks.

  “She was on a church retreat with those City of Light folks when the knife went missin’.”

  “She sure was. And this is the shareholder agreement for ownership in the Indies Queen. The sale of the ship was completed this morning, according to Bullet Martin. Look who inherits if Prosper White is dead.”

  EB read it twice. She sat back, her eyes large, her lips pressed tight. “So. What are we going to do now?”

  The doorknob rattled, and Allard Chambers stepped in. “Ms. Winston-Beaufort. Mrs. Billingsley.” He let the door close behind him and advanced tentatively into the room. “I’m grateful that we’re talking this morning. I’ve come to a decision about Jillian.” He indicated the visitor’s chair. “May I sit down?”

  “Suit yourself,” EB said.

  “Thank you.” He sat. He smiled. “I believe you’re right. About the insanity defense. You see I . . .” He took a deep breath, and then blurted, “She did it. She stabbed him. I know that spouses can’t testify against one another, and that I won’t be called upon to say it in court. But you need to know. I saw her. I tried to stop her. I forced the knife from her hand and threw it away. All I could think about was how to get her out of there. So yes. I’ve made up my mind. I want you to plead her guilty. The only hope we have is that the state of Georgia is merciful and will keep her safe from harming herself and others.”

  EB swung around in her chair and glared at him.

  Bree folded her arms and leaned against EB’s desk. “I know about your part ownership of the Indies Queen. And I know that the shares revert to the rest of the owners when a shareholder dies.”

  For a moment, the mask dropped from Chambers’s face. The amiable expression was gone. His eyes narrowed to glittering blue slits. Then he smiled engagingly. “I can explain.”

  “Can you? I don’t know that I need to know much more than I already do. For years, you’ve been using your trips abroad to sell illegal antiquities on the black market. You used the Indies Queen to transport them to Bullet Martin. Martin had them authenticated by Prosper White. White sold them back to you on the open market. You resold them to collectors. It’s ingenious, really. An antiquities-laundering scheme, rather than a money-laundering scheme. You did this for your wife. Your poor, mad wife.”

  “Yes. Yes. You understand. I was a victim here.”

  “Sure. It could be exculpatory when it comes to motive. That’s a defense I might use if I were defending you for White’s murder, for example.”

  His shoulders relaxed a bit. “So, let’s assume that you’re right. And I’m not admitting a thing. After all, Jillian killed White.”

  “Jillian didn’t do it.”

  “Both of us appreciate your passion as an advocate, Ms. Winston-Beaufort. But you were the first to point out how the hard evidence stacks up. She was at the scene. Her fingerprints were on the knife.”

  “How’d she get that knife?’ EB interrupted. “We’d like to know.”

  Chambers pursed his lips. “I don’t keep tabs on her every minute. She has a real vendetta against your aunt. You saw that for yourself. She’s a clever woman. I suppose she saw the opportunity to slip in the back way to your aunt’s kitchen and find a suitable weapon.”

  “You’ll need to explain how the murder weapon went missing at a time when your wife was on a three-day retreat with the City of Light churchgoers, too.” Bree leaned forward. “You’ll need to explain how she knew the layout of the kitchen. She had no idea where Cissy lived.”

  “I’m sure she looked it up in the directory.”

  “Cissy’s listed under ‘Smallwood.’”
r />   He frowned, puzzled. “Smallwood?”

  “Her ex-husband’s name.”

  “Then she must have asked somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “Who knows?” He spread his arms in a conciliatory gesture. “Look. I hate to do this. I really do. But she killed him. I saw her do it. If you look at the footage on Channel 5, you can see that I didn’t leave my wife’s side for a minute. I was there when she slipped the knife into him. I was shocked, of course. I picked it up . . .”

  “Your fingerprints weren’t on it.”

  “I mean I kicked it away. I was scared senseless that she was going to get arrested right then and there. And if I’m asked in court if that’s what I witnessed, I will have to tell the truth.”

  EB made a noise of disgust.

  “You asked me to think about the best plea for my wife. I’ve thought about it. I came here this morning to tell you my decision. You wanted to know: What is best for Jillian?” His gaze was candid and open. His tone was earnest. Bree studied her yellow pad so she wouldn’t have to look at him. “Guilty by reason of insanity. It’s the only way to go.”

  “Maybe.” Bree stood still and considered her options. Chambers crossed his legs and gazed at the wall over Bree’s head with a sorrowful expression. EB took a couple of deep breaths, then clamped her teeth firmly on her lower lip.

  Bree smiled at him. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Chambers. I’m going to have to turn you over to another firm.”

  “Jillian trusts you,” he said. “She’ll be sorry to hear that.”

  “Oh, no. Not Jillian. Just you. I’ll be representing your wife. We’ll be entering a plea of not guilty. I’ll be presenting an alternate theory of the case. Would you like to know what it is?”

  “Since I witnessed her kill Prosper White, I can’t imagine what it is.”

  “I know you did it. And I’m going to prove to a jury that you did it.”

  He paled a little. He breathed a little faster. Otherwise he didn’t move, just sat there in that same, confident pose.

  “I have just the advocate for you, too. Mr. Barlow, downstairs. When we first met, you said you like lawyers who can stand a lot of heat? He’s going to suit you just fine. I think if you call on him right now, he won’t ask for much of a retainer.” She pulled the pine box with the Cross in it out of her pocket.

  Fifty-fifty, Petru had said.

  “Just give him this.”

  He frowned. “That’s a fake.”

  “Does Mr. Barlow know that?”

  He grinned and winked at her. “Gotcha.”

  “I don’t believe it,” EB said, after Chambers slammed out the door. “I mean the man practically confessed he did it and you let him walk right out the door!”

  “There’s no hard evidence against him, EB.”

  “It’ll be his word against hers. He’s a big professor. She’s a poor crazy woman. What kind of jury is going to believe her over him? We got ourselves a real loser of case, here.”

  “Exactly,” Bree said. “You’ve hit the nail on the head.”

  Mr. Barlow isn’t happy.

  “I don’t think he’s going to have to worry about a trial, EB. Not in this lifetime, at any rate.”

  Twenty-eight

  Bree called the Sampson Clinic to set up an interview with Jillian Chambers and her therapist. Then she spent the rest of the morning bringing EB up to speed on the matter of the People of the State of Georgia v. Jillian Knoles Chambers . She was grateful for two things: the offer from her father to support the process from his law firm in Raleigh and EB’s brains.

  “So we’re not going to try the case at all?”

  “I hope not. We’re going to file a motion to have her declared non compos mentis. Roughly translated from the Latin, it means not in her right mind. I don’t believe at this point that she’s capable of understanding the charges against her. Then we’re going to ask that I be appointed her guardian. That’s the second motion. I do not want Chambers anywhere near the defense.”

  EB shook her head slowly, “How that man can think of testifyin’ against his own wife, I do not know.”

  “He can’t. She has spousal privilege. But there’s nothing to stop him from poisoning the Prosecution. We’ve got to move fast, EB.”

  EB looked at the items she’d listed neatly on her steno pad. “Then we file a third motion—”

  “To dismiss the charges altogether. And to do that, I have to prove the case against Chambers.”

  “So we don’t go to trial.”

  “Not if we have a humane, compassionate, smart judge.”

  “Lot of those around, are there?”

  “I hope so.” Bree sighed. “I hope so.”

  EB looked at her watch. “’ Bout time you got on down to the Sampson Clinic.”

  “And you’re comfortable with calling my father’s paralegal and getting him to e-mail all correct templates for the motions?”

  “He was real helpful with the letters asking for all those documents.” EB sighed happily. “I’ll tell you something, girl. This beats scrubbing toilets for a living by a country mile.”

  The Sampson Clinic for the Rehabilitation of Nervous Disorders was tucked on an unnamed side street off Washington Square. It was a square, three-story concrete-block building surrounded by an eight-foot wrought iron fence. The first floor was almost totally concealed from view by dense bushes. Bree showed her ABA card and her driver’s license at the guard gate and parked her car in the half-filled lot around back. She gave her card to a second guard inside the glass double doors at the entrance and was left to wait in a small, thickly carpeted foyer with one barred window and a small love seat in the corner. Classical music drifted through speakers in the ceiling. It was Bach—something from The Well-Tempered Clavier. Its soft, clean intricacies were very soothing.

  A door in the wall opposite the love seat opened partway. A pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman came in. She wore a white lab coat over a dark navy pantsuit. A cluster of keys was chained to her belt. The name tag around her neck read DR. SANDRA PHILLIPS.

  “Ms. Winston-Beaufort?” She extended her hand. “I’m Sandy Phillips.”

  “And I’m Bree.”

  “You’re here to see our patient?”

  “Jillian Chambers, yes. How is she doing?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  Bree followed Phillips through the door down a long corridor floored with terrazzo tile. The walls were painted a thick, glossy beige. Indifferent artwork had been placed at intervals along the walls. The frames were nailed in place. The lighting was subdued and indirect. There were no windows. Bree hoped none of the patients suffered from claustrophobia.

  “In here.” Dr. Phillips stopped at a metal door with a small window inset at eye-level and selected a key from the bunch at her waist. She opened the door and stepped back. “I’ll be with you throughout the interview. We don’t take violent cases here. It’s primarily the ones on suicide watch or prisoners in danger of self-mutilation.”

  “That’s very sad.”

  Dr. Phillips looked surprised. “I suppose it is.”

  Bree looked inside the room. Jillian wore a pink hospital gown over a denim skirt. Her hair had been washed and re-braided. Her Doc Martens had been removed and replaced with paper slippers. She was shackled to a metal table. The chains ran between her ankles and up to her wrists. The chair she sat in was bolted to the floor. There was a chair on the opposite side of the table. That was bolted to the floor, too. Her thin fingers picked restlessly at her cheek.

  “The chains,” Bree said. “Are they really necessary?”

  “Procedure,” Phillips said briskly. “Now, we have forty-five minutes. Shall we get started?”

  “I’d like to get a preliminary statement from her. And I’d prefer to be alone with her.” Dr. Phillips opened her mouth to protest. “Not for evidentiary use. Just so I can get a handle on how to conduct her defense. What kind of medications is she on?”

&nbs
p; “Are you familiar with psychotropic drugs?”

  “Not really. But I intend to be.”

  “I’ll keep to layman’s terms, then. She’s on medication for depression secondary to bipolar syndrome. It takes a while for that to kick in—as long as three to six weeks. She’s on a tranquilizer, because of her anxiety. We haven’t seen any evidence of full-blown psychosis yet, but the depression is so significant that she’s not really oriented to time and place. And there’s a mild dissociative state, which has resulted in moderate cognitive impairment.”

  “Layman’s terms?” Bree said.

  Dr. Phillips had a thin smile. “I’ll give you some of the literature we hand out to families of prisoners.”

  “That would be a great help. And Dr. Phillips? I’d like to talk to her alone, if I may.”

  “I don’t think . . .”

  “I’m her attorney. You’ve got a preliminary diagnosis but not a definitive one. I want to be absolutely certain of attorney-client privilege. So if we could arrange that we talk privately, I’d appreciate it.”

  Phillips pulled her cell phone out. “I’ll have a guard standing outside. He’ll escort Mrs. Chambers back when you’re ready.” She stepped inside the room and pointed to a red button next to the lintel. “That’s an emergency button. Use it if you need to.”

  “Thank you. And it’s ‘doctor.’”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Dr. Chambers. She’s a PhD archeologist.”

  “Huh. Fancy that. Nobody said a word to me.”

  Bree waited until Phillips had locked the door behind her. She sat down. “Now, Jillian. We need to talk about Schofield Martin.”

  The interview lasted forty-five minutes. Bree was at the Angelus Street office less than twenty minutes after that. She felt as if it’d been a week since she left Petru and Ron. She checked her watch twice to be sure. It was only three o’clock.

  Bree tossed her wool coat onto the leather couch, sat down, and put her feet up on the oak chest they used as a coffee table. Ron looked up from his iPad and tsked. “You look beat.”