by A R Kennedy
She was desperate for some normalcy. To get dressed like a normal woman, not wearing her dead husband’s clothes. To be around people. It had only been Ferris and her in that big house for weeks.
Cecilia looked at the full-length mirror. She thought she looked nice. She was pale, thinner than usual, but not ridiculous. The champagne-colored Grecian gown was not her style but was flattering to her figure. She’d seen worse bridesmaid gowns.
It would be the first time she’d see Debbie and the other sorority sisters since Joey’s funeral.
She was surprised she hadn’t heard from any of them yet. She was shocked she hadn’t been asked to do everyone’s makeup. That was her usual job at a sorority sister’s wedding. Her expert hand had been used to deftly apply makeup. It gave her a purpose at these events. And today she needed a purpose more than ever before.
“Make sure you’re at the church by five,” Cecilia reminded Janna, as she reapplied her lipstick.
Janna nodded, more interested in the free booze. Cecilia grabbed her matching champagne clutch and made to leave the hotel room.
“CeCe,” Janna called out.
Cecilia turned to find Janna holding her hand out. “Cab fare?”
Cecilia didn’t bother to argue or point out that the church was two blocks away. She grabbed a twenty from her purse and handed it to her sister.
Cecilia watched her and wondered, not for the first time, how they could be sisters. “Aren’t you going to ask how I am? You’ve been here two hours and never asked.”
Janna rolled her eyes. “I don’t need to ask. You look terrible. I don’t need to hear an old widow moan on. I got that enough when you used to stick me with Gran.”
“When our mother was dying? Yes, Gran was the only one who could watch you while I took care of Mom and everything else.”
Janna raised her hand. “Oh, stop, CeCe.”
Cecilia agreed. They didn’t need to rehash their mother’s death and their father’s incompetence. They saw the past very differently.
“Why don’t you focus on the living?” Janna asked.
Wasn’t that what I was trying to do? Cecilia thought. Coming here to a wedding. Inviting her sister for support. She would have much preferred to avoid such a public spectacle of love and happiness while she mourned the loss of her husband. A wedding was the last place a recent widow wanted to be.
Cecilia’s phone beeped. The alarm signaling it was time to meet the bridal party for photos downstairs. She left without reminding Janna again to be at the church on time.
She no longer cared.
Cecilia was relieved when the elevator arrived, empty. She’d have a few moments to compose herself before plastering on a smile for the rest of the day. Nine floors later, the doors opened onto the main floor. She got out and didn’t know which way to go. She hadn’t gotten any emails on the event’s itinerary since the shower months ago.
But how hard could it be to find a bride in a large white dress and seven bridesmaids hovering around her?
Cecilia roamed the hotel’s main floor trying to ignore the onlookers. She didn’t know if they could tell she was moments from tears or if they just thought she was overdressed for a mid-February day. She was relieved when she saw Debbie’s mother.
Cecilia smiled at the mother of the bride but the smile was not returned. “What are you doing here, dear?”
Cecilia checked her watch. “In the email, the maid of honor said we were meeting the photographer now.”
“Well, we thought you weren’t coming.”
Cecilia started to ask why when the commotion from the elevators signaled the bridal party’s arrival. The giggles of happiness reminded her of her own wedding, and Cecilia fought back tears.
Debbie stopped short when she saw her. More than one bridesmaid bumped into another at the abrupt halt. Debbie glanced at her mother before speaking. “CeCe, how…how nice to see you.”
The rest of their sorority sisters said nothing. They held the deer in headlights look each of them had given her at the funeral. They didn’t know what to do with her.
“You look beautiful,” Cecilia told her. “I told you that was the right dress.”
Cecilia approached her and made to kiss her. Debbie stepped back. “Oh no…you’ll mess my makeup.” It was as if widowhood was contagious and Cecilia the carrier.
No one would look at Cecilia, embarrassed by the situation. Or maybe believing tragedy was spread by eye contact, as well as by touch.
“Oh, there’s the photographer. Let’s go,” Debbie announced. The bridal party scurried off, leaving Cecilia behind.
Cecilia wondered what to do, but Debbie’s mother made it clear what they wanted her to do. “You don’t look well, dear.” She went into her purse and took out a tissue. “Why don’t you go home?”
Home. Cecilia’s first thought was Ferris. She realized she’d rather be in Folley with Ferris than here with her former friends.
Debbie’s mother walked away and joined the posing bridal party. All of them had pushed thoughts of Cecilia out of their heads.
No one wants a young widow at a wedding. It only reminded the bride of all that could go wrong.
CHAPTER 22
Briscoe heard the deliveryman come in and watched as Marcy signed for an envelope. She didn’t immediately get up, so he dismissed it as unimportant and returned to his work on the Chandler case. Unimportant was anything not related to the Chandler case or his upcoming campaign.
Five minutes later, Marcy slowly walked into Briscoe’s office. Briscoe knew it must be bad. She was scared of him on a good day. Today, she looked terrified.
He knew she must have defied his order of bringing anything Chandler-related to him immediately. She must have peeked at the brief and held onto it, waiting for him to leave for lunch. Most days, he’d be headed to CB’s Diner for lunch by now. But everything was different now with the impending murder trial.
She placed the envelope on his desk and slowly turned to exit. “What’s this?” he asked.
Marcy answered without turning toward him. “I don’t know,” she answered. She resumed her escape of the office.
“Wait,” he ordered. He knew she was lying.
She resigned to her fate and returned to his desk. She held her breath while he opened the envelope and read the documents from the courthouse. His face began to redden within seconds.
“Son of a…ah! That Sewell!” He threw the papers across the desk. “Throw out the confession!” he yelled. “That’s ridiculous!” He slammed his fists on the desk. “Get me Owens!” Marcy remained standing at his desk, frozen in fear. “Get me Owens now!” he ordered again.
She didn’t bother running to her desk and used Briscoe’s phone. He was too mad at Owens and Sewell to be annoyed. She told the officer who answered, “Chief Owens needs to see Mr. Briscoe immediately.”
For twenty tense minutes, they sat in his office in silence. He hadn’t dismissed her so she stayed.
“You summoned,” Chief Owens announced when he arrived.
“Get in here, Owens!” Briscoe barked.
He smiled at Marcy as he walked in, “Afternoon, Marcy.” He’d learned early on that if he was nice to Marcy, life was easier between the two men. She was a great buffer for them. Briscoe’s last assistant had not been as nice, or easy to work with.
Briscoe yelled, “Close the door, Owens!” He threw the paperwork at Owens as he sat down. He looked at it briefly and threw it back.
“Legalese not my thing, Dan.” He looked to Marcy, “What is this?” he asked. He knew she’d answer succinctly and devoid of Briscoe’s arrogance.
“It’s a—” she started.
“Shut up,” he yelled at her. “It’s proof of your incompetence, I fear.”
Owens held his temper and through a clenched jaw asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Did you or did you not read Ms. Chandler her rights when you spoke to her?”
“We do everything by the book, Dan. You know th
at. When are you talking about?”
“When you spoke to her at her house after the shooting.”
“I didn’t speak to her when I arrived. Paramedics were working on her.”
Briscoe’s face was red when Owens arrived. It was quickly becoming alarmingly red. “When you spoke to her later, that day, in her house, did you read her her rights?”
“When me and Vinnie went over? After she got back from the hospital?”
Briscoe’s head made a slight nod of yes. All his facial and neck muscles were so tense Owens was surprised they could make the movement.
“Um…no. Why would I?”
“Because you were questioning her about murdering someone?”
“I thought we were getting a statement on a home invasion and sexual assault that led to a self-defense murder. How could I have foreseen you losing your mind and charging her with murder?”
“I don’t know. Because you’re the chief of police and it was a murder!”
“If his body was positioned a few feet differently, if he’d been in the house, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
“But it wasn’t. You knew it wasn’t. You saw where the body was.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. I’ll fight this with Judge Lowe and hope he doesn’t throw out the confession. If not, you’ve made my job a bit harder.” Owens got up while Briscoe continued his tirade. “I’ll still win this case even though you’re an imbecile!”
Owens knew this was his cue to leave. Otherwise, he might throttle the prosecutor. “You’re the imbecile for bringing this thing to trial!”
CHAPTER 23
Dan Briscoe and Wyatt Sewell sat outside Judge Lowe’s office waiting for their turn. Their assistants sat across the hall from them. Abigail and Michael were furiously working on their phones. Marcy fiddled with her pen.
The judge opened his door and signaled the two lawyers in. Everyone stood. “Just you two. I don’t need everyone crammed in here.” Abigail handed Wyatt a few papers. The assistants sat back down and the lawyers went in.
Once Judge Lowe sat, Briscoe started. “Miranda warning was not necessary, Your Honor.”
“Your Honor, in this scenario it was,” Sewell retorted. He sat in one of the two chairs on the other side of the judge’s desk.
“Miranda warning is required when a person is being questioned for a suspected crime and is in custody.” Briscoe glanced at Sewell sitting at ease. His comfort grated him. “In this scenario, Ms. Chandler was not in police custody.”
“Custody does not need to be at the police station. Custody depends on the suspect’s perception of whether he or she felt like they were in custody. Mrs. Chandler did not feel free to leave.”
“They were having a pleasant conversation in her living room, Your Honor.” Briscoe sat in the other chair and leaned back. “She was free to leave any time.”
“Pleasant conversation? Talking about the brutal attack by a sexual predator—”
“Your Honor,” Briscoe interrupted. The judge signaled him to be quiet.
“The brutal attack she withstood in her own home. She was concussed, in severe pain from the beating. Two officers came into her home and started questioning her. She asked if it could be done later and was told no. One stood in front of the door, blocking her exit.” Sewell handed the judge a close-up of Cecilia’s beaten face. “She was in her own home. Where was she going to go?”
Briscoe started to speak but the judge held up his hand to stop him.
“I tend to agree with Mr. Sewell. They should have read her rights.”
Mr. Briscoe clenched his jaw but knew better than to talk back to the judge. He changed his tactic. “Spontaneous utterance, Your Honor.”
“What?” Sewell asked.
“Spontaneous utterance of the crime does not need a Miranda warning.” Lowe and Sewell looked at Briscoe to clarify. “When the police arrived immediately after the shooting.”
“Do you have any officer statements of this?” the judge asked.
“No, but I’ll get it,” Briscoe told him.
“I’m sure you will,” Sewell muttered.
Judge Lowe ignored him but Briscoe didn’t. He glared at his opponent, furious that he would question his ethics. Especially in front of the judge.
“I’ve read all the police documents. There was no spontaneous utterance at the scene, Briscoe,” the judge told him. “Confession’s out.”
Sewell smiled as they left. Their respective assistants knew instantly who won. Abigail and Michael headed out of the courthouse, victorious. Marcy remained sitting, waiting for instruction and fearing Briscoe’s wrath.
“I’ve still got plenty to convict her with,” Briscoe yelled after them.
Sewell yelled back, “Not by the time I’m done with you, Briscoe.”
Cecilia was sitting at the kitchen barstool, staring out onto the dark backyard. Wyatt’s law session the day before was sobering. She could see the trouble she was in.
Wyatt had tried to assuage her fears but she could see he was worried. “Briscoe has overshot with a charge of second-degree murder. I think we can fight that easily. He would have been better off charging you with voluntary manslaughter. Imperfect self-defense.”
“That’s what I did? Imperfect self-defense?” she asked.
He shrugged. “It’s all up to interpretation. It’d be more difficult to fight. You honestly believed that lethal force was justified under the circumstances but that belief wasn’t reasonable.”
“Should we make a plea deal? Voluntary manslaughter, what kind of punishment comes with that?”
“Depends on a lot of things. If convicted of that, the judge takes in mitigating factors. For you, the mitigating factors are you have no criminal record, you’re taking responsibility for the crime, your attachment to Ferris since the death of your husband.”
“So a plea deal then? Should you ask for that?”
Wyatt shook his head. “Briscoe’s not going to deal. We’ve asked around. He wants this publicity to propel him in his career. Senator, state attorney, I don’t know. But he thinks this is the case that gets him out of Folley. He wouldn’t plead this out. He wants to win.”
“This isn’t a game, Wyatt! It’s my life. Ferris’s life! What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to win, Cecilia. We’re going to win, Cecilia.”
He reached for her hand and held it gently. “We have more research to do but I think most juries in this state would side with you. The women would have acted the same way. The men have taught their daughters to protect themselves. They are not going to convict you if they would have, or their daughters would have, done the same thing.”
Michael and Abigail arrived shortly after that and Cecilia was banished from the dining room. They had worked throughout the day on her case.
Staring out into the black backyard, the scene of the crime, she tried to remind herself that if Wyatt said he’d win, they’d win.
Cecilia screamed when a man dressed all in black appeared at the sliding glass door.
She got up to open the door when she recognized him as Holden.
“How did you do that? I was looking out there and had no idea you were approaching!” She looked to Ferris. “How did you not know?” He tilted his head from side to side, the protective collar swinging with each tilt.
“It’s my stealth,” Holden explained.
“What is wrong with you?” she asked.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He walked in and placed his headlamp and backpack on the kitchen island. He pulled out a couple sandwiches from his backpack. “Thought you might be hungry.” She opened the fridge and displayed the mountain of sandwiches and salads that the defense team had delivered earlier. “Oh…didn’t expect that.” Trying to change the subject, and avoid an awkward exit, he blurted the first thing he thought of. “Your face…your face looks better. Less purple.”
“Thank you?” She assumed o
ne’s face being less purple was a compliment.
He handed her a sandwich and she declined. “Not hungry.”
“You need to eat. Keep up your strength. You need to be strong for the fight.”
“Men. It’s like it’s some kind of game to you. You realize this trial, it is for my life, don’t you? And what about Ferris? If I go to jail, what happens to him?”
“We’ll find some place for Ferris,” Holden assured her. Ferris walked over to Holden, his e-collar hitting everything in his path. Holden liked the golden retriever and patted him on his head. “He can come live with me.”
Horrified, she yelled, “You can’t take Joey’s dog!”
Again, Holden was struggling. He’d forgotten the dizzying effects of an argument with a woman. Ferris looked up at him. He looked as bewildered as Holden felt. “I think we can take the collar off for a bit.”
“Really? Are you sure?” she asked.
“We’ll watch him. If he scratches the wound, I’ll put it back on.”
She nodded approval and Holden removed the collar. Ferris swung his head around. Noting the freedom, he ran around the house several times before stopping to collect one of his toys. He trotted to his bed and chewed on his favorite toy, one Joey had given him a week before he died, a stuffed duck.
“What do you think of him?” she asked.
“I think he looks fine without the collar, as long as you’re watching him. Put it back on before you go to sleep.”
“No…I mean…do you think he’s family or property?”
“Oh…”
“Yep. I got a law lesson from Wyatt.”
Holden debated his answer. They both knew he shouldn’t be here. They both knew the lawyers on the case would erupt if they learned they were talking to each other. If called to the stand, he would answer honestly on the charges. So Holden answered her honestly.
“If I thought you were guilty, I would have arrested you when I first arrived on the scene. Or I would have taken you to the station for questioning after they cleared you at the hospital.”
“Do most of the officers feel like you do? Is it only Briscoe who wanted the arrest?”
