“I’ve tried to live without him, but I can’t. Knowing he was in the world was enough for me. But now that he’s gone, I don’t want to be here anymore.
“Forgive me, Manda, for leaving you alone like this. But it will be easy for me to go today. I’ll slip off the board and into the waves, and Tom will be waiting for me.”
Always with love,
Steve”
When Amanda finished, Kathryn wiped the tears that clouded her eyes and looked across the courtroom at the jurors who were doing the same.
“And ‘Manda’ is a special name your brother had for you?” Mark asked gently.
“Yes. He couldn’t say ‘Amanda’ when he first began to talk, so he called me ‘Manda.’ He’s the only person who shortened my name like that.”
“Thank you, Ms. Cooper. I know how difficult this has been for you. I have only one final question. Ms Freeman has testified that if Tom Andrews had not gotten sick, he would have left his wife of fifteen years, the plaintiff, Kathryn Andrews. Do you agree with that statement?”
“Absolutely not. Kathryn was the love of his life. Tom would never have left her.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Wednesday, April 8, 2015, 1845 Ocean Place, Pacific Beach
At midnight, Kathryn sat on the sofa across a red wine nightcap and studied Tom’s medals in their case. He’d been wearing one of them in the series of slides Mark had shown the jury during closing arguments yesterday morning.
As counsel for the plaintiff with the burden of proof, Mark had led off. He had created yet another slide show of Tom’s life, and Kathryn had noted with satisfaction that the jury focused intently on the images of Tom as he had once been, powerful, athletic, and unbelievably handsome.
Bob McLaren argued after lunch, insisting Myrabin was safe, alcohol had caused Tom’s death, and Kathryn’s marriage had been over by the time her husband died. He portrayed Myrabin as a lifesaving drug and Kathryn as a money-hungry liar.
Then Mark had the last word in rebuttal argument as he showed the most important slides again: Kathryn and Tom on their wedding day; Tom as a high school international champion, medal around his neck, Steve and Paul on either side of him; Tom giving a news conference with Pepe Jackson beside him the day Pepe was acquitted.
The jury left the courtroom to begin deliberations at three-thirty. Kathryn went back to the Goldstein, Miller conference room to listen to Hugh and Mark and Patty post-mortem the closings. They were hopeful that the rebuttal case would undo the damage that Rick’s clumsy testimony and Shannon’s claims had done. She went home and slept long and deeply, grateful that the ordeal of the trial was over.
For the first time since the trial had started, she slept past six a.m. on Wednesday morning. She opened her eyes at eight in a panic because she wouldn’t be at court to meet Hugh and Mark by 8:30. But then she remembered it was all over, and they now were waiting on the jury to decide. They would not go back to Judge Weiner’s courtroom until the jury announced that it had reached a verdict.
She was tempted to take the day off, but she had work to catch up on. Tyrone still needed her, and she knew Tom would want her to make sure his future was secure. She went to her own office and called Sam McIntrye to make the final arrangements for Tyrone’s release into the custody of Martha McDonald the following day. The court had agreed that Martha should have custody of him while he was on probation, and he would work with her in the Goldstein, Miller mail room.
Mark had been instrumental in arranging a new home for Tyrone. Kathryn realized that now the trial was over, she’d miss seeing him every day. And Patty. And, of course, Hugh. And his emerald earrings, locked in her jewelry box. For all their Big Firm lawyer foibles, they had good hearts. Even Hugh.
By noon she had Tyrone’s life squared away for the next two years and was ready to tackle the accumulated mail. She worked her way through it slowly during the long afternoon and then left at six so she could meet Amanda Cooper for dinner. She stopped by Tom’s old office on the way out, remembering the slide Mark had shown the jury yesterday of Tom seated at his desk. I just want him back, she told the Universe. I don’t want millions of dollars. I just want Tom.
At the Yellow Café, the waitress had given Amanda and Kathryn the same booth she had occupied with Tom the night he’d told her he no longer wanted a child. After dinner, she had let Amanda talk her into going back to Steve’s cottage for another glass of wine. It was odd to step inside Steve’s place and see feminine, flowery prints on the sofa and chairs next to small, antique pine tables. Kathryn remembered how the living room had always been full of surfboards, Ikea furniture, and piles of Steve’s legal work. The transformation made it seem as if Steve had never lived there.
And now, at just past midnight, after her first day back on the job she had shared with Tom, she looked around her own house where nothing had changed since he died. His medals were in their case. His clothes were in their closet. His desk drawers were undisturbed except for the removal of Shannon’s letters. And now she was about to go to bed alone in the bed she had shared with him throughout their marriage. She had told Paul the truth: she had kept everything the same, so she could pretend that nothing had changed and that Tom was on his way back to her.
Except, of course, he wasn’t.
Tears welled up and overflowed. She fled to the kitchen to escape the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her and topped off her drink. She wandered into her bedroom and impulsively unlocked the box where she kept the emerald earrings. She carried them back to the living room and curled up on the sofa again. She opened the box and stared at all that green fire. She thought of how Hugh had begged her to take them. She thought of Tyrone on his way to a new home tomorrow because of Hugh. He wasn’t a perfect man, as he’d confessed to her the night he’d been arrested. But without him, Tyrone wouldn’t have this second chance. He’d have been another plea-bargained statistic on the public defender’s docket. And without Hugh, she would have never been given the chance to rub Wycliffe’s nose in the story of Tom’s suffering. And hers.
I can’t let go of you, Tom. I can’t.
She drained the last of her wine, put the glass on the coffee table, and got up. She walked over to the trophy case and put the little blue Tiffany box next to the medal Tom had been wearing in the photographs that Mark had shown to the jury yesterday. She closed the door and twisted the key in the lock. Was she keeping the memories in that case safe, or was she locking them away where they could do no further harm?
She turned out all the lights, went into her bedroom, crawled into bed, and went to sleep.
* * *
Early Morning Hours of Thursday, April 9, 2015, 1845 Ocean Place, Pacific Beach
Kathryn dreamed the cottage was on fire. Black smoke billowed through every room. Tom was shaking her gently and telling her it was time to wake up and leave the house.
Her eyes suddenly opened. The smoke was all around her, but Tom was not there. This was not a dream; her house was on fire. She sat up, but began to cough so violently that she had to lie down again. But only for a moment. Carefully she climbed out of bed and, staying close to the floor, crept to the doorway to see if there was anyone else in the house. The smoke was so thick, she could not tell if anyone was nearby.
She had to get out of the house. Her bedroom windows were the closest exit. She grabbed her Glock and her cell phone and crawled along the floor until she reached the windows. They were nearly floor length, side by side. She unlocked them and attempted to pull them open. But no luck. She tried more times than she could count, all the while breathing in the acrid smell of smoke and burning wood. As she worked at trying to make the windows open, a rising tide of panic began to engulf her.
Both windows were still hopelessly stuck. Heat from the flames was beginning to scorch her back. The latches opened, but the windows would not budge.
She resisted thinking what she already knew to be true: someone had set this fire and nailed the windows shut.
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Then she heard a small explosion. It seemed to come from the kitchen. The smoke was so thick now that she could barely breathe. She lay down on her tummy on the floor for a few seconds to try to catch a cleaner breath of air. Her only chance of escape was through those windows. Smoke and fire blocked her paths to the front and back doors.
She still had her Glock in her hand. She considered whether she could smash the glass cleanly enough to allow herself to get through without being cut. She began to feel dizzy. She gasped for breath.
And then Tom was standing over her. Steve was with him. They were wearing their wetsuits and had just come from surfing. Except that can’t be right because they can’t surf in the dark.
Kathryn heard another explosion. And another. And another. The fire and heat were intensifying. Beside her, Tom reached down and pulled her to her feet. He took her gun, and smashed the glass in one of the windows. As Kathryn stood in front of the now-open window, an explosion rocked the house like an earthquake. It hurled her through the opening Tom had created. When her head hit the ground, it felt like someone had hit her with a sledgehammer. Dazed and unable to move, she looked up at the stars and then shifted her eyes back to the burning house. Tom and Steve were still inside, looking down at her through the shattered window. She opened her mouth to call to them; but before she could make a sound, another explosion ripped through the house, followed by another and another. The ground shook violently, and then everything went black.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Early Morning Hours of Thursday, April 9, 2015, 610 First Street, Coronado, California
Mark’s cell went off at 2:30 in the morning. He struggled awake and said, “This is Mark Kelly.”
“Mr. Kelly, I’m Detective Tim McIntosh of the San Diego Police Department. I understand you are the attorney for Kathryn Andrews.”
“That’s right.”
“Her house is on fire. We suspect arson, probably multiple explosive devices.”
His stomach tightened. “Where’s Kathryn? Is she all right?”
“No, I’m afraid not. She’s on the way to Scripps Memorial with the EMT’s. When the house blew up, the blast sent her through the bedroom windows. She was knocked unconscious. Looks like severe head trauma. Does she have any family in town?”
“No. Her mother’s in Miami. We’ll get her here as fast as we can. I’m on my way to the hospital now.”
Hugh was waiting for him in the drive at Crown Manor, wearing a pair of sweatpants, one of his sloppy, knit collared shirts, and a rumpled trench coat.
As soon as he got into the car, Mark tossed him his cell phone. “Call Paul Curtis. He’s number six on my speed dial. He’s the closest thing to a family member I could think of for her.”
“There’s us.” Hugh said stubbornly. “She feels like family now.”
Mark sighed. “I know. But call Paul. We’ve got to get her mother here from Florida, and we don’t know how to contact her. He’ll know.”
* * *
Thursday, April 9, 2015, Scripps Memorial Hospital, La Jolla, California
At six a.m., Hugh, Mark, and Paul were huddled together in a waiting room on the intensive care floor. Kathryn’s mother and her husband were just taking off on the jet Hugh had chartered to bring them to California. Paul insisted that he, and not Jose, should be the one to meet them at the airport when they arrived in the early afternoon.
Restless and tired of waiting, Mark got up and wandered over to the window where the first rays of new sunlight had turned all the scattered bits and pieces of clouds soft pink against the pale blue sky. He could barely see the outline of the ocean against the horizon. He thought of Tom Andrews. It was the hour when surfers paddled out to catch the first wave of the day.
“She’s been in surgery now for about four hours,” Hugh broke the silence. He wished he hadn’t forgotten his flask. He needed his scotch to take the edge off the cold, unrelenting fear that was eating him.
“I’ve gone to the nurse’s station twice and asked,” Paul said. “But they always say she’s still in surgery, and that’s all they know.”
Mark sighed. “I’ve received a text from Bob McLaren. He has asked Judge Weiner to convene this morning so that he can make a motion for a mistrial. He is assuming the jury has heard about Kathryn and will bring in a sympathy verdict. I’m going to have to make that court appearance, but I don’t want to leave without any news.”
“We’ll text you as soon as we hear anything,” Paul said.
“If the judge grants a mistrial, that means Wycliffe wins if Kathryn was serious about refusing to go through another trial,” Paul said.
“That’s a bridge we don’t have to cross right now,” Hugh cautioned. “Kathryn may feel differently after everything that’s happened.” He didn’t add what they all thought, if she survives.
At that moment, a man in green scrubs with a surgical mask dangling around his neck entered their enclave. “Are you all here for Mrs. Andrews?”
Three heads nodded.
“I’m Dr. Belinsky. I was the on-call neurosurgeon when she came in last night. Which of you is family?”
“None of us,” Paul said. “We’re close friends. Her mother is her only family, and she’s flying here from the east coast as we speak.”
“Okay, then you can pass along the updates when she arrives. Mrs. Andrews has suffered a severe concussion. We’ve had to do surgery because of swelling in the brain. Her less severe injury is a broken arm. Her head hit something pretty hard.”
“The fire captain told me she was blown through a glass window when her house exploded,” Mark said. “She hit her head when she hit the ground.”
“Well, then, she’s lucky she didn’t break her neck. But if she was blown through a glass window, she should have been horribly cut up. She wasn’t.”
“But she’s going to be all right, isn’t she?” Mark saw the tension in Hugh’s face as he asked.
“We don’t know yet.” Dr. Belinsky looked very grave. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
* * *
Thursday, April 9, 2015, Edward J. Schwartz Federal Courthouse, U.S. District Court, Southern District of California, San Diego
Judge Weiner took the bench promptly at nine a.m. and looked down at Bob McLaren and Emma Talbert at the defense table, and Mark and Patty on the plaintiff’s side.
“How is your client, Mr. Kelly? We’re all very concerned about her.”
“When I left the hospital, she was still in surgery. I haven’t heard anything more.”
“I see. Well, we all hope she’s going to be fine. Mr. McLaren, I’ll hear from you. You wanted to bring a motion?”
“Your Honor, on behalf of my client, I move for a mistrial. Even if the jurors have followed the court’s instructions and stayed away from news reports, and I highly doubt that is true, we are still going to have to explain to them why Mrs. Andrews is no longer in court. Any verdict they bring in now will be tainted by sympathy for her. They will think that my client is responsible, and that is simply not true.”
Judge Weiner looked over at Mark. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to grant his motion, Mr. Kelly. Unless, by some unlikely chance, the jury has already reached a verdict. Bailiff, bring the jurors in, and let’s ask them.”
Mark watched the jurors file into the box, but his mind was miles away at the hospital with Kathryn. His phone remained maddeningly empty of text updates.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Good morning, Your Honor.” Juror No. 10 spoke up.
“I am assuming you are the foreman,” the judge responded.
“I am. We reached our verdict yesterday at 4:15. We were going to give this note to your bailiff first thing this morning.”
The bailiff took the paper from the foreman of the jury and handed it to Judge Weiner, who studied it in silence for a few minutes. Then she read it aloud. “It says, ‘We the jury have reached a verdict.’ And it is dated April 8, 2015 at 4:30 p.m.”
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“Your Honor,” McLaren sputtered. “This is completely wrong. The jury should have given that note to the bailiff yesterday afternoon.”
“We didn’t know that, Your Honor,” the foreman spoke up. “We thought first thing this morning would be better. It was a long day, and we wanted to go home.”
“That’s fine. I understand,” the judge said. “Have any of you seen or heard any news reports in the last twenty-four hours?”
Twelve heads shook ‘no.’
“Good, then you’ve followed my instructions. Bailiff, let me see if the verdicts are in order. Mr. Foreman, please hand the signed verdict forms to the bailiff.”
Mark’s stomach became a knot as he watched Judge Weiner study the verdicts. He looked over at Patty, who gave him a tense smile. Their chance of victory hung by the slender thread that the jury had not made any mistakes in filling out the forms. Otherwise, McLaren’s motion would be granted; and if Kathryn really meant what she had said about another trial, Wycliffe had won.
Judge Weiner looked up from the papers in front of her. “The jury’s verdicts are in order. They are signed and dated yesterday at 4:15 p.m. I am going to accept them.”
“The defense objects!”
“I’m sure you do,” Judge Weiner said without the least show of emotion. “But I am accepting these verdicts. If you have a problem with that, Mr. McLaren, you can take it up with the court of appeal. Bailiff, if you will hand these to the clerk to read, please.”
The Death of Distant Stars, A Legal Thriller Page 33
