“Good. You take care, now.”
She smiled. “I will.”
Eaton shuffled away, and Mandy brought their food. They ate quickly and without much talk. It was not a comfortable meal; Claire could feel the curiosity all around her, so strong that the air seemed too thick to breathe. She could easily guess what they all must be wondering. Had she shot the stranger from San Francisco? And why was Joe Tally sticking so close to her all of a sudden? They’d come in together. What might that mean?
She did her best to block out the feeling that everyone was watching them, and finished off her lunch.
“Want dessert?” she asked Joe as brightly as she could manage.
“I’ll pass.”
She paid the bill, and they went out together. Joe walked her to the post office, where she picked up the stacks of mail from the motel’s box. In all the upheaval the day before, she’d forgotten all about the mail. Then they returned to Snow’s Inn, where Amelia unwrapped a fresh hunk of bubble gum and headed out to get busy on the rooms.
Somehow, Claire got through the day. For dinner, she broiled some chops she had in the freezer. They watched a little TV. Then Joe stretched out on the couch and Claire went to her room to stare at the ceiling through the better part of another long night.
She was up at six. She took a shower in an effort to wash away the grim exhaustion from lack of sleep. Somewhat refreshed, she dried herself quickly and threw on her robe, then went back to her room to pull on slacks and a blouse and make her bed.
Joe was sitting at the tiny breakfast table in the kitchen, reading last Thursday’s edition of the Pine Bluff Sentinel when Claire joined him a few minutes later. He’d pulled on his jeans, but his feet and chest were bare. His hair had that run-through-a-blender look, and his face wore a red seam down the side where a wrinkle in the pillowcase must have pressed most of the night. Claire had never seen anyone look so handsome in her entire life.
Deep inside, she knew the old ache, intensified now that she was forced to be close to him hour upon hour. The past two days, they did the things that married people did, shared food and the same roof. She’d seen him at times she’d never dared to hope she might see him: coming out of her bathroom, fresh from a shower, or now, in the morning, with the marks of sleep still pressed into his skin.
And she was finding that this was very difficult. It was too painful—to have him so near and yet be careful to keep the emotional distance that was part of their agreement. It was as difficult as wondering when Brawley or Leven would call on her again.
Since she’d found Henson unconscious, there hadn’t been the slightest indication that his attacker was still around. It appeared that, if the assailant was still in town, he or she had no intention of bothering Claire. And Claire had yet to hear another word from the sheriff’s office.
Joe’s constant presence in her cottage began to seem less and less necessary.
Claire came to a decision, standing there in the door to her own kitchen, looking at Joe and feeling her heart ache with unfulfilled longing. Tomorrow, if nothing happened today or tonight, she’d tell Joe there was no sense to this. She’d thank him for his help and send him on his way.
And later, after she’d had time to collect her nerve, she’d decide how to go about telling him he was going to be a father without letting him even imagine she expected him to marry her.
And he was going to be a father. During the past two endless nights, Claire had had plenty of time to think. She’d admitted to herself that she’d already made her choice. It would not be easy, but she was fully capable of supporting and raising a child. She had a business that was adaptable and a lot of love to give. She would manage somehow.
Joe was watching her. “Rough night?”
She nodded. “Lately, I seem to have trouble falling asleep.”
“I understand.” He smiled at her, and raised his coffee mug. “I made the coffee.”
She smiled back, thinking how lonely her house was going to feel when he was gone, now that she knew what it was like having him in it all the time. “Great,” she said, and approached the pot.
But then she remembered that Eaton Slade was due any minute and she’d yet to put her own trash outside. She sighed and smiled a little. Life went on. Even unmarried pregnant women who were under suspicion for assault had to deal with getting the trash out on time.
She didn’t have to worry about all the rooms of the motel, of course. Verna or Amelia took care of that every day. But Claire had to take her own trash out herself.
She bent and grabbed a big bag from under the sink.
Joe saw what she was doing. “Need some help?”
“Nope. I can handle it.” Swiftly, she moved through her rooms, dumping the contents of each wastebasket in with the rest. When she was done, she sealed the bag and took it outside. Eaton drove up in his ancient Ford-auction pickup just as she was tossing the bag in with the rest. She waved at him, and then left him to his job.
Back in the house, she made pancakes for herself and Joe. Then she sat down across from him to eat, thinking that she was going to enjoy this last day they had together. Tomorrow they’d go back to life as it used to be.
They were just getting up together to clear off the dishes, when the night buzzer rang out in front.
“I’ll get it,” Joe said.
Claire let him go. She’d carried the plates and cups to the sink and started to put them in the dishwasher when she heard voices in the living room.
“Wait here,” Joe said. “I’ll get her.”
“All right.” It was Sheriff Dan’s voice.
“Make it quick,” Undersheriff Leven advised.
Claire, whose heart had started thudding painfully beneath her ribs, carefully took the towel off the rack and dried her hands. She watched as Joe came through the dining room to find her.
“Claire...” His voice was strange, husky. He looked as if it hurt him to even speak.
“What?” she asked. “What’s the matter?”
“They found your gun, Claire. Yesterday. In Frenchman’s Ravine, just outside of town.’’
“They did? So? Is that bad?”
“They ran some tests, and they found out...”
Claire realized that her knees felt funny. She braced herself against the counter so she wouldn’t sink to the floor like a fool. “What?”
“Alan Henson was shot with your gun.”
“No...” She pressed her knees harder into the solid resistance of the counter. It seemed terribly important right then to hold on to her dignity, to stand on her own two feet.
“Yes. Brawley and Leven are here.”
“They... want to talk to me again?”
“They’ve got warrants, Claire.”
“Warrants?” She said the word as if she didn’t know what it meant.
“Yes. One to search this place—and one for your arrest.”
Chapter Seven
The sheriff and the undersheriff drove Claire to the jail, though she could have easily walked there. Since Pine Bluff was also the county seat for Excelsior County, the sheriff’s office and jail were built right on the back of the courthouse. It was five minutes on foot—to the end of her street, a right turn, and over to Courthouse Square, on the same side of the river as Snow’s Inn.
Joe wasn’t allowed to go with her, but the sheriff and Leven waited while Joe told her not to say anything until he got her a lawyer, which he swore he could manage within a few hours.
Sheriff Dan didn’t handcuff her, for which she was grateful. He put her in the back of his 4X4 and drove her that absurdly short distance to the courthouse and then around to the back of it, where she entered the jail through the dispatcher’s station.
Once inside, they took her valuables and put them in a manila bag with her name on it. Then she was fingerprinted, and they asked her an endless series of questions about her age and birthplace and parentage—questions that had nothing to do with Alan Henson. The answers to those questions were t
yped into a computer.
After that, Claire found herself listening to Sheriff Dan, who loved her mother’s pralines, as he read her her Miranda rights.
“You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will...”
Claire thought, with a detached feeling of amusement, that it was just like those true-life police dramas on television. Reality programming taken one step further than any sane person would ever want it to go. It was reality programming that was happening to her.
Then Undersheriff Leven asked if she was ready to make a statement about her confrontation with Alan Henson.
As Joe had instructed, Claire said she’d wait to have her lawyer present.
After that she was taken to a long, gray room with one big cell and four little ones. There were several men she’d never seen before in the big cell. Someone she did know, Polly Flanders, was in one of the small ones. Polly was a big woman who was well-known for her violent streak. Claire assumed Polly’s temper had gotten her in trouble again.
Deputy Amanda Clark locked Claire in the vacant cell next to Polly’s. Claire sat down on the squeaky, single-spring bed that was bolted to one wall. As soon as Deputy Clark had left, Polly wanted to know what someone like Claire Snow was doing in the town jail.
Claire rubbed her eyes. “They think I shot a man.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Polly let out a raspy cackle. “That’s what they all say.”
* * *
The big institutional clock on the wall outside the cell said it was ten forty-five when Deputy Clark returned and let Claire out of the cell. She was taken to another room where a powerfully built, tired-looking man in a gray suit waited.
“I’m Zack Ryder. A friend of Joe’s. And your lawyer, if you want me.” He held out a large, square hand. Claire shook it, thinking that his skin was warm and dry and his grip firm. When she looked into his eyes she saw they were kind.
She asked, “How much will you charge me?”
“Joe will be taking care of it,” he said.
Claire shook her head. “No. I pay my own bills. How much?”
Reluctantly he quoted a figure and named an amount that he’d take as a retainer.
Claire considered, though she didn’t really need to. If Joe thought Zack Ryder was a good lawyer, then he was fine with Claire.
“All right,” she said. “You’re hired.”
“Good. Let’s get to work.”
They sat down across from each other in scratched plastic chairs, with a scarred institutional folding table between them. Zack Ryder explained the assault charges that had been filed against her, and what they would mean. Then he asked her to tell him of her relationship with Alan Henson and, step-by-step, everything she’d done from the time she left her mother’s house on the night Henson was shot until she found Henson unconscious the next afternoon.
Claire told the story slowly and carefully. She told the absolute truth—except for the fact that she’d taken a pregnancy test and learned she was going to have a baby. When it came to that part, she told the same story she’d told Joe: that she’d felt cooped up and gone for a late-night walk.
In the hours in the cell next to Polly Flanders, she’d had time to think. And she could think of no way that the pregnancy test had a thing to do with Henson. It was her business, and her business alone. She felt wronged and invaded to be arrested for a crime she hadn’t committed.
And as every hour of this nightmare passed, she found she was more and more bonded to the infinitesimal life within her. She would do anything to protect that life. Right now, that life was her secret. They could accuse her wrongly, lock her up and throw away the key. But she’d protect the truth of her baby from them for as long as it was possible. In this at least, blind circumstance was on her side. When they searched her cottage, they would find no trace of the test— Eaton Slade had seen to that this morning.
After she told him her story, Ryder advised her against giving a formal statement at this time. Claire was perfectly willing to listen to her lawyer on that point. She had not been looking forward to sitting in a dreary room like this one and being grilled by Undersheriff Leven.
Zack Ryder glanced at his watch. “Your preliminary hearing's set for today at two. Basically, we’ll just sit there and let the prosecutor do all the talking. It’ll be short and sweet. The judge will decide whether to bind you over to the grand jury for a more formal hearing of the charges against you. And, if the judge decides to send you to the grand jury for possible indictment, we’ll get them to set your bail.” He gave her a tired smile. “You’ll be out of this place in time for dinner, I promise you.”
Claire nodded, feeling dazed. Somehow, as the hours went by, it all became increasingly unreal—just more of her nightmare, unfolding before her. “Thank you,” she murmured as Deputy Clark came to collect her once more.
She was taken back to her little cell to wait until two. They gave her lunch, which she could see had come from Mandy’s. It was her favorite—bacon and tomato on whole wheat, light on the mayo. She knew that Sheriff Dan must have ordered it for her, a small kindness so she’d know he had not abandoned her. But she had no appetite. She took a few bites for form’s sake, then pushed it away.
At one-thirty, she was led from the cell again. This time she was taken beyond the sheriff’s office out into the courthouse to a small holding room near the main courtroom, where her lawyer waited.
Ryder explained once more that she was not to worry. This wouldn’t last too long, and they would learn a lot about how the prosecution saw the case should it go any farther. He went out before her, leaving her alone with Deputy Clark.
At last, she was led out into the courtroom and seated at the long table where Zack Ryder was already sitting. To her right was another long table where the county prosecutor, Buckly Fortin, was stationed. Up in the judge’s seat sat Judge Willoughby, who just happened to be another of her mother’s dear friends.
Claire glanced once over her shoulder at the observers’ pews. She saw several people she knew, including Joe and her mother—sitting together. It was a testament to how numb and despondent she felt that such a sight did not even make her blink. Joe nodded and Ella telegraphed one of her most encouraging smiles.
Claire turned to face front again as Judge Willoughby began explaining how a preliminary hearing was only to make sure there was enough evidence that a crime had been committed to require a grand jury hearing. He asked Ryder if the defendant wished to waive the hearing.
“No, Your Honor. We wish to proceed with this hearing.”
The judge then produced an affidavit sworn by Sheriff Brawley charging Claire with assault with a deadly weapon and battery.
Claire sat, silent and unmoving, as both Sheriff Brawley and Undersheriff Leven took the stand. They testified that Alan Henson was still in the hospital in Grass Valley. He was stable, but comatose. They reported what Claire had said to them in her interviews at the motel, and Buckly Fortin was careful to emphasize the times Claire had been seen in public with the injured man. They also produced sworn statements from Verna Higgins and the couple at the motel who had found Claire after Henson attacked her—statements attesting that Claire’s clothing had been tom and she’d appeared in a state of shock. And of course, they had the ballistics report that proved Henson had been injured with Claire’s gun.
When the prosecutor was done, Judge Willoughby asked if the defense had witnesses.
“None, Your Honor.”
Claire listened, so numb she hardly registered her own disbelief, as Judge Willoughby declared, “The court finds there is sufficient evidence that the defendant could have committed the crimes of which she is charged. She must appear before the Excelsior County grand jury, which is scheduled to convene on Monday, July 13. At that time a more formal determination of whether she shall be tried for these crimes will be made. Is there anything else?”
Ryder stood up and requested that bond be set
, listing the defendant’s lack of any previous arrests and her strong ties to the community as proof that she could be trusted to walk free.
“Your Honor, I object,” Buckly Fortin announced. “These are serious charges, and if the victim dies, there will be further—and even more serious—charges.”
But Judge Willoughby overruled the prosecutor. He rapped his gavel, set the bail amount and stipulated that the accused was not to leave the county. Then he asked for the next case.
* * *
Both Joe and her mother were waiting for her when the sheriff’s people gave her back her belongings and let her go home. Claire walked out into the late-afternoon sunlight and down the courthouse steps with Joe on one side and Ella on the other.
She tried to be grateful that she was free for a week at least, that the sun was shining and she could go about her life once again, for a time anyway, unconfined by bars and gray walls. But it didn’t work. She was numb; she didn’t want to feel. And beneath her numbness, anger burned.
She was innocent. She had done nothing, except fight off a man’s unwanted advances. Yet in one week’s time she would stand before a grand jury and find out if she would be going on trial for shooting that man.
It was so wrong....
Also, she couldn’t stop thinking about a tiny incident that had occurred in the courtroom. It was right after Judge Willoughby had set her bail. Ryder had been talking to her, telling her that Joe, whose business was working for bondsmen, would easily arrange her bond. She’d felt someone’s eyes on her. Slowly, she’d turned.
Behind the prosecutor’s table, in the front observer’s row, sat an attractive blond woman in a trim maroon business suit. She was staring at Claire, her blue eyes icy cold. Claire felt the chill of the woman’s hatred halfway across the courtroom.
She’d guessed immediately who the woman must be. But she turned to Ryder and asked in a whisper, anyway. “Do you know who that woman is, the one in the maroon suit?”
He’d nodded. “Mariah Henson. Alan Henson’s wife.”
Now, in the sunlight, Claire shivered a little. She had no doubt that Mariah Henson hated her.
Born Innocent Page 8
