“And I apologize, Miss Knowles, but expediency demands I break protocol.” Washington put his briefcase on top of Aaron’s desk, owning the room—his cold, hard eyes splintered his too-collected demeanor, as if he thought he had the upper hand, Lucifer defending his demon.“You know we have requested an expedited hearing on my client’s unjust sentencing.”
She didn’t know, but she wouldn’t let Washington in on how much she was left out of the loop. “You didn’t drive all the way up here to tell me something I already know. Go on.”
“My client is prepared to make a deal.”
Sam’s mouth went dry. “Not on your life. He’s already been found guilty, and I intend to make the verdict stick. You know the ME’s typo isn’t enough to warrant a mistrial. You’ve got nothing, Darnell. You should back away from this case before you lose all credibility as a defense attorney. So why don’t you pick up that leather briefcase and get your suited self out of my vacation.”
Washington chuckled. “I love your spirit, Miss Knowles. For a wisp of a gal, you stand your ground…don’t even flinch.”
“One minute left.”
“I’ll cut to the chase. Mr. Styles wants you off the case, permanently.”
Was this some kind of joke? Did Abe send Darnell up here to give her a good laugh? “Neither you, nor your client, has the right to decide who will prosecute. How dare—”
Washington pulled out paperwork from his briefcase and handed her a copy of an affidavit. “We’ve done detective work of our own, Miss Knowles. You are not without ghosts in your closet.”
“What are you getting at? I’ve never been arrested. Not even so much as a traffic violation.” At least her license was clean until she met with Aaron on Thursday. “I refuse to play your game.”
“Very well. But you should do yourself the favor of reading that affidavit.”
Sam shoved the paper into Washington’s hand. “Get out. And if you dare approach me again in such an improper way, I’ll report you to the Bar Association for ethical misconduct.”
Washington’s laugh reverberated off the walls, a rude, maniacal snort. “I don’t think you want to do that, Miss Knowles.”
Sam’s cheeks burned and her spaghetti legs wobbled. She grasped a side chair for support. “What are you driving at, Darnell?”
“We are prepared to demonstrate prosecutorial prejudice against my client and mishandling of evidence on your part.”
“Ridiculous. If you did your homework, you’d know race has never been an issue with me.”
He bared his teeth, a grimace more like a snarl than a smile. “Race is not the issue, here, Miss Knowles.”
“Out with it, or I’m calling Aaron in now.”
“I’m talking about your hatred toward men, a fixation that stems from the abuse you received from your father.”
“Get out.”
Washington shrugged his shoulders, seemingly obtuse to her rant. “Have it your way, Miss Knowles. I hoped we could avoid unpleasantness.” He tossed the unread affidavit into his suitcase. “By the way, do you still sleep with a light on here in Haven?”
Fear crept up her spine and anger surged. How did they know? But of course, neighbors would have commented that Sam’s lights were on all night. Not really so hard a thing to discover. But judging from his sneer, he knew why, too. How? The records were sealed.
He picked up his briefcase and nodded. “You’ll be hearing more from us, Miss Knowles—through appropriate channels, of course. But you can’t say we didn’t try to keep this civil. All we wanted was for you to step down from this particular case. And you will—”
“I doubt that—”
“One way, or another.”
Washington left, and Sam felt the full emotional blow. Her knees caved while the room spun; the weight of her body headed towards the floor, surprised when Aaron’s arms caught her. She hadn’t heard him come in.
He eased her into a chair. “Sam? What happened? You look like you’re going to lose your supper and you haven’t eaten yet.”
Sam took a deep breath, but her legs still trembled. “Just got some bad news. I can’t talk about it right now.”
“Is it about Harlan Styles?”
“How did—”
“We get television up here, Sam. We’ve tried to respect your privacy, but we all know who you are.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss—”
“Of course, but lawyer to lawyer, if there’s anything I can do—”
“I appreciate your concern, Aaron. Mr. Washington won’t be returning anytime soon. If he does, I want to know about it immediately.”
“Let me help you to a table, at least.”
Sam stood to prove her phony courage. “I’m fine, really. I would like some of Sadie’s pot roast, though, if it’s not all gone. I’m sure it’s delicious.”
Aaron walked beside Sam like a guard dog, like the father she wished she’d had, a protector, not an accuser.
“Sam!” Holding a bouquet of hyacinths, Zack arched a wave. When their eyes met, he pointed to an empty seat next to him. She managed to cross the room before collapsing, grateful for something other than the floor to hold her up. Zack thrust out the flowers like a schoolboy’s offering, and she buried her face within the blooms.
“Easy, Sam.”
She raised her head, exhausted, but no longer afraid, Zack’s presence the proverbial port in the storm, a safe hedge, one she should embrace. “Been a long day.”
Sadie came to the table with a glass of water. “Might as well put those in here until you go upstairs. Can’t have them wilting in the lounge. People might think the air’s contaminated. So what’ll you have?”
Sam felt Zack’s searching eyes—she studied his jutted chin, like Abe’s when he worried.
“Ladies first.”
“I’d like the pot roast, small portions—”
“The question was for Zack. I’ve already fixed your plate, dear. I won’t abide any argument, either. Goodness gracious, if that’s how you eat in Manhattan, no wonder you could hide behind a flag pole.”
Zack rubbed his stomach. “The works, of course.” As Sadie turned toward the kitchen, he placed the blooms into the glass and pushed the arrangement toward Sam’s side of the table. “I’ve seen lots of girls with flower preferences. My ex-girlfriend liked roses. Pink ones, actually, Carnations, too. But I don’t ever recall meeting a girl with a passion for hyacinths.”
“I can’t be that odd. They’re a beautiful flower.”
“Wait a minute. Yes, I have. Jonathan’s wife, Angelica, loved hyacinths. Jonathan hired a botanist to make sure they’d continue to thrive on the property in the wild.”
Truth was, Sam didn’t know how or why hyacinths comforted her, or how the scent came to her in stressful moments. If she confessed all that to Zack, he’d have her committed to the nearest psychiatric ward. He sat there all inquisitive, like a puppy surveys its master. She had to give him some kind of explanation, and their relationship had not yet progressed to the point she trusted Zack with intimate confessions. “My mother had a bed of hyacinths when we lived in Westchester.”
“That explains it, I guess. Sam…I’ve been thinking about our date for the Spring Fling—”
“About that, Zack, I might not be able to come back for the festivities.”
“Why not?”
“I received troubling news today on a case I’ve been working on—”
“Harlan Styles?”
Did the whole world know her business?
“I can’t discuss any particulars, but the case doesn’t want to go away. I think it might be best if I go back to Manhattan sooner than expected. I promised my friend Justine I’d finish my vacation here, but I’m going to have to break that promise, too.”
Zack’s eyes veered away. “When will you leave?”
“Probably right after Aaron’s court. Besides, Justine wants to have her wedding and reception here so my boss is driving her up to talk to Sadie.”
Zack brightened. “A wedding? When?”
“Six weeks.”
“Then at least I’ll see you again.” He smiled. Why did he have to be so poster-boy perfect?
Sadie brought their dinners, Sam’s plate heaped with enough to feed three truck drivers. Zack dug in, and she welcomed the respite from conversation, but found even Sadie’s mashed potatoes hard to swallow.
Zack lifted his head and peered directly into her eyes, a gesture Sam used on hostile witnesses. “Do you want me to go with you to Jonathan’s tomorrow?”
“How did—”
“I stopped by his place yesterday and he told me.”
“No need for you to babysit me. Besides, you probably have school tomorrow. I don’t want you missing work on my account. And there’s the issue of confidentiality. Must be some reason he wants an attorney.”
Zack’s lips curled. “Or maybe he wants to see you again, too.”
Sam glared. Not now, she didn’t have the energy to deal with Zack’s possessiveness. They hadn’t even dated yet. “Zack—”
“I know. That was uncalled for. Jonathan said he wanted legal advice, but his reasons can be masqueraded sometimes. You’re a beautiful woman, Sam.”
“Thanks for the compliment, but I told you—”
“You’re not interested in getting involved with anyone.” Zack’s eyes filled with warning. “Be careful around Jonathan.”
“Why?”
“He’s been through a lot. He doesn’t use the best judgment, sometimes. Goes days without eating or sleeping—”
Something Sam could relate to.
Zack’s eyes met hers. “Something tells me, though, you’ll understand him in a way nobody here in Haven can.”
Dueling aromas of roast beef and hyacinths attacked her senses. Her stomach heaved and acid rushed to her throat. “I’m sorry, Zack. I can’t eat. I have to go up to my room.”
Zack threw his napkin on the table. “Why are you always running away from me, Sam? If you want me to leave you alone…say so. Your smiles say you like me, but you push me away right when I think we’re getting close to something.”
“I do like you, Zack. I’m sorry I’ve been so rude. It’s…I don’t feel well.”
Zack reached across the table and handed her the makeshift vase, a huff of disbelief in his voice. “Don’t forget these.”
“I’m sorry, Zack.” She rushed to the steps. Her Manhattan apartment was on the fourth floor and most days she took the stairwell for the exercise. Never had three flights seemed so far up. She barely made it to her room before the urge to retch won over. She dropped the flowers on the bathroom floor, cognizant of breaking glass but too sick to care.
Relieved of the mounting abdominal pressure, she flushed the toilet, covered her face with a wet washcloth then fell onto her bed. She turned on the bedside lamp, and soon sleep overpowered her until the dream intruded.
Darnell Washington and Harlan Styles stood by her bed, Washington waving an affidavit, their shapes grotesque, but recognizable—their mingled demon laughs shook furniture and Jonathan’s landscapes fell to the floor. Then, Washington and Styles disappeared, and Daddy’s face hovered over her. “It’s your fault I’m dead, your fault I’m in hell.”
Awakened by her own screams, she opened her eyes and darted to a sitting position. The hyacinths were in a clean vase. She glanced into the bathroom—the glass shards had disappeared. Then she realized Leon sat on the bed next to her. He swooped her into an embrace and rocked in rhythm to a soft lullaby. “Sssh, Sam. No one’s going to hurt you.”
15
Sam took Leon’s hankie and allowed a tender kiss to her cheek. A younger man might have received a swift slap for such forwardness, but his comfort seemed paternal. Daddy used to hold her like that after a nightmare, before his rages started. After that, his touches only brought pain, usually from a belt; sometimes a board, while alcohol-coated breaths slurred obscenities like, “Just…punishment.”
Daddy’s indictment—bloodied behinds.
Until that moment, she hadn’t quite made up her mind to consider Leon a friend. Now wrapped in his sympathetic arms, the previous deception was so forgivable. He caressed her, not from anger or lust, but with love, and he hummed the melody she had recalled on her walk. As her sobs quieted, the words soothed.
O Come to the Savior,
He patiently waits
To save by His power divine;
Come, anchor your soul in “The Haven of Rest,”
And say, “My Beloved is Mine.”
She joined Leon’s soft notes on the chorus, the only portion she remembered—pleased Leon had no remarks about her off-key vocals. The new flow of tears brought peace. Stilled within the storm, she thanked Leon. He loosed his grip and handed her the filled vase.
Sam scrunched her face into their soothing fragrance.
“I see you like them as much as I do.”
So that’s why Leon was in her room, not to steal, but to sniff. “Was that what you were doing in here, before? Smelling the flowers?”
“Guilty. The scent lured me like honey to a bear. I’ll confess. I love flowers. In my younger days, I visited almost every botanical garden in the country, even Canada. Hyacinths have a perfume about them I can’t explain, but these Zack gave you are stronger than any I’ve smelled. I got curious. Do you suppose that when they’re picked, the scent intensifies, like roses?”
Sam stared him down. Was Leon still dancing around the truth?
He lowered his head like a sentenced convict. “I did lead you on a bit too much, and I’m sorry. Men aren’t supposed to be partial to flowers, so I don’t let folks know how much I enjoy them. When I heard you coming, I hid. Truth is I am very forgetful. Getting worse. Sadie wants me to go so a specialist. What for? Forgetting half my life won’t be so bad.”
“But there must be good things to remember inside that half.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
Not that Sam blamed him for wanting to forget. She should listen to her own advice; she’d erased far too much of her childhood trying to forget Daddy. Why couldn’t she remember the good without remembering the bad? If only the mind siphoned the unhappy thoughts into a throw away container and left the pleasant ones.
Sam offered Leon a smile of forgiveness. “You did convince me you belonged at a mental facility, or in a nursing home.” She sat up straight and arched her shoulders. “I’m not easily fooled, by the way. You’re that good.”
Leon’s cheeks reddened. “Aw…You make me blush. Anyway, I heard you thrashing about awhile ago. I knocked but you didn’t answer. Since your door wasn’t bolted, I peeked in to see if you were all right. I saw the broken glass and the flowers on the floor. You started to quiet some, so I swept up the mess and put the flowers into a clean glass. Then you started screaming. So I sat here to sing to you.”
Sam sniffed the blooms. “Zack brought me these.”
Leon winked. “I know. I saw him hand you the bouquet. I see the way he smiles at you when you’re looking the other way. He’s sweet on you.”
What did an old, confirmed bachelor like Leon know of love?
“I felt the same way about Sadie’s mother once upon a time.”
“Sadie’s mother? Mazie? You and Mazie?”
“That was years ago. We’re friends, now. Mazie spends her days playing bridge while I play shuffle board, but once in a while, she goes with me on a walk. Not far, though. Her legs get tired, or she gets frightened when she can’t remember where she is. Occasionally, we sit and have dinner by the water. Most of the time, she doesn’t remember me, but I think I still remember enough for the both of us, and I thank the Lord, I can be with her now after so many years apart.” The wells in Leon’s eyes thickened with reminiscent dew. “Well, I’ll let you get back to sleep. You’ll need to be rested if you’re going to handle that Jonathan Gladstone fellow. He’s a walking Shakespeare tragedy if ever I met one.”
More, Leon. Give me more. Don’t whet my cur
iosity then leave me hungry. Sam wanted to talk until the sun cracked over the horizon, anything to keep from going back to sleep.
Leon stepped toward the door. “I notice you have a light on all the time. Is the lamp by the bed enough? I’ll flick this switch off, and you won’t have to get up.”
Sam nodded and Leon left. She sat in the subdued lighting for what seemed hours, checking the clock every few minutes. She spotted the pilot case she’d shoved into the corner. Now would be as good a time as any to unpack. See what might be salvageable.
Mildewed, every stitch, except for one pair of tan dress slacks, a crewel-lined, satin top, and a chocolate cashmere blazer, still damp, but otherwise undamaged. She sniffed the extra pair of pumps. Yuck. She tossed the pumps and the rank clothes back into the pilot case.
She filled the sink with water and hand-washed the slacks and top, then hung them up to dry on the shower rod, along with the blazer. She plugged in her hair dryer—no sparks—probably safe to use. Setting it on high, she spent the next half hour blow-drying her sparse wardrobe.
Now what?
Still only five o’clock in the morning—too early to stir around without waking someone. She turned on the television, muting the sound and clicking on the closed captions, the out of sync lettering as annoying as the instant replays on the sports channel. Pulling up a chair, Sam sat in front of the television, clicked off the closed caption, and turned up the volume a few notches.
Was she still dreaming? She pinched herself to be certain. Yes. She was awake, not believing what she saw—a video replay of Darnell Washington being interviewed by a reporter. “If there is any justice in this world,” he said, “my client will earn a swift release. Harlan Styles is innocent, imprisoned by the hand of an overzealous prosecutor with a personal grudge. I intend to prove prosecutorial misconduct and untoward judicial prejudice towards my client.”
The clip flashed to her photograph. Where had they dug up that one? She squirmed at her sour face, and grabbed the phone to call Justine. “Why didn’t you call me? I saw that horrible clip on CNN,” Sam blurted as soon as the click indicated Justine had picked up. “Why am I on trial?” Sam relayed Washington’s earlier visit. “He wasted no time making good on his threat. If he thinks he can—”
The Other Side of Darkness Page 11
