Best Friends Forever

by Margot Hunt

  “Did anyone see you at the beach? Maybe in the parking lot?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t see anyone. It was late by then, after ten. I stopped to wonder if it was stupid to walk in the dark by myself, but ironically enough, I decided it would be safe because it was Jupiter Island, where there’s hardly any crime.” I laughed without humor. “It would almost be funny if the whole thing hadn’t turned into this nightmare.”

  Grace didn’t smile back. She continued taking notes on her yellow notepad. “I’ll have my investigator look into whether there were any cameras at the beach parking lot. That would verify your alibi.”

  “I can’t believe the police honestly think I’d kill Howard,” I said. “What would be my motive? I didn’t even know him very well. Kat’s the one I was friends with.”

  “My guess? They don’t think you’re guilty, but they’re hoping that by arresting you, they’ll put enough pressure on you that you’ll agree to testify against your friend.”

  “But that’s horrific,” I exclaimed. “They’re putting me through this just to coerce me?”

  “The police don’t always play fair,” Grace said. She looked up at me, her pretty eyes keen and focused. “What else can you tell me?”

  I told her the rest—about John Donnelly’s proffered bribe, Thomas Wyeth’s veiled threats. I even told her about my talk with Marcia Grable and her belief that Kat was a sociopath.

  “Do you agree with her?” Grace asked.

  I shrugged, suddenly feeling exhausted. “A few weeks ago, I would have said no way. But now, who knows?”

  “The police arrested you at least in part because they found out Kat Grant had given you a large amount of money,” Grace pointed out. “I’m sure she wasn’t the one who told them that. It would make her look guilty. If you pay someone to kill for you, it’s still considered first-degree murder.”

  I shook my head. “That money had nothing to do with any of this. I wish I had never accepted it.”

  “Is there anything else you can think of?”

  “The witness who claims he saw Howard pushed off the balcony,” I said. “He’s the only reason the police think Howard was killed. If he’s lying or mistaken, they don’t have a case. I think he might be the key here.”

  Grace nodded and jotted down another note. “We’ll find out who this supposed witness is and then check his bank records.”

  “You think someone paid him off?”

  “Maybe. It’s worth checking out.”

  “But who would do that? The Wyeths have the means to pay off anyone, but like you said, how does that benefit Kat? If they think I killed Howard because Kat paid me to, that would put Kat in legal jeopardy.” I considered this. “Unless that’s the point? What if someone set me up because they want to hurt Kat?”

  “Who would do that?”

  “I have no idea. Everyone loves Kat. Well, except for Marcia Grable. And Kat’s sister-in-law.”

  Grace took off her glasses and pressed her fingers to her temples.

  “Is that information overload?”

  Grace smiled. “No, but the reality of my job—and that of any other defense attorney—is that we like simple narratives. They’re easier to sell to juries. All these speculations and crosshatches and conspiracy theories don’t make for a clean defense.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “No, don’t be. I asked you to tell me everything. It’s just that there’s more than I anticipated. But don’t worry. I’ll sift through it and find the right narrative for us going forward.”

  Her words, which made her sound like a political commentator spinning on a cable news show, had a chilling effect.

  “I don’t want a narrative,” I said. “I want the truth to come out.”

  Grace looked almost amused. “I think you need to understand something. It’s not my job to find out the truth about who killed Howard Grant. In fact, I don’t care who, if anyone, killed him. It’s up to the state’s attorney to make a case that you’re guilty of the crime, and it’s my job to blow as many holes in their evidence and arguments as I can. Our only objective here is to get you an acquittal, and keep you out of prison. Do you understand?”

  It was the most reassuring thing she could have said to me.

  I nodded. “I’m sure you’ll do a great job.”

  * * *

  I was right. I didn’t sleep that night. The pod was too loud, even when the doors weren’t clanking open and shut. I could hear the other prisoners talking and coughing and crying. Kayla had a nightmare that caused her to thrash around her bunk and mumble incoherently. But even if it had been quiet, I couldn’t have gotten comfortable on the thin foam acting as my mattress. However I positioned myself, rolling from one side to the other, my body would start to ache from the lack of support and cold metal below the mat. And the terrible smell seemed to have infiltrated everything—my hair, my polyester scrubs, my nostrils.

  By the time the morning dawned, looking gray and bleak through the tinted windows of the pod, I was exhausted and my brain felt foggy. I had already learned that we ate all our meals in the pod. Breakfast consisted of a tray of lukewarm oatmeal, a bruised banana and a small plastic cup of something that purported to be orange juice. I ate with a subdued Kayla at one of the round tables. No one spoke to either of us. I couldn’t swallow the oatmeal, which stuck in my throat, but I drank the juice and nibbled at the flavorless banana.

  Grace had told me that my first appearance would take place that morning, but she had neglected to tell me that I wouldn’t be transported to the courthouse, as I had assumed. Instead bail hearings took place at the jail via a video hookup similar to the Skype program that Liam and Bridget used to talk to their grandparents.

  Liam and Bridget. I could almost keep it together as long as I didn’t think of my children. It was bad enough that I had been taken away from them for one night. What if I was convicted and kept away from them for twenty years or more? The thought caused the bile in my stomach to churn as another wave of nausea swept over me. I swallowed, willing myself not to throw up, as I was led into the room where video court was held.

  I was told to sit, along with eight detainees of both genders—including the tattooed man who’d waggled his tongue at me the day before—on a row of chairs set up behind a podium. In the front of the room was a television on a rolling cart with a camera mounted on top. We could see Judge Wilkinson, a heavyset man with dark hair and an extravagant mustache, enter the courtroom. He took his seat at the bench and began calling up the cases one at a time. Most of the charges were drug related, along with one assault and a DUI. All of them were represented by the public defender on duty.

  When it was my turn to appear before the Skype judge, I was escorted to the podium, where I was joined by Grace. She looked sharp and well rested and was dressed in a sharply tailored navy skirt suit. I felt shabby standing next to her in my unshowered state, wearing the same prison scrubs I’d slept in.

  “Case number 16-00756, State versus Alice Campbell, one count...capital murder,” the judge said. He perked up a bit at the severity of the charge and looked at me. “Are you Alice Campbell?”

  “Yes.”

  “And is this your attorney?” Judge Wilkinson asked.

  “Yes. Grace Williams for the defendant, your honor.”

  “Ms. Campbell, do you understand the charges that have been brought against you?”

  I glanced at Grace. She nodded.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And are you planning to proceed with Ms. Williams as your attorney, or do you need one appointed to you by the court?”

  “I’ve hired Ms. Williams to represent me,” I said. “I don’t need a court-appointed lawyer.”

  “What is the state’s position on bail?” Judge Wilkinson asked.

  The state’s attorney on duty, a serious young man weari
ng an ill-fitting suit and a tie that looked like it had been borrowed from his father, stepped forward. This was probably his first job out of law school.

  “Your honor, due to the seriousness of the charges and the threat to the community that the defendant poses, the state believes that Alice Campbell should be held without bail.”

  “What?” Grace exclaimed.

  The judge turned his head in her direction. “Ms. Williams, what do you have to say?”

  “First of all, the charges against Mrs. Campbell are ludicrous,” Grace stated in a strong, clear voice. “The state didn’t even have enough evidence against Alice Campbell to be granted an arrest warrant, so they instead arrested her on trumped-up probable cause. The reality is that they don’t have a case. There is not one single scrap of physical evidence tying Alice Campbell to the death of Howard Grant. It’s our position that the police arrested Mrs. Campbell in what is a frankly despicable attempt to frighten her into cooperating with the police investigation.”

  The state’s attorney looked shaken by the force of Grace’s argument.

  “Your honor, the state believes very strongly in the, um, strength of our case,” he said, his voice high and unsure.

  “What case?” Grace shot back. “Name one shred of evidence you have that proves my client committed this crime.”

  “Simmer down,” Judge Wilkinson said. “Counselor, as you know, we don’t deal with probable cause issues at a first appearance. You’ll need to take that up with the felony judge. File your motion and have it set there. We’re dealing strictly with the issue of bail. I take it you are arguing that your client qualifies?”

  “Yes, your honor,” Grace said. “Alice Campbell is a model citizen. She’s a married mother of two, has a PhD in mathematics and is a notable writer. Most important, she does not have a single prior arrest or conviction. She owns a home, and all of her ties are to this community. She is deeply motivated to prove her innocence in this case.”

  “Your honor,” the state’s attorney started to say, but the judge raised a hand.

  “Save it,” he said. “I’m setting bail at $500,000, cash or bond. Surrender your passport. Next.”

  Grace smiled, pleased at her victory. I was reeling at the astronomical number. I was pretty sure our house wasn’t worth $500,000, even without the mortgage on it.

  “That went well,” Grace whispered as we turned away.

  “Did it? That’s a lot of money!”

  “Everything’s all set. Your bond has already been arranged—”

  “It has?” I was confused. Grace had already explained the way bonds worked, and that Todd would not have to come up with the entire $500,000. Still, he would have to make a substantial deposit to a bail bondsman. Where would he have found the money to do that? Our finances had certainly improved, but we weren’t flush.

  “It will take a few hours for them to process you out of here. We’ll speak tomorrow,” Grace said, and then she turned and strode off before I could ask her any more questions.

  I was told to sit back down while the remaining detainees had their video appearances. Once we had all been processed, the officers took us back to our pods.

  It was excruciating being stuck in my pod without any word on what was going on or how much longer it would be until I was allowed to leave. There was nothing to do other than listen to the never-ending blare of bad daytime television intermingled with the endless complaints of my fellow pod mates. They carped on and on about how bad the food was or how uncaring their families were or how incompetent their attorneys were, and they did so loudly and enthusiastically. I longed for a comfortable bed and a few hours of quiet away from this noise so I could rest and clear my thoughts.

  Then finally, just when I didn’t think I could stand the interminable boredom for one more minute, a guard showed up.

  “Alice Campbell, come on down,” the guard said in a bored voice.

  She escorted me to the same room where I’d been processed upon arrival. She cut my wristband off and gave me back the clothes I’d arrived in. I changed and was then escorted down a hallway, through several sets of the sliding metallic doors clanging open and then shut behind me. Finally I was decanted into the lobby, a depressing space filled with rows of industrial chairs welded together at the base, and walls decorated with posters advocating the benefits of drug rehabilitation.

  And then I saw him. Todd was standing there, looking so familiar and safe. Unexpected tears stung my eyes. Todd held his arms open as I rushed to him. He pulled me close so that my cheek was pressed against his shoulder. I hugged him back fiercely. I couldn’t remember the last time we had clung to one another like this.

  The day Meghan died, probably.

  “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life,” I said, my voice muffled against his chest.

  “I didn’t want to bring Liam and Bridget,” he said. “I hope that was the right decision.”

  “Thank God you didn’t. I wouldn’t want them to see me in here, to see me like this.” I thought again about what would happen if I were convicted, if I had to spend the rest of my life in prison, and I sagged in my husband’s arms. If he hadn’t been there, holding me up, I might have collapsed under the weight of my fatigue and strain and fear.

  “Thank you for getting me out,” I said, looking up at him. He had tears in his eyes, too. “How did you afford the bond?”

  Todd hesitated and drew back. “There’s something I have to talk to you about,” he said, keeping his voice low. His face looked tense and worried. “I’m pretty sure you’re not going to like it.”

  “It can’t be worse than being arrested for murder and spending a night in jail,” I said weakly.

  Todd smiled, but it didn’t erase the concern shining in his eyes. “Probably not quite that bad.”

  Todd stepped to one side, putting a supportive hand on my lower back. I saw then that he hadn’t come alone to the police station, after all.

  “Hello, Alice,” my mother said.

  25

  I hadn’t seen my mother in over three years. Meeting her in the waiting area at the Martin County Jail was surreal, especially after everything I’d been through over the past twenty-four hours.

  “Ebbie?” I said blankly.

  My mother—Elizabeth Sheehy, née Conners, known to one and all as Ebbie—smiled, her eyebrows arcing. “What kind of a greeting is that? Come give me a hug.”

  She held out her arms. She was wearing the flowing clothing she’d always favored. A long tunic over an even longer skirt, both in a purple-and-gray bohemian print. I moved woodenly toward her and allowed her to put her arms around me. She leaned back to eye me.

  “You look terrible,” she concluded.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t be like that. You know what I mean.”

  “I’ve been in jail, Ebbie,” I said. “Not a spa.”

  My mother looked great, but then, she always did. Ebbie had been a beauty when she was young, with her luminous, faintly freckled skin and long, thick red hair. Even now that she was well into her sixties, and her hair was streaked with gray, she was still a striking woman. Annoyingly, she had always discounted her genetic good fortune and insisted that her appearance was the result of whatever her fad du jour was practicing—like Buddhism or guided meditation or chakra alignment.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I heard you’d been arrested, so I flew down late last night.”

  “Ebbie put up the money for your bond,” Todd told me quietly.

  I glanced at my mother. “You did?”

  “Why do you sound so surprised? You’re my only daughter. And besides, I have a very generous heart. People are always telling me that.”

  I wasn’t shocked that she would want to help. My mother, for all her faults, had never been miserly. I’d just never known
her to have much money. Perhaps a hand-thrown pottery studio was more lucrative than I’d thought.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I said. “Thank you.”

  My mother squeezed my arm. “Don’t mention it. And I don’t want you to worry about a thing. I plan on staying with you throughout this entire ordeal. Now, let’s get you home. You look like you could use a shower.”

  She hooked her arm through mine and pulled me toward the glass front doors. I was so tired, I let myself be swept along, even as her words started to sink in. I looked back at Todd, trying to communicate silently, What was that she just said about staying with us throughout? I saw my dismay mirrored in his expression.

  I’m so sorry, he mouthed.

  * * *

  I fell asleep in the car on the forty-five-minute trip home. I awoke just as Todd turned onto our street. There were three news vans parked in front of our house.

  “What are they doing here?” I asked.

  The reporters and their cameramen had been milling around, chatting with one another or tapping on their phones. But as soon as they saw our car approach, they quickly mobilized. The reporters swarmed toward Todd’s Honda Accord, yelling out questions, while the cameramen hoisted bulky cameras to their shoulders and began to shoot footage of my homecoming. Todd ignored them and pressed the button to open the garage door. While we waited for it to rise, I could hear them calling out.

  “Why did you kill Howard Grant?”

  “Did Katherine Grant pay you to kill him?”

  “Are you and Katherine Grant lovers?”

  I looked up at this last one, shocked by the suggestion.

  “Ignore them,” Todd said, pulling into the garage and closing the automatic door.

  “Did you hear what that reporter just asked me?” I demanded. “What the hell is going on?”

  Todd looked grim. “Your arrest has been a big story.”

  “It’s how I found out,” Ebbie piped up from the back seat. “I saw it on the internet when I logged on to my email. Children’s Writer Arrested for Murder. I almost fell out of my seat when I saw your picture! Who is this Kat person, anyway?” She lowered her voice to a breathless hush. “Were you lovers?”