by Julie Cannon
“Do you know your girlfriend is an ex-con? A murderer?” Conway said to Leigh.
Leigh didn’t answer, the shocked look on her face obvious she didn’t.
“Hmm.” Conway’s sleazy eyes slid over Leigh’s body. “Didn’t know she was a bad girl? Oh, yeah, she was very bad.” Conway laughed, but it sounded more like a bark. “Do you come here often?”
“Do you?”
“I said I’m asking the questions, doll.”
“And I said I’m not your doll or your honey. If you want an answer, you ask me respectfully.”
“My, my, Peyton. She’s a spitfire. I’ll bet that’s exciting,” he added, his eyes roaming over Leigh’s body.
Peyton’s anger rose even higher. “All right, Conway. You’re here. Do your thing and leave.”
“I think maybe we’ll just sit and chat for a while,” he said, settling his large girth onto the couch. “That is if you’re done sitting on her face.”
“That’s enough!” Peyton said, raising her voice. “You come in here and give me your shit, not to the people that are here. She’s leaving.”
“She’s not leaving until I say she’s leaving,” Conway said menacingly. “While your girlfriend’s here,” he said, tossing something to Peyton, “piss in the cup.”
“What?” Peyton said, instinctively catching the sterile urine container.
“I’m sure she’s seen your girl parts. Let’s see what kind of party ya’ll got going on.”
Rage boiled inside Peyton. She never thought she could kill again, but right now she wasn’t so sure.
“You know the drill,” Conway said, not taking his eyes off Leigh.
“Yes, I do, and it does not include doing it in front of you.” She was required to have an observed uranalysis, but only at an authorized facility.
“You are subject to random drug tests wherever and whenever I choose. And I choose now. And while we’re at it, blow,” he said, holding out the portable breathalyzer. “What’s a party without a little brew?”
Peyton had never been so enraged and humiliated in her life. Conway was a prick. That was a given. She’d always wondered how far he’d go, and she doubted this was it.
“Leigh, you need to go.” Peyton struggled to keep her anger in check.
“Peyton—”
“He has no reason or authority to keep you. Please go.”
Leigh gave Conway a long, hard look before doing the same to Peyton. Peyton couldn’t meet her eyes, humiliated that Leigh had seen this. Leigh walked by Peyton, touching her arm as she did. Peyton heard the door close behind her.
“She’s quite a looker, Broader.”
Peyton didn’t comment. She refused to engage him in conversation, and certainly not about Leigh.
“I think you’ve got something on your chin there,” he said, rubbing his own with his middle finger.
Peyton resisted the temptation to put her hands to her face. Knowing Conway, it was a ruse to rattle her. “All right. You’ve had your fun, and at my expense, Conway. Now trash my house and leave.”
Conway stood up. “Not till I see you piss.”
There was absolutely no way Peyton would degrade herself even more in front of this man. She didn’t care about the consequences, so she just stood there and stared at him.
Long moments later she was still standing in the same place, her eyes never leaving his. Conway, however, had looked away first and was starting to squirm. Peyton knew she’d won. But at what cost?
Peyton tossed the container to the floor at his feet. She saw the little wheels turn in his head and wondered what his plan was to get out of this standoff he’d gotten them into.
“You bitch,” Conway snarled before hurling himself at Peyton, driving her into the wall, his big body knocking the breath out of her. He flipped her over on her stomach and handcuffed her wrists so tight she had to bite her lip from crying out in pain. He grabbed them and pulled her to her feet, the angle of her arms behind her almost dislocating her shoulder. He spun her around, and when she saw the look in his eyes, Peyton knew he wasn’t finished with her.
Conway’s fist connected with her cheek, and Peyton staggered backward. He hit her again, and Peyton felt her cheek spilt under the force. She fell into the chair, blinking a few times to clear her head. For a fat slob, Conway packed a powerful punch. But in her defenseless position it wasn’t difficult.
As he loomed over her, the excitement in his eyes frightened her. He grabbed the front of her shirt with both hands and pulled her up.
“We’ll add resisting arrest,” he said, and punched her in the stomach.
Peyton buckled to the floor.
Chapter Thirty
Leigh was stunned. She was sitting in her car trying to make sense of what had just happened. Peyton had a parole officer? She knew what that meant. But what the fuck for? She had no experience with this type of situation, no idea what rights parole officers had and what Peyton was required to do. She was still trying to wrap her head around the fact that Peyton was a convicted felon.
A shaft of pain stabbed her as she recalled the look on Peyton’s face when he had tossed the urinalysis cup at her. Peyton had told her to go home, but she couldn’t. She definitely couldn’t go back inside. That would be like throwing gas on a fire. Leigh decided to wait until he left, then go back and check on Peyton.
She didn’t have her watch, but her phone was in the back pocket of her pants. She scrolled to her Sent calls and saw that only five minutes had passed since she called the police, and she had no idea how long he’d be up there or how long she should wait.
Peyton’s front door opened, a shaft of light spilling out into the dark night. Leigh instinctively slid down in the seat so as not to be seen, which was ridiculous because her car was parked beside Peyton’s truck.
Peyton stepped out, the man behind her. When he closed the door, he took all the light with him. Leigh couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Peyton’s hands were handcuffed behind her back. Could he do that? What had she done to warrant being treated that way?
Leigh had no idea. All she knew about the judicial system was what she saw on Law and Order, and even she was aware that justice wasn’t served up in a tidy little bow in sixty minutes. Peyton stumbled, and the man yanked her to her feet by her hands. Leigh’s simmering anger turned into rage. Peyton was unsteady on her feet as the man practically threw her into the backseat of his car. He hurried around to the driver’s side and drove off.
Leigh didn’t know what to do. Should she follow him? Where would he take Peyton? To his office, the police station, or some secluded place? It would be ridiculous to follow him. She knew nothing about how to do that. The headlights from her car would be a dead giveaway that she was behind them.
She couldn’t get involved in this. Peyton was…was what? It wasn’t like they were together. She didn’t need this kind of complication in her life. The last thing she needed was to have her name linked to a convicted felon.
Leigh pulled up Google on her phone and typed in Peyton’s name. The first two articles were ones she had read before, but the third caught her attention.
NCAA Player of the Year Sentenced to Fifteen Years
Peyton Broader, twenty-two, three-time NCAA golfer of the year and LPGA rookie phenom, was sentenced today to fifteen years in Nelson Correctional Institute for Women for the murder of Norman Chandler.
Broader, after lengthy discussions with the district attorney determined to make an example of her, pleaded guilty to voluntary manslaughter for the May third shooting of Chandler in his front yard. Chandler, age 64, residing in the eighty-two hundred block of Thomas Street, had been arrested and charged with the kidnapping and sexual assault of a nine-year-old girl. Privacy rights of the victim prohibit The Republic from disclosing the victim’s name; however, sources to the case told The Republic that Chandler’s victim was Broader’s younger sister.
Allegedly, Chandler grabbed the victim on her way home from school on a bright
, sunny day and held her in an undisclosed location for three days until she managed to escape. Investigators confiscated a videotape of the alleged assault, with Chandler and the victim clearly visible, leaving little doubt of a jury guilty verdict.
Broader, however, took justice into her own hands late the evening of May third, confronting Chandler as he stepped out his front door. Neighbors said they heard what sounded like a shot but, when they looked out their windows, didn’t see anything unusual.
Detective Ruth Smallsreed, of the Phoenix Police Department Homicide Squad, stated that, “After a brief investigation, it became clear that Peyton Christine Broader pulled the trigger. She was arrested at her home on May fourth at 10:30 am on suspicion of murder in the first degree. Broader offered no resistance when she was taken into custody.”
When reached for comment, Chandler’s family continued to deny that he had any involvement in the alleged kidnapping and assault on the nine-year-old girl. They stated he was home with them watching television when the alleged assault occurred. Attempts to contact Peyton Broader or other members of the Broader family went unanswered. Broader was immediately taken into custody and will serve her sentence at the Nelson Correctional Institute for Women.
Leigh flopped back into her chair, stunned. “Holy fuck.” She enlarged the picture to the right of the article. It was definitely Peyton, albeit much younger.
A fourth link led Leigh to a very liberal, free newspaper.
The police department is tight-lipped about this case, as is the district attorney’s office, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put the pieces together. Allegedly, and this reporter uses this term loosely, Chandler assaulted Broader’s little sister, and she took it upon herself to be judge, jury, and executioner. As a result, Peyton Broader is trading her mortarboard and white doctor’s coat for prison gray. Another promising life wasted.
Leigh clicked on several more articles detailing the media storm of Peyton’s arrest. Supporters on either side were very vocal in their support for Peyton, and thousands of names on a petition to drop all charges were submitted to the district attorney’s office. Another group, much more radical, picketed her parents’ house and the courthouse for weeks after her arrest. Both sides were out again in full force the day of her sentencing.
“Holy Jesus.” Leigh’s heart raced. I’m her parole officer. The words kept echoing in her head as she sat in her car trying to wrap her thoughts around what she’d just found out. Peyton had killed someone. Leigh did the math. Peyton had spent nine years in prison.
The revelation stunned Leigh. She had no idea. Peyton hadn’t given any indication. Did you tell someone you’d committed murder before you had sex with them? Like if you had an STD? Leigh felt used. How long would Peyton have continued to hide her history from her? How many more times would she kiss Leigh, touch her, make love to her?
“Oh my God,” Leigh said, running her hand over her mouth, panic pushing all other emotions aside. What if I caught something from her? How in the hell had this happened? How had she missed the signs that Peyton was…was what? A loser?
A thousand awful thoughts raced through Leigh’s mind as she drove home. Emotionally and physically exhausted, she hardly paid any attention to the route to her house. She stumbled from the garage into her home, her hands shaking so badly she could barely unlock the door. She stepped inside, threw the deadbolt behind her, and slid to the floor.
Chapter Thirty-one
Someone was stomping on her head. Or at least that’s what it felt like, judging by the pounding behind her eyelids. Peyton opened her eye, blinked several times, but only the vision in her right eye was clear. She blinked a few more times before she figured out her left eye was swollen shut. She tentatively reached up and verified it was and felt stitches on her left cheekbone.
She tried to sit up, groaning at the pain in her stomach. With her good eye, she looked around and saw she was in a holding cell. The three other women there were looking at her curiously.
“I hope you gave him as good as you got,” one of the ladies said, indicating her battered face.
“What time is it?” Peyton asked no one in particular. Her throat was raw.
“It’s still before seven. They haven’t brought breakfast in yet.”
Peyton’s stomach rolled, the thought of food nauseating. Holding her head, she leaned against the wall, drawing her feet under her.
She didn’t remember much after Conway had tossed her into the backseat of his car. The emergency room was hazy, but she did remember the stitches hurting like hell, the doctor not using enough lidocaine to numb the area. That was probably Conway’s doing as well. She remembered leaning against the wall as her picture was taken and stumbling down a long hallway before being dumped unceremoniously in here.
Her head was foggy, the result of two or three too many hits, again courtesy of Conway. She was with it enough to hope it wouldn’t be too long before she could use the phone. She didn’t have to wait long before a pencil-thin, pimply faced guard with a military buzz cut yelled her name.
“Boarder, time for your phone call,” he said, mispronouncing her last name.
Peyton got up, fighting down a wave of nausea and dizziness as she shuffled toward the door. She stopped in front of him and turned around, her hands behind her back. He cuffed her, and she hissed in pain, the abrasions from Conway’s restraints raw on her wrists.
They walked down the hall, Peyton squinting through her good eye, trying to keep the harsh overhead lights from driving ice picks farther into her head. They passed through three secured doors before finally entering a small room with a long table bolted to the floor, several stools anchored in front of it. The room smelled like urine and despair.
The guard unlocked her handcuffs. “You’ve got five minutes.”
The man hadn’t showered, a distinctive odor emanating from him, and Peyton was grateful she couldn’t breathe out of her swollen nose. She picked up the phone and dialed.
“Bernie, it’s Peyton. I’m…” She turned to the guard. “Where am I?”
“Fourth Avenue jail.”
“I’m in the Fourth Avenue jail. Conway brought me in. I didn’t do anything, and I can prove it,” she said, putting her hand over the mouthpiece so the guard couldn’t hear. Bernie instructed her not to say anything to anyone and said he’d be over within the hour.
Peyton continued to talk as if Bernie was still on the line, drawing out her five minutes of freedom as long as she could.
“Time’s up,” the guard said and reached over and hung up the phone. If she were actually talking to someone she wouldn’t have had any chance to end the call.
She went back to the cell to wait for Bernie. The women didn’t hassle her, at least so far, but they would leave, and others would come in. Peyton hoped to be out of here by then.
Fifty minutes later, the same scrawny guard came in and, mispronouncing her name again, informed Peyton her attorney had arrived. Five minutes later, Peyton was seated across from him.
Bernard Lerner was in his mid-fifties, with more hair on his face than on his head. He was still tan and trim and didn’t lie to her.
“My God, Peyton, what happened?” Bernie asked, standing up when she walked into the room.
Peyton waited until her handcuffs were removed and the guard closed the door behind him, giving them the required attorney-client privacy.
“Conway, my P.O. I didn’t do anything, and I can prove it,” she said again, mumbling through her fat lip.
“What do you mean? Start at the beginning. Tell me what happened.”
Peyton skipped the part about her and Leigh and said, “I have cameras in my apartment. He’s come in and been an asshole before.”
“What?” Bernie exclaimed.
“Conway has come into my apartment and torn it up,” she repeated. “But nothing like last night.” Peyton waved at her face, then gave her attorney the full version of Conway’s nocturnal visits. “But I knew it would c
ome to this someday. I installed cameras in every room, controlled by an app on my phone. They feed into my laptop. Have Marcus give you a key, and get it before Conway does.”
Her attorney sat back in his chair, his pen still poised to take notes, the page on his yellow legal pad blank.
“Jesus, Peyton. This is bad.”
“I didn’t do anything,” she said again, almost pleading. Finally, after way too long, Bernie spoke.
“Conway’s petitioned to revoke your probation.”
Peyton protested again. “But I didn’t do anything.”
“He’s charged you with not complying with a mandatory drug test and resisting arrest.”
“He tossed me a pee cup and demanded I pee in front of him.”
“He can’t do that.” Bernie knew the terms and conditions of her parole.
“I know, and I wasn’t going to.” Peyton’s renewed anger made her head pound again. “As for resisting arrest, that’s also bullshit. He handcuffed me and started whaling on me. I never laid a hand on him. It’s all on the tape, Bernie. At least I hope to God it is.”
“Did anybody witness any of this?” When Peyton hesitated, he said, “Don’t lie to me.”
“I wasn’t alone, but she didn’t see him hit me. She was gone by then. She did see him toss the pee cup at me.”
Bernie poised his pen on the top line of the paper. “What’s her name?”
“I don’t want her involved.”
“She’s already involved, Peyton.”
“I don’t care.”
“Does he know who she is?”
Peyton replayed the conversation Leigh had had on the phone with the 9-1-1 dispatcher. “But I don’t want her involved,” she said again, adamant that Leigh not be dragged into this.
“What is her name, Peyton? I can subpoena the 9-1-1 records, but I don’t think you want me to do that. Then she’ll really be involved.”
