Judge Reiner raised his eyebrow at me. “Ms. Ross, you’re playing a game, as I see it. Everyone currently in this courtroom knows that your client killed her mother, yet you’re trying to play a game to see if you can prove to the jury that she didn’t. That’s your right, of course, because the prosecutor does have the burden of proof, but that doesn’t make what you’re doing any more above-board. Because you’re playing a game, I’ll let Mr. Malloy go ahead and play a game as well. Maybe it will force your hand, I don’t know. I’ll allow the questioning of this witness, but I have to warn you, Mr. Malloy, not to stray too much. My patience is wearing thin with every passing minute.”
“Fine,” I said. “Be careful what you wish for, Vince. That’s all I’m saying.”
Judge Reiner called everybody back, and the jury came back in and Reverend Scott walked slowly back to the stand.
“I would like to remind you that you are still under oath,” Judge Reiner said to the Reverend. “You may proceed, Mr. Malloy.”
“Okay. Your church, Reverend Scott, preaches the gospel, right? Do your sermons ever devolve into what many would consider to be persecution against certain groups?”
“No. Our church only preaches peace and love and forgiveness. Our church believes that everybody on this earth are God’s children, and God loves everyone equally. Jesus was about love and forgiveness and non-judgment, and that’s what our church stresses above everything else.”
I watched the jury as they listened to this guy, and I saw them beaming and nodding along. I shook my head, seeing that this Reverend was spouting lies and he was getting away with it.
“Does your church counsel that women are lesser than men, and that they should stay with abusers if they are married to them?”
“Absolutely not. Women have full equality with men, and our church recognizes that. We would never counsel a woman to stay in an abusive situation.”
“Does your church advocate that slavery is a good thing?”
“Absolutely not. Never. I told you, our church is only based upon the gospel. Christ was not in favor of slavery, he was in favor of equality, and he was in favor of loving thy neighbor and turning the other cheek. Those are the values we preach.”
Vince nodded his head. “And Ms. Morrison was a member of your church, so she was absorbing all of these lessons.” Then he turned to look at me and Heather. “I have nothing further.”
I scribbled on a yellow pad of paper, trying to figure out how to proceed with this guy. I could cross-examine him about all the things that I heard him say in front of his congregants, but he was just going to lie and make me and Heather look bad. Unfortunately, he was an excellent liar. I could see on the faces of the jury that they believed his every word. If I got up there and asked him about what his church was really about, I was bound to look unhinged. The only thing that I could possibly do to make this guy look like the bigot and murderer that he was was to bring in church members to testify. Trouble is, they had all gone into hiding, at least the ones that I found who were willing to tell the truth.
I had a sickening feeling in my belly as I realized how Vince played me. Played everyone. He was going to close off my one avenue that might have made the difference, and that was showing the jury that this Reverend was the head of a sick cult that commanded the killing of gay children. At this point, I really had nothing at all.
This ship was going down. Hard.
And there was nothing that I could do about it.
“Ms. Ross,” Judge Reiner said. “Do you have anything for this witness?”
“No, your honor.”
And I sat down.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
After I left the courtroom, I knew that I had to do something to keep me from taking a drink. The first day couldn’t have gone worse. All the witnesses, both friends of Connie and friends of Heather, portrayed Heather as a rather violent person who was constantly saying that she wanted to kill her mother and wished that her mother was dead. Heather cut off her own hair in front of witnesses and screamed about it, which made her look bat-shit nuts. Heather shoved her mother down to the ground in front of people.
And that Reverend, the one person who I considered my Ace in the hole, if I decided to put Heather on the stand and make my case for self-defense, came off as saintly as Christ himself on the stand. I wished that the jury could look up that church’s website for themselves, but, of course, they were commanded not to do so. They weren’t allowed to do any kind of independent research on anything they heard.
“Pearl,” I said, calling her from my car. “Did Fred have any luck at all with finding those church witnesses?” I had only found two who were willing to tell the truth about the church, and I had subpoenaed both of them. I had exhaustively tried to talk to just about everyone I saw in that church, but none of them were willing to testify, and all of them told me that, if I called them, they would flat-out lie. They were terrified of what the Reverend would do to them. Plus, there were plenty of congregants who were so brain-washed that they really didn’t think that there was anything wrong in that church, but they weren’t willing to tell the truth, either.
The good thing was, Vince opened the door to the church-goers testimony. Their testimony wasn’t relevant, really, because it wouldn’t show that Connie herself was brainwashed into killing Heather, it only would show that the church had the message of hatred and murdering and that the congregants were fed that. But I could use them to impeach the Reverend.
“Fred couldn’t find them,” Pearl said. “They’ve apparently gone into deep hiding.”
I sighed. Vince was about to wrap up his evidence, anyhow, which would mean that I would have to get these witnesses on the stand tomorrow, probably. By the day after tomorrow, for sure. I didn’t see that happening.
I felt sick.
And defeated.
“I need to go,” I said. And then I called Sophia. “Sophia, can you please watch the girls tonight? I need to have some time to myself. I need to get out of my headspace.”
As I drove along, I passed by one bar after another, and the need to go into them was strong. Not just to drink, although I craved that, too. But also to lose myself in there. To hear the music, to feel the crowds, to become anonymous. I wouldn’t be the loser attorney who was going to blow a major case. I wouldn’t be the one who would feel forever guilty, wondering if my incompetence caused an innocent client to go to prison. I would just be another bar-goer.
I hung up the phone and drove up to one of the bars.
I was just going to go in there and not have a drink.
Which is what I always told myself before.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I walked into Manifesto, which was a bar on the edge of Downtown, Kansas City, but was more towards Midtown, as it was on the corner of 19th and Main. When I walked in, I knew that this was the place for me. The walls were made of rugged stone, the pipes were partially exposed, the floors looked unfinished, and the entire place was lit up with candles and soft, very soft, overhead lighting. Yet the tables and chairs were high-dollar, as the tables were solid wood and the chairs were white leather, with gold studs up and down the backs. The entire place was designed to look like a speakeasy, which was emphasized by the menus, which were printed to look like a typewriter and had a 1930s feel. I had actually read about this bar in various magazines, and I knew that it used to be an underground speakeasy, and that Al Capone and Tom Pendergast had frequented this place back in the day. Kansas City, in general, was a hub for the mobsters during prohibition, and had a rich history where that was concerned, and this place was apparently at the center of it all.
The bar had a relaxed atmosphere, and the bartenders were dressed formally, so I felt like this was a place where grown-ups went.
The waitress came around. “What can I bring you?”
“A seltzer water,” I said, my heart racing. I was tempting fate by being here, and it was taking everything I had, every bit of will-power, to not or
der what I really wanted, which was a shot of the best bourbon they had. But I couldn’t go there. I had too much on the line.
“Would you like a twist of lime?”
“Please.”
I looked around, feeling comforted by the place, yet despairing all the same. Despairing because I could feel Heather’s case slipping through my fingers. Nothing was going right. I was blind-sided by the insurance agent, and both Connie and Heather’s friends painted a grim picture. One thing was for sure, Vince was meeting his burden of proof, so I was going to have no choice but to put Heather on the stand and try for self-defense, which was my original plan, but the absence of the butcher knife meant that our self-defense claim was going down in flames.
Yet I felt a strange sense of comfort, too. I saw people all around me, laughing and drinking and having a good time, and it somehow reminded me that there was still a world going on around me. There was still a chance that I could become one of these happy people again. Get Heather behind me, try to move on, and perhaps really, truly, find another line of law that could make me happy.
The waitress came around, and I decided to tempt fate again. “Thank you,” I said. “I would also like a Classic Stinger,” I said, referring to a drink that was made with Cognac and Crème de Menthe.
“Thank you,” the waitress said. “I’ll be right back with that.”
The challenge, of course, was to order this drink and have it sit on the table without me drinking any of it at all. Just like when I used to carry around a bottle of Jack Daniels in my car, which made me prove to myself that I was stronger than the drink, I was going to have to prove it now, too.
I decided to call Axel on a whim. “Axel,” I said. “I’m down at Manifesto. Are you free? Can you join me?”
“I’d love to,” he said. “I just got off work myself. But what are you doing in a bar?”
“Reliving old times.” The waitress came around and put the Stinger on my table, and I just stared at it for several minutes. I closed my eyes and imagined how it would go down – smooth and bitter and sweet. All at the same time. Cognac had the bite, the crème de menthe had the smoothness and sweetness. I imagined the sensation on my tongue, and the rush that it would bring to my mind.
I imagined myself forgetting everything that had happened. All it would take would be downing a few of these drinks. I could smell it, and I could tell that this drink was stiff, as stiff as a shot of Kentucky bourbon, and probably just as potent.
As I sat there, the place started to fill up. This was one of hottest bars in the city, because people were attracted to the atmosphere and the crafted cocktails. Crafted cocktails were really an art form – this place was so much more than an ordinary place that used pre-made mixes in their drinks. On the menu, under the heading “Relevant Terms,” were such things as Cynar, which was billed as “An Italian bitter liqueur made with 13 herbs and plants;” Falernum, which was apparently a liqueur imported from Barbados, consisting of lime, almond, ginger and clove; Crème de Cassis, which came from pummeling black currants; and several liqueurs which were billed as being developed by various sects of monks.
I closed my eyes, willing myself to not order all these wonderful-sounding liqueurs. That was a thing with me – I was always curious, always adventurous, always wanting to try new experiences. The drink menu at this place fascinated me to no end, and I was dying to try so many different things.
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t, and I wasn’t going to. Rina and Abby’s lives depended on my staying sober.
So did Heather’s.
I looked up and saw Axel walking through the door. I smiled and waved my seltzer water in the air towards him.
He sat down and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “How are you? And what is this?” He pointed to the Stinger and raised an eyebrow at me.
“This is my temptation. My siren song. I have to periodically show myself that I can be stronger than the drink, and that’s what I’m doing right now. Well, that and I’m also hiding out. Today did not go well, to say the very least.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that,” Axel said. “What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. I had always found failure difficult to talk about, and that was today was – a big, fat, failure. “How are things going with you? Are you any closer to making an arrest in that church?”
Axel shook his head. “These church members are buttoned up, I’ll tell you that. So far, I only have the testimony of that gay kid who survived his mother’s attack. Nobody else will come forth and say what’s going on. I know what you told me, that the Reverend preaches hate from the pulpit, but apparently he hasn’t openly called for killing gay kids from the pulpit, at least not according to the investigators I’ve sent over there to find out what’s going on. I wish I had more.”
“What about sending those investigators to go back and talk to the Reverend one-on-one? Have them tell the Reverend that their kid is gay and see what he says? Have them wear a wire?”
“I’ve attempted that, but the Reverend isn’t stupid. He will only privately counsel members who have been with the church for at least a year. Apparently, it’s in those private counseling sessions that the Reverend lays down the law on these parents. He’s a slippery one, but we’ll get him.”
I nodded my head and drank my seltzer water. The ice in my Stinger was melting, and I had to pinch myself not to take a drink. “Go ahead and order what you want,” I said. “And maybe we can grab a bite later on.”
“You sure?”
“Of course, I am. Truth be told, a lot of the reason why I decided to come to this bar is that I need to be able to live my life normally. That means that I need to be able to come to a bar to meet my friends, or my sisters, or you, and be able to be around this stuff. I’m not going to lie, it’s tough. Especially after a day like today. A day where I feel like I went 12 rounds in a boxing ring and still lost. Tomorrow is another day, though, as they say.”
“Harper, you’re strong,” he said. “You can do this.” At that, he ordered a “Pendergast,” which consisted of bourbon, sweet vermouth, liqueur and bitters.
The waitress brought the drink around and the two of us lifted our glasses. “Cheers,” I said.
“Cheers to you,” he said. “And here’s to tomorrow’s day in court being better than today.”
I smiled. “So, where would you like to grab something?” I asked him.
“What about Lidia’s?”
Lidia’s was a restaurant that was in the Freight House District of Kansas City, right by the Union Station. It was an enormous restaurant that was located in an old railroad house, so the ceilings were about fifty feet high, which gave the entire restaurant the feel of being almost open-air. The brick walls and wood beams on the ceilings made it seem intimate, however, and it was one of my favorite places to go.
Lidia herself was a celebrity chef from New York City, Lidia Bastianich, who was born in Italy, and she had only a few restaurants around the country. Kansas City was privileged to be one of the locations that she chose to open a place.
“Well, let’s finish up here,” I said, suddenly realizing that I was starving. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, because I was working all through lunch. That was the thing about trial work – it generally killed my appetite. “What are we waiting for?”
We both finished our drinks and agreed to meet at the restaurant.
I felt a sense of accomplishment as I walked out of the bar – I had made it through without taking even a sip of alcohol. A year ago, I certainly couldn’t have done that.
Maybe I was going to be okay after all.
DINNER WENT EXTREMELY WELL. I felt myself relax, more and more, as the night wore on. The restaurant was unbelievably elegant, with the white table cloths, candles and open-air atmosphere. I ordered the Pollo al Limone, which was basically chicken scallopine with lemons, capers and olive oil, while Axel ordered the Bistecca, which was a bone-in rib-eye, served with broccoli rabe, roasted tomatoes a
nd garlic mashed potatoes.
I was dying for a glass of wine, too, because I hadn’t ever come to this place without polishing off a bottle of wine all by myself. Yet, I resisted the temptation.
And the food was…there were no words. Magnificent. Divine. There was really nothing that I liked more than good comfort food, and this place supplied it in spades.
I was kinda liking the company, too. No, that was a lie. I was falling for Axel, hard. I had to admit that to myself. Falling hard and deep. I hadn’t really allowed myself to ever fall for anybody, not in my 35 years, yet I was with this guy.
The end of the evening was capped off with the two of us walking to the Union Station to check it out. This was a beautiful building, probably the most beautiful in Kansas City, and it was definitely one of the most iconic – postcards of the city usually featured the Union Station in one way or another, and it was usually the only image on these postcards.
The building had 95 feet ceilings and it encompassed almost a million square feet. The windows to the building were enormous arches that were easily 50 feet themselves. The ceilings were painted mosaics from which 20-foot chandeliers hung. This train station was a grand old lady, and, even though trains weren’t a major mode of transportation for Kansas City anymore, it did house the Amtrak station. The pictures on the walls told the story, though – at one time, this station was a major hub, and thousands of people would stream through the doors to catch one train or another.
Harper Ross Legal Thrillers vol. 1-3 Page 29
