by A. W. Gray
On the way home she narrowly avoided three separate collisions, fighting the steering wheel and fishtailing through intersections. After she’d parked in her driveway, she ran across her yard as if on fire, stumbled and fell on the porch and painfully scraped her palms. Once in her bedroom and safely beneath the covers, she pulled the sheets up around her throat, lay wide awake, and shivered violently until dawn. As the sun peeked over the rooftops, Sharon Hays slept a tortured sleep and dreamed of killing a man.
39
The insistent ringing of the telephone shocked her awake. She stared at the ceiling without comprehension, then rolled onto her side and recoiled from the blinding sunlight which streamed in through the window. She rose on one elbow to look around at the familiar things: her heavy wooden dresser, her vanity, little spray bottles lined up in a neat row. Her own bedroom, her safest place.
The phone vibrated the walls with an ear-splitting jangle. She yawned and reached, placed the receiver against her ear and said sleepily, “Yes?”
“I was about two minutes away from calling the police,” Sheila Winston said. “Where have you—”
The police? Sharon thought. Why would anyone need the … ?
“—been all morning?”
Morning? she thought. Is it morning? “Right here,” she managed. “I’ve been asleep.”
“Well, you must have been—”
Sharon’s gaze fell on the dresser once more, and on the big revolver lying there, the—
“—drugged. I’ve been calling every fifteen minutes since nine, and I—”
—.44 Bulldog she’d carried last night when she’d … Oh, sweet Christ, I …
“—thought you were dead or something. Do you realize it’s after twelve?”
Dead? Sharon thought. No, I’m not dead, but the guy is, the man lying face-up with one eye missing, blood spattered on the wall and … She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, gagged, and swallowed bitter bile.
“Sharon?” Sheila said.
Sharon squinched her eyes tightly shut and forced herself to speak. “I was up late,” she said.
Sheila’s voice took on a teasing lilt. “Anyone I know?”
“No, I was … working.”
“That’s what I’m calling about,” Sheila said. “Are we getting together today?”
Through Sharon’s nausea, realization dawned. Work. She’d told Sheila that they’d meet over the weekend and discuss the expert testimony Sheila was to give in the Rathermore case. Midge Rathermore, the pitiful teenager whom Sharon was defending, the case which yesterday had been the most important thing in her life, but which now …
Sharon lowered her head. “Sheila, let me call you back, okay?”
“Does this mean we’re not meeting?”
“No, it—” Sharon simply had to remove the panic from her tone. Had to. “Tomorrow, Sheil, okay? I’ve got some things I have to do.”
Sheila sounded dubious. “Are you sure I shouldn’t come over there?”
“No,” Sharon said too urgently, then forced herself to speak more slowly and said, “Listen, I’ll call you this afternoon. And thanks for checking on me, but I’m fine. Promise.”
“You’re sure.”
“I’m sure, babe. Talk to you later, okay?” She hung up, hugged her knees to her chest, and hung her head.
Rationally, she had to think rationally. Had to make a decision. Well, okay, Rational Hays, she thought, do your stuff. She raised her gaze to stare at the bathroom door.
Bradford Brie, cruel lips curved into a grin, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, leaping from the couch, his body tensed, coming at her …
She could call the police. No, not the police, but she could call ADA Teeter, explain that she was over there to make a citizen’s arrest, that the guy tried to rush her, and she …
And I shot him with his gun, she thought with a bitter laugh, and left his gun beside his body, all in an attempt to make a citizen’s arrest. And, oh, yeah, I was wearing latex gloves. Not to cover my fingerprints, of course, not at all. Those old Oak Cliff houses are disease-ridden, you know? A girl could catch AIDS or something.
She could call Edward Teeter, all right. Would the moron love it or what? ADA’s had delirious orgasms over slam-dunk cases, and a murder charge against Sharon Hays at the moment would be as slam-dunk as they come. Teeter would figure the odds, realizing that the victim was somewhat less than pristine, and realizing as well that Brie being the same guy who’d attacked Sharon in her home would make an impact on the jury, so Teeter would make a plea-bargain offer. He’d start with ten years and be willing to cut it to five, and even drop the deadly weapon charge to make the guilty plea more attractive. And then it would be Sharon’s turn to consider her chances, and in light of the fact that elimination of the deadly weapons charge would make her eligible for parole in something like eight months, she’d likely accept the offer. Case closed, on to the next wretched sinner.
Time to search the old soul, Sharon, she thought. If you turn yourself in, you’re going to be looking at doing some time. No doubt about it. In Dallas County, Texas, murderers were prosecuted, and that was that. She pictured herself in a jailhouse smock, her wrists cuffed, waiting in line behind a string of whores for transfer to TDC. And pictured Melanie as a suddenly orphaned ward of the state. No, even worse than that, Rob would have custody. She pictured Melanie in Hollywood, living in a Beverly Hills mansion along with Rob and whatever female happened to have his fancy at the moment. She wondered if old Rob would bring Melanie down on visiting day. Fat chance, Sharon thought.
And if you’d consider pleading guilty, old Sharon, she thought, do you feel guilty? Of course not. Try as she might, she couldn’t work up one smidgen of remorse over killing Bradford Brie. So it all boiled down to a simple matter of self-preservation. Would she be better off keeping her mouth shut, or calling the DA’s office and ’fessing up? The standard police line that “things will go easier on you,” Sharon knew, was all a lot of bull. The truth was that confessions made things a whole lot easier for the police department, but the criminal was better off not saying a word. There were no fingerprints. I’ve got Melanie’s letter, so there’s nothing in the world to connect me to the crime. So, Sharon decided, I’ll keep quiet and let the cards fall as they may.
And spend the rest of your life cringing in fear every time the phone rings or a car pulls up out front, the voice inside her said.
I’ll have to live with that, Sharon thought.
Good luck, the voice inside her said.
She yanked the covers up over her head, rolled onto her stomach, and tried to go to sleep. An hour later, she was still awake, having twisted and turned until her sheets were damp pretzels of wilted cloth.
40
Somehow Sharon made it through the weekend. She trimmed rosebushes and pulled weeds like a maniac, and even went across the street late on Saturday afternoon to help Mrs. Breedlove paint her eaves. Anything, Sharon thought, anything to keep her mind occupied, and keeping busy did enable her to keep her head on straight during the day. But Saturday night was horrifying. Every time a car slowed in front of her house or the telephone rang, her heart practically stopped. She went over the newspaper with a fine-tooth comb, but if anyone had discovered what was left of Bradford Brie, the News didn’t consider the event print-worthy.
During Sheila’s visit on Sunday afternoon, Sharon got drunk on screwdrivers. Sheila had one drink to Sharon’s five, remained sober, and halfway through the afternoon abandoned all hope of getting anything done in the way of discussing her testimony. Sheila sat quietly until nearly seven o’clock and watching her friend drink. To Sheila’s credit she didn’t pry, but knew good and well that something was wrong. Sharon would have given anything to open up to Sheila, but what could she say? Boy, did I ever have fun while you and your hunk of an aerobics instructor were at the movies. I went over and
killed this guy, isn’t that the berries? Before Sheila went home, she looked her friend over head to toe and sadly shook her head.
After what seemed like weeks, Monday morning arrived. As Sharon left Stemmons Freeway and drove alongside the Crowley Courts Building, the upper-level jail windows in the Sterrett Justice Center were visible over the parking garage roof. The barred openings were to Sharon like probing eyes, and each one drilled into her heart and soul. We want you, little lady, they seemed to say. She left the Volvo on the fourth level and negotiated the walkway to the courts building with a lump the size of a grapefruit beneath her breastbone. At the main entry to the Crowley Building a uniformed policeman—a broad-shouldered guy in his thirties with slim hips and a dimple on his chin—opened the door for her and stood aside. “Morning, miss,” he said. Sharon almost panicked and ran at the mere sight of the uniform.
Her nerves had calmed somewhat by the time she exited the elevator outside Judge Griffin’s courtroom, and her mind for the time being was back on the business at hand. One day at a time, Sharon thought, do what you have to do and go on with your life. Whatever was going to happen in connection with Bradford Brie’s death was out of her control, but the Rathermore trial was something she could sink her teeth into. Putting on the blinders and concentrating on the trial would help her make it through one more day.
The young killers’ testimony was scheduled, and while the hallway wasn’t quite the madhouse it had been before Linda Rathermore’s appearance, there was a good-sized crowd on hand. Sharon dodged around the reporters and hangers-on near the courtroom entry, then hustled down the aisle and through the gate toward the defense side. She gave a curt nod to Kathleen Fraterno as she went by. Fraterno ignored her. Sharon wore her all-business face, though her insides were doing panicky flip-flops.
As she sank down beside Russell Black, he leaned over and said, “We oughtta do all right today. Half their team is missing.”
Sharon cocked her head. “Half their … ?”
“I’m bein’ too generous,” Black said. “It’s only about ten percent of their team that’s gone, ninety percent is still with us. But Milt Breyer’s attendin’ another hearin’.”
Sharon glanced at Kathleen, who was studying her file, then said to Black, “Hmm. They must have changed the DA’s rules. Used to be, anyone who was in trial didn’t attend hearings on other cases. They had a roving prosecutor to fill in for us in hearings that didn’t concern the case at trial.”
Black winked. “Well, it’s not exactly a criminal matter he’s tied up with.”
Sharon frowned. “Milt Breyer doesn’t handle any civil cases, Russ.”
“He’s not exactly handlin’ this one. It’s handlin’ him. His wife filed divorce papers last week, and it’s some kind of custody hearin’.” He cut his eyes in Sharon’s direction. “Rumor is Kathleen Fraterno’s named as a respondent.”
Sharon pictured Cissy Breyer, high-powered lawyer on her heels, as she’d swept grandly into the courthouse on the first day of trial. Serves the randy bastard right, Sharon thought, and hoped that Cissy left old Milt with nothing but his underwear. If that. She pitied Kathleen but only slightly. Fraterno was a big girl and had known just what she was getting into. Sharon said simply, “Christ.”
“That all you’ve got to say?” Black said. “‘Christ’?”
“Christ. Yeah, Christ.” She shrugged. “As in, Christ, they’re getting a divorce, eh?”
“I thought you might be glad old Milt’s sitting on the hot seat,” Black said.
Sharon opened her satchel and removed a stack of files. “Whatever gave you that idea, boss?” she said.
Black and Fraterno stood before the bench, his bearlike shoulders towering above Kathleen’s slight athletic frame. Fraterno handed a form over for Judge Griffin to read as a uniformed Dallas cop fidgeted in the witness chair. A couple of the jurors stifled yawns, and a good third of the spectators had left. As the main show, Burdette and Leonard, waited in the wings, the state was putting on chain-of-custody evidence with regard to the tire tool found in the Rathermores’ flower bed. Tedious but necessary. Without evidence as to which cop had found the murder weapon and given it to whom, and where the weapon had been ever since, the tire tool and all the forensics testimony that went along with it—the bloodstains on the weapon itself, the comparisons in type between the stains and samples taken from William Rathermore—would be inadmissible. All probably a moot point since the killers themselves would tell how they’d used the tire tool to bludgeon Rathermore to death, and where they’d thrown the weapon after the crime, but if the chain of custody wasn’t handled just so, the defense could score some points on appeal. Sharon checked her watch. After eleven. Her mind wandered from the proceedings as she looked to her right at Midge.
Midge’s physical appearance hadn’t improved; the rapid weight loss in the county jail had produced loose bags of flesh hanging below her jaw. She was clean and neat as a pin, however, today wearing a schoolgirl blue jumper, and the expression on her face spoke volumes. She was turned around in her chair, smiling into the audience at her mother. It had become a ritual during the trial, Midge showering Deborah North with loving glances as though the two of them were alone in the courtroom. At first the girl had clung to Sharon for dear life, as if her lawyer was all she had left in the world, but that was no longer true. Midge still was more attentive to Sharon than she was to Russell Black, but the mother-image feelings she’d had for her female lawyer had obviously been replaced by the real thing. If nothing else, Sharon thought, this terrible happening in Midge’s life would restore the mother she’d lost, and mother-daughter relationships were powerful things.
And Sharon Hays, who only three days earlier had killed to protect her own daughter, brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. Please, Lord, Sharon prayed, don’t let prison destroy what they now have together.
“Son, what you’ve said here is pretty serious.” Russell Black, tilted back in his chair, his thumbs hooked into his lapels in his best folksy posture, honing in on young Troy Burdette like grandpa about to show the kid a brand-new fishin’ lure.
“Objection,” Kathleen Fraterno said. “Weight of the witness’ testimony isn’t something for the defense to speculate in front of the jury.” The objection was off the wall but sharp nonetheless, and Sharon felt a sort of admiration for Fraterno. Kathleen was trying anything she could to break Russell Black’s spell, both on the jury and on her witness. Burdette regarded the veteran lawyer with an expression near rapture.
“Sustained,” Judge Griffin said, but sounded every bit as spellbound as the rest of the audience. Sharon felt a surge of hero worship and favored Russell Black with a grin. He responded by folding his hands over his midsection.
“This little girl over here,” Black said, indicating Midge, “gave you the code for her folks’ burglar alarm. That’s somethin’ that you’re sure of.”
“Yes, sir.” Burdette’s gaze flicked toward his father, who was seated dead center in the second row of the spectator section. “It’s the only way I could have known it,” he said.
“You couldn’t have gotten the code anyplace else?”
“Not that I know of.” Burdette wore a dove gray suit with tie to match, along with a maroon breast pocket hanky. His sandy hair was sprayed in place, his expression as earnest as Frank Gifford’s.
“One more time, Troy,” Black said.
“Your Honor.” Fraterno tugged on the top button of her snow white blouse.
“Mr. Black,” Judge Griffin said. “The witness has testified. Having him repeat things will only drag on and on.” Sharon wondered about the exchange between the prosecution and the bench; Fraterno hadn’t really objected, and Griffin hadn’t really sustained. Odd, Sharon thought.
“But you’re sure,” Black said, not missing a beat, “that you got the code from Midge Rathermore just before Christmas, at her home?”
>
“Yes, sir. I couldn’t forget something like that.”
Black lowered his head, taking his time, appearing confused but, Sharon knew, not being confused one iota. He looked up. “Mr. Burdette, how well do you know Midge Rathermore’s stepmama?”
Sharon watched the jury. A gray-haired lady in the top row had let her eyelids droop, but now sat up and took notice. Sharon glanced at Fraterno. She seemed curious but not particularly concerned.
Young Burdette, however, immediately lost his cool. His voice cracking like a pubescent thirteen-year-old’s, he said, “You mean, Mrs. Rathermore?”
“That’s Midge’s stepmama, idn’t it? How well do you know her?”
“I saw,” Burdette said, then cleared his throat and said, “I used to see her around.” Visible in the corner of Sharon’s eye, Fraterno now sat bolt upright and made inquiring eye contact with her witness. Burdette looked quickly away from Kathleen and honed in on something at the rear of the courtroom.
Black opened his file and picked up a stack of photos. Sharon glanced at the top picture, the best one, the face-on shot of Troy and Linda beside her car just outside the motel room. “Lemme ask you, Mr. Burdette,” Black said. “You got any idea where the Windjammer Motel is?”
Fraterno’s lips twitched. She obviously didn’t know whether to object or go blind.
“I,” Burdette said. “I’m not …”
