In Self-Defense

by A. W. Gray

  Sharon’s lips twisted. “Could have been … ?”

  Wilson’s hard-bitten features relaxed in a grin. “What I think it’ll be, Miss Hays,” he said, “is one of those misdemeanor murders they’re always talking about. You’ve heard that one, haven’t you? A misdemeanor murder is where somebody killed the guy, but who cares?”

  The other deputy broke up, laughing and holding his sides. “New one on me. Pretty good.”

  “Anyway, because we sort of dropped the ball,” Teeter said, “I wanted to tell you in person. You should rest easier knowing Mr. Brie is handled without the aid of the system. Have a nice day, Miss Hays.”

  The three turned to go, then Teeter stopped and said, “Oh, and Miss Hays. Good luck on your verdict. We’ve been hearing things about the Rathermore case, and just want you to know the whole DA’s office doesn’t side with Milt Breyer on this one.” He took two more steps toward the elevator, then said over his shoulder, “That’s not for publication, Miss Hays. I’ll deny saying that if it ever comes back to me.” He left with the two cops in tow.

  Sharon was able to stand until Teeter and the deputies had boarded the elevator and the doors had closed. As soon as the men disappeared from view, she staggered to one side and leaned against the corridor wall to support herself.

  Sharon came out of the ladies’ room with her makeup on straight and her knee joints twin masses of jelly. Mentally she was pinching herself. God, had it really happened? Was she really and truly going to get away with murder? Wait a minute, she told herself, it wasn’t really murder. It was an accident, plain and simple. Besides, killing Bradford Brie didn’t bother her conscience; to protect Melanie, she’d kill the bastard a second time. As she neared Judge Griffin’s court, Sharon did her best to put Bradford Brie out of her mind, steeling herself for the agonizing wait until the jury’s return.

  The corridor was wall-to-wall activity, rapid movement everywhere, spectators and newspeople alike jockeying for entrance into the courtroom. As Sharon watched, Deborah North, her movements wooden, walked past the head of the line and went inside. Sharon’s heart came up in her mouth.

  Russell Black approached, his expression worried, took Sharon’s arm to spin her around and head her toward the entry. “They’re comin’ in already, girl,” he said. “Didn’t take ’em long, huh?”

  Sharon was too nervous to remain seated but too limp with worry to stand. During her final days as a prosecutor, waiting for juries had been old hat to her, but now her flesh crawled. She thought this had to be the most awful moment of her life—even worse, in fact, than the instant when Bradford Brie had rushed her in his filthy living room. Her action at that time had been impulse fueled by self-preservation instinct, and the enormity of what had happened hadn’t struck home until much later. This was different. This was total agony.

  Sharon glanced at Midge. She still was impassive, the dull-witted teenager acting as if the events unfolding were a movie and she was the watcher, and that once it was over she’d simply get up and go home. Sharon swiveled her head to look at the prosecution side; Kathleen Fraterno sat with her chin resting on intertwined fingers as Milt Breyer pretended to read the newspaper. Anthony Gear reached up to give Sharon’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze; she turned and smiled as the detective winked at her. Russell Black’s expression was stoic, almost resigned. Impulsively Sharon gave Midge a little hug. As she did, the bailiff ordered the courtroom to its feet and the jury returned.

  They didn’t smile and they didn’t frown. Juries never showed emotion. Never, as if their secret was too terrible for them to share. Christ, jury, tell me something by your look, Sharon thought. Frown at me. Giggle at me. Anything, just don’t …

  All sat, jurors, judge, and spectators. At the rear of the courtroom a man coughed.

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” Sandy Griffin said.

  The foreman stood, a thin man with an Adam’s apple the size of an eight-ball. “We have, Your Honor.”

  Sharon’s toes curled up inside her shoes.

  The bailiff adjusted the knot on his tie, took the slip of paper from the foreman, and carried it up to hand over the bench. Judge Griffin unfolded the slip with a papery rattle. She read silently. “Defendant will rise,” she said.

  Midge was suddenly in tears, sobbing hopelessly, her heavy legs buckling as she tried to hoist herself out of her chair. Sharon braced her client with helping hands. Finally Midge faced the bench. Except for her loud sniffling, there was total silence.

  Judge Griffin read without emotion, “In Cause Number 114708, County of Dallas, on the charge of murder, we the jury—”

  Sharon softly closed her eyes.

  “—find the defendant—”

  And leaned toward Midge.

  “—not—”

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh, sweet word not. And reached for the child,

  “—guilty.”

  and hugged the daylights out of her before the words were completely out of Griffin’s mouth. Sharon stood among the growing crescendo of voices and held Midge’s head buried in the hollow of her shoulder, Midge’s body heaving with sobs, the jurors smiling now, even the judge’s mask cracking as the corners of her mouth turned upward.

  “What’d I tell you, huh?” Russell Black said, grinning from ear to ear. “Never a doubt, girl.”

  Sharon laughed long and heartily as she hugged the sobbing teenager even harder and cried her own tears of happiness. “So now you’re going to cry,” she whispered in Midge’s ear.

  Sharon stood off to one side and let Russell Black have the interview to himself because he deserved it. It was his show and that was all there was to it, spotlights on and minicams whirring. She relaxed, folded her arms, and leaned her back against the corridor wall, enjoying the performance along with the rest of Black’s fans, the weathered, knowing face smiling like a politician’s, some humor in each of his answers, his meaning deadly serious. He’s a star, Sharon thought. He ought to be.

  She wistfully left her place and strolled along the corridor, passing the jabbering knots of people, pretending not to notice the glances of recognition which came her way. Melanie would be home in a couple of days. Sharon hadn’t made up her mind what to do about Rob. Before she reached her final decision, she was certain that she’d argue with Sheila several more times.

  Deborah North was waiting in the courtroom on pins and needles, and Sharon had left her alone. Judge Griffin had ordered the bailiff to bring Midge’s things from the jail, then to release the teenager to her mother. Sharon would like to see the reunion, but the moment was for Midge and Deb and no one else. With enough love they’ll make it, Sharon thought.

  As she neared the elevators, she softly hummed under her breath the opening bars to “Help Me Make It through the Night,” the old Crystal Gale tune. On the way home she was going to treat herself to the latest Garth Brooks CD at the music store, a bottle of Cutty from A&A Liquors, get on the phone and invite Sheila over. She pressed the Down button, leaned against the wall, and crossed her ankles.

  Less than twenty feet from where she stood, Milt Breyer was in an animated conference with the two movie guys. As she watched, Breyer held his hands out in a pleading attitude. Rayford Sly vigorously shook his head. The elevator opened and Sharon stepped inside the car. The doors began to close, but she stopped them. She looked again as Breyer wagged his finger at the movie guys and continued to plead his case.

  Sharon hesitated. What the hell, she thought, I’ve earned it. She laughed out loud. Breyer and the movie men turned as one to look at her. She released her hold on the elevator doors and they started to close.

  “Lights. Action,” Sharon Hays said. Then the sliding doors cut the men and their puzzled frowns off from her view.

  49

  After all the nail-biting, dreaded anticipation and grinding of teeth, Sharon thought that the sight of Rob in the flesh was a bit of a
letdown and, yes, somewhat unreal. As though a cutout of someone she used to know was pasted over the face of a statue.

  She sat beside Melanie in a darkened corner of a Channel 8 sound stage and watched the interview, and had to admit that the whole thing was mesmerizing. Rob, his sun-lamp tan bronze under the spotlight, relaxed in an easy chair and fielded questions from—what the hell is her name? Sharon thought—the Channel 8 entertainment-review specialist, a perfect-haired blonde whose sun-lamp tan was even darker than Rob’s. When Sharon had lived with him, he had had a gap between his two front teeth; now the gap was gone, replaced by a row of unstained porcelain which positively glinted when he smiled. Twice they held up the session, minicams off, while both Rob and the interviewer went over the allegedly spontaneous interview questions and made a few changes.

  Now the interviewer said, “What is it that made you want to do this character?”

  And Rob, elbows on armrests, spread his hands, palms up, to say, “This isn’t just another cop, that I didn’t want to do. Detective Ragan has some depth to him. There’s his commitment to the job, and his struggle to keep the violence separated from his family life. I’ve got a child of my own, and believe me that’s important.”

  Barf, barf, Sharon thought. Earlier, Rob’s response to that identical question had been that he liked the action, the tough-guy image of the role, and the detective’s unwavering commitment to right a dog-eat-dog society. The change had been Rob’s agent’s suggestion, an oily looking bald guy in pressed Dockers and a knit shirt who sat just off camera. In the darkness, Melanie tugged Sharon’s sleeve. She bent her head to lend her daughter an ear.

  “Was he always this much of a show-off, Mom?” Melanie was wearing a starched blue dress which had put serious dents in Sharon’s credit line at Lord and Taylor’s, and Sharon was already wondering if her conscience would let her fudge a bit on the department store’s return policy. Like his agent, Rob wore Dockers along with a lime green knit polo, both guys looking as though they were in a hurry to make their tee time.

  “Was he, Mom?” Melanie whispered urgently.

  In her best Sunday tailored navy blue suit and spike heels, having blown fifty-six bucks for a shampoo, blow-dry, styling job, and manicure at Neiman’s (telling herself it was all for Melanie, but knowing deep down that she wanted her ex-lover to see that Sharon Hays could still turn a few heads when she wanted), she felt both overdressed and dumb. I won’t do it, she thought. I will not put Melanie’s father down to her. Apparently Rob was going to be with them for life now, one way or the other, and any opinions Melanie formed simply had to be her own.

  “Was he a show-off, Mom?” Melanie said.

  “Let’s just say,” Sharon said, “that he used to be a bit more reserved, sweetheart.”

  The unmistakable odor of pancake makeup wafted up Sharon’s nostrils as Rob near-kissed her, first just missing one cheek, then the other. “Muf-fin. Hey, you’re looking great,” he said.

  Sharon blinked. “Hi, Rob. You look great, too.”

  “And is this … ? Is it?” Rob down in a crouch now, grinning at Melanie, the smile straight from acting class. “She’s your absolute image, Muffin. Give Daddy a kiss, sweetheart.”

  My God, Sharon thought, she’s eleven years old, not two. Rob looked up at Sharon as if he expected her to say, Say hello to your father, dear, something like that, but Sharon merely rolled her eyes.

  Melanie stepped forward and offered her cheek. “Hi, Dad.” For just an instant Sharon thought the child would burst into giggles.

  “Hey, Harry, will you look at her?” Rob standing, grasping his agent’s upper arm, his other hand palm up in Melanie’s direction.

  “Got you a real little princess here, Rob-oh,” Harry said. He looked at his watch. “Don’t forget the radio guys.”

  “Oh, hey …” Rob snapping his fingers, his gaze on Sharon, the classic acting-class look of apology. “You understand, Muffin, huh? Listen, tomorrow I’ll make more time.”

  A pang of regret shot through Sharon as she looked at Melanie, her daughter not showing much emotion, Sharon despising whatever lunatic notion had prompted her to take Rob up on the invitation to visit the studio and hear the interview. Which had come by mail, through the agent.

  Sharon locked gazes with Rob and forced a smile. “Sure, we understand, Rob. Break a leg, will you?”

  Sharon drove halfway home before she could think of anything to say, Melanie gazing out the window at asphalt pavement, fast-food restaurants along Lemmon Avenue, the Burger King, KFC with Colonel Sanders himself grinning from the sign. Melanie’s expression was vacant as—God, Sharon thought—Midge Rathermore’s had been the first time Sharon had met her in the holding cell. If that’s all there is, then let’s keep dancing. If I’ve screwed up by taking her to see him, Sharon thought, I’m never going to get over it.

  She stopped at a red light behind a Dodge minivan, screwed up her courage, and said, “Well, what did you think?”

  Melanie watched her mother with moist brown eyes. “About my father?” Until now she’d referred to Rob as “my daddy.”

  “Yes, him,” Sharon said.

  “Oh, he’s cool, I guess. Can we get something to eat?”

  “Just ‘he’s cool’? How did he make you feel?”

  “I don’t know,” Melanie said. “Kind of the same way as when I found out the guy on television was my dad. Just that the guy on television is someone my mom used to know. Not really like he’s my father or anything. I guess I’ve always had you, Mom, and we don’t really need anybody else.” She seemed to Sharon to be a decade older than she was, the little girl growing up to see what life was all about.

  Sharon gripped the wheel with both hands. “Well, maybe tomorrow, if he’s got time … would you like that, possibly get to know him better?”

  Melanie seemed thoughtful. She stretched out on the seat and put her head in Sharon’s lap. “If you want me to, it’s cool, Mom. I’d rather just do something with you, though. Hey, you think we could go to the movies together?”

  A tear ran suddenly down Sharon’s cheek, and she swallowed a painful lump from her throat. The light changed to green and the minivan moved on. She reached down and touched Melanie’s cheek. “I love you, sweetheart,” Sharon said.

  “I love you, too, Mom. Could we get something to eat now?”