Trial and Terror

by ADAM L PENENBERG

  He left, the slamming of the metal door behind him punctuating the silence. This was the first time Summer had been alone with SK without a barrier of glass between them since her arraignment. Summer stood on one side of the iron bars; SK slid off the bench and stood on the other. Their faces were just inches apart.

  Summer said, “We’re on the same side, right? We have to work together. Otherwise, we won’t win.”

  “I got the message,” SK said. “No more protests. I’ll wear whatever clothes you want. I’ll do what ever you want me to. I just want you to guarantee I’ll get a chance to tell my side.”

  Summer sidestepped SK’s request. “Your side? What is your side?”

  “That I was framed.”

  “Why?”

  SK backed away and stood with her arms crossed over her chest. “Maybe because the cops are a bunch of fascist pigs. I don’t know.”

  “Bashing cops may make you feel good, but it never plays well with a jury, unless it’s packed with people from a community that’s been victimized by them. If this were L.A., sure, we’d have a shot with that kind of strategy. If this were New York City or Chicago, ditto. But this is lily-white Haze County, U.S.A. Did you see many folks today other than ShaRon Robinson who didn’t fit that description?”

  “It’s not fair,” SK said.

  “It’s reality.” Summer ran her hand up one of the bars and squeezed. It was steely cold. She took it off and put it against her forehead to cool her fever. “Look, Officer Tyler may not be a bastion of competence, but I checked his personnel records, and in the fifteen years he’s been on the force no one’s ever complained about him planting evidence. We would have to show a motive or a predisposition on his part to alter evidence.”

  “He hates me and what I do. Isn’t that motive enough?”

  “How do you know he hates you?”

  “Because of the way he treated me when my husband was killed. He—”

  SK’s revelation jolted Summer. She shook the bars. “Are you saying Tyler was the investigating officer in Jonathan Sadbury’s homicide?”

  “Yes. And he made his views about Jonathan’s work quite clear.”

  Summer mentally flogged herself. How could she have missed this connection? “What did he say?”

  “I overheard him telling another cop that the murder of an abortion doctor was just God’s way of evening the score. That’s not admissible, is it?”

  It was if SK took the stand and testified, which Summer wasn’t going to allow. She plowed on. “Do you remember who he told this to?”

  “No.”

  “Let me think about this for a bit. In the meantime, I’m going to have to scrounge around for some clothes for you. What’s your size?”

  “Six. Listen, it’s not easy for me having to rely on someone. Until I met Jonathan, I did everything on my own, because experience showed me I couldn’t trust anyone. But you showed something today. I really appreciate everything you’ve done, and I want to give back something to you.”

  “Wait until after the trial to thank me. We may have lucked out a little with the jury, but the judge has a very narrow view of what evidence is admissible, a view that substantially favors the prosecution. Plus the evidence is pretty damning. I don’t want you getting your hopes up.”

  “Believe me, my hopes are not up. But I still think I have something I can give you.”

  “Oh?”

  SK reached through the bars. Her hand grazed Summer, who leaned out of harm’s way.

  SK grabbed the bars with both hands and peered through. “I can help you with your fear.”

  “I’d better go,” Summer said, starting for the door.

  “I feel your fear, Summer,” SK called. “And it’s not just because you were raped. It’s something else, something from your past, something you’ve been afraid to face up to.”

  Summer stopped a few paces away.

  “There are two dynamics here,” SK explained. “First of all, when that man raped you, he took away your feeling of security, and you’ve been running scared since. Every loud noise, every time you walk alone, even when you’re in your home behind locked doors, you don’t feel safe. That’s a terrible burden to carry. Fortunately, it’s easy to fix. The other dynamic, your past, I can show you the way—but you’ll have to take the journey alone.”

  Summer checked her wrist for the time but realized Sprague had her watch. “I don’t have a lot of time now.”

  SK rolled up the sleeves of her prison jumpsuit. “Of course. You don’t trust easily. I’ve seen it more times than you know. But come here.”

  Summer approached cautiously. She stopped a foot from the cage.

  “Most assaults against women occur when a man grabs her from behind,” SK said. “Is that what happened to you?”

  Summer’s mouth was cotton-dry. She tried to swallow. “Yes.”

  “What you want to do is master a couple of basic moves to protect yourself. No matter how strong a man is, he has soft spots.” SK turned her back on Summer and leaned into the bars. “Grab me like you were grabbed.”

  Summer reached between the bars and tentatively held the side of her hand against SK’s throat. “He had a knife.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Push your hand into my neck harder.”

  Summer did. SK twisted Summer’s pinky with one hand, pulling the imaginary knife away from her body while at the same time throwing a lightning-fast elbow between the bars, stopping millimeters from her eye.

  SK released her. “Now, you try it,” she said.

  They reversed positions. When Summer felt SK’s hand around her neck, she grabbed at it but couldn’t get a grip. SK tightened the hold and Summer couldn’t breathe. Rasping, she said, “Stop,” but nothing came out. She panicked, flailing away, trying to get at SK’s hair, but she couldn’t. She was feeling weak, about to pass out.

  When Sprague unbolted the lock from outside, SK let go. Summer fell forward, holding her neck and breathing like a hummingbird.

  “Never panic,” SK said, “and be sure that you focus all your power on one point: the pinky.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Summer coughed.

  She could hear Sprague loping down the hallway, his keys jangling. Summer held up her hand like a stop sign. “It’s OK. She was just demonstrating something.”

  Sprague eyed them coldly. “I don’t like the look of this. You’re going to have to leave, and I’m throwing this psycho in irons.”

  “I said everything is OK. You are not in a position to judge what is appropriate behavior between a lawyer and a client. Now, leave us alone. We still have some time left.”

  Sprague checked his watch. “Ten more minutes. Then she goes back to the pokey.”

  After Sprague left SK wrapped her hair into a knot. “Let’s try it again, keeping in mind what I said.”

  This time, Summer was able to slide her hand between SK’s pinky and her neck and torque SK’s finger. When she peeled the hand away, she threw the point of her elbow behind her, in the direction of SK’s face, but struck solid iron. She bent over, cradling her elbow. She waited for the pain to travel to her nerve centers and back. “Shit! My funny bone.”

  “That was the right idea,” SK said, laughing. “But this isn’t the best place to learn. If anyone ever touches you again, that’s what you do. And don’t be shy about poking an attacker in the eyes or kneeing him in the balls or jabbing your finger in his ears or kicking him in the shins. Remember: hard-soft. That’s the key.”

  The pain in Summer’s elbow began to ebb. Now it was just an intense tingling and gnawing ache. “If I haven’t broken anything, I’m sure I’ll be better off for the experience.”

  Summer could see why SK had developed a following. When they had first met, Summer dismissed her as another edgy feminist hell-bent on flipping the male world on its back. But there was much more to her; a center, a balance that Summer envied. Without her usual armor of hostile self-protection, SK had a commanding air rein
forced by an unexpected glimmer of compassion.

  “But security isn’t your only issue,” SK said. “There’s something you’re hiding. I’d guess it goes way back.”

  “If I don’t get to work on your opening statement—”

  “Were you abused as a child?”

  “No. Not that I know.”

  SK cocked her head and smiled. “Not that you know of? That’s revealing.”

  “I mean, I don’t have memories from before the age of four.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s your first memory?”

  “I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

  “It’s clear you have a lingering problem with something that happened when you were young,” SK said. “Don’t you want to find out what’s eating away at you?”

  “Yes,” Summer said, surprising herself. Suddenly, a wave of images cascaded through her. She felt an unbearable sense of fear and abandonment. “My first memory is being sick.”

  “Tell me,” SK said.

  Summer tried to hold herself together. She said in a remote voice, “I’m in the entry way of our house, and it’s decorated with hundreds of tiny mirrors, from floor to ceiling. And I’m just a little kid, four, I guess, and I’m sick to my stomach, throwing up all these strawberries my father gave me. I look into the mirror and I see red all over, like blood, and it scares me even more because I think it was the first time I ever saw my reflection.”

  “Where were your parents?” SK asked.

  Summer strained for a clearer vision of the memory. “Oh, God, I’d forgotten.”

  “What is it?”

  Summer started to speak, but couldn’t put the words together. She coughed.

  “Tell me what’s on your mind, Summer.” SK spoke softly but insistently.

  “Sonia comes over and hugs me and says, ‘There, there, it’s going to be all right. Mommy is here.’ But I know she’s not my mother.” The fact that Marsalis was right about this sends a shock of fear through her.

  The door bolt shot back and Sprague entered.

  Summer fell to her knees and dry heaved into the bars.

  Part IV

  TRIAL AND TERROR

  Chapter 22

  Inside Judge Hightower’s court, the outside world ceased to exist. Summer sat at the defense table with SK, waiting for Raines to begin his opening statement. She was exhausted, adrenaline-rushed and fuzzy-headed from a pot hangover. She had spent the time between leaving SK in the lockup and going home trying to shake the memories loose. But no matter how hard she had tried, she couldn’t recall what had happened to her before meeting Sonia for the first time.

  Since Summer had been thinking about her opening statement for weeks, it had taken only a few of hours to craft it. At 10 p.m., restless, she’d taken the urn holding Sonia’s ashes, driven to the lake where Sonia had drowned, and spread her remains. But a wind had whipped up, and the ashes were blown back into Summer—as if even in death, Sonia would never let go.

  Afterward, Summer cursed herself for not having had Sonia’s DNA tested before cremation to determine whether she was her mother. But grief and confusion had taken their toll: It simply hadn’t occurred to her.

  She returned home at midnight but was too wired to sleep. At 2:00, after tossing and turning, the waves outside her windows rumbling at high tide, she swept up crumbs of marijuana that Rosie had spilled at a long-ago party and inexpertly rolled them into a joint, along with dust, sand, and stray hairs. It sizzled and glowed burnt-orange when she lit it, but as rank as it tasted, it knocked her out, although she felt so humiliated by her need to self-medicate that she promised herself never again.

  Her last thoughts before copping REM were, Does Marsalis know who my real mother is? Could I convince him to help me find her?

  There was an anticipatory buzz in the courtroom. SK was meditating with her eyes shut. She wore a dress that Summer had scrounged from friends and shoes from Goodwill. The dress flattered her knife-thin build. She looked more like an upper-middle class mother who spent afternoons at the health spa than the best hand-to-hand fighter in the courthouse.

  Summer checked out the jury, a gaggle of distant faces: the retired minister, his creamy-white cheeks spotted with raspberry acne, was doodling; the Libertarian whistled quietly through his teeth; Robinson sat up straight, scanning the courtroom with interest. Others sat impassively; some appeared intimidated, a few seemed bored. Experience had taught Summer that jurors made up their mind during the opening statements. She rifled through her notes and corrected a typo.

  All rose for Judge Hightower, who by his sheer size and bearing commanded respect. He scrutinized the courtroom and the jury, and then said, “Mr. Raines, are you ready to give your opening statement?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Raines stood, smoothed his suit, and approached the jury. He pulled a small alarm clock out of his pocket and placed it on the railing. As he spoke, his words were accompanied by a muffled ticking.

  “What we have here is a case of revenge—vengeance wrought upon a man for doing his job,” he said, his words echoing. “That man, Harold Gundy, is now dead, and this woman, Stephanie Killington, who refers to herself as ‘SK,’ killed him.” Raines pointed to SK and tried to meet each juror’s gaze. The implicit message: I have the courage to look her in the eye and accuse her of murder. Will you have the courage to convict her?

  “Harold Gundy was a respected pillar in this community. He prosecuted some of the most difficult and important cases this county has ever known. Sometimes, people did not agree with his decisions. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the crux of this case.”

  Summer felt SK shift her chair. She put her hand on her knee: Stay still, be impassive, be strong.

  Raines continued: “The defendant was once married to a man who earned his living performing abortions.”

  Summer was about to object: What SK’s late husband did for a living was not pertinent and clearly prejudiced the jury—she could see some jurors take notes; already flecks of distaste marred their faces. But to object during opening statements was a major breach of protocol, not to mention the fact that jurors would infer that Summer was trying to cover up information, which she was. She kept mum.

  “Now,” Raines said, “we are not here to pass judgment on that, no matter how disturbing we may find it. But I tell you this because, eight years ago, another man, Jack Brauer, took it upon himself to kill this doctor. Now this was a tragedy, we all can agree. Harold, heeding the advice of a court-appointed psychiatrist, agreed to a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity and took it upon himself to help Mr. Brauer get the help he needed. He had him committed to the State psychiatric facility.

  “But the defendant”—Raines gestured dramatically, scornfully, toward SK—“was not satisfied with this judgment. She threatened Harold’s life, and I know this worried him, because as his friend and colleague, I know that whenever hate was directed toward him, it hurt him.”

  Summer resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  Raines continued. “The defendant swore she would kill Harold the minute Mr. Brauer was released from the hospital. Well, ladies and gentlemen, two days after he left the hospital to take up his life in civilized society again, two days, Harold Gundy was found brutally murdered in his apartment.”

  Raines was giving the performance of his life. For the first time, Summer realized how much Raines missed Gundy, how the fact that one of his own was killed meant he himself was vulnerable. As sure as Summer was that SK was not the murderer, Raines was sure she was.

  “During the course of this trial, we the prosecution will show you irrefutable evidence that this woman murdered Harold Gundy.” Raines counted each point off his fingers. “One: The defendant’s fingerprints were found on the front door of Harold’s home. Two: A fragment of glass from Harold’s shattered coffee table was found on one of the defendant’s boots in her home. Three: On that glass, the police found
blood matching Harold’s. Four: Probably the most damning evidence—the defendant brought with her pictures of her husband from the time of his murder on which she had scribbled a message to Harold. Just before dying, what did Harold see? Why, the pictures, a clue to help the police catch this menace to society. He clutched them to his heart.”

  Raines let his words sit for a moment. The clock ticked.

  “Harold was like that. It is no surprise to anyone who knew him that his last act in this world would be to help the police convict his murderer. That is how he spent his life. That is how he spent his last breath.”

  The alarm on the clock went off. Raines let the ringing hang in the air, then shut it off.

  “Nine minutes. That’s how long it took me to tell you about the facts of this case, and that is how long it took the defendant to murder Harold. She knocked on his door, pushed her way in, and forced him upstairs to his second-floor loft. Harold probably tried to defend himself, but the defendant is a black belt in martial arts, and Harold was thrown from the second floor, breaking the railing and crashing into a glass coffee table. But this wasn’t enough to kill him and didn’t sate her desire for vengeance that day. The defendant dragged Harold a few feet, turned him on his stomach, and beat him over the head with a bottle of liquor. Then, in an attempt to confuse the police by making them think a serial murderer was on the loose, she drew a sign on Harold’s back.

  “When the killer left the apartment, and we have an eye witness who will verify this, she ran away into the night, hopped a fence like the athlete she is, and sped away.

  “Defense counsel is going to try to confuse you, ladies and gentlemen. Be prepared for this. Don’t let her lead you down false paths. She may tell you that a crazed murderer is on the loose, or that the defendant was framed, or perhaps that the police didn’t investigate other leads. Please, ladies and gentlemen, please ask yourself this: Would a dying man lie to you? Harold had the strength to point out his murderer to you; will you have the strength and wisdom to convict her?”