“No!” Laura leaned toward him, her voice shaking. “And you have to quit saying that!”
“So it’s your testimony you were looking at pictures for ten minutes.”
How many times did she have to go over this? Devlon had warned her to keep her cool on the stand, but she was about ready to throttle the prosecutor. “It’s not just my ‘testimony,’ it’s the truth. People look down and miss things around them all the time. You haven’t heard of someone running into a person or a wall because they’re reading something? I wasn’t looking at the door!”
Devlon gave her a laser look—calm down. Laura shifted in her chair.
But Cantor wasn’t through. He turned to the green shoes—her shoes—with her mother’s blood on the soles and in spatter on the top. During her own attorney’s questioning, she’d said she had no idea why they had blood on them or why they were found underneath a pile of dirty clothes in her closet. But if she didn’t get blood on them and hide them, then who did? Why would someone walk in off the street, kill her mother, and make it look like she did it? Did she have enemies? Was she fighting with someone at school? Could she name one person who hated her enough to do this?
Laura took a deep breath. “Maybe that man at my mom’s work. Roger Weiner.”
“Did he know you?”
“No.”
“Had you ever even heard of him before?”
“No.”
“Then why would he want to do this to you?”
“I don’t know.”
He nodded, as if he’d just made a major point.
“What’s your shoe size, Laura?”
“Eight.”
“Eight. Do you know any man whose feet would fit into your shoes?”
“I … no.”
“Well, whoever committed this murder had those shoes on. Right?”
“Maybe they didn’t.”
“Any other way they’d get blood spatter from your mother on the tops of them?”
He’d trapped her. Laura’s own attorney had referenced blood spatter and how it worked when he questioned Detective Standish. “I don’t know. Maybe they were just … sitting on the floor nearby.”
Cantor badgered her so much about the stupid shoes, Devlon had to object. The judge told Cantor to move on.
Laura tried to steady herself.
The prosecutor veered into another old topic—Laura’s words to her dad. “I didn’t mean it.”
“You had just found your mother dead. Why would you be thinking about an argument you’d had with her?”
“I already told you why. I felt bad for arguing with her.”
“You were thinking of an argument that you said had been resolved?”
“It had been.”
“And yet that was foremost on your mind. At the moment of finding your mother dead.”
“It wasn’t ‘at the moment’ I found her dead. Right when I found her, I went to her. Hoping she was okay. I called 9-1-1.”
The prosecutor eyed her.
Laura wanted him to drop dead. “You tell me—what are you supposed to say when you see something like that? Something so awful you couldn’t even imagine it? There’s no ‘right thing’ to say. Your mind isn’t even working. Everything slows and turns and goes upside down. Your whole word just … explodes.”
Cantor changed to yet another subject—details of her arguments with her mother. He did everything he could to make Laura sound like a terrible daughter who’d just as soon see her mother dead. And then he went on to her mother’s will. Another hard subject, now that Laura knew her dad had been granted all the money that was supposed to come to her. She could’ve used that money, now that she knew she had to leave home. But she couldn’t show her bitterness on the stand. Cantor would love for her to do that. He’d claim her bitterness supported his theory—that she’d killed her mom for money and now was ticked that she wouldn’t get any.
Laura’s veins steamed as she answered Cantor’s questions. She kept both hands in her lap, out of sight. They fisted and dug craters into her legs, but her expression remained calm. And her answers never waivered. She couldn’t have killed her mother for money, because she didn’t know about the will. Had never even thought to ask. Laura didn’t want for anything, and she’d been promised a car that summer. Inheriting a big pile of money any sooner wouldn’t have changed anything.
As Cantor consulted his notes for how to attack her next, Laura kept her eyes lowered. Speaking of a car—she didn’t have one. And had no money to buy one. How was she supposed to leave town and live on her own when she didn’t even have a car?
Laura was on the stand all day. When Cantor was finally done dragging her through the mud and hanging her from a tree limb, Devlon came back to ask some follow-up questions. He was much more gentle with her, and she tried to relax. But by then she could hardly think straight. All she wanted was to go back to her hard cot at juvey and sleep.
But of course that night sleep wouldn’t come—again.
For the rest of her trial Laura sat at the defense table like a zombie. Something inside her had gone into a coma. She could hardly listen to the testimony, hardly feel anything. All she could do was count the minutes until the judge let her go home.
To a dad who didn’t want her. And some female cop who dared live in her house.
Not to mention the reality that she would probably never see justice done for her mom.
On day nine of the trial both sides were done with their questioning. All that remained were the closing arguments.
Cantor got up first.
The prosecution’s argument would be hard to sit through, Devlon had warned Laura. The prosecutor would be able to talk as long as he wanted, making all his arguments for her guilt, and they’d just have to sit there and listen.
“Can’t you object?” she asked.
“I can, but it’s not likely. It’s sort of frowned upon during a closing argument, unless the other side makes some egregious claim. And I don’t want him taking revenge by interrupting me.”
Fine then. Laura would just tune Cantor out. These days she did what she had to in order to survive.
But when it came time, she couldn’t tune him out.
Not when he went through every piece of “evidence” they had, step by step, showing how each one pointed to her and her alone. The hammer. The shoes. The footprints. And then there was the supporting evidence. The “missing” ten minutes. Laura’s recent argument with her mother. Her words to her father as they hugged on the lawn.
“You know.” Cantor raised his forefinger. “Sometimes in the worst of moments is when a person’s true self comes out. There’s no time for judging the words you’re about to say. No energy to hold them back. What slips out is from the heart. A brutal honesty that, were it not for the trauma at hand, would have remained hidden. That moment is when Laura Denton sees her father for the first time after killing her mother. And what is it that slips out of her mouth at that vulnerable moment? ‘I didn’t mean it.’”
Cantor paused, letting the words hang in the air. “‘I didn’t mean it.’ That’s as close to a confession from Laura Denton as we will ever get.”
Then there was the fact that the police had not a single other suspect in this case. If Laura didn’t kill Sally Denton, who did? “Oh, the defense worked hard to give up someone else. Someone with an obvious crush on Mrs. Denton. But a crush does not a murderer make. And the evidence against Laura Denton mounted so swiftly, the police made the obvious choice—to arrest her for the crime.”
Cantor shook his head. “I’ve seen a lot of things in my career. But this one, this case will stick with me. You have a teenager who’s given everything she needs. She lives in a good home with good, loving parents. The teen herself seems well adjusted. Gets good grades in school. No prior trouble with the law. And yet underneath … something simmers. Something sinister and evil. Perhaps it started with Sally Denton’s inheritance from her
mother. Laura looked at all that money her mother now possessed and thought ‘I want that for myself.’ Maybe she pushed away the thoughts for a while. But they grew and boiled inside her. Until one day, after a final, heated argument with her mother, Laura Denton had enough. And in that moment she grabs a hammer that’s sitting in her room and goes after her mother with it. With the first blow she hits her mom hard enough to knock her down. But Laura Denton doesn’t stop there.”
Don’t listen, don’t listen, don’t listen. Laura focused on her lap, breathing hard, fingers twisted together. Cantor was describing a monster, not her. How unfair this was, that he could go on and on. That he could tell such lies.
“No, she doesn’t stop there.” Cantor’s voice rose. “She stands over her mother and hits like this.” He pantomimed leaning over and swinging a hammer down and up three times. “She keeps hitting and keeps hitting until her mother’s skull is bashed in, and blood is on the walls and on her, and her victim’s face is almost unrecognizable.” Cantor stopped for a dramatic pause. When he continued, his voice held a grim quiet. “When it’s all over she realizes what she has done. That she will be punished. So quick-quick, she stuffs the bloody hammer under a pile of clothes. Takes off her bloody shoes and hides them as well. She sees the blood on her hands and clothes. Cunningly, knowing she doesn’t have time to wash those clothes, she smears more blood on her hands and T-shirt. So she can claim she tried to help her mother when she ‘found’ her.”
Even with her eyes lowered, Laura could see Cantor turn toward her. Laura’s gaze raised to him, her head unmoving. The prosecutor was glaring at her. Slowly his pointing finger came up. “That girl there, your honor, is a killer. A cold-blooded, heartless killer of her own mother. The woman who brought her into this world. Who nurtured her. And to this day I’ve seen not one whit of remorse. Only lies and pleas of ‘I didn’t do it.’” His finger shook at her. “This girl deserves to be punished for the crime she committed. It would be an outright travesty—to the victim and to her husband—to allow this murderer to go free. I ask that you do what justice demands—and find her guilty.”
Cantor held his pose, then dropped his arm. “Thank you.”
He returned to his seat.
You’re so welcome. Laura shot him a dark look.
“All right, thank you. Mr. Brooks?” The judge showed no expression. Did he agree with Cantor? Could he see through the lies?
Devlon arose, shaking his head. “Your honor, that was a lot of theatrics from the prosecution. And a lot of supposition. You’d think we were trying this case in front of a jury. Let me just remind you of the facts.”
Step by step Laura’s defense attorney broke down the case. He covered her complete lack of a criminal record, her good grades in school. The life that she had, complete with promise of a car that coming summer. Why were her fingerprints on the hammer? Because she’d used that hammer to hang a picture in her room. Interesting that her fingerprints weren’t bloody ones. Wouldn’t they be, if she was the one who used that tool to bludgeon Sally Denton to death? Much more likely that someone else, wearing gloves, used that tool. And once the murder was over, that Someone also pulled a pair of Laura’s shoes from her closet and made sure those shoes were covered in blood spatter. Perhaps the perpetrator flicked the bloody hammer at them. Then he hid the shoes and the hammer in the most convenient spot for the police to later find—under Laura’s clothes in her own closet. And how could the court know this is what happened? If Laura had been wearing the shoes during the murder, why wasn’t spatter also on the bottoms of her jeans? Why was there no spatter on her T-shirt? Or anywhere else on her clothes? It was certainly on the wall, starting from the baseboard all the way up to the height of Laura’s head. And the pattern clearly stopped where the perpetrator had stood, then started up again on the other side.
“So where’s that blood, your honor?” Devlon raised his hands. “Nowhere on Laura Denton. Nowhere. Except for a pair of shoes she hadn’t even worn that day, hidden in her closet.”
This was clearly a very cunning, purposeful killer, Devlon continued. Someone who not only wanted Sally Denton dead, but also wanted her daughter to pay for it. Leaving her father, Gary Denton, alone and suffering, his family annihilated. Who would want to do something that sinister? Perhaps the man at Sally Denton’s work who was so obsessed with her that he was fired due to his harassment. That man’s involvement in this crime remained a huge unknown due to one fact—the police’s complete ignoring of him because they’d decided they had their suspect. To this day the police and prosecution had paid this dire possibility little heed.
Devlon’s voice rose. “It is unconscionable that an innocent sixteen-year-old could go to jail for years because of the incompetence of law enforcement.”
He turned to the testimony of those who’d worked with Laura’s mom, all of which pointed to a perpetrator other than Laura. And he went over Laura’s own testimony.
As Laura listened, the dread in her chest began to ease. She’d heard all the defense arguments, sure, but never put together in such a perfect package. Forget what Cantor had claimed. When the judge looked at everything the defense was presenting, there was no way he could find her guilty. All the answers were there in front of him. Laid out. Stacked in order.
“Your honor, this entire case is such a travesty,” Devlon said in closing. “This young girl has already lost her mother. And now she’s lost six months of freedom. She needs to get on with her life. She needs to be reunited with her father and rebuild what family they have left.”
Laura’s heart plummeted again. They had no “family” left. Getting out of jail would just exchange one terrible problem for another.
By the time Devlon was done, Laura felt totally drained. She managed a small smile as he took his seat next to her. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He patted her arm.
“All right, sounds like that’ll do it.” The judge shifted in his chair. “We’ll meet back here tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock. I will have my verdict at that time.”
He banged his gavel and rose to leave. And just like that the trial that would decide Laura’s fate was over.
Chapter 19
The night her trial ended, Laura lay on her cot, staring at the ceiling as she had on so many nights. Would this be her last night here? She knew it would, even as misgivings whispered in her mind. She was petrified of being freed only to face carving out a new life by herself. But staying in jail would be so much worse. Plus, if she was found guilty she wouldn’t stay in juvey. She’d be shipped to California Youth Authority. A place ten times worse than here, she’d heard. Juvey was hard enough, with lots of inmates in for crimes like stealing from a store or possessing drugs. But CYA was all hard time. Full of murderers and gang members. People who’d just as soon knife you as look at you. Laura would never be safe in a place like that. She had no idea how to defend herself from that kind of people.
She’d rather die than go to CYA.
Please, God, please. You know I’m innocent. Let me go home!
The next morning Laura could do little but pace the length of her bed. Three steps down, turn around, three steps up. The hours until two o’clock would never pass. So many things ran through her mind. Over and over, she saw her mother’s bloody face, the broken body. Heard Cantor calling her a “cold-blooded murderer.” Saw her own father on the stand.
What was her dad thinking this morning? Did he even care?
Lunchtime came. Laura didn’t eat. As the hour approached for her to leave for court, her blood flowed cold, then hardened. When they let her out of her little room, she didn’t look back. She’d never have to lay eyes on the horrible four walls again. She walked out of juvey for the last time, feeling sun on her face.
Within a few hours she’d be home. In her own room. Tonight she’d sleep in her own bed. How incredible.
How terrifying.
In the car she couldn’t feel anything. Not eve
n her own body. Her feet and ankles seemed miles away from the rest of her. She walked into the courtroom on someone else’s legs. Sat down at the table using someone else’s muscles. Devlon said a few words to her, but she couldn’t process them. Could only hear her own shallow breathing. The sputter of her heart.
Laura’s dad was there. And her aunt. Laura could feel them looking at her back.
It took forever to get everyone settled, including the judge. He called the court to order. Sat and shuffled a few papers. Laura slipped her hands beneath the table. Locked them in a tight grip.
The judge began to speak.
Devlon laid a hand on Laura’s shoulder.
The world slowed … slowed, until it nearly stopped turning. The whole scene felt surreal, like she hung near the ceiling, looking down at herself. Laura squeezed her eyes shut, clinging to the judge’s words, every muscle within her pulling, waiting for the “Not Guilty.”
“… I find the defendant, Laura Ann Denton, guilty of second degree murder …”
What?
Laura’s muscles locked. For a split second her mind went white.
Guilty?
No, couldn’t be. She’d heard wrong—
The judge’s voice singed her ears. “I will set sentencing for two weeks from today …”
Devlon gripped her shoulder until it hurt. Laura’s muscles unlocked, then turned to water. She started to tremble. First her legs, then torso, then whole body. She turned to her attorney, head shaking. Wanted to scream Why? How? But her throat wouldn’t make a sound.
Noises behind her. Someone weeping. The prosecutor stood, looking so proud of himself. Judge Myers left. Cantor started packing up his files.
Laura couldn’t get up.
A bailiff came to put cuffs on her. They’d take her back to juvey. Back.
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