by Joy Fielding
Jo Lynn’s elbow pierced the side of my ribs. “That’s the prosecutor, Mr. Eaves, coming through the door. I hate him. He’s really out to get Colin.”
Reluctantly, my focus shifted from the past back to the present, as the assistant state’s attorney and his associates made their way up the left aisle of the courtroom to take their seats in front of us. They began opening and closing assorted briefcases, noisily setting up shop, ignoring our presence, as if we weren’t there. Mr. Eaves was a serious-faced man with thinning hair and a gut that strained against the jacket of his dark blue suit. He undid the top button as he sat down. His associates, a man and woman who looked young enough to be his children, and enough alike to be siblings, wore similarly grave expressions. Their clothes were simple and nondescript. Rather like mine, I realized with a start, deciding I should have worn a scarf to brighten things up, wondering why I was even thinking such inane thoughts. Slowly, I let my gaze return to the back of the room.
The boy in the red-and-white track suit was gone. Back was the grown man in the expensive suit, now engaged in earnest conversation with the man beside him. I waited for him to turn back in my direction, but after a few minutes, he was still talking to the man next to him. No doubt I was mistaken, I told myself. Robert Crowe was a boy I’d dated back in high school, and hadn’t seen since his family left Pittsburgh for parts unknown. I remember being so grateful they’d left the state—it made having been dumped slightly easier to bear. What would he be doing here now?
I shook my head, exhaled an angry breath of air, and stilled the foot that was tapping nervously on the floor with an impatient hand, my heart pounding unaccountably fast. It had been over thirty years since I’d last laid eyes on Robert Crowe. Could he really still have this effect on me?
“Here he comes now,” Jo Lynn announced anxiously, twisting around in her aisle seat, crossing one leg over the other, maximizing the effect of the slit in her skirt.
A concentrated hush fell across the courtroom as Colin Friendly entered the court from a door at the front of the room and was directed to his seat by an armed police officer. Immediately, his attorneys rose to greet him. The accused killer was dressed in a conservative blue suit with a peach-colored shirt and paisley tie, his dark wavy hair combed neatly off his face, looking exactly as he had in the photo in the weekend paper. I watched his eyes sweep effortlessly across the room, a hunter searching for his prey, I thought with a shudder as his eyes rested briefly on Jo Lynn.
“My God, did you see that?” she whispered, grabbing my hand, her long nails cutting into my flesh. “He looked right at me.”
I struggled for air but found none. Without even trying, Colin Friendly had sucked up all the oxygen in the room.
“Did you see that?” Jo Lynn pressed. “He saw me. He knows I’m here for him.”
The woman seated directly in front of us spun around angrily in her seat, then turned immediately away.
“What’s her problem?” Jo Lynn asked indignantly.
“Good God, Jo Lynn,” I stammered. “Would you just listen to yourself? Do you hear what you’re saying?”
“What’s your problem?”
The judge entered the room a few minutes later. Dutifully, we all rose, then retook our seats. Judge Kellner was suitably gray and judicious-looking.
Next came the jury, seven women, five men, two more women who served as alternates, all of them wearing badges that identified them as jurors. Of the fourteen, eight were white, four were black, two were somewhere in between. They were neatly dressed, although surprisingly casual. At least I was surprised. Of course, I was also the only one in the courtroom, other than the lawyers and the defendant, who was wearing a suit. Except for Robert Crowe.
Again, my head spun toward the back of the room. This time, Robert Crowe was looking right at me. He smiled. “Kate?” he mouthed.
I felt my heart leap into my throat, my lungs filling with sudden dread, as thick as smoke. There is nothing to feel anxious about, I told myself. Just because you’re in the same room with an accused murderer and an old high school sweetheart, this was not something to get unnecessarily worked up about.
In the next second, it was as if someone had taken a match to my insides. I felt my inner organs shriveling and disappearing inside invisible flames. Sweat broke out across my forehead and upper lip. I pulled at the collar of my beige blouse, debated taking off my jacket. “It’s very hot in here,” I whispered to Jo Lynn.
“No, it’s not,” she said.
The clerk called the court to order and the judge directed the prosecutor to call his first witness. The temperature in the room returned to normal. Jo Lynn squirmed excitedly in her seat as a studious-looking young woman named Angela Riegert was sworn in.
“Look at her,” Jo Lynn muttered under her breath. “She’s dumpy and homely and just wishes she could get a man like Colin.”
As if he’d heard her, Colin Friendly slowly turned his head in my sister’s direction. A slight smile played at the corners of his lips.
Jo Lynn crossed, then uncrossed her legs. “We’re with you, Colin,” she whispered.
His smile widened, then he turned his attention back to the witness stand.
“I’m gonna give him my phone number.” Jo Lynn was already fishing inside her white straw purse for a piece of paper.
“Are you crazy?” I wanted to swat her across the back of her head, physically knock some sense into her.
Just like dear old Dad, I thought with disgust, marveling at the baseness of my instincts. I’d never hit anyone in my life, wasn’t about to start now, however tempting it might be. I glared at the back of Colin Friendly’s head. Obviously, he brought out the best in me.
Jo Lynn was already scribbling her name and number across a torn scrap of paper. “I’ll give it to him during a break.”
“If you do, I’ll leave. I swear, I’ll walk right out of here.”
“Then I won’t come with you to Mom’s,” she countered, bringing her fingers to her lips to quiet me.
She had me there. The only way I’d been able to persuade her to attend the afternoon’s meeting was to agree to accompany her to court, although she insisted we change the time of the meeting to four o’clock so that she didn’t have to “abandon Colin,” as she put it, before court let out. She didn’t know I’d already decided to tag along.
I still wasn’t a hundred percent sure what exactly I was doing in that courtroom. Did I really think I might learn anything that might help Donna Lokash? Or was I trying to watch out for my sister, to protect her from Colin Friendly, to protect her from herself? Or was it simple curiosity? I don’t know. I probably never will.
“State your name and address,” the court clerk instructed the witness, a short, slightly overweight young woman, who looked nervous and uncomfortable, her small eyes refusing to look at the defense table.
“Angela Riegert,” she said, barely audibly.
“You’ll have to speak up,” Judge Kellner said gently.
Angela Riegert cleared her throat, restated her name. It was only slightly louder the second time. The entire court-room shifted forward, straining to hear. She gave her address as 1212 Olive Street in Lake Worth.
The prosecutor was on his feet, doing up the button of his dark blue jacket, the way you always see them doing on TV. “Miss Riegert, how old are you?” he began.
“Twenty,” she replied, looking as if she weren’t altogether sure.
“And how long had you known Wendy Sabatello?”
“We’d been best friends since the fourth grade.”
“Who’s Wendy Sabatello?” I asked.
“One of the victims,” Jo Lynn said, the words sliding out of the side of her mouth.
I stared into my lap, not sure I wanted to hear more.
“And can you tell me what happened on the night of March 17, 1995?”
“We went to a party at someone’s house. Her parents were away, and so there was this big party.”
&n
bsp; “What time did you get there?”
“About nine o’clock.”
“And the party was in full swing?”
“It was starting to heat up. There were lots of people; the music was very loud.”
“Did you know everyone?”
“No. There were a lot of people there I’d never seen before.”
“Did you see the defendant?”
Reluctantly, Angela Riegert glanced toward the accused, then looked quickly away. “Not at first,” she whispered.
“Sorry, could you repeat that?”
“I didn’t see him till later.”
“But you did see him?”
“Yes, he was in the backyard. I saw him when we went outside to get some air.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“He talked to me.”
“You wish,” Jo Lynn scoffed.
“What did he say?”
“Not much. ‘Nice party,’ ‘nice night,’ that sort of thing.”
“Was Wendy Sabatello with you at the time?”
“Yes. She thought he was cute.”
“Objection, your honor,” one of the defense lawyers protested, jumping to his feet. “Can the witness read minds?”
“She told me,” Angela Riegert said clearly.
“Objection,” the lawyer countered. “Hearsay.”
“Overruled.”
The witness looked confused, as if she weren’t sure what exactly had transpired. She wasn’t the only one.
“Did she say anything else about him?”
Angela Riegert nodded. “That he had incredible eyes.”
“And what did you think?”
“I thought he was cute too, a little older than most of the other guys there.”
“What happened then?”
The witness swallowed, bit down on her lower lip. “We went back inside.”
“And did you speak to Colin Friendly again?”
“I didn’t, no, but later on, Wendy said she was going back outside to talk to him.”
“And?”
“It was the last time I saw her.”
“She never came back in?”
“No. When I went to look for her later, to tell her I was ready to leave, she was gone.”
“And the defendant?”
“He was gone too.”
The prosecutor smiled. “Thank you, Miss Riegert.” He nodded toward the defense. “Your witness.”
The defense counsel was already on his feet, buttoning his jacket. He was an athletic-looking man, blond and thick-necked, the muscles of his arms clearly evident beneath the jacket of his gray silk suit. “Miss Riegert,” he said, biting off each syllable, “was there any drinking at this party?”
Angela Riegert shrank back in her seat. “Yes.”
“Drugs?”
“Drugs?” she repeated, clearly flustered.
“Marijuana? Cocaine?”
“I didn’t see anyone doing cocaine.”
“Were you drinking?” the attorney pressed.
“I had a few beers, yes.”
“Were you drunk?”
“No.”
“Did you have any marijuana?”
“Objection, your honor,” Mr. Eaves protested. “The witness is not on trial.”
“Goes to state of mind, Judge. It directly affects the witness’s ability to identify my client.”
“Objection overruled. Please answer the question, Miss Riegert.”
She hesitated, looked close to tears. “I had a few tokes,” she admitted.
“A few tokes off a marijuana cigarette and a few beers, is that what you’re saying?” the defense attorney repeated.
“Yes.”
“Were you stoned?”
“No.”
“But you did go outside to get some air.”
“It was hot inside, and very crowded.”
“And outside?”
“It was better.”
“Was it dark?”
“I guess.”
“So,” the defense lawyer stated, positioning himself directly in front of the jury, “it was dark, you’d been drinking and smoking marijuana …”He paused for effect. “And still you claim you can positively identify my client.”
Angela Riegert pulled back her shoulders, stared directly at Colin Friendly. “Yes,” she said. “I know it was him.”
“Oh, Miss Riegert,” the lawyer asked, almost as an afterthought, “do you wear glasses?”
“Sometimes.”
“Were you wearing them that night?”
“No.”
“Thank you. No further questions.” The lawyer quickly returned to his seat.
“Well done,” Jo Lynn said, and I was forced to agree. In less than a minute, Colin Friendly’s attorney had neatly skewered Angela Riegert’s testimony, introducing at least a modicum of reasonable doubt.
“You may step down,” Judge Kellner instructed the witness. Angela Riegert took a deep breath, then stepped off the witness stand, Jo Lynn’s eyes glaring at her as she walked past us out of the room.
“What a loser,” Jo Lynn pronounced as the next witness was called.
“The state calls Marcia Layton.”
I looked toward the center aisle at the same precise moment as Colin Friendly. For a fraction of a second, our eyes met. He winked boldly, then looked away.
Chapter 6
It was almost four-thirty by the time we reached our mother’s apartment, located on Palm Beach Lakes Boulevard, several miles west of 1-95.
“What’s the big rush?” Jo Lynn asked, teetering on pencil-thin high heels behind me, as I ran across the parking lot toward the yellow structure that resembled nothing so much as a large lemon pound cake. “It’s not like she’s going anywhere.”
“I told Mrs. Winchell we’d be here by four o’clock,” I reminded her. “She wasn’t happy. She has to be out of here by five.”
“So, whose fault is it we’re late?”
I said nothing. Jo Lynn was right. The fact that we were almost half an hour late was at least partly my fault. And Robert’s.
He’d been waiting for me when we exited the courtroom at the end of the day. “I’m sorry I missed you at lunch-time,” he apologized immediately, while I tried not to notice how clear his hazel eyes were. “I had to rush off to a meeting.”
“How are you? What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice an octave higher than usual. I was grateful that Jo Lynn wasn’t beside me to witness my regression to adolescence, that she was still poised at the side of the courtroom doors, waiting for her chance to accost one of Colin Friendly’s attorneys. She’d spent the better part of the lunch break composing a letter to the monster, having decided her phone number wasn’t support enough. Colin Friendly needed to know why she was so convinced of his innocence, she told me. I told her she needed to have her head examined.
“What am I doing in Palm Beach or what am I doing in court?” The lines around Robert Crowe’s eyes crinkled in a way that told me he was well aware of his effect on me, as he’d always been, and that he was amused, possibly even touched, by it. “I might ask you the same thing.”
“I live here. In Palm Beach. Well, actually in Palm Beach Gardens. We moved here about seven years ago.” Had he really asked for so much information? “And you?”
“My family moved to Tampa right after I graduated high school,” he said easily. “I went off to Yale, then joined my folks in Florida after graduation, met a girl, got married, moved to Boca, got divorced, moved to Delray, got married again, moved to Palm Beach.”
“So you’re married,” I said, and immediately wished the scales of justice would come crashing down on my head.
He smiled. “Four kids. And you?”
“Two girls.”
“And a husband?”
“Oh yes, of course. Larry Sinclair. I met him at college. I don’t think you know him,” I babbled, wishing someone would stick a gag in my mouth. All my life, I’ve wanted to be a lady of mystery, o
ne of those women who smile enigmatically and say little, probably because they have little to say, but everyone always assumes it’s because they’re so deep. At any rate, mystery has never been my strong suit. My mother always says you can see everything on my face.
Robert Crowe shook his head, revealing a number of gray hairs around his temples. They made him look more distinguished, I thought. “Just the one husband?” he asked.
“Pretty boring,” I said.
“Pretty amazing,” he countered. “So, what brings you to court today?”
I glanced toward my sister, still waiting anxiously by the courtroom doors. “To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure. What about you? Are you a reporter?”
“Not exactly. I own a radio station, WKEY.”
“Oh, of course.” I hoped I didn’t sound as impressed as I felt.
“Normally I wouldn’t be here. We have reporters covering the trial, of course.”
“Of course,” I concurred.
“But I had a lunch meeting nearby, so I thought …” He broke off. “You’re very beautiful,” he said.
I laughed out loud. Probably to keep from fainting.
“Why are you laughing? Don’t you believe me?”
I felt my cheeks grow crimson, my knees go weak, my body temperature rise. Oh sure, I thought, great time to turn into a red, quivering mass of sweat. That should impress the hell out of him. “It’s just been a long time since anyone told me I was beautiful,” I heard myself say.
“Larry doesn’t tell you how beautiful you are?” He smiled, curling his lips around my husband’s first name. He’s playing with me, I thought.
There was a slight commotion at the door. Colin Friendly’s attorneys were leaving the courtroom. “Mr. Archibald,” I heard my sister call out, thrusting the letter she’d spent the lunch break composing at the lawyer in the gray silk suit, “I was wondering if you could make sure that Colin receives this. It’s very important.”
