“Trespassing.”
He laughs. “Every kid with a fishing pole trespasses one time or another.”
I tell them about sailing my boat up to Palm Beach, about my larcenous foray aboard the Dandy Brandy, about the missing propeller and wrench.
“You own a boat?” asks Farley, stuck on that part of my story.
“It was my late husband’s idea,” I say. “I’m trying to sell it. Which is sort of how I wound up in Palm Beach.”
Farley’s chewing his lower lip. “I know someone,” he says, “someone solid I can pass this on to.”
“Without giving my name?”
“I’ll call him during the break,” he says. “Tell him about the propeller and missing wrench.”
“What about my trespassing?”
“You shouldn’t pull more than eight-to-ten hard labor.”
“That’s a relief.”
A muscular young man passes us carrying a briefcase-sized wood box. The rolled up sleeves of his black tee expose powerful tattooed arms. His short black hair is gelled into spikes. There are ear and eyebrow studs o’plenty. I’m thinking he belongs to the Lucas kids, but he stops at the row in front of me and says something that causes everyone to scrunch together to make room. He glances back at us, smiles two rows of glorious teeth. “Morning Lucille, Mr. Farley.”
“Michelangelo,” says Farley by way of hello.
“Hello, Zeke,” says Lucille.
Zeke settles in and sets the wood box on his lap. He unlatches the lid and flips it over and around, creating a slant-top easel. I look over his shoulder as he sets a large sketchpad on the easel and opens it to a chalk drawing of Caprice and her mother huddled in a courtyard corner. They’re here. I twist around, scanning the packed courtroom for them but don’t see Caprice or her mother. I wonder if they have to wait outside until Mrs. Galdino is called as a witness.
Wha--! Parker? Is that Parker across the room in the back row? My gut tightens. I stand on tiptoe trying to see but there are too many people in the way. No. Of course it isn’t. Can’t be. It’s just someone who looks like someone. I’m notorious among friends and family for saying “Oh, there’s so-and-so,” calling out to some total stranger who turns out not to look anything like the person I thought. I settle back in my seat and watch the sketch artist.
Zeke opens two side trays filled with colorful chalks, pencils, sticks of charcoal and bits of cloth. He works quickly, embellishing his sketch of Mother and Child, softening the chalk with his fingers. He’s captured the essence of the Mrs. Galdino I saw last night, a shrunken shell of a woman, shoulders slumped, defeated. But his rendering of Caprice is off. He’s made her an Amazon, too strong, too powerful. And he’s left her eyes unfinished. The chalk under the brows has been worked and reworked as if he tried to capture the eyes a few times and failed. He flips to a fresh page as court is called to order.
“The court calls Maria Galdino to the stand.” The rear door opens and Caprice leads her mother up the aisle to the rail. Joseph Galdino doesn’t turn around. He stares down at the defense table as Caprice hands her mother off to a court officer who leads the woman to the stand.
People in the first row make room for Caprice. She glances at her cousins seated behind her, giving them the sort of fierce look I’ve seen on mother animals protecting their young. The warning is clear: “Mess with me all you like, but leave my mother alone.”
The witness chair dwarfs Maria Galdino. She reminds me of Lily Tomlin’s Edith Ann lost in a giant rocker, except there’s no humor here. The Prosecutor is solicitous. “Are you comfortable?” he asks. “Would you like some water?”
Maria Galdino shakes her head. Her back is rigid, her hands clasped in her lap, waiting for the attorney to get on with it. She’s the polar opposite of her brash, outgoing sister, yin to Brandy’s yang.
The prosecutor comes at her gently. “You are the defendant Joseph Galdino’s wife.”
“Yes.”
“And you are the sister of Brandy Lucas.”
“Yes.”
“You and your sister were close?”
“We talked every morning. Sometimes twice a day.”
“About?”
“What sisters always talk about. Nothing, everything.”
“And when did you first become concerned that something happened to Brandy?”
“The morning I couldn’t reach her.”
“That was unusual?”
“It never happened before.”
“Never?”
“If Brandy was going away, she’d tell me. Some places they went on the boat her phone didn’t work, but I always knew ahead of time she was going.”
“Always?”
Maria Galdino’s mouth tightens. She is not a woman who likes repeating herself. “Always.”
“So, that morning you couldn’t reach your sister, what did you do?”
“I waited one day. I thought, maybe they did go away.” She begins rocking slightly back and forth. “Maybe they went at night when Brandy thought it was too late to call. Maybe they were in the islands where her phone didn’t work.” Her gaze wanders off.
“Yes?” asks the attorney, leading her back.
“Then another day went by. And another. Still no call.”
“No texts?”
She gives the attorney a look I understand immediately. “We don’t do that,” she says.
“Very well, what happened next?”
“I told my husband I was worried. He said I should call Brandy’s children.”
“You called your husband on the phone?”
She looks confused. “No. He was home.”
Voices hum around me. How could Galdino be in New Jersey with his wife the same time he’s in Florida killing his sister-in-law? At the defense table, Galdino leans back in his chair, his shoulders relaxing.
“And did you call your sister’s children?”
Maria Galdino’s lips press into a thin line. She stares at her niece and nephew. The brother and sister lean against each other, as if for support. No bravado, today, no attitude. “They were in Italy,” she says, like a curse. “They told me they had no idea where their parents were.”
“Did they seem concerned?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Did they once call home? Did they one time call to talk to their mother?” Her weak voice gains strength. “What kind of children don’t call, even if it’s only to say ‘We’re alive and well’? But did they?” spitting out her words, “Never! Never once.”
She gives them the evil eye. My fingers fly to my neck, to the small gold charm I’ve worn since I was pregnant with Ethan. Hand of God, Miriam, Fatima, hamesh, hamsa, Chamsa, the hand is many things to many women. I’m not saying I’m superstitious, but why take a chance?
“What did the children tell you?” asks the Prosecutor.
“They told me their parents must be cruising the islands. They said I shouldn’t worry. They certainly weren’t.”
“What happened next?”
Maria Galdino looks down at her clasped hands. “The fourth day, I called the marina and asked if Brandy’s boat was there.”
“The Dandy Brandy.”
“Yes. The harbormaster said it was in its slip.” I wonder if she’d spoken with Deke or if he was out sick when this happened. “I asked him to please look onboard. He did. No one was there. He said everything looked fine.” Her voice cracks and she pulls a handkerchief from her sleeve, picking at it as she rocks back and forth. “So then I called Brandy’s complex.” Her breath turns jagged and she dabs the handkerchief to her nose. “I told the manager to go into Brandy’s house and see if anything was wrong. He called back from inside their house and said everything seemed in order. I told him to look in the garage. He did. There was only one car. Brandy’s car. He said maybe Brandy and Mel were taking a road trip. I told him if my sister was in a car, she would have called. He was impatient, very rude, said he had someone waiting in his office and that he needed to get back.”
> “And?”
“That’s when I called the police. They called back when they found…when they…” She pauses, takes a few sips of water.
I turn around, craning to see the person I thought might be Parker. The gallery benches are too full, people scrunched together like prairie dogs. The Prosecutor starts a new line of questioning. “You and your sister were always close?”
“Yes.”
“And your husbands?”
“Joseph and Mel are very different.” Are. She thinks Mel is still alive. “My husband is the oldest of nine. He worked hard from the time he was a boy. Mel is the baby in the family. Spoiled. He likes to play. Could never hold a job. Times were hard for them after Brandy’s daughter was born. More than once I slipped my sister money so she could put food on the table. After her son was born, she begged me to ask Joseph to hire Mel.”
The Lucas children sit motionless. Did they know how their aunt helped their mother?
“Your husband didn’t want to hire his brother-in-law?”
She looks at her husband. “Joseph gave Mel a job. He did that for me. I wish to God, now, I’d never asked.”
“And why is that?”
“That crane would never have fallen on Mel. He never would have gotten all that insurance money, never would have moved away. And Brandy,” her voice catches, “Brandy would still be alive.”
“You testified that your husband was with you in New Jersey when your sister went missing.”
“Yes.”
“Was he with you the entire time?”
“He went to work during the day, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, I mean was your husband home, in New Jersey, the first couple of days you called your sister and she didn’t answer?”
Maria Galdino looks slowly at her husband then at her daughter. The courtroom holds its collective breath. Caprice nods slightly. Her mother turns, fixes her eyes on her husband. “No. Not then.”
People murmur around me. We’d thought Maria Galdino alibied her husband earlier by testifying he was in New Jersey with her. Evidently, we were a little cart-before-the-horse-ish.
The prosecutor barely suppresses a smile. “Can you tell the court where your husband was?”
“He said he was going fishing up north.”
“Did you speak with him while he was away?”
“No. He never called when he went –” she pauses, “fishing.”
More murmuring. The articles I’d read said Galdino openly indulged his love of horses and women. Did Mrs. Galdino know her ‘fishing’ husband was dipping his line in strange waters? Judge Kossoff gavels us quiet.
The prosecutor approaches the witness stand. “Mrs. Galdino, do you know a Mr. David Douglas?”
Galdino’s head snaps up. “No,” says his wife. I glance at Caprice. She looks like she’s praying, palms pressed together, fingertips touching her lips. Zeke sees it too and, with a few quick strokes, sketches the girl’s grace, captures the poignancy of this child watching her mother give damning testimony at her father’s murder trial.
“Lights,” says the Prosecutor. The lights dim. The Prosecutor clicks a photo onto the screen. “These are flight manifests for roundtrip flights between Newark to Palm Beach, one the night before Maria Galdino tried calling her sister, the return two nights after. One name appears on both manifests.” He aims a laser pointer at the screen, dances the red light to the name “David Douglas” on both sheets. “Is the name familiar to you?”
Defense half rises from her chair. “Asked and answered, your honor.”
“Sustained.”
“Did your husband ever use aliases?” asks the prosecutor.
“How would I know?”
“She knows,” whispers Lucille.
“So, the name David Douglas –“
“Objection!” shouts the Defense.
“Sustained,” says Judge Kossoff. “Counselor, move on.”
“No more questions, your honor.” As he returns to his table, his back to the jury, the prosecutor allows himself a small smile. Yes, why not. He established that Joseph Galdino wasn’t at his home in New Jersey when Brandy first went missing. Does the jury believe Galdino was fishing? Or do they think he was in Florida stuffing Brandy’s body into a freezer?
“Cross,” says the Judge.
“A minute, please, Your Honor,” says the Defense, consulting with a member of her team.
I turn to Farley. “Couldn’t someone named David Douglas have been traveling those same days?”
“And cows can fly,” says Farley, smiling. He bends close, whispers, “The way Prosecution hit that alias angle, ‘David Douglas’ might be a name Galdino’s used now and again. ‘Course, Prosecution needs to prove that.”
The Defense rises to start the cross-examination. This isn’t making sense to me. If Mrs. Galdino is trying to protect her husband by lying about his alias, wouldn’t she also lie and say he was home with her when her sister went missing?
Suddenly, the door behind the judge bangs open and two men in Hazmat suits approach the bench, confabbing with the judge. Judge Kosseff sighs, shakes his head, more annoyed than frightened. “Ladies and Gentleman,” he says, “I must apologize. There seems to be an air quality issue in this room. Nothing life threatening, but it must be tended to. I’m told we need to evacuate the courtroom as quickly as possible.” Someone on the jury groans. “I agree,” says the judge, “Unfortunately, there is no other room available to us just now so we are adjourned for the day. Tomorrow we will meet in another courtroom. The number will be posted on the call sheet in the lobby. Again, I apologize. This is nothing any of us wants.” He gavels the session closed.
And, as I turn to leave the room, I see Parker. It is Parker. And he’s moving swiftly down the back row and out the courtroom door. I jump up and follow.
21
Three other courtrooms are emptying out, people crowding the courtyard. Where are you? I shield my eyes against the blinding sunlight, squinting out over the sea of heads -- Where are you? – pushing through, trying to catch a glimpse of Parker.
Did I tell him I was coming to court? Think. I rerun our conversations. Boats. Propellers. The price of coal in Newcastle. No. I’m positive I never mentioned sitting in on a murder trial with characters out of Fellini central casting. So, if I didn’t tell him -- my stomach dances with the creepy-crawlies -- it means he’s following me.
I finish circling. He’s not here. He could be in the men’s room, could be gone. I push through a stand of droopy-pant teens toward the half-wall overlooking Broward Boulevard. Is Parker checking up on me? Finding out where I go, what I do? I shiver despite the 95-degree swelter. Does he think we’re in some sort of relationship? Is he a control freak? Stalker? The grapefruit slices I ate for breakfast shoot acid up my throat.
I lean out over the ledge, don’t see Parker walking along Broward. Across the street, the usual Library park characters stretch out on the grass, no one up and about in this blanket of heat. Wait. There. At the south end of the park. There’s Parker, striding toward the four-story city garage.
This is bad. This is really bad. Today was the first time I ever parked there. He must have followed me. Did Parker somehow slip those notes under my door, try to warn me away from this trial? Why is he rushing on ahead? My mind shuffles crazy ideas. Is he going to do something to my car? Bug it? Cut the gas line? Blow it up? But these thoughts are no crazier than Parker showing up in my courtroom. He disappears inside the garage. I have to stop him from doing whatever he’s about to do to my car.
I weave through the courtyard crowd. A wall of withdrawal-crazed smokers clutch packs of cigarettes, waiting to storm the elevators. I opt for the stairs, racing down to the street, dodging cars across Broward, hitting the park running. Mistake. Women of a certain age are not designed to run on full bladders. I stop, cursing Mother Nature’s warped humor, shifting to a rapid walk all the way to the garage.
I’m parked on the second level and take the st
airs two at a time, gasping for air at the top. Bitsy’s right, I need to work out. My OBGYN is also right, I must do my Kegel exercises. Tomorrow. I’ll start it all tomorrow.
The chest-high garage walls let in outside light. My car sits quietly in its spot half-way up the ramp. I listen, shuddering at the eerie stillness -- no footsteps echoing, no motors humming. This isn’t nearly as scary as Chicago garages, completely enclosed concrete tombs dank and dark, but it’s nervous-making all the same. I tiptoe to the car, bracing for the unexpected like Inspector Clouseau alert for Cato. No one jumps out of the shadows. Still, I peer into the back seat in case Parker’s lying in wait. Nothing there but my collection of Sudukos, umbrellas and Bed Bath and Beyond coupons. I slip my key into the lock, softly opening the door and sliding inside, locking the door. Where is he? Is he watching?
The roar of a car breaks the silence and I slide down in my seat as tires screech down from the ramp above. Parker’s car shoots past without slowing. It screeches down to the first level, stopping at the exit. I hear his car idling as he waits for the striped arm to rise.
In seconds, I’m pulling out.
-What are you doing?
-I should have trusted my instincts.
-I repeat, what are you doing?
-I knew there was something off about him, about his interest in my boat.
-Let me rephrase. What are you doing?
I ease off the gas, hanging back so Parker doesn’t spot me as he heads north on US-1. Luckily his SUV is easy enough to follow.
-It’s all those Nancy Drew books you read as a child…
What do I really know about him? Hours alone together on my boat and at the marina, what did he talk about? Rarely about himself. Always asking questions about me. Why? What’s he up to?
He turns right on 17th just as the light turns red. I’m caught a few cars back. “Move it!” I yell. Who stops at red lights down here? Must be tourists. “Come on, come on, come on!” pounding my palm against the steering wheel, “Move!” A century later the cars ahead of me creep right onto 17th and I whip around them. Have I lost Parker? No, there he is, a couple of blocks up nearing the bridge that vaults over the Intracoastal to Ft. Lauderdale’s fabled beach.
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