She usually worked until six and it would be dusk before she reached her block. I wore a black sweat suit and sneakers. I put my money in my bra and my keys in my pocket. It was important to be able to run away if Tiffany sounded the alarm. Unless I was caught on her doorstep, it was a case of my word against hers. I wrote a long letter to Elaine, telling her where I was going and why, and dropped it in the mail on my way to the subway.
At seven, Tiffany Nixon turned the corner onto 71st Street. I was standing down a short flight of steps in front of a store that sold books on theater and film when she passed. I recognized her from the picture that always appeared at the top of her newspaper column.
Tiffany was about five feet-eight and weighed roughly 200 pounds. Her reddish-brown hair was thinly cornrowed and there were silver beads at the end of each one. She was wearing a multicolored peasant dress which swirled around her ankles, showing off a pair of silver sandals.
In spite of her considerable bulk, she was an attractive woman who walked like a dancer.
I slipped from my hiding place and walked behind her until she crossed the street. Then I fell into lockstep beside her.
“Your column last year on Jesse Jackson was very interesting,” I said without looking directly at her.
“Which one, honey? I do a lot of Jesse.” Her voice was tired as though she’d had a hard day.
“The one on his speech at the University of Michigan. The topic was ‘America Must Leave No One Behind: A Celebration of Diversity.’ ”
She kept walking. “Thanks, but I don’t really remember it.”
I jogged along beside her. “It’s the one where you described sitting in the Hill Auditorium on that campus listening to Jesse drone on about the merits of affirmative action and how the place was packed so tightly that you could barely breathe.”
She stopped walking. I stopped jogging.
“The one where you talked to several students after his speech was over and reported on what they had to say,” I concluded.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Someone who knows that you were nowhere near the University of Michigan the day Jesse gave that speech. You had a big fight with your sister, Oona, the night before. The two of you continued arguing the next morning and you were late leaving her house because of it. You missed your flight to Michigan, Miss Nixon.”
Tiffany Nixon didn’t move. My head was down, eyes gazing at her sandaled feet.
The feet moved toward me. I backed up.
“Who the fuck are you?” she snarled. “And what do you want?”
I looked up and saw that she was coming straight at me. I stood still and let her punch me right in the mouth.
She shook me by the shoulders. “I’m going to ask you one more time . . .”
A white woman rushed up to us, dragging her poor little dog on its leash. “I saw you hit this woman, now let go of her.”
Tiffany blinked and released me.
My lip was cut. I wiped my hand across it and saw blood. “Miss, could you be a witness to first-degree assault if I need you?”
The woman didn’t hesitate. “Yes. My name is Josephine Harris.”
My mouth felt like it was on fire. “Thank you.”
“Are you going to be all right?”
“Yes. This woman won’t hit me again.”
She gave Tiffany a nasty look, mumbled something about New York going to hell in a handbasket, and walked on with her dog. I was just thinking that I’d forgotten to get the stranger’s address when Tiffany spoke.
“Look, I shouldn’t have hit you. I’m sorry.”
I wanted to kick her ass. “My name is Jacqueline Blue.”
Tiffany gasped and then shrieked.
“I came to see you because I need your help.”
She was sputtering uselessly.
“I am not a killer. I am just an ordinary book editor who wants to go back to work. Can you understand that?”
Tiffany Nixon just glared at me.
“I’ve done my homework, Miss Nixon. The Jesse column was not the first time you fabricated a story.” I was bluffing here—Alyssa hadn’t found anything else. “That’s a big deal in the newspaper business. It would cost you your job and no one else will ever hire you.”
“There is no point in my going for this. You’ll just come back again. Blackmailers never quit.”
I hadn’t expected this. “Blackmailers usually want money. I don’t.”
She crossed her arms and her eyes went squinty with anger. “You want me to run a column saying I don’t believe you are guilty, right?”
I shook my head. “No. I want to tell you some very interesting things about this case. If you follow up on the information I give you, Annabelle’s killer is going to panic and make a mistake.”
I was scared to death. If my scheme backfired and Tiffany went to the police with the fact that I tried to blackmail her, whatever public support I had would disappear in a flash.
Tiffany looked interested, but she was still frowning. “I’m listening.”
“Look, Miss Nixon. I was arrested on evidence that was purely circumstantial. There’s a good chance that I won’t be convicted of the crime but that is not good enough for me and Annabelle deserves better, too. I want my name cleared and the real murderer locked up. All I’m asking you to do is a little investigative reporting—who knows what you’ll turn up?”
Her hands were now balled up into fists at her side. This was not a woman who took bullying well. “Start talking.”
And so I did.
While scrubbing my makeup off that night, I glanced in the mirror. The woman who gazed back at me was someone I no longer knew.
33
THOSE WELBURN GALS
There was nothing I could do except be patient. Tiffany’s column appeared every day but she didn’t write anything related to the case until two weeks later. It was worth the wait.
WAS SARAH SOBBING WITH GRIEF FOR
FIFTEEN MINUTES?
by Tiffany Nixon
Sarah Jane Welburn and Mike Rizzelli met seven years ago at a wedding reception. He was the caterer and she, the bride’s old college chum. It didn’t take long for them to become an item (those Welburn gals sure don’t marry up, do they?) and their own wedding followed just a year later.
The new Mrs. Rizzelli kept her maiden name professionally and continued on with her work as an interior decorator for the Park Avenue set. Her firm, Le Magnifique, flourished over the next two years just as the forty-year-old, family-owned firm, Rizzelli Caterers, began a decline. She told her friends that Mike began to drink.
According to their neighbors on West End Avenue, the couple often had loud arguments that went on for hours.
The last fight in the apartment occurred five months ago, shortly after eight a.m., and it was so heated that someone called the police. By the time the police got there at eight-thirty, no one was home. Mr. Rizzelli was gone and Sarah Jane Welburn Rizzelli had hailed a cab for a trip to her sister’s home.
According to my source, who shall remain anonymous, the argument between Sarah Jane and Mike had something to do with Annabelle. In fact, after Mike stalked out, Sarah Jane called Annabelle and “really laid into her.” She was on the phone “screaming and sobbing like a crazy woman.”
We’ve been told that Sarah Jane arrived at The Dakota at nine, too late to save her sibling, who had been strangled in her own bathroom. Annabelle’s doorman called 911 at nine-fifteen.
Why didn’t Sarah Jane call the police and what was she doing for fifteen whole minutes?
The column set off a firestorm of articles over the next few days. Keith, Mama, and I were elated as the press stumbled over themselves in an effort to upstage each other. “CAIN AND ABEL?” ran a headline in the News. The venerable New York Times featured a prim article alluding to Annabelle’s rumored affairs but it was the New York Comet that showed Victor Bell on the front page, trying to duck the camera. The headline above him screamed “IS TH
IS DORA’S DAD?” and the story inside reported:
Annabelle Welburn Murray, the murdered debutante-turned-publisher, was involved in a torrid affair with Victor Bell, a 35-year-old African-American sales representative for Bingham & Stone, publishers of numerous celebrity memoirs and home to several best-selling novelists.
It is believed that Mrs. Murray, doubtful that her husband was actually the biological father of their only child, subjected Dora, aged three, to DNA testing a week before she died. The results of those tests have not been released.
Although a spokesperson at Bingham & Stone refused to comment, book-publishing insiders agree that the normally taciturn Mr. Bell is “a very private individual who rarely talks about his personal life.” Now they all know why.
Everyone in the Black Pack (except Joe and Victor) was trying to reach me, but I only took Elaine’s calls. She was handling our project with brisk efficiency—her publisher was now in on our secret and had granted her a blank check to make the book happen.
Every single one of the news bulletins reviewed my career, arrest, and upcoming trial.
With investigative reporters from the National Enquirer to Newsweek working on the story and poking holes in both Annabelle’s reputation and the district attorney’s case, there was nothing left for me to do.
I had fought the good fight and now the days stretched before me. Keith was busy with jury selection, pretrial motions, and other legal maneuverings designed to save my life.
34
THE PEOPLE VS. JACQUELINE BLUE
Paul’s arm around my shoulder and Mama’s presence at my side were the only things that kept me from falling apart as we marched behind Keith up the steps of the courthouse, through the hallway, into the elevator, and then out into another hallway with the media and the curious hot on our heels. I saw Tiffany Nixon and she turned her face away.
Pam and Alyssa managed to squeeze through the throng. They squeezed my hand. Alyssa whispered, “Stay strong, Jackie. Remember, we’ve got your back.” I blinked my tears away and gave her a grateful smile.
Keith and I scrutinized the jam-packed courtroom. The only people I recognized were Tiffany Nixon and Jamal Hunt, who was peering around and scribbling on a pad. I knew that his next book would contain a remarkably realistic courtroom scene.
“Sit here,” Keith said, indicating the space beside him at the defense table.
Judge Madeline Veronsky, a cherubic figure in her stern black robes, called for order in the room.
The anorexic-looking woman whom I’d last seen the morning I was released from jail was the prosecutor. Ruth Champ paced back and forth in front of the jury throughout her opening statement.
The mouths of Veronksy and Champ were set in rigid Thin Pink Lines during the entire trial.
Champ said, “The State of New York will prove that Jacqueline Blue, with the intent to cause the death of Mrs. Annabelle Murray, did in fact cause her death; that as Mrs. Murray turned to retrieve an appointment book that the defendant claimed to have left in her home by accident, Miss Blue punched her in the back of the head, dragged Mrs. Murray into her own bathroom, and strangled her. She then ran from the building, jumped into a cab, and went to work at Welburn Books, a company that Mrs. Murray’s family has owned since 1899. Why? Because Jacqueline Blue is an aggressive and hostile woman who has a gigantic chip on her shoulder, and when Annabelle Murray decided not to promote her to a higher position, that huge chip became a murder weapon.”
The journalists assembled in the row in back of me scrawled rapidly, drafting pieces of writing that they would have to turn into polished articles and news reports in time for tomorrow’s newspapers and early morning broadcasts.
At ten o’clock, Keith began his opening statement. “Ms. Champ has just told you that she will prove Jacqueline Blue guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Ladies and gentlemen, I submit to you that the evidence will show that Ms. Blue did not murder anyone. She is, in fact, still mourning Mrs. Annabelle Murray, who was not only her employer, but a friend. When you have heard all of the evidence in this case, you will have to conclude that Jacqueline Blue paid her boss a visit on that fateful morning to retrieve her personal property and that when she left the apartment, Annabelle Murray was still alive and unharmed. When you have heard the testimony of those who came into contact with Ms. Blue that morning, you will conclude that Ms. Blue had no knowledge of the terrible tragedy until all the employees at Welburn Books were informed shortly before noon of that awful day. What is more, you will ultimately realize that the position Ms. Blue wanted was not worth killing for. It would have been far easier for Ms. Blue to obtain that same position at another book publishing firm.”
I sat at the defense table with my hands folded in front of me like an obedient third-grader.
In a criminal trial, the prosecution presents its case first. Ruth Champ started off with a parade of forensic people, the coroner, and other scientific types to establish the gory details of Annabelle’s death. On cross-examination, Keith got the coroner to admit that the person who strangled Annabelle was either a man or an extraordinarily strong woman because her larynx had been crushed.
When Astrid Norstromm took the stand, her Thin Pink Line was already in place. Champ approached her with an air of sympathy.
“Will you please state your full legal name and occupation?”
“My name is Astrid Norstromm and I’m executive editor at Welburn Books.”
“How long have you worked for Welburn Books?”
“One year.”
Champ gave me a withering glance and then spoke directly to Astrid. “Have you ever had the chance to interact with Miss Blue?”
Astrid glared at me before turning to face the jury. “Yes, on several occasions.”
“Please face forward, Miss Norstromm.”
She complied.
“Based on your interactions with Miss Blue, did you come to form an opinion of her?”
“Absolutely. She has a very bad temper and seemed to have some sort of ax to grind.”
There was a hum in the courtroom.
Champ looked saddened to hear this information. “Please give us an example of the behavior that led you to form this opinion.”
“About a year ago, I received an excellent book proposal from a literary agent and asked Jackie to read it and tell me what she thought of it. Two days later, I went into her office to discuss it and she came unglued. She behaved so irrationally that I was actually afraid that she was going to attack me.”
“Tell the court what you mean by the word ‘unglued.’ ”
Astrid took a deep breath. “She hit the desk with the palm of her hand, yelled at me, and told me that I should stay away from manuscripts about Black people and stick to what I know. I was verbally abused by Jackie because I am a white woman.”
The hum grew louder.
“Thank you, Miss Norstromm. No further questions.”
Keith moved swiftly to cross-examine. “Miss Norstromm, what was the name of this book proposal?”
“I don’t remember.”
He smiled pleasantly. “Do you remember what the proposal was about?”
“Sure. It concerned the dramatic rise in the number of African-Americans sent to prison in this country over the past ten years.”
“Did Miss Blue say that she was upset about these jailings?”
“We didn’t talk about that.”
“Did she say that the author lacked the appropriate credentials to take on such a serious project?”
“No. The author was a respected journalist. There was no way that Jackie could argue that.”
“But she was definitely upset.”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm . . . a respected journalist proposed a book about an unfortunate state of affairs affecting African-Americans. Miss Blue is an African-American who would presumably feel dismayed by the data collected by this journalist.”
“That’s exactly what I thought,” Astrid said triumphantly.
Keith rubbed his chin. “I’m confused. Perhaps Miss Blue was offended by a position that the author took. Did the author feel that this trend is a good thing and that more Black people should be jailed?”
Ruth Champ shot out of her chair. “Objection! Miss Norstromm cannot know how this unnamed journalist feels about anything.”
“Sustained.”
Keith showed no sign of having heard this exchange. “Miss Norstromm, please forgive my ignorance of the publishing process. Let me ask you this: is it true that you asked Miss Blue to read the proposal because you thought that Welburn Books should enter into a contract with the author to publish the book?”
“Yes.”
“What was written in this proposal that convinced you that Welburn Books should offer the author a contract?”
“It was the author’s opinion that given the astonishing number of impoverished Black people in privately owned prisons, and given the fact that a large number of Black people are interested in starting their own businesses, it was only fair that wealthy, middle-class Blacks get a chance to own these prisons themselves.”
The hum became a roar and the judge pounded her gavel to bring the court back to order.
“Miss Norstromm, are you an American citizen?”
“Not yet. I’ve applied for citizenship and am going through the process.”
Keith’s body was rigid but his tone was still reasonable. “What country are you from, Miss Norstromm?”
“Sweden,” she replied proudly.
“A lovely country. I’ve been there several times.”
She said nothing. The courtroom was quiet.
“How long have you lived in America?”
“Three years.”
“So, you’re an editor at Welburn Books who is from Sweden and has only lived in this country for three years. A woman from a country which has comparatively few Black citizens. A woman who may not quite grasp certain situations in the United States. Could it be, Miss Norstromm, that Jacqueline Blue did not become angry because you are a white woman? Could it be that Ms. Blue reacted quite strongly to your woeful ignorance of the fact that such a book would be viewed as a gigantic slap in the face by the African-American community?”
A Meeting In The Ladies' Room Page 18
