As I slept in my juror’s chair I was visited – tormented, I should say – by the strangest dream. I never even think about my husband, yet there he was, as the young man I knew he’d been from film and photograph, able-bodied, healthy, loading some dirty old truck with fishing gear. He wore one of those stupid hats festooned with hooks. Why those people don’t catch their own brains with those hats I’ll never know. I suppose it proves they haven’t any.
He gestured to me to come over and I went very unwillingly because I knew he wanted to take me with him and I didn’t want to go. Then – here’s the horrible part – he swelled up all dark and horrible and tried to get a net over me. He turned into my stepfather.
From beyond the grave he was laughing at me, thinking he’d got the better of me. My fear shot up; how many times would I have to kill him? But he will never capture me; I am too strong for him. I will never let go. The two of us can die here fighting but I will never give up. He leaped on my body as if, because he was my first, therefore he owned my spirit, but I wrapped the net around his neck and began to pull. It seemed my own air was cut off, I was choking, but even if I had to die to destroy him, it was worth it.
And after death, what? Would I rule my captured souls in hell? We’ll see. Even if all I earned is oblivion, it would be worth that risk to spit out my final rage into the face of the cold universe. But where was I now? This was not oblivion, but eternal loneliness. Suddenly it seemed that I was shut away forever, out of the excitement, out of the light, in some dark, dank, dripping cell. Down at the bottom of the well, wrapped in an unholy embrace with my rotting stepfather’s corpse… Someone was shaking me. How dare they?
It was Lacey. I woke up sweating and shivering and filled with rage. I could feel the drool – old people’s drool – hardening into crusts at the corners of my mouth.
Lacey’s hand brushed my arm. “Are you OK?” Her face approximated some semblance of concern but I was certain I had caught a glimpse of the secret glee hidden behind her eyes; unholy joy that I, too, was human, aged, imperfect. That her disgusting fate, entropy was stalking me as well. Roughly I pushed her hand away.
“Don’t ever touch me again,” I snapped at her. Unbidden human touch is so disgusting. Less majesty. The nerve of some people.
I left the courthouse at the break. Eight’s text told me to drive out to the country, so I had a lot of time to think. Charmian hadn’t reacted to my presence in any particular way, so I was feeling a little encouraged. But I knew her well enough to know she was mostly annoyed by my presence. She didn’t look like the plain old Disney lady who had tricked them into seating her on the jury, but she did look like she was “blending in”. As if she was determined to stay where she was. I played the Mountain Goats’ Up the Wolves to help me concentrate.
The prosecutor’s closing argument really affected me. You would think as a psychology student I would know all about “antisocial personality disorder”” but I didn’t. It was as if I was hearing about it for the first time.
Everything he said applied to Charmian! Adolescent crime? Like, does murder count? She had some excuse, but still. It was obviously premeditated so you couldn’t really call it self-defense. Even if it got reduced to manslaughter, anybody would have to count it as a crime. And, grandiose enough? Is Charmian-Pearleen-Purdy-Carr-Quantreau grandiose enough for you? How about, blames others? Doesn’t care about people? No kidding! Even her passion for poor Eight is really the same kind of “ownership” my wretched father in his fear and empty loneliness felt for her! She only wanted an audience to her own magnificent, because how can be the Queen be a Queen without a courtier? A body-slave. You can’t call that love.
Eight told me she was a demon, and that sounded about right to me. Anti-social personality disorder, sociopath, psychopath – isn’t it all the same thing?
Since I knew for certain now that my stepmother was the monster I had always feared, why was my spirit so light? Was it only because Eight had magically come into my life with all his intelligence and wisdom, with the beauty of his scars? No, it was because for the first time I was sure my stepmother and I were nothing alike, and that if we feared to study monsters because of the threat of becoming too much like then, monsters would rule the world.
I turned on a dirt road marked “Church”. Eight’s text told me: “Drive to end” but I had to slow down to a crawl because the ruts were pretty deep.
At the end of the road was a long low ranch house and a garden where people in sun hats worked patiently among the rows of flowers and vegetables. They didn’t look up, but I recognized some immature sunflowers. Didn’t Charmian say the sunflower is my flower? That’s all right by me. I parked with the other cars at a sign that said, Native American Church. Eight came running down the steps of the house.
I searched his face for signs of disgust. “Did you read it?”
“I read it,” he said. “She’s a demon, all right.”
He guided me away from the house.
“So is this your church?” I asked.
He nodded. “My Mom’s Arapaho.”
Behind the house was a little shack that I have to say, looked like an outhouse. It was painted a fading read, but it had no other markers on it at all. Once again I felt a ripple of fear. The trees are not afraid. The mountains aren’t afraid. We, the sunflowers, are not afraid. My new mantra. “So,” he asked me, “How did it go for you?”
“I saw her. And she saw me. I listened to the prosecution’s whole closing argument. But she didn’t do anything. She’ll probably like it that I left.”
“See?” he said. “She doesn’t recognize your power. You have the element of surprise.” He opened the door to the shack and fragrant steam jumped out.
“Oh,” I said. “A sauna.” My father loved the sauna. We had one in our old house.
“It’s a sweat lodge. You have to take off your clothes,” Eight directed.
“You first.”
“Done and done.” We both started to strip.
“I usually don’t do this on the first date,” I joked nervously.
“You have to be serious,” said Eight. “You have to tell the truth from now on.”
So I was silenced. Did that mean he thought I did do this on the first date? Let’s hope not! The fragrant steam turned out to be a pile of wet grasses on the hot rocks.
“Sage,” said Eight. He picked up a branch off the floor and began stroking me with it. “You do the same as me.”
So we stroked each other with the fragrant branches. The tattoo Charmian couldn’t recognize was a pair of wolves. Eight saw me looking.
“It’s the twin Wolf spirit,” said Eight. “A powerful spirit animal. What’s yours?”
“Tattoo or spirit?” He laughed. “Either or both.”
I thought. Tattoo was easy, I have a stupid hummingbird on my ankle Penn encouraged me to get. Spirit animal’s a lot more difficult. What animal hates its stepmother? The cuckoo?
He helped me out. “Have you ever had another creature look at you as if it recognized you?”
Brainstorm. “Sure,” I said. “A marmot. It stole all my food while I was camping. It hung around until I woke up. I think it was thanking me.”
“Perfect,” said Eight. ”Spirit of the Great Marmot, Spirit of the Powerful Water Bird, we who are your children have much need of you. We summon you in all your majesty.” He took me by the elbow. “Now you sit down.”
I sat on the wooden seat and hunched forward, trying to suck my belly in.
“You’re beautiful,” said Eight, who really was. “Forget about yourself. You’re a marmot now.” “That’s me,” I echoed. A thieving marmot.
“This is the hard part,” said Eight. “But it will be over fast.” He opened a box and took out some rabbity little vegetables and held them out in his palm. “You only get two,” he said, “Because you’re a beginner.”
“What are they?” I asked, trying not to be scared.
“Peyote buttons. Do you trust me?”
“Is this all right with your church?”
“It’s a sacred ceremony. As soon as I told them we were up against demons, they were first to suggest it. Don’t you trust me?” he repeated.
I do. “I do,” I said, taking two strange little vegetables. Like smaller brussels sprouts. He extended a jar of water.
“It might made you feel kind of sick,” he warned.
I got them down. I’m a good pill taker. My vitamins are like horse capsules. I used to take diet pills before I got smart.
“Wow,” I agreed, “I do feel sick. I’m afraid I’m going to throw them up.”
He poured out the rest of the water on the floor and it steamed up at us. He handed me another jar. “It’s tea,” he said. “Drink it.”
It wasn’t as good as his tea, but it was better than the peyote. At least I didn’t feel like throwing up any more, but I had to drink it all to stop from coughing.
“Now tell the spirits of your problems,” said Eight. “Tell them everything.”
I hesitated. It was so hot in here, I felt a little faint. Would I pass out disgracefully, like a drunken date? The only light came from the glowing rocks. I tried to focus on his face.
“It helps to close your eyes,” said Eight, but he took my hand. I felt better immediately. “So we don’t lose each other,” he said. “Like the otters. You know they hold paws while they float sleeping, so they don’t drift apart.”
I didn’t know. Don’t let us drift apart, I prayed.
“Mother Spirit, Father Spirit,” said Eight, “Spirits of all the mothers, all the fathers, all the spirits gone before; Great Spirit who guides the universe in its right path, we come before you to defeat the machinations of a demon. She possesses the power of rage, the power of hate, the willingness to murder. We will need all your courage, all your cleverness to bring her down.”
The “Father Spirit” part made me think immediately about my father. Eight said his spirit was safe and I wanted to believe that. I thought of him back when I was eight and realized, that’s the way I wanted to remember him. Teaching me how to fish, baiting a line with baloney. We had to sit all afternoon, because that’s what you do when you fish. But I was so proud of being with my dad. That was all right for me. I could have sat there, happy, forever.
“He’s with us,” I said. “My father. I feel him.” “Talk to the Spirit,” said Eight.
I was sweating so hard I wasn’t even certain whether I was crying or not. I felt definitely light headed. Had I had any breakfast? I couldn’t remember, it seemed so long ago. Didn’t I eat a piece of cold pizza, going out the door to confront my stepmother? I was brave then, wasn’t I? I definitely hadn’t had any lunch, rushing to meet Eight, and his text told me not to eat. That cold pizza lay in my gut like a rock. I began rocking myself, back and forth. “Dad,” I called, out loud, “Daddy? I want you to meet the man I’m going to marry.”
What was I, out of my mind? I was so astonished by myself I fell into a shocked silence. Eight squeezed my hand encouragingly and I began to babble. The words just poured out of me.
“I’m sorry I have to stop Charmian,” I said. “I know you wanted me to leave her alone, but she’s evil. She’s going to destroy and destroy until there’s nothing left. We have to stop her.” I hesitated.
“He’s here,” said Eight. “I see him. Talk to him.”
I was so thrown that I stood up. Eight stood up too. Suddenly the planks that formed the shack fell away outward, like the petals of a flower. The morning mountain air was cold on my naked skin. “Daddy!” I shouted.
He was loading his fishing rods into his truck, the old blue Chevy.
His face lit up at the sight of me. “I’m going fishing,” he said. ”Want to come?” He didn’t mind at all that I was standing naked there with some guy.
“His animal’s the rainbow trout,” I said to Eight. “He loved them so much he couldn’t even eat them. He always threw them back.” I sobbed. “He’d kiss them, saying You’re so beautiful. And then he’d throw them back.”
“Pleased to meet you sir,” said Eight.
“Daddy, I need to destroy Charmian,” I said. “She’s a monster. She kills people.” “She rapes people,” said Eight.
“But she has swords. I’m so scared of her. She’ll cut me.” I dug my fists into my eyes. “Swords are nothing,” My father said. “Her swords are mirrors.”
Another childhood memory. I used to be afraid of mirrors after my mother died. My father cured that by showing me that the only thing in mirrors is what you put there.
My father held up his fishing knife. It glittered in the sun. “She has fake swords,” he said, “But I have this.” It wasn’t a fishing knife, it was a scalpel. He used to show me his medical case, and tell me about all it contained. What each weapon could do. That was back when we thought medicine could fix everything. “You don’t need me,” he said. “You can do it by yourself with the help of this fine man. I’m going fishing.” He looked right at Eight. With approval. My father could be so charming when he was whole. And when he chose to be.
“You take care of her now,” my father said. He was getting into the truck, whistling. He always whistled “Beautiful Dreamer.” He said it was his and my mother’s song.
“He’s leaving,” I whined at Eight. “I don’t want him to go.”
“He’s happy,” said Eight. “He has to go.”
And if I ran after him, I would have to let go of Eight’s hand. I didn’t let go. “Sit down,” Eight encouraged. We sat down. “Close your eyes.” I closed my eyes.
“Now lean your head on my shoulder. Everything’s going to be all right.” And I could tell that it was.
We came out into the afternoon and my father’s truck was gone. The shack’s planks were back in place. There was an open shower behind the sauna and we washed away the sweat and the tears. Together.
“Solar water,” Eight commented. The soap smelled wonderful. Like mountain thyme. That’s Eight’s deepest, most intimate scent. We soaped each other vigorously.
“My father didn’t believe in an afterlife,” I said.
“Luckily an afterlife believed in him. So how do you feel?”
“I feel powerful,” I told him. “Like I can do anything.”
“You can,” he said. “You know, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. You have so much power.”
And I believed it, his eyes shone so. We kissed a long time. After we dressed, he checked his phone.
“They’ve gone into deliberations,” he said. “They’re good for a couple of hours. Come on into the main house. The elders have a meal prepared specially for us. It’s time for you to meet them.”
In the break between the prosecutor’s closing and the defense closing I saw that Whitney had fled. Good riddance! Maybe she showed up to see the porn tape, and when the prosecution failed to cooperate she got bored. The Princess of Wands will never know what she is missing.
I thought smugly of my horoscope’s instructions: “Maintain aura of exclusivity. Follow your destiny. Good day to establish friendly relations with co-workers. You will impress skeptics. Feeling of confinement is temporary. You will learn what is going on behind the scenes.”
O’Hara rose before us, his reptilian face newly shaven and pink with what might be the heat of battle or carefully applied rouge, his wild mop of hair freshly cut and styled. He wore a blue “power” suit; a white shirt and a red “power” tie in elegant contrast with the prosecutor’s staid government grays; armor each of us had paid for. He fixed every jury member with his penetrating glance while the Bond Girl hustled forth the poster board. MURDERER, THIEF, LIAR, ADULTERER, CON MAN, CHEATER, PIMP, WEASEL, PORNOGRAPHER, DRUG ADDICT, DRUG PUSHER, DEADBEAT DAD, and PERJURER. An impressive list. I never bothered to add up my own distinctions but I doubted I could outdo Mr. Haymaker. My fellow jurors also frowned in disapproval. The Prince of Swords left nothing to chance.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the state and I certainly agree about one thing: Our justice system, both state and country, is the envy of the planet. And there’s a simple reason why: benefit of the doubt. Benefit of the doubt means that you don’t convict people because the police arrest them, you don’t convict them because other criminals say they’re guilty. You have to have actual, incontrovertible evidence. If another theory of the crime is just as probable, that’s doubt. And you give the accused the benefit of the doubt and let them go.
This case could have been created just to exemplify that situation. Here we have a defendant who is accused of a crime – several crimes actually – and there is no physical evidence whatever to link her to them. Usually in a courtroom juries are listening to gunpowder evidence, blood evidence, fiber evidence, trace evidence, ballistics and DNA. There’s none of that here. Why? Because the only evidence linking her with the crime is the testimony of one person – one person – a man who has already been convicted of the crime and who made a deal – handed the prosecutors his ex-girlfriend’s head – to avoid the death penalty.
I ask each and every one of you, would you execute a cat on that man’s evidence? On the evidence of a convicted murderer, thief, liar – well, you can read it right there for yourself. How could you? You must have at least some doubt that what he says is true. Now ask yourselves this, if you let this woman go free, what kind of threat to society do you think she is going be? Well, she’s going to stop complaining about other men and the problems they cause her and her loved ones, I can guarantee you that! Because that’s all she did – that’s all they can prove she did – and that isn’t a crime.
Here’s where Dr. Loden’s evidence is of the greatest importance. I wanted you to hear that it’s the textbook definition of this man’s diagnosis that this kind of person never takes responsibility but, in fact, always blames his crimes on someone else. It’s never his fault. You probably know someone like him from your own lives. Even if you catch them with egg all over their face they insist someone else made them do it, someone tempted them, someone suggested it to them, someone more powerful tricked, trapped and teased them into splattering themselves all over the face with egg. Haymaker wants us to believe that Karen Sivarro – “ the defendant blinked innocently as he pointed in her direction –“ that little girl sitting right over there, is some kind of underworld genius, a Goddess of Men’s Destruction who engineered the whole thing. She’s is the reason he paid his drug dealer (with is client’s money) to shoot somebody. She’s the reason he’s in jail for the rest of his natural life. But we know for a fact that that man was a cocaine-abusing thief before he ever even met her. Long before he met Karen Sivarro he was headed for that jail cell. And that’s exactly what his own personal psychiatrist testified to you on this witness stand as the result of months of therapeutic assessments. He said that this man is a sociopath. This psychiatrist wasn’t anyone hired by Karen Sivarro’s team, this was Haymaker’s own doctor. Are you going to send this woman to jail for life – or to her death – on the word of a sociopath? I have every faith in you, ladies and gentlemen that you will not.
You may not like her. You may think that she is just another pretty girl who knew how to get what she wanted by taking advantage of her beauty and her sexual attraction, that she is a snooty broad who thought pretty highly of herself, and possibly had some contempt for others who didn’t match up to her high standards. You may even have a scar on your heart caused once upon a time by somebody like her – but you also know that you took an oath not to convict on such reasons.
Maybe she did give her brother in law – don’t forget there’s a dead man in this case – a hard time. Maybe she and her family actually threatened him. But with what? She didn’t shoot anybody. She didn’t hire anybody. You, on the other hand, ladies and gentlemen, each of you took an oath to convict on the evidence, and there isn’t any evidence.
It’s my article of faith, members of the jury, that when you sit down with the evidence of this case in your hands, it will disappear like the mist that it is. And you will vote to acquit. That’s what the evidence dictates that you must do, that’s what the law dictates that you should do, and that’s what your own consciences will tell you to do. Thank you.”
The judge’s instructions seemed calculated to put anyone to sleep. I was sleepy, and so I ignored him and took a pleasant nap. They call it a “power” nap.
Thanks to Charmian, I knew where Zach Tobin lived. I parked on the street and saw him sitting on the steps, white earbuds suggesting he was listening to music. But he looked right at me as I parked, and when I stepped out of the car, he stood up, picking up a backpack that seemed to contain schoolbooks. I was carrying both Charmian’s book and the copy I had made, but he didn’t look at them. He looked at me.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Charmian’s description of him was surprisingly accurate. Maybe when she’s not looking at herself (which is rare) she actually sees. I knew he was my age but he looked older, a big soft-faced guy hiding his head under a bandana. Not any scarf that could ever have belonged to Charmian, I was glad to see.
“I think so,” I said, my voice going all quavery at the thought of what these documents contained. “Let me call my ride,” he said, texting rapidly with his phone.
“Am I interrupting something?” I asked, still feeling awkward because I knew so much about him that he didn’t know I knew. And he knew nothing about me.
“No,” he said. “I was waiting for a ride to the courthouse but I’m telling them I’ll find my own way there.”
“I can drive you,” I said. Thinking, that’s if you still want to go after reading this. A few more minutes and I might have missed him! I have to get this over with.
“OK.” He said. “Come on back.”
When he turned I had the nerve to study him. He wore a Bull Durham t-shirt and a pair of multi-patched jeans that had definitely seen better days – probably in someone else’s lifetime. Obviously if he was going to the courthouse, it was as a spectator.
He had big muscles. His “bruiser” physique” and his youth, and I guess their original connection must be what had turned my hard-ass stepmother into a “lovestruck girl.”
But there was also an aura about him I couldn’t put my finger on, an air of having come out of some other world. Some foreign place where things are different. That was what made Charmian see him as a knight.
He took me back to the shack she had written about – more of a shed, really. I knew it had no running water but it didn’t look so unrespectable. In the back yard, a pair of basket chairs looked out on an unkempt jungle of yard and a panorama of distant mountains. Native American blankets were thrown over the basket chairs. He picked up mine, shook it out and flipped it.
“My lady,” he said. On top of a rusty airconditioning unit was a miniature refrigerator. He took out a pitcher and two frosty glasses.
“Sweet tea?” he offered.
“Sure,” I said, still uncomfortable. The tea was full of mint. It was not too bad. I began to relax. When I sat down, so did he.
“I guess you’re not serving me with papers,” he commented, “Or you would have done it already.” “So I look like a process server?” I was really upset.
“No,” he answered. “You look like a person in trouble.” And he reached out and touched my hand. A galvanic thrill ran through me. I jumped.
“So you felt that?” he said. “Wow.”
“I did feel it. Are you – magic?”
“No,” he said. “I’m definitely not magic. But you are.”
I shook my head. “Can’t be,” I said. “Believe me.”
“So,” he offered, “Maybe we’re magic when we’re together. My spirit touching your spirit.” Maybe so. I didn’t understand any of this. Did it make what I had to do harder or easier? I decided it made it easier. We seemed to need fewer words with this current of understanding that was passing between us.
“I’m here about my stepmother,” I started, gesturing with the book, hoping it would take it from me. It lay in my lap like a stone.
But he wasn’t looking at the book. He was looking at me with his deep, soft, liquid green eyes. “Do I know her?” he asked.
“Unfortunately,” I admitted, “You do.”
There was silence between us for a moment. But it was different from any other silence I have ever experienced. It was weirdly, as if we knew each other already and were both trying to remember. I felt more like a person coming out of a coma, who looks around for clues, trying to figure out who she is.
I shook the book at him. “She wrote it down,” I said, “It’s all in here.”
Still he didn’t take the book. Had he figured out that I didn’t really want him to read it? He said instead, “Tell me about her.”
I looked out toward the mountains to break the connection between us, summoning up my nerve. “She’s a juror on the Sivarro trial,” I told him. “Your father introduced you to her on your fifteenth birthday.”
His eyes widened, his faced reddened and he gasped. “What goes around comes around,” he said. “My father is a demon.”
“Well my stepmother is a demon and that’s for sure,” I agreed. “In this book she admits murdering three people. It’s a love letter to you.”
He looked at the book, appalled. I could see he really didn’t want to read it now.
I went on, “One of the people she killed was my father. I stole this book from her house. And now I don’t know what to do. It was all so long ago, I’m afraid the police won’t investigate. She’s a very powerful person.”
“A witch?” he asked me.
His language – a word that revealed his understanding – was making this easier. What I had instinctively known – that only he could understand –was coming true. “Well, yes. She believes in magic anyway. She calls herself the Queen of Swords.”
He nodded. “There’s only one way to defeat magic.”
“How?” I asked helplessly.
“You need bigger magic.”
I breathed a relieved sigh. “And you’ve got … that?”
He touched my hand again. “I’m sure I do.”
When he was touching me I couldn’t think of anything but his skin, his lips, his strong thighs. It was all I could do not to launch myself at him. I began to shiver, as if the hot day was freezing cold. “So what do you want?” he asked me softly.
“I want to erase the past,” I spat, “Before my father had his stroke, before she came into our lives. She was supposed to take care of him, but she ruined him. First she made him get rid of me and then she destroyed him. She robbed me. She stole everything I have.”
Humiliatingly, I started to cry. Did I know he would hug me? Was I trying to force his hand? Over-thinking things again! I despised myself. It’s my usual feeling.
He took me into his arms. His sweat smelled like a field of thyme. I sighed blissfully, feeling I could be safe there forever.
“You want your father back before he began to suffer,” he said. “It’s the most natural thing in the world.”
“She corrupted him,” I insisted, but feeling that I was lying. My father wanted to be corrupted. Still, it wasn’t fair.”
“You know, your father’s perfect spirit still exists,” said Zach Tobin, holding me on his lap and rocking me – hideously huge old me, like I was a baby! He could lift me up as if I was a feather. “Concentrate on that. His spirit is bigger than his life.”
I struggled with the concept, summoning up everything I’d learned at the prep academy, and at college.
“Our spirit is bigger than our choices,” said Zach. “Our spirit weeps when we choose the wrong thing.”
I wanted to have sex with him right there in that basket chair. Was that the wrong thing to want? But I didn’t feel confused. I was beginning to see that clarity was possible.
“I stole this book out of her house,” I said. “I made one copy, but I’m afraid a copy has no value. It’s almost too crazy a story for anyone to believe. She’s stuck at the courtroom now – I looked at my watch – but when she comes home tonight she’ll see it’s missing and she’ll do something. Something awful.”
“We won’t let that happen,” said Zach.
“But you don’t know her. She’s powerful. She feels things. She’s fixated on you. She’s going to know that I interfered and drop everything to come after us!” My teeth chattered. “Stop being afraid of her,” he said. “It gives her power. Repeat after me, the trees are not afraid.” My teeth were still chattering. “They’re not?”
“Repeat after me. I am not lost. The trees know where they are.” I repeated it. “I am not lost, the trees know where they are.” “The trees are not afraid.”
“The trees are not afraid.” I did feel better. Imagine if I was a tree! What could Charmian do to me? It would take her a long time to cut me down. She probably couldn’t do it! She’d get blisters on her hands.
“So,” I asked him, “No police?”
“We need bigger magic than the police,” said Zach. “We’re going to get Mr. Wilmot, and Mr. Wilmot’s going to get the police. But first, we have to have a sacred ceremony.”
“A sacred ceremony?” I repeated hopefully. A sacred ceremony! You bet that was just what we needed. Plus the police, and the prosecutor. Then we’d have everything covered. I liked this magic. Charmian could never be ready for this. Firepower.
“And she will be destroyed?”
“If she’s a demon,” he said,“She will be destroyed. Put your number in my phone. Your name is –“
I flushed, painfully. Talk about not taking care of business!
“I’m Whitney Quantreau,” I told him, taking his phone. And you’re … Zach Tobin?” I still knew too much about him.
“My legal name is Zach Zanelli,” he said. “Because those people lost a son. Whatever can be repaired is repaired. Whatever can be made whole is made whole, even though the river rushes on. My friends call me Eight.”
“Eight…” I breathed. I felt better that he had a magic name. Two names that Charmian didn’t know. “Why Eight?”
“Because I was so happy when I was eight years old.” He smiled, and when he smiled he looked like an eight year old. “Until now.”
“I need a magic name,” I said.
“We’ll get you one,” said Eight.
“She calls me the Princess of Wands. I don’t want to be the Princess of Wands.”
“Well, she’d wrong right there,” said Eight. “You’re not the princess of anything. You’d be the Queen.”
“I would?”
“Look at your strength, going up against her. Hell, yeah!”
“You’ve got better magic, right?” I stood up uncertainly. “I mean, you’ve got the trees. But –“ “And I’ve got the mountains,” said Eight.
“You’ve got the mountains?”
“The mountains aren’t afraid. And I’ve got all the animals.”
The tears came back in my eyes. “That is a lot,” I agreed. “She’d nothing but a pack of cards.” He pried the book from my hands.
“You’re going to the courthouse,” he said. “Make certain she’s still there.”
I didn’t want to tell him I was afraid after he’d worked so hard to build me up. But what can I say? I was scared. “Without you?”
“I have something else to do. I’ll text you where to go. And when.”
One look at my face and he repeated, “She cant touch you. I’ll tell Wilmot to keep her there.” He’ll tell…the prosecutor! This kid! This kid who had seen his father murder a man. Whose father tries to tell everyone who will listen that his son is the murderer!
“We have right on our side,” said Eight.
Hmm. True. Plus the trees and the mountains. And the animals. But in the courtroom…she will look at me.
“It’s important to let her see you,” he said. “It will help the ceremony. If she’s shaken just a little bit.” It would surprise her.
“It’s important to do what you fear,” he encouraged. “Face her. We’re going to take her down.” I shook my head a little. I’m not a knight. I’m not a queen.
“If it’s any comfort to you,” he continued, “She can’t really see you. Because she is blind. If she’s made herself into a demon, the spiritual world is closed to her.” That did help.
“Mr. Wilmot says this afternoon are closing arguments. Then the jury usually wants to start deliberating right away, and they have dinner sent in, because they don’t want their dinner ruined. Trust me. We’ll get her.”
And he kissed me. That was where I received all my courage.
Surprise! There was no defense! So often that’s the case. That’s why, when you’re in doubt, the best policy is always to attack, because quite often the defensive posture is a sham. The other side disintegrates into a hasty and undignified retreat. The defense’s only witness was Haymaker’s psychiatrist. Lacey would be disappointed. I know she hoped O’Hara would put Karen Sivarro on the stand.
But the man is wily. He has the manner of a Prince of Swords; since he kills no one himself. I began to wish that I had googled his birthday, so that I could give him an astrological chart and a full reading. He must have realized that as long as sweet little Karen sits there at the defense table looking pretty and piteous she at least has some benefit of the doubt. If she gets on the stand Mr. Wilmot can trap her into admitting – or at the very least seeming to admit – that some of what Haymaker said was true.
Mr. Wilmot stood up to give his closing argument. I wish you could have been there to see it. A king of Swords at bay is a magnificent sight, even though any knight worth his armor could cut him down in a moment.
This must explain why the courtroom was more crowded than it had ever been, why even Whitney took an afternoon out of her boring schedule snoop through my spoor to bother to attend. It’s as if everyone has been notified by the press, here comes the “juicy stuff.” When Mr. “Push” – in the person of Mr. Wilmot – gets to go for the jugular of Mr. Shove! Who doesn’t enjoy a good hand-to-hand?
“Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” began the prosecutor, “You have heard an open and shut case of murder for hire. The state has conclusively proven beyond a reasonable doubt that Reuben Haymaker hired Barry Tobin to empty bullets into Rafe Zanelli until he was dead, and that in fact that is what happened. Reuben Haymaker got up on this stand to testify that the plot originated with his then-girlfriend, Karen Sivarro, that she asked him to do it, and that once the murder was accomplished she behaved in a manifestly guilty fashion, leaving the country as fast as she could go, and relying on extradition treaties to keep United States justice at bay.
How likely is it that Haymaker, beset as he was with financial, sexual, family and addiction problems, suddenly decided to commit this crime for a woman who had already become his lover, merely as a surprise for her? Without informing her about it or keeping her apprised? If he really intended to bind the defendant to him for life, wouldn’t divorcing his wife be a more practical step? Yet we know he made no such gesture. I maintain the secretive murder that the defense is forced to posit is extremely unlikely. And that is what you have to consider.
The defense, in their closing, will doubtless make much of the words, “reasonable doubt”. Ladies and gentlemen, we chose you because you struck us – both sides, I might add – as exceptionally reasonable, and it is to your reason. We expect no less of you when you assemble to deliberate together.
The defense agrees that the murder was performed for Karen Sivarro. It is her culpability you will question, knowing that Rafe Zanelli had been a thorn in the side of her family for months and when he died, was threatening to take a loved child out of state – as was his perfect right. Mr. Haymaker would have never even heard of Mr. Zanelli if it hadn’t been for her. By the way, the beloved grandchild now lives under her grandparents’ roof. This murder achieved its aim. In the annals of murder, it ranks as a partial success. If Karen Sivarro is found guiltless by you, she will have gotten away with it. How reasonable is that?
The defense in the person of my esteemed colleague, Mr. O’Hara, has leaned heavily on the blemished character of Mr. Haymaker. Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Haymaker will be in prison for the rest of his natural life. He will not even be considered for parole until he’s 82. That’s appropriate, because without him. Mr. Zanelli would never have died. The evidence you have heard makes it plain that Karen Sivarro refused to soil her hands to that extent. A pretty, adored and intelligent child, she has been accustomed all her life to finding someone else to perform all her messy, dangerous and laborious jobs.
What Mr. Haymaker could not help but make plain as he sat on the witness stand, was that she owned him. He would have done anything for her. She gambled that the law would not hold her accountable; although this murder benefited no one but her family, she felt safe, because she thought herself too far removed from the bullets and the gun that fired them ever to face justice. Who would believe Reuben Haymaker, busy stealing from his clients, and drug dealing Barry Tobin over her?
But who do you think sat in the saddle of this relationship, giving orders, and who do you think was the listener, the performer, who took directions? Mr. Haymaker paid for all her living expenses, he gave her a car, he pretended she had a cushy, well-paid job with no actual expectations. And when the time came, he found a hitman. Or a person who said he was a hitman.
That person is in jail, now too. He has confessed. He won’t even get the chance of parole. The judge will explain to you that if you find her guilty, she is even more guilty than the man who fired the gun. In this state we punish the central conspirator – the one who set the murderous ball rolling – with death. But that will be up to you. You will have lesser included offenses to consider. What else but guilt explains her long flight through Europe, in search of a country that has no extradition treaty with the United State?
The defense called Haymaker’s own psychiatrist to the stand to testify that he suffers from “anti-social personality disorder.” That was pretty much all Dr. Loden could testify to, since he knew nothing about the crime itself. He told us Mr. Haymaker is a liar and an addict. Well, we already knew that.
A jury hears from a lot of liars in the course of the average case and it is the apex of their duty to sort the lies from the truth. We can pretty much assume that Haymaker said whatever he had to, to keep that supply of Adderall and Xanax coming. Dr. Loden is very free with his prescription pad. When his relationship with Karen Sivarro started to heat up, Mr. Haymaker had a new painkiller, and he didn’t need Dr. Loden any more. Dr. Loden has testified in this courtroom that there is virtually no treatment for what he deigned to diagnose as Mr. Haymaker’s “disorder”, yet he was apparently willing to keep treating him forever. “Keeping an eye on him,” he said, not simply to feather his own nest. Does that sound reasonable to you? I think in your good old-fashioned common sense all of you are familiar with practitioners like Mr. Loden. They regard whatever they have to sell as exactly what we need, and we pay the bill – or our insurance company does – but we don’t get a say in it.
Dr. Loden admits people with personality disorders are never really cured. But does Mr. Haymaker even exhibit the formal markers of this condition? You will recall that I got him to admit on the stand that Haymaker does not match one of the central qualifications of anti-social personality disorder; adolescent crime. His career path is just the opposite: he was a pillar of the community until he discovered he couldn’t pay for his private thrills legally.
Another one of the characteristics of anti-social personality disorder is a complete lack of remorse: is that how Reuben Haymaker appeared to you? I don’t think so. I think Mr. Haymaker is a narcissistic, opportunistic individual whose every crime was committed as part of a short-term effort to make his life easier. How likely do you think it is that a person who doesn’t care about other people – another marker, you note, of antisocial personality – would risk his own neck to personally personality mastermind a dangerous, expensive, secret surprise -which might – or might not — delight his current girlfriend, or would he simply give in to her pleas in order to get her in the mood for love? To turn off the crying machine? I assert that he did what he had to to keep her gratifying him, and he didn’t care one way or another about Mr. Zanelli, or even the traumas of the Sivarro family, except as if affected the availability and intensified the cooperation of his current sex partner.
I think once his supply of joy-juice was cut off and it hit him how he had destroyed the lives of everyone around him in a short term quest for personal thrills he was damn sorry. But is that the way Mr. Haymaker struck you? Did he blame his wife or girlfriends for his financial situation? It seems to me he realizes the blame lies squarely with himself. He knows he’s in prison for life, and he deserves to be there. He admitted hiring Barry Tobin, he admitted planning the crime, but he’s also telling us is that he did it on the direct request of his girlfriend, who wanted help with her family situation. You need to talk that out, and decide how realistic, how reasonable that course of events seems to you. In that effort, you have an unexpected source of help: the testimony of the defendant herself.
Our jury system is the pride of the world, and this is why: because it’s very hard to fool twelve ordinary hard working citizens. Abraham Lincoln says, “you can fool some of the people some of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.” And that’s what any jury trial in this fair country of ours proves again and again. Some of you will be fooled, some of you will be forgiving, some of you will be doubtful and some of you will be generously inclined. But when the twelve of you get together and talk it out, I am confident that the true picture will emerge. Guaranteed. Your honor, the state rests.”
As soon as I read the words she’d written about her stepfather‘s death I grabbed the book and ran the hell out of there. Once outside I realized I was trembling and I was also dripping sweat. Had I left part of myself behind? Of course I had. It was hopeless to play a game of deception with Pearleen-Charmian now. I trembled at the thought of facing her. She would torch me with her eyes; just for invading her innermost thoughts! And I might stay torched.
Yet if this was the ace I had been longing for, how was I to play it? First I must make a copy of this astounding document. The original was just too precious, and too fragile. But Hayden Lake is out in deep country. It’s a good twenty minutes to the nearest Kinko’s! But once I was spastically copying the book – some pages twice because I was shaking so hard – I began to see a flaw in my plan. How could I ever take the book back? The risk that she would destroy it was just too strong.
And what good, honestly, would a copy be? Like so many other things in life, in art, in love, in accomplishment, it’s only the real thing that possesses any value. Think of Heisenberg’s Principle. (I didn’t go to college for nothing, even if I didn’t finish.) Heisenberg says the very act of study, of measuring, of copying, of lighting an object so that you can even look at it – alters what you study. Irrevocably and forever.
Still, I forced myself to continue copying; I had to at least get a complete copy. Next door at the Starbucks – desperately needing caffeine in my system – I forced myself to finish reading it. This Zach Tobin guy was a wild card. On the basis of this book alone, it didn’t seem that he had any idea was she was saying or thinking about him, but it was all I could do not to get dragged into her psychotic world where she could change his brain – his life – just by thinking about him. Somebody tell me that’s just not possible. Nobody has that kind of power.
I needed an ally, but who could I trust? I couldn’t imagine taking this book to any cop or detective I could think of. Wouldn’t they pull her in, ask her to explain herself? With Charmian, that’s a fatal move. But this man she wrote about, the “Knight of Swords”, he was her victim too. I know in some men’s worlds its not even rape to be seduced by some anonymous woman in the middle of the night. I didn’t know what he would think when he understand who she was and what she had done, but I decided I needed to see.
My favorite technique: play it by ear. Heck, it’s gotten me this far.
After lunch I was astonished to see Whitney in the courtroom, sitting right up front in the “cheap seats” along with the rest of the public. I was so flooded with rage that if we had been alone you would have had your sacrificial victim right there.
The defense was putting on its case beginning with the testimony of Haymaker’s psychiatrist, a bald-headed bumbler in a cheap suit who babbled on at length about what a psychopath Haymaker was; that in fact his diagnosis was “anti-social personality disorder.”
I could barely focus on his nonsense. I attempted to calm myself by scrying – seeing distant or past events in my crystal ring. It’s a well-accepted form of astral travel for adepts. After a moment’s clarity I began to see how it could have happened. What if Whitney went to my house; found me absent and engaged the judge in conversation? She couldn’t have talked to the gardeners. They don’t know where I go each day. Judge Sugarman on the other hand is a born blabbermouth. That’s a problem with arriving at the top of the tree. Things become so easy for you there’s a tendency to forget how tentative a winning position really is. The fact that all your underlings are looking at you adoringly doesn’t mean they’re not plotting your overthrow.
I also think the judge’s vision is defective. Whitney is sufficiently youthful to qualify as “pretty” in his book. She’s no dummy. Most likely she could get any fact out of him that she wanted to know. He might even have been stupid enough to suggest he had a hand in my privileged position.
I should have been better prepared for this turn of events. My morning’s card was the Hermit, but I was distracted by my horoscope. My horoscope offered such a vision of joy and power: “Glimpse of future revealed. You will perceive possibilities and opportunities. Romantic relationship beckons. Do not give your trust to anyone who reveals a secret. What seemed a setback boomerangs in your favor.” And it could still be coming true, if I could put the Hermit in his rightful position.
The Hermit is a special card others lacking gifts often interpret incorrectly. Beginners see his sad face, his rough clothing, hard path and cave dwelling and are frightened. They allow their intelligence to be clouded by fear. When terror threatens to rule you, its time to double down.
In my case I know the Hermit card must mean a cycle of depression is ending and one of success is beginning. I am coming out of the sacred loneliness in which my power was ordained. I will leave the cave behind, drop my monkish disguise and assume my royal prerogatives. With you at my side.
I few back to Denver with a sense of frustration and feeling a lack of resolution. I also felt very alone, but what else is new? The Carr family wouldn’t want to hear from me, and really, without a body, what could I prove? It seemed obvious to me that my stepmother Pearleen-Charmian, hadn’t activated the real Charmian’s caregiver’s license, filed taxes, or done anything else that would allow the authorities to locate her; otherwise Charmian’s family would have found her long ago. What she had done was fix her pit viper vision on my father and promise him heaven if he elevated her to partner. The kind of heaven he ultimately got, he didn’t expect.
All I knew for certain was that the game had moved irrevocably forward. We were all different now. I couldn’t do nothing. Even sending an anonymous letter telling her someone knew that Pearleen Purdy and Charmian Quantreau were the same person was no longer enough for me. As an experienced salesperson I decided to do what I usually do when a prospect is an unknown quantity; I would play it by ear. See what hint I could drop. Scope out the situation.
Knowing her routine, I planned to show up at exactly nine o’clock, when she would be having coffee on her deck and contemplating whatever mayhem her silly cards told her to inflict that day. She would be awake but totally unprepared. I know how she relishes her morning solitude. To nerve myself for our encounter I listened to the Decembrists’ My Mother Was a Chinese Trapeze Artist in my way over.
But to my amazement, Charmian-Pearleen wasn’t home. Where could she possibly be at this hour of the morning? It must be an appointment she hadn’t been able to schedule at a more convenient time. Taking the risk that she had rushed out temporarily on some short-term errand, I hid my car and let myself inside.
This was too good an opportunity to pass up. Now that I knew about Pearleen, about the real Charmian, there might be some evidence I would have previously overlooked that I could now find. Once inside the house I reveled in my momentary possession. There is something fascinating about studying another’s life when they don’t know you’re looking. I felt like a cop on one of those detective shows, assessing my competitor through a one-way mirror.
There’s a spicy, musky smell that hovers over Charmian, and her house was full of it. Kind of an old potpourri, carpet-cleaner smell, as if someone was trying to cover up a disgusting effluvia of bodily odors. Or was it my imagination? All I knew for certain was, if my sisters and I ever inherited this house we would have to get rid of everything in it because Charmian ruins everything she touches. In converting it to her use, it’s as if she has destroyed its spirit and corrupted even its utility.
The place was immaculate. Thick white carpeting, pink leather sofas, sequined Indian pillows, glossy brass lamps. The huge painting over the fireplace displayed “The World” – one of her silly Tarot tropes. That was a bit reminiscent of the paintings I had seen in Charmian Carr’s old house in Texas. Some of her taste must have been set then, and so even though she sought rebirth, she was forced by her very nature to drop little clues to her disavowed self.
What I really wanted was the mauve suede book I had seen through the glass. It drew me like a magnet. And there it still was, on her fussy mother of pearl inlaid desk. When I opened it I was gratified to see that every page was ornamented with her looping green ink scrawl. It could have easily been empty or contained only bills. Most of what Charmian does is just for show, and if you take the trouble – as my father didn’t – to look beneath the surface, the demonic reality of her real self is all too evident.
I picked a hard, uncomfortable chair that wouldn’t betray me by taking a mold of my ass – and began to read.
I was looking forward to Mr. O’Hara’s cross-examination. He promised us an entertaining afternoon overlooking the gladiatorial pit. Of the two gladiators before us, Mr. O’Hara is the dirtier fighter. He may betray a close relationship with and knowledge of, the sword family. I certainly hope so.
Under an impartial sky, the man who dares anything should win. But this is not an impartial sky. Alas, for my purposes Mr. O’Hara needs to lose. That makes him a loser and I was beginning to wash my hands of him already. Is Mr. O’Hara’s card the Hierophant? Naïve people think Death and the Hanged Man are the dangerous cards. They are not. Death represents transformation; the Hanged Man is taking charge of forceful, radical change.
The Hierophant is born to suffer, because he is a rigid thinker prone to errors in judgment. The Hierophant is born to suffer because he can’t adapt to changing conditions. He attempts to impose static values on dynamic situations. On my card he hangs suspended from a roadside stake shaped suspiciously like a cross.
Mr. O’Hara’s Bond girl set up a large, white piece of pasteboard on an easel and handed her boss a big black marker. She wore an attractive miniskirt, expensive looking boots, and a cropped jacket.
I began sizing her up to be a victim. She would be more fun than O’Hara. And in those fashion magazines she’d donated, hadn’t I found a piece of junk mail bearing her address? I promised myself to take a careful look.
Mr. O’Hara came out swinging. “Mr. Haymaker, you’re a murderer, isn’t that right?” Obviously the witness was loath to agree.
“Aren’t you pleading guilty to ordering a hit?”
“If that makes me a murderer, I guess I am,” said Reuben Haymaker finally. O’Hara wrote the word MURDERER in black magic marker.
“And you’re a thief. Isn’t that what you just testified to?”
“My intention was always to replace it the money.”
“Was that money YOURS to TAKE?” demanded O’Hara.
“No.”
O’Hara wrote THIEF under MURDERER. “Presumably insurance agents take some sort of ethical vow through their professional organizations, as part of their training, isn’t that right?”
“We’re bonded,” agreed Mr. Haymaker with sour humor. “We’re not supposed to pocket the client’s money.”
“And you didn’t take your marital vows any more seriously than your professional ones, did you? Did you?”
“I guess not.”
“You lied to your wife, you lied to your clients, you lied to the police when they first questioned you. Didn’t you?”
Mr. Haymaker looked out into his courtroom in search of a savior, some fearless knight to ride into battle bearing his colors. But none among us took him up on it.
O’Hara wrote LIAR, ADULTERER, CON MAN on his chart.
“Did you report that money you stole on the income tax? You’re supposed to, you know.” The witness made an explosive little noise that might have been incredulous disgust.
“I think we can take that as a no,” said O’Hara, adding CHEATER to his column. “Now didn’t I hear something about offering your wife to some businessman in order to get a break on your foreclosure problems?”
“It didn’t happen exactly like that,” objected the witness.
“Oh, so you’re weaseling now,” said O’Hara. “Let’s add “weasel” to this list. The formal word is “prevaricator” but I think “weasel” says it so much better. Would you like the court reporter read back to you exactly what you said?”
“What word are you trying to write?” asked the witness.
O’Hara wrote PIMP. “You have a problem with that? You want to object?”
“I’ll let it stand,” said Haymaker. “But we didn’t actually get any money for it.”
“What?” roared O’Hara. “What was that? I dare you to repeat that to this courtroom.”
“WE DIDN’T GET ANY MONEY FOR IT,” shouted Haymaker back at him. “They were sex parties. Sex play. Nobody got hurt.”
“You’re also not getting away with murder or thievery and you’re still a murderer and a thief,” said O’Hara. “The fact that you didn’t benefit the way you’d hoped is immaterial.” He wrote the word PUSHER and ADDICT. “I understand as soon as your wife emerged from rehab she divorced you.” “She had to,” said Haymaker. “Because of the lawsuits.”
“I think we can take it for granted that you’re not making your court ordered support payments,” said O’Hara, writing, DEADBEAT DAD.
“How can I?” shouted the witness. “They’re insisting on restitution first!”
“And we both know that won’t happen, don’t we?” O’Hara asked sarcastically. “Anyone betting on you is looking at disappointment.”
“There isn’t any money left,” Haymaker grumbled.
“Didn’t you take a video of yourself and Karen Sivarro having sex – without her permission, I might add – and post it on the Internet?”
Sensation in the courtroom! Haymaker hesitated.
Mr. O’Hara uttered an explosive sigh. “Are you really going to force me to show it in this courtroom? It’s Item I-115 in evidence.”
Did that mean we were going to get to see it? Several jury members licked their lips. “I was high at the time,” whined the witness.
“Is that a yes?”
Probably realizing that no video of himself in the nude could possibly make him look good, Haymaker folded. “It’s true,” he said.
O’Hara wrote PORNOGRAPHER. We were getting quite a list. And O’Hara wasn’t finished yet. PERJURER. “In your first sworn statement you said you had nothing to do with Zanelli’s death. Didn’t you? Will you admit it or do you want me to introduce that statement into evidence?”
The witness held himself rigidly. “The death penalty was on the table,” he said.
“So you made a deal,” O’Hara proffered. “You’d deliver another victim to the state to save your own neck, isn’t that what you said? Another woman you’d sworn to love? They’re an unlucky crew, those women, aren’t they?”
“Your Honor, I object,” Wilmot vaulted to his feet. “He’s making an argument! Sounds like a closing argument to me.”
“I was asking a question,” responded O’Hara mildly. “What’s the question?” The witness was at sea.
“Ask your question, Mr. O’Hara, dismissed the judge. I wondered if they golfed together. His Honor teed up so perfectly for the defense counsel.
“What I’m asking, Mr. Haymaker,” said O’Hara, laying his arm confidentially along our jury rail, “Is this. You tried addicting Ms. Sivarro to cocaine the way you addicted your wife and that didn’t work. Did it?”
“She was addicted to high living,” barked Haymaker, fighting back.
“I guess that will serve as testimony that you tried to addict her to something, didn’t you? If you needed to keep her at your side, what better way than to kill the man she was came into the office crying about and tell her she was involved in the crime?”
“She told me to do it,” said the witness stalwartly. “I never would have dine it without her.”
“And who are you?” demanded O’Hara. “You’re a proven MURDERER, THIEF, LIAR, ADULTERER, CON MAN, CHEATER, PIMP, WEASEL, PORNOGRAPHER, DRUG ADDICT, DRUG PUSHER, DEADBEAT DAD, and PERJURER.” O’Hara tossed down his marker in exaggerated disgust. But he let the poster stand. “Character is destiny, and chickens come home to roost. Why should we believe anything you say? No more questions, your Honor. I think the jury got the picture.” Character is destiny, all right. Or destiny makes character, how about that? As to whether “chickens come home” – that’s a ridiculous cliché. Some chickens get eaten and nothing’s left but the wishbone. Stupid chickens crossing the road are hit by cars. Other chickens are buried down so deep they can’t be found.
I think I can say the whole jury was so stunned by the simplicity of this cross-examination; we barely minded that Mr. Wilmot had dragged all attorneys and clients into one of their boringly endless sidebars so we could think it over. Surrendering his swords and becoming a whiney, complainy, endlessly post-adolescent is not a good look for our prosecutor.
Still, it gives me a chance to fill up this ugly juror notebook with my letter to you; kike a lovestruck girl. I have been assured the notebooks are ours to keep, that they go home with each of us, and will remain forever confidential. Unfortunately, being a juror, it seems, means I have to stick to this courthouse whenever they want me. And my beautiful book would attract too much attention. Mr. Wilmot might have no further questions to ask, but you better believe he hustled that poster down fast. O’Hara had some impressive swordplay with which to entertain us. Each and every one of us jurors had a lengthy opportunity to copy down his list of pejoratives against the state’s star witness, right into the notebooks we will take into the jury room. Which I’m sure was O’Hara’s intention.
Because really, what else is there to do? Watching justice is like watching paint dry. Such is the desperation of their competition, I’m sure they’re both counting on pure boredom to turn us. One way or the other.
Sitting over coffee in the jury room I assessed my fellow jurors in a new light. Every day with you is an adventure and every adventure changes me. They might forbid us to talk about the case all they want but I could plainly see that the state’s star witness had collapsed in everybody’s eyes. What if this group wanted to let Karen Sivarro go!
That’s not my plan, but I didn’t get this far playing a Hierophant. I can make adjustments. I pledge to you now, if they insist on freeing Karen Sivarro, she will be our Substitute Sacrifice.
Mr. Babbish answers his own phone. Clearly, Mr. Babbish drinks too much. He threw me off because he didn’t say “BloodProof”, which are the words printed on the card I was holding right in front of my face, but some other name. Some name with “windows” in the title.
“Babbish? Is this Arnold Babbish?”
“That’s right.”
“Hello, my name is Whitney Quantreau and I’m calling you because I understand you wanted to spray for blood in Charmian Carr’s old residence?”
“Well, that was then,” he said shortly. “I lost my client.” Then, apparently realizing that he was not making the best of his opportunities, he said hopelessly, “I could text you a price list.”
I zeroed in on the client he had lost. “What happened to your client?”
“Well, seven years passed,” he said. “The family had their missing person declared dead. I guess they wanted her benefits or some such thing.”
The family wanted her benefits. The county wanted her house. And Pearleen wanted her dead. Looks like Charmian Carr was out of luck in every way that counted.
“You want I should text you that price list?” Mr. Babbish asked me perkily. I could hear him pouring Dutch courage in the background. “What did you say your name was?”
“Mrs. Quantreau.” I gave him my stepmother’s phone number.
Alysse Aallyn 