Dark Lady (45 page)

“No. I don’t believe that now.” Brett’s eyes did not waver. “Any more than you do.” Surprised, Caroline hesitated. “Then who?”

“That’s what scares me.” For a moment, Brett was quiet. “All day I looked at those pictures. I’ve thought about them ever since.” Her words became low, intense. “There’s memory, and then there’s the things you just know. That’s nothing I could ever have done to him. I don’t know anyone who could.”

In the bare yellow room, Caroline studied her: the moment carried echoes of other talks in other rooms, risks being bartered for years. And yet it was so different. “But what do you think, Caroline?” Brett’s voice became ironic. “I get so hung up on being innocent I forget that you’re my lawyer.” Inwardly, Caroline winced. “Perhaps I’m not as detached as I should be.” Torn from her own concerns, Brett gave her a brief, curious look, and then her voice grew softer. “The last three days have been horrible. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine how anyone else feels about it. Or to care much, either.”

“No reason to. But is my advice so important to you?”

“Yes.” Bret’s voice was quiet. “Now, it is.” Caroline inhaled. “I wouldn’t take Jackson’s deal.” Brett’s eyes probed hers. “Why?”

“Because any capable defense lawyer can get this deal later when Jackson’s case screams manslaughter.” Pausing, Caroline felt the weight of her last words. “Of course, that’s easy for me to say. Take ten years now, and you’ll cap your risk forever. No more trial, or waiting, or fear. You just start serving your time, hoping that when you get out you’ll still have some sort of life—a career, kids, who knows. And maybe Jackson’s successor will be a real hardass, and you’ll never get this deal again.” Finishing, Caroline felt shaken. “But I can’t tell you to do this, Brett. Because—although it scares me to say so—I think that I can make things better for you.” Brett looked at her in hope and doubt. After a time, she asked softly, “Because of Megan?” For a long moment, Caroline was silent. “Yes,” she answered. “At least because of Megan.”

There are days in the courtroom that have a deeper texture, Caroline thought. Sometimes this is felt only by the lawyers; at other times, those watching know it also. But Megan Race brought with her something more: the sense that, for her, this was a defining moment. She seemed conscious of everything—the reporters, the Masters family, the import of her testimony—in the way that an actress, pretending to ignore her audience, shows her awareness through her bearing, the specificity of her gestures, the inflection of a word, a telling stillness. From the time that she walked to the stand, tall and straight and proud, Megan drew a particular quiet. Caroline was quite certain that she alone felt the potential for the rarest of courtroom events, a psychic meltdown that would not be pleasant to watch. But this was merely the smallest reason, among several, that made her wish this morning had never come. She had told Jackson privately, and briefly, in a corner of the lobby. “Brett can’t do it,” Caroline said. “Among other things, she insists she’s innocent.” Jackson looked at her in silence; he seemed as subdued as Caroline felt. “Can I ask what you advised her?” he said at length. “The same, I’m afraid.” Caroline shrugged. “So there we are.” For another moment, Jackson watched her. “I keep trying to understand you,” he said. “You can’t seriously believe her, can you?”

“I’ve begun to actively consider it, Jackson. As should you.” Caroline paused. “I really wish we could talk about Megan. But it’s not in Brett’s interests.” Jackson smiled without humor. “Oh, well,” he said, and turned to enter court. To Caroline, watching, the moment was sadder than he imagined. Now, sitting next to Brett, she knew why she had come. Brett, of course, understood none of this. Her focus was on Megan: she watched her with a cool anger that, to Caroline, was bracing. “What kind of person,” Brett murmured, “gets pleasure out of this?” That was it, Caroline thought, and Brett had caught it: there was a narcissism about Megan, and the courtroom fed it. Worried about Caroline as she might be, Megan would not, in the end, be able to hold back. “Prepare yourself for a long morning,” Caroline murmured to Brett. “But after that, things will get better.” Head raised, eyes straight ahead, Megan swore to tell the truth. For a last moment, Caroline turned to watch her family. Her father had fixed Megan with a gelid stare, as if she were an insect. Somehow Caroline found this more chilling than anger; perhaps it was the memory of her first horrified awareness, the night that David had vanished, of the way Channing Masters could dismiss the claim of another human being to any shred of sympathy. For all that she was like him, Caroline thought, this was the difference that had made her a defense lawyer; that made her, in this way at least, Nicole Dessaliers’ daughter. As if by reflex, Caroline glanced at her sister. Betty, she thought grimly, lacked her father’s resources: her face was pale, distorted by fear and anger. The anger, Caroline knew, was far deeper yet no more complex than the outrage of a mother whose child is picked on by a bully. But it was the fear that never left her—that whatever Betty most valued would be taken from her, for reasons she could not comprehend. It was fortunate that she did not

know that it was Larry, by violating her trust, who had helped place Brett at risk; not even Caroline could take pleasure in what this would do to Betty. Next to her, Larry clasped Betty’s hand, unable to look at Megan. With a certain lack of charity, Caroline made sure that he saw her. It was not until his gaze broke that Caroline turned away. Damn all of .you, she thought. Beneath the table, she touched Brett’s hand, and felt the girl’s fingertips close around hers. Softly, Caroline said, “Don’t worry.” On the stand, Megan was a portrait of grief and dignity.

She wore a suit, blue and severe, such as one would wear to a job interview. Which was how Jackson treated her first moments in the public eye. “And what, to this point, is your grade point average at Chase?” Megan folded her hands. “Three point seven,” she said. “Straight A’s would be a four point.” Her air, Caroline thought, was a touch supercilious. Quickly, Jackson moved to the most appealing part: that Megan, a high school honor student, was at Chase on partial scholarship; that her father had died when she was twelve; that she worked to help pay for school. With a certain fascination, Caroline watched Jackson gild Megan’s character, wondering if he suspected that the one detail of importance was the loss of Megan’s father. “And you and your mother are close?” Jackson was asking. “Very. Since Dad died, it was just the two of us. But his dream was that I go to college, and we’ve dedicated ourselves to that.” She paused, looking down. “Until now, going to Chase was his dream come true.”

“Here we go,” Caroline murmured. Jackson paused, as if permitting Megan to regain her bearings. “Are you acquainted with the defendant, Brett Allen?”

For the first time, Megan turned to Brett; her quick glance at Caroline was both surreptitious and defiant. “Yes,” she said. “I am.” Her answer was given with a catch in her throat. So far, Caroline acknowledged, Megan showed close to perfect pitch. “Don’t take your eyes off her,” Caroline whispered to Brett. “Make her feel you.”

“And do you know any other members of her family?” Jackson asked. At the edge of Caroline’s view, Larry looked down. “Her father.” Megan folded her hands. “But only as a professor for one class, or to visit his office if I had a question.”

“And what grade did you receive?”

“An A.”

“Do you have any animosity toward any member of the Allen family?” Megan raised her chin, displaying a long, elegant neck. Her blond hair, Caroline noted, had been carefully trimmed, so that it barely touched her shoulders. “Only one,” she said at last. “Brett Allen.” It was a good answer, Caroline thought; whatever else, Megan had been carefully coached. “Can you tell us, Ms. Race, the reason for this animosity?” Her eyes seemed to widen in shock, suddenly recalled, at the loss she had suffered. In a quiet voice, she said, “Because James Case and I were in love.” It was a demure answer, Caroline thought, reflecting Jackson’s advice. His own voice softened to match Megan’s. “And how long was that relationship?” Megan raised her chin again. “It began in February. And continued until the day he died.”

“And your relationship was an intimate one?”

“Yes. It was very intense.” Megan’s voice took on an assertive pride. “Physically and emotionally.” Bret’s jawline tightened. But what Caroline felt was a frisson of unease; what she heard was not Megan’s claim of intimacy but the need for it, the sad secret of the young

woman whom Caroline had witnessed in a lonely, unguarded moment, touching herself in the mirror. As if she had read her thoughts, Megan turned to Caroline. Caroline smiled faintly. When Jackson spoke again, Megan seemed to flinch. “How often did you see each other?” Jackson asked. A hesitancy, distracted. “At least twice a week.”

“Why not more often?”

“I have to work at night, as well as study—my scholarship depends on maintaining a certain GPA, and it doesn’t cover everything.” Megan’s voice fell. “And James was trying to make up his mind.”

“About what?” Megan touched her collarbone; to Caroline, the gesture had a certain widowed sensuality, the feel of a lover recalled. “Between Brett,” she answered softly, “and what he had found with me.” Brett’s face showed anger and distaste; for all that she appeared volatile, Caroline sensed that she had the New Englander’s dislike for self-dramatization. But Caroline’s second thought went deeper than reason could justify—that Brett seemed too real for there to be a second Brett, waiting beneath the first to be summoned by drugs or wine. “So, in your understanding, James was involved with Brett at the time you began dating?”

“Yes.” Megan’s voice became sententious and a little sad. “He was obviously looking for a way out. But like a lot of men, he had this misplaced sense of guilt.” Caroline did not bother to stand. “I wonder, Your Honor, if we might stick to what Mr. Case did, as opposed to how Ms. Race cares to imagine him. Assuming that she knows the difference.” Caroline’s tone, while mild, was so unsympathetic that Jackson—clearly expecting Caroline to tread more carefully—gave her a look of genuine surprise which was mirrored in Towle’s raised eyebrows. “Well,” Towle observed, “it’s probably best to let events speak for themselves.” He turned to Megan, adding courteously, “If you could, Ms. Race.” But Megan was staring at Caroline, and the prideful look had become rigid. You can’t take it, Caroline thought, can you? “Thank you, Your Honor,” she said to Towle, but never took her eyes off Megan. “In any event,” Jackson said promptly, “there came a time when James was seeing both you and Ms. Allen?” Megan’s head snapped back toward Jackson. “Yes. There was.”

“And was Ms. Allen aware of this?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know this?” Briefly, Megan looked unsettled. “At first, I almost couldn’t believe it, what James said—that she was following us.” It was nicely done, Caroline thought: a bizarre story that, in retrospect, had become horrifying because of James’s death. This time Caroline stood. “Move to strike,” she said. “Ms. Race’s account of James’s supposed knowledge is clearly hearsay.”

“Of course it is,” Jackson retorted. “But it’s admissible under a standard exception—that it is offered not for the truth of the assertion but to describe Mr. Case’s state of mind—”

“Then what good is it to you?” Caroline snapped. “Because, among other things, it helps explain Mr. Case’s later conduct toward both Ms. Race and Ms. Allen.” Towle nodded, and turned to Caroline. “I’m going to allow it, Ms. Masters.” Caroline sat down. As she had expected, the smallest reinforcement lent Megan a sense of triumph; her eyes seemed to glint, and she looked briefly, imperiously, around the courtroom. And then, head bowed, Megan slipped back into her role. “Did there come a time,” Jackson asked her, “that you gained personal knowledge that Brett Allen was following you?”

A slight, reluctant nod. “Yes.”

“And when was that?” Megan looked into a middle distance; once more, there was the glaze of shock remembered. “She burst into James’s apartment and found us together.” Next to her, Caroline saw Brett grip the edge of the table. “What were the circumstances?” Jackson asked. Megan’s eyes half shut; her voice was a curious mix of reticence and pride. “We were making love. In James’s bed.”

“That’s a relief,” Caroline whispered. But Brett did not seem to hear her. She had the concerned look that Caroline had seen before—someone trapped in a courtroom, listening to a version of her life she could not challenge, reduced to wondering how her reaction appeared to others. Silent, Caroline touched Brett’s hand. “I know this is difficult,” Jackson said, “but could you describe what happened?” Megan paused, looking away. “James was on top of me. So that I was the one who saw her first.”

“Go on.” She shook her head, as if in disbelief remembered. “Brett’s eyes were wide and staring. And then she got this kind of crazy smile, but filled with hate. “I think I screamed then—I’m not sure. What I remember is James’s eyes becoming frightened, and then him turning to face her. “At first, she was after me. Calling me a bitch and trying to scratch his face so she could get to me.” As if by reflex, Megan touched her face. “I was so stunned that all I did was pull the sheet up over me …. ” Bret’s fingertips, pressed against the table, were white. “Our time’s coming,” Caroline whispered. “But James was wonderful.” Pausing, Megan shook her head. “I don’t know how he did it, but somehow he got his arms around her so she couldn’t move. She was wriggling, struggling …” Her voice fell off. “Yes?”

“And then she leaned back, spit in his face, and told him, I’ll kill you for this.”” Thinking of Brett, Caroline felt her stomach clench. Megan raised her head. “I’ll never forget it,” she said with new clarity. “James with her saliva on his face, her eyes so green and scary. And then, very softly, she said it again. To be sure he didn’t miss it. I’ll kill you.”” Megan touched her forehead. “Suddenly, she was gone.” The last words, slightly tremulous, carried their own resonance: Brett was not gone, the words said. Because she had killed him. “It’s all right,” Caroline murmured. But Jackson let the moment linger—in Towle’s subdued, unhappy look, in the reporter, writing furiously, who could not take her eyes off Megan. And, most of all, in Megan herself—so suddenly still, so clearly elsewhere. It was easy to see how she had stolen Jackson’s case. Gently, he asked, “How did that affect your relationship with James?”