“Thanks, Amy,” I said. “It means a lot.”
And it did. I had worked with Mark, Amy, and the rest of the people in the firm for over two years. They felt like a second family to me.
I waved goodbye to the receptionist and walked out of the office, through the garage, and to my car. I slid behind the wheel into the driver’s seat. After I shut the door, I laid my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes. Now what? I couldn’t sit at home. I couldn’t be at work. What on earth could I possibly do? Not only was my husband dead, lying in a morgue in Frankfort, but I was the only suspect in his murder. It wasn’t in my nature to sit around and do nothing. I had to do something to occupy my time. The only thing I could possibly do was to fight back. I was a paralegal, damn it. I helped prove people’s innocence for a living. Surely I could do the same for myself. Which meant my next step was to begin working on my defense. But I couldn’t do it alone. I had to have an attorney, just like Mom said.
There was no way I was going to hire Mark to represent me. Even though he was probably one of the best criminal defense lawyers in Kentucky, I knew from experience all the digging into my personal life he would have to do, and I didn’t want my boss knowing my secrets. Not that I had anything to hide, but I wanted to keep my personal life and my work life completely separate.
I thought about calling another big shot from Lexington, but they were too expensive for one, and two, I worked in Lexington and just didn’t relish the idea of my boss at Logan and Logan getting wind of my possible murder charges. Most of the attorneys in town knew each other, and I was afraid it would get back to them. Confidentiality is bullshit when it comes to lawyers swapping war stories.
That left Dave Rogers, my boss from nearly ten years ago. He was a small-town lawyer from Nicholasville with little to no experience with murder cases. But he was the best criminal defense attorney in Nicholasville, plus he had experience working with the Nicholasville Police Department, Detective Dorne, and the Commonwealth Attorney’s office. He would know all the right people and would have established relationships that might benefit my case.
I felt so confused and conflicted, I didn’t know what to do. I just knew I had to make a decision, and soon.
The more I thought about it on the drive home, I was sort of surprised people from work hadn’t already heard about Ryan’s murder on the news. They would eventually hear about it, though, and my fear was how the media was going to spin the story. Would they automatically hint at my guilt? As soon as I walked in the door, I decided to turn on the television and see if the story had been released yet.
Sure enough, about ten minutes into the broadcast, the reporter announced they had “breaking news” out of Nicholasville. The body of a thirty-six-year-old man had been found in his home early Saturday morning. Police had yet to comment on a cause or manner of death, but News Channel 18 had learned that the victim had been shot in the head and that the victim’s wife had escaped with her life. The man’s identity had not yet been released. Please stay tuned to Channel 18 for updates.
There was no denying now that I needed an attorney—immediately. I picked up my phone, Googled Dave Rogers’s number, and then clicked “call.” It was now close to noon, so unless he was at lunch or in court, he should be there. A nasally voice answered the phone.
“Law office of David Rogers, how may I help you?”
I asked for Dave and explained I used to work for him, hoping that would be more likely to get him on the line.
After a brief hold listening to saxophone-filed soft rock, Dave picked up the line.
“David Rogers,” he said in that questioning way people do when they answer the phone with their full name instead of “hello.”
“Hi Dave. It’s Libby Carter. I’m not sure if you remember me or not, but I worked for you about ten years or so ago. My last name then was Barrett.”
“Oh, yes, Libby Barrett. How the heck are you these days?”
“Not well, I have to admit. Listen, I need to talk to you about something. Do you have five minutes?”
“For you, I’ve got all the time in the world. What’s going on?”
I explained everything that had happened since I woke up early Saturday morning, including my “interview” with Detective Jim Dorne. I explained that I had no memory of anything after going to sleep Friday night and that I woke up dizzy with a pounding headache only to find my husband dead beside me in the bed.
“Well, it sounds to me like Detective Dorne has already decided you’re guilty, and if that’s the case, you’re in for a long road, I must tell you. I’m sure you’re aware of his reputation. He charges big, and if he thinks you’re really guilty of something, he’s like a pit pull on a poodle. He won’t let go.”
“That’s why I’m calling you,” I informed him as politely as I could. “I’m afraid. I think he’s going to charge me with Ryan’s murder. If so, will you represent me? Please?”
“I can almost guarantee he’ll charge you. And as long as you’re aware of the fact I have never argued a murder case before and you still want to proceed with me as your attorney, I’d be more than happy to help you. But are you certain you don’t want a Lexington attorney? They might have more experience.”
“No, I want you,” I said. “I trust you. And I know you’re good at your job. What would the retainer be?”
“Oh, wow,” he said, sounding caught off guard. “I don’t know. I’d probably need at least twenty thousand. And that’s not including any potential experts down the road or the trial. Are you okay with that?”
Ryan and I each had about ten thousand in our 401(k)s, if I could get to them, and I knew Mom would pitch in to help if it came down to it, so I agreed to his retainer, and we made arrangements for me to pay him ten thousand up front and ten thousand when and if I was indicted.
“What happens next?” I asked him once the retainer situation was settled.
“Well, now you just wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Most likely, Detective Dorne will gather as much evidence as possible against you and then he’ll take the case to the prosecutor. If the Commonwealth attorney agrees there’s enough evidence, they’ll submit the case before the grand jury, which meets every two weeks here in Jessamine County. The next meeting is this Thursday.”
“They can do it that quickly?”
“Especially in a small town,” he answered.
“And if the grand jury indicts me?” I asked with a lump forming in my throat.
“If the grand jury indicts you, then you’ll likely be arrested. I can try to make a case with the prosecutor for you to self-surrender, but either way, you’ll have to go to county jail until bail is determined and set. If we’re lucky, bail will be set around one hundred thousand dollars, which means you’ll have to have ten thousand to post bond.”
“Ten
more
thousand dollars?” I asked incredulously. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Let’s just take everything one step at a time, why don’t we?”
“Okay, what do we do while I wait?”
“I’ll contact Detective Dorne. Tell him I’m representing you. I’m sure it’ll raise his suspicion toward you even more, but at this point, you have to think about what’s best for you, and I’ll remind him that everybody has a right to counsel in America. Even innocent people. I’ll see what he’s got so far by way of evidence, and then we’ll go from there.”
I thanked Dave for everything and hung up the phone. I found Mom in her sewing room, working on a quilt she’d been making for the past month or so, and told her all about my conversation with Dave Rogers, including the bit about the retainer.
I never asked my mother for money, even in the early days of my marriage when Ryan and I were falling behind on our payments, because neither one of us were making much at all. But she always knew when I needed it, and this was one of those times. She smiled and said she would pay my retainer,
if
I was arrested and needed a lawyer. That’s my mom for you. Optimistic even in the face of brutal reality. I just hugged her, thanked her, and asked to borrow the minivan so I could run to Walmart to pick up a few things. My car was all the way down in Nicholasville at the crime scene that used to be my house. I wasn’t even sure if I was allowed to go get it. I made a mental note to look into getting my car back later on.
Mom’s minivan had over one hundred thousand miles on it. Even though she had plenty of money to buy a new one, as a successful children’s book author and illustrator, she said there was no sense in taking on a new car payment when the minivan ran just fine. I think secretly she was afraid getting rid of the minivan meant giving up on her dreams of becoming a grandmother, and she just wasn’t ready for that.
I drove around aimlessly looking for a front row parking spot until I finally found one. Stupid, I know, but it was a habit of mine—finding the perfect parking spot. Probably some OCD trait passed on from my mother, I assumed. I got out of the minivan, proud of myself for finding a spot on the very front row, and walked into Walmart, temporarily forgetting everything that had happened to me in recent days.
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the same non-descript black truck I had seen outside the police station parked two rows down from me. But that couldn’t be right. That was in Nicholasville. I was just being paranoid.
The Richmond Walmart was not much different than the one in my hometown. A hunched-over septuagenarian lady with curly baby blue hair greeted me at the entrance, and people were walking about, some in their pajamas still in the middle of the day. What is it about Walmart that brings out the sloppiness in some people? But I figured today I fit right in, so I was in no place to judge.
Makeup. Deodorant. Toothbrush. Toothpaste—the paste, not the gel. I picked up everything I could think of I would need for at least a couple of days, because God only knew when I’d be able to return to my home—
my
home—to get my things. Suddenly being in the grocery store made me realize how hungry I was, so I went over to the food side and picked up a few snacks. I knew Mom would make all the meals for me, but I wasn’t a big fan of her organic-only meal plans. I wanted to have a few things to stash under my pillow for later.
I checked out at the self-check stand and headed back to the minivan. I looked, just to be sure, but there was no sign of the black truck. Yes, I was definitely being paranoid.
On the drive back to Mom’s house, my cell phone rang. My phone had not rung once since Friday, and I had only spoken on the phone with Dani when I had called to tell her what had happened. I didn’t recognize the number and feared it might be Detective Dorne, but then I realized it was a landline in Nicholasville, which meant it was probably Dave Rogers.
“Hello?”
“Libby, hi…it’s Dave. Do you have a moment?”
“Yeah, I’m just heading back to the house. Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. I just spoke with Detective Dorne. Tried to get a feel for what he’s thinking.”
“And?”
“And I’m pretty positive he’s going to charge you, Libby. He doesn’t really have any concrete evidence. There was no murder weapon at the scene; your gunshot residue test came back negative. But he just thinks you wore gloves.”
“He said that to you?”
“Yes, that and he doesn’t buy your story about not remembering anything. He thinks you’re building a defense already, which in his mind makes you seem all the more guilty. I think there’s more he’s not telling me.”
“Just great. Do you believe me?”
Dave sighed on the other end of the line. “Libby,” he began. “It’s not my job to determine whether or not you are guilty. My job is to make sure you don’t get railroaded by the system and to build reasonable doubt in a jury’s mind so you are not convicted of murder.” He sighed again. “But if you really need to know…yes, I believe you. I see no reason for you to have killed your husband.”
That was a relief. I didn’t want him representing me if he didn’t believe in my innocence—even if I wasn’t sure myself. I thanked Dave for the update and hung up the phone. My stomach was in knots.
How could this happen to me?
First, I woke up to find my husband’s head blown off, and then I’m prosecuted for his murder. I wanted to run and hide. But where could I go? It wasn’t like I was experienced at hiding from police, and I had no money besides what was left in my bank account—a measly two hundred thirty-four dollars. No, it was a stupid idea. But anyone in my position who says they never even considered running is a bald-faced liar.
I returned to Mom’s house in a horrible mood. Mom could read it on my face as soon as I walked through the door. She asked what was wrong and I told her about my update from Dave Rogers—how it was pretty much a given I was going to be charged with Ryan’s murder.
“But that’s ridiculous,” she said with her hands on her hips. “They have no evidence. Not to mention the fact you couldn’t possibly have murdered your husband.” She stepped forward and pulled me into a tight embrace. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry this is happening to you. I hope you know I’ll be there for you every step of the way. I just can’t believe this is happening.”
“Me neither,” I said, pulling back so I could breathe better. Mom’s hugs were usually pretty intense. “But there’s nothing I can do now, except wait. The grand jury meets again this Thursday, so I should know something by then…good or bad.”
Mom tried to comfort me with a home-cooked meal of roast and potatoes. Even though it was all-organic, it tasted delicious. I hadn’t had much to eat since picking up a pizza the night before Ryan died. Then I remembered something I hadn’t remembered until I thought of the pizza.
The argument.
Ryan and I had a row over what to eat for dinner. I was supposed to be out of town on a weekend deposition, but Mark had changed his mind on taking me at the last minute. I was too tired from working all day to cook, and we were running low on funds for groceries until we got paid again. We decided on a cheap pick-up pizza from the local gas station, but the mood of the evening had been soured. Ryan was in the bathroom, and I was sitting in the bed reading a true crime novel by Anne Rule, drinking the second of Ryan’s beers. He was taking forever. I wanted to make love…as it had been nearly two weeks…so I was hoping he’d end his shower reading session a bit early. I had dropped as many hints as I could earlier in the day, but either he didn’t pick up on them or he wasn’t in the mood again. So when he finally
came to bed, I opened my stupid mouth and made a comment about how he’d rather read a book on his phone than have sex with his own wife. It didn’t go over well, as you would guess, and we wound up arguing for a good fifteen minutes. I have a bad habit of always wanting to have the last word. I rolled over, turned off my lamp, and closed my eyes. The last words I said to Ryan were “You don’t love anyone but yourself.” I didn’t mean it—not really. But now I had to live with those last words for the rest of my life.
***
The next couple of days went by slowly. I was glad to be with my mother, but not working and just sitting around waiting for word on the charges against me was a special kind of torture. I had nothing to do all day besides catch up on my soaps and read. So when my best friend Dani called, I had no excuse not to answer.