Mercy (45 page)

He wondered if Allie was watching the trial, or if, in the light of the past day

, she'd forgotten too.

He managed to buy back some of his power tools and fishing equipment and he physically tore a uniform from a four-year-old who was playing dress-up in t he nursery school make-believe corner. He ate lunch in his car and went into his office to find several more of his personal effects strewn across his d esk: his sports jacket, a dress uniform, a pair of Sorrel boots, skis. Hanna h came to stand in the doorway. "I did a little calling around, and I got so me people to feel bad," she said quietly. "I'm not going to ask what happene d."

He thanked her and locked the door when she left. He put his head down on the desk.

Seven times that day he turned to look out the window at the Wheelock Inn. But he did not go over there to check again, and because of this simple t hing he went home with his hands curled around a glowing, growing grain of pride.

The first witness for the prosecution was Hugo Huntley. Audra smiled at him as he settled himself on the hard chair inside the witness box. She patien tly waited for him to wipe

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his glasses on the spare material of his shirt. "Can you state your name and address for the record?" she asked.

"Hugo Huntley." His voice screeched into the microphone, so he leaned bac k a bit. "Fourteen-fifty Braemer Way, Wheelock, Massachusetts."

"And Mr. Huntley, what do you do for a living?"

"I run the only funeral parlor in Wheelock. I also serve as the medical examin er for the local police."

Audra asked him to recite his credentials: college, medical school, certifica tion by a board of medical examiners.

"What do your duties as the medical examiner of Wheelock entail?" Hugo puffed out his chest. "I investigate deaths where the cause is unknown, or needs to be verified. I perform autopsies when it's necessary."

"About how many autopsies have you performed?"

Hugo smiled. "I've done a lot of autopsies, I guess. A few hundred. Sometim es the families just want to know what gave out at the end."

"Did you perform an autopsy on the deceased last September?" Hugo nodded. "Yes, ma'am," he said.

"And what did you determine as the cause of death?"

"Asphyxiation." He leaned forward and took a deep breath. "In layman's term s, a lack of oxygen to the brain, which eventually caused a massive cardiac arrest."

"I see. Were you able to determine the time at which the victim died?"

"Roughly," Hugo admitted. "In my opinion, it was between seven and ten in the morning."

Audra prowled in front of the witness box. "Did you do an external examina tion as well, Mr. Huntley? "

The little man nodded. "Of course. It's part of any autopsy," he said.

"And what were your findings?"

Hugo glanced down at his lap, as if he had a script there. "Other than a sca r from a recent radical mastectomy, there were no visible contusions or lace rations, no burn marks, nothing out of the ordinary." 319

Audra sucked in her breath. You couldn't lead a witness on direct question ing, and Huntley was forgetting the most important piece of physical evide nce. "Did you examine her hands?"

Hugo's eyes shot up and caught the prosecutor's. "Oh, yes," he said. "Yes, I did. There was skin underneath her fingernails that matched up with sam ples taken from Jamie MacDonald."

"Did you also have a chance to see the defendant shortly after he confessed t o the police?"

Hugo swallowed. "I did."

"Was there anything extraordinary about his face?"

"There were scratches on his cheek. His right cheek."

"And what did you conclude in your report?"

Hugo glanced at Jamie and then let his gaze slide away. "That this was a poss ible sign of a struggle."

Audra tossed her French braid back. "Your witness," she said, and she tapped her fingers on the defense table on the way back to her seat. Graham remained sitting, like he had all the time in the world and he was jus t shooting the shit with Hugo on the back porch. "Mr. Huntley," he said, his legs crossed, his arm thrown over the back of the empty chair to his right, " have you ever testified at other trials?"

"One. It turned out to be a suicide."

Graham stood up gracefully. "So you aren't often called as a witness to murde r trials?"

"No, oh, absolutely not. Things like that don't happen all the time in Wheelo ck."

"For which I'm sure we're all grateful," Graham said, and in the background he heard a stifled titter from the jury box. "How many funerals do you see a year?"

Hugo raised his eyebrows. "Oh, a good number. We have a decent reputation

, so people from other towns come to us too. Fifty, I suppose. Maybe more

."

"And how many years have you run the funeral parlor?"

"Fifteen."

Graham nodded slowly. "So that's seven hundred and fifty funerals you've s een." He whistled. "Would you consider yourself an expert on grief?" Jodi Picoult

"Objection!" Audra Campbell stood up. "Maybe defense could tell us what the criteria are for a grief expert?"

"I'll allow it," Roarke said.

"Let me rephrase." Graham leaned on the railing beside Hugo, like he was a buddy, a pal. "Do you think you have a familiarity with grief?" Hugo nodded. "I see a lot of it, sure. There are certain things you notice ov er and over--the same things you'd expect--you know, crying, and shock, and t hat sort of thing."

"Mr. Huntley, did you attend Maggie's funeral?" Hugo brightened visibly. "Yes, and it was lovely. I arranged it, you know. There were flowers and the priest gave a very moving service, and a good number of people turned out considering she had been an outsider from anot her town."

"Did you observe Jamie at his wife's funeral? " Hugo cleared his throat. "I did. He was crying so much I don't think he even knew he was doing it, and he physically could not stand up. He actually didn'

t make it through the whole service. To tell you the truth, I've never seen t he like."

"Did he happen to say anything at the funeral in Gaelic?" Hugo smiled. "Yes," he said. "When they started to lower the casket, he said the words 'Mo chridhe.' "

"Can you translate for us?"

"It means 'my heart.' "

Graham nodded. "One last point, Mr. Huntley. You say you saw scratches o n Jamie's cheek?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you see them being put there?"

Hugo shook his head. "I didn't see a fight, or anything, if that's what you me an."

"So it's possible that Maggie MacDonald was not the one to put those scratc hes on his cheek."

"I suppose so."

Graham started to walk toward the jury. "And those skin cells you found bene ath Maggie's fingernails--is it possible they were not the sign of a struggl e?"

Hugo tipped his head. "I guess."

"Is it possible, for instance, they were a leftover from, say, a hot night of passion between a husband and wife who were very much in love?" This time, Graham could hear the guffaws coming from the jury. He smiled. Hugo nodded, his eyes black and huge behind his glasses. "It's possible." Graham flashed a neat grin at his client. "Nothing further," he said. Cam was sitting alone in the dark living room, nursing the third of a six-pac k of beer, when he heard the front door open and close. He did not stand or g o to greet her, but he set the bottle down at his feet.

Allie was silhouetted in the doorway. Wich her right hand she reached for t he light switch, flooding the room garishly and making Cam blink like an ow l at her, as if she were something he was not accustomed to seeing. She tilted her head and stared at him, wishing that he did not look the way he always did when she pictured him in her mind. It would have been so much easier if, after all this, he had a scar across his face, or a visible brand that made her remember. She put down on the floor the strongbox she'd carri ed from the garage sale.

Cam gazed at it. "How much did you make off me?"

"Not nearly enough," Allie said.

Cam nodded. He had not known exactly what to expect. The Allie he remembe red, the one he had married, would have never sold his belongings. She wo uld have assumed his infidelity was a reflection of something she had don e wrong and she'd beg him to give her another chance, and because he'd be so guilt-ridden, he would. This new woman, the one who had a mind of her own that he could not predict, might say and do just about anything at all. He wanted the old Allie back. Not because he wanted that measure of power over her, but because he was hurting and he was tired and the one steady t hing in his life--her unstinting comfort--was what he needed the most. He closed his eyes, dizzy with the truth, and wondered how he had so quic kly gone from holding everything he wanted in the palm of his hand to hav ing absolutely nothing at all. He wondered how he could have been so blin ded by something shiny and new

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and elusive that he couldn't at least give equal credit for the strength of som ething stable, and strong, and his.

"I guess you'll want a--" He tried, he really did, but the word would not com e.

"Divorce," Allie finished.

Cam nodded.

"I don't," she said softly, and his eyes flew up to hers. He was surprised t o realize he was not wishing that she was Mia. He looked at his wife and wis hed in that moment that none of this had ever happened.

Allie's eyes filled with tears that she would not let spill, at any cost. She notched her chin up when she spoke. "You hurt me," she accused, "but you wer e the one who made the mistake. It's not like I stopped loving you the minute I found out. I just stopped trusting you."

She started up the steps, leaving Cam on the couch holding the words she had tossed him like fluttering, nested birds. He glanced up the dark stairwell, b ut he could not see his future.

"I VV"hen Cam took the witness stand the following morning, he W was stari ng at Allie. She sat almost directly behind Jamie, so that watching her me ant watching his cousin as well.

Jamie looked good, for someone who was on trial for murder. He wore an oliv e suit that hung nicely from his shoulders and a red tie that was quiet and conservative. People who hadn't been trained like Cam to look quite so clo sely might never have noticed the beads of sweat on the hair at the back of Jamie's neck, or the way his ears burned red at the top every time Audra C

ampbell asked a question.

Cam had been sworn in and he'd entered into evidence the arrest report and t he voluntary confession. He smiled at Audra when she crossed in front of him

; he'd worked with her before. He didn't particularly like her, but he had a n obligation to the DA's office. The police--the police chief, in particular

--were key witnesses for the prosecution. By definition the police commanded respect. The jury naturally trusted a policeman to safeguard people like th emselves, their property, their lives. Whatever Cam said most jurors would a ccept as fact.

He stated his name and his occupation for the record. "How many years hav e you been on the force?" Audra asked.

"Eight," Cam said. "Plus three years of part-time duty before I was made chi ef."

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"And how many arrests do you make in a week?"

Cam frowned a little. "Me, personally? Or the department?"

"You, Chief MacDonald."

Cam shifted in his chair. "Six or seven. Ten on a busy week. Overall, an ave rage of three people get taken into custody each day by one of our officers for some criminal activity or another."

"Were you on duty on September nineteenth?"

Cam nodded. "I was. I had actually just gone out to lunch when the defenda nt drove up to the station, asking to see me. One of my sergeants tracked me down."

Graham listened carefully and made notes on a yellow pad that he could barel y read. Cam spoke clearly and dispassionately; relating the horrible facts o f a horrible case without the benefit of emotion.

"The defendant arrived in a red Ford pickup truck," he said. "The victim was in the passenger seat, although at the time of arrival on the scene it was not obvious that she was deceased. He asked if I was the police chief, and w hen I answered affirmatively, he stated his own name and said that he had ki lled her."

"Do you remember the exact words the defendant used?" Cam looked at Jamie. "He said, 'My wife, Maggie, is dead, and I'm the one w ho killed her.'

Audra stood in front of the jury, as if she were just another interested me mber. "And then what happened?"

"There was a crowd that had gathered when the defendant drove up to the st ation. A couple of women fainted and one of the men in the group took a sw ing at the defendant."

"Was there anything else?"

Cam straightened his regulation tie. He stared at a juror who was busy reset ting the buttons on his watch. "Yes. I motioned for my sergeant to check on the status of the victim, and the defendant began to fight. At that point I informed him that I would be putting him under arrest."

"Did you read the defendant his Miranda rights?"

"Yes," Cam said. He watched Allie lean over the railing that separated the v iewers from the players of the court, to touch Jamie's shoulder in a gesture of support. "He waived the right to a lawyer and asked to make a voluntary confession."

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"What are your standard procedures regarding voluntary confessions?"

"We go through Miranda again, and ask specifically a third time if the priso ner would like a lawyer to be present. Then we tape-record the confession, w hich is transcribed by the police secretary, and after verifying what has be en typed, the prisoner signs it."

Audra walked toward the court reporter. "Let the record show that this vol untary statement has been entered into evidence as exhibit S-three." She t urned back to Cam. "Chief MacDonald, can you paraphrase for us what the de fendant said in his confession?"

"He said that his wife had been diagnosed with several types of cancer, and that her illness had been terminal. After a doctor's visit on the previous Friday, she had come home in a very depressed state. The defendant indicat ed that his wife asked him to kill her. He said that on Monday, they drove to Wheelock from their hometown of Cummington and rented a room at the Whee lock Inn. It was there, on Tuesday morning, that he covered his wife's face with a pillow and smothered her."