‘What’s brings you this time?’ His eyes, flat and brown, regarded her with a curious intensity.
It wasn’t her imagination.
He knows exactly why you’re here.
She remembered something she hadn’t thought of in years. In high school, Wade Jewett had been somewhat of a Goody Two-shoes. When their principal, Mr Savas, found a plastic Baggie of pot in his locker, the general consensus among the student body was that it had to have been planted. Nevertheless, an investigation was launched. It wasn’t until Robert Van Doren, a student to whom no school official in his right mind would have given more than a mild reprimand—not unless he or she wanted one of Coach McBride’s size twelve cleated shoes down his throat—stepped forward to claim jokingly it was
his
stash, that Wade was let off the hook. Robert hitherto became the object of abject hero worship. Mary could see fifteen-year-old Wade in her mind now, fat and pimply, trotting after Robert like an overgrown St Bernard puppy.
Was Wade still trotting after Robert, eager to do his bidding? She eyed him warily, thinking it was an arrangement that would suit them both.
‘Family business.’ She made a show of glancing at her watch. ‘Oops, I have to run. Nice seeing you, Wade,’ she called over her shoulder as she dashed off.
Her car was parked in front of the butcher shop several doors down, where from this distance the slabs of meat displayed in the window resembled a splash of blood on a white shirtfront. All the way down the street she could feel Wade Jewett’s cold eyes on her back.
CHAPTER 6
O
N THE SOUTH SIDE
of the square adjacent to town hall stood the Burns Lake courthouse, an imposing Italianate structure dating back to the late 1800s. In 1964 the old city hall had burned to the ground but the fire had been put out before it reached the courthouse, miraculously preserved alongside the ugly modern sprawl of its rebuilt municipal parent. Virginia creeper festooned its ornate brick facade. Pigeons roosted in its bracketed eaves, and oak doors thick as a medieval dungeon’s guarded the entrance. As Noelle mounted the wide granite steps, she half expected to hear the creak of a drawbridge being raised. She had never felt so terrified in her life.
Before this she’d never seriously questioned the System. The freedom guaranteed by the Constitution was like the air she breathed, an odorless, colorless form of sustenance she took entirely for granted. It wouldn’t have occurred to her that she might one day be robbed of that freedom. That she’d be found guilty without any evidence of having committed a crime and forced to pay the ultimate price. Even for fighting to protect her child, she was being punished.
Bright and early on Wednesday morning, she had been served with a restraining order that barred her from within a hundred feet of Robert’s residence or office. Nothing more than a legal ploy designed to paint an even blacker picture to the judge, according to Lacey. But it had hit hard. Noelle was no longer certain, deep in her heart, that justice would be done. Beneath her calm surface and demure navy linen suit, her carefully rehearsed responses lined up in her head like rosary beads, she felt on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Inside the courthouse, as she limped her way down the cavernous corridor, which smelled of dusty crevices and ancient timbers, her dread mounted with each step. She kept her gaze on her father, walking ahead of her, his broad shoulders and proudly erect back a bulwark shielding her from the storm ahead. From behind came the rhythmic clacking of footsteps against the marble floor: her mother and Aunt Trish, her half sister, Bronwyn.
In the oak-paneled courtroom at the end of the hall, they all filed forward to take their seats. Her mother, sidling past her, pressed something into her hand. ‘My lucky fifty-cent piece,’ she murmured. ‘I found it under the lining of my top dresser drawer. Can you imagine? After all these years.’
The coin felt warm and heavy against Noelle’s palm. She blinked hard and bobbed her head in a fierce nod so as not to give in to tears. Mary looked stylish and sophisticated in a narrow below-the-knee saffron skirt and matching peplum jacket. Too sophisticated? Would it look to the judge like city slicker overkill?
She glanced at her aunt, the opposite of stylish in her dirndl skirt and short-sleeved blouse. Aunt Trish squeezed Noelle’s hand in sympathy, her blue eyes bright with tears. ‘Don’t tell Nana, but yesterday I lit a candle for you in church,’ she whispered. It was a sore point with her grandmother, Noelle knew, that her daughters no longer attended mass. Aunt Trish wouldn’t want to give her false hope.
Noelle remembered how when she was little, her aunt used to read aloud to her from children’s books. A character from
Treasure Island
came to mind now: Ben Gunn, the old hermit who’d been consumed with thoughts of cheese, to the exclusion of all else.
That’s what I have to do,
she thought.
Focus on Emma and block out everything else.
It shouldn’t be hard. For the past five days she’d been able to think of little else. She’d ceased being aware of what was going on around her, whether it was cloudy or sunny outside, warm or hot inside. She didn’t dare leave the kettle on to boil, or she might wander off and forget it. If the TV or radio was on, she barely noticed. Most of the time she could scarcely bring herself to eat. Perversely, she was glad for her sprained ankle; it reminded her that she was capable of fighting back. It reminded her of Hank Reynolds, too, of his quiet support that had left her bolstered in a way she couldn’t have explained.
She caught her father’s eye and forced a wan smile. He winked at her in return, but his face was haggard with worry. In the dull light even his hair seemed more gray than usual, its crow’s wing black faded to a dusty charcoal. She noticed, too, that he’d nicked himself shaving. Suddenly she loved him for that—the tiny cut on his chin like a badge of his concern.
Bronwyn stepped up alongside her, growling under her breath in imitation of a gangster, ‘Anybody gives you a hard time, I’ll break both their kneecaps.’
Noelle couldn’t help smiling. Her sister, at sixteen, was more of a handful than Emma at times. A real heartbreaker, too. Limpid dark eyes and long dark hair, full lips curled in mystery. A teenage Mona Lisa with the spirit of Huck Finn.
‘Thanks, but I’ll settle for a fair hearing,’ she whispered, oddly touched for some reason by her sister’s attempt at proper courtroom attire: black skirt and clunky black lace-up boots, denim jacket over white button-down shirt.
At the petitioner’s table, Noelle lowered herself into the chair next to Lacey. Nervously she glanced over at Robert’s lawyer, Everett Beale, seated at the table to their right, a thin, intense-looking man in his late forties or early fifties, with one eyebrow split in two by a scar and tortoiseshell spectacles perched on his toucan’s beak of a nose. But where was Robert? Was this another of his tricks—a continuance that would further delay Emma’s return? She felt her stomach clench at the thought.
‘What are the chances of his not showing?’ she muttered.
‘Relax, he’ll be here.’ Lacey offered an encouraging smile and reached into her briefcase. ‘Here, have one.’ She held out a roll of Life Savers. ‘It’s something to pulverize in the meantime.’ In her dark gray suit, she looked small and fierce, like an alley cat poised to pounce.
Noelle heard the door in back creak open. She swiveled around and was confronted by the sight of her husband strolling in as if on a red carpet, flanked by his parents. Cole, a silver-haired version of Robert with his regal bearing and aging movie-star looks, paused only briefly to flick a haughty glance her way, while Gertrude kept her eyes carefully averted. Noelle’s mother-in-law was dressed to the nines in Chanel, her coiffed champagne blond hair lacquered with enough spray to withstand a mortar attack. Her gloved hand was tucked into her son’s arm, her chin held high as if to ward off an unpleasant smell.
Robert played his part to the hilt. In his tailored blue suit, bronzed and confident, he might have been the new CEO striding into a boardroom following a hostile takeover. At the same time, his boyish smile and the swatch of hair that dipped over his forehead made him appear ingenuous, trustworthy. Why would anyone doubt his word? How could she hope to show what he was
really
like? Noelle began to feel dizzy and short of breath. Pockets of sweat formed between her breasts and along the insides of her thighs.
When her husband slid smoothly into the chair next to his lawyer, leaning over to whisper something in his ear, something that brought a smile to the older man’s thin, pale lips, she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out,
He’s a fake and a liar! Can’t you see that?
Robert didn’t even glance her way. Just then, the bailiff stepped forward, a heavyset man with three strands of hair combed over his balding head and, inexplicably, a generous dusting of dandruff sprinkled over the shoulders of his too-tight uniform. ‘All rise for the Honorable Calvin Ripley. Court is now in session,’ he intoned.
The judge, a small, round figure draped in black, stepped from a side door. Noelle rose to her feet with the rest of the courtroom, staring in surprise as he bounded up onto the bench. She’d braced herself for a monster, but here was a rosy-cheeked elf straight out of Santa’s workshop, with merry brown eyes and snow-white hair that rose in tufts about a plump face creased in permanent amusement. Judge Ripley simply radiated good cheer.
When the formalities were dispensed with, he leaned onto his elbows, his alert, twinkling gaze moving with almost fatherly concern from Noelle to Robert. ‘Well, now, you both seem like decent people. Frankly, I don’t see any reason we can’t resolve this like civilized ladies and gentlemen.’ His high, reedy voice made her think of Barney Fife on the old
Andy Griffith Show.
‘I know it’s a bit unorthodox, but I’m going to ask Mr and Mrs Van Doren to step into my chambers. Don’t have a heart attack, Mr Beale. You and Miss Buxton are welcome to join us.’ He waggled a mock chiding finger at the two attorneys. ‘I want to remind you both, however, that this is a
preliminary
hearing. Save your theatrics for the courtroom.’
An alarm bell went off inside Noelle’s head. She couldn’t have said why, but she had the sudden sense of being lured into yet another trap. As she rose to her feet, the blood rushed from her head and everything turned a little gray. At that moment Judge Calvin Ripley might have been the proverbial stranger offering a pocketful of candy and a ride, the wolf in sheep’s clothing on the path to Grandma’s house.
Even Lacey looked apprehensive. Standing up, she gave Noelle’s elbow a little squeeze of encouragement. ‘Let me do the talking,’ she murmured.
Noelle silently took up the rear, thinking that if her heart were to beat any harder, it would knock a hole right through her chest. Yet the moment she stepped into the judge’s chambers, she felt her fears subside. Except for the impressive display of leather-bound volumes lining the walls, it was like any office, only handsomer. Light streamed in through mullioned windows, casting diamond-shaped shadows over the genteelly faded oriental carpet. A stained glass lamp stood at one end of the antique partner’s desk. A grandfather clock ticked sedately in an alcove beside a built-in glass case in which various trophies and memorabilia were displayed.
As she and Lacey settled onto the worn plush sofa, Noelle sneaked a glance at Robert and his lawyer, seated across the room in a pair of matching oxblood leather chairs. Serenely confident, he smiled back at her. She trembled with the urge to lunge at him.
This is all a game to him. He doesn’t care what it’s doing to Emma.
She focused on the judge, praying he would see through Robert’s phony facade. With a nimble backward hop, Ripley scooted up onto his desk so that he was perched on its edge, his smallish feet—shod in dapper two-tone oxfords—dangling a good six inches off the floor. His pink hands folded in his black-robed lap made her think of a pair of nestled piglets. A hysterical giggle clawed its way up her throat.
This isn’t happening,
she thought.
It’s a Monty Python skit. Any minute now the
real
judge will walk in.
‘Mrs Van Doren, I’ll get right to the point.’ Ripley beamed at her with his relentless good cheer. ‘There’s been quite a bit of concern expressed lately about the state of your health, concern that quite frankly has brought to question your ability to care adequately for your child. I must confess I find it all rather disturbing.’
Lacey leaned forward indignantly. ‘Your Honor, we’re not here to discuss my client’s health. I move that—’
The merry elf silenced her with a scolding waggle of his finger, as if chastising a naughty schoolgirl. ‘Now, now, Miss Buxton. You seem to have forgotten this isn’t a courtroom. Yes, I know, I’m taking a few liberties here, but bear with me.’ He returned his fatherly gaze to Noelle. ‘Mrs Van Doren, your husband tells me that prior to this you spent several months at a rehab facility. Have you considered further treatment for your unfortunate, ah, lapse?’
At first Noelle was too shocked to reply. She just sat there waiting for the joke to be over, for this impostor to clap his hands and say that they could all go home now.
‘No—I mean,
no,
you’ve got it all wrong—I’m perfectly fine,’ she stammered. ‘My only problem is that my child is being held hostage.’ She glared at Robert, who merely shook his head pityingly.
‘I’m a little confused.’ The judge frowned. ‘Are you saying I wouldn’t be correct in stating you’re an alcoholic?’
‘Don’t answer that,’ rasped Lacey.
But Noelle couldn’t help it. She
had
to explain. ‘I’m a
recovering
alcoholic,’ she corrected him. ‘It’s true I was at Hazelden, but that was six years ago. I haven’t had a drink since.’
‘Your Honor, this goes to prior prejudice.’ Lacey persisted, her freckled tomboy’s face growing darker by the second. ‘Any health problem my client might have suffered in the past bears no relevance to this case.’