Addie Combo (11 page)

Randolph shoots me a little look. “As I’d told Miss Compo, it’s vital to keep a balance
between one’s personal and one’s professional life. We blurred the lines, and look where we’ve
both wound up.”
“Indeed,” Quinton says, “you should have seen this coming, eh?”
“Um, not this exactly,” Randolph says, “but misfortune can take many forms.”
“Yes it can, Mr. MacLeish. For example, when an innocent young girl meets an aging man
of diminishing means and thinks she’s found a mentor and a lover, when really she’s been
trapped in the web of some terrible spider.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Randolph says. “I was the one who was tricked!”
“You’re lying, Mr. MacLeish. In point of fact, you are the con artist and it is Miss Compo
who is the victim, set up to be an unwitting pawn in your new venture.”
“Objection -”
“Overruled.”
Quinton goes on to say, “You lined up those properties, you set up her limited liability
corporation so you could use it to shield your drug ring. You used it to take out credit cards and
buy cellphones, which you used to make your deals with the other people in your organization.
It’s not uncommon for business to be done this way, so that nobody can ever be identified by
anyone else -”
“But they’d know a woman’s voice when they heard one.”
Quinton smiles. “I never said the voice was identified by anyone as a woman’s voice.”
Randolph begins to stammer a bit, sweat collecting on his forehead. “I guess I just assumed
... but she could havemade the calls, or somebody else ... what’s the difference, what are you
trying to prove? It’s my word against hers!”
That isn’t quite true, because of the stack of records incriminating me and the absolute
absence of any evidence incriminating Randolph, which is the only thing that will turn this
around.
And to that end, and because a matter of my word against Randolph’s must include my actual
word
, I am called to the stand.
I answer every question the prosecutor has, and there aren’t many. Miss Jerome is waiting to
get me on the stand in the real trial, because she knows she’s got that locked down. But a series
of very reasonable questions help me to lay down the events leading up to and including my
arrest, my detention, my release on bail.
After my direct examination, Quinton guides me through his cross-examination. He walks
me clinically though the events again; catching anything we may have missed along the way, and
covering events leading right up to this very morning.
I explain about our chats in the apartment living room, brainstorming a way to piece the
puzzle together.
And finding it.
I mention the visit to Randolph’s mother, and our return trip on that day just a week ago.
And I mention the things we learned afterward, about actress Caroline Lawrence.
Afterward, Quinton excuses me from the witness stand and then turns to see the faces of
prosecuting attorney Sabrina Jerome and State’s witness Randolph MacLeish; pressed wide and
flat in shocked, bloodless expressions.
Quinton says, “The defense would like to call Caroline Lawrence to the stand.” The doors
open and Caroline Lawrence enters, a bailiff by her side. She looks around, resembling the
attractive woman we saw from the front seat of Quinton’s car and almost nothing like the old
Scots matron she portrayed for me in her living room some months ago.
She takes her place behind the stand, is sworn in, and sits down to face Quinton as he
approaches.
“Miss Lawrence, thank you for being here today.”
“Yeah, like I had much choice.”
Randolph is going even paler now, sweat rolling down the side of his face.
Quinton says, “You recall the afternoon of November 2nd of last year, 2013?”
Her voice comes very low and cool. “Yes.”
“Will you please describe for us, in your own words, what happened; for the record.”
She’s very nervous; it’s easy to tell by her quivering voice, cracking in her throat. “Well,
um, Randolph MacLeish -”
“Is Randolph MacLeish in this room right now?” She nods, and he adds, “Could you point
him out for us please?” She nods again, then points at Randolph. Quinton adds, “Let the record
show the witness pointed out Randolph MacLeish, himself a witness for the prosecution.”
Quinton turns back to face Caroline on the stand. “Go on, please.”
“Right. So Randolph ... Mr. MacLeish ... had called me a few days before, to tell me he was
bringing Miss Compo ... ” She raises her finger and points me out, Quinton having it duly noted
for the record. “He said she’d need a little convincing, that I was supposed to play his mother.”
“
Play
his mother?”
She nods. “Y’know, like an actor, I’m an actor.”
“Or like a grifter,” Quinton says. “And is this the extent of your association with Mr.
MacLeish?”
I’m watching Randolph now, his face is so white it’s almost light blue. He’s clearly
struggling just to swallow or even take a breath.
Penny for your thoughts,
I hear myself thinking,
but I have to admit I’d pay a lot more than that, even if I already know what they are. It would
be so sweet to hear him say it.
Caroline Lawrence shakes her head on the stand. “No, I ... I’ve been involved with the deal
from the start. But I never touched any drugs at any time, I want that on the record!”
A shocked murmur rises up amid everyone on the room. Even the bailiff and the uniformed
officers are shaking their heads, others trading quick mumbled remarks of shock and amazement.
Judge Takimara wraps his gavel and calls for order to be restored to the court.
Everyone complies and returns their attention to Caroline on the stand; all except for me.
I’m still watching Randolph; enjoying his squirming misery, his dread, his doom. I’m sorry for
what he’s about to face, but I have to admit he deserves it.
Better him than me!
Quinton says to Caroline, “You were the one who placed those calls to Florida, to Brussels.”
“Yes.”
“To protect MacLeish’s identity and implicate Miss Compo.”
“Yes.” She turns to me. “I’m sorry, hon, I didn’t mean it. It’s nothing personal.”
Quinton says to Caroline, “We know.”
“My career isn’t going anywhere, I can’t afford to pay my rent! This was just gonna be a
quick thing; make a few phone calls, that’s it. Then she wanted to visit his mother, ‘cause they
were getting closer, at least she thought they were. I told him it was a bad idea.”
“For the record,” Quinton says, “this witness has struck a plea bargain to offer her testimony
in exchange for immunity against further prosecution.” He turns to the prosecutor, Miss Sabrina
Jerome. “Your witness.”
Sitting behind her table, the prosecutor stands and, hands out at her sides, says, “No
questions at this time, Your Honor.”
“Very well.” Judge Takimara says to Caroline, “You’re excused, please step down.”
Caroline looks around for a moment, then nods and quickly scrambles to her feet and steps
down from the stand.
Quinton turns toface the bench. “Your Honor, the defense calls Randolph MacLeish back to
the stand.”
Judge Takimara and Quinton both turn to glare at Randolph, seated among the others. His
woman Sarah glares at him, and Randolph stands up. He nods a bit as he sidesteps his way
toward the aisle. But as soon as he gets to the aisle, he turns and bolts, running straight for the
doors.
A uniformed officer in the back of the room runs to intercept him, and Randolph pushes
through the doors and into the hallway. But I can see that he’s tackled by a cop already in the
hall, and the shrinking gap between the closing doors gets even wider as the officer in the
courtroom nearest to him, as well as two others, run out into the hallway. I can see Randolph’s
foot sticking out from that pile of cops. His voice barks out desperate grunts of protest, lost in
the clicks of their cuffs, the crackle of their walkie-talkies, and the cold reading of his Miranda
rights.
Quinton turns to the judge. “I move for a dismissal of all charges against my client and that
she be released without prejudice at once.”
The judge asks, “Miss Jerome?”
“The State moves to drop all charges against Addison Danielle Compo.”
“Granted,” Judge Takimara says, wrapping his gavel. “Dismissed.” He mutters a few more
things which I can’t quite make out, wraps that gavel one more time and says, “Court is
adjourned.”
He sets the gavel down and stands up, and so do we all. I fall into Quinton’s arms, both of us
squeezing with all our might. The incredible weight of events, the pressure of everything I stood
to lose, bears down us now with its full gravity. Adrenaline courses through my body, filling
every cell to the breaking point. I feel strong enough to crush Quinton in my arms, yet so weak
I’m not sure if I’ll remain standing.
We pull back a bit, still holding on, each ready to see the other as events have prevented us
from doing. We finally kiss, and the rest of that pent-up energy comes spilling out; through my
lips, my tongue, my tears as they roll down mycheeks, smearing against his own. There’s no
shame now, and no reason for any. We’ve fought with each other and for each other and won,
and nobody can deny us our prize; the lives and the love we came so close to losing forever, now
ours for the taking.
Really
romantic. And so right.
My father approaches with my brothers, and I pull away from Quinton long enough to wrap
my arms around my father’s shoulders for what feels like the first time in my life. He seems so
big in front of me, as he’d always been in my mind; looming, massive, gigantic. And as his big
arms wrap around me and begin to squeeze, I can sense the same longing that has been building
so long in them; to hold his daughter, to protect her, to love her.
He leans closer to my ear and says, “I’m so sorry, angel, we’re all so sorry -”
“It’s okay, Daddy,” I say, using a word I haven’t used since before my mother’s death. But I
use it now, and I’m glad to. And it
is
okay, it really is.
Finally.
I pull back a bit and reach into my pocketbook, pulling out the photo of me and Mom, still in
its little metal frame. The security guard almost wouldn’t let me in with it, but in the end he
relented.
Handing it to Daddy, Jesse and Jared peeking over his shoulders to enjoy the little picture, I
feel a sense of completeness, of wholeness. My dad looks at the picture; losing himself in
memory, fingers gently touching the glass.
Quinton shakes the boys’ hands as my dad gazes into the photo, the five of us coming
together to form a new unit, a new bond. It just feels natural, and I know it bodes well for me
and for my future with Quinton.
That’s when I feel a chill, and we all look over to see Emily standing nearby, in the aisle.
She seems like she wants to say something; her lips quivering in an embarrassed pout, her
fingers flexing on her uncertain hands.
Quinton says, “Emily?”
We stand, waiting. And she does too; as if not having known what she’d say, if there is
anything to be said. She tried to have me put in jail because of her childish feelings, and I don’t
feel so warmly toward her that I’m tripping all over myself to forgive her. I think it’s fair
enough that I’m content just to never see her again. And my father and brothers feel even more
strongly about it, their snarls and glares surely burning an unseen scar into her conscience.
Quinton is the one with the real history with Emily; he was the one who had to dismantle her
today. For this, and for her other pain, Quinton can only offer a somber but sincere, “I’m sorry,
Emily.”
Perhaps hoping for some brighter outcome (for her, anyway) Emily must now hover in that
dismal empty space between welcome and pity; between being where she doesn’t belong, and
being without a place where she does.
She finally cracks under the strain and turns, bursting into a gasp as she runs out the door and
to her fate, as far from us as she can get and as quickly as possible.
And that suits me just fine.
My daddy asks me about my plans,
our
plans. “Wouldn’t think of coming back to
Colorado?” he hopefully suggests. “I’d like a ... another chance to be the daddy to you I never
was.”
I smile and we hug again, an extra little squeeze telling him,
You’ve already begun!
Instead I say, “I own property here in town, needs to be fixed up and rented out. The house
in Floridatoo. After that, we’ll see.”
“I’ll help,” Quinton says, “until I find a new firm.” I look at him, surprise clear in my
expression. He explains, “Contract law just isn’t for me. I’m thinking something a little more
meaningful, civil rights maybe.” I can’t hide my smile, and I don’t want to.
Keep moving forward,
I think to myself.