In Self Defense (22 page)

“Don’t say a word unless I tell you to,” David instructed her.  “I’ll do all the talking.”

Clare was more than happy to leave everything to him.  It was actually nice, for a change -- a relief, really -- to let someone else do the thinking and the talking for her.  She went through the booking process of being fingerprinted and photographed, feeling deeply humiliated, but without comment.

Tipped off no doubt by the police, the media were everywhere.  Reporters shouted at her, microphones were thrust into her face, cameras assaulted her from every angle.  She was quickly whisked away to a private location while an arraignment was scheduled.  But then the cameras followed her into the courtroom, where she got to say “not guilty” in a surprisingly clear voice.

A trial date was set, and by two o’clock that afternoon, she was on her way back home, after posting a million dollar bond, as the defendant in what was doubtless going to be the one of the most explosive cases in Seattle’s history.

***

Clare was in the library, ensconced in front of a warm fire.  The television set was on, but she was paying scant attention.  It was just past four o’clock, the weather outside was raw and rainy, and she was waiting for Doreen to bring tea. 

Thursday was usually Doreen’s day off, as was this Sunday as well, but ever since Richard’s death, the housekeeper had refused to leave.

“There’ll be plenty of days I can take off when I want to,” she said every time Clare brought up the subject.  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon stay right here.  If I find I need some time to myself, I can just go in my room and close the door.”

It hadn’t done any good to argue, and Clare had to admit she didn’t really try very hard.  Because it was nice to have the company, it was nice to share the burden.  And, too, it was nice to have someone screening her calls.  She had stopped answering the telephone.

“I don’t know if it’s going to be the stalker, or a reporter,” she said to Doreen, “and I don’t want to talk to either of them.”

Clare curled her feet up under her, and with her elbow on the arm of her chair, rested her chin in the cup of her hand and gazed into the flickering blaze.  Her blonde hair gleamed in the firelight, and the flames reflected in her dark eyes.

She had of course been hoping that the process would be simple and straightforward, hoping that the police would accept Richard’s death for what it was, without anyone having to delve into all the messy details.  But it certainly didn’t look now as though that was what was going to happen.  It was her own fault, she knew.  For not doing what she should have done, right from the beginning -- whether anyone believed her or not.

As if to punctuate her thoughts, the regular programming on the television, whatever it had been, was suddenly interrupted for breaking news.

“In a surprising turn of events,” the afternoon anchor declared, “the death of Nicolaidis Industries CEO Richard Durant, initially ruled an accident, is now being called a homicide, and his widow, Nicolaidis heiress Clare Durant, has been charged with the crime.  Refusing to go into details, authorities will say only that sufficient evidence has been developed to convince them that Mrs. Durant may have intentionally shot and killed her husband.”

Clare picked up the remote and flipped through the other local channels.  They were all saying more or less the same thing.  She snapped off the television and heaved a sigh of resignation.  It was not going to be easy, not for her, not for the children, not for Richard’s family.  She would have to be strong, for all of them.  But at least she wouldn’t have to stand alone.

David was on her side now.  She had told him everything . . . well, enough, anyway, so that he could make the right decisions.  It was fitting that he should represent her.  He would think of it as repayment for what her father had done for him and his family, she knew, and he would leave no stone unturned in her behalf.  In turn, she would think of it as the best move she could possibly have made.  Because, after all, she had done the unthinkable -- she had killed her husband.

Nine

The King County Courthouse occupied an entire square block of downtown Seattle, fronting, as it did, on Third Avenue, between Jefferson and James.

The twelve-story Corinthian style monolith, with its classic portico, its brick and granite exterior, its traditional high ceilings and marble interior was considered the last word in architectural design when it first opened its doors in 1930.  The fact that the building was still standing proud was probably some proof of that.

It had undergone a number of renovations over time, meant to modernize, to upgrade basic comfort, and to insure the safety of its occupants, but after eighty-five years, age and weather and seismic anomalies were beginning to take their toll.

The courtroom on the fourth floor, where The Honorable Naomi Lazarus would preside over the case of the People v. Clare Durant, was the beneficiary of the most recent remodel.

It was spacious and done mostly in browns and beiges.  The ornate bench, the solid bar, the sixteen jurors’ armchairs, and the ten rows of straight-backed, uncomfortable spectator seats were made of oak.  The walls were a textured off-white.  The floor was linoleum.

The air conditioning was going full force.  Even so, those packed into the spectator seats were perspiring freely, and using whatever they had at hand to fan themselves.  Their discomfort wasn’t by necessity, however, but by choice.  They had stood in line for hours -- some had even camped out overnight -- for the opportunity to get a seat at the big event -- bored housewives, out-of-work dot.com nerds, gossipmongers, and social climbers squeezing in among supporters and reporters.

The media coverage had been relentless throughout the winter, spring, and summer, and speculation was running rampant.  Did she or didn’t she?  Newspapers and tabloids alike asked the question, and were quickly snatched off the shelves by those who seemed to have an insatiable interest in other people’s business, and seemed to take a perverse pleasure in other people’s problems.

“It’s human nature,” Doreen observed.  “Their lives are so miserable, it makes them feel better to wallow in someone else’s misery.”

The holidays had been bleak and seemed to drag on forever, with Clare and the children just going through the motions, no one really wanting to celebrate, no one really wanting to look the other in the eye.  Everybody was glad when they were finally over.

In January, Clare went back to work at Thornburgh House, but by the end of February, it was clear that she was too much of a distraction.  She turned her authors over to Nina and resigned.

“It’s for the best now,” Glenn Thornburgh said.  “But perhaps, someday, when this is all behind you . . .” He let the thought dangle.

“Perhaps,” Clare murmured, knowing that, whatever the outcome of all this, that day would never come.

The paparazzi pursued her relentlessly.  As the case moved along, and the legal maneuverings began, and the trial loomed, her face was everywhere, in the newspapers, the tabloids, the magazines, and on every local television and cable news channel.  There was no escaping it.  Everywhere she went, people either stared at her or whispered behind her back.  Everyone she had ever known was being pursued for comments.  Richard’s parents were no longer speaking to her.  Members of charitable organizations, with whom she had worked tirelessly for years, either stopped calling or avoided returning her calls.  With the loss of its innovative leader, and the subsequent arrest of its major stockholder, Nicolaidis Industries dropped almost a third of its value.

“Do we need more capital?” Clare asked Henry Hartstone.

“No, we’re all right,” he advised.  “Just give it some time.”

It was March, when word of the new X-ray machine leaked out, before things began to turn up again.

One afternoon in April, Julie came home with a badly scraped knee.

“What happened?” Clare asked, taking her into the bathroom and reaching for the peroxide.

“There was a man at school,” the girl replied.  “He wanted to take my picture.  He asked me all sorts of questions about you.  I didn’t answer, and I tried to run away from him.  But I tripped.”

Clare called David.  David called the school.  The school promised to do what it could to protect the children.

Then, on a day in May, Peter climbed into the Voyager with a black eye.

“Where did that come from?” Doreen asked.

“Billy Tucker called mom a murderer,” the boy explained.

“Your mother’s not a murderer,” Doreen told him firmly.  “What happened was an accident.  She just made a mistake.”

“I know,” Peter said.  “Billy Tucker has a black eye, too.”

The house Clare had never felt comfortable in became her whole world.  She retreated into its depths like a wounded animal, and declined to emerge, even at the insistence of good friends.

“Come on over for dinner,” Marcia Bennett, the neighbor to the north, would invite.

“Thanks, but I’m not feeling very well,” Clare would respond.  “Perhaps another time.”

“As long as you’re not working right now, why don’t we spend a day in town?” Jenny Corcoran, the neighbor to the south, would propose.  “There are two shops that just opened in Pacific Place that are supposed to be spectacular.”

“Sounds like fun, but I’m afraid my mind’s not on shopping right now,” Clare would reply.

“Why don’t you and the kids come stay with us for a few days,” Elaine Haskell would suggest.  “It’ll give Doreen some time off.  It’ll give you a change of air to breathe.”

“Doreen won’t take time off,” Clare would say.  “And much as I hate this house, now more than ever, I think it would be better for us to stay put for the time being.”

She didn’t want the paparazzi following her and setting up camp in front of Elaine’s home in Ravenna.  It was bad enough they had done it in Laurelhurst.

“You know, if you keep hiding yourself away like this, people are going to think maybe it’s because you really did do something wrong,” Nina warned her.

“I don’t care,” Clare said, and much to her surprise, she realized that she meant it.

“Well, maybe you don’t, but your attorney might,” her friend said.  “After all, he’s the one who’s going to have to pick a jury of twelve impartial people.”

“You mean I should be parading myself around town as the grieving widow?”

“Why not?  That’s what you are, aren’t you?”

Clare opened her mouth to say something, and then abruptly closed it again.  “What I am is really none of anybody else’s business,” she said instead.

In total agreement with his client, David Johansen refused to try his case in the media.  Let the public speculate, he told his associates.  In the long run, it would make no difference.

The one thing of note in the months leading up to the trial was that the stalker had stopped calling.

“There hasn’t been any activity reported since the end of December,” Erin observed.

“Not long after Clare Durant was charged,” Dusty mused.  “Why do you think?”

“Hard to tell,” Erin said.  “It may be because Clare’s not as accessible as she used to be.  She doesn’t answer her telephone anymore.  So if he’s calling, the housekeeper is answering, and he just hangs up.  Or it may be that she’s caught right in the glare of the media spotlight, and almost every move she makes is documented one way or another.  Not to mention that that house is locked up like a fortress.  He may have figured she’d be too hard to get to.”

“Do you think he’s moved on?” Dusty wondered.

Erin shrugged.  “I’ve been thinking about that,” she said.  “It would be the first time he’s abandoned a target . . . well, the first time that we would know about, anyway.  But under the circumstances, it would be the smart thing for him to do.”

The stalker was the very last thing on Clare’s mind.  As far as she was concerned, the media had replaced him, in spades, hounding her at all hours of the day and night, following her children around, spying on her housekeeper.  Long before the trial was even scheduled to begin, David had to arrange for private bodyguards to protect the Laurelhurst house around the clock, and to accompany the occupants wherever they went.

Then it was October, a year after the death of Richard Durant, and Seattle was about to find out for itself whether the trial was going to live up to all the hype.

***

At precisely nine thirty in the morning on the first Tuesday in October, Mark Sundstrom stood up, smoothed his hair, adjusted his glasses, buttoned his suit jacket, and turned to face the jury.  It had taken the better part of two weeks to select the seven women and five men, plus four alternates, who were now seated in front of him, culled from over two hundred residents of King County, who had all claimed to be impartial in the matter of the People v. Clare Durant.