Maximum Security (17 page)

“No, Judge. No. I’m not a party.”

“Well, then who
are
you?” the judge asks.

“I’m Mrs. Rawlings’s financial advisor,” Collier says, sweeping one arm back toward Louisa. He looks over his shoulder and then leans toward the judge, as if he’s about to share government-classified information. “And I’m an extremely close friend of the
entire
family.”

Judge Long rests one forearm on top of the other, tucking his hands inside the wide sleeves of his robe. “That’s all well and good, Mr. Collier,” he says, peering over the rims of his half-glasses, “but why are you standing in front of my bench?”

“Oh,
that
.” Collier laughs again, and again it’s too hearty. He gets it now. Or he thinks he does. He lets out a small, embarrassed cough, as if he’s hosting this event and momentarily forgot his manners. “This,” he says, “is Anastasia Rawlings.” He rests a hand on her forearm.

Judge Long takes a deep breath. He’s losing patience. “I’m aware of that,” he says.

“She is the daughter of the deceased,” Collier whispers, as if Anastasia might not already know this.

“I’m aware of that, too,” the judge says.

Collier releases Anastasia’s arm and points to himself. “And I am here to speak on her behalf.”

Judge Long shakes his head before Collier finishes his sentence. “I can’t let you do that, sir.”

“You can’t? What do you mean, you can’t?” Collier’s posture changes, stiffens. He seems to take umbrage at the judge’s words and I wonder for a moment if he’ll say:
You’re a judge, aren’t you?

Judge Long sees the body language too. “It’s nothing personal,” he says. “But if you’re neither a party to these proceedings nor a licensed attorney representing a party, then you don’t speak on behalf of anyone. Not in this courtroom. Not in any courtroom. You may have a seat in the gallery.” The judge points.

Collier turns and stares out at the benches as if he hadn’t realized they were here until now. “But, Judge,” he says, “hear me out, please.” Collier clutches Anastasia’s arm as if she’s a toddler who might wander into traffic. “Miss Rawlings isn’t up to this. She’s had an awfully rough go of it. She’s rather fragile.”

The Kydd tries to disguise his outburst of laughter as a coughing fit, but Judge Long isn’t fooled. He looks out at the Kydd, who’s bent in half in his chair at the bar, and then at Harry, who’s sitting next to him. Harry shrugs. “He does this sometimes,” he says.

Finally the judge looks at Louisa and me. We’re laughing too—a little louder than we should. “Fragile,” Louisa repeats. “Oh my, that’s rich.”

Judge Long looks back at Collier, who hasn’t budged. “Miss Rawlings will be just fine,” the judge says, pointing again to the gallery. “You are excused now, sir.”

Collier pivots and retreats, clearly unhappy to be denied his moment in the history of American jurisprudence. I smile as he passes. He doesn’t.

Geraldine leaves her table, saunters up front, and joins Anastasia near the bench. “Your Honor,” she says, “perhaps I can help move this matter along.”

The judge must have a headache; he’s massaging his temples again. “And for that, Ms. Schilling,” he sighs, “the court would be most grateful.”

“Miss Rawlings has made two requests, Your Honor. First, she’d like her father’s remains released for cremation.”

“And your position is?”

“The Commonwealth has no objection, Your Honor. The post was done on Monday. Evidence collection is complete.”

The judge peers down at his papers on the bench and scribbles hurriedly, his signature, no doubt. He passes the form to Wanda and then looks at Anastasia and smiles. “Consider it done, Miss Rawlings.”

“She’d also like her father’s house released from crime scene status,” Geraldine says. “She’d like to use it while she’s on-Cape.”

“And?”

“And we have no objection, Judge. Again, evidence collection is complete.”

The judge scribbles a second time and then arches his eyebrows at Anastasia. “This must be your lucky day, Miss Rawlings,” he stage-whispers, as if he doesn’t want Geraldine to hear. “Attorney Schilling is usually much more difficult to get along with.”

“Your Honor.” I leave the table and approach the bench. If Geraldine is feeling agreeable, I want in. “Mrs. Rawlings would like to be heard on a related matter.”

“Yes,” he says, looking down at his file. “I have a note to that effect.”

The thunder of a small stampede makes me pause and turn. Four court officers are running, two coming toward us from the back of the room, two passing by us from the front. They’re headed toward the defense table, all of them. And they’re shouting now, calling out “Move it!” and “Get back!” One look at the table tells me why.

In the time it took for me to walk to the bench, Steven Collier made his way to Louisa. He stands up straight now, backs away from the chair at the bar he’d been leaning over, and smoothes his suit coat. “I’m sorry,” he says to the judge, raising his hands in surrender. “My mistake. I didn’t know it would be a problem.”

Two of the uniforms escort him out, Collier talking nonstop as they go. I wonder if his nose is growing.

When I look back at Judge Long, he’s massaging his temples yet again. “You wanted to be heard, Ms. Nickerson,” he reminds me, “on a related matter.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Mrs. Rawlings would like the court’s permission to attend her husband’s memorial service tomorrow morning.”

Anastasia wheels around, her thickly outlined eyes boring holes into the woman she couldn’t bear to look at fifteen minutes ago. “No-oo,” she bellows. It’s a two-syllable word.

Judge Long leans forward on the bench and looks down at Anastasia, his half-glasses on the edge of his nose. “Attorney Nickerson isn’t asking for
your
permission, Miss Rawlings,” he says.

“Your Honor, we can’t do that.” Geraldine peers up at the judge with the back of one hand to her forehead, looking like her next comment might be “woe is me.”

“We’ve done it before,” he says.

“And it’s a security nightmare,” she answers. “Every time.”

Judge Long looks out at Louisa and then back at me. After a moment, he shakes his head at Geraldine. “I don’t get the impression Mrs. Rawlings is a flight risk,” he says. “And I certainly don’t think she’s a danger to anyone.”

“We don’t have the staff, Judge,” Geraldine says.

“That, Ms. Schilling, is a matter you’ll have to take up with the legislature.”

“I can’t believe you’re discussing this.” Anastasia’s baritone is much louder than the judge’s. “That woman,” she says, pointing like a veteran prosecutor, “murdered my father. She’s not welcome at his memorial service.”

Judge Long is silent for a moment. His gaze rests on Louisa and then shifts to Anastasia. “That woman,” he says quietly, taking his glasses off, “is innocent as she sits here today. And she will remain innocent unless a jury of her peers decides otherwise.”

Anastasia folds her arms beneath her heaving bosom and bristles. She’s ready to fight to the finish. “She is
not
innocent. She killed him and everyone knows it.”

The press is loving this a little too much. The judge pounds his gavel, glares at them until they settle down, and then turns his attention back to Anastasia. “Miss Rawlings,” he says, pointing the gavel at Louisa, “this woman has been convicted of nothing. She’s been tried for nothing. Now, I can’t order you to welcome her, or anyone else for that matter, to your father’s service. But I
can
tell her she’s free to go.” He looks down at the bench and scribbles again. “And I just did.”

He passes the signed order down to me and I return to our table with it. Louisa takes my arm as soon as I sit. “Thank you,” she says. “It would have been terribly wrong for me to miss Herb’s service. And I confess I won’t mind a little fresh air on the way, either.”

I nod at her. “What the hell did Steven Collier want from you? He’s lucky he didn’t get himself tossed into a cell.”

She smiles, apparently amused by the thought. “Steven was just the carrier pigeon,” she says. “The message was from Anastasia.”

Anastasia’s still standing in front of the bench, as if the judge might change his mind if she hangs around long enough. I point at her. “The fragile one?”

Louisa lets out a small laugh. “One and the same,” she says. “The dear girl wants me to spring for tomorrow’s luncheon. Says she’s broke.”

“Broke?”

Louisa laughs again. “She doesn’t know the meaning of the word. But no matter. I’m happy to pay for it. It’s my responsibility in the first place.”

She’s right, of course. It is. Still, something about the request rankles me. Maybe it’s the timing.

“Your Honor.” Geraldine had gone back to her table when I came back to mine, but now she’s at the bench again, her copy of the signed order in hand. “Will you at least make the court’s permission contingent upon the availability of prison personnel?”

The judge sets his gavel on the bench and smiles. For a moment, he says nothing. His eyes move from Geraldine to Anastasia and back again. “The county coffers might have to cough up a little overtime,” he says at last, “because the answer is no, Attorney Schilling. I won’t.”

A steady stream of expensive cars winds down Fox Hill Road. Most sport Connecticut plates and every one of them turns left into the driveway that leads uphill to the imposing Eastward Edge Clubhouse. Herb Rawlings’s memorial service is scheduled to begin at eleven. The mourners seem to have decided en masse to show up ten minutes beforehand. And somehow, though we’re almost never early for anything, Harry, the Kydd, and I arrive in the midst of them.

Behind us is a dark blue Mercedes-Benz, its polished three-pointed star glinting on the hood in the morning sunshine. Ahead, a Bentley follows a BMW—an X5, the Kydd tells us authoritatively from the backseat. The BMW follows a Jaguar—an XK8, according to our resident auto enthusiast. All three cars come to a stop in the circular driveway and we idle behind them in Harry’s Jeep.

A uniformed valet attends to each of the vehicles ahead of us, opening and closing doors for the occupants and then whisking the car away. There seems to be a small army of young men in double-breasted maroon suit coats sporting the colorful Eastward Edge logo. They wear visored hats, leather gloves, and somber expressions befitting the occasion.

“Hot damn,” the Kydd says as he takes in our surroundings. “I need a raise.”

Harry laughs, but I don’t. I twist in the passenger seat and stare, silently reminding the Kydd of his recent ethical transgressions. Many a lawyer’s license has been suspended for less. He’s in a precarious professional position at the moment, not one that gives him a lot of bargaining power. “Surely you jest,” I tell him.

“Just kidding,” he mumbles through clenched teeth.

“You’d better be.”

Harry laughs again. He has no idea.

A valet is at the driver’s-side door. He’s older than the others and he seems to be the guy in charge. He bends down and leans in when Harry opens the window. “Sir,” he says, tipping his hat, “we ask pickup trucks and, uh”—his eyes travel the length of Harry’s worn-out Jeep—“
recreational
vehicles to park in the lower lot.” He clears his throat, then stands up straight and points downhill, as if the matter is settled.

Harry opens his door abruptly and the man in uniform jumps back. “Nope,” Harry says as he leaves the Jeep. The Kydd and I get out too. We’ve seen this routine—in different settings—before.

“But, sir,” the valet tries.

“You asked,” Harry interrupts. “I answered.”

“But, sir,” the valet repeats. This time, though, he holds one hand out, palm open, as he tries to explain. Harry drops the key in it. “Take good care of her,” he says with a wink. “She’s an heir-loom.”

Chief Car Parker looks like he intends to argue, but he falters, momentarily distracted by something in the line behind us. Louisa Rawlings and her prison escorts have arrived. They’re in a gray van, branded
Barnstable County Sheriff’s Department
in bold black letters on both sides. It’s sandwiched between a shiny red Maserati and a gleaming black Lincoln Continental.

Harry shakes his head in disapproval when the bewildered valet turns back to us. “You’d better lock it,” Harry says, walking away from him. “You know, this
used
to be a decent neighborhood.”

We’re almost inside when the Kydd stops in his tracks on the top step. “You go ahead,” he says to Harry and me. “I’m going to wait. Louisa shouldn’t have to walk in there with no one but prison staff around her.”

Harry punches the Kydd in the arm. “That’s thoughtful of you, Kydd, damned thoughtful. You’re a decent son of a gun.”

I give the Kydd a pointed glare, the extent of his thoughtfulness for Louisa Rawlings unspoken between us.

Draping an arm around the Kydd’s shoulder, Harry turns to me and dabs at the corner of his eye, as if brushing a tear away. “We raised him right,” he says.

The Kydd gives me a grave nod, confirming Harry’s sentiment.

I’d like to bang their heads together.

The van’s side door opens and a prison matron steps out to the cobblestone walkway. Louisa emerges next, in the same beige trench coat and wide-brimmed hat she wore on Monday’s trip from her house to lockup. No doubt her butter yellow coat dress is beneath. It’s unlikely that the prison-guard van driver swung by Easy Street to let her select a mourning ensemble. It’s even more unlikely that Anastasia would have let her in the door if he had.

I’m relieved to see that Louisa isn’t cuffed. In situations like this one, prison escorts have broad discretion regarding the use of restraints. The decision to forgo them here doesn’t involve much in the way of risk; both matrons have bulging holsters strapped around their hips, after all. Still, it was decent of them. A little scrap of Louisa Rawlings’s dignity can attend the service with her.

Harry and I head inside first. Louisa follows, flanked by her escorts, the Kydd trailing a few steps behind. A slight, fussy sort of man greets us, his mustache so straight it looks like someone painted it above his lip. He directs us down a short hallway to double doors at the end.

We walk through the open doors into a good-size room facing the water. White wooden folding chairs—about a hundred of them—are set up in rows, five on each side of the room, creating a wide aisle in the center. Most of the seats are already filled, even the two rows in front, which are roped off with red velvet.

Harry points to three vacant chairs on the end of row four. He goes in first and takes a seat next to Louisa’s ex, Glen Powers. I follow, the Kydd right behind me. Glen looks up and nods a silent greeting to all of us. I wonder how long it’s been since he and Harry have seen each other.

Harry leans over to whisper to me, “Have you two met?” He points a thumb toward Glen Powers.

“Yes,” I answer. “I met him on Sunday.”

“Well, that’s just ducky,” Harry says, feigning a huff.

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” he answers. “But the last time Powers met a woman I was seeing, he married her.”

I frown at him.

Louisa and her bookends continue down the aisle, until yet another slight, fussy sort of man stops them. “I’m sorry,” he says, pointing backward at the roped-off rows. “These are reserved for family.”

“She
is
family,” one of the matrons snaps.

The fussy man seems taken aback.

“It’s all right,” Louisa says, pointing backward to three empty chairs directly in front of ours. “I’ll be fine right there.”

“You sure?” The other escort is ready to take on the fussy little man too. It occurs to me that the matrons act as if they’re Louisa’s big sisters. They might bully her at will, but they’re sure as hell not going to let an outsider get away with it.

“I think it’s best,” Louisa says. And she’s right, of course. It is. Nothing good will come of her sitting anywhere near the wicked stepdaughter.

In the front of the room, the windows frame lush green hills rolling down to open ocean. Against that backdrop stands an oak podium, complete with microphone and stainless steel water pitcher. Next to it is a small table draped in smooth white linen. It holds a fragrant but gaudy flower arrangement—gold and russet mums trimmed with black crepe bows. Anastasia’s selection, no doubt.

On one side of the vase stands an eight-by-ten framed photograph of the deceased wearing a tuxedo. On the other, a dull brass urn a few inches taller than the frame looks like it might have been salvaged from the set of
I Dream of Jeannie
. The Kydd points to it and his eyes grow wide as he shifts in his chair to face me. “Is Mr. Rawlings
in
that?” he whispers.

I nod.

In front of us, Louisa’s shoulders shake gently, but her laughter doesn’t make a sound. “Mawkish,” she whispers back to us. “Wouldn’t you say?”

She’s facing front, so she can’t see us, but we all nod anyway. It is.

Keening. From the back of the room comes a howl that can only belong to one person, and Louisa’s shoulders shake slightly again. And again, she doesn’t make a sound.

All heads in the room turn and the wailing ratchets up a notch, in pitch as well as volume. Anastasia is flanked by Lance Phillips and Steven Collier, each of them holding the entire length of one of her forearms, elbow to wrist. She’s dressed in her usual getup, but she’s added a sheer black veil for today’s events. It covers her face entirely, falling below her collar in front, slightly longer in back.

“Now
that’s
a damned good idea.” Harry’s whisper is a little too loud and Glen Powers covers his mouth with his hand. “She’s a vision, don’t you think?” Harry asks this question of anyone who’ll listen. Glen Powers nods again.

Anastasia begins what promises to be a lengthy, slow-motion trek down the center aisle. Steven Collier almost lifts her from the floor by her forearm, Lance Phillips not quite managing the same on his side. Her wails roll out in waves now, beginning as guttural blubbering, cresting as eardrum-shattering yowls. Her head rolls in steady rhythm with the waves, face and hair shroud downward as each one begins, head thrown back and veiled face skyward as each one peaks. Her pattern changes, though, as she approaches us, and I realize this grim scene is about to take a turn toward the macabre.

The clodhoppers stop short when she reaches Louisa’s row, forcing Collier to an abrupt halt and making Lance trip over his own feet. For a split second there’s not a sound in the room. Anastasia’s liberally linered eyes glare through the veil at Louisa and I’m relieved to see that Louisa isn’t looking back at her. She sits calmly between her escorts, facing the front of the room, as if she’s entirely unaware of Anastasia’s presence.

Into the silence Anastasia unleashes the worst shriek of the day. More than a few of the mourners actually press their hands to their ears. The matron in the aisle seat gets to her feet, faces Anastasia, and points, telling her and her ushers to move on. I’m grateful—and more than a little surprised—when Anastasia obeys. I’m reminded once again of the unparalleled power of an unconcealed weapon.

With no small amount of coaxing from Collier, Anastasia makes it to the front row and collapses with great fanfare into the second chair from the aisle. Elizabeth Taylor could learn a thing or two from Anastasia Rawlings. I’m happy to see Lance dutifully fetch a glass of water from the pitcher at the podium. He can’t deliver it fast enough, as far as I’m concerned. And I’m fairly certain everyone else in the room is thinking the same thing. Anastasia will have to shut up, at least for a few seconds, to swallow.

The two men take their seats at the same time, Lance on the aisle, Collier on the other side of the bereft only child. The water seems to help the situation. She’s actually quiet for a minute, and then her wailing resumes at a more bearable decibel. Apparently satisfied that she’s settled, Collier gets to his feet, checks his watch, and then walks to the podium with a few sheets of paper in hand. A mechanical screech fills the room as he tests the mike and adjusts it. At least it’s a change from the human sounds we’ve been enduring.

“Good morning,” he says, and those assembled wish him the same. “I’d like to welcome all of you to Eastward Edge. We’re here, of course, to honor the life of this great man.” He points to the framed photo. “Herbert Andrew Rawlings.”

Anastasia keens again, her head rolling onto Lance’s shoulder, and Collier waits. When the noise subsides, he continues. “The family has asked me to say a few words about Herb at this time, and I feel privileged to do so.”

At long last, Steven Collier has found a spot in the limelight.

“After that,” he says, “we’ll hear from Paul Bagley.” Collier points to the front-row aisle seat opposite Lance’s and nods a greeting. “Paul was Herb’s business partner for more than thirty years. He’ll tell us about Herb’s long and distinguished career in the practice of law, his service on more than a few prestigious committees of the bar association, and his tireless, lifelong devotion to his many corporate clients, large and small.”

Collier stops, pours a glass of water for himself, and sips, turning a page in his notes. “And finally,” he says, pointing to the chair next to Mr. Bagley, “the Reverend Burrows will read from Scripture and lead us in prayer.” Collier sets his glass down and lowers his head, as if we’re praying already.

After a moment of silence, he takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, apparently gearing up to deliver the meat of his eulogy. “Herb Rawlings,” he says, “was first and foremost a family man. He was devoted to his wife of more than twenty years…”

Collier pauses and looks out at the crowd, his eyes settling on Louisa. He’s a hard act, Collier, but I have to give him credit at the moment. His sympathy seems sincere. She nods back at him.

“…and to his daughter, Anastasia.”

At the mention of her name, Anastasia wails again and keels over onto Lance. He manages to keep her upright in her chair for a few seconds, but then she topples forward onto the floor, pulling him along. He jumps to his feet a second later and struggles to get Anastasia to do the same. He can’t, though. He can’t get her to move a muscle. She’s out cold.