Pride v. Prejudice (2 page)

The fateful straw crushed the camel's back. I'd done my level best, but now I was so furious that I was momentarily overwhelmed by a surge of adrenaline. My jaw quivered. I closed my eyes and willed myself not to leap over the first row and the railing in order to grab Wessell's shoulders and shake him until he begged for mercy. I would show none. I finally opened my eyes, delicately cleared my throat, and said, “I did not attempt to hide my identity. I filled out the jury questionnaire carefully and noted my husband's name and position. I did not change my name when I remarried because of my daughter.”

“And your reputation, which is remarkable.”

“Thank you.” I did not say this with customary gratitude.

“You're welcome, Mrs. Malloy-Rosen.”

If there had been a spotlight in the courtroom, it would have been aimed at me. I felt as though I were in a grimy interrogation room, charged with a horrific crime that would lead to the gallows. I gritted my teeth and stared at Wessell, who had clearly taken it upon himself to play the role of Bad Cop. He stared back. I willed myself not to blink. This mute exchange of hostility might have continued all afternoon if the judge had not yawned and said, “Well, Mr. Wessell?”

“I move to strike this juror for cause,” he said. “She has personal ties to the local police department and is likely to be prejudiced.”

“Juror number ten, you are dismissed,” the judge said.

There was a collective sigh of relief as I stood up and edged past the other jurors in the second row. My face was hot and my legs were unsteady, but I maintained my dignity as I headed for the door. As I went past the defendant, she looked up at me with a sympathetic smile. I felt an urge to squeeze her hand and offer a few words of encouragement. Wessell might have ordered the bailiff to shoot me if I did, however, so I continued out the door and down the hall to the exit. Once in my car, I slumped back and replayed the scene. The prosecuting attorney had attacked me as if I were a cockroach scurrying across the courtroom floor, rather than merely pointing out that I was married to a police officer and therefore apt to have a bias—a bias that one would assume was in his favor, not the defendant's.

I considered dropping by the PD to talk to Peter, but he had mentioned an afternoon meeting with some agency that consisted of cryptic letters. Luanne had decided to take a long weekend and had scampered off with her current amour, a professor of botany who was obsessed with ferns.

I needed solitude and sanctuary. I drove through Farberville's version of rush hour and out a county road to my perfect house. It had not been on the market when I first saw it, but a couple of murders and an expos
é
of illicit activity had not deterred me. As I parked by the porch, I couldn't keep myself from gloating, although in a ladylike fashion. It was an antebellum jewel, with gray shingle gables, gingerbread trim, and ten acres of clover-strewn fields, an apple orchard, and its own indolent stream at the bottom of the hill. The spacious rooms had hardwood floors, high ceilings, and a state-of-the-art kitchen that I had not yet mastered completely. The master suite was on the first floor, with his-and-her walk-in closets, and the bathroom had a dressing table and racks to ensure that the fluffy towels were warm. French doors opened onto a private terrace. The second floor was Caron's domain, along with guest bedrooms.

I peeled off my pantyhose, changed into shorts and a T-shirt, poured myself a drink, and went out to the terrace to ponder ways to humiliate Prosecutor Eric Wessell until he slunk back under his rock. I was certain I'd never met him before, although we could have been at the same ghastly civic banquets. I did have a reputation, but I hadn't been involved with any cases in his jurisdiction. I tried to erase the image of his smirky face and equine teeth, the flakes of dandruff on his bony shoulders, the almost maniacal glint in his beady eyes as he tore into me with the charm of a rabid weasel.

That proved to be impossible, so I went into my playroom, also known as the library, and sat down in front of the computer. I did a search for Sarah Swift and found articles in the local paper, the earliest more than a year old. She was accused of murdering her husband, John Cunningham (proving I wasn't the only woman on the planet who hadn't changed her name after getting married). They lived out in the county on an unfamiliar state highway and owned an organic blueberry farm. I closed my eyes as I visualized myself squashing a blueberry pie in Prosecutor Weasel's face and smiling as the purple goop dripped off his bushy eyebrows, then took a breath and continued reading the screen. According to the sheriff's department, Sarah had been at a book club gathering in Farberville the night of the incident. Alcohol had been consumed. When she returned home, she'd allegedly shot her husband in the chest with a shotgun and left him to bleed to death in the barn. The following morning she'd called the sheriff's department, claiming she'd discovered the body when she went to the barn on her way to feed the chickens. Neighbors had acknowledged hearing a blast at midnight. Based on the sheriff's calculations, Sarah had had adequate time to arrive home by eleven. Wessell had characterized her as a vindictive, cold-blooded killer who had ignored her husband's pleas for help and simply gone to bed. Her fingerprints were on the shotgun, which was found in a hall closet.

“Oh, Sarah,” I said as I looked at her grainy mug shot. “Was he that awful?”

“Are you talking to the computer or to yourself?” said Caron, my offspring and occasional bane of my existence. Although we both have red hair and freckles, our dispositions are polar. Had I not personally supervised her overall well-being since birth, I would have suspected dark forces had resided under her crib and guided her stroller. She recently arrived at the heady landmark of legal majority without a felony, but there had been moments. Many moments.

She came into the library and perched on the ladder. “Either way, Mother, it's a symptom of some icky kind of delusion. Had any chats with the potato peeler lately?”

I did not turn around. “The potato peeler made a pithy remark about a bedroom upstairs that is littered with every piece of clothing you own, as well as a goodly amount of mine. The olive tongs murmured something about my sandals and the netherworld beneath your bed. Oh, and you won't believe what the colander—”

“I said I'd clean my room when I got home from school.” She repositioned herself on a leather chair and gave me the vastly superior look of an eighteen-year-old Pulitzer Prize–winner who moonlighted as a Parisian runway model and a CEO. “Did you get on the jury?”

“No,” I muttered.

“Peter told you they wouldn't let you serve because of him. You should have just called the courthouse and had your name removed from the list.”

“I was willing to do my civic duty.” I turned off the computer and ushered her out of the library. “Peter may not make it home for dinner. Look in the freezer and find something to eat. I intend to dine on scotch and water, with a glass of wine for dessert.”

Caron sat down on a stool next to the marble-topped kitchen island and studied me with what might have been genuine concern. “What's wrong with you?”

I told her about Wessell and the voir dire. She did her best not to snicker, but her efforts were less than successful. I was not yet ready to see the humor in my public embarrassment. I banged open the freezer door and said, “Pizza, microwave entrees, odd things in a freezer bag that may be hot dogs from your last pool party.”

“Can I have a party this weekend, like Sunday? Everybody's going to the lake Monday because of Labor Day. We're going to have a humongous picnic for all the cool seniors. Joel's uncle is going to be there with his party barge, and Kyle's got a ski boat.”

“As long as you clean up your room, do laundry, and replace my clothes in my closet.”

Caron's lower lip shot out in a classic pout. She'd begun working on it in utero and perfected it before she could toddle. By first grade, she was well on the road to high crimes and misdemeanors with her accomplice, Inez Thornton. I'd bailed them out and bawled them out to no avail. Now all I could hope was that they would leave for college free of manacles. Twelve months to go, I reminded myself as I retreated to the terrace.

I must have dozed off because I almost fell off the chaise longue when Caron shook my shoulder and said, “Mother, you need to see this! It's on TV! Hurry!”

I followed her into the living room and stood in front of the TV. The local news was on, and the weather girl was gushing about an expected thunderstorm with the possibility of lightning and thunder. As opposed to what, I did not know. “You want me to watch this?” I asked Caron.

“Wait for it,” she replied grimly.

Waiting required us to watch several commercials urging us to buy cars, join the newest health club in Farberville, and take advantage of an amazing sale on mattresses. Finally the two newscasters, Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber, appeared on the screen, their noses powdered and their smiles radiant. The distaff member of the team sobered as she gazed into the camera and said, “Today jury selection began in the trial of Sarah Swift, accused of killing her husband in a domestic confrontation. Let's go live to our courthouse correspondent, Thomas Pomfreet. What's happening, Thomas?”

Thomas seemed startled as his boyish visage filled the screen. He regained his composure and said, “It's been quite a day here at the Stump County courthouse. Prosecutor Wessell and defense attorney Toffle took their time questioning potential jury members. By five o'clock, the jury was finally impaneled. Judge Priestly declared that the trial will not begin until Tuesday because of the three-day holiday weekend.” He gave the camera a quirky little smile. “The highlight of the day came when Prosecutor Wessell accused a potential juror of perjury for misrepresenting her legal name. It seems that Farberville's own Miss Marple failed to change her name after marrying a prominent member of the police department. She and Prosecutor Wessell bandied words over her involvement in a large number of local homicides. The woman was excused and left the courtroom in tears.”

I dropped onto the sofa. “That's ridiculous! I was too furious to bother with tears. I was trying to think where to buy a weasel trap or a small bazooka.”

“He accused you of murder?” Caron said in a squeaky voice. “Never mind about the party. Is it too late to send me to boarding school?”

I decided not to mention that Wessell had as good as accused me of murdering her father. “Get online and find out, dear. I hear there's a charming one in Greenland.”

“This is Not Funny!” She stormed upstairs. I doubted she would reappear with a laundry basket anytime soon.

Once Thomas had faded from the screen, his colleagues moved on to a bungled robbery at a convenience store. I was marginally grateful that they had not decided to produce inane banter about my humiliation. There had been no spectators in the courtroom, which meant someone had briefed the news station. I had a pretty good idea who it might have been. I went into the kitchen and was splashing water on my face when the phone rang. I had no inclination to answer it, so I let the answering machine handle it. As soon as I heard the first word, I recognized the voice of my ESL student, a Russian woman named Yelena. She assured me that she was most furious at the TV report and quite sure I hadn't killed anybody lately. The next call came from a loyal customer, commiserating. As did the next. A professor from the drama department called to dismiss the report as sheer poppycock. It seemed every last person in Farberville had been watching the local news and was currently discussing my innocence or lack thereof.

It was clearly time to return to the terrace. Hawks circled in the sky, ever vigilant for something tasty for dinner. Grasshoppers whirred in the meadow, and butterflies landed on the lush flowers in the beds surrounding the pool. A mockingbird in the orchard ran through its repertoire. Inside the house, the telephone continued ringing with what I suspected were more condolence calls. The only sympathy I wanted was from my handsome husband, who would gaze at me with his molasses-colored eyes and promise to have Wessell's car impounded.

An hour later I was still brooding when said husband came out to the terrace with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He fussed over me for a lovely moment, then sat down and poured the wine.

“Did you see the local news?” I asked.

“I heard about it.”

“What is wrong with that dreadful man? You'd think I vandalized his house and stole his law diploma. I can't remember ever having met him, much less offended him.” I blinked to hold back tears. “If I did, I hope I drew blood.”

Peter leaned forward to kiss me. “I'm the cause of his animosity. He aspires to be a judge and came by the PD to ask for support. The captain locked himself in his office. I told Wessell that I was obligated to take a nonpartisan position but would not have supported him in any case. The guy's a jerk. He has a reputation for going after women and minorities, prosecuting on minimal evidence and demanding harsh sentences. He charged a battered woman with attempted murder after she threw a skillet at her abusive husband. He's sent a large number of black teenagers to prison for possession of pot or alcohol. Rich people are charged with misdemeanors, if charged at all, while the poor are slapped with felonies for the same offense.”

“You could have warned me,” I said sulkily.

“I didn't realize he's so damn vindictive.” Peter held up his hand. “No, I am not going to have him arrested for a parking violation. When jurisdiction is fuzzy, we have to work with the sheriff's department and Wessell.”

“What about jaywalking?”

“No, and I don't want you locked up for assault—or stealing his battery. You're going to have to get over it.”

“Over his squished body.” I leaned back and took a sip of wine. An idea had come to mind while Peter was talking. A very fine idea. Wessell had humiliated me. Now it was time for me to humiliate him. Peter was gazing at me with a squinty, suspicious look, so I smiled and said, “You're right, dear. I need to get over it. Shall I stick a pizza in the oven?”