Puppet (3 page)

Nothing wrong with that, Amanda thinks, nearing the corner of Olive and Clematis. She considers trophy wife a noble profession.

Having been one herself.

She calls her office, begins speaking even before her secretary has time to say hello. “Kelly, what’s up?” She crosses the street as the light is changing from amber to red.

“Gerald Rayner called to see if you’d agree to another postponement on the Buford case; Maxine Fisher wants to know if she can come in next Wednesday at eleven instead of Thursday at ten; Ellie called to remind you about lunch tomorrow; Ron says he needs you at the meeting on Friday; and a Ben Myers called from Toronto. He wants you to call him, says it’s urgent. He left his number.”

Amanda stops dead in the middle of the street. “What did you say?”

“Ben Myers called from Toronto,” her secretary repeats. “You’re from Toronto originally, aren’t you?”

Amanda licks at a fresh bead of perspiration forming on her upper lip.

A horn begins honking, followed by another. Amanda tries to put one foot in front of the other, but it is only when she notices several cars impatiently nudging toward her that her legs agree to move.

Puppet!
she hears distant voices cry as she weaves her way through the moving line of cars to the other side of the street.

“Amanda? Amanda, are you there?”

“I’ll talk to you later.” Amanda clicks off the phone and drops it back inside her purse. She stands for several seconds on the sidewalk, taking deep breaths, and exhaling all reminders of the past. By the time she reaches the glass door of the fitness center, she has almost succeeded in erasing the conversation with her secretary from her mind.

Something else Amanda Travis doesn’t like: memories.

B
Y
the time Amanda changes out of her work clothes, finishes securing her hair into a ponytail and lacing up her sneakers, the spinning class is already under way, and every bike is taken. “Dammit,” she mutters, slapping at her black leotards and realizing she is surprisingly, perilously close to tears. They really should get more bicycles in here, she thinks, deciding that eight bicycles are hardly enough for such a popular class. She toys briefly with the idea of pushing one of the other women off her seat, trying to choose between the well-toned teenager showing off in the front row or the breathless fifty-something-year-old struggling in the back. She settles on the latter, thinking it would probably be an act of mercy to dislodge her. The poor woman will give herself a heart attack, if she’s not careful. Doesn’t she know that spinning classes are for those who don’t really need them?

Amanda stands in the doorway for several seconds, enviously monitoring the class, hoping that one of the participants will eventually read the desperation in her eyes and relinquish her seat. Don’t they understand she only has so much time? That unlike most of them,
she has an actual job she has to return to, that she is due back in court in just over an hour, and that she needs these forty-five minutes of torturous cycling to burn off some morning steam and gather her resources for this afternoon?

“Okay, everybody, up off your tush,” the male instructor barks over the steady assault of rock music. The women, sweat already dripping into glazed eyes and open mouths, promptly lift their rear ends obligingly into the air, pedaling harder, faster, harder, faster, trying to keep up with their leader, while Blondie sings from nearby speakers.

The conversation with her secretary suddenly sneaks up on Amanda, whispering in her ear.
And a Ben Myers called from Toronto
, her secretary says.
He wants you to call him. Says it’s urgent.

Amanda quickly retreats to the main room and jumps on the first empty treadmill in front of the second-floor windows overlooking the street, ratcheting up the speed until she is running. Three television sets look down at her from strategic positions around the room. The sound on all three is turned off, although the closed captioning is unavoidable. It competes with the flow of headline news that scrolls relentlessly across the bottoms of the screens. Amanda feels a headache hovering behind her eyes and turns away as the news announcer begins reporting important, late-breaking news from the Middle East.

He says it’s urgent.

“Dammit.” Amanda adjusts the incline on the treadmill to its steepest level.

“Shouldn’t do that,” a man says, stopping by her side.

Amanda feels the man’s breath warm on her bare arm. “Shouldn’t do what?” she asks without looking at him. His voice is unfamiliar, and she tries to imagine what he looks like. Thirtyish, she decides. Dark hair, brown eyes. Good biceps, strong thighs.

“You’re just asking for an injury when you make the incline so steep. I speak from experience,” he adds when she ignores his warning. “I tore my adductor muscle last year. Took me six months to recover.”

Amanda glances in his direction without breaking stride, gratified that he is much as she pictured, except he’s probably closer to forty than thirty, and his eyes are green, not brown. Handsome in an overly groomed sort of way. Never too far from his blow-dryer. She’s seen him here before and knows this isn’t the first time she’s caught his eye. She presses a button, feels the machine’s incline decrease beneath her feet. “Better?”

“Actually it would be better if you didn’t use the incline at all. You’re already running against pressure. The incline just puts added strain on the groin muscles.”

“Wouldn’t want to strain those.” Amanda returns the incline to zero. “Thank you.” She wonders how long it’s going to take the man to introduce himself.

“Carter Reese,” he says before she’s completed the thought.

“Amanda Travis.” She swallows him in a glance as he steps onto the treadmill beside her: the broad shoulders, the muscular legs, the thick neck. Probably played football in college. Now he plays golf and works out. Most likely an investment counselor. Newly divorced or recently separated, judging by his lack of a wedding band. A couple of kids. Not interested in anything serious. She
gives him three minutes before he suggests meeting later for a drink.

“People call you Mandy?”

“Never.”

“Okay, then. Amanda it is. So, you come here often?” he says only half-jokingly.

Amanda smiles. She likes a man who’s comfortable with clichés. “As often as I can.”

“I usually see you on those crazy bicycles.”

“Unfortunately, I got here a little late today. They were all taken.”

“You live around here?”

“I live in Jupiter. You?”

“West Palm. Don’t tell me you came all the way from Jupiter just to exercise.”

“No. I came from work.”

“What is it you do?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Really? I’m impressed.”

Amanda smiles. “You are?” She wonders if he’s mocking her.

“Lawyers with great legs impress me,” he continues.

Amanda’s smile freezes. She should have known. Two minutes, she thinks.

“And you?”

“Investment counselor.”

“Now I’m the one who’s impressed,” she offers, silently congratulating herself on her intuitive powers, and hoping she doesn’t sound too insincere.

But if he suspects her compliment is anything less than genuine, he gives no such indication. “So, what sort of law do you practice?”

“Criminal.”

Carter Reese laughs out loud.

“I’m sorry. Did I say something funny?”

He shakes his head. “You just don’t strike me as the criminal lawyer type.”

“And what type is that?”

“Rough, tough, beer belly.” He makes an obvious show of looking her up and down, then smiles appreciatively, as if her flat stomach were sculpted for his benefit. “I’m not seeing any beer belly.”

“What you see isn’t always what you get,” Amanda warns playfully.

“I’d like to see more.”

One minute.

“What time do you finish work?” he asks.

“I should be through about five.”

“About?”

“More or less.”

“About?” he repeats, except this time he pronounces it
aboot.
“Do I detect traces of a Canadian accent?”

You’re from Toronto originally, aren’t you?

Amanda bristles. She’s worked hard to eliminate all such traces from her voice. “So, are you going to ask me out for a drink later or what?”

A slight pause, a grin in his voice. “I was thinking about it.”

“Think faster. I have to be back in court in less than an hour.”

He smiles. “A woman who doesn’t believe in beating around the bush. I like that.”

“The Monkey Bar?” she suggests. “Six o’clock? That’ll give me time to check in with my office.”

“I have a better idea.”

This doesn’t surprise Amanda, who is used to the better ideas of men like Carter Reese.

“I know this great little spot up in your neck of the woods. We could meet there for drinks, maybe have some dinner …”

“Sounds good.” Amanda watches the grin in his voice spread across the square set of his jaw. He’s feeling terribly pleased with himself, she thinks, feeling pretty pleased herself. After all, when it comes to relieving stress, sex is almost as good as spinning.

“Did you have sex with the defendant after the incident on August the sixteenth?” Amanda asks the witness at the start of her cross-examination. She rises from her chair as she is speaking, buttoning the top button of her tailored black jacket, and walking briskly toward Caroline Fletcher, who looks imploringly at the prosecutor.

“Objection,” he offers obligingly.

“On what grounds?” Amanda scoffs.

“Relevance.” Tyrone King approaches the judge. “Your Honor, the issue here is what happened on the morning in question, not what might have happened later.”

“On the contrary,” Amanda argues. “My client is facing some very serious charges. The witness claims that on the morning of August sixteenth, she was raped; Derek Clemens insists the sex was consensual and offers as evidence the fact that they made love again later that same day. If this is true, it’s not only relevant, it goes to the witness’s credibility.”

“The objection is overruled,” the judge agrees, directing the witness to answer the question.

“Did you and the defendant make love again after the incident on August the sixteenth?” Amanda repeats when the witness hesitates.

“We had sex, yes,” Caroline Fletcher answers.

“That same night?”

“When I got home from work.”

Amanda turns toward the jury, carefully plucked eyebrows lifting in well-rehearsed confusion. “Why?” she asks simply.

“I don’t understand.”

“Frankly, neither do I. I mean, you claim Derek Clemens raped you earlier in the day. Why would you willingly consent to have sex with him only hours later?”

“He said he was sorry,” Caroline replies earnestly.

“He said he was sorry?”

“He can be very persuasive when he wants to be.”

“I see. So this isn’t the first time this sort of thing has happened.”

“What
sort of thing?”

“I’ll rephrase.” Amanda takes a deep breath. “How would you characterize your relationship with the defendant, Miss Fletcher?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Would you say it was stormy?”

“I guess.”

“You fought a lot?”

“He was always yelling about something.”

“Did you yell back?”

“Sometimes.”

“And had these fights ever gotten physical before the morning of August the sixteenth?”

“Sometimes he’d hit me.”

“Ever hit him back?”

“Just to protect myself.”

“So, the answer is yes, you sometimes hit him back?”

The witness glares at Amanda. “He’s a lot stronger than I am.”

“Okay. Just to be clear: you and Derek Clemens had a very stormy relationship, you fought often, and those fights sometimes got physical. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Caroline agrees reluctantly.

“Did these fights often end with sex?”

The witness fidgets in her chair. “Sometimes.”

“So isn’t it possible that Derek Clemens thought it was simply business as usual on the morning of August the sixteenth?”

Caroline Fletcher crosses her arms stubbornly across her inflated chest. “He knew exactly what he was doing.”

Amanda pauses, checks the notes in her hands, although she already has them committed to memory. “Miss Fletcher, when Mr. King questioned you about what happened that morning, you said that Derek Clemens threw you on the bed, flipped you over onto your back, and had sex with you.”

“I said he raped me.”

“Yes, but your original words were that he had sex with you. And you admitted it wasn’t until after you spoke to the police that you decided you’d been raped.”

“Like I said, I wasn’t sure about my rights until Sergeant Peterson told me.”

“You needed someone to tell you you’d been raped?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained,” the judge says. “Move on, Ms. Travis.”

Again Amanda glances unnecessarily at her notes.
“And after the alleged assault, you called the hairdressing salon where you worked.”

“To tell them I’d be late.”

“You didn’t call the police,” Amanda states.

“No.”

“In fact, you didn’t contact the police until two days later.”

Caroline Fletcher scowls.

“So, at the time Derek Clemens said he was going to ‘kill your ass,’ you didn’t feel seriously threatened, did you, Miss Fletcher?”

“I felt threatened.”

“You recognized it was just a figure of speech, didn’t you?”

“I felt seriously threatened,” the witness insists.

“So threatened you returned home right after work?”

“I had a baby to take care of.”

“A baby you had no problem leaving alone with a man you claim beat and raped you. Not to mention threatened your life.”

“Derek wouldn’t hurt the baby.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain of that,” Amanda agrees heartily, smiling toward the defendant. “In fact, Derek Clemens is a wonderful father, is he not?”

“He’s a good father,” the witness admits with obvious reluctance.

“He’s Tiffany’s primary caregiver, isn’t that right?”