Salem's Daughters (40 page)

“Hey, didn’t I say don’t you fret none? Your lawman, he be on top of things. He’s making an impressive case for you for the country to see. According to news polls, half the folks think you’re guilty as sin. Yes, ma’am, they sure do. But there are plenty of others, like myself, be thinking you didn’t have nothing to do with killing any of those poor folks.”

Debbie gave up trying to free herself. Her heart pounded. Her head felt like it would detonate any second in a big bang splat of wall to wall, floor to ceiling plasma. And the anxiety she felt over Bob and her grandparents now gone was too much to bear.

“I’m gonna to let the doctor know you’re awake. He’ll probably put you back to sleep for a day or two until you stabilize a little more.”

Debbie didn’t need the doctor. Her world spun back into darkness. She lost all feeling. Her remaining thoughts were of Bob. Good thoughts. Pleasant memories. No better way to end the horrific day and get a good night’s sleep.

Chapter 63              No Way Out

Debbie Elaine Stevens folded her arms on the table, leaned in, and buried her head. Although she’d only been in the office a few minutes, she already hated the place.

Debbie closed her eyes. Darkness was not only her friend, but a place of comfort away from her sorrow where she could hide from the violent events of the previous month, if only for a few moments.

Heavy narcotics helped alleviate the pain from her broken right leg, various cracked ribs, a major concussion, and second degree burns. Though she was able to endure the continuous and agonizing misery from her physical injuries, the OxyContin could not dull the heartache due to the loss of those closest to her. Escape, even for a few brief moments, seemed her best alternative.

Robert Jeremy Stevens, her husband and one true soul mate, was gone from her life at the young age of twenty-six. Her self-worth had plummeted like a thermometer in post-midnight Antarctica. She would never again see Grandma and Grandpa Dempsey. Even her parents had refused to show for the legal discussion that would determine the course for the rest of her life.

Debbie raised her head and looked around the refined yet stale boardroom. Although the ceiling loomed twelve feet over her, she felt like it and everything above was about to cave in. Just like her last thoughts of a burning Murcat Manor crashing down and destroying her aspirations of a happy and fulfilled life.

In front of her, the rectangular table with thirty high-back, black leather chairs stretched across the room. On the far end, her legal team conferred. Voices talked over each other in hushed whispers. But the acoustics in this room were incredible. She could hear each word her counsel spoke.

The group of five individuals stopped talking and stared at her. Debbie wondered if they thought she was too stupid to understand their esoteric discussion, or if it was the meds messing with her mind. Was Kenneth Wilson laughing at her, or simply smiling?

The side effects of the pain-killers impaired her mental and emotional functions. To try and focus was too much work. She had to trust Wilson, and decided to let their words blend together and float off somewhere. Where? She cared not.

Debbie nervously rubbed her hands across the rich, stylish table. It was polished to where she could see her reflection as if looking in a mirror. The prominence of the centerpiece reminded her of the custom oak kitchen table in Murcat Manor.

A fond memory assuaged her beleaguered head of how that nice man, DeShawn Hill, had custom made it especially for her. It wasn’t polished like this table. She couldn’t use it as a mirror, but it was the central gathering place where she’d prepared over sixty meals a day.

Ah, my dream kitchen, Debbie reminisced. My happy place, full of life and laughter where I made countless new friends. People guffawed and drank wine, forgetting about their problems if only for a few days. My kingdom where I ruled supreme and felt most fulfilled. Bob and I spent more time at that table than anywhere else in the bed and breakfast.

But this boardroom, it was cold and sterile. The walls were off-white. Missing were windows opening to the great outdoors, allowing the outside to enter the drab and dreary place.

There were no pictures adorning the walls such as rustic barns from local artists, or western horizon sunsets, or hunters shooting mallard ducks. No mirrors. And the overhead lights, why were they so bright? And did they have to buzz so loud?

A chill ran up and down Debbie’s back. The air conditioning was set too high. She shivered as she crisscrossed her arms and covered her shoulders with her hands.

Beyond the glass walls stood a long white hallway that seemed to extend forever in both directions. She had known doctors’ offices and hospitals with that gross smelly sanitary smell to have more life.

Worse, Debbie thought, and this was the real ass-kicker; she was not only back in Grand Rapids but was in the very same downtown high rise office building she swore last year to never again enter.

American Credit Services and Bernie Butthead, errrrr, Bernie Mortenson, was four stories below. Ugh. Debbie’s stomach turned as she thought of her former manager so physically close to her. Thank God they had not run into each other on the elevator ride.

Life’s a funny thing when you go through a full circle phase.

Debbie though, she would treat her former boss with dignity, giving Bob respect—he’d always insisted she do so. But she would draw the line at calling him Mr. Mortenson. A chuckle escaped at the thought of calling him Bernie Butthead to his face.

“Mrs. Stevens. Are you still with us? Is there something humorous you’d like to share?”

Debbie lifted her head. “No. It’s nothing. Really. Just the pain-killers making me light-headed. That’s all. Heh heh.”

Kenneth Wilson was an imposing figure. Not only because he was tall and well built. He had a stately appearance that was dignified and elegant. When he walked into a room, or rose to speak, his presence commanded attention.

Straighten up girl and pay attention Debbie told herself. Right now, this is the only family you have. Your salvation rests in their hands. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life in an orange jumpsuit rotting away in prison.

Wilson gave Debbie a soft warm smile. He walked across the room to her, his team in tow. Four attorneys each wearing designer suits that cost more than what many people made in a month. One legal secretary rounded out his group. Debbie guessed TJ Maxx for her.

“Mrs. Stevens,” Wilson began. “I understand events at Murcat Manor last month have been traumatic, to say the least. You’ve lost your husband and your grandparents. Now, you’ve been charged with fifteen murders. To the outside world, your situation may look bleak. But, I can say with complete confidence, you can trust me and the legal team I’ve assembled.”

Behind him stood what appeared to be a formidable group. Debbie was glad they were on her side. She felt her worries and depression lift as Wilson’s confidence melted away some of her fears.

Wilson turned to his affiliates and presented them proudly. “I assure you, these are some of the best at their craft. Please allow me to introduce Ethan Kennedy. He’s an experienced and respected criminal defense attorney and twice has been Defense Counsel of the Year.

“Mr. Kennedy is a natural born negotiator who can craft deals most attorneys can only dream of. He’s well liked, and he’s a fan of the media. Like myself, Mr. Kennedy holds a lot of press conferences. He loves the camera and the camera loves him.”

Debbie recognized Kennedy from various news television stories. She liked the man right away. He oozed competence, determination, and tenacity.

But the words ‘negotiator’ and ‘craft deals’ were unexpected.

Debbie looked back and forth between her counsels. “I’m sorry. Did you say something about negotiating a deal? I thought we were going to trial? Should be a slam dunk. Right? I didn’t kill anyone.”

Ethan Kennedy bent down to greet her properly, shaking her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Stevens. Like Kenneth stated, he’s assembled the best team possible. I’m grateful to be here working on your behalf. We’re here for you.”

Kennedy stepped back and Wilson continued. “This is Emma Stanley. She has a reputation as one of the best high stakes attorneys in the Midwest. She’s won many high profile cases, including sports personalities, political figures, and very wealthy people.”

Debbie felt better with a female in Wilson’s circle. An immediate bond of trust was formed without a word spoken. Debbie sat straight up when Wilson said she’d won high profile cases. Fifteen deaths in a bed and breakfast? It didn’t get any higher profile than this.

“Finally, we have Logan Thomas. He’s a former prosecutor and forensics expert. His main job will be to twofold; establish that you did not start the fires that burned down Murcat Manor, and prove you didn’t kill anyone, especially your husband.”

Wilson paused to take a breath and consider his next words. This scared Debbie. Pauses were generally a prelude to ‘but’.

“But, in all honestly, Logan Thomas is the backup plan in case we do go to trial.”

Backup plan?
What the hell is Wilson talking about?

Wilson drew another measured breath. “Now I know we discussed going to trial. But I honestly believe, with the advice from Mr. Kennedy and Miss Stanley, we’ll have to move in a different direction. In all probability, if we do go to trial, you won’t receive a not guilty verdict. In which case, you would spend the rest of your life behind bars without the possibility of parole. Michigan does not have the death penalty.”

Debbie glanced back and forth at the five sets of eyes staring back. “Wait. I don’t understand. A different direction than going to trial? What do you mean?”

Wilson continued. “It’s my duty, as your council, to advise you what your options are and what we believe is the best path to take. Now, after hearing everything, both from you and from what we know of Darrowby and the prosecutor, here’s what we’re up against.

“Debbie, you are officially charged with fifteen murders—DeShawn Hill, Patrick and Marian Allen, Paul Knudson, Reginald and Sophia Johnson, Maria Rodriguez, Joseph Meicigama, Eddie and Alison Brady who lived next door to you, your grandparents, Raymond Hettinger, Sergeant Detective David Kowalski, and your husband Bob Stevens.”

Debbie tried not to break down.
Those damned cats.
They haunted her even after their demise.

“Darrowby swears he saw you lock your husband in basement, then set Murcat Manor on fire and causing two gas explosions. While he tried to free Bob, you stabbed Kowalski in the back with a knife.”

Just the name Darrowby caused Debbie to shoot up from her chair. The pain in her broken leg, still in a cast, was indescribable and she almost fainted and fell. Emma Stanley was quick to grab her and help her sit back in the chair.

Debbie reached in her purse, fumbled with her pain killers, and took two with a drink of water. “That’s a bald-faced lie. That Darrowby, he’s a stinking liar. He killed my Bob. He’s the murderer. Not me. He should be on trial for his life.”

Wilson stood his ground with his hands locked behind his back. “Mrs. Stevens, please calm down. It’s his word, a decorated and respected detective, against yours. And that’ll go a long way with a jury.”

Ethan Kennedy put documents he was reading back into a folder and leaned into the table. “Darrowby stated in his reports he personally witnessed you murder Detective Kowalski with a ten inch butcher’s knife. Fire investigators who recovered his body found the knife in his back, exactly as Darrowby described.”

Darrowby again, making life a living hell for Debbie.

“Making matters worse, you had an empty flask of whiskey in your back pocket with the words
Old Faithful
engraved in the leather covering. Your blood alcohol was twice the legal limit for driving, regardless you were at home. This is not good for you in the eyes of a jury.”

Ethan Kennedy picked up a second folder and opened it. “It doesn’t help Raymond Hettinger was also found with eleven knives in his backside in the kitchen where Darrowby found you.”

Debbie looked back and forth at the attorneys. No one spoke. In Kennedy’s eyes, she was the only one who could have stuck all those knives in Hettinger. She picked up on the other attorneys shuddering, and understood they came to the same conclusion.

“And Debbie, your grandparents also died there. Darrowby swore he saw Ross with a crushed skull. Erma was burned horribly, beyond recognition. When he entered, he found you walking through the kitchen with a shotgun. You also had an automatic handgun, a knife strapped to your ankle, and a dagger in your belt.”

Debbie looked down on her reflection in the table again. It was as if she was on trial and her defense was the prosecution. She felt hope slipping away.

“Yes, that’s true,” she murmured.

Kenneth Wilson stood and paced the floor. “Okay, here it is. Darrowby’s sworn testimony is going to be difficult if not impossible to beat in court. We have two options. Go to trial and go for a not guilty verdict, which is highly unlikely. Or—”

Another measured breath. Debbie hated those.

“We go for an insanity defense.”

Debbie tried to interrupt. But she couldn’t find the words. Maybe, she thought, because she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Emma Stanley sat next to her. She knew Wilson’s legal team had rehearsed this. All she could do was try to stand again and protest.

This time, Emma Stanley was ready and coaxed Debbie back down. Her stare penetrated. “Honestly, your only real hope is the latter.”

Debbie waved her hands in front of her, as if this would clear the madness from the air. “No. Stop. I’m not crazy. Darrowby, he’s the real killer of my husband. Him, and those damned cats.”

Debbie cut herself off. Her eyes bulged as she slapped her hands over her mouth, as if she could pull the words back.

Wilson smirked and stepped away from the table. “Exactly.”

He resumed his pacing. “There are two options we can pursue. We can go for cognitive insanity. Basically, this means you were impaired by a mental disease and you did not know the act was wrong.”

He stuck his finger in the air for effect, as if he were in front of a jury. “But, I don’t think that will work. You would need to establish you had a long history of mental illness. And you do not have any history whatsoever. At least,” he said with a sigh, “leading up to the opening of Murcat Manor.”