The Best Defense (3 page)

“I’ll have to think about it. Dad.”

“Of course.” He looked past her then and said in a low voice, “Going out there was the best thing I did after your mother died. I needed the solitude, I guess. It was good for me for a long time. Then, after you left, it was different. I kept listening for your steps, kept listening for the car to drive in. I knew you couldn’t stay, but, Bobby, God, I’ve missed you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, no. I didn’t mean to lay it on you, honey. It’s my problem, I know that. And I think I’ve solved it.

You want a brandy?”

What had she said at the time, just six months ago?

A lifetime ago. What she had said was that she couldn’t stay, she had to move, and he had said simply, I know.

And he had known, had understood. No arguments, no trying to persuade her to remain. He had understood.

What she had not said was that she couldn’t look at the river; she was afraid she would see Mike’s body being tumbled in the current; she was afraid she would see his body washed up on shore, tangled in the undergrowth.

No brandy, she said firmly, and he said none for him either, and soon they left the restaurant and he drove her home.

“Almost forgot,” he said.

“We had a conference down at the office today. You’re still a member of the firm, you know.”

“And will be as long as you’re second on the list of partners,” she said lightly.

“Damn right. But there’s an interesting case at hand.

Young playwright in town here claims one of the big studios stole his material. Maybe they did. Someone’s going to be doing some fancy traveling on this one.

New York, Hollywood. Meet some pretty interesting people along the way.” He stopped at her house.

“Should be an exciting” case, probably won’t go to trial, but you never know.”

She laughed.

“Good night. Dad. Thanks for dinner.”

“They pay you anything, those folks who drop in at the restaurant?”

“Some do, some don’t. I’m okay. Dad. Don’t worry.

You want to stay over?”

“And sleep on the floor?” He didn’t hide his incredulity.

“I’m at the Hilton tonight, tomorrow night.” He walked to the door with her and then left.

Actually it was a futon, and she had grown rather fond of it. And yes, her clients paid her, when they could. Fifty dollars here, twenty there, free dinners, all the coffee she could drink. She stood in the doorway to her bedroom and surveyed it critically. Books on raw wood shelves supported by bricks that she had found in a heap in the backyard. More books in stacks on the floor. Several towels draped over a straight chair, over lapping too much to finish drying she should put up a clothesline out back. Yesterday’s clothes on the futon, some to be laundered, some to be folded and put away.

She was a pig, she had to admit, but on the other hand this house had no room to put anything. Four rooms and a bath. One closet. Period.

She went into the small living room that held only a couch, one chair, two lamps, more shelves, more books,” a tape player, and a special rack for cassettes. More than she needed, she told herself. She could sit in one chair at a time, read one book at a time, hear one cassette at a time. She sank down into the chair.

He was lonely. Of course. But he had brought it all back, and she had been so sure that her grief had passed over into acceptance finally. Wrong, Barbara, she told herself mockingly. Abruptly she jerked up out of the chair and crossed the room to check the door, knowing as she did that it was locked, that this was a meaning less motion. She made herself go to the kitchen, to get a drink of water, to turn off the lights and get ready for bed, and again it was meaningless. It would be hours before she was ready for bed; the twilight of dawn might be lightening her room before she drifted into sleep. She had refused the oblivion of sleeping pills months ago. She had been afraid to give up her grief. If she didn’t feel that, what would she feel, she had wondered and the answer had come: nothing.

At the sink, holding a glass of water she did not want, she surveyed the kitchen: ancient electric stove that had two working burners, a table that wobbled, two straight chairs, two and a half feet of counter space, a small refrigerator that dated back to the sixties. And by the back door was the ever-growing stack of newspapers destined for recycling when she remembered to take them out. The house was dingy with age and neglect and she despised it.

Spassero, she thought then, almost in desperation.

Maybe he had made the news in the last month or so.

She picked up a stack of newspapers and put it on the table prepared for a long night. She had found that if she worked, the grief receded; lately she had believed it had changed to something else, but it was there, it was there. She started to go through the papers.

an hour later Barbara had the papers sorted, with sections of local news on the table She was scanning for the name Spassero, but what she found were items concerning Paula Kennel-man. At first she had read the story as it appeared, then had stopped reading about it as each day brought new facts, new revelations, new horrors. The first story, from back in April, was a paragraph or two. It said only that a child had been fatally burned the previous day and her mother injured in a fire that had burned down the house at the Canby Ranch.

The next day a more complete story had appeared. A group of women who were living at the Canby Ranch had gone out to pick chanterelles. One of the children stayed behind. When her mother, Paula Kennerman, returned to check on her, she had found the house in flames, but before she could locate her daughter, a propane tank exploded. The mother was thrown out the front door to the ground; her daughter was fatally burned in the fire. The mother was hospitalized for shock, concussion, minor burns.

The paper went on to describe the Canby Ranch and the generosity of Grace Canby, who had turned the house over to abused women who needed a safe haven 22 temporarily. Pour such women and their children had been living there when the fire occurred.

The next story was a brief report on the funeral of Lori Kenneman, aged six. And the one after that was the last story about the affair that Barbara had read. Lori Kennerman had not died of fire injuries. She had been hit on the side of the head and killed instantly. The fire had been an arson fire. The police were holding Paula Kennerman for questioning; psychiatric examination had been ordered. A public defender, William Spassero, had been assigned by the court to represent Mrs.

Kennerman.

It was after two when Barbara finished reading the newspapers. The usual editorials had appeared: justice must take its course; everyone deserves a fair trial;

baby-killing must stop. The usual people made the usual statements. Paula’s friepds and family, expressing disbelief and bewilderment; her husband, who never had touched her and was stunned by her running off, admit ted that she had turned against him, had been acting funny. Concerning William Spassero she found very little he had done the proforma things: petitioned for a change of venue, denied; petitioned for bail, denied.

And nothing else. There was a picture of him and Paula Kennerman at her arraignment. He was large, blond, baby-faced, and she looked shell-shocked. Not as plump as her sister was the only conclusion about her appearance Barbara could make that and her lack of expression. And Spassero looked as if he should still be studying Composition 101.

Well, what did you expect? she asked herself crossly as she restacked the papers at the back door. This time she left them closer to the threshold. If she stumbled over them a time or two, it might jar her memory enough to get rid of them.

Even as Barbara was finally getting ready for bed, a dozen blocks away a night guard doing a routine check at Lane County Jail spotted a gleaming pool of blood beneath the bed of one of the inmates. The guard summoned help, and then taped pressure bandages to both wrists of the inmate while she waited. They took the patient to the hospital, where a doctor stitched her wrists and debated giving her a transfusion, decided against it.

No one wanted to put blood into anyone these days unless it was absolutely necessary, and Kennerman was holding her own for now. They would keep her overnight for observation and reconsider a transfusion if her condition changed. At the jail, officers searched her cell; she had been alone because of the threats against her. They found the tool, a broken plastic comb that she had sharpened somehow. It had not been very efficient.

She had made a number of attempts, cuts on both arms that had not gone deep enough, but she had persevered.

The next morning Barbara glared at the coffeepot, willing it to be done, then glared even more fiercely at the interior of her tiny refrigerator. Almost barren. A little cheese, two eggs, juice. Some shriveled apples. She didn’t open the crisper, afraid she would find things growing in there. She yanked out the juice. No milk, damn it. She had meant to stop at the store on the way home and her father had made her forget. No milk. After she showered and drank her third cup of black coffee, she went to the room she called her office; she glared again, this time at her answering machine, which was winking at her. The message was from her father:

“Want to see Spassero in action? He’s in court today, about eleven.”

It had been a mistake to come to court, she told herself at five after eleven. Too many people knew her, greeted her, seemed to assume she was working again. Joe Spender down in the jury room had yelled out as she passed him, “It’s about time you got back in harness.

We missed you.” And everyone had turned to gawk, naturally. Now she was seated in the back row of Court Room B watching Bill Spassero do his thing. The case seemed to be about an attempted extortion and malicious vandalism to an apartment building. She paid little attention to the details which were tedious. But already she had learned something.

Spassero was impressive. He was larger than he had appeared in the photo she had seen. Over six feet tall, with more hair than seemed necessary, almost bouffant it was so fluffy-looking, and very blond. He was not fat, just big, as if he pumped iron an hour a day. Everything about him looked expensive, from his clothes, which were as spiffy as her father’s, to the way he held himself, to his voice, which was so mellifluous he sounded rehearsed, except no one would have rehearsed for a piddling case like this one.

Ambitious, her father had said, and she understood exactly. Spassero looked like a young man putting in time enough to get some headlines, to get a lot of trial experience quickly, maybe even make a name for himself in court, and then he would become the golden-haired lad of a prestigious firm, or maybe run for office.

Senator, she thought. He wouldn’t aim for less. He would want the Paula Kennennan case over and done with as swiftly as possible, forgotten as swiftly as possible. Representing a defendant accused of murdering her child would not do him any good at all, even if his office had forced him to take the case. Defending the indefensible left a blot.

So, she told herself, she had seen him in action, and she had made a spot judgment, now what? Nothing followed, and she stood up to leave the courtroom before the lunch recess was called. Spassero glanced her way and nodded, as if to an acquaintance, or even a friend.

She nodded back and left.

She had several things to look up in the records room one of her clients was in a dispute about whose fence it was that kept falling down, and another one believed her grandfather had left a vacant lot to her and two cousins; she wasn’t really certain.

It took longer than it should have, but one client had spelled every name wrong and even had the wrong street, and the other one didn’t own the property in dispute. She was finishing up when she heard her name called; she turned and saw Spassero.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” he said, “but I did want to meet you. It is Ms. Holloway, isn’t it?”

“Yes. And you’re William Spassero. How do you do?” She let him shake her hand and hold it fractionally longer than called for. Close-up inspection did nothing to dispel the boyish image he projected; even his eye brows were blond, and his cheeks were very pink.

“I’ve read about you,” he said with a remarkably charming grin.

“It’s a pleasure, Ms. Holloway.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, and slipped her yellow pad into her briefcase. She glanced around, checking for pens and pencils, then made a motion to leave.

“I was surprised to see you in court,” he said.

“You have an interest in that extortion case?”

“None whatever. Just passing by and thought I’d have a look to see if anything’s changed. It hasn’t.”

He shrugged a little, grinned again, and then became very serious and sincere.

“Lucille Reiner called me this morning, after she saw Paula. She said she talked to you. I guess she wanted you to check me out.”

Barbara regarded him for a moment. He looked as open as a schoolboy denying to a big sister that he had taken her jelly beans.

“I talked to her yesterday,” she said.

“She was confused about what a public defender is, what he does.”

“You heard the news about Paula, I guess,” he said.

“On the radio? Television? It wasn’t in the papers yet.”

She shook her head.

“She tried to kill herself last night, and very nearly did it.”

Barbara could think of nothing to say. She started to walk slowly, and he walked by her side.

“Her sister thinks I’m pushing her, trying to get her to plead. I suggested it as one of her options, that’s all.

Best thing she could do for herself, actually, but if she won’t, she won’t. Now this. Remorse, guilt, this isn’t going to help her.”

“No,” Barbara agreed.

“Have you seen her? Will she be all right?”

“I talked to the doctor, she’ll be okay. They’re keeping her sedated for now. I’ll drop in tomorrow.”

They walked toward the below-the-street tunnel to the parking lot. Many other people were going that way; it was lunchtime.

“Mr. Spassero, have you considered a second evaluation of her mental condition?” she asked finally, keeping her voice neutral and low.