Grand Avenue (49 page)

“In what way was she loving?” Vicki asked.

Chris hesitated. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Did you ever see her stroke her daughter’s hair?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever see her kiss her daughter?”

“Of course.”

“Hug her?”

“Yes.”

“And how did Tracey respond to her mother’s caresses?”

Chris tried to remember the many times she’d seen Barbara and Tracey together. “There was never any problem, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“You never heard Tracey object?”

“No.”

“Were you shocked when you heard that Tracey had been arrested for her mother’s murder?” Vicki waited for Michael Rose to object, almost smiled when he didn’t.

“I thought there must be some mistake.”

“Were you shocked to learn that Tracey had confessed?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Chris repeated.

“Why were you shocked?”

“I’m not sure how to answer that.”

“Were you shocked because you couldn’t imagine Tracey doing such a horrible thing?” Surely the prosecutor would object to that one, Vicki thought, waiting.

“Objection,” Michael Rose dutifully called from his seat. “The witness’s opinions in this matter are irrelevant.”

“Sustained.”

“Had Tracey ever said or done anything to indicate she was unhappy with her mother or her mother’s recent engagement?”

“No.”

“So, as far as you knew, everything between Barbara and her daughter was fine.”

“Yes.”

“And yet Tracey killed her mother. How can that be?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“Wouldn’t you agree there has to be a damn good reason for a daughter to kill her mother?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained. And watch your language, Counselor.”

“Did Tracey have a bad temper, Mrs. Malarek?” Vicki asked, ignoring both the prosecutor’s objection and the judge’s warning.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“And to your knowledge, had she ever struck her mother before that fatal night?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.”

“And yet, this young girl who was, by all accounts, a model daughter suddenly rose up in the middle of the
night and killed her mother. Does that make sense to you?”

“No,” Chris admitted before the prosecutor had a chance to object. “Nothing about what happened that night makes any sense.”

Vicki took a long, deep breath. It’s now or never, she thought. She took another breath, then pushed the next question from her mouth. “Were you and Barbara Azinger ever lovers?” she asked, listening as a series of hushed whispers somersaulted across the courtroom floor.

“What!” Chris’s face had turned a ghostly white.

Michael Rose was on his feet, storming toward the judge’s bench. “Objection, Your Honor!”

“Your Honor,” Vicki countered, already at Michael’s side, “we’ve heard testimony that the victim was a normal woman with normal sexual appetites. The district attorney didn’t object then. I think I should be allowed to show proof that Barbara Azinger was not always what she led others to believe, and that included the range of her sexual proclivities.”

“She’s right, Counselor,” the judge told a dejected Michael Rose. “I’m going to allow the question.”

“Were you and Barbara Azinger ever lovers?” Vicki repeated immediately.

“No!” Chris said.

“I remind you, Mrs. Malarek, that you’re under oath.”

“I don’t need to be reminded.”

“Objection, Your Honor. The witness has answered the question.”

“Sustained.”

“Are you married, Mrs. Malarek?” Vicki asked, quickly shifting gears.

Chris looked as if she were about to tumble from the witness stand, her eyes darting around the courtroom, stopping on her ex-husband. “Divorced,” she whispered as Tony smiled, leaned forward in his seat.

“Sorry,” Vicki said. “I didn’t hear you.”

“I’m divorced.”

“You left your husband when exactly?”

“A little over two years ago.”

“Could you describe for this court what happened the night you left your husband?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Michael Rose sneered. “Relevance?”

“I believe I can show relevance in due course,” Vicki stated.

“Hurry up,” the judge instructed.

“On the night you left your husband, you went to Barbara Azinger’s house, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, you showed up in your underwear, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, but that was because Tony had locked me out of the house.”

“So you went back to Grand Avenue, to see Barbara Azinger.”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“What time was this? Nine o’clock? Ten?”

“It was around midnight.”

“So you showed up at Barbara’s house around midnight in your underwear,” Vicki recited. “What happened then?”

Chris shook her head, as if reluctant to recall the details of that night. “I don’t remember exactly.”

“You don’t remember?” Vicki asked incredulously.

“I think Tracey made me some tea.”

“And Barbara poured you a bath?”

“I was freezing cold. She was trying to make me warm.”

“Is that why she invited you into her bed? To make you warm?”

“Objection!”

“Where did you sleep that night?” Vicki asked instead.

“In Barbara’s bed.”

“Alone?”

“No.”

“Barbara slept there too?” “Yes. But nothing happened.”

“You didn’t kiss?”

“What?”

“Did you and Mrs. Azinger share a kiss?”

Chris looked helplessly around the room, as if she couldn’t believe the words coming out of her friend’s mouth. “Why are you doing this?”

“Could Your Honor direct the witness to answer the question?” Vicki turned away from her friend. She already knew the answer. Tracey had seen the two women together, then run back to her bed and pretended to be asleep when her mother had come to check on her moments later. What would she do if Chris denied it?

“We kissed, but …”

“On the lips?”

“Yes.”

“Was it the kind of kiss you normally exchange with a friend?”

Chris said nothing. Tears filled her eyes, ran down her cheeks.

“Mrs. Malarek, was it the kind of kiss one normally exchanges with a friend?”

“No.”

“What kind of kiss was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“A lover’s kiss?”

“Yes,” Chris said softly, as Michael Rose buried his head in his hands. “But nothing happened. We kissed. That was all.”

“Are you gay, Mrs. Malarek?”

“Objection, Your Honor. What possible relevance could this have? The witness is not on trial.”

“Your Honor, it is our assertion that Barbara Azinger and Chris Malarek were engaged in a lesbian affair,” Vicki countered, “which would prove that Tracey’s mother was not averse to having sex with a woman. The witness’s sexuality is very much an issue.”

“I’ll allow it,” the judge ruled after obvious thought.

“I have three children,” Chris whispered.

“Are you gay?” Vicki repeated, hating the sound of her own voice.

“Please don’t do this.”

“A young woman’s life is on the line.”

“So is mine,” Chris said softly.

Judge Fitzhenry leaned forward, directed the witness to answer the question.

Chris closed her eyes, released a delicate trickle of
air from her lungs. She sat this way for several long seconds as Vicki wondered again what she would do should Chris deny the allegation. Could she actually confront her with the findings of the private detective she’d had shadowing Chris for weeks, the photographic proof of her ongoing affair with a woman in her office? Please don’t make me do that to you, Vicki urged silently, feeling Susan’s fiery contempt burning a hole into the back of her dark blue cashmere jacket, hearing Tony’s malignant chuckle metastasizing its way through the courtroom.

“Are you gay, Mrs. Malarek? Yes or no?”

Chris opened her eyes, a look of calm settling across her heart-shaped face, as if she’d finally made peace with who she was, as if she were through running scared. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice steady and strong. “Yes, I am.”

V
icki,” her secretary informed her over the intercom. “That was the courthouse. The jury’s back.”

“What? That’s impossible.” Vicki checked her watch. “It’s been less than three hours!”

It was too soon. It was
way
too soon, Vicki thought, grabbing her coat and rushing for the parking lot. After a trial lasting the better part of five weeks, it was inconceivable the jury could have reached a verdict in less than three hours. What did it mean?

“Is it good they’re back this fast?” Tracey asked as they resumed their seats in the courtroom.

Vicki lifted her hands into the air. Your guess is as good as mine, the gesture said. Jury trials were always a crapshoot. You could never predict what a jury was going to do, no matter how many experts you hired, no matter how carefully you researched the jury pool. Juries created their own dynamic, their own logic, their own rules. It was impossible to second-guess them. It was useless to try.

Just as it was useless trying to predict a verdict by the length of time the jury took to reach it. Some juries were slow and methodical, reviewing each piece of evidence before casting their votes; others were quick and decisive. Some were so impatient, they voted as soon as they reached the jury room. Why waste time reviewing the evidence when everyone was already in agreement? Five weeks was long enough. Let’s get this show on the road and get the hell out of here.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached your verdict?” Judge Fitzhenry inquired, sounding surprised by the question, as if he too hadn’t expected to be back in court so soon after his final instructions.

“We have, Your Honor,” the middle-aged man who was the jury foreman answered.

Vicki held her breath as she and Tracey rose to face the jury. This was it. Another few seconds and it would all be over. Ditto her friendship with the two women whose love and support had sustained her for fourteen years.

Perhaps in time Susan and Chris might have forgiven her for defending Tracey. They might have come to understand that she’d done it as much for Barbara as for herself. But her cross-examination of Chris had gone too far. She’d stepped over the line, used the shared intimacies of their friendship as a weapon, inflicted more damage in an hour than Tony had managed in a decade. Hell, Tony was an amateur compared to her.

No, Susan and Chris would never forgive her. Whether she’d ever forgive herself would depend largely on the verdict.

The jury foreman looked directly at the judge. “We find the defendant …”

He looks so serious, Vicki thought. And he’s not looking at Tracey. None of the jurors were looking at Tracey, which wasn’t a good sign. I’m sorry, Tracey, she apologized silently. I’m sorry, Barbara. Please forgive me.

“…  not guilty.”

“Oh, my God,” whispered Vicki, her knees buckling.

“Oh, my God,” Tracey squealed as the courtroom erupted. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” She threw herself into Vicki’s disbelieving arms. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

And suddenly lights were exploding in Vicki’s eyes as cameras clicked and reporters thrust microphones at her mouth, waved notepads and pencils in her face. Spectators were shouting their congratulations at her from all directions as Michael Rose pushed angrily past her into the corridor, the word
bitch
dropping from his tongue like acid, searing her soul.
Sore loser
, Vicki almost shouted after him, but laughed instead, knowing the sound of her laughter would be far more corrosive. She watched Ron approach his daughter, carefully wrap Tracey in his arms, although his young wife hung back, a look of discomfort haunting her unlined face. Tracey thanked each member of the jury. “Good luck to you, dear,” Vicki heard several of the jurors murmur.

“Thank you,” Tracey repeated again and again, as convincing in victory as she’d been on the witness stand. “Thank you so much.”

It took over an hour for Vicki to pull herself away from the assorted members of the media and get back to her office, where she received an impromptu round of applause from her partners and colleagues.

“Bravo!” her secretary chirped, leaving her desk to offer a congratulatory hug.

Vicki found the display unsettling. Maybe she was just tired. Definitely grumpy. Which was strange because she normally felt so elated after a victory. Especially a victory of this magnitude, unquestionably the biggest of her career. A muted “Thanks” was all she was able to muster for the excited throng gathered outside her office door.

“Your husband called to congratulate you,” her secretary said after everyone had left. “He said to tell you he’s tied up in a meeting, but he’ll see you later.”

Vicki nodded, pretending to brush some hairs away from her forehead in an effort to mask the disappointment she felt creeping into her eyes. Surely she wasn’t about to cry! Good God, she
must
be tired! Still, it would have been nice to share her triumph with somebody other than the hired help. If not Jeremy, then with Susan or Chris. Or Barbara, Vicki thought, entering her office and collapsing into the massive chair behind her desk, for the first time in months fleshing out the person behind the name, allowing thoughts of her murdered friend to fill her mind. Images of Barbara marched before her eyes. Still wearing those damn three-inch heels, Vicki thought with a smile. “I know you understand,” she whispered into her hands as tears rolled down her cheeks and into the corners of her mouth. And then, suddenly, all the phones were ringing at once.

“Are you here?” her secretary called out.

“No,” Vicki called back, impatiently wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Take messages.”

“What’s the matter?” a voice asked from the doorway. “Not in the mood to celebrate?”

Vicki didn’t have to look up to know whose voice it was. “Susan,” she acknowledged, her voice as flat as a deflated tire. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I heard the news on the radio. Thought I’d take a chance you’d be here.”

“I take it you didn’t come to congratulate me.”