Sidetracked-Kobo (12 page)

She looked over her shoulder and spotted her Aunt Nicky. The woman nodded at her. Laura gave her a small smile. Was she like Laura’s dad now, believing Laura was guilty? Other neighbors and friends of her mom were also there. And a couple people Laura didn’t know, scribbling on notepads.

“Who are they?” Laura asked Devlon.

“Reporters.”

Reporters?
She stared at them, wide-eyed. Why would they be here? Was her name being put in the newspapers? None of her friends had mentioned that. Did they just not want to tell her?

Laura hunched her shoulders. She didn’t want to be watched like a hawk. Written about. Especially in the first few days of the trial, when the prosecution called all their witnesses and tried to make her look as bad as possible.

“Look.” Devlon patted her arm. “They’ll be here when you get to testify, too. Don’t you want your own story out there?”

It was little comfort. She focused on the table, feeling the burn of eyes on her.

Court began. Laura’s breathing hitched. She’d dreamed about this for weeks. How she’d have to sit through the bad stuff. But then she’d get to tell her side. And even during the prosecution’s part, Devlon told her, he’d be questioning their witnesses. Trying to make their “ironclad evidence” look not quite so ironclad. He’d told her to be positive. He thought they had a really good chance of getting an acquittal. Especially with her testimony, which they’d practiced over and over. Devlon had said she’d be good on the stand.

Why wouldn’t she be “good?” She would just tell the truth.

The prosecutor, Larry Cantor, was different than the man she’d seen at her arraignment. This one was short and round—the exact opposite of the judge. He had white hair and a red face. Big jowls that shook when he talked.

Laura hated him.

Cantor called Laura’s dad to the stand. She tensed. Devlon patted her arm again.

Just before her dad swore to tell the truth, he shot her a glance. No smile. He’d lost weight. Looked way more fit. Younger. With a tan and new hair cut.

How
dare
he look all happy?

Almost like his life had never been so good. While she’d rotted away in a tiny cell. His life probably
was
great. Especially after what Devlon told Laura. Her father had inherited
all
of her mother’s money. The part that had supposed to go to her? All given to him. Since she’d supposedly killed her mother, the law said she couldn’t benefit from the inheritance. Something about a “clean hands doctrine.” Oh yeah, hers were so dirty. So now, even with an acquittal, she’d have to fight her own father to get her money back—not that she would. Besides, what if there wasn’t any left? What if he’d spent it all on his girlfriend?

Laura’s breathing went hard and shallow. But she was not going to let her father see how much he’d hurt her. She closed her eyes and forced the emotions down.

The prosecutor jumped right in with his questioning. As promised, he asked her father about all the arguments between his wife and daughter. How Laura had acted. What she’d said. The more her dad talked, the worse she sounded. Laura hung her head. She hadn’t really been that bad to her mom, had she? Didn’t all teenage girls fight with their mothers?

Then Cantor asked about the last fight they’d had—starting two days before Laura’s mom was killed. Her dad testified that it was worse than the others. Laura had seemed madder than before. More “volatile.” And then there were the ill-fated words she’d sobbed into her father’s chest out on the lawn after her mom was killed. “I didn’t mean it.”

Cantor repeated the words for effect. “What did she mean by that?”

“Objection, calls for speculation.” Devlon’s voice sounded impatient, as if Cantor knew he couldn’t get away with such a question.

The judge didn’t need to think about it. “Sustained.”

Laura kept her eyes on her father. If he’d been allowed to answer, what would he have said? He wouldn’t look at her again—not so much as a glance. Her lungs began to burn. Did she hate him? Or love him? Or both? She wanted to scream at him for his betrayal. But she couldn’t lose him forever. Hadn’t she lost enough? Somehow she had to win her father back. She’d show him. And she’d forgive him for turning on her. He was still grieving, that was all. Not thinking clearly.

But a tiny voice inside Laura said,
“Does he look like he’s grieving? After finding a girlfriend so fast?”

When Cantor was finally through with her father, Devlon rose to question him. A flicker of … something … passed across her father’s face.

“Tell me.” Devlon stood with hands clasped behind his back. “In all the arguments your daughter had with her mother, did she ever get violent?”

“No.” Her father shook his head.

“Ever hit her mother?”

“No.”

“Threaten her in any way?”

“No.”

“How about at school? Was Laura ever in trouble?”

“No.”

“Did she ever show any violent tendencies toward her friends?”

“Not that I know of.”

“So … this was a girl with absolutely no history of violence, as far as you know.”

“That’s right.”

“Hmm.” Devlon paced a few steps. “And that last argument you spoke of between Laura and her mother. You said they made up the day before your wife was killed?”

“Yes. Laura apologized.”

“Did she show any signs of anger toward her mother after that?”

“No. It appeared the argument was over.”

“When you saw Laura the next morning—the day of your wife’s death—did she display any signs of anger then?”

“No.”

“Did you think everything was all right between them?”

“Yes.”

What was her father thinking as he answered these questions? Was he glad the answers helped her case?

Devlon switched to a new line of questioning. “Are you dating someone now, Mr. Denton?”

Whoa. Laura didn’t know her attorney would do that.

Cantor objected. The issue was “beyond the scope” of his direct. Devlon shot back that Cantor had “opened the door” through some of his questions. The judge called both men up to the bench, where they argued in heated but low tones. Finally Judge Myers allowed the testimony. Cantor did not look happy. Neither did Laura’s father.

Devlon again asked the question.

“Yes.” Her dad shifted in his seat.

Devlon asked for the woman’s name and what she did for a living. Laura’s dad had to answer.

Her lawyer raised his eyebrows. “I see. On the San Mateo police force. How long has she served in that capacity?”

“Five years.”

“And when did you meet Miss Fulder?”

Laura’s dad looked down. “About two months after my wife was killed.”

“Two months.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t know her before that?”

“No.”

“Where is Miss Fulder living at this time?”

“At my house.”

Laura froze. Tina was living
in her house?
Sure, Laura’s friends had seen her there, but Laura had just assumed she came over a lot. She
lived there?
What could her father be thinking? What was supposed to happen when Laura got home? Like she was just going to accept this
cop
in her life?

Laura stared at her hands, seeing their cracked and dry skin. One of the many reminders of how hard her life had become. No fancy creams in juvey. Nothing soothing at all. When she got home she wanted everything to be as comforting as possible. It would be hard enough with her mother gone. No other woman was going to take her mom’s place. Tina Fulder was moving
out.

Devlon kept her dad on the stand for another hour or so. After awhile Laura tuned out. She just couldn’t listen to her father’s voice anymore. It hurt too much. By the time he was done testifying, every muscle in Laura’s body felt like stone. This was only the first day. How was she going to get through an entire week of this?

Her father took a seat in the courtroom. Laura could feel his eyes on her back. She couldn’t help but picture him going home to Tina. What they would talk about. How he would describe his day.

She hated Tina Fulder.

Before Laura could take a breath, Cantor summoned the woman who’d answered her 9-1-1 call to testify. Soon he was playing a tape of the call in court. Laura heard her own voice, screaming, crying. Begging for help. She squeezed her eyes shut and lowered her head. The sounds were like a knife in her heart. They brought back all the memories, fresh and raw. She could see herself in her mom’s bedroom, feel the bang of her heart, smell the blood …

The tape ended. Laura’s face was wet with tears, and she trembled in her seat. Judge Myers asked if she needed a recess. She shook her head. If she stopped the trial every time she felt bad, they’d never get done.

“Are you sure?”

She took deep breaths—and nodded.

“Okay.” The judge motioned to Cantor. “Proceed.”

Next up began the series of cops and paramedics who’d come to the house. What they’d seen, what they’d done. More reminders of the chaos. The nightmare. Laura pressed her mind deep inside itself. Maybe if she just didn’t listen …

When lunch break came, she didn’t want to eat.

By mid afternoon Laura felt sick. She couldn’t take any more of this. But the day was about to get worse. Cantor called Detective Standish. Her lawyer had warned her that the detective may testify for a long time—a day or more. Laura hadn’t seen him since she’d been arrested. The very sight of him made her stomach turn over.

The detective sat on the stand like he owned it, looking all factual and perfect. Answered questions like he had all the answers. Didn’t take long for Cantor to ask him about the words she’d said to her dad all those months ago.
“I didn’t mean it.”
Yes, the detective verified he’d heard those words too.

Well, good for him. Clearly the man could read Laura’s mind. Sure enough, those words had to mean she was a cold-blooded murderer, and then was sorry about killing her mother when it was too late.

The prosecutor moved on to questions about what Detective Standish had found at the scene of the crime. A pair of Laura’s shoes with blood on them. The green shoes were brought out for everyone to peer at. The bloodied hammer with Laura’s fingerprints. Everybody in court got to see that too. And on and on. The prosecutor made it sound like
everything
about Laura’s life pointed to the fact that she killed her mom. By the time the day was done, Laura had to admit, if she’d been sitting in the courtroom listening, she’d have believed that, too.

She left the courtroom on weak legs. On the drive back to juvey, she didn’t even look out the window. She could only stare at her lap and cry. And first thing tomorrow morning she’d get to listen to more of Detective Standish.

She would never survive the rest of the trial.

Laura’s trial dragged on. Detective Standish’s testimony covered every minute they’d spent together in her two interrogations. Turned out that little camera in the top corner of the room had taped it all. She got to watch herself on a monitor, knowing everyone else in the courtroom was gawking as well. She saw her scared face, her tears, the denials. Couldn’t everyone see she was telling the truth? Did they really think she was that good at lying?

She stole long glances at the judge, wondering what he was thinking.

The prosecutor was finally through questioning Detective Standish in the afternoon of the second day. By then Laura’s insides had frozen over. She didn’t know if she couldn’t feel or just didn’t care anymore. Every minute that ticked away had made her look worse. How could her attorney ever turn things around?

Devlon rose to cross examine, bristling with energy.

He took Detective Standish back to the afternoon of the murder. He’d found blood spatter on the shoes hidden in Laura’s closet, correct? Had he noted any blood spatter on Laura herself? Her long-sleeved T-shirt? Her pants?

“She had quite a lot of blood smeared on her hands and shirt,” the detective replied.

“I’m not talking about smears. Those she could have gotten from finding her mother on the floor and turning her over, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Blood spatter is different. In your testimony you noted that it occurs at the time of attack. You found it very significant that spatter was on the shoes. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you find blood spatter anywhere else on Miss Denton’s person?”

“No.”

“Really? Not anywhere?”

“No.”

Devlon paused, as if surprised. “Didn’t you find that significant?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t always figure where blood spatter will go.”

“I see. So are you saying in this case the spatter went downward only? To the shoes?”

“I … no, I can’t say that.”

“You testified you saw spatter on the walls by the bed, did you not? Both the wall that the headboard was up against, and the side wall that ran parallel to Mrs. Denton’s body?”

“Yes.”

“So it did go upward as well as down.”

“Apparently so.”

“I see. If it went upward, and Miss Denton had been present at the time of the attack, wouldn’t it have gotten on her clothes as well?”

“Depends on where she was standing.”

“There was only one place
to
stand, wasn’t there? In the three feet of space between where Mrs. Denton fell and that side wall?”

“Yes, but exactly where in that space? The defendant could have been near Mrs. Denton’s head or more at her waist level.”

Devlon consulted his notes, then launched into a series of questions that came harder and faster. Hadn’t the detective testified that the blood spatter on the side wall was found from the corner to eighteen inches out, then stopped, then started up again at thirty-eight inches from the corner? So there was a blank space of twenty inches? Why would that be? Wasn’t it safe to surmise that’s where the perpetrator had been standing? What else could have possibly blocked that spatter? And if that was the case, the spatter would have gotten on the person’s clothes, wouldn’t it? Is that not what the law of physics would require? Had the detective ever known blood to bend around nothing, going in two directions of its own accord? Yet there was no spatter on Laura’s clothes, only her shoes, was there? Did the detective have any explanation for that?