Consequence (16 page)

“Honey,” she said while she stroked Diara’s
hand, “character is who you are when only God is watching. I’m
ashamed to say, I’ve sinned and instead of paying for my crimes, I
ran. Nobody found me. Nobody was watching me. Only God. Now He has
lifted the veil. I must atone.”

Atonement wasn’t only Gran’s prerogative and
there’s no time like the present, Diara thought. She leaned forward
and laid a gentle hand on her father’s shoulder. Startled, Guillame
jerked awake and turned worried eyes to his wife’s bed.

“It’s okay, Dad. It’s me,” she whispered.
“Mom’s sleeping peacefully. I’m going to slip home, grab a shower
and get back over to Gran. You stay here; I’ll take care of
everything.”

Guillame squeezed the small hand still on his
shoulder, then relaxed back into his chair. He looked gratefully at
his daughter, into green eyes, so like his own. “Thank you,” he
said.

She stood, folded the blanket and draped it
on the arm of the chair. She walked to her sleeping mother’s
bedside and stroked her arm. Then, bending over the bed, placed a
light kiss on her forehead. She picked up her handbag and tip toed
towards the open doorway when her father spoke. “Diara,” he said,
his voice catching. “I love you, baby.”

She turned and smiled wide, her perfect teeth
flashing in the gloom of the door, then went back into the room and
threw her arms around his neck. “I love you, too,” she said.
Suddenly, she felt like Daddy’s little girl again.

Diara packed light the night before, and none
of her clothes seemed appropriate for a jailhouse. After taking a
shower at her parent’s house, she pulled on the most casual,
resilient pants she’d brought, a pair of jeans that cost more than
she cared to admit. What she paid could have fed a family of five
for two weeks. She searched through her mother’s closet for a
shirt, layering against the cold Northeast temperatures. The light
blue shirt sported a preppy logo, one popular at the Boston
university where her mother worked. Diara lifted the collar and
inhaled, and the scent of freshly laundered fabric transported her
to her childhood. She remembered the pillows in her old room
smelled the same way, a combination of starch and sunshine. It
brought back one of her favorite memories. Her mother had bought
her a brand-new pair of pajamas, and Diara couldn’t wait to wear
them. But, her mother told her they were for afternoons only, a
ploy to make the rambunctious four-year-old settle for a mid-day
nap. It worked.

She peeked at her wristwatch, noting the
time. She dreaded leaving the house. Regardless of the heartache,
she must respect the vow she made to Ethel.

The drive to the jail took twenty minutes,
but it was sufficient time for her cell phone to charge. She had
many calls to make before the day ended.

At the facility, she once again showed her
identification and signed the clipboard. Instead of meeting with
Ethel in the holding cell, she waited in a lounge filled with small
round tables and chairs. There was one other couple in the room, a
haggard woman and a belligerent man. He held his head in his hands,
rubbing his temples. The woman caught Diara’s eye and turned away,
but not before Diara saw the large purpling bruise encompassing the
side of her face.

A door opened and a female police officer
escorted Ethel to the table. Before Diara could rise, the officer
graciously held the chair and helped the elderly lady sit. She
whispered in Ethel’s ear, then placed a comforting hand on her bony
shoulder. The officer winked at Diara and went to the far side of
the lounge, giving them privacy.

Ethel tilted her head. “That’s Francey
Wilson,” she said. “I taught her and her older brothers in Sunday
school.”

Diara looked over her shoulder at the
officer, slim and straight in her Massachusetts police uniform.
Then she hunched over the table, hands outstretched. When her
grandmother placed her tiny fingers in her grasp, she whispered.
“Granny, are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“I am. And you will help me,” Ethel
commanded, her voice resolute. “Now tell me, how is your
mother?”

Diara sighed deeply, closed her eyes once and
then blinked rapidly to prevent the threatening tears. “She’s going
to be alright. She came through surgery without any problem. Dad
and I talked to her. We spent the night in her room.”

Ethel patted her hand. “Thank the Lord. Now
please, don’t worry about me. They’re treating me well and my room
is quite comfortable.”

Diara grimaced at the word “room.” “You mean,
your cell. They will put you in prison, Granny.”

“Prison is a state of mind,” she said. “I’ve
been in worse places.”

Their discussion the night before rose in
Diara’s mind. She tried to imagine the Irish man, Roy Gaumer, her
biological grandfather, but couldn’t. No trace of him existed in
her mother, Cerise, who resembled Ethel. And Diara’s own face was a
blend of Cerise and Guillame, mocha skin, lush lips, bright green
eyes with flecks of gold, crowned with dramatic dark eyebrows. If
anything of Gaumer existed within her, it would be her hair, an
unruly combination of dark auburn curls with natural gold
highlights. Each day, Diara worked to calm and straighten it, and
was rewarded with a shimmering mane rivaling most shampoo models.
Today, however, she treated it with a curl lock and let it dry
naturally. Ringlets, frozen in their silicon case, rained down her
shoulders.

As if reading her mind, Ethel lifted a
red-gold lock. “I do so love your hair. It’s a glorious crown.”

A door slammed, interrupting their
conversation. The woman in the corner flinched at the abrupt sound.
Ethel noticed her for the first time, her expression stern when she
saw the bruise. Her heated eyes rested on the likely perpetrator,
the hung-over husband. “There’s no call for a man to hit a woman,”
she said. “Your Grandfather, Paul-Henri, God bless his soul, was
the kindest, most gentlest man I ever knew.” Her eyes swung back to
Diara. “And your father is another, just like him. He’s a good
man.”

“He’s the best,” Diara said. “He’s never laid
a hand on me. In fact, you’re the only one who ever spanked me,
Granny.”

She chuckled and winked at her granddaughter.
“Spare the rod …,” she said.

Diara ducked her head in shame. “Granny, I
know I’m a horrible person. But I promise, I will change.”

“You’re not horrible. That’s nonsense.”

“I am. I’m a selfish, spoiled brat and I’ve
always taken the family for granted,” Diara said. “I feel sick to
my stomach, thinking about all the money I’ve wasted on clothes and
parties and trips. I should have been doing something more
constructive with my life.”

She rushed on, despite Ethel’s tut tuts.

“No, I mean it. You were younger than me and
a mother. Abused by your husband …”

Ethel shook her head. “No, we weren’t even
married. I was living in sin. I had a baby out of wedlock.”

“Whatever,” Diara continued. “If you hadn’t
had the strength to do what you did, to stand up for yourself and
Mom, I wouldn’t be here today. I wouldn’t have had the best
Grandfather in the world, or the best parents. I wouldn’t have had
you. Granny, he would have killed you eventually.”

At the end of Diara’s heated statement, both
glanced at the woman in the corner, who cringed at her husband’s
angry outbursts.

“With all the gifts I’ve had, the love I’ve
experienced, I should be a better person,” Diara said. “I should be
helping people. People like her,” she inclined her head to the
woman, whose head hung in humiliation.

Ethel’s eyes shone with love. “It’s not too
late, Diara. You can do anything.”

“I know. I will.”

Francey, who whispered into the small radio
attached to her uniform lapel, interrupted them. “Mrs. Fontenelle?
Their ready for you, ma’am.” She opened the lounge door and stood
aside, allowing Diara the privilege of helping Ethel to her feet
and walking her through the door.

Ethel’s morning appearance in court was swift
and, once again, she insisted on pleading guilty. Her dismayed
court-appointed attorney, who only met her five minutes before the
proceedings, tried to persuade the judge to reconsider the old
woman’s mental health status. Instead, the judge reviewed the
paperwork and told the uninformed attorney Mrs. Fontenelle was
sound, according to her physicians, and she certainly was old
enough to know her own mind.

“This is an open count of murder and bail is
set at one hundred thousand dollars,” the judge said. “I understand
there is an extradition order from Pennsylvania and she has waived
her right to contest it. I have indicated they can retrieve the
defendant tomorrow.”

Ethel lifted her head. “Today is preferable,
your Honor. I’m not getting any younger.”

The black-robed justice grunted. “As you
wish. An officer from Pennsylvania is expected today.”

He told the bailiff, “Would you please let
the officer on duty know Mrs. Fontenelle’s wishes?”

In less than an hour, Ethel’s preliminary
hearing in the state of Massachusetts concluded. The judge’s gavel
sounded and Francey stepped forward to help her rise. Ethel
inclined her head at the judge and then gave her hand to her former
Sunday school student. She turned and pinned determined eyes on
Diara, mouthing the words, “Be strong.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Bridget paused between the stove and the
kitchen table, a spatula poised over the frying pan. “What do you
mean Ethel Jefferson is on her way?”

Boone cocked his head. “Exactly what I said.
The district attorney issued an extradition order and a county
deputy was dispatched this morning. I expected nothing would happen
for a few days, but it appears the old lady isn’t contesting it.
She’s pled guilty to the homicide and is being escorted to the jail
in Eaton as we speak.”

He looked at his watch. “In fact, they left
mid-afternoon. She should be tucked away in her cell by ten
o’clock.”

His tone was flat, unemotional. His face,
impassive.

Bridget slammed the pan on the table next to
his plate. The omelet bounced over the lip and melted cheese oozed
onto the wooden surface. “Damn it, Boone! How could you drag an old
lady from a nursing home and toss her in jail?”

“I didn’t do it,” he said. The matter-of-fact
reply rattled Bridget.

“Maybe not personally, but you obviously did
something or she wouldn’t be on her way to Eaton. What did you
do?”

“My job. Why are you surprised? What did you
think would happen?”

“Not this,” Bridget said, sinking into a
chair. “I don’t know. I thought we would find her and that would be
it. I thought I’d do a column about it, but I didn’t think you’d go
up to Massachusetts and arrest an 82-year-old woman. Especially one
in a nursing home.”

“It’s called ‘due process,’ Bridget,” he
said.

“I know what it’s called,” she snapped. Well,
okay, she didn’t know but she wasn’t about to admit it to Boone.
She pinned angry eyes on him. “How can you be calm about this?
Don’t you feel anything?”

He said nothing for several moments, then
picked up the frying pan and slid the omelet onto his plate.
“Hungry.”

* * *

Bridget paced her office. It was after
midnight and Boone was still gone. Their discussion escalated into
a one-sided argument, with Bridget accusing Boone of being
“unfeeling” and “callous.”

He did try to explain, once or twice, to no
avail. “As a police officer, I have to uphold the law. It’s not
only my duty, it’s my choice. There is dead man that, thanks to
you, has a name. There is a murderer who, thanks to you, has a
name. The law is clear, Bridget. It’s black and white.”

She stormed out of the room and sat in her
office, glowering at her computer. As her anger ebbed, she began to
feel guilty. Boone was right. It was her fault Ethel Jefferson was
sitting in jail. She, alone, persisted in digging up the past, even
when Boone told her not to worry about it; it was a cold case.

She wondered if Boone knew what she only now
realized – Ethel Jefferson’s present misfortune was the consequence
of her stubborn refusal to give up the chase.

That’s exactly what it had been to her. It
never was about murder, for her. It was about the thrill of chasing
the facts, digging up the details, unearthing the evidence. The
difference was, this time her quest involved people. Living people,
not antiquities lost in time.

Why did Boone have to be so correct? Why
couldn’t he have been satisfied with her research, instead of
filing it as a report? He didn’t have to contact the district
attorney. He could have let it go. Frustrated, she dabbed at the
tears on her cheek.

Now he was gone, having driven to Eaton to
wait for Ethel Jefferson’s arrival. She was sure he didn’t have to
do it; he wanted to escape her and her hysterics.

“Damn!” she cried, pounding her fist on the
desk. “Damn, damn, damn.”

Morty whined at the sound of her flesh
hitting wood. Beneath the desk, Squirt raised her head and started
licking Bridget’s calf.

“I’m sorry, guys,” she said. “I didn’t mean
to upset you.”

Boone stood next to the coffee pot in the
backroom of the Eaton City Jail, pouring himself a second cup of
the thick, nauseating brew when the door swung open and Robert Hall
walked in.

“Boone,” Robert said, with a curt nod. “James
Johnson called me in. What you have for me?”

“I didn’t think you worked for the court,”
Boone said. “Aren’t you in private practice?”

“Yes,” Robert said, placing his slim
briefcase on a nearby table. “But the judge said this was a special
case and the public defender isn’t available for awhile. Do you
have the report?”

Boone slid a thick folder across the tabletop
and went back to the coffee counter. He stirred white granulated
sugar and clumps of powdered dairy creamer into the Styrofoam cup.
He sipped it and grimaced, then turned back to Robert. He watched
the man thumb through what amounted to a half-ream of paper.