Mad Honey: A Novel (22 page)

He slips his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Like every person in our country ever charged with a crime, Asher Fields is presumed innocent. The State must prove every element of the crime of murder in order for you to convict him. And that includes the looming question that the State cannot answer: what happened in Lily’s house before Asher got there? It’s not up to me, as Asher’s lawyer, to produce any evidence to answer that question. It’s up to the
prosecution. But at the end of this trial, you’ll all need to ask yourselves if you are convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that Asher Fields murdered Lily Campanello. You will
not
be.” He lifts his palms. “So what does that leave us with? A dead girl, a grieving boyfriend, and an opportunity for all of you to keep a tragedy from becoming even more tragic.”

THE FIRST WITNESS
for the prosecution is Officer Owen Tubbs, the first responder to Lily’s house that afternoon. He is florid and beefy, with a nose like a steamed bun. He is also wearing a full uniform, his badge and shoes shined to high gloss, knife pleats in his trousers. He is sworn in by the clerk, and after he has stated his name and job for the jury, the prosecutor begins her questioning. “What are your general duties as a patrol officer for the town of Adams?”

“I respond to calls from dispatch, I do routine patrols of the neighborhood, and I take complaints when I’m at the police station.”

“On the afternoon of December seventh, were you working at the police department?”

“Yes.”

“Did you respond to a call at Forty-five Greaves Lane?” Gina asks.

“Yes.”

“What time was that call?”

“Four twenty-two
p.m
. It was a rescue call,” Tubbs adds.

“Can you explain what that means?”

The policeman glances at the jury. “Every time someone needs an ambulance, a police officer is dispatched to the scene, too.”

“When you arrived at the scene, what did you do?”

“I walked in,” the officer says. “The door was open. Paramedics were working on a young woman in front of the couch. An older woman was crying hysterically, and Asher Fields was standing off to the side.”

“Was anyone else there?”

“Just a dog,” he replies.

“Did you identify the woman the paramedics were with?”

He nods. “It was the victim, Lily Campanello.”

“What about the older woman?”

“That was her mother, Ava Campanello.”

Gina turns toward him. “You mentioned a third person, Asher Fields. Is he here today?”

“Yes,” the policeman says. He points directly at Asher.

“Let the record reflect that Officer Tubbs is identifying the defendant. Did you recognize him at the time?”

“Yes. I was a school resource officer at Adams High last year, and he was a student there.”

“Did you have any interactions with Mr. Fields while you were the school resource officer?” the prosecutor asks.

“I was aware that he was suspended for his role in a cheating scandal—”

“Objection,” Jordan calls. “Relevance?”

“Sustained,” Judge Byers says. She turns to the jury. “The jury will disregard the witness’s previous statement.”

Gina asks, “Was Lily a student, too?”

“Not while I was working there.”

“I see,” she says. “What was the condition of the victim when you arrived?”

“Unresponsive. She was on a stretcher, in front of the couch. The paramedics were attempting to revive her.”

“Can you tell us what she was wearing?”

“A T-shirt and leggings.”

“Any shoes?” Gina says.

“No, she was barefoot.”

“Did you notice any bleeding?”

“Yes,” Tubbs says. “There was blood on her shirt, and in her hair.”

“Did you notice any cuts, marks, or bruises?”

“The paramedics were bent over her, but I did see visible bruises on her face and neck.”

The prosecutor approaches him. “Did you have any idea what had happened?”

“Not until I talked to her mother.”

“What did Ava Campanello tell you?”

“She had left the house to get ibuprofen for her daughter, because Lily had a fever and had stayed home sick from school. While she was at the pharmacy, Asher Fields came to the house.”

“Did you have occasion to speak to the defendant?” Gina asks.

“Yes. He said he had found the victim at the bottom of the stairs.”

“What state was the defendant in?”

Tubbs glances at Asher. “He was very upset. He wanted to know if Lily was going to be all right.”

“What did you do next?”

“This was a serious injury, a possible death,” the officer says, “so we secured the scene like we normally would and waited for the detective to arrive. I told the defendant that the detective was going to need to speak to him and asked him to wait outside.”

Gina turns, as if she is finished, but then pivots back just before she reaches the table. “Officer, did anyone else either enter or leave the house the whole time you were there?”

“The detective came. The paramedics and the victim and her mother left for the hospital.” He hesitates. “But I guess it was too late.”

The prosecutor sinks into her chair. “Nothing further.”

On my lap is the Moleskine notebook, opened to a fresh page. I’ve written
OWEN TUBBS
at the top, and without realizing it, I have drawn a dark line through his name.

Do something that makes you calm,
I think.

I start free-associating, writing what pops into my head:
pumpkin seeds, oats, raspberries
. When I glance up, Jordan is standing in front of Officer Tubbs. “Before that afternoon, you hadn’t ever had any police contact with Asher, correct?”

“No.”

“You were never called to his residence for public disturbance because the music was too loud…?”

“No,” the policeman says.

“Never issued him a speeding ticket?”

“No.”

“You haven’t so much as stopped him for not wearing his seatbelt, have you?”

“No, I have not.”

“In fact,” Jordan presses, “you’ve never been to his home at all, have you?”

Officer Tubbs darts a shy glance toward me. “Only to pick strawberries with my kid.”

“So with the exception of the afternoon of December seventh, you had no other reason as a policeman to engage with Asher, isn’t that true?”

“Well,” Tubbs says, “except for when we arrested him.”

Jordan’s face shutters, and he sits down.

I look down at the notebook.
Almonds. Canola oil,
I add.
And of course, honey.

TECHNICALLY, MIKE NEWCOMB
took me to the junior prom, but we did not stay there. We were late because of the hubcap incident, and by the time we arrived everyone else had decided to drive down to the Seacoast region—where New Hampshire’s eighteen miles of beach are located—to get wasted. Neither Mike nor I had a moral objection to that, but he didn’t want to drive drunk (even then, he was a civil servant in training). So instead, we went to a fair held in the parking lot of a Walmart three towns over. In my taffeta gown we rode the Ferris wheel and the bumper cars and the Zipper until the pins fell out of my updo and my hair whipped around my face. When he dropped me off, he kissed me good night, and I thought,
I could like this boy
. Two days later I found out that he’d gotten back together with his long-term cheerleader girlfriend, the one he eventually married.

When the prosecution calls him as a witness, he is wearing a suit that fits him far better than the blue tuxedo did years ago. “Please state your name for the record,” Gina says.

Jordan twists in his chair as Mike lists his credentials. “Newcomb? Didn’t you go to the junior prom with him?” he whispers.

I nod.

“Jesus Christ. Does
anyone
leave this town?”

“On December seventh,” the prosecutor asks, “were you on duty?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have occasion to be called to the residence of Lily Campanello?”

“Yes,” Mike says, “at about four forty-five
p.m
.”

“What happened when you arrived?”

His eyes slant toward Asher. “I saw a kid sitting on the front steps.”

“Did you know at the time who that kid was?”

“I did not.”

“Do you now?”

“Yes,” Mike answers. “Asher Fields.”

“Is he in the courtroom today?”

“Yes. He’s the defendant.”

“What did you do when you arrived at the Campanello household?” Gina asks.

“I went in and met with Officer Tubbs, who brought me up to speed. I looked around the staircase where the victim had allegedly been found and the living room where she’d been moved.”

Allegedly
. The word sticks in my throat like a fish bone.

I open the notebook on my lap.
Granola,
I write,
made the night before.
My letters are as precise as an architect’s.

“The house was neat, tidy, undisturbed,” Mike says. “There was a small amount of blood at the base of the stairs, and more blood in front of the couch in the living room.”

“Then what happened?” the prosecutor continues.

“I asked Officer Tubbs to secure the scene and to call the station for assistance with canvassing the neighborhood, to see if anyone had seen or heard something out of the ordinary. Meanwhile, I asked Mr. Fields to follow me to the station so that I could take a formal statement.”

“Where was his car?”

“Parked in the driveway.”

Gina folds her arms. “Can you describe his demeanor at the time?”

“His shirt was bloody, and he was visibly shaking. He appeared to be extremely upset. I suggested,” he says, meeting my gaze for the first time since he began, “that he call his mother.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. She arrived right away, and I let her sit in on the interview.”

I watch the jury carefully as Mike walks through that first meeting—what Asher said. What he didn’t.

“Was Mr. Fields a suspect at this point?” the prosecutor asks.

“No. This was a routine, basic investigation.”

“And then?”

“I received word that Lily Campanello had been pronounced dead. Mr. Fields and his mother left the station, and I returned to the victim’s house.”

“What did you find?” Gina says.

“The house was a small Cape, two floors, with a center stairwell. As I said, there was a small amount of blood at the bottom of the stairs and more in front of the couch.”

“Based on your experience, Detective, could a small amount of blood on the floor indicate that Lily hadn’t been lying there very long?”

“Objection,” Jordan calls out. “Leading.”

“I’ll rephrase,” the prosecutor says. “Based on your experience, what is the significance of the smaller amount of blood at the bottom of the stairs, versus the larger amount near the couch?”

“That Lily’s body was not at the bottom of the stairs very long; but she was near the couch for a greater amount of time.”

“In that case,” Gina asks, “would you put the defendant—who admitted to moving Lily—in the house at or near the time of her death?”

“Objection! Speculative!” Jordan says.

Judge Byers glances at the prosecutor. “Sustained.”

I look at the jury. I wonder if they can unhear the implication.

“What did you do next?” the prosecutor asks.

“I walked around the first floor,” Mike continues, “and then made my way upstairs. There was a master bedroom that was very tidy, and a teenage girl’s bedroom…which was not.”

“You mean it was messy?”

“No, this was different. A lamp had been knocked over and the bulb was broken, so there was glass all over the floor. A nightstand next to the bed was also overturned.”

“Was there any blood in the room?” the prosecutor says.

“No.”

“Based on your training and experience, what did you conclude?”

“These were signs of a struggle,” Mike says. “I called our crime scene technician to photograph the residence and to collect evidence.”

Gina lifts up an eight-by-ten photograph. “This is a photograph presented to us by the Adams PD crime scene technician. Does it accurately depict the bedroom?”

She presents several of these photos, which are entered into evidence. “At some point, did you call the defendant back to the police station to take a second statement?”

“Yes, after I got reports back from our forensics team analyzing the evidence in the house.”

“Is that normal?”

He nods. “We do it all the time.”

“What sort of evidence needed clarification from the defendant?”

“There were prints at the scene that did not match Lily Campanello or her mother. However, they did match Mr. Fields. The police department had those on file because he had worked at a hockey camp, and all the counselors were fingerprinted as a matter of child safety.”

“Was there any other evidence that pointed to Mr. Fields?”

“Yes,” Mike says. “We found hair in Lily’s bedroom that matched DNA obtained with a warrant after his arrest. I asked if he had gone anywhere else in the house, and he said he had not.”

“Not even upstairs?” Gina asks.

Mike looks at Asher. “He specifically said he had not been upstairs.”

My face flushes hot. Jordan had said this would be an issue, and
he was right. I take a deep breath and look down at the notebook. I write:
Bourbon.

I could use some now.

“Was there subsequent evidence that led you to arrest Mr. Fields?”

“Yes,” Mike says. “We had gotten back the phone records from both his phone and Lily’s. He sent twenty-three text messages to her the day of her death.”

“Detective,” Gina asks, “did anything particular about these texts raise your suspicions?”

“The final one, sent by the defendant, at three-forty
p.m.
”

The prosecutor turns and looks right at Asher. “What did it say?”

“It was all caps,” Mike replies. “
THIS ENDS NOW, I’M COMING OVER
.”

She smiles. “Nothing further.”

I look down at the list of items I’ve scrawled in the notebook. They are not random, I realize; they are the makings of cranachan, an old Scottish dessert that my mother would cook for us every New Year’s Eve. As a child, I always felt so grown-up, being allowed to eat a dish steeped in alcohol. She’d adapted it to use granola instead of oats, bourbon instead of whiskey. While my father took Jordan out to set a brace of fireworks that we’d light at midnight, I stayed with my mother and made parfait cups. It was, and still is, a tradition for me and Asher. A comfort.