The Women on Retford Drive, page 8
part #1 of Dancing Hills Series
“Did the detective call?”
“I received a call from a Detective Brian Johnson. He wants to meet with us immediately.”
The silence is deafening.
“Blythe?”
“I’m here”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes. I’ll call the lawyer as soon as I hang up. His name is Stephen Miller. Hopefully, he’ll be able to meet with us. I’ll ask him to come to the house. We should consult with him before we see Detective Johnson.”
“I agree. I’m done talking to the producers. I’m going to head home.”
“I’m right behind you,” Blythe says. “See you soon.”
I hang up, and Sherry puts her arm around me. “I think it’s a good idea you’re meeting with a lawyer. By the way, what happened to Keith’s shirt?”
“I just found out Martha has it. Why?”
“You need to turn it over to the police.”
“Right,” I say warily, thinking about the conversation I had with Blythe this morning. I was finally able to see things from her point of view. She’s right—the shirt could be a deal breaker. “This whole thing is just unbelievable. I’d better head out. Thanks for everything, Sherry.”
“I’m here for you, and I’ll go over the contract with a fine-tooth comb.”
“Thanks.”
~~~
Driving up our block, I slow to a crawl. News vans, reporters, cameramen, and spectators fill the street. Someone must have leaked something to the media, and based on this high interest level, it can’t be good for Blythe and me. Hoping for an update, I turn on the all-news station. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, impatiently listening to the Sigalert. It finally ends, and the reporter gives a teaser about a press conference the police held today. Before I can listen to the story, a horde of reporters converges on my car. I consider backing up, but I’m afraid I might hit someone. I beep the horn instead, and they scatter like cockroaches. I speed through the open gate and press the remote in my car to shut the gate.
Looking in my rearview mirror, I shake my head at the wall of reporters clamoring for sound bites, stepping over one another. I text Blythe:
Thu, 06/15/2017
Block swarming w/ media. Police must have DNA match. Take rear entr. & have attorney come around bk too. Like Bette Davis said, “Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.”
3:00 PM
I get out of the car and dash for the front door. I look over my shoulder at the press, brandishing microphones in my direction like cannons positioned to fire. As soon as they spot me, a cacophony of voices rings out.
“Mrs. Pritchard, do you think your husband has met with foul play?”
“Julia, who do you think is involved in your husband’s disappearance?”
“Is it true Keith Pritchard was a batterer?”
“Can you give us a statement?”
Ignoring the questions, I enter the house, go to my room, and power up my laptop. I pull up the press release, look it over, and click print. Then I pull up the statement Blythe will make. I read it and make edits. My vibrating cell phone stops my flow.
Thu, 06/15/2017
Thanks for the heads-up. I’m 5 mins away. Stephen is 15 mins away. We’ll both come around back.
3:11 PM
Done editing the statement, I print it. Satisfied, I take a moment to breathe. I glance at my phone, thinking about the call I owe my mother. She left a voicemail while I was in the meeting. I’ve been stalling about telling her about Keith. I don’t know why, because she stopped caring about him when I finally told her about the abuse. She blamed herself, saying that she was a bad role model. I truly believe her early Alzheimer’s resulted from all the head injuries my father inflicted on her.
“New Horizons Nursing Home. Vivian Brown speaking.”
“Vivian, this is Julia. I thought you were on vacation.”
“I got back today.”
“Oh, I see. Can you ring my mother’s room?”
“We heard about Keith.”
“Does my mother know?”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Good.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Please ring my mother.” Within a few moments, I hear my mother’s voice.
“Hi, Julia.”
“Hi, Mom. How are you? Are you better?”
“Yes. Thank you for spending time with me Tuesday. It’s was nice having you visit.”
“Mom, I spent the night. Remember?”
“I don’t remember that, sweetheart.”
“Well, if anyone asks, please tell them I did. Okay? Because I did.”
“Okay, if you say so. How’s my sweet Blythe? Is she still reading Nancy Drew?”
“Not so much anymore.”
“Julia, we’re here!” Blythe’s voice sounds from downstairs.
“Mom, I have to go. I love you. I’ll come by tomorrow.”
“Okay. I can’t wait to see you.”
“Bye, Mom.” I hang up the phone and head downstairs to meet with Blythe and the attorney, hoping my mother doesn’t screw up my alibi.
Chapter 10
Blythe
Standing in the foyer, Stephen and I watch Julia, in her favorite green suit, descend the stairs. I see the folded sheets of papers she’s clutching and hope she’s done with the edits. I’d like Stephen to look at the statement. If the reporters surrounding the house now are any indication of the turnout we’re going to have at the press conference, I want a third pair of eyes on what I’m gonna say. The last thing I want to do is incriminate myself.
“I’ll be right there,” she says, in a measured, professional tone.
Stephen folds his arms across his chest. I wonder what’s going through his head, which is topped with a mop of sandy brown hair. I was surprised and pleased by how quickly he responded to my call, and that he had no qualms about meeting us at the house. He adjusts his stance, and I notice his expensive brown leather shoes that smartly complement his brown suit.
Julia approaches him with an extended hand, and he smiles.
“I’m Julia.”
“I had no idea,” he says, reciprocating, his blue eyes dancing like a child’s.
“Excuse me?” Julia says. She flips her hair over her shoulder.
“My daughter watched you when she was little. You’re the actress from the show about the triplets,” he says, chuckling. “You’ve barely aged.”
“Thank you.”
Julia and I share amused looks. Then she turns her attention back to Stephen. They gaze into each other’s eyes, standing in silence as if engaged in a telepathic conversation. Feeling like a third wheel, I get an urge to leave the room, but instead I say, “I watched her when I was a kid too.”
“Are you still in touch with the triplets?” Stephen asks, ignoring me, mouth slightly open and eyes glued to Julia, like a fan who won a backstage pass to see his favorite artist.
“We exchange holiday cards. They’re still acting.” Her cheeks redden, and she fans herself with the papers in her hand. I’m not sure if Stephen’s attention is heating her up or if she’s about to have a hot flash. For her sake, I hope it’s not the latter. I can tell Julia’s trying to make a good impression. If she breaks out in a sweat, that won’t look good.
“And what about you?” he asks, his eyes now following the moving paper.
“I took some time off. I’m actually about to return to the business.”
“You should, because you’re a wonderful actress.”
“Thank you, again.”
No longer able to endure their banter, I plant my hands on my hips and say, “I was going to formally introduce you two, but I guess that’s not necessary.”
Stephen’s face flushes. “Sorry about that. I’m Stephen Miller.”
“I know,” Julia says. “Why don’t we have a seat in the living room?”
Stephen and I follow her. Smiling broadly, he pauses as though waiting to see where Julia is going to sit. She eases herself into the recliner, and his smile morphs into a slight look of regret. I sit on the sofa and Stephen sits next to me.
“Your house is quite spectacular,” he says. His eyes feast on the expensive paintings, priceless artifacts, and grand piano. “Who plays?”
“I do,” I say, chuckling to myself, imagining him suddenly becoming obsessed with me now that he knows I also have a talent.
“Nice.” He sends what seems like a perfunctory smile my way. “Is it okay if I set my briefcase on the table?”
“Sure. The house is a little over the top for me, but my husband wouldn’t have settled for anything less.”
Stephen rubs his palms together. “Well, let’s get down to business,” he says. He removes his suit jacket and places it on the sofa arm. Then he opens his briefcase and removes a stack of papers, squinting and nodding. He looks up, his stern gaze vacillating between me and Julia. He’s transformed from a star-struck fan to a high-powered attorney. “I started following the story in the press as soon as Professor Juarez contacted me. I think it’s wise of you to seek representation.” He glances at the documents fanned out in front of him.
“It was Blythe’s idea. I have to admit, a part of me feels as though we’re admitting guilt by hiring an attorney.”
“That’s a myth. Actually, you’re being smart. It’s in the early phases of a police investigation that innocent people say and do things that make them appear guilty. As your attorney—that is, if you hire me—I’ll be able to keep you from the pitfalls and traps. And with you being the wife and a battered woman, things are going to get tricky.”
Julia’s eyes, wide in surprise, connect with mine.
“Julia, I told him about the abuse and that we have proof.”
“I’m glad you did, Blythe. It speaks to Keith’s character. If he’s the kind of man who beats his wife, then he’s the kind of man who probably has acquired some enemies. The police will make the same assessment. That will keep them from prematurely targeting you and Julia as persons of interest.”
“Blythe thought that if the police knew I had been abused they would say that was my motive for killing Keith.”
“The truth will stand on its own,” he says.
“Stephen, I trust Professor Juarez. He says you’re one of the best. So we definitely want to hire you.”
“I agree with Blythe. Unfortunately, we may not be able to afford you.”
Stephen recoils a bit. “Let’s not worry about cost. I’ll work with your budget. We need to focus on the interview you have today with Detective Johnson.” He consults his notes.
I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking about how on point he is. I barely remembered the detective’s name. “Where do we start?”
“The meeting with Detective Johnson is just an interview. You’re not suspects. He’ll most likely tell you the outcome of the DNA test. The tone of the interview will be contingent upon the DNA test results. If there’s a match, he’s going to question you at length, if there isn’t, he’ll take a softer approach. Because you’re not suspects or persons of interest, he won’t ask you if you had anything to do with Keith’s disappearance. But he will ask you questions relating to his disappearance, such as when was the last time you saw him. What kind of mood he was in.”
“Okay,” we say at the same time.
“Now, in order for me to understand the bigger picture, I need to ask you both a few questions. Let’s get the nasty one out of the way first.”
My stomach sinks, and I sit on my hands. He turns toward Julia and asks, “Did you have anything to do with your husband’s disappearance?” She parts her lips to answer, and he raises his hand, shutting her down. “Don’t be too quick to respond—here or in the interview. Like attorneys, the police will know the answers to just about every question they ask. So take your time and think the query through.”
Julia nods and shuts her eyes as though she’s trying to remember something. I reflect on my conversation with Shelbie, guilt washing over me again. There’s no way Julia could have killed my father. That wasn’t our plan.
“I had nothing to do with his disappearance, Stephen.”
“Good,” he says. “God forbid you’re ever charged, but if for some reason that happens, I’ll be able to defend you to the fullest without limits.”
“What does that mean?”
“If you had admitted guilt, I would be limited as to what I can present in filings or in court.”
“You would represent me if I were guilty?”
Unable to help myself, I interject, “Julia, as your lawyer, Stephen would still be able to defend you. It’s the burden of the state to prove that you’re guilty of a crime beyond a reasonable doubt. If the state doesn’t meet its burden, then you should be found not guilty, even if you did commit the crime.”
“So that’s how O. J. got off,” Julia says, shaking her head.
“I’ll take the Fifth,” Stephen says. “Blythe’s right. But you’re innocent, so if you’re ever charged, and again, god forbid that happens, I’m going to build my defense with that in mind.”
“Blythe, I need to ask you the same—”
“No, I did not have anything to do with my father’s disappearance.”
“Good,” he says, looking at his watch. “We need to expedite this process. I don’t want the detective to have to contact you again. We don’t want it to appear as if you’re being uncooperative. I’ve prepared a list of questions I believe the detective is going to ask you. You and Blythe will be interviewed separately. There’s one other piece of advice I want to give you. If for some reason either of you or both of you become suspects in the future and are charged, whatever you do, don’t believe it if the detective says one or the other of you has rolled over.”
“I don’t understand,” Julia says.
“They might—”
Stephen looks annoyed with my interjection.
“I’m sorry, Stephen. As you know, I’m preparing to take the LSAT so that I can apply to law school. Law is my passion.”
“I can tell, but you really should let me do my job. That’s what you’re going to be paying for.”
“Right,” I say.
“Julia, if they tell you Blythe confessed and said you were the mastermind, don’t believe it. Don’t become frightened and admit to anything. If you do, you would be rolling over. It’s a tactic the police sometimes use to get criminals to spill the beans, if you will. You’re innocent, so stick to the truth. I want you to go over these questions,” he says, handing us sheets of paper. “Then I’m going to interview you. Blythe mentioned you’re going to hold a press conference. Do you have someone helping you?”
“I’ve handled everything. I majored in public relations.”
“I’d like to be there. If you have a statement prepared, I’d like to review it.”
“I have our statement right here,” Julia says. She places it on the table in front of him.
“Also, it’s important that Keith’s family and friends be present. You want the public, the press, and the police, in that order, to know his people believe in your innocence.”
Julia’s head drops.
“What’s wrong?” Stephen asks.
“Keith’s mother—my grandmother, believes Julia killed my father. She’s not going to stand with us. And my grandfather would, but he would have to pay a high price for it.”
“We’ll have to work around that. And the search party is a good idea.”
Julia emits an exhausted sigh and falls back into the recliner. “I feel like I’m drowning.”
“Don’t,” he says, standing. “I’m your life jacket. Let me keep you afloat.”
Julia looks up at him with moist eyes. “My goodness, where were you twelve years ago, Mr. Miller?”
A flush of embarrassment climbing his face, Stephen runs his fingers through his thick hair. “I was saying I do to the wrong woman. But that’s another story for another day. Let’s stay on track. I’ll review the statement while you and Blythe go over the questions. Then we’ll do the mock interviews. We should be able to meet with Detective Johnson by 5 p.m. And if I do my job correctly, after your meeting today with the detective, you’ll never have to meet with him again. Right now, the detective just wants to interview you about Keith. One other thing—is there anything I need to know, anything unusual that could have an impact on this case? I’m an easygoing fellow, but I don’t like surprises, and I don’t like being blindsided.”
I wait before answering, hoping Julia sticks to our plan and keeps quiet about the shirt. She does, and I don’t say anything about the missing knife or that Grandma Sophie’s nursing home is five minutes from the strip mall. My stomach flips when Professor Juarez’s voice fills my head. He can’t help you if he doesn’t have all the information. I feel guilty not telling Stephen about the shirt, but it looks bad. That shirt being in the house means my father may have been killed at home Tuesday night. Julia had opportunity and a motive. Hell, I did too. I spent Tuesday night at our new apartment, but I could have easily made a trip back to the house. Stephen says he would represent us if we were guilty, but that could be because he believes we’re innocent. He may not even want to represent us if we tell him about the shirt. It occurs to me that if the shirt is later discovered, that might even be more incriminating. But it’s a risk we’re willing to take.
“Is that a ‘no’?” he asks. “In the interview, you’re going to be required to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”
“No,” we say.
“Stephen, I’m not sure if Blythe mentioned it, but Keith and I are in the process of divorcing. I signed a prenup, so I’m basically leaving with the clothes on my back.”
“What’s the status of the divorce?”
“Keith was served.”
“Has he filed a response? Obviously, I’m not a divorce attorney, but I did go through a divorce. He has thirty days to respond to your petition.”
“He hasn’t responded yet,” Julia says.
“So your divorce is far from final.”
“Correct,” Julia says.
“That may be a good thing,” he says, his eyes scanning the room. “Do you have a divorce attorney?”
“No, Blythe helped me file.”
“I received a call from a Detective Brian Johnson. He wants to meet with us immediately.”
The silence is deafening.
“Blythe?”
“I’m here”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes. I’ll call the lawyer as soon as I hang up. His name is Stephen Miller. Hopefully, he’ll be able to meet with us. I’ll ask him to come to the house. We should consult with him before we see Detective Johnson.”
“I agree. I’m done talking to the producers. I’m going to head home.”
“I’m right behind you,” Blythe says. “See you soon.”
I hang up, and Sherry puts her arm around me. “I think it’s a good idea you’re meeting with a lawyer. By the way, what happened to Keith’s shirt?”
“I just found out Martha has it. Why?”
“You need to turn it over to the police.”
“Right,” I say warily, thinking about the conversation I had with Blythe this morning. I was finally able to see things from her point of view. She’s right—the shirt could be a deal breaker. “This whole thing is just unbelievable. I’d better head out. Thanks for everything, Sherry.”
“I’m here for you, and I’ll go over the contract with a fine-tooth comb.”
“Thanks.”
~~~
Driving up our block, I slow to a crawl. News vans, reporters, cameramen, and spectators fill the street. Someone must have leaked something to the media, and based on this high interest level, it can’t be good for Blythe and me. Hoping for an update, I turn on the all-news station. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, impatiently listening to the Sigalert. It finally ends, and the reporter gives a teaser about a press conference the police held today. Before I can listen to the story, a horde of reporters converges on my car. I consider backing up, but I’m afraid I might hit someone. I beep the horn instead, and they scatter like cockroaches. I speed through the open gate and press the remote in my car to shut the gate.
Looking in my rearview mirror, I shake my head at the wall of reporters clamoring for sound bites, stepping over one another. I text Blythe:
Thu, 06/15/2017
Block swarming w/ media. Police must have DNA match. Take rear entr. & have attorney come around bk too. Like Bette Davis said, “Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.”
3:00 PM
I get out of the car and dash for the front door. I look over my shoulder at the press, brandishing microphones in my direction like cannons positioned to fire. As soon as they spot me, a cacophony of voices rings out.
“Mrs. Pritchard, do you think your husband has met with foul play?”
“Julia, who do you think is involved in your husband’s disappearance?”
“Is it true Keith Pritchard was a batterer?”
“Can you give us a statement?”
Ignoring the questions, I enter the house, go to my room, and power up my laptop. I pull up the press release, look it over, and click print. Then I pull up the statement Blythe will make. I read it and make edits. My vibrating cell phone stops my flow.
Thu, 06/15/2017
Thanks for the heads-up. I’m 5 mins away. Stephen is 15 mins away. We’ll both come around back.
3:11 PM
Done editing the statement, I print it. Satisfied, I take a moment to breathe. I glance at my phone, thinking about the call I owe my mother. She left a voicemail while I was in the meeting. I’ve been stalling about telling her about Keith. I don’t know why, because she stopped caring about him when I finally told her about the abuse. She blamed herself, saying that she was a bad role model. I truly believe her early Alzheimer’s resulted from all the head injuries my father inflicted on her.
“New Horizons Nursing Home. Vivian Brown speaking.”
“Vivian, this is Julia. I thought you were on vacation.”
“I got back today.”
“Oh, I see. Can you ring my mother’s room?”
“We heard about Keith.”
“Does my mother know?”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Good.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Please ring my mother.” Within a few moments, I hear my mother’s voice.
“Hi, Julia.”
“Hi, Mom. How are you? Are you better?”
“Yes. Thank you for spending time with me Tuesday. It’s was nice having you visit.”
“Mom, I spent the night. Remember?”
“I don’t remember that, sweetheart.”
“Well, if anyone asks, please tell them I did. Okay? Because I did.”
“Okay, if you say so. How’s my sweet Blythe? Is she still reading Nancy Drew?”
“Not so much anymore.”
“Julia, we’re here!” Blythe’s voice sounds from downstairs.
“Mom, I have to go. I love you. I’ll come by tomorrow.”
“Okay. I can’t wait to see you.”
“Bye, Mom.” I hang up the phone and head downstairs to meet with Blythe and the attorney, hoping my mother doesn’t screw up my alibi.
Chapter 10
Blythe
Standing in the foyer, Stephen and I watch Julia, in her favorite green suit, descend the stairs. I see the folded sheets of papers she’s clutching and hope she’s done with the edits. I’d like Stephen to look at the statement. If the reporters surrounding the house now are any indication of the turnout we’re going to have at the press conference, I want a third pair of eyes on what I’m gonna say. The last thing I want to do is incriminate myself.
“I’ll be right there,” she says, in a measured, professional tone.
Stephen folds his arms across his chest. I wonder what’s going through his head, which is topped with a mop of sandy brown hair. I was surprised and pleased by how quickly he responded to my call, and that he had no qualms about meeting us at the house. He adjusts his stance, and I notice his expensive brown leather shoes that smartly complement his brown suit.
Julia approaches him with an extended hand, and he smiles.
“I’m Julia.”
“I had no idea,” he says, reciprocating, his blue eyes dancing like a child’s.
“Excuse me?” Julia says. She flips her hair over her shoulder.
“My daughter watched you when she was little. You’re the actress from the show about the triplets,” he says, chuckling. “You’ve barely aged.”
“Thank you.”
Julia and I share amused looks. Then she turns her attention back to Stephen. They gaze into each other’s eyes, standing in silence as if engaged in a telepathic conversation. Feeling like a third wheel, I get an urge to leave the room, but instead I say, “I watched her when I was a kid too.”
“Are you still in touch with the triplets?” Stephen asks, ignoring me, mouth slightly open and eyes glued to Julia, like a fan who won a backstage pass to see his favorite artist.
“We exchange holiday cards. They’re still acting.” Her cheeks redden, and she fans herself with the papers in her hand. I’m not sure if Stephen’s attention is heating her up or if she’s about to have a hot flash. For her sake, I hope it’s not the latter. I can tell Julia’s trying to make a good impression. If she breaks out in a sweat, that won’t look good.
“And what about you?” he asks, his eyes now following the moving paper.
“I took some time off. I’m actually about to return to the business.”
“You should, because you’re a wonderful actress.”
“Thank you, again.”
No longer able to endure their banter, I plant my hands on my hips and say, “I was going to formally introduce you two, but I guess that’s not necessary.”
Stephen’s face flushes. “Sorry about that. I’m Stephen Miller.”
“I know,” Julia says. “Why don’t we have a seat in the living room?”
Stephen and I follow her. Smiling broadly, he pauses as though waiting to see where Julia is going to sit. She eases herself into the recliner, and his smile morphs into a slight look of regret. I sit on the sofa and Stephen sits next to me.
“Your house is quite spectacular,” he says. His eyes feast on the expensive paintings, priceless artifacts, and grand piano. “Who plays?”
“I do,” I say, chuckling to myself, imagining him suddenly becoming obsessed with me now that he knows I also have a talent.
“Nice.” He sends what seems like a perfunctory smile my way. “Is it okay if I set my briefcase on the table?”
“Sure. The house is a little over the top for me, but my husband wouldn’t have settled for anything less.”
Stephen rubs his palms together. “Well, let’s get down to business,” he says. He removes his suit jacket and places it on the sofa arm. Then he opens his briefcase and removes a stack of papers, squinting and nodding. He looks up, his stern gaze vacillating between me and Julia. He’s transformed from a star-struck fan to a high-powered attorney. “I started following the story in the press as soon as Professor Juarez contacted me. I think it’s wise of you to seek representation.” He glances at the documents fanned out in front of him.
“It was Blythe’s idea. I have to admit, a part of me feels as though we’re admitting guilt by hiring an attorney.”
“That’s a myth. Actually, you’re being smart. It’s in the early phases of a police investigation that innocent people say and do things that make them appear guilty. As your attorney—that is, if you hire me—I’ll be able to keep you from the pitfalls and traps. And with you being the wife and a battered woman, things are going to get tricky.”
Julia’s eyes, wide in surprise, connect with mine.
“Julia, I told him about the abuse and that we have proof.”
“I’m glad you did, Blythe. It speaks to Keith’s character. If he’s the kind of man who beats his wife, then he’s the kind of man who probably has acquired some enemies. The police will make the same assessment. That will keep them from prematurely targeting you and Julia as persons of interest.”
“Blythe thought that if the police knew I had been abused they would say that was my motive for killing Keith.”
“The truth will stand on its own,” he says.
“Stephen, I trust Professor Juarez. He says you’re one of the best. So we definitely want to hire you.”
“I agree with Blythe. Unfortunately, we may not be able to afford you.”
Stephen recoils a bit. “Let’s not worry about cost. I’ll work with your budget. We need to focus on the interview you have today with Detective Johnson.” He consults his notes.
I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking about how on point he is. I barely remembered the detective’s name. “Where do we start?”
“The meeting with Detective Johnson is just an interview. You’re not suspects. He’ll most likely tell you the outcome of the DNA test. The tone of the interview will be contingent upon the DNA test results. If there’s a match, he’s going to question you at length, if there isn’t, he’ll take a softer approach. Because you’re not suspects or persons of interest, he won’t ask you if you had anything to do with Keith’s disappearance. But he will ask you questions relating to his disappearance, such as when was the last time you saw him. What kind of mood he was in.”
“Okay,” we say at the same time.
“Now, in order for me to understand the bigger picture, I need to ask you both a few questions. Let’s get the nasty one out of the way first.”
My stomach sinks, and I sit on my hands. He turns toward Julia and asks, “Did you have anything to do with your husband’s disappearance?” She parts her lips to answer, and he raises his hand, shutting her down. “Don’t be too quick to respond—here or in the interview. Like attorneys, the police will know the answers to just about every question they ask. So take your time and think the query through.”
Julia nods and shuts her eyes as though she’s trying to remember something. I reflect on my conversation with Shelbie, guilt washing over me again. There’s no way Julia could have killed my father. That wasn’t our plan.
“I had nothing to do with his disappearance, Stephen.”
“Good,” he says. “God forbid you’re ever charged, but if for some reason that happens, I’ll be able to defend you to the fullest without limits.”
“What does that mean?”
“If you had admitted guilt, I would be limited as to what I can present in filings or in court.”
“You would represent me if I were guilty?”
Unable to help myself, I interject, “Julia, as your lawyer, Stephen would still be able to defend you. It’s the burden of the state to prove that you’re guilty of a crime beyond a reasonable doubt. If the state doesn’t meet its burden, then you should be found not guilty, even if you did commit the crime.”
“So that’s how O. J. got off,” Julia says, shaking her head.
“I’ll take the Fifth,” Stephen says. “Blythe’s right. But you’re innocent, so if you’re ever charged, and again, god forbid that happens, I’m going to build my defense with that in mind.”
“Blythe, I need to ask you the same—”
“No, I did not have anything to do with my father’s disappearance.”
“Good,” he says, looking at his watch. “We need to expedite this process. I don’t want the detective to have to contact you again. We don’t want it to appear as if you’re being uncooperative. I’ve prepared a list of questions I believe the detective is going to ask you. You and Blythe will be interviewed separately. There’s one other piece of advice I want to give you. If for some reason either of you or both of you become suspects in the future and are charged, whatever you do, don’t believe it if the detective says one or the other of you has rolled over.”
“I don’t understand,” Julia says.
“They might—”
Stephen looks annoyed with my interjection.
“I’m sorry, Stephen. As you know, I’m preparing to take the LSAT so that I can apply to law school. Law is my passion.”
“I can tell, but you really should let me do my job. That’s what you’re going to be paying for.”
“Right,” I say.
“Julia, if they tell you Blythe confessed and said you were the mastermind, don’t believe it. Don’t become frightened and admit to anything. If you do, you would be rolling over. It’s a tactic the police sometimes use to get criminals to spill the beans, if you will. You’re innocent, so stick to the truth. I want you to go over these questions,” he says, handing us sheets of paper. “Then I’m going to interview you. Blythe mentioned you’re going to hold a press conference. Do you have someone helping you?”
“I’ve handled everything. I majored in public relations.”
“I’d like to be there. If you have a statement prepared, I’d like to review it.”
“I have our statement right here,” Julia says. She places it on the table in front of him.
“Also, it’s important that Keith’s family and friends be present. You want the public, the press, and the police, in that order, to know his people believe in your innocence.”
Julia’s head drops.
“What’s wrong?” Stephen asks.
“Keith’s mother—my grandmother, believes Julia killed my father. She’s not going to stand with us. And my grandfather would, but he would have to pay a high price for it.”
“We’ll have to work around that. And the search party is a good idea.”
Julia emits an exhausted sigh and falls back into the recliner. “I feel like I’m drowning.”
“Don’t,” he says, standing. “I’m your life jacket. Let me keep you afloat.”
Julia looks up at him with moist eyes. “My goodness, where were you twelve years ago, Mr. Miller?”
A flush of embarrassment climbing his face, Stephen runs his fingers through his thick hair. “I was saying I do to the wrong woman. But that’s another story for another day. Let’s stay on track. I’ll review the statement while you and Blythe go over the questions. Then we’ll do the mock interviews. We should be able to meet with Detective Johnson by 5 p.m. And if I do my job correctly, after your meeting today with the detective, you’ll never have to meet with him again. Right now, the detective just wants to interview you about Keith. One other thing—is there anything I need to know, anything unusual that could have an impact on this case? I’m an easygoing fellow, but I don’t like surprises, and I don’t like being blindsided.”
I wait before answering, hoping Julia sticks to our plan and keeps quiet about the shirt. She does, and I don’t say anything about the missing knife or that Grandma Sophie’s nursing home is five minutes from the strip mall. My stomach flips when Professor Juarez’s voice fills my head. He can’t help you if he doesn’t have all the information. I feel guilty not telling Stephen about the shirt, but it looks bad. That shirt being in the house means my father may have been killed at home Tuesday night. Julia had opportunity and a motive. Hell, I did too. I spent Tuesday night at our new apartment, but I could have easily made a trip back to the house. Stephen says he would represent us if we were guilty, but that could be because he believes we’re innocent. He may not even want to represent us if we tell him about the shirt. It occurs to me that if the shirt is later discovered, that might even be more incriminating. But it’s a risk we’re willing to take.
“Is that a ‘no’?” he asks. “In the interview, you’re going to be required to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”
“No,” we say.
“Stephen, I’m not sure if Blythe mentioned it, but Keith and I are in the process of divorcing. I signed a prenup, so I’m basically leaving with the clothes on my back.”
“What’s the status of the divorce?”
“Keith was served.”
“Has he filed a response? Obviously, I’m not a divorce attorney, but I did go through a divorce. He has thirty days to respond to your petition.”
“He hasn’t responded yet,” Julia says.
“So your divorce is far from final.”
“Correct,” Julia says.
“That may be a good thing,” he says, his eyes scanning the room. “Do you have a divorce attorney?”
“No, Blythe helped me file.”
