"Did he happen to say anything at the funeral in Gaelic?"
Hugo smiled. "Yes," he said. "When they started to lower the casket, he said the words 'Mo chridhe.' "
"Can you translate for us?"
"It means 'my heart.' "
Graham nodded. "One last point, Mr. Huntley. You say you saw scratches on Jamie's cheek?" "Yes, sir."
"Did you see them being put there?"
Hugo shook his head. "I didn't see a fight, or anything, if that's what you mean."
"So it's possible that Maggie MacDonald was not the one to put those scratches on his cheek."
"I suppose so."
Graham started to walk toward the jury. "And those skin cells you found beneath Maggie's fingernails--is it possible they were not the sign of a struggle?"
Hugo tipped his head. "I guess."
"Is it possible, for instance, they were a leftover from, say, a hot night of passion between a husband and wife who were very much in love?"
This time, Graham could hear the guffaws coming from the jury. He smiled. Hugo nodded, his eyes black and huge behind his glasses. "It's possible."
Graham flashed a neat grin at his client. "Nothing further," he
said.
Cam was sitting alone in the dark living room, nursing the third of a six-pack of beer, when he heard the front door open and close. He did not stand or go to greet her, but he set the bottle down at his feet.
Allie was silhouetted in the doorway. With her right hand she reached for the light switch, flooding the room garishly and making Cam blink like an owl at her, as if she were something he was not accustomed to seeing.
She tilted her head and stared at him, wishing that he did not look the way he always did when she pictured him in her mind. It would have been so much easier if, after all this, he had a scar across his face, or a visible brand that made her remember. She put down on the floor the strongbox she'd carried from the garage sale. Cam gazed at it. "How much did you make off me?" "Not nearly enough," Allie said.
Cam nodded. He had not known exactly what to expect. The Allie he remembered, the one he had married, would have never sold his belongings. She would have assumed his infidelity was a reflection of something she had done wrong and she'd beg him to give her another chance, and because he'd be so guilt-ridden, he would. This new woman, the one who had a mind of her own that he could not predict, might say and do just about anything at all.
He wanted the old Allie back. Not because he wanted that measure of power over her, but because he was hurting and he was tired and the one steady thing in his life--her unstinting comfort--was what he needed the most.
He closed his eyes, dizzy with the truth, and wondered how he had so quickly gone from holding everything he wanted in the palm of his hand to having absolutely nothing at all. He wondered how he could have been so blinded by something shiny and new and elusive that he couldn't at least give equal credit for the strength of something stable, and strong, and his.
"I guess you'll want a--" He tried, he really did, but the word would not come.
"Divorce," Allie finished.
Cam nodded.
"I don't," she said softly, and his eyes flew up to hers. He was surprised to realize he was not wishing that she was Mia. He looked at his wife and wished in that moment that none of this had ever happened.
Allies eyes filled with tears that she would not let spill, at any cost. She notched her chin up when she spoke. "You hurt me," she accused, "but you were the one who made the mistake. It's not like I stopped loving you the minute I found out. I just stopped trusting you."
She started up the steps, leaving Cam on the couch holding the words she had tossed him like fluttering, nested birds. He glanced up the dark stairwell, but he could not see his future.
EIGHTEEN
When Cam took the witness stand the following morning, he was staring at Allie. She sat almost directly behind Jamie, so that watching her meant watching his cousin as well.
Jamie looked good, for someone who was on trial for murder. He wore an olive suit that hung nicely from his shoulders and a red tie that was quiet and conservative. People who hadn't been trained like Cam to look quite so closely might never have noticed the beads of sweat on the hair at the back of Jamie's neck, or the way his ears burned red at the top every time Audra Campbell asked a question.
Cam had been sworn in and he'd entered into evidence the arrest report and the voluntary confession. He smiled at Audra when she crossed in front of him; he'd worked with her before. He didn't particularly like her, but he had an obligation to the DA's office. The police--the police chief, in particular--were key witnesses for the prosecution. By definition the police commanded respect. The jury naturally trusted a policeman to safeguard people like themselves, their property, their lives. Whatever Cam said most jurors would accept as fact.
He stated his name and his occupation for the record. "How many years have you been on the force?" Audra asked.
"Eight," Cam said. "Plus three years of part-time duty before I was made chief."
"And how many arrests do you make in a week?"
Cam frowned a little. "Me, personally? Or the department?"
"You, Chief MacDonald."
Cam shifted in his chair. "Six or seven. Ten on a busy week. Overall, an average of three people get taken into custody each day by one of our officers for some criminal activity or another."
"Were you on duty on September nineteenth?"
Cam nodded. "I was. I had actually just gone out to lunch when the defendant drove up to the station, asking to see me. One of my sergeants tracked me down."
Graham listened carefully and made notes on a yellow pad that he could barely read. Cam spoke clearly and dispassionately; relat-ing the horrible facts of a horrible case without the benefit of emotion.
"The defendant arrived in a red Ford pickup truck," he said. "The victim was in the passenger seat, although at the time of arrival on the scene it was not obvious that she was deceased. He asked if I was the police chief, and when I answered affirmatively, he stated his own name and said that he had killed her."
"Do you remember the exact words the defendant used?"
Cam looked at Jamie. "He said, 'My wife, Maggie, is dead, and I'm the one who killed her.' "
Audra stood in front of the jury, as if she were just another interested member. "And then what happened?"
"There was a crowd that had gathered when the defendant drove up to the station. A couple of women fainted and one of the men in the group took a swing at the defendant."
"Was there anything else?"
Cam straightened his regulation tie. He stared at a juror who was busy resetting the buttons on his watch. "Yes. I motioned for my sergeant to check on the status of the victim, and the defendant began to fight. At that point I informed him that I would be putting him under arrest."
"Did you read the defendant his Miranda rights?"
"Yes," Cam said. He watched Allie lean over the railing that separated the viewers from the players of the court, to touch Jamie's shoulder in a gesture of support. "He waived the right to a lawyer and asked to make a voluntary confession."
"What are your standard procedures regarding voluntary confessions?"
"We go through Miranda again, and ask specifically a third time if the prisoner would like a lawyer to be present. Then we tape-record the confession, which is transcribed by the police secretary, and after verifying what has been typed, the prisoner signs it."
Audra walked toward the court reporter. "Let the record show that this voluntary statement has been entered into evidence as exhibit S-three." She turned back to Cam. "Chief MacDonald, can you paraphrase for us what the defendant said in his confession?"
"He said that his wife had been diagnosed with several types of cancer, and that her illness had been terminal. After a doctor's visit on the previous Friday, she had come home in a very depressed state. The defendant indicated that his wife asked him to kill her. He sa
id that on Monday, they drove to Wheelock from their hometown of Cummington and rented a room at the Wheelock Inn. It was there, on Tuesday morning, that he covered his wife's face with a pillow and smothered her."
"How was the defendant acting when he gave his confession?"
"He wasn't crying, if that's what you mean. He spoke clearly and concisely, like he knew what he was going to say."
"Objection," Graham said. "Witness can't know what was going on in Jamie's mind."
Roarke nodded. "The jury will disregard that part of the witness's statement."
Audra continued, unfazed. "Based on the confession you heard from the defendant, Chief MacDonald, do you believe this killing was premeditated?"
"Yes."
"Do you think the defendant deliberated over killing his wife, even if only for a span of several minutes?" "Yes."
"Do you think the defendant willfully suffocated his wife?" "I do."
Audra stepped out of Cam's field of vision, so that he could see Allie, her eyes dark and sharp, supremely cold. From a long distance, he could hear the prosecutor's heels clicking on the speckled tile floor. "Nothing further," she said.
During the short recess the judge called after Cam's initial testimony, Graham told Allie that Jamie wanted to see her. He led her to a small conference cubicle down the hall from the courtroom, protected on the outside by an armed security guard.
Allie opened the door and then closed it quickly, shutting out the bustle and the accusations in the hallway. Jamie was sitting down, his head bent to the table as if the wood offered something fascinating. "I'm sorry," she said immediately.
Jamie looked up and grinned. "Did I lose already?" Allie shook her head. "I mean about yesterday. I should have been here. I wanted to be here." She paused. "I just wasn't thinking."
He laughed. "I know that defense. You're not gonna get off with that." His face realigned itself into a bitter line. "Unless I set a precedent."
Allie sat down across from him. "You look like you're doing all right."
Jamie glanced at her. "So do you." He leaned forward. "And what does that tell you?"
She knew that if she sat there for another thirty seconds, she was going to be crying, and she wasn't about to burden Jamie with her own problems. "I have to go."
"Tell me," Jamie said quietly. "It would be nice not to think about myself for a change."
Allie let herself sink back into the hard metal chair. Her skirt billowed around her ankles. "All right," she murmured. And she started to talk.
Once she began, she could not stop. Each sentence tugged another out of her heart in an unbroken line. Allie started by saying that Cam had been having an affair. That she had been too stupid to see that it was with Mia, her own assistant. That she found out after they'd gone away somewhere cold and snowy for a weekend. That Cam had lied.
She told Jamie about the garage sale, and the strongbox, and how she had hitched rides to Shelburne Falls. She told him about the buffalo cowboy and the awful night at the motel. She told him that, like an idiot, she couldn't keep herself from going back, but she didn't know if she could give Cam what he wanted. "And what's that?" Jamie asked.
Allie let all her breath out in a rush. "Everything back to normal. Me, before it happened. Him, before he met her."
Jamie stared at Allie, taking in the circles beneath her eyes and the way her hands played nervously along the lap of her skirt. He had listened to Cam's testimony, of course, but what had struck him was who Cam appeared to be talking to. Graham had told Jamie that most of the witnesses for the prosecution, especially their so-called experts, would completely ignore Jamie and speak directly to Audra or to the jury. Well, Cam had ignored Jamie, but he had been focused on his wife.
He'd recognized that look. Please, it said. You're all I've got.
And it occurred to him that Allie MacDonald had brought about something unlikely that Jamie himself had not been able to bring about by giving his wife her final wish. Instead of doing what Cam had expected--crying, Jamie supposed, and carrying on and begging--Allie had pulled the rug out from beneath him. All this time, Jamie had believed the way to Maggie's devotion lay in doing whatever she asked and being whatever she wanted. Allie had proven differently.
She'd done it when she wasn't even trying. She'd shifted the balance between them. All of a sudden, instead of Allie trailing behind Cam, Cam was clinging to whatever Allie was willing to offer.
"Forty-sixty," he said, looking at Allie with a newfound admiration. "Who would have guessed?"
Cam took the stand again just after lunch, and Graham moved directly in front of him. He knew what his job was going to be, and he had to admit, it was going to be a pleasure to do it. You couldn't discredit a policeman's testimony, especially a police chief. Everyone on that jury saw Cam as a good guy just a few notches down from God and the President; a solid, helpful public figure. If he bullied Cam, the jury would judge Graham harshly. You didn't destroy the lawman; you destroyed the jury's blind acceptance of him.
"Chief MacDonald," Graham said pleasantly. "Are there a lot of murder cases in Wheelock?"
Cam shook his head. "This is a first for me." He smiled. "Thank God."
"Have you ever been involved in another case where the victim was terminally ill?" "I don't think so." "You don't think so?" "No," Cam said, "I haven't."
Graham made an indiscriminate noise and crossed toward the jury. "Would you say, given your training, that this case is different from other murder cases?"
"In some respects."
"Such as?"
"Well, the perpetrator of the crime knew the victim in this case. He--"
"Yes," Graham interrupted. "He did. And isn't it true that in most other murder cases, the victim doesn't give her consent?"
"Objection." Audra waved from her table.
"I'll rephrase. In the majority of murder cases, does the victim give consent?"
"Of course not," Cam said.
"Chief, how did Jamie seem when he was confessing?"
"Objection." This time the prosecutor got to her feet. "Asked and answered."
"Sustained." Judge Roarke gave Graham a measured look.
"Chief MacDonald, you said earlier that Jamie was clear and concise, I believe, during his voluntary confession. Is that correct?"
"It is." Cam rested his elbow on the railing, as if he was beginning to enjoy this.
"Was Jamie clear and concise from the time you first saw him in front of the police station all the way through to the time you secured his confession?"
Cam shook his head. "There was an incident when my sergeant went to check on the status of the victim. The defendant pulled out of a restraining hold and pushed the officer out of the way. He kept mumbling incoherently, something about nobody else touching his wife."
"Was he crying then?" "Yes, he was."
"So within an hour, in your opinion, Jamie went from being somewhat violent and upset to speaking clearly and concisely?" "That's correct."
From the corner of his eye, Graham saw a fly buzzing around Jamie's head at the defense table. He swatted at it a few times and then trapped it against the table with a cupped palm. Graham noticed several of the jurors watching. He held his breath, and Jamie flattened his palm down, then removed the evidence with a napkin.
Shit. That set back all the ground he had covered. "Chief MacDonald, did you know Jamie before he showed up at the police station on September nineteenth?"
Cam's head jerked up. "Yes," he said. "The defendant is my cousin."
"That's fairly common in Wheelock, isn't it? Can you explain the origins of your town?"
Audra raised a pen into the air. "Objection, Your Honor," she said. "Relevance?"
Graham turned to the judge. "Give me a little leeway, here," he pleaded.
"I'll allow it." Roarke turned to Cam. "You may answer the question."
For fifteen minutes, Cam wove a tale of a displaced Highland clan that his ancestral namesake had shipped out piecemeal
to Massachusetts two hundred and fifty years before. He explained that he was still technically the chief of the clan, although it was only an honorary title.
"But as clan chief," Graham said, "you might have even more of a sense of responsibility to the citizens of Wheelock than an ordinary police chief, is that right?"
Cam shrugged. "I'd like to think so."
"Is it possible that Jamie's decision to kill his wife in Wheelock had something to do with the fact that you were there?" "Objection, " Audra said. "My witness is not on trial. " "Counselor," Roarke admonished, "you're on thin ice." "Chief MacDonald," Graham continued, doggedly driving toward his point, "as a member of the MacDonald clan, wouldn't Jamie have looked to you for advice?" "In theory."
"Is it possible that he might have come to Wheelock for your support?"
Cam leaned forward and pinned Graham with a glare. "Then why didn't he get in touch with me before he killed her?"
For a moment, Graham was speechless. A dull red flush worked its way up from the collar of his shirt. "Do you consider yourself an honorable man?" he asked finally.
Cam looked at his wife. He was under oath. He shifted nervously, but Allies gaze did not waver. "Most of the time."
"Can you recite the town motto of Wheelock?"
"Ex uno disce omnes. It means, 'From one, judge of the rest.' " He hesitated. "It's also the original motto of the clan from Carrymuir, over in Scotland."
Graham nodded. "So your motto involves judging, too." He glanced up at a water spot on the ceiling. "If Jamie MacDonald is a bad seed, what would it say about your clan and yourself, Chief?"
Cam scowled. "I don't see the real point--"
"Just answer the question, please."
Graham looked quickly at the jury, to see if anyone seemed to feel he was pushing the policeman a little too hard. Most of them were leaning forward in their seats.
Cam stared directly at his wife. "I think there are extenuating circumstances you have to consider," he said slowly, "anytime you judge a man."
Judge Roarke, who had a known penchant for Oreo cookies, called for a half-hour afternoon recess after Cam's cross-examination. Cam checked his watch. It was just after three. By the time the court reconvened, it would almost be time to go home. Allie had brought her own car this morning, but maybe he could convince her to talk over coffee or even dinner. He just wanted to make peace.