Will pushed past me and with his great speed rushed down the corridor. I could tell by the sound that he took the steps two at a time. He was laughing in a loud, braying voice, the kind you heard in horror movies.
I went after him, hampered by the unwieldy gun. I didn’t want to shoot him, just make sure he was gone—forever. Gone from all of our lives.
He went out the front door, and I ran after him. I could see little at first except the outline of overhanging trees, but I heard his footsteps retreating toward the back of the house.
I pitched forward. Hit my knee. Caught myself with one hand.
Suddenly I couldn’t hear steps anymore!
I pushed myself up. I listened intently, as I have never listened before.
I was frightened. I thought I might be going into shock. I felt cold all over. I was freezing cold. I couldn’t forget seeing Will in Jennie’s bedroom. The look in her eyes.
It was too quiet. I couldn’t hear Will, or see him either. What was he doing out here?
The moon had disappeared behind a cover of clouds. It was nearly pitch dark. I couldn’t stay outside. I knew I should get back in the house.
Perhaps he had tricked me. Gone back to Jennie. I didn’t know what to do.
I stood uncertainly, squinting my eyes and looking around, trying to penetrate the darkness. I remembered hiding in the crawl space beneath the house near West Point. My nightmare had completed a full circle.
Silence.
Darkness.
The cold. I was shaking all over again.
“You stupid, prying bitch! You betrayed me.”
With a roar, Will attacked from behind. His strong hands struggled to grasp my throat. I fought free from the stranglehold. He struck my face, a glancing but jolting blow. It brought me to my knees. I fought to get up. Couldn’t. Not even close.
Will swung his leg. With a powerful kick, he broke my rib, maybe several ribs. The pain was sharp, and unimaginable. The shock, the terror of that moment, was beyond belief.
I fell toward the hard, cold ground.
The rifle went off with a roar louder than any of my screams, louder than a clap of thunder. I rolled onto my stomach, then everything went black and I fell unconscious into the cold, wet leaves.
CHAPTER 86
I DON’T KNOW.
I don’t know.
I honestly don’t know what happened on that fateful night of December 17. Did I shoot Will? Did I lure him outside and then blow him away? They say I did. Am I guilty of murder? Two murders? And if two murders, why not three?
Are they right when they call me a killer? The black widow of Bedford?
Maybe I’ve finally gone crazy. It feels that way. It feels so awful, so unfair. But life isn’t always fair.
I woke in my own bed with my face buried in my pillow and an agonizing pain throbbing across my left side. I felt as though I’d been beaten with a work shovel. Everything was crashing loudly inside my head.
In my mind I tumbled and tumbled but couldn’t stop the images of violence and horror from coming at me.
Who had fired the rifle?
Jennie, I thought. I’ve got to get to Jennie. And Allie. I was conscious of a great buzzing noise. At first I thought it was in my head, but then realized it came from outside.
Why were there voices outside my house? What in the world was going on?
My eyelids felt unnaturally heavy. Pain, like a razor cut, was behind them. Another kind of pain, particularly sharp, knifed into my ribs.
I forced my eyes open, then quickly closed them. The light was too bright. Who had turned the lamp on?
I heard footsteps on the stairs. Will!
I tried to sit up but couldn’t. A flaming yellow bolt crossed my vision like heat lightning, like a bold graphic on MTV.
Again I opened my eyes.
I could barely see the heavyset black man in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. He was standing by the side of the bed, looking down at me. He seemed seven feet tall. His horn-rimmed glasses appeared too small for his giant head.
He was staring at me. An odd look on his face. What was he doing in my bedroom? Or was I in a hospital? This felt more like a hospital actually.
“You’re Maggie Bradford?”
I tried to nod, tried to understand what could possibly be going on, wherever I was. Maybe I was having a flashback.
“We found you outside, carried you up here,” the man said. He passed some sort of badge before my face. A gold and blue insignia.
“I’m Emmett Harmon, Chief of the Bedford Police.” His solemn voice boomed inside my head. The Chief of the Bedford Police?
Oh, dear God. What’s happened? Jennie? Allie?
“What are you doing here? Please, where are my children?” I whispered. My throat was raw and ached when I talked.
“Maggie Bradford, you’re under arrest for the murder of your husband, Will Shepherd. You have the right to remain silent.”
BOOK FIVE
Trial & Error
CHAPTER 87
“MS. NORMA BREEN?”
“Yes. Who is this I’m speaking to?”
“My name’s Barry Kahn.”
“You don’t say. My, my. The singer Barry Kahn?”
“The same.”
“I think you’re terrific! Your songs are anyway. What can I help you with?”
“It’s not for me that I’m calling. We need your help.”
“We?”
“Nathan Bailford and I.”
“Nathan! How the hell is Nathan?”
“Up to his ears in the Maggie Bradford defense.”
“Yes. I’d heard he took it on. Tough duty.”
“We’d like to hire you for our team. Nathan says you’re the best investigator he knows.”
“I’m very good, but what difference does it make? Isn’t this case pretty open and shut? That’s what I hear.”
“We don’t think so, not at all. Nathan thinks it’s anything but open and shut.”
“You could have fooled me. The media has her drilling the son of a bitch, blowing his head off.”
“There’s more to it than that, believe me there is. You interested in finding out what?”
“He was shtupping someone else?”
“We’ll never know. Probably. But Maggie wouldn’t kill him for that.”
“Abuse?”
“Far as I know, he hit her once. No, I’m sorry, twice. She wouldn’t kill him for that either. She’s a good person. Just like in her songs.”
“Then why’d she do it?”
“That’s what we’re hiring you to find out, Ms. Breen. We’re not entirely sure that she did.”
“You need a defense, or you want the facts?”
“We need a defense.”
“Ah. My thanks for your honesty. I like that in a famous singer.”
“But we’re sure the facts will lead to the defense. Maggie’s not a killer.”
“Only of husbands, it seems. Didn’t she shoot hubby number one? I do believe I read that in the funny pages.”
“That’s never been proved. She was never tried for it. She was originally charged with second-degree murder, but it didn’t stick.”
“And her live-in? Patrick O’Malley?”
“An accident. O’Malley had a heart attack.”
“I thought she confessed to the murder.”
“The police claim what they have is a confession. Maggie was confused and disoriented when they brought her in. You can understand that.”
“The press are already trying her. She’s sure losing in their court. The first one with a handgun, the next on a boat, this one with a rifle.”
“Look. If you don’t want to take this on—”
“Oh, I didn’t say that.”
“Then you’ll join us?”
“For you, Barry Kahn—”
There was a pause. “God bless you, Ms. Breen,” Barry said.
“Call me Norma.”
She could hear his sigh o
f relief, imagined the strain he was under. And she admired his loyalty to his friend, even if she was the “black widow” of Bedford and almost surely guilty as sin.
CHAPTER 88
MOST PEOPLE STILL didn’t know the issues separating the Serbs and the Croats, but the murder trial of Maggie Bradford was being watched everywhere around the world. Reporters and television crews arrived not only from across the United States, but also from Europe, South America, Asia, and probably from the moon. The crush of the press was as great, Norma Breen thought, as at a presidential inaugural—only the desperation for the “inside” story was far more lunatic.
Christ, it’s a goddamn murder trial, she thought. Whatever the outcome, it won’t change the world. So what if she killed a husband or two? Most of them deserve it!
She pointed her dusty yellow Camaro down Clarke Street in Bedford Village and slowly drove past the buzzing courthouse for the second time that morning.
A procession of black umbrellas, vinyl raincoats, Boston Chicken and Dunkin’ Donuts take-out bags stretched along the main street, past Hamilton Drugs, Willie’s Newspapers, and the new public library. The slow parade turned onto Charles Street and continued five more blocks.
What a mess! What a freaking disaster area! Tourist buses were parked down Millar and Grant streets: bright yellow school buses and Greyhounds with names like PITTSFIELD and CATAWBA on their foreheads. It was early December, and snow already hung in the air.
“Maggie and Will: Bittersweet Love Tragedy.” That was today’s headline; similar phrases floated out to Norma from her car radio, including “Three Strikes. She’s Out!”
Cute! Norma liked that one. Finally, a little sense of humor about this fiasco, which happened to be her job for now.
The chief defense investigator hated publicity, didn’t care about the fame, or even getting rich. It interfered with her work, all those reporters scurrying after her. Still, she knew what she was in for. Maggie Bradford was a star. One segment of the public had decided she was guilty; the other, innocent as a lamb. And Norma?
Dammit, I still don’t know what to think. Maggie isn’t sure herself. What she told the police was damn close to a confession. The evidence is impressive.
Her yellow pass, pasted conspicuously on her windshield, enabled her to spin the Chevrolet into the black-topped courthouse parking area. The lot was already packed with similarly stickered state and local police cars, and private cars belonging to the attorneys and their aides from both sides.
Judge Andrew Sussman’s blue Mercedes was in his private stall beside the courthouse back door. Nearby stood Nathan Bailford’s silver Porsche, looking like a car a college boy might drive to pick up pretty girls on weekends.
And it was Bailford who came up to her as she hefted her slightly overweight body out of her car.
Bailford gestured toward the crowd outside the lot. “And today’s only for jury selection. Imagine the scene when the real trial starts.”
“How’s your client holding up?” Norma asked. She had visited the accused woman several times in the past weeks, finding her surprisingly down-to-earth, although remote, neither helpful nor hindering. “Confused,” she was told. Clinically depressed, Norma described her.
“The same. Hasn’t really changed since the night of the killing. All lows, no highs.” He looked at her anxiously. “Anything new on your end?”
“Nothing yet. Lot of balls in the air though. Sometimes I feel like the court juggler. Ha, ha.”
Norma didn’t tell the lawyer that there were aspects to the killing that troubled her a great deal. There was nothing really specific yet, just things that didn’t hang together, or hold up to close scrutiny.
What did seem clear was this: If Maggie shot her first husband, she was forced to do it. If she shot Will Shepherd, she was also forced to. By what or by whom was unclear.
The real trouble was that there were two killings. One might be explained—temporary insanity, self-defense, long-term abuse. But two?
She would go back to the murder site that afternoon, looking for more information, looking for some trail to follow.
There was something she hadn’t found, something crucial. There had to be.
Dammit. Something was definitely wrong.
In Palm Springs, a California hazy, grapefruit-pink desert sun slid over the rocky stubble topping the mountains. The early rays came shimmering down onto the swimming pool and the surrounding red tile terrace.
Peter O’Malley laid aside his copy of yesterday’s New York Times. He removed his new mirrored Ray-Ban sunglasses, put them on a wrought-iron drink stand, and stared at the sparkling blue sheet of pool water.
His mind was sparkling too. On the surface itself, superimposed over the reflection of the stucco pool house, he could almost see the face of Maggie Bradford. Just as he had seen it on television last night. Pale, shadows under the eyes. She looked like a damn zombie, out of it, and his heart leapt at her plight.
Serves her fucking well right!
Later that night he’d heard her singing voice, the sound that literally destroyed him, blaring from his car radio. Her songs were all over the radio, of course. The caged songbird, the deejay called her.
Well, that voice wouldn’t be around much longer. Not on the radio (who would play the songs of a convicted murderess?), not in the boardroom of his father’s company either.
He put his dark glasses back on, picked up the pen and legal pad he had brought with him to the pool, and began the letter that he believed would guarantee the process of sending Maggie Bradford to her doom.
What goes around, comes around, sweetheart. Now you get yours. Trust me on that. Your “affair” with the O’Malleys isn’t quite over with yet.
CHAPTER 89
EVERYBODY WHO CAME into close contact with Dan Nizhinski, the Westchester County district attorney, had the same reaction: he was too good to be true, he was perfect for his part.
First, there were his looks. He was six foot one, with corn-blond hair prematurely thinning on top but long on the sides. His face was somewhat weatherbeaten, making it look older than its thirty-six years, but the lines around his light blue, sparkling eyes gave them a mischievousness that made women jurors light up and men jurors consider him their friend.
Second was his courtroom manner. Standing ruler-straight, he seemed to take the jurors into his confidence, yet distanced himself enough so that they regarded him with awe. “I’m telling you the truth,” he seemed to be saying. “Trust me. Astonishing as the revelations are, the facts support them.”
Right now, though, at ease, cordovaned feet resting on top of his desk, he was addressing his assistants about the upcoming trial.
“The facts aren’t in doubt,” he said for what must have been the tenth time. “She just about admitted she shot him, handed over the murder weapon to the police, has cooperated more with them, I gather, than with her own attorneys. Such behavior is not uncommon in murder cases.
“But”—and here he paused for dramatic effect—”but this woman has enough money to buy the best legal and investigative resources available. Nathan Bailford himself will do the actual cross-examination; he’s had more experience in murder trials than he has in corporate ones. It’s how he made his reputation. And they’ve hired Norma Breen as their investigator. If there’s something exculpatory to find, she’ll find it—only there’s nothing, damn it. Nothing!”
Another pause, this one to control his emotions. “The defense they’ll offer, the only possible defense, is self-defense. That Maggie Bradford was defending herself against Will Shepherd, that if she hadn’t killed him, he’d have killed her.
“Well, I say that’s bullshit, and when we’re finished with her, so will the jury. It’s a defense that makes me sick. We’re talking about Maggie Bradford! She couldn’t have gone to the police? She was afraid of him? Well, it might have worked in the shooting of her first husband, but it sure as hell ain’t gonna work here. She’s a superstar. Any court i
n the world would have guaranteed her protection if she’d asked for it. A battered wife? My ass.”
A third pause, a sip of coffee. The three others in his office knew his judicial beliefs, were inured to his melodramas. They also understood just how good he was at his job—and just how much this particular trial meant to his career.
“Two husbands, two deaths. That’s putting a charley horse in the long arm of coincidence, as S. J. Perelman once said. But then, then, there’s the death of a third man in the life of Maggie Bradford. A man she supposedly loved most of all.
“Patrick O’Malley, her live-in lover, died of a heart attack on his boat. Well, was it a heart attack? So the autopsy said. But, we don’t know what brought it on.”
Nizhinski continued speaking in his very controlled voice. “Maggie Bradford is a killer. Cold-blooded, basically heartless, and until this last time, clever as the devil himself.
“But we’ve got her now. Guilty as charged? I’ve never been so convinced of anything in my life!”
Nizhinski finished, and he looked around at his assistants. “Any questions, cubs, or are you too dazzled to speak? Anyone see any way we can lose this one? I sure can’t.”
CHAPTER 90
I’M NO EXPERT on prisons, and don’t want to be, but if the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women is “one of the most luxurious,” then I pity the women incarcerated elsewhere. This stinks big time, especially when you’re innocent; but even if you’re not, this can’t be the way to proper rehabilitation. I am absolutely certain that it isn’t.
I have no cellmate—because I’m a “star.” I exercise, and eat the bad food, alone. I’ve made a friend, another woman accused of killing her husband. The grim irony isn’t lost on either of us.
I’m surrounded by drug addicts, small-time thieves, gang members, arsonists, a few murderers. Jennie visits a few times each week, and I can’t wait to see her. Allie’s been told I’m away, and to mind Mrs. Leigh. I miss them so much I can’t write about it.
When I think about my sweet girl, my darling boy, I can feel my heart ripping—I’m forced to double over with pain. I don’t feel sorry for myself; I just can’t live without the two of them. I can’t let myself go to pieces, for their sake.