Blameless (22 page)

When the horn blew its wrenching minor-chord blast, all the inmates slowly rose from their places at the tables, or on the floor, or leaning against the walls, and trudged to their cells. The horn blew again, and the cell doors all clanged shut.

Diana shook her head and forced herself to sit down at her desk. She opened the thick stack of computer printouts that had been gathering dust while she concentrated on her case for Valerie, hoping to lose herself in the statistics she had run before James had died. But the numbers all swam before her eyes, and her brain refused to function.
Murder. Suspect. Prison
.

Forcing herself to concentrate on the data, Diana flipped quickly through the pages. Then she slowed down to scrutinize the individual numbers, caught by the results despite her concerns. It really was unbelievable how well her theory was holding. At least half of the ANOVAs were statistically significant and her discriminant function model was looking very promising; three variables were well over 1.0 and significantly contributed to the amount of change in lambda.

Her data was clearly contradicting the traditional wisdom, established by Adrian Arnold, that borderline personality disorders were caused by a disturbed early maternal relationship. Diana tapped the printouts with her pencil. None of her maternal variables were showing any statistical significance at all. It was amazing how powerfully linked childhood trauma was to a person’s chances of developing a borderline disorder. Regardless of age, sex, or race. And the more chronic and horrific the traumas, the stronger the relationship. That sure explained Sandy. James too.
Murder. Suspect. Prison
. She pushed herself up from the chair and resumed her pacing.

When her borderline group arrived for their weekly session, Diana put aside her statistics, happy for the distraction. But she soon found that neither Sandy’s loneliness, nor Terri’s inability to get herself to ride the subway, nor Bruce’s nightmare of being lost in a hospital with no exit doors, could keep her from her own worries.
Murder. Suspect. Prison
. She forced herself to focus on Sandy’s face, to look Bruce directly in the eye, to listen to Terri with her entire body. But the concentration just wasn’t there.

Finally the hour was over and they left. Soon after, Valerie called. She told Diana that her partner Mitch Calahane, the criminal lawyer to whom she wanted to refer Diana, had gotten the “courthouse gab” on the Hutchins case. “They have even less than I thought,” she said. “Less than jack-shit. Three suspects—but nothing on any of you.”

“So why did the police act like they knew I was guilty?”

“Because it’s their job to make people nervous,” Valerie said. “But what’s really interesting here is that it seems your old nemesis—and co-suspect—Jill Hutchins is saving your skin.”

“Jill is saving
my
skin?”

“Well, not on purpose,” Valerie said. “And she’s saving her own as well as that other guy’s—but, either way, it seems that she destroyed all the evidence. And without evidence, it’s just about impossible for the prosecution to sustain its burden in a criminal suit—where burden of proof already favors the defendant.”

Valerie went on to tell Diana that after the funeral, Jill had had James’s body cremated and scattered his ashes off the coast of Provincetown. Jill also sold the shotgun—now the murder weapon—and had the apartment thoroughly cleaned. Then she subleased it to a couple of college students, omitting the grisly details of what had happened to its last occupant.

Valerie explained that at the time of the murder, no hair, no fibers, no blood or fingerprints had been collected. No witnesses had been questioned or crime lab photos taken. Although technically every death was supposed to be considered a homicide—and every crime scene treated as such—Jill’s positive identification of the body, combined with James’s history of suicide attempts, had been more than enough for an overworked police force to step out of the case. “And now the trail’s stone cold,” Valerie chortled. “Or, more accurately, there’s no trail at all.”

Diana exhaled the breath she wasn’t aware she had been holding. “So I’m in the clear?”

“Well,” Valerie said slowly. “Circumstantial cases have been built and successfully prosecuted with less physical evidence, and I would recommend retaining Mitch. But if pushed, I’d have to say that you’re in pretty good shape.”

“So why do I need a criminal lawyer?” Diana demanded.

“It’s always best to be prepared,” Valerie said in a very lawyerlike manner.

But when Diana heard Calahane’s retainer for a homicide case was fifty thousand dollars, she shook her head. “It’s impossible,” she said. “Out of the question.”

Valerie hesitated. “It’s not really a good idea to go into this alone. And Mitch is worth every penny—he’s the best.”

“Why can’t I just keep paying you at your hourly rate?”

“This isn’t my area,” Valerie protested. “I know very little about criminal law. The only reason I’m even doing this is because I’m working on your suit against the
Inquirer
. I’m out of my league here. You’d be doing yourself a grave disservice—”

“But you think I
could
get away without him for now?” Diana interrupted. “Given all this lack of physical evidence business?”

“I suppose so—although, as your lawyer, I would be remiss in advising it.”

“Well, there’s really no choice here,” Diana said with more confidence than she felt. “Let’s leave things the way they are and see how they play themselves out.”

18

D
IANA REACHED UNDER HER DESK AND RIPPED THE
socks from her feet. Then she unfastened another button on her blouse. Although Indian summer was not an uncommon phenomenon in Boston, it usually hit in late October—often the day after Diana had dragged her shorts and bathing suits to the basement. It didn’t usually waft through the week before Thanksgiving. And it was never this warm. Diana lifted the window, and balmy air flowed into the office. This was nuts even for New England. It had to be seventy degrees.

She had just returned from school, having taught her first class since her reinstatement. The class had gone fine, although no one showed up for her office hours. Leaving the department a bit early, she had come home and run some data through her computer in an attempt to make up for the time she had lost on her research project.

Anxious to see the results, Diana read each chart, her head twisted sideways, as the paper chugged out of the printer. Amazing, she thought as she burst the pages. These numbers were even stronger than the earlier ones had been. The new cases she had just added to her database increased the support for her theory beyond her wildest expectations.

She dropped into the chair. According to the data in front of her, borderline personality disorders did not arise from disturbed mothering before age two, as Adrian Arnold and company maintained. Her research showed that a major traumatic event—usually abuse, often sexual, and involving a trusted family member—at a much later age was correlated with borderline symptomology. The data also indicated that the condition itself was much more similar to posttraumatic stress disorder than to the other severe personality disorders.

Her heart racing, Diana tapped her pen on the printouts. This was major league stuff. She checked through the numbers one more time and smiled. Her methodology was tight, her sample size more than adequate, and the numbers were indeed very strong. There was more than enough here for publication. She would try
Abnormal Psychology
first. Wouldn’t Adrian just die?

She looked back down at her data. This wasn’t just about getting published in a prestigious journal or besting Adrian Arnold—although she had to admit it
was
about those things too. The real importance of these data was their implication for treatment. For, as long as borderline personality disorders were seen as being caused by ambivalent mothers or some kind of interference in the infant-mother bonding process, then those suffering from them were, for all intents and purposes, incurable. On the other hand, if it was a variation of posttraumatic stress, then many types of therapy, including short-term behavioral techniques—could effect a cure.

Diana once again saw James’s lifeless body on the stretcher in his living room. She heard the policeman’s words:
His head’s pretty much gone
. If only she had been smarter. Better. If only she could have held on to him, and to herself, just a little bit longer. She could taste the metallic tang of her failure. And of her guilt.

She remembered the afternoon she had discovered her briefcase missing from her office. “I don’t know who might have taken it,” she had told James over the phone. “I just wanted to let you know it was missing—and that if it happened to show up anytime soon, no questions would be asked.” One hour later James had knocked on the door and handed her the briefcase, furious with her for thinking him capable of such deception and thievery. He was so confused, so conflicted: One part of him tried to do the right thing, while the other part of him just couldn’t pull it off.

“No,” she said out loud as she pushed away the images and breathed in the preposterous, but delicious, spring-scented air. It was over. No purpose could be served by obsessing. Nothing could be changed. Think of the data, she directed herself. Think of the weather. They were harbingers of her new fate, omens that all of this awfulness was really behind her.

Still, it was difficult for her to dispel James’s ghost. He wouldn’t go away as easily, or as quickly, as she would have liked. But finally her optimism won, and Diana started to allow herself to think that the worst just might be behind her. That she really might be free of James Hutchins at last.

The phone rang at her elbow and, in a response reflecting her new state of mind, Diana picked up the receiver without screening the call through her answering machine.

“Just wanted to fill you in on the libel suit,” Valerie’s voice boomed through the receiver. “This could be lucrative as hell. I’ve done a little research and there’s no doubt: We’ve got a clear case of invasion of privacy, defamation of character, and libel. We might even go for libel directly causing others to slander, although that one’s a long shot.” Valerie paused. “But with or without the slander, I’d go for a million. Maybe one and a half.”

“One and a half million dollars?” Diana was incredulous.

“The
Inquirer’s
got the money. And you deserve compensation. You went through severe emotional trauma. And incontestable damage was done to your professional reputation and earning power.”

“One and a half million dollars?” Diana asked again, simultaneously exhilarated and disgusted by the greed and vindictiveness that jolted through her.

“Gotcha!”

Diana didn’t say anything as visions of a new car—maybe even two—a security system, and a college education for the baby flew across her mind. Not to mention a tasteful office in the Prudential Tower with “Frey and Associates” on a brass nameplate next to the door.

“It’s a strong case,” Valerie was saying. “But I’ve got to be honest with you: It could be years before any award is made—and what we ask for may not be what we get. The thing you’ve got to remember is that it’s not the actual dollar amount that’s important—it’s getting the
Inquirer
that counts.”

Diana shook her head, wondering how a lawyer could possibly make that statement with a straight face. She also wondered if they would really “get” anybody. Would their efforts—and her public humiliation—produce retaliation against any of the people who were actually responsible for her trauma? the
Inquirer
would most likely just shrug it off, chalking the whole thing up to the cost of doing business, letting their insurance company write out a fat check. “What do you think would be the actual amount?” she finally asked.

“Impossible to say.”

“Half?” Diana pressed.

“Look,” Valerie said. “I got into trouble promising you things I couldn’t deliver before, so I’m not going to fall into that trap again. But I repeat, it’s a strong case.”

“And what about you? How do you get paid?”

“One-third of the award,” Valerie answered quickly.

Diana now saw a much smaller car, a less sophisticated security system, and only a couple of years of college tuition in the bank. “If this really is over,” she said slowly, “all I want to do is forget about the whole thing and get on with my life.”

“After a couple of days, the publicity from this new suit would die down,” Valerie continued. “It wouldn’t be like the others. You’re suing a newspaper—not being tried for murder.”

Murder
. The word reverberated through Diana’s brain. She could have been tried for murder. She could be wearing one of those coarse, scratchy red uniforms and sleeping with a bunch of angry women in a claustrophobic cell. No, she thought, there was a lesson here. She shouldn’t tempt the fates. She had just won big. Now was the time to cash in her chips and go home.

As if reading Diana’s mind, Valerie made a last stab. “Don’t you think you should discuss this with Craig before making a final decision? You told me the other day he was pretty hot on the idea of suing the
Inquirer
. Better check and make sure—he might think it’s well worth whatever minor intrusion it might create in your lives.”

Diana knew Craig was more than angry enough with the
Inquirer
to put up with a “minor intrusion.” But she also knew he would back her decision one hundred percent. “No,” she said with conviction. “I just don’t have the stomach for it.”

“How about letting me continue for a little while longer?” Valerie asked. “See what I can come up with that might change your mind? Can’t do any harm—and it won’t cost you a thing,” she added.

Unable to withstand Valerie’s persistence, Diana said, “All right, all right. But I’m not making any promises.”

“None expected,” Valerie agreed. “I have something else to tell you.”

“What’s up?” Diana’s heart did a nosedive and her body stiffened.

“Mitch’s got some more courthouse gab for you.”