Dying Declaration (9 page)

“Judge, that’s a wonderful speech by Ms. Moreno. And she’s been put in a difficult spot, having to make a recommendation about a matter involving complex family law issues, even though she is neither a parent nor a lawyer. . . .” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nikki cross her arms and narrow her glare.
Good.

“But let’s not forget, Your Honor, we have a dead baby here. And we have two other children at risk for abuse and neglect.” Crawford’s voice rose, and she punctuated every word. They would make good sound bites. “Yes, in the short term it will be traumatic for these children. But in the long term, it may well save their lives. Unlike Ms. Moreno, the commonwealth is not willing to force children to tolerate abuse in the name of love—”

“What?” Nikki’s head jerked toward the Barracuda. “That is, like, so unfair.” She pointed, her eyes flashing. “What’s
your
problem?”

“
My
problem?” the Barracuda shot back. “
My
problem? I’m not the one trying to justify abuse—”

“I can’t believe—,” Nikki started.

“Ladies!”
Silverman shouted, banging his gavel. The two stopped in mid-sentence, glaring at each other with molten gazes, ready to strike,
the claws out and sharpened.

I can’t stand this woman,
Crawford thought.

“This is no way to conduct a hearing,” Silverman huffed, leaning forward and looking from one combatant to the other.

“Ms. Moreno, I want a word with you in my chambers,” he said, his voice no longer soft and even. “And, Ms. Crawford . . .”

“Yes, Judge,” she said wearily.

“I will not tolerate that type of outburst again,” he said emphatically. “You’re much too experienced and much too good a lawyer for that. I’m surprised you let your emotions get the better part of you, even for a moment.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” the Barracuda said without conviction. She glared at Nikki one last time—
Moreno’s no better than these abusive parents, and now she’s going back to coddle up to the judge
—and then Crawford sat down and started plotting her next move.

15

“WHAT’S GOING ON?”
Silverman asked as soon as Nikki took a seat in his chambers.

Nikki crossed her legs and slouched in the large leather chair in front of the judge’s desk.
Think I’ll try a little pouting.

“Crawford’s a jerk,” she said derisively.

“She’s just intense,” Silverman said. He sounded more like a grandfather now than the same stern judge who had minutes before demanded that Nikki meet him in chambers. “You two will never get along. You’re both too high-strung.”

Nikki just shrugged. As usual, she knew he was right.

“And by the way, consider this the tongue-lashing you so richly deserve,” Silverman noted with a wry smile. “I don’t want those lawyers out there thinking I’m soft.”

“Don’t worry, Judge,” Nikki responded, the life coming back into her voice. “They’ll think you’re Attila the Hun by the time I get done telling stories.

“By the way,” she added. “Congratulations.”

She watched the look of surprise flash across his face. “How’d you know?”

“Can’t answer that. But word has it that you’re first in line for the circuit court slot. The street says the appointment should come down next month.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Silverman replied with mock seriousness. Then a smooth change of tone and subject. “You want anything to drink?” He walked over to a small round table that held a tray with iced tea, a pot of coffee, and cups adorned with the emblem from Washington and Lee, his beloved alma mater.

“Nothing you’ve got,” Nikki replied. “Besides, you know I won’t drink out of a cup from a school that kept women out for so long.”

“The good old days.”

“Yeah, and Thomas Hammond thinks we’re still living in them.”

A pause, then Silverman said, “That’s why I called you back here.” He settled on the edge of his enormous desk, iced tea nestled in both hands. “You really threw a monkey wrench into my thinking when you recommended that the children stay with their folks. After all the cases you’ve handled in my courtroom, I thought I had you figured out.”

He looked at Nikki pensively. “Were you just trying to pull Crawford’s chain or do you really feel that way? It’s important that I know what you’re thinking.”

Nikki loved the man’s honesty. A few months ago they had started off on the wrong foot. These same chambers had been the scene of some strong-willed words between a disrespectful special advocate and a stubborn judge. The uneasy truce that resulted eventually changed into a grudging respect and then a mutual admiration. Now they were allies. Partners with a common desire to protect the children.

“Jerking her chain was only a bonus.” Nikki smiled at the thought. “But I really meant what I said.”

“And?”

Nikki shrugged. “I watched those kids around their parents. Yeah, the parents aren’t perfect. But they aren’t the picture of narrow-mindedness and abuse that Crawford is painting, either. I think they can be helped. It’s just a gut feeling.”

“I know what you mean,” the judge said as he walked over to his window, his back to Nikki. “But that’s a little thin for me to base a decision on—the gut feeling of the special advocate.”

“Yeah,” Nikki admitted, “but there’s one other thing. Something I couldn’t mention in open court.”

The judge turned and looked at her, his silence urging her to continue.

She thought hard about opening this can of worms. But he was honest with her, and she owed him the same.

“These foster homes, Judge. I’ve been there, seen them. They’re not good. The families have more kids than they can handle. And some of those parents are almost as strict as the Hammonds—minus the physical abuse, of course.

“Judge, I know we can’t take these cases personally. But those kids are so cute and so innocent. And right now . . . so vulnerable. Is it really in their best interest to take them from their parents and stick them in a foster home?”

He stared into space. And she let him. She had learned to respect these long moments of silence, his way of sorting it all out.

She noticed the deep wrinkles, the crow’s-feet around the eyes and the skin sagging under them. He took his job seriously,
too seriously. She wondered how he would survive the added responsibilities of the circuit court.

“You like those kids, don’t you, Nikki?”

“They’re cute, as far as kids go. But you know me, I’d take a twenty-five-year-old bodybuilder anytime.”

“Putting them in a foster home does have its drawbacks, and it also has a degree of permanency that I’m not comfortable with until we get more facts.” He stopped and took a sip of iced tea.

“I’m going to set a high bail for the husband,” he continued. “I’ve been watching his expressions. He looks desperate. I think Crawford’s right; he might do something stupid—try to run with the kids.”

“I can see that,” Nikki said.

“I’m going to let the mother out on a low bond, something like ten thousand. I don’t think she’s a risk. But I’m not ready to give her the kids without further evaluation.

“I’ll need a complete report on the family and home. Risk assessment, mother’s psychiatric state, the whole works. That’ll take a week. In the meantime, I’ve got to have somebody to take custody of the kids.”

He looked directly at Nikki, his lips forming the thinnest line of a smile.

“Wait a minute, Judge.” Nikki tilted her head back, not sure if she knew where this was headed.

“Who better than the special advocate?”

“Judge, you can’t do that!” Nikki jumped up.

“I’ll give you community service credit for every hour you have them.”

She thought for maybe half a second. “No way!” she cried. “You can’t be serious! That’s, like . . . totally
bizarre
.”

Silverman started walking across the room toward the door.

“I don’t know the first thing about taking care of kids.” She stepped in front of him, her face aghast, visions of rug rats clouding her thoughts.

He did a nifty side step and kept walking, setting his glass on the table as he passed. “Come on, Nikki, we’ve kept them waiting long enough.”

She bolted in front of him again, blocking the door. “You can’t do this, Judge. This is crazy.”

Silverman stopped, and the remnants of a smile left his face. He hesitated, as if trying to decide whether he should raise this next subject. “I knew your father, Nikki,” he said softly.

She felt the wind leave her lungs, her thoughts spinning wildly. “What’s that got to do with this?” she heard herself ask.

“Everything, Nikki.” He paused. “And you know it.”

In the hallway the Pretty Lady had said to Tiger that he would get to stay with her for a week or so. But he didn’t want to. She said he would get to see his mommy some. But his daddy would have to go away for a little while. He could see his daddy,
too. But not as often.

At least his sister, good old Stinky, would be staying with him.

Miss Nikki said that Tiger had not done anything wrong. Which he doubted. If she only knew. But he was happy to let her think that. Especially if he had to stay with her for a while. He hoped she was nice. She seemed nice.

But now he was back in the courtroom, the stuffy room with the high ceilings and bright lights and all the people. His stomach hurt. Real bad. He was standing in front of his dad. There were mean men standing behind his dad. Waiting.

His mom was next to him, kneeling and hugging Stinky. His dad knelt down too, on both knees. He put big hands on Tiger’s shoulders,
then leaned forward and spoke in a serious whisper.

“You’re the man of the family now, Tiger. At least for a little while. Daddy will be back before long. You take care of Stinky and your mom. And say your prayers every night. Okay?”

Tiger bit his lip and nodded quickly. He blinked hard to hold back the tears. His dad didn’t tell him not to cry. He didn’t have to. Tiger knew that the man of the house didn’t cry. And so he stood there, nodding bravely and shaking.

“I love you, Son,” his dad said softly. Then he gave Tiger a hard hug.

“I love you too, Daddy,” Tiger whimpered. He squeezed his daddy’s neck and reluctantly let go as the bad men pulled his daddy away.

In the next moment his mommy was hugging him and kissing on him and talking to him. But he couldn’t hear or remember what she said; his huge new job drowned out all her words.

He would take care of his mom. She and Stinky didn’t have to worry.

Then Miss Nikki took him and Stinky by the hand and turned to leave the courtroom. He held his head high and squeezed her hand tight. There were people asking questions of the Pretty Lady and crowding all around. Everyone talked and hollered at once.

His lip quivered, but he still refused to cry. He was the man of the house now. He would have led the way; he felt responsible. But he could not see through the forest of legs . . . and the unwelcome water that had suddenly flooded his eyes.

16

THE HOUSE, AS USUAL,
was hollow, lifeless, and depressing. It was also huge. That was part of the problem. But successful doctors don’t live in condos or one-story ranch houses. And so, to maintain the appearance of a happily married and successful emergency room doctor, Sean Armistead lived with his wife, Erica, in Woodard’s Mill—the most exclusive upscale neighborhood in Chesapeake, Virginia.

Sean entered his enormous foyer and gazed up at the elegant chandelier and the vaulted ornamental ceiling.
How did we get to this point?
he wondered. He hoped she was not awake or, better yet, not home. It was easier not to see her, not to be forced to deal with the disease racking his wife’s body, changing the woman he once loved, and causing him to feel so distant.

He allowed himself, just for a moment in his own cold foyer, to remember those heady days when he and Erica had discovered this place. It was springtime then, and the young couple loved the house almost as much as each other. Sean had marveled at the lush green, manicured lawn, a full acre, adorned with stately pines stretching to the heavens and brilliant white dogwoods lining the driveway. The house itself, an elegant redbrick monolith, had the luxurious feel of a twenty-first-century Southern plantation.

They could not have afforded it on his salary, but Erica came from money, and her parents helped. And while the mortgage payments stretched their budget to its limit, the house fit their station in life.

Now it was just another possession. An extremely expensive one. To be sure, it was still beautiful and immaculately maintained,
but the work was now done by hired hands. Erica didn’t lift a finger.

He placed his briefcase in the study and headed for the kitchen. He was famished. He had worked another double—sixteen straight hours—then finished some dictation. In truth, he could have left work earlier. But he had no reason to come home.

He turned the hallway corner with his head down, glancing through yesterday’s mail that he had picked up on the way in. He stopped abruptly, avoiding a head-on collision with his wife.

“How was work?” Erica looked at him with vacant eyes. She did not reach out to touch him. He stepped back.

He was surprised to see her up and dressed in a fashionable dark pantsuit this morning. Her makeup was done just right, her shoulder-length blonde hair teased and sprayed into place. She looked presentable but tired. Her eyes, once piercing and alive,
were now expressionless and empty. The crow’s-feet at the corners seemed to have grown, even since yesterday.

Sean stepped forward, bent over slightly, and kissed her on the forehead.

“Fine,” he said; then he stepped around her and continued for the kitchen. “How are you feeling today?” he asked over his shoulder. The question was cold and clinical, doctor to patient, not husband to wife.

“About the same.” She turned stiffly and followed him. “At least good enough to try going to this meeting at the club.”

He didn’t respond. He had entered the kitchen, and the nostalgia of better days quickly disappeared. Her unwashed dishes from last night’s dinner and today’s breakfast were on the counter in the middle of the kitchen. The newspaper, a book, and other pieces of paper were scattered around the other counters. Shoes in the middle of the floor. A brush, a bag of groceries, and unopened mail on the table. They had maids galore. Still, Erica managed to keep the house a mess.

“Did you call the guy for the pool yesterday afternoon?” Sean asked. He knew the answer.

“No, I forgot. I’ll call him as soon as I get back.” She started rinsing the dishes and loading the dishwasher, the twitching in her hands improving as she put them to use.

“Did you get the registrations done for the cars?”

“I’ll stop on the way back.” Her voice was softer.

Sean started a slow simmer. Erica worked quicker at the dishes, as if she were now anxious to escape.

“Is it too much to ask?” He posed the question pointedly without looking at her. He fixed himself a bowl of cereal.
Might it ever dawn on her that I would like a hot meal? Just once?
He was ready for a fight.

But he also knew her style. She fought only with silence, soft answers, and tears.

And this time, as usual, she didn’t answer.

He attacked his cereal and poured a glass of milk. Erica finished the dishes and cleaned up the counters without speaking,
the dishcloth trembling in her hand. She checked her watch. Time to go.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“I just don’t think I’m asking too much,” Sean replied, sitting at the table, staring out the window. “I work; I take care of all our finances. I just need a little help once in a while on some of the small things around the house.”

“I’m sorry, honey; I really am.” She came over and stood behind Sean and began massaging his shoulders. He felt the tremors in her hands, yet she persisted. He wanted to squirm, take her hands off him. Instead he just tensed up a little. “I’m just tired all the time,” she continued. “Forgetful. Depressed. I didn’t choose Parkinson’s. I’m doing the best I can.”

There it was. The trump card. Every argument, every fight, every request degenerated to this.
Blame it on the Parkinson’s.

“I know,” he said. He stood and faced her, put his hands on her shoulders. “Now go and have a good time.” He kissed her again,
this time on the cheek.

Erica took the hint. She slipped slowly into her shoes, grabbed her car keys from the counter, and walked deliberately toward the front door. He watched her shuffle away, slightly bent at the waist, the stiffness in her joints evident in every step. She would be devastated if she could see herself from behind and witness the triumph of the disease. He watched her turn the hall corner and then heard her pause just before she reached the front door.

“I love you,” she called.

“Love you too,” Sean said, his voice flat. With a long sigh, he turned his attention back to his cereal.

An hour later Sean stared at the computer screen in his study. He felt better with a full stomach, but now he felt guilty about the way he had treated Erica. The relationship was not salvageable. Still, he didn’t have to make it harder on her. He would make it up to her tomorrow.

It had all started five years ago. She was only thirty-three, but she suddenly felt tired and achy all the time. Her compulsive workouts disappeared overnight. She started sleeping round the clock. The lean and muscled body that Sean had married became a fixture lying in bed or slouching in an easy chair watching television. She would go days without leaving the house. Sean assumed it was a midlife crisis, maybe even depression from an inability to have kids.

He spent more time at work.

Then one day he noticed the tremors. It started with a little shaking in her right hand. A few days later, he caught her downing Extra Strength Tylenol. She claimed she had a migraine. But she couldn’t hide the stiffness in her joints, the sudden cramps,
or even the changes in her handwriting. Finally, he confronted her. She broke down and cried as he ticked off the symptoms she had been trying to hide: tremors, stiffness, cramps, insomnia, depression, withdrawal. It was an early onset of Parkinson’s,
he told her. Only later did he learn that she already knew. She had been on medication for months.

Over time the symptoms worsened. The tremors increased and walking became more difficult. She shuffled now, and she would often run her hand along the wall for balance. Once vibrant eyes had surrendered to a faraway look, a facial expression that Sean secretly named her “Parkinson’s mask.” Her speech was softer now and more monotonous. Recently, she had lost some control of her bladder. She needed to go to the bathroom constantly and eventually succumbed to wearing extra protection to avoid leaking. It embarrassed her. She and Sean never talked about it.

They slept in separate rooms. It was easy to avoid your wife in a house this big.

Sean shook his head briskly and brought himself back to the present. He took a swig of scotch and double-clicked onto Quicken,
his financial software package.

The computer demanded a password.

Sean typed in the code known only to himself. There were some advantages to having a tired and trusting wife, especially one who had no desire to get involved in how he spent the money.

B-A-R-R-A-C-U-D-A.

“Welcome to Quicken,” the computer replied.

Sean entered the usual bills to be paid electronically, including a monthly payment in the amount of twenty-four thousand dollars earmarked for the Virginia Insurance Reciprocal. He typed the words “malpractice insurance” into the notation line on the check, then hit the Send button.

A few more keystrokes and he was checking out the balances in his investment accounts. It had not been a good year in the market, but he was still worth nearly a million, thanks largely to gifts from Erica’s parents. His in-laws had been generous during life, but the big payoff was yet to come. By even conservative estimates, his in-laws were worth at least fifteen million. They were getting old, and Erica was an only child. Unfortunately, both of Erica’s parents appeared to be in pretty good health.

Sean closed the program and typed in an Internet address. He pulled up the site for the Tidewater Savings and Loan and then navigated to their electronic banking menu. A few more keystrokes, and one more use of the
Barracuda
password, and he was looking at the balance for account number 096-48133, an account belonging to the Virginia Insurance Reciprocal. Despite the steady stream of checks out of the account to another local bank each month, this single account had grown to nearly half a million dollars.

The CEO and treasurer of the Virginia Insurance Reciprocal took another swig of scotch, leaned back in his chair, and smiled.