From Cradle to Grave (7 page)

‘No,’ he said. ‘Let Farah get it. That’s her job around here.’ Then he reached up and slapped Farah on her small, firm derrière. ‘She’s got to earn her keep somehow.’

Farah’s mouth dropped open in feigned outrage. Then she grinned, bent over, murmured something in his ear, and kissed him as if to reward him for being amusing.

Sandy shoved her gently away. ‘Yeah, yeah, OK. Go on, now,’ he said.

Farah straightened up and looked at Morgan brightly. ‘Follow me,’ she said.

SEVEN

T
he voice of Alanis Morissette invaded Morgan’s deep sleep, and it took her a moment to realize that it was her cellphone. She opened her eyes in the darkness, and found herself sunk into the comfort of a king feather bed, in one of Sandy Raymond’s many guest rooms. She fumbled to switch on the lamp and slid off the silky sheets and out from under the weightless, warm duvet to rummage through her bag for the phone.

‘Hello,’ she murmured, frowning.

‘I’m trying to reach Morgan Adair,’ said the woman’s voice at the other end.

‘Yes,’ said Morgan, ‘that’s me.’

‘This is Noreen Quick’s office calling. Ms Quick is calling on behalf of her client, Claire Bolton. Would it be possible for you to come and see Ms Quick this morning? She has a few important matters to discuss with you.’

‘Yes,’ said Morgan. ‘Yes. Absolutely. I can come. I’ll be there right away.’

Groggy though she was, Morgan got the directions and entered them into her phone when the secretary hung up. Then, she stumbled off to the pristine, marble-surfaced bathroom for a quick wash-up. She dressed quickly and grabbed her satchel. She thought about taking her suitcase with her, but that seemed rude in light of Sandy’s hospitality. She would come back for it, and thank him properly. She found her way downstairs in the huge, silent house. She left the house without seeing Sandy or his girlfriend, stopped at a convenience store for coffee and a roll, and arrived, on time, at the lawyer’s office.

According to the neatly scripted sign which hung from a lamppost, the offices of Abrams and Quick were located in a clapboard-sided cottage in a narrow street off of the main thoroughfare in downtown Briarwood. Morgan parked in front of the building, opened the gate in the picket fence and walked in the front door. She nearly tripped over a furry, dun-colored Airedale who was stretched out across the hallway, his head resting on his front paws. He raised his eyebrows and looked up at Morgan, but didn’t bark, or stir. Bemused, Morgan stepped over him and entered the room marked reception.

The woman at the desk, whose sign read ‘Berenice Hoffman’, was middle-aged, with black horned-rimmed glasses. Her gray hair was pulled back in a short ponytail and she was wearing a black turtleneck beneath an Adelphi sweatshirt. Berenice looked up from her computer and smiled at Morgan. Across from the desk was a small playpen, currently occupied by a toddler in red overalls with a halo of golden curls who was playing quietly with some foam blocks. The child looked up at Morgan and made a gurgling sound.

Morgan smiled at the toddler. ‘Hi yourself,’ she said. Then she turned back to the receptionist. ‘My name is Morgan Adair. You called me earlier . . .’

‘Yes, right.’ Berenice pointed to the toddler with her pen. ‘Ms Quick is with Kyle’s mother right now. But if you’ll take a seat, she’s almost done, and then she’ll be glad to talk with you.’

‘OK,’ said Morgan. She sat down next to the playpen and waggled a finger at the baby, who rewarded her with a radiant, toothless grin.

Morgan turned back to the receptionist. ‘Whose dog is that in the hall?’ she asked.

‘Mine,’ said Berenice. ‘That’s Rufus. He barks all day from loneliness if I leave him at home and then the neighbors hate me.’

Morgan nodded. She was a little surprised by the informality of this office, but she liked it, all the same. ‘He seems pretty . . . calm around people.’

‘He likes company,’ said Berenice, rolling her eyes. ‘Ms Abrams and Ms Quick do mainly divorce and custody work. So we get lots of kids in here. He loves that. He lets them crawl all over him.’

Morgan nodded, smiling. She thought about what Sandy had said last night. Claire needed the best possible criminal attorney. Obviously, criminal law was not the specialty of this firm. Morgan worried that this was not the right firm for Claire’s case. She decided to reserve judgement until she met Noreen Quick.

Berenice returned to her computer, and Morgan looked around the reception area which had a decidedly female atmosphere. There was a glass jar of candy on the end table and mounds of tattered parenting magazines, as well as
Ladies Home Journal
and
US News and World Report
. Along with some framed university plaques, a rainbow quilt hung on the wall. Morgan felt more as if she were in a pediatrician’s office than a law firm.

She heard a door opening out in the corridor, and a woman’s voice thanking someone profusely. In a moment, a young woman came into reception, and her gaze turned immediately to the playpen. ‘Hey Kyle,’ she crooned. ‘How’s my sweetie?’ The young woman wore a midriff-baring shirt and torn jeans and had messy, strawberry-blond hair. There were deep circles around her eyes, and she was carrying an enormous diaper bag, festooned with ducks and rabbits. ‘Were you a good boy for Berenice?’

‘Ma . . .’ cried the baby, clambering up and bouncing as he held on to the edge of the playpen.

The woman reached in the diaper bag and pulled out a checkbook.

Berenice murmured an amount and the woman quickly wrote a check while the baby continued to yelp for his mom.

‘Thank you so much for watching him,’ the young woman said, as she bent over the playpen to lift the child out. ‘Come on, sweetie. Let’s go say hi to Rufus. Thanks again, Berenice.

‘No problem,’ said the older woman. The phone rang on her desk. Berenice picked it up and nodded. She hung the phone up and looked at Morgan. ‘She can see you now. Go out in the hall and take the second door on your left.’

‘Thanks,’ said Morgan. She went out into the hall. The toddler was on the floor, pulling at Rufus’s ears while his mother made a call on her cellphone. Rufus, true to his reputation, remained tranquil.

A door opened in the hallway and a woman appeared there. She was short, with curly orange hair, freckles and no make-up. She was dressed casually in stirrup pants, and a large, sky blue sweater which covered a distended, obviously pregnant belly. She probably had a reasonably trim little figure when she wasn’t pregnant, but the belly, combined with short stature, gave her body a certain troll-like appearance. Noreen extended a hand to Morgan. ‘Hi, I’m Noreen Quick.’

Morgan shook her hand. ‘Morgan Adair.’

‘Come on in, Morgan. Can I call you Morgan? Thanks for coming.’

Morgan followed her into an office which was painted yellow and had family pictures on every flat surface. Noreen appeared to have children, but not a husband, if the pictures were any indication. Morgan glanced at her left hand and saw that Noreen did not wear a wedding ring.

On the wall of the office there were also framed newspaper articles extolling Noreen Quick’s professional and charitable efforts on behalf of Planned Parenthood and an organization called Mothers At Work. Noreen sat down behind her desk and Morgan took the visitor’s chair. Noreen leaned forward and folded her hands.

‘How are you and Claire related, Morgan?’ asked the attorney.

‘We’re old friends. More like sisters,’ said Morgan.

Noreen peered at her. ‘She has no close blood relations?’

‘Not really. Some cousins in Oregon. Her mother died several years ago. She and I are very much in the same boat. We’ve come to rely on one another.’

Noreen held up a document. ‘Well, obviously she has a lot of faith in you. I saw Claire first thing this morning and she indicated that she wanted you to have general power of attorney while she’s incarcerated.’

‘Power of attorney? What does that mean?’ asked Morgan.

‘You will be in charge of managing her assets, her financial affairs, that sort of thing. Obviously, she trusts you to safeguard her interests.’

‘Wow,’ said Morgan.

‘Are you willing to act as her agent?’ asked Noreen.

The idea of it was daunting, but Morgan wasn’t about to refuse. She had promised to help, any way she could. ‘Yes. Of course,’ said Morgan. ‘Whatever she needs me to do.’

‘All right. I’ll have this recorded with the state.’

‘But I don’t know exactly . . . what her interests are . . .’ said Morgan.

‘Some things she can tell you herself. And when you are able to get into the house you’ll be able to access her computer, her paperwork, etc.’

‘Do you know when that will be?’ Morgan asked. ‘The police have the house blocked off right now.’

‘I’ll call and find out when you can get in,’ said Noreen.

‘Oh, thank you. That would be a big help.’

‘No problem,’ said Noreen. She made a note on the pad in front of her.

‘How’s she doing today?’ Morgan asked.

‘Excuse me?’ said Noreen.

‘Claire. How’s she doing?’

Noreen spread her freckled hands. ‘As well as can be expected, I suppose.’

‘Can we get her out of there on bail?’ Morgan asked.

Noreen sighed. ‘Bail’s a problem. If it was just the baby, that would be one thing. In our justice system, that is actually considered the lesser crime. The fact that the husband was also killed . . . Bail’s not gonna happen. And, they have her on a suicide watch right now. Which is, in my opinion, a good idea.’

Morgan blanched. ‘You think she’s suicidal?’

Noreen looked surprised. ‘Obviously, she is at a high risk right now.’

‘So that’s all the more reason to get her out of there,’ Morgan insisted.

Noreen frowned. ‘Even if we could, she needs constant supervision. This is a responsibility that you do not want to take on. Trust me. I’m having her examined by a psychiatrist today,’ said Noreen.

Morgan had a sudden image in her mind of Claire, last night, being led to the van for the county jail – the vacant, exhausted look in her eyes. ‘That’s probably a good idea,’ Morgan admitted.

Noreen frowned. ‘Her state of mind is a cornerstone of my defense. I’m going to plead temporary insanity. She is suffering from an extreme form of post-partum depression. Actually it’s called post-partum psychosis.’

‘Psychosis? I was with her last week,’ said Morgan. ‘She didn’t seem that disturbed.’

Noreen looked at her with raised eyebrows. ‘She killed her husband and her baby. It doesn’t get much more disturbed than that.’

Morgan reddened. ‘I know. I know you’re right. But the way she told it to me, it sounded almost . . . accidental.’

Noreen gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘I’m afraid it would be impossible to sell “accidental”. Maybe one or the other death might have been an accident. But both of them? No. That’s out of the question.’

This attorney was undeniably forceful. Morgan felt her objections being slammed down like badminton birdies. But Morgan felt both weighted down, and emboldened by the fact that Claire had legally entrusted her with all her affairs. It gave Morgan the right, the duty in fact, to speak her mind on Claire’s behalf. ‘You’re probably right, but, please don’t take offense, but shouldn’t Claire have a criminal defense lawyer?’ said Morgan.

Noreen spoke in an equable tone. ‘No offense taken. I offered to argue this case pro bono because I am an expert on women’s issues, and I think I can present the most convincing case. But if you want to try and find another attorney, by all means, feel free.’

‘It’s just that I’ve known Claire for so long,’ Morgan pleaded. ‘I can’t imagine her ever deliberately doing such a thing.’

‘Look,’ said Noreen, ‘Women who suffer from post-partum psychosis have hallucinations, they hear voices telling them to kill their children, they have suicidal fantasies.’ Noreen seemed to be gaining energy, intensity as she spoke.

‘When a woman is in this state of mind, she is not really responsible for her actions. All she wants to do is stop the voices, stop the pain. A woman with post-partum psychosis thinks that she is doing something good for her baby by killing that child. That she is carrying out God’s . . . commands, if you will.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Morgan interrupted. ‘I’ve read about women like that, but it just doesn’t seem like Claire was that . . .’

‘Crazy?’ Noreen looked at Morgan with a shade of impatience. ‘You don’t have to take my word for it. As I told you, Claire is going to be examined by a psychiatrist. Once the psychiatrist confirms post-partum psychosis, we’ll have an expert opinion. Then we can proceed.’

‘Proceed how?’ Morgan asked.

‘Well, I’ll argue not guilty by reason of temporary insanity. Obviously, no mother in her right mind would kill her baby. So, she has to have been in a deranged state of mind. When her husband tried to intervene, they struggled and she ‘accidentally’ pushed him. According to the coroner’s report, he cracked his skull on the edge of the cast iron tub.’