Missing Pieces (21 page)

A well-stacked law library was located beside the jury office and across from the cafeteria. The cafeteria was open between eight and five, and always smelled of Javex. Two large escalators ran up and down on opposite sides of the corridor. There were more guards and another metal detector at the Quadrille Street entrance. I’m not sure when I became aware of such details. Perhaps they passed through me by osmosis as I waited for the elevator to take us to the eleventh floor. But such unnecessary facts were now a part of my life, and I was likely to retain them, in much the same way I would always know that Brenda Marshall had once been William Holden’s wife.

“Do you ever worry about things?” Jo Lynn asked as we stepped out of the elevator and began the long march to the courtroom at the far end of the hall.

“What kind of things?” I asked.

“Silly things, things you shouldn’t be worried about.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” Jo Lynn stared out the long windows as we walked down the hallway, the heels of her brown sandals clicking against the gray and black squares of the marble floor. She was wearing a white sweater and a long brown linen skirt, with buttons up the front, although the buttons were undone to her thighs. Tanned bare legs flashed briefly, then disappeared, with each step.

“Tell me,” I said, genuinely curious. It was unlike Jo Lynn to be overly introspective.

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“I already think you’re crazy.”

She made a face. “You’re ‘kidding on the square,’” she said, her voice an exact duplicate of our mother’s.

“What do you worry about?” I asked.

We passed through the large double doors and into the small, dark anteroom that preceded Courtroom 11 A. “Like here,” she said, stopping unexpectedly. “It’s so dark. I sometimes worry about what it would be like if it were always this dark. Sometimes, I close my eyes and pretend that I’m blind, like we used to do when we were kids, and I think: What would happen if when I opened my eyes, I still couldn’t see? I mean, don’t you think that would be awful? Not to be able to see anything, to be a prisoner of the darkness?”

“It would be awful not to see,” I agreed, not sure where this was coming from. We stepped into the courtroom, were greeted immediately by a wall of sunlight. Jo Lynn walked directly to our seats, unmindful of the spectacular view. “What else do you worry about?” I asked, taking my seat beside her.

“I worry about getting cancer,” she said.

“That’s a pretty normal fear,” I told her.

“Ovarian cancer, like Gilda Radner,” she said.

“There’s no history of ovarian cancer in our family,” I assured her.

“Cancer’s just so sneaky, don’t you think? I mean, here’s Gilda Radner, she’s a famous TV star with a movie star husband, she has everything, and then one day maybe she gets a pain in her lower back or something, and she goes to the doctor and discovers that she has ovarian cancer, and a few months later, she’s dead. Or that friend of yours from Pittsburgh, the one who was killed in that awful car accident? Here she was, driving along, probably listening to the radio, maybe even singing along, and one minute she’s fine, and the next minute she’s dead. And I hate that. I really hate that.”

“It’s a reminder of our own mortality.”

“What?”

“We all worry about things like that occasionally,” I said instead.

“You don’t,” she stated.

“Of course I do.”

Her eyes searched mine for signs I might be mocking her. “You never seem like you worry about anything.”

“I have the same worries as everybody else. Don’t you think I’m human?”

She fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat. “It’s just that you always seem to have everything under control. You know everything …”

“I don’t know everything.”

“Yes, you do. Or at least, that’s the impression you give. Kate Sinclair, the woman who has everything, knows everything.”

I listened to her voice for signs of bitterness, but there were none. She was just stating the facts as she believed them.

“But it’s not true.”

“Of course it is. Kate, face it. You’re hopelessly put-together. You have the perfect life—a husband who adores you, two terrific kids, a great career, a gorgeous house, a designer wardrobe.”

I stared guiltily down at my navy Donna Karan pantsuit.

“You have it all,” she said. “No wonder it’s so hard for Sara.”

“Sara? What are you talking about?”

“You’re a tough act to follow, Kate,” she explained. “It’s hard enough being your sister.”

I was having trouble keeping up with the sudden shifts in the conversation. Hadn’t we started out talking about Jo Lynn? How did we end up talking about me? And what did Sara have to do with anything? “What do you mean, it’s hard for Sara? What is?”

“Being your daughter, knowing how high your expectations are, knowing that she’ll never measure up.”

“Did Sara tell you this?”

“Not in so many words, but we’ve talked about you a lot. I understand the sort of things she’s going through.”

I felt a stab of anxiety, like an ice pick to the heart. “The only expectations I have for Sara are that she go to school and be reasonably pleasant to live with.”

“That’s not true. You want her to be just like you.”

“No, I don’t.”

“That’s what she thinks.”

“But it’s not true. I just want her …”

“To be happy?” Jo Lynn said, our mother’s voice resurfacing. “No—you want
you
to be happy
with
her. Michelle makes you happy because she’s just like you. She has the same style as you. She wants the same things. But Sara’s different, and you have to let her live her own life.”

“Why are we talking about Sara?” I demanded testily.

Jo Lynn shrugged, looked away.

The courtroom was filling up. It was becoming uncomfortably warm. I undid the buttons of my jacket, fanned my face with the brochure I’d taken from the information desk in the lobby.

“So, what do you worry about?” Jo Lynn asked, as if daring me to prove I was human.

“I worry about the kids,” I told her. “And about our mother.”

“She’ll outlive us all,” Jo Lynn said dismissively. “Besides, that’s too ordinary. Tell me something crazy that you worry about, something that doesn’t make any sense.”

“I worry about words losing their meaning,” I heard myself say, surprised to be voicing these thoughts out loud. “That I’ll be reading a book or the newspaper or
something, and it’ll be like reading a foreign language, the words won’t make any sense.”

“That’s pretty crazy,” Jo Lynn agreed, seemingly satisfied.

“And I worry about losing pieces of myself,” I continued, even as I felt her interest waning, her attention drifting away. “That as I keep giving pieces of myself to everyone else, there won’t be anything left over at the end of the day for me, that there won’t be anything left
of
me.” That I’ll look in the mirror one morning, I continued silently, and there won’t be anyone looking back.

“Oh God, there he is,” Jo Lynn said, rising in her seat, waving toward the front of the courtroom.

Like a vampire, I thought, snapping out of my reverie, directing my attention to the real-life vampire coming through the door beside the judge’s podium, a handsome man in a conservative blue suit, not unlike my own, a man whose greatest pleasure was sucking the life’s blood from defenseless women and girls. And this man was smiling at my sister.

The clerk quickly called the court to order and we all rose as the judge assumed his seat at the podium. “Is the defense ready to proceed?” Judge Kellner asked.

Jake Archibald was on his feet, doing up the top button of his tan jacket. “We’re ready, your honor.”

“Call your first witness.”

There was a collective intake of breath from the gallery of spectators as we waited to see who that witness would be.

The lawyer paused, took a deep breath of his own. “The defense calls Colin Friendly to the stand.”

S
tate your name, please.”

The accused killer leaned toward the slender black microphone in front of the witness stand and spoke softly into it, his eyes sweeping across the room before settling on the jury box. “Colin Friendly.”

“And do you normally reside at 1500 Tenth Street in Lantana, Florida?”

“Yes, sir. I had an apartment there before I was arrested.” His voice was pleasant, his accent subtle and melodious. He spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each word.

“What’s your occupation, Mr. Friendly?”

“I worked for a waterproofing company.”

“In what capacity?”

“I was a foreman.”

“And what sort of hours did you work?”

“Whatever hours the job required. Usually from eight till four. Sometimes later.”

“Five days a week?”

“Sometimes seven,” Colin Friendly stated. “It all depended on how busy we were.”

“How old are you, Mr. Friendly?”

“Thirty-two.”

“And what is your level of education?”

“I have two years of college.”

“What college is that?”

“Florida State University.”

“Have you ever been married?”

“Not yet.” He smiled directly at Jo Lynn.

Jo Lynn squeezed my hand. My stomach turned over.

“Mr. Friendly,” his lawyer began, “you’re well aware of the charges against you?”

“I am.”

“Is there any truth to those charges?”

“None.”

“Did you rape and murder Marie Postelwaite?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you rape and murder Christine McDermott?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you rape and murder Tammy Fisher?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you rape and murder Cathy Doran?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you rape and murder Janet McMillan?”

“No, sir.”

I found myself counting off each successive name on my fingers, my body growing increasingly numb.

“Did you rape and murder Susan Arnold?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you rape and murder Marilyn Greenwood?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you rape and murder Marni Smith?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you rape and murder Judy Renquist?”

“No, sir.”

Jo Lynn leaned toward me, whispered in my ear. “Look at his eyes. You just know he’s telling the truth.”

I looked at his eyes, saw only evil.

“Did you rape and murder Tracey Secord?” Jake Archibald continued.

“No, sir.”

“Did you rape and murder Barbara Weston?”

“No, sir.”

I stared at the jury. All eyes were riveted on the accused, all ears hanging on the defense’s heartbreaking litany. Could there possibly be one among them who agreed with my sister? And if there was one, could there be more? Was there any chance that Colin Friendly might be acquitted, that he could walk from this courtroom a free man?

“Did you rape and murder Wendy Sabatello?” the defense attorney asked, almost at the end.

“No, sir.”

“Did you rape and murder Maureen Elfer?” he concluded, the last of the thirteen unfortunate women.

“No, sir,” came the automatic response.

Did you rape and murder Amy Lokash? I added silently. Did you smash her nose, stab her repeatedly, and leave her to die in some hostile swamp? Will we ever learn the truth about what happened to her?

“I could never hurt anybody,” Colin Friendly said, as if speaking directly to me.

“Thank you, Mr. Friendly,” his lawyer said. “No further questions.” Jake Archibald returned to his seat, unbuttoned his jacket, nodded toward Howard Eaves, who rose to his feet, buttoning his.

“You could never hurt anybody,” Howard Eaves repeated, speaking before he was fully out of his chair.

“No, sir.”

“What about your mother?”

“My m-mother?” Colin Friendly stuttered briefly.

“Oh, see what that miserable man’s done,” Jo Lynn whispered. “He’s upset him. It’s okay, baby,” she coached. “It’ll be all right.”

“Didn’t you break your mother’s nose, send her to the hospital?”

“Objection, your honor,” the defense counsel stated, rising reluctantly to his feet. “Irrelevant and prejudicial.”

Howard Eaves smiled, patted his thinning hair. “Colin Friendly opened the door to this line of questioning when he stated under direct examination that he would never hurt anybody. The state can prove otherwise. Goes to credibility, your honor.”

“I’ll allow it,” Judge Kellner pronounced.

“Did you break your mother’s nose and send her to the hospital?”

Colin Friendly lowered his head. “That was a l-long time ago, sir. I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“Didn’t you beat her so badly that she had to be hospitalized for almost a week?”

My sister squirmed indignantly in her seat. “The witch. She deserved it after the things she did to Colin.”

Colin Friendly looked embarrassed, even ashamed. “I don’t know how long she was in the hospital. I felt so terrible about what happened, I left t-town.”

“Where is your mother now, Mr. Friendly?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Isn’t it true that she went missing about six years ago?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.”

“Well, let me ask you this: When was the last time you saw your mother?”

Colin Friendly shook his head, spoke with measured slowness. “It’s been a long time.”

“Six years?”

“Maybe.”

“Did you have anything to do with her disappearance?”

Again, Jake Archibald was on his feet. “Objection, your honor. We have no proof that anything untoward has happened
to Mr. Friendly’s mother, nor is he on trial for anything concerning her.”

“Sustained.”

“Well done,” my sister said, as Jake Archibald resumed his seat.

Howard Eaves was undaunted. He faced the jury while directing his questions at the accused. “Tell me, Mr. Friendly, did you know any of the murdered women?”

“No, sir.”

“You’d never met any of them?”

“Not to my knowledge. I was p-pretty busy working,” he continued, then swallowed, as if trying to swallow his stutter. “You don’t meet a lot of women in the waterproofing business.” He flashed one of his patented little half-smiles toward the jury. Several responded with little half-smiles of their own.