Paper Castles (30 page)

“Well,” Phil said. “We have a lot of work ahead us. You meet with Dr. Nolan this week.”

“The psychiatrist?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t wait.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Mrs. Palmerton, nice to meet you.” Dr. Nolan was a small man. Compact, with little hands and tiny round glasses on a pinched face. “Please sit down.” He indicated the couch as he took a seat in the chair opposite.

Of course, the couch. This was where she would lie down and he would poke around her deep dark secrets.

“I’m sure you’re thinking you should lie down. Please sit or whatever is most comfortable.” Dr. Nolan smiled, noticing her stiff back and death grip on her purse. “The two of us are going to try to figure out what happened on the night in question. I’m going to help you try to find an answer.”

“All right.” Savannah felt like a five-year-old, but she liked his quiet demeanor. She liked even more how he said they would work together.

“I’ve been looking over your medical history, including that of your family.”

Savannah swallowed her anxiety.

“And we’ll talk about your alcohol intake as well as your prescriptions.” He was flipping through papers. Squinting at pages filled with events and statistics from her life.

One plus one equals insanity,
Savannah thought.

Finally, he looked up from her file. “Have you ever had a blackout period before?”

“No.”

He wrote something down. “Let’s talk about the night your husband was killed.”

“Where do I start?” Her mouth was dry.

“Let’s start with earlier that evening. What do you remember?”

“Everything.”

“Then let’s begin there.”

After a while she felt her shoulders relax into the couch cushions. The words came a little easier. Nolan’s simple questions and encouragements sent her in different directions and she followed, retrieving thoughts hidden behind the paper hearts in the country club ballroom. She talked about Price’s affairs and how she was hurt by them, but willing to try again for her children. Sweeping common sense off the dance floor, she let Price in one more time.

She didn’t love him. She was pretty sure he didn’t love her. But they were committed to the dance for the sake of the children. Like two contestants in the old-time dance marathon: big paper numbers pinned to their backs, leaning on each another, too tired to make rational decisions. Their eyes fixed on the prize. They only had to hold one another up and remain the last couple standing on the floor.

And then what? What was the prize? A cheap tin trophy proclaiming:
We Did It.

She told Dr. Nolan about the scent of another woman’s perfume on Price’s clothes, filling Savannah’s nose when Price leaned to take her hand so they could go dance again. The smell made her crash back into reality. She felt sick then. She felt sick now. It was hard to breathe. An invisible cord wrapped around her heart and squeezed.

Dr. Nolan took her through the night Price was killed, over and over. Up and down. Looking at it from every angle. Putting it under a microscope. Narrating, she watched the horror show play out on the wall behind Dr. Nolan’s head. Price was going to take her children. The glass she threw, shattering between diplomas in wood frames. Angela was screaming. Savannah yelled back. Tires screeched in the driveway.

Fade to black.

“Let’s take a little break.” Dr. Nolan left and came back with a tall glass of water. “You’re doing very well.”

“Thank you.” What did
well
mean? She still couldn’t remember anything of any importance. What good would come of running the same events through this continuous loop?

Dr. Nolan seemed to notice her physical distress. “Tell me what’s going on right now.”

“I feel…anxious.”

“Have you experienced anxiety attacks before?”

“Yes. Many times.”

“Tell me about them.”

She told him about times when panic would creep up behind her. Sometimes it slid past with only a sneer. Other times it dug in its claws and took her down. Heart beating out of her chest, sweating and pale. The walls closing in around her. Sometimes for hours. The valium usually kept it under control. Sometimes the fear was stronger than the drug.

“Let’s take some long, slow breaths.” Dr. Nolan’s voice was a hypnotic force.

She struggled to gain control, before the panic took over. She rested her head on the back of the couch and closed her eyes, concentrating on her breathing. Filling her lungs, feeling her chest expand. Holding it in, letting it go with a slow release. Her fists were still tight and she consciously stretched out her fingers.

In his easy tone, Nolan kept repeating she was doing good, she was fine, until the tingling left her. Thank God it was fleeting. Just a courtesy call to remind her who was boss.

“How long have you had these attacks?”

Before she could answer Beverly’s voice swirled around her.

I was a teenager. Sixteen maybe.
Savannah shook her head free of the thought.

Dr. Nolan grabbed the moment. “What? What are you thinking?” He held out his hand, palm up. A cup for her to fill.

“My mother.” Savannah placed the word in his hand.

He nodded. “Your mother also suffered from anxiety?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll talk more about that tomorrow,” Nolan said.

And they did. Nolan asked questions, Savannah dug around for answers. She didn’t think she had any, but she found herself talking and talking while Nolan listened and scribbled. After three days of talking she was mentally and physically exhausted and dragged her weary bones up the stairs to her bed.

Then, she had to gear up for her meeting with Dr. Daniel Thorington, the psychiatrist for the prosecution. Phil warned her it was this doctor’s job to discredit their claim.

“It almost doesn’t matter what you say,” he said. “Thorington’s prone to rule against the diagnosis of temporary insanity, anyway. Just hold on, answer honestly, and get through the session.”

Easier said than done. Thorington was cold, like a tyrant headmaster, and Savannah was on the carpet, answering for her crimes. As Phil predicted, whatever she said was met with a crooked frown and discernible sighs, dismissing her words as lies.

Savannah struggled to remain calm in the face of his cold calculating stare. His eyes saw right through her murderous soul.

Really, Mrs. Palmerton. Do you expect anyone to believe that you don’t remember shooting your husband in cold blood? How convenient.

When Phil picked her up, she got into the car and closed the door without a word.

“How’d it go?”

She turned to him. “I think I might have killed Price.”

“H
E SEEMED more like a detective than doctor,” Savannah said later, when she and Phil could talk about it. “The way he looked at me when he asked questions, like he knew I was lying and was laying a trap for me.”

“I told you it’s his job.”

“I know you did. But he had me doubting myself. Doubting if I really don’t remember.”

“Did you remember something?”

“No. But it was a glimpse at what’s going to happen at trial. How convenient for me that I don’t remember what happened that night. What kind of an excuse is that?”

“It’s all we have, Savannah,” Phil said. “Briggs has a dozen holes in his case. His boat might already be sinking. In fact, he’s asked for a meeting to discuss a plea bargain.”

“When did that happen?”

“Yesterday. I called Kip and your father. I’m going to meet with Briggs tomorrow.”

“A plea deal means I would still plead guilty to something, right?”

“Hold on. Don’t get the cart before the horse. It’s a good opportunity to meet face to face with Briggs.”

“You haven’t yet? At any of the hearings?”

“We’ve never talked directly to each other. I’ve done my due diligence, but the opinions about Nathan Briggs are all over the place. Either people love him or hate him. No in between.”

“Price didn’t really like him. Kip hates him.”

“So I’ve heard. But we’ll meet and play our game of bluff.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ll both sit at the table, the cards spread out before us. We’re both in possession of all the facts. See who blinks first. It’s really just a high-stakes poker game. And you never know who has an ace tucked up under his sleeve.”

“Do we?”

“No. But he doesn’t know that.”

“What did you think?” Savannah asked Phil later, after the meeting.

“He’s not what I expected. I was hoping he’d be an ass. It would be much easier for me to charm the jury.”

“No. Kip said he had a silver tongue.” Savannah frowned, remembering Briggs’ salt-and- pepper hair and perfect suits.

“Well…” Phil cracked his knuckles in preparation for a fight. “Looks like I’m going to have to crank up the old charm factor.”

“What about the plea bargain?”

“It’s what I thought it would be. Lowering the charge to voluntary manslaughter.”

Savannah sat back in the chair. “What did you say?”

“I laughed, of course. Then told him I’d get back to him.” He looked across the kitchen table at her. Gauging her reaction.

Manslaughter pulled up a chair at the kitchen table with them. Savannah couldn’t speak, but the tears tracked down her cheeks in a silent scream.

Phil reached across the table for her hand. Finally, his touch. They’d been so overly conscious of their every move since he returned from Philadelphia. Behaving strictly as attorney and client. Business as usual. She missed their playful banter. And she missed his touch.

“It’s in his best interest to off a plea bargain and chalk this up as a win in his column. He’s running for re-election. He really can’t afford to lose this high-profile case. Now we have to decide if it’s in our best interest.”

“I can’t...”

“It’s all right, Savannah. We’ll figure this out.”

“It’s all so real. For the last several months it’s been looming...out there. Somewhere in the future. But now it’s here. Right here. And I can’t breathe.”

She fumbled with the tissue she had in her hand. “What are we looking at with manslaughter?”

“Voluntary manslaughter is anything from one to twenty years. It depends on what the D.A. recommends and then we go from there.”

“So it’s either a life sentence for murder, with or maybe without parole. Or the death penalty.” Savannah choked on the words.

“It’s not going to come to that.”

“But we don’t really know, do we?”

Phil looked at her. “It won’t come to that. He’s not going for the death penalty.”

Savannah felt the ground opening up beneath her. Words curled up like steam from a volcano. Hissing,
life…prison…death…twenty years…murder.
She dropped her head on her arms on the table. She heard Phil’s chair scrape across the floor, then he was at her side. He stood her up and took her in his arms.

With her head on his shoulder, she found her feet could touch the ground again. Just the tips of her toes at first. Then she eased her heels down until she was standing on her own. Phil leaned back and looked her in the eye.

“We’ll get Kip and Judge Kendall in a powwow and we’ll talk this thing through.”

“What if we go to trial and this judge has it in for me?”