Paper Castles (31 page)

“I know you’re thinking about the motion for change of venue.” Phil said.

Savannah had watched her father, Kip and Phil prep for the motion, citing a half-dozen Supreme Court cases to substantiate their petition. Judge Houser denied the motion, as if he’d been personally offended by the insinuation his court could not provide a fair trial.

Round one to Briggs.

“I didn’t expect the judge would allow a change of venue. It was a long-shot. But I had to try.”

As much as Phil tried to soothe away her worries, the trial was pressing in on Savannah, only a few short weeks away.

Everything was about to come out. Price’s affairs and her flirtation with Adam would be public knowledge. Her drinking, her pills, their fights. All the ugliness she fought so hard to keep under control and hidden.

Now those who didn’t already know or suspect were about to be privy to the messiest, darkest parts of her life. She was about to head into the Chatham County Courthouse and let the gossip whores into her closet.

No more pretending. No holding her head high. Her family would be destroyed as her paper castle came crumbling down.

“I
T’S SO nice to finally meet you.” The young woman held out a slim hand and Savannah shook it, reminding herself to close her mouth.

“You’re Cecil?” Savannah asked.

“Only to Phil,” she said, laughing. “Most of the time, I’m Cecily. Cecily Berringer.”

When Phil talked about his female assistant, he made it sound like she was one of the boys. Savannah had been expecting to meet a middle-aged frump.

The stylish young woman standing in her front hall was no frump. She was tall and slender, with a sleek dark bob. Modern and chic. Her gaze confident, but not unnerving.

Savannah glanced at Phil, who shrugged a silent “
What?
”, then said, “It’s crunch time, so Cecil and I will be working around the clock.”

“Well, I’ll try not to get in your way.” Savannah stepped aside as the two of them marched into Price’s old office, carrying their briefcases like shields into battle. Cecily reached up to smooth her already smooth hair and Savannah noticed her ring finger was glaringly bare. Phil closed the door and Savannah stood there, shut out. In her own home.

Nice to meet you too, Cecily.

Cecily was actually a terrific assistant: funny, yet capable and smart as hell. If Neenie were here she’d call her a tough cookie and begrudgingly, Savannah had to agree. She supposed the tough exterior was necessary, as Cecily had to make her way in a man’s world wearing high heels. Savannah would’ve preferred to hate her. But Cecily kept including her in conversations with Phil, and soon the young woman’s wit and intelligence won Savannah over.

Besides, she herself had no claim on Phil Hannigan. He’d kissed her. So what? They weren’t in seventh grade. One kiss didn’t mean they were going steady. Her heart begged to differ. It wasn’t only about the kiss; it was about everything that came before. The weeks and months the two of them had been building...
this.
Whatever
this
was. She was afraid to name it, afraid it might be a one-sided structure. Phil had a life in Philadelphia. A good life. He had better things to do than be a convicted felon’s pen-pal.

Even if he felt the same romantic stirrings in his soul, Savannah knew he’d set them aside to focus on the trial. She would step out of the way and let him do his job.

He had his work cut out for him. After several long sessions around the table with Kip and her father and Phil, the decision had been made to refuse the plea bargain.

Phil delivered the message personally to Nate Briggs, “Not a chance.”

Briggs’s red-faced dismissal was worth the trip across town, Phil said.

Today they were going over the jury selection process. Cecily was standing in front of several poster-sized sheets of paper taped to the wall, with notes scribbled along the top.

“This is Cecil’s field of expertise,” Phil said. “I say picking the jury is nothing more than a game of Russian Roulette.”

“Wrong, Boss,” Cecily said, not turning around. “It’s a science.”

“I’m sorry.” Phil glanced at Savannah. “It’s a
science
.” He leaned over the desk, continuing in a stage whisper. “Although I’ve yet to see scientific data backing up her claims.”

“I can hear you,” Cecily said.

Savannah smiled, but kept her eyes on the posters. She was fascinated.

“We want as many women as possible,” Cecily said, turning around. “Preferably married, with children. Women who would be reluctant to send a mother away for life.”

Phil frowned at Savannah. “Did I mention Cecil can be blunt?” He drew out
blunt,
into two syllables.

“We don’t have time for anything else.” Cecily eyed Savannah and Savannah didn’t blink. “Women jurors could just as easily work against us in this case, because our client is beautiful.”

She said it with no more emotion than if she were stating Savannah lived on Gaston Street.

Phil nodded in professional agreement. “That could be a major factor. I’ve seen it before. We’ll be walking a fine line.”

“It’s important women on the jury be able relate to you,” Cecily said. “Not have their bitch claws come out.” She eyed Savannah like a Chanel suit in a shop window. “We’ll go over your clothes before trial. Nothing too expensive-looking. Minimal jewelry.”

“Cecily will be taking notes during my questioning of the jurors,” Phil said “As well as studying their body language.”

Savannah could read body language too. There was no sign of catty jealousy in Cecily’s demeanor. Her fingernails were neat and unpolished: no sign of bitch claws. She was a professional young woman, hard at work, and Savannah realized she admired her.

And watching Cecily had Savannah wondering what it would be like to wake up every day with a purpose.

“We only get nine peremptory challenges, to dismiss without prejudice. Which isn’t many.” Phil was tapping his pencil on the desk and staring past Savannah.

For the first time she sensed a bit of worry behind his words. His bravado slid to the side and she saw him with her fate in his hands and the weight of it on his shoulders.

All the detailed talk about jury selection bubbled like a thick pea soup in Savannah’s brain. She left the two of them to their work and wandered outside to stare at the neglected garden beds.

In one season, weeds had overtaken years’ worth of hard work. Some of the heartier flowers and bushes were carrying on without her. The rest had given up, as if they knew she wouldn’t be back next year.

She sat at the patio table, trying to write a letter to PJ and Angela. Doodles filled the margins as words failed her. It was hard to keep the tone upbeat. She constantly second-guessed her decision to have the kids stay in Florida, and was sure her doubt was evident between the lines.

She sighed over the page and its pathetic attempt to hide the obvious. She thought about starting over, but didn’t have the energy. She folded the stationery in half, doodles and all. Hopefully, the kids would recognize her in the little pictures.

She smiled as she remembered getting in trouble in school for drawing on her homework. She couldn’t help herself, unable to leave spaces blank. An inch-wide margin was an irresistible temptation. The back of a receipt, a canvas. Her hands found pens, pencils, or paintbrushes and colored in the world around her. As she got older, adults started encouraging her talent instead of scolding her.

Art had been her second chance. Her ticket to college. Her voice. Now, painting had helped lead her to her downfall. Cruel how life could turn in circles until it became one big knot.

W
HAT A woman wore to her murder trial was a matter of serious concern.

Pleats?

“Too fussy,” Cecily said.

Red?

“Too bold.”

A tasteful suit?

“Too expensive.”

Thus, a dozen outfits were pulled from Savannah’s closet and dismissed for being too this or too that.

Ultimately, they settled on a pale-blue, sleeveless shift. With her hair swept back in a clean ponytail, and only pearl earrings for jewelry, Savannah looked cool and crisp.

Phil’s gaze was approving as she came downstairs. “Nice,” he said. “Good call on the hair.”

“I’ve learned to listen to you,” she said. Yesterday, Phil pointed out her tendency to play with her hair when she was nervous—a distraction that could affect how the jurors saw her.

“Remember, nervous equates with guilt,” Phil said now. He looked down at her. “It’s important you show no reaction to anything said in the courtroom. Good or bad. You need to remain as unaffected as possible. Bite the inside of your cheek, doodle on a piece of paper, but don’t react. Especially to anything negative.”

“I shouldn’t have thrown out all of my valium.”

“Funny.”

She wasn’t trying to be funny. If ever there was a time for a crippling anxiety attack, this was the moment. But anxiety rarely showed up when you expected it. Rather, it dropped by when you thought everything was fine. It
attacked
. Like a solitary assassin, sneaking around the edge of your life. In the church pew on a Sunday morning. Watching TV with the kids after dinner. Over lunch with a girlfriend. Always watching from the wings just outside your peripheral vision.

As soon as anxiety saw you relax, it pounced.

It was hard to breathe this morning, but it was regular nerves, not panic. Savannah could tell the difference. The hard knot in her stomach had a reason to be there. Her shaking hands barely able to handle a cup of coffee this morning. After a few sips, she pushed the cup away. Across the kitchen table, Phil took her hand.

“One more rule,” he said.

She sighed.

“Believe in your innocence. You didn’t do this. It makes a difference in how you walk into the room. How you sit, how you look at the jury, and how you hold yourself.” He lifted her chin in his hand.

“And if you can’t believe in yourself, then believe in me. Because I believe in you. Hold onto that. “

Savannah clutched it tightly in her fists. This hotshot lawyer who never lost a case had taken her on as a client. He only took on cases he felt he could win. It was worth remembering.

The courthouse steps were crammed with reporters, photographers, and curious bystanders. Flashbulbs popped and reporters shouted for Savannah to look their way as Phil manhandled her through the throngs, elbowing their way upstream to the heavy wooden doors.

“Vultures,” Phil said as he ushered her upstairs. “Thank God Judge Houser denied the petition for cameras in the courtroom. Briggs was pushing for it, of course. Thinking about his re-election.”

They had a private space on the second floor which Phil was already calling the war room. Catching her breath, Savannah stood at the bank of windows and peeked through the blinds at the crowd below. What would make ordinary people stand in a noisy crowd, just to catch a glimpse of her walking into the courthouse?

“Ordinary people love stories of beautiful people gone wrong,” Phil told her once. “They smell scandal like sharks smell blood.”

They wouldn’t stand around in the heat of an August morning unless they were sure of a good show. They wanted a firsthand account to go with the news stories about the Socialite Murderer.