occurrence); my own stubborn refusal to think of myself as anything but us.
I put out my cigarette and walked back to the interview room. Caleb was writing in a small notebook, his left hand moving awkwardly over the page while Priscilla recited a list of names, dates, and places. I sat down without speaking and took the opportunity to observe my client. On the previous day, I’d mentioned the need of witnesses to Byron’s abuse, so I’d expected a certain amount of preparation, but Priscilla’s organized presentation, delivered with no sign of emotion, indicated that she’d spent a lot more than twenty-four hours getting ready. Priscilla not only named individuals, supplying exact dates when possible, approximations when she wasn’t sure, she delivered capsule evaluations of each person named.
Evidence of premeditation? Of a guilty mind? The truth was that guilt or innocence (except as pronounced by a jury) didn’t particularly interest me. What I wondered, as I sat there watching my client light one cigarette after another, was if sending me a message was part of her calculations. Maybe she wanted me to know she’d been thinking about violent death for a long time, that she was prepared. The cops had undoubtedly pressed her for some kind of a statement, but Priscilla hadn’t risen to whatever bait they’d dangled. And she hadn’t left a quarter pound of cocaine laying out where the cops could find it, either.
Ten minutes later, after Caleb folded his notebook and stuck it inside his jacket, it was finally my turn.
“I’m sitting here,” I said with a casual wave of my hand, “listening to you recite your tale of woe and I gotta give it to you. Any doubt I might have had about your husband abusing you has been permanently erased.” I smiled, leaned forward in the chair, let my smile dissolve. “So why’d you take him back?”
Priscilla dropped her elbow to the top of the table, laid her chin in her palm. “You gave my mother a very hard time this morning,” she said.
“That’s what mothers are for.”
She laughed, the sound oddly musical in the small room. “Maybe so,” she conceded. “But if she has a heart attack, we’ve lost an important witness.”
“Priscilla, your mother’s as tough as you are.” I meant the remark to be disarming, but Priscilla took it quite seriously.
“I hope you’re right,” she said, “but there’s something you need to understand. I love my mother and I don’t want her to be hurt any more than she’s already hurt.”
More than pleased, I nodded agreement. The closer Priscilla to her mother, the more likely Thelma to take out a little mortgage when we were desperate for cash. “So, why’d you take him back, Priscilla? This scumbag who beat your ass from morning till night.”
Instead of answering, she glanced through the window at a female corrections officer seated on a stool outside. The guard, severely overweight, was staring off into space.
“I don’t think she has the answer,” I said.
“Patience, Sid.” Priscilla slid her chair a little closer to the table and opened my briefcase. She picked up a yellow pad and a pen with her right hand, looked up at me, then dropped a small key into the case. I started to ask her how she managed to hang onto the key through successive strip-searches by the cops and the D.O.C., but the question would have been strictly rhetorical. There was only one way it could have been accomplished: she must have swallowed it, crapped it out, then retrieved it. Drug smugglers use the same technique.
Priscilla pulled the pad close to her, wrote Citibank 1st Ave and 15th Street Box 2071.
“Very nice, my dear. Very, very nice.”
I pulled a standard Power of Attorney form out of my briefcase, slipped the key into my pocket, and pushed the form across the table. Without hesitating, Priscilla bent her head and began to fill it out. “I loved Byron,” she said. “Or I loved some of him, bits and pieces. Or I maybe I
I put out my cigarette and walked back to the interview room. Caleb was writing in a small notebook, his left hand moving awkwardly over the page while Priscilla recited a list of names, dates, and places. I sat down without speaking and took the opportunity to observe my client. On the previous day, I’d mentioned the need of witnesses to Byron’s abuse, so I’d expected a certain amount of preparation, but Priscilla’s organized presentation, delivered with no sign of emotion, indicated that she’d spent a lot more than twenty-four hours getting ready. Priscilla not only named individuals, supplying exact dates when possible, approximations when she wasn’t sure, she delivered capsule evaluations of each person named.
Evidence of premeditation? Of a guilty mind? The truth was that guilt or innocence (except as pronounced by a jury) didn’t particularly interest me. What I wondered, as I sat there watching my client light one cigarette after another, was if sending me a message was part of her calculations. Maybe she wanted me to know she’d been thinking about violent death for a long time, that she was prepared. The cops had undoubtedly pressed her for some kind of a statement, but Priscilla hadn’t risen to whatever bait they’d dangled. And she hadn’t left a quarter pound of cocaine laying out where the cops could find it, either.
Ten minutes later, after Caleb folded his notebook and stuck it inside his jacket, it was finally my turn.
“I’m sitting here,” I said with a casual wave of my hand, “listening to you recite your tale of woe and I gotta give it to you. Any doubt I might have had about your husband abusing you has been permanently erased.” I smiled, leaned forward in the chair, let my smile dissolve. “So why’d you take him back?”
Priscilla dropped her elbow to the top of the table, laid her chin in her palm. “You gave my mother a very hard time this morning,” she said.
“That’s what mothers are for.”
She laughed, the sound oddly musical in the small room. “Maybe so,” she conceded. “But if she has a heart attack, we’ve lost an important witness.”
“Priscilla, your mother’s as tough as you are.” I meant the remark to be disarming, but Priscilla took it quite seriously.
“I hope you’re right,” she said, “but there’s something you need to understand. I love my mother and I don’t want her to be hurt any more than she’s already hurt.”
More than pleased, I nodded agreement. The closer Priscilla to her mother, the more likely Thelma to take out a little mortgage when we were desperate for cash. “So, why’d you take him back, Priscilla? This scumbag who beat your ass from morning till night.”
Instead of answering, she glanced through the window at a female corrections officer seated on a stool outside. The guard, severely overweight, was staring off into space.
“I don’t think she has the answer,” I said.
“Patience, Sid.” Priscilla slid her chair a little closer to the table and opened my briefcase. She picked up a yellow pad and a pen with her right hand, looked up at me, then dropped a small key into the case. I started to ask her how she managed to hang onto the key through successive strip-searches by the cops and the D.O.C., but the question would have been strictly rhetorical. There was only one way it could have been accomplished: she must have swallowed it, crapped it out, then retrieved it. Drug smugglers use the same technique.
Priscilla pulled the pad close to her, wrote Citibank 1st Ave and 15th Street Box 2071.
“Very nice, my dear. Very, very nice.”
I pulled a standard Power of Attorney form out of my briefcase, slipped the key into my pocket, and pushed the form across the table. Without hesitating, Priscilla bent her head and began to fill it out. “I loved Byron,” she said. “Or I loved some of him, bits and pieces. Or I maybe I
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