room, looking at herself in the long, narrow mirror, her mother’s youthful reflection staring back.
Hello, Puppet
, her mother says.
Amanda shudders. She was six years old when her mother put a curse on old Mr. Walsh, who lived next door, and who insisted on parking his car right in the middle of their shared driveway. Two months later, the hapless man was dead. Such was her mother’s terrible power.
And now another man is dead, Amanda thinks. Shot three times at presumably close range. What’s the matter, Mom? Curses not fast-acting enough for you these days?
Puppet!
her mother calls from outside the door.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“I asked how you were doing in there,” the salesgirl responds.
“Fine,” Amanda says, although she has yet to try on a single item. “Thank you.”
“Is that your phone ringing?” the salesgirl asks.
Amanda becomes aware of a phone ringing somewhere beside her. “Oh. Oh, yes.” She reaches inside her black leather purse. “Hello?” she asks timidly.
Finally wore you down, did I?
“What?”
“They just called from court,” her secretary informs her. “The jury’s back.”
FIVE
O N the charge of uttering death threats, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant not guilty.”
“On the charge of forcible confinement, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant not guilty.”
“On the charge of sexual assault, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant not guilty.”
“On the charge of assault with a deadly weapon, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant not guilty.”
“On the charge of assault and battery, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant guilty.”
“Thank you,” the judge says, dismissing the jury, and setting a date for sentencing.
“What just happened?” Derek Clemens’s eyes flit between his lawyer and the buxom young woman he used to live with, who is quietly crying in the back of the courtroom.
“You were acquitted on four of the five charges.”
“Then how come they found me guilty of the fifth?”
“Because you bit her, Derek,” Amanda reminds him.
“I raped her too,” he says. “They acquitted me of that.”
Amanda shakes her head, partly in disgust, partly in disbelief. To think she’d almost talked herself into believing even some of his story. “See you back here for sentencing.”
“You think I’ll go to jail?”
“It’s a first offense; you’re Tiffany’s primary caregiver. It’s more likely you’ll get probation.”
“I swear I’ll kill that bitch if I end up in jail.”
“Fine. Just remember to get yourself another lawyer.” Amanda slings her purse over her right shoulder and heads toward the back of the courtroom, Derek Clemens at her heels.
“Hey, wait up. I thought we could maybe grab a drink. To celebrate.”
Amanda doesn’t even bother slowing down.
The full moon follows her as she drives north along Congress. Beside her on the front seat of her three-year-old black Thunderbird convertible is a freshly purchased bottle of expensive red wine. The Thunderbird was a gift from Sean on their fourth, and as it turned out, last anniversary. The wine was a present to herself. After all, hadn’t she helped make the world a safer place for nasty cannibals everywhere? “I did my job,” she reminds herself, turning left on Forty-fifth and heading toward I-95.
It’s not her fault Derek Clemens is such a convincing liar. It’s not her fault Caroline Fletcher is her own worst enemy. The justice system is a crapshoot at the best of times, which is why a good lawyer is always preferable toa good cause. The innocent often suffer; the guilty regularly go free. And luckily, one face pretty much blurs into another over time, Amanda knows. By tomorrow morning she won’t even remember what Caroline Fletcher looked like, crying in the back of the courtroom. With a little luck, that is, and enough celebratory glasses of wine. Amanda pats the bottle on the black leather seat beside her.
Hello, Puppet
, her mother says.
Amanda shudders. She was six years old when her mother put a curse on old Mr. Walsh, who lived next door, and who insisted on parking his car right in the middle of their shared driveway. Two months later, the hapless man was dead. Such was her mother’s terrible power.
And now another man is dead, Amanda thinks. Shot three times at presumably close range. What’s the matter, Mom? Curses not fast-acting enough for you these days?
Puppet!
her mother calls from outside the door.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“I asked how you were doing in there,” the salesgirl responds.
“Fine,” Amanda says, although she has yet to try on a single item. “Thank you.”
“Is that your phone ringing?” the salesgirl asks.
Amanda becomes aware of a phone ringing somewhere beside her. “Oh. Oh, yes.” She reaches inside her black leather purse. “Hello?” she asks timidly.
Finally wore you down, did I?
“What?”
“They just called from court,” her secretary informs her. “The jury’s back.”
FIVE
O N the charge of uttering death threats, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant not guilty.”
“On the charge of forcible confinement, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant not guilty.”
“On the charge of sexual assault, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant not guilty.”
“On the charge of assault with a deadly weapon, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant not guilty.”
“On the charge of assault and battery, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant guilty.”
“Thank you,” the judge says, dismissing the jury, and setting a date for sentencing.
“What just happened?” Derek Clemens’s eyes flit between his lawyer and the buxom young woman he used to live with, who is quietly crying in the back of the courtroom.
“You were acquitted on four of the five charges.”
“Then how come they found me guilty of the fifth?”
“Because you bit her, Derek,” Amanda reminds him.
“I raped her too,” he says. “They acquitted me of that.”
Amanda shakes her head, partly in disgust, partly in disbelief. To think she’d almost talked herself into believing even some of his story. “See you back here for sentencing.”
“You think I’ll go to jail?”
“It’s a first offense; you’re Tiffany’s primary caregiver. It’s more likely you’ll get probation.”
“I swear I’ll kill that bitch if I end up in jail.”
“Fine. Just remember to get yourself another lawyer.” Amanda slings her purse over her right shoulder and heads toward the back of the courtroom, Derek Clemens at her heels.
“Hey, wait up. I thought we could maybe grab a drink. To celebrate.”
Amanda doesn’t even bother slowing down.
The full moon follows her as she drives north along Congress. Beside her on the front seat of her three-year-old black Thunderbird convertible is a freshly purchased bottle of expensive red wine. The Thunderbird was a gift from Sean on their fourth, and as it turned out, last anniversary. The wine was a present to herself. After all, hadn’t she helped make the world a safer place for nasty cannibals everywhere? “I did my job,” she reminds herself, turning left on Forty-fifth and heading toward I-95.
It’s not her fault Derek Clemens is such a convincing liar. It’s not her fault Caroline Fletcher is her own worst enemy. The justice system is a crapshoot at the best of times, which is why a good lawyer is always preferable toa good cause. The innocent often suffer; the guilty regularly go free. And luckily, one face pretty much blurs into another over time, Amanda knows. By tomorrow morning she won’t even remember what Caroline Fletcher looked like, crying in the back of the courtroom. With a little luck, that is, and enough celebratory glasses of wine. Amanda pats the bottle on the black leather seat beside her.
Similar Books
