Claim of Innocence Page 9

  I sat forward and reached across the table to grab his hand. “You will always fit into her life.” I squeezed his hand tighter. “She loves you.”

  “Of course she does.” He pulled his hand away and sat back on the couch, rubbing his face as if he could not open his eyes, as if he didn’t want to see what was there. “But the way that we have always worked is that I have taken care of her. I have been there through all those moods—the ones that are beautiful and the ones that are darker.”

  “She’s always going to have moods. We all do.”

  He dropped his hand and opened his eyes. “No, you’re right. But the moods are different now. This confidence you mentioned…”

  “We want her to become more confident, to become more alive.”

  “I know that, darling girl. But don’t you see? Before, I was the one who gave her confidence. I was the one who held her up when she didn’t know what to do. I was the one who took over and made things better. Now, she doesn’t want my help.”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “No. She’s made it quite clear. She wants to handle things herself. And as much as I want that for her, I no longer see where my place is.”

  I paused a minute, looking at him. I could tell that Spence didn’t want simple, meaningless reassurances. “I know what you mean,” I said. “Sam and I went through something…not the same thing exactly, but…” I stopped again and thought of Sam. “Sam and I tried to adjust after he returned to Chicago, but we weren’t able to get our relationship back to the way we had it before.”

  I was hit by a wave of sadness so strong I could almost feel it dousing me. I felt suddenly bleak. Why hadn’t we tried harder? Was I being given the chance to do that now?

  “I guess what I’m saying,” I continued, “is I understand some part of what you’re going through because Sam and I couldn’t do it. We had changed, and after that happened, we couldn’t make the alterations. Not then, anyway. We’d become different people, in a sense. But I think you and Mom can do it. You’re seeing changes in Mom, sure, but maybe it’s an opportunity for you to make some changes, too. Maybe you need to see yourself in a different light. Maybe you need to start looking at ways you can support the person she is now.”

  He nodded, seemed to be considering this. “What you say is true. We are all different people at different times in our lives. I suppose the success of a marriage isn’t about years but about whether each person can adapt to each new one.”

  “Yes.”

  My mother had gone through a lot after my father “died.” She had met someone else and fallen in love. I wondered how much Spence knew about that. But it didn’t matter. Only now mattered.

  “Spence,” I said, “I think you need to keep reminding yourself how much she truly, truly loves you.”

  He looked at me. “I do know that she loves me, darling girl. Thank God, I do know that.” He exhaled and clapped his hand on his knees. He stood. “Thank you, Isabel. That was exactly what I needed, a pep talk from a beautiful and smart woman.”

  I stood, too. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Much better.”

  I hugged him.

  “I like that I can come to you for help,” he said, his voice soft.

  “Anytime.”

  I felt a bloom of something inside of me, some kind of pride. I’d been able to give back to Spence, a man who had made it his job for years to do anything he could to help the McNeils.

  As we stepped away from each other, my cell phone rang. I lifted it from the coffee table.

  It was Maggie. I answered. “Where are you?” she asked.

  “At home. With Spence.” I looked at my watch. “I’ll head over to your place now.” Maggie and I had decided to get together to divide the trial tasks we needed to accomplish that weekend.

  “Good, because Valerie is coming over, too. She just called and she wants to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know. She just said that she wants to talk to you.”

  22

  Maggie’s apartment was a sleek tower just south of the Loop in Printer’s Row. The view from her seventeenth-floor apartment, which faced west, was of Roosevelt Road leading to the highway and the multitude of buildings that peppered the Loop. At the end of the day, the sun set over all of that, washing it clean.

  Maggie had left her front door open, and when I entered her place, I could hear her speaking to someone. A guy.

  I walked down the small hallway and into her living room—a sophisticated space with circular, glass-topped tables and Swedish-style couches. Her apartment, so clean and contemporary, seemed unlike Maggie in some ways. I’d always envisioned her living in an old-school apartment with moldings and slanted, hardwood floors. But Maggie liked her home to be Zenlike. Her office was a mess, her practice was crazy and she’d said that home had to be minimalist, somewhere she could escape the rest.

  I found Maggie in her kitchen, a place filled with stainless-steel appliances. She sat at a bar stool at her kitchen island, talking at her computer. I could hear the guy’s voice again. He was laughing now.

  “We’re on Skype,” Maggie said. She swung the computer around to show Bernard.

  “Hello, Izzy!” he said when he saw me.

  “Hi, Bernard. How’s Seattle?”

  “It’s great, except that I miss my Maggie.”

  I looked at Maggie, whose eyelids fluttered with happiness, as if she might swoon.

  “She misses you, too.”

  Bernard was a huge guy, and his head took up most of the screen. His black hair was thick and spiky, as if he had just gotten out of bed.

  “Will you be in Chicago next week?” he asked.

  “I’ll be here. You’re coming in for the CSO?”

  Bernard smiled big. He had a front tooth that was slightly crooked, but it seemed to suit him. “Yes, that’s right. I’ll get two of my favorite things—the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and Maggie—so I’m a happy man.”

  Maggie swung the computer back to face her. “We have to get to work now. Love you.”

  “Love you,” he said.

  Maggie logged off Skype and looked at me.

  “You’re using the L word?” I asked. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Wow. Congratulations. When did that start?”

  “About two weeks after we met him in Italy.”

  “I guess it’s meant to be.”

  “It is.”

  Just then the doorman buzzed, and his voice came over the intercom. “Valerie Solara to see you.”

  A minute later Valerie was in Maggie’s living room, and there was no denying her presence.

  Instead of the elegant dresses she’d worn to court, today she had on jeans, a light blue T-shirt and a white linen jacket. A tiered necklace made of silver chains hung against the dark skin of her chest. The effect was still elegant, but it was softer, more casual. Her hair was loose, dark, and carried a brilliant sheen as it cascaded around her shoulders.

  “Thank you for seeing me.” She looked at Maggie, then me, and smiled, her eyes staying on mine. We sat on the couches that faced each other, Valerie and me on one, Maggie on the other.

  “Thanks for coming here,” Maggie said, “instead of the office. Izzy and I had planned to work today, and everything was already here.” Maggie waved at a black dining table behind her, which was covered with transcripts and pleadings that she’d brought from the office.

  Valerie nodded. “Of course. To be honest, I much prefer this. Your office is lovely, but it has come to remind me of…” Her voice trailed away.

  Maggie spoke up. “Sure. I know what you mean.”

  Maggie had a few legal pads on the table in front of us. She handed me one along with a pen, then one to Valerie, then placed one on her own lap. “So, Valerie, should we tell you what we’re working on today or is there something you’d like to address specifically?”

  Valarie clasped her hands together, as if she was praying, and stared down at them.
When her head rose again, her eyes stayed on mine. “I know Martin spoke with me about this once, but could you explain to me again what attorney-client privilege means? I want to know, I guess, how much I can tell you as my attorneys and what you’ll have to keep confidential.”

  “Well, it’s pretty simple,” I said. I glanced at Maggie to see if it was okay that I take the lead.

  She gave me a nod.

  “Essentially, you can tell us—” I pointed between Maggie and me “—anything you want. Ethically, we can’t repeat that information to anyone. No matter what it is. Now, there are one or two exceptions. For example, if you told us you planned to harm yourself, or someone else, we would then have to do something about that. But if you told us that in the past you had harmed yourself…or someone else—” I paused and let that possibility hang out there “—we would not be able to speak of that to anyone.”

  Valerie wore a look of concentration. “Okay.”

  “There is one more thing to consider, though.”

  I saw Maggie shooting me a look, and I gave her a quick nod to let her know I understood the message she was trying to send.

  “If you did tell us you had harmed someone, we couldn’t allow you to take the stand and say you didn’t. In other words, we can’t knowingly allow you to perjure yourself.” I turned my attention to Maggie. “Mags, have you decided whether Valerie will testify?”

  “No. We wanted to see how the state’s case came out first.”

  “I don’t want to,” Valerie said.

  Neither Maggie nor I asked why. For the first time, I really understood why Maggie and her grandfather didn’t want clients to tell them everything—they didn’t want to have to maneuver their defense around in a situation where someone might lie on the stand.

  Yet still I wanted to know. Part of me felt I had to know before continuing on this case.

  “So those are the parameters of the attorney-client privilege,” I said.

  Maggie’s cell phone, which was sitting on the table, rang. She picked it up and looked at the display. “It’s my grandmother.” She answered it and listened for a minute or two, then raised a hand to her face and covered her eyes. “No, I’m glad,” she said. “He had to go. I’m just so glad you convinced him. I’ll be there in…” She looked at her watch. “Fifteen minutes. I’m with Valerie and Izzy. But Izzy can handle it.”

  She glanced at me, and I nodded.

  Maggie hung up. “My grandmother finally got Martin to go to the emergency room. He’s definitely dehydrated, and they’re looking into what else might be going on with him. I’m going to head there.”

  Valerie stood. “Can I go with you? I’ve been so worried about him.”

  “It would be better if you stayed with Izzy until I find out what’s going on.” Maggie’s eyes took on a film of worry. “I just hope he’s okay.”

  “Me, too,” Valerie said.

  Maggie turned and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.” She stopped. “Damn, I don’t have any extra keys. I gave them to Bernard last time he was here, and the front door doesn’t lock when you close it.”

  “That’s okay.” I stood. “Valerie, why don’t we go somewhere and have a cup of coffee?”

  “Where are you thinking?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe a Starbucks? Or I think there’s a coffee shop on Dearborn, not too far from here.”

  She seemed to be mulling over the options.

  “We could go someplace else, too.” I shrugged. “Whatever you feel like. Are you hungry?” I was at a loss.

  “I’m sorry, Izzy,” she said. “I’m just a nervous person. I always have been and now, this whole thing…” Her gaze turned to the window and the city beyond that. “Sometimes I don’t feel safe in public places. Especially since the trial started. Sometimes people notice me, and I don’t like that.”

  “I’ve been there,” I said. “I know what you mean.” I thought about where I went when I needed to feel safe. “Would you like to go to my mother’s house?”

  23

  My mother’s home was a cool haven from the humid August air. As we stepped inside, Valerie glanced around at the ivory living room. She gasped a little. “It’s beautiful.”

  I looked around. “Isn’t it?”

  I had left my scooter at Maggie’s, gotten in a cab with Valerie and texted my mother on the way. I heard her footfalls on the front stairway now.

  “Hello, hello,” she trilled. She stepped into the living room wearing crisp khakis and a white sleeveless blouse. Gold bangle bracelets tinkled as she raised her arms to give me a hug.

  She turned to Valerie. “I’m Victoria Calloway, Izzy’s mother.”

  Valerie held out her hand. “Lovely to meet you.”

  Both women smiled as they shook hands. When they broke apart, my mother gave Valerie a kind look and a reassuring smile. “I’m stepping out in a minute, but you two go into the kitchen. I put some tea and treats for you at the bay table.”

  We led Valerie to my mother’s kitchen, the place where the McNeils did most of their socializing. A large octagonal table was tucked into a bay window. Beyond it was my mother’s garden, bursting this year with red hibiscus trees and yellow-and-white perennials.

  “I’d love to sit outside,” I said to Valerie, “but it’s just too hot.”

  “This is fine.”

  “Izzy, can I talk to you for a second?” my mother asked.

  “Sure.” I pointed toward the table and said to Valerie, “Help yourself. I’ll be right back.”

  “Yes, please,” my mother said. “Do help yourself to anything, anywhere.” She gestured around her house as if saying, Help yourself to the artwork, and the TVs, too. My mother always had been utterly generous.

  She led me to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. “So, sweetheart, do you need anything else?”

  “No, we’re good. Where are you going?”

  “Well…” She laughed nervously. “Actually I’m off to talk to someone.”

  “Someone?”

  She gave a little smile, almost with a hint of mischief to it. “I’m going to see a therapist.”

  I tried not to blink madly in surprise, but it was nearly impossible.

  My mother saw my expression and laughed. “I know, I know, you’ve been telling me for years to do this.” She gave a little shrug. “Well, now I’m doing it.”

  Charlie and I had recommended more than once that she see someone for her “melancholy.” It was easy to see now that it was depression. When I was growing up, though, depression wasn’t talked about much, not in the no-nonsense, keep-your-head-down-and-do-your-job confines of Chicago. In time, I think we all came to accept my mother’s perpetually morose attitude. But here she was, off to talk to someone.

  “Well, I’m…I’m happy for you.” What was the correct response when someone told you they were going to therapy?

  “Thank you.” She sounded pleased. “Good luck with your client. She seems a lovely woman. Hard to believe she could have…” My mother looked past me toward the kitchen. “Well, she didn’t do it, did she?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Through the doorway, I could see that Valerie had settled herself at the table and was looking at all the snacks my mother had laid out.

  I turned back. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Her brows drew together. “Should I be leaving you alone with her?”

  “Mom, she’s not a deranged, roaming-the-street killer. If she did kill someone, it was an act of passion.” I wasn’t even sure the statement was accurate, but I was hoping there was some moral high ground in all of this.

  My mom exhaled swiftly. “I trust your judgment.”

  “Good luck at the therapist.”

  “Thanks!” She beamed. I wished Charlie were here. The situation was so weird.

  She gave me a kiss and moved toward the door, another version of Victoria McNeil Calloway I had never seen before.

  I took a seat at t
he bay window table and began pouring tea. My mother had laid out a series of small cucumber sandwiches and scones. Valerie and I put food on the dainty china plates. I noticed that Valerie chose her food carefully, only after studying it. I couldn’t help but think of the meal she’d allegedly poisoned and fed to Amanda Miller.

  But then Valerie spoke. “Sometimes when I eat now,” she said, “I wonder if these are the last times I’ll ever be able to choose what I put in my body.”

  I had a cucumber sandwich halfway to my mouth, but I froze. When I’d been falsely accused last year, I’d been scared, but I’d never let myself go so far as to imagine landing in an institution, eating prison fare for the rest of my life.

  I didn’t know if Maggie and Martin would want me to say this, but I couldn’t help it. “You must be very scared.”

  “I am,” she answered simply. She chose a small cranberry scone and placed it on her plate next to a small sandwich, then wiped her fingers on a white napkin.

  I didn’t know how to address her fears. Should I tell her it would be all right? I had no idea if that was true. My former client, Forester Pickett, the CEO of Pickett Enterprises, was a pro at this. He’d been through hundreds of lawsuits, assumed he’d see hundreds more, and he didn’t let them get to him. But this was personal. This was Valerie’s life.

  I decided to tell her the only thing I knew for sure. “Maggie and I—and Martin, if he’s able—will do everything possible to give you the best defense. Everything. We will follow up every angle, we will work very hard.”

  “Thank you.” A small smile. “I believe that.”

  We fell silent, taking a few bites and sipping some tea.

  “Your mother seems like a nice woman,” Valerie said.

  “She is. Do you have any family in the city other than Layla?”

  A short shake of her head. “Layla is my only family. I once considered Amanda and Bridget family, too, but…”

  Silence. “What about your parents, your sisters and brothers?”