Cause of Death by Laura Dembowski (ereader iphone .TXT) 📗

dressed, looking like a smart professional who did well for himself, but at the same time, like he may fall over at any moment—speaks.

“Yes, Your Honor.” His voice is calm, steady.

“On the count of murder in the first degree, what say you?” the judge asks.

We collectively inhale and hold our breath. We lean forward as though we may be unable to hear even with the sound system being utilized in this, the largest courtroom in the building.

“Not guilty, Your Honor.”

My head sinks. I gasp for breath, drowning in my own fear and anger at the fact that we failed. We, as a police department and prosecutor’s office, have failed. There are other charges, not that they matter very much, but Margaret is found not guilty on all counts, save for one: obstruction of justice. Apparently the jury couldn’t deny that she lied, but didn’t think those lies added up to murder.

I look up, my hair flipping back, and see Margaret watching me. This time she doesn’t smile at me. She has an evil stare, like she has me right where she wants me. But she is wrong. Right? She has to be wrong.

Chapter 23

Margaret

“Not guilty, Your Honor.”

I don’t smile. After all, my husband and daughter are both dead, so yes, while the jurors have declared that I am “not guilty,” acting like this is anything close to a happy moment for me would not be a good idea; I don’t even need Stanley to tell me that one. Rest assured, I have become very good at hiding my emotions, and my smile is wide on the inside.

The rest of the charges have much the same fate. They got me on obstruction, but I’ll just get probation for that, so big fucking deal. I did my job, Stanley did his, and now I’m a free woman, until Dave’s case goes to trial.

“Jury members,” the judge says, “thank you for your service. We’ll meet first thing next Wednesday to talk about sentencing, unless you can work something out before then. Ms. Moore, you are free to go for now. Court adjourned.”

I look at Stanley. Obviously I understand I can go, I am free, but part of me can’t quite believe it. Even I barely bought the story I sold this jury. Can I really just walk out of here? Can I?

“So,” I start to say to Stanley.

“Come with me,” he says.

“Where?”

“We have to talk to the media,” he says, shuffling his mess of papers and stuffing them into his briefcase.

“Oh, no,” I say, “I did my job. I can’t talk to those vultures. They’ll eat me alive. I may have been acquitted in here, but out there, I’m guilty as hell.”

“You don’t have a choice. I’ll do all the talking,” he says, ushering me out of the courtroom along with his colleagues. “You just stand next to me and look relieved yet sad.”

“It doesn’t matter how I look, everyone hates me.”

“Yes, they do, and with good reason,” he says, turning to look at me. His tone is sharp and piercing. He has successfully defended an innocent housewife and yet doesn’t seem very pleased about it right now. “You have to do this, and then you have to go into hiding.”

“Hiding?” I say.

“Hiding,” he says, grabbing my arm a little more roughly than I would have liked and leading me out into the hallway and through the courthouse. Everyone knows him. “Hey, Stan,” they all say. He waves and says nothing more than “hi” back. He is on a mission to keep me out of trouble.

“That’s your only option,” he continues. “You think you’re going to be able to go to the grocery store and restaurants and pretend like everything’s okay. You think you’re going to make friends or fall in love. You’re not. Once we deal with Dave’s trial, you move to some other, faraway place; maybe then you’ll be able to live somewhat normally.”

“You act like I’m some common criminal, Stan.”

“You are,” he says.

We approach the doors. I can hear the media clamoring for someone, anyone to talk to. The mass of protesters, hating on me, clashes with the professional journalistic voices. I don’t hear any police sirens, but I sure as hell hope they’re out there to protect me from the crazies that lurk, ready to kill me, forgetting the fact that that kind of behavior will make them no better than me.

“You got that face ready?” he asks.

I plaster a phony, uncomfortable look on my face, certain I look like a wax figure. Stan looks at me and nods his approval. At least I’ve done one thing right today. Stan puffs out his chest and takes on this insanely confident air. I’ve never seen anything like it, not even in court. I’m drawn to it. I’m drawn to him.

I know he said to lay low and all, but I can’t help but wonder if he’d be interested in a quick fuck after this is all over. We could meet up at his office tonight, the darkness to protect us, his little worker bees all at home, working, sleeping, plotting their rise to the top. It would be sexy and steamy.

He grabs my arm again, firmly, shaking me out of my horny reverie. We’ve reached the door. One of his underlings opens it and we walk out. The sun is bright in my eyes, and since apparently I’d be hanged in the town square if I dared to wear sunglasses, I’m at the mercy of the bright star. I squint, but then remember that squinting is almost as bad as wearing sunglasses. Stan didn’t have to tell me that one either. Look how much I’m learning!

He guides me over to a set of microphones. He stands right in front of them; I am to stand next to him and not move a muscle, my feet glued to the ground. Cameras are pointed at us, flashes go off. The hundreds of sets of eyes, all fixed on us, more realistically,