I took a circuitous route back to my office, replaying in my mind our luncheon conversation. After the endorphins produced by my furiously paced walk kicked in, I sorted through David’s comments. What had I found so vexatious? He’d said he didn’t like the way Kate treated me, which seemed almost paternalistic—as if I couldn’t look out for myself. It reminded me of how I felt during the height of my panic disorder, when I’d needed him to look out for me but railed at my own dependence. He’d called Kate narcissistic and a part-time friend. Maybe she is, but how can he ignore what she’s done for me? And then the Libra-child in me—the one who’s always balancing the scales—spoke to me in the third person. You’ve never told him everything she’s done.
I had to clear the air. I sat at my desk, straightened my shoulders and called my husband for the second time that day. It went directly to voice mail. Never mind, I told myself. Out with it.
“David, I’m sorry,” I said to the recorder. “I reacted defensively to what you said about Kate and about how you perceive me acting around her. I know she’s often self-centered and that taking on her defense might be difficult, but I think I’m up to the task. I want you to tell me if you see me putting our family’s well being behind Kate’s, but I’ll watch out for myself. Just like I needed to learn how to talk myself down from the ledge during panic attacks, I’m the one who needs to learn how to handle Kate.”
I got home before David did that evening, and my eyes darted nervously toward the back door when I heard him drive into the garage.
He smiled as he walked into the kitchen. “Hey,” he said, pecking me on the cheek. “I got your message just before I left the office. I’m sorry, too, for acting like a helicopter parent toward you. And I promise I’ll hold my tongue about your friend. Are we good?”
I hugged him, drinking in his warmth and strength. “Yeah, we’re good.”
**
My first days as Kate Daniels’ retained counsel were busy but passed without incident. George Cooper sent over the government’s discovery materials, which all but filled the two cardboard boxes sitting prominently on my office credenza. There were hundreds of photocopied pages: FBI interview reports, correspondence, grant applications, accounting spreadsheets and telephone records. Reviewing all the materials was a daunting task, and I took a stack of photocopies with me every time I left the office.
Each night, I made it a point to spend “quality time”—a phrase I’d always abhorred—with Lily. But as soon as she was asleep, I delved into my briefcase full of the evidence the prosecutor claimed incriminated my friend. I pored over the documents, making notes in the margins and highlighting important points with a yellow marker.
“Their case is weak,” I said to David one night, tapping my pen against my forehead. “I think Kate is right in thinking Marty Braxton is to blame.”
“Remember when you were a prosecutor? You’d come home ragging about defense attorneys who made bad decisions for their clients because they’d failed to look at all sides of the cases. Are you falling into that trap?”
True to his word, David had been supportive of my decision to take on Kate’s defense and had uttered nary a negative word about her since our uncomfortable lunch and ensuing truce. Though his question rankled me, I knew he was right: I had to pretend I was in George Cooper’s shoes and view the evidence from his vantage point. Too bad so many of the reports were as confusing to me as a convoluted spy movie.
Monday, September 24
After two hours of struggling to interpret a spreadsheet the FBI had prepared in Kate’s case, I needed a breather. I opened the manila file containing documents that our less-than-zealous paralegal Kenny—ten days after Rosalee began hounding him— had finally procured. I could decipher simple police reports and court records in my sleep.
I read the deputy sheriff’s report of Kate’s second arrest for driving while intoxicated, which didn’t sound anything like what I remembered about Kate’s account of the incident. Impatiently, I fished through my desk drawer to find the notes of my interview with her. She had told me she’d been pulled over for no apparent reason. Yet the deputy reported witnessing Kate run through a red light, narrowly missing another car in the intersection. Worse yet, I knew this deputy well, and he was neither inexperienced nor incompetent.
Kate had been honest about one thing: she’d blown .082 on the Breathalyzer, only slightly higher than the legal limit. But the deputy’s description of her behavior led him—and me—to believe she was far more intoxicated. I didn’t like where this was going.
The criminal complaint about the worthless checks charge was just as troubling. Kate had written over a thousand dollars worth of bad checks for an assortment of items: a leather jacket, an iPod, a TV and a VCR. Not exactly the ten-dollar-check-for-milk-and-bread scenario I’d envisioned after hearing Kate’s version. And the stores, Kate’s bank, and the DA’s office had sent her a total of sixteen notices trying to collect on the checks.
These reports seemed to be about a different Kate Daniels than the one I had known for so many years. Or at least the Kate Daniels I had convinced myself I knew.
The day got even worse. After lunch Rosalee brought me a fax—a copy of a memorandum from the pretrial services officer to Magistrate Judge Brillstein—and watched in anticipation as I read it.
The short memo reported that laboratory tests of the urine specimen Kate provided on the day of her release were confirmed as positive for cocaine. The memo concluded: “Ms. Daniels was questioned about the results and reiterated she had never used controlled substances, including cocaine. Since the drug ingestion clearly occurred prior to the defendant’s release on bond, no action is requested of the Court. We will increase the frequency of urine testing and report any further positive results for judicial action.”
“Ms. Smith-Kellor called a few minutes ago while you were on the phone to tell you the fax was on its way,” Rosalee said. “She was very apologetic. Said she was out sick last week and just saw the laboratory report this morning. She said to call her if you have any questions.”
“Thanks, Rose,” I said offhandedly. I suspected she wanted to talk about the memo, but I was in no mood for it.
I went over to my file cabinet and found some information I’d collected as a prosecutor—information about metabolic rates for various drugs of abuse.
“Impossible!” I said, slamming the papers to my desk.
“What’s impossible?” Frank Cleaver asked, poking his head into my office.
“I just got a memo from pretrial services about Kate. They say the urine sample she gave on the day she was released from jail tested positive for coke. But this data shows that cocaine stays in your system for only a short time—like a couple of days at most. This would mean she used in jail. There’s got to be some mistake.”
“Caroline, you know drugs can sometimes be gotten in jails.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “I once prosecuted a sheriff’s deputy who smuggled marijuana in to the inmates for exorbitant fees. My point is, Kate wouldn’t use drugs on the streets, much less have the means to procure them in jail.”
“How can you be so sure she’s not a user?”
“In college, most of us smoked pot. Kate was my only close friend who didn’t. She knew we did but staunchly refused to try it. Said she had too much to lose.”
“With all due respect, you’ve been out of college for a long time. People change. I assume you quit smoking pot?” he asked with a smile.
“Of course.”
“Well, maybe Kate changed in the other direction.”
“I can’t see it. She’s a doctor, for God’s sake.”
“Doctors are above the law?” Frank said, chuckling.
“No, but they know better than most people how dangerous drugs are. And I’ve seen Kate frequently enough in recent years to know she hasn’t turned into a junkie.”
“How goes the discovery?” he asked, obviously anxious to change the subject.
“It’s slow and tedious going through the records. The FBI alleges several different means of embezzlement—reimbursement for travel that didn’t occur, pocketing consulting fees that should’ve gone to the university. That kind of thing. There’s paperwork showing a fictitious lab assistant was paid with grant funds, but I think it’s a stretch to show Kate was responsible, and I don’t see any proof she took the money. Marty Braxton had more opportunity in that instance. I think the travel reimbursements and consulting fees amount to accounting mix-ups—nothing more.”
“Hmm. Well, hang in there. It’ll all come together.”
After Frank left, I re-read Monica’s memo and was immediately troubled by another point: Kate hadn’t called to tell me about the positive test result or of her conversation with the pretrial services officer.
Miraculously, Kate answered the phone in her office—the first place I tried. “Hang on a minute, Caroline,” she said altogether too casually for my liking. I waited and listened as she finished a conversation with one of her students and asked him to pull the door shut on his way out. By the time she was free to talk, I’d worked myself into a tizzy of impatience and frustration, pacing behind my desk within the limits of my phone cord tether.
“I just got a memo from Monica about the positive UA,” I began without preface. “Why didn’t you call and tell me?”
“’Cause I didn’t see it as a big deal,” Kate said with an exaggerated sigh. “I haven’t used cocaine, and I’m quite sure she believed me when I told her. Obviously there was a mistake in the testing—I’d just been released from jail for God’s sake! The only aggravating thing is now I have to go down there three times a week to give samples. Is there anything you can do about it?”
Irritated with her nonchalance, I wanted nothing more than to hang up. Instead, I forged ahead, making a conscious effort to match my tone with my mood. “Well first of all, if Monica believed you, she wouldn’t have increased the testing. Second, I can deal with things better if I hear them right away from you—it’s not fair for me to get my information in memos from the court. Finally, you shouldn’t be talking to anybody about anything to do with this case without me.”
“Whoa! I’m sorry…”
Her hollow apology didn’t fly. I waited a beat.
“You gotta remember, Caroline: I’ve got nothing to hide.”
I’m getting pretty frickin’ tired of hearing that. And I’m starting to believe it’s not true.
Thursday, October 11
Despite the ups and downs of Kate’s case, I’d successfully maintained a three-day-per-week work schedule, and this day off began blissfully. David and I got up early and enjoyed a rare fifteen minutes worth of adult conversation over the newspaper and coffee. Lily bounded out of bed when her alarm went off, uncharacteristically enthusiastic to start the day, and ran downstairs to greet us.
“Mom. You’d better get dressed. The field trip is this morning. What are you gonna wear?”
“I thought I’d wear my black corduroys and my red sweater.”
“No! You’ll look dorky. Please wear jeans like the other moms!”
“Okay, hon. Is a sweatshirt all right?”
“Only if it’s a hoodie.” Lily hurried off to her room.
“I sure hope there’s a clean pair of jeans around here or I’m in trouble,” I said, shaking my head.
“I did three loads of laundry last night,” David said. “I’m sure I saw a pair of your jeans among them.”
“You’re the best!”
“Lily sure seems excited. Where’s the field trip again?”
I grinned. “The children’s museum. And you’d better not let Lily know you forgot or she’ll take away your ‘World’s Best Dad’ coffee mug. Remember—her class is putting on the puppet show there for the Head Start kids? And then we’re touring the museum and having a catered lunch?”
David’s face fell. “Oh, man. How could I forget?” he asked.
“Hey, cut yourself some slack. I know you’ve been distracted about those new accounts you’re handling at work. And God knows I haven’t been as communicative as I could be, what with Kate’s case and all.”
“There’s no excuse. Lily hasn’t stopped communicating with me; I just haven’t been listening very carefully.”
“David—”
“No,” he said, grasping my hand and stroking it with his thumb. “Hear me out, Caroline. We’ve told ourselves over and over that family is our priority, and I’m afraid we’re slipping back into our bad old habits.”
Though I didn’t want to admit it, the queasy feeling in my stomach told me he might be right. “Then we’ll just have to be extra vigilant,” I said. “Starting right now.”
I got up from my stool and kissed the top of his head.
“Yes, we will,” he murmured as I left to dress for my day.
The field trip had its trying moments: the noise level on the school bus was excruciating at times, and there were a few kids I’d have gladly medicated for ADHD. Nevertheless, the day was a welcome respite, and I kept the promise I’d made to myself to “be present.” I chatted amiably with other parents, a couple of whom I was coming to know and feel close to. Best of all, Lily was clearly a part of a circle of nice kids that did not include Anna, a/k/a Edie Haskell. Anna and two other girls were too busy chatting up the handsome new male teacher to bother with Lily and her friends.
Lily and I went right from school to the supermarket to shop for the celebratory meal I suggested we plan for dinner. “What are we gonna celebrate?” she asked.
“Hmmm…how about that we’re glad we’re a family?”
Lily stopped the cart in the middle of the aisle, a puzzled look on her face.
“I know it sounds a little corny. But during the field trip today I was thinking how very blessed we are. A lot of the Head Start kids don’t have two parents in their lives. A lot of them have to move all the time because they can’t afford their apartments. Some of them don’t even have enough food to eat. You and your dad and me have each other, a nice home, and plenty of the things we need. I think we need to celebrate that once in awhile.”
Lily nodded thoughtfully. “We should probably get cheesecake for dessert,” she said.
I couldn’t argue with that idea.
With absolute delight, my daughter and I sang the songs from the day’s puppet show as we cooked in the kitchen. The aroma of garlic and basil wafted from the pot of marinara sauce I stirred on the stove. Lily painstakingly tore the Romaine into bite-size pieces and poured most of a box of Caesar croutons into the salad bowl with them.
We were just wiping off the counters and waiting for the pasta water to boil when we heard David’s car pull into the driveway.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked as Lily led him—straight from the back door—into our seldom-used dining room, and she beamed at the carefully laid table, complete with candles and wine glasses.
“It’s ‘We’re Glad We’re a Family’ Night!”
Dinner was heavenly. Lily proudly read us her favorite “Henry and Mudge” book before bedtime and went to sleep with a smile on her face.
It was nine o’clock before I wandered into the family room and noticed the voice mail message light blinking insistently. I hadn’t bothered to pick up the phone in the kitchen to listen for messages—and probably wouldn’t have cared that Kate had called at two-thirty and again at four, sounding frantic and cryptic. “Caroline, call me—it’s urgent!” her last message said.
From nine o’clock until midnight I tried all of Kate’s numbers, calling every few minutes to no avail.
Finally, at David’s urging, I went to bed. I slept fitfully. My dreams were disturbing and I prayed not prophetic: Lily and I trapped in a car and sinking into a dark river, “bad guys” whom I’d previously sent to jail showing up at my door, and David unconscious in a hospital ICU.