The Other Woman

 

 

“The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.”

– Sylvia Plath

 

Robert never forgot the day Carla died. Arriving at their lavish Key Biscayne home that evening, he discovered his wife lying face down on the Carrara white marble bathroom floor with blood streaming from her wrists. His eyes snapped shut for a few seconds as he dropped to his knees and touched her neck to feel for a pulse, but there was none. Carla lay dead.

What did I do? Why don’t I feel anything?

His thoughts were only of Adriana. Her voice resonated into his ears:

“We can’t let her stand in our way, Robert. Do something.”

Robert Gordon was thirty-four and a gifted, best-selling novelist who had lost all feeling for his wife the moment beautiful Adriana entered his life.

He was a curious man and his books overflowed with tantalizing premises and imagery, which resulted in his latest novel, Fire in the Heart, winning the National Book Critics Award. Carla, a writer in her own right and a competent editor for her husband, was never acknowledged in his work or even mentioned at gatherings with friends. Her efforts and accomplishments meant nothing to Robert when compared with Adriana’s charm, quick wit, and loveliness.

Carla was an educated woman. Her morality and faith were steeped in Christianity, though she questioned some of its tenets. She was pathetically lonely, but her desolation was relieved somewhat by her uncanny flair for turning Robert’s manuscripts into polished, richly textured narratives from lackluster, raw passages. As a result of her in-depth line-by-line edits and revisions, Robert’s novels had a distinctive quality about them, which brought him award-winning status as three of his books catapulted to The New York Times Best Seller List. It was something that could never be possible without Carla’s unending devotion to his work and her tedious efforts to bring his narratives and dialogues alive. Without her participation and perseverance, his work would be mediocre at best.

Robert was a handsome man, with dark wavy hair and cold steel-blue eyes. He had acquired an enormous fortune through his writings and lived in an eighteen million dollar mansion at the water’s edge of Biscayne Bay, he had decided his latest novel, Fire in the Heart, would be his last. He no longer desired more wealth, but still required his existing fame to continue in order to impress Adriana and make her love him even more than she said. His ego demanded it, and he knew further renown was guaranteed by book reviewers who believed Fire in the Heart would make Robert an instant contender for the most cherished award of all. The Nobel Prize for Literature.

Robert only had room for one woman in his life, one love—Adriana. She was eye candy at first glance. A raven-tressed, twenty-two-year-old beauty from Brazil with deep brown chocolaty eyes flecked with gold who performed in the corps de ballet for the Miami City Ballet Company. Robert adored her.

He knew her love for him ran deep as she gazed into his eyes, and he loved the sensuous games she played. Adriana made playful sexual overtures to arouse his passions by taking his finger in her mouth, licking it, and watching his face change in varying stages of pleasure, then teasing him by pulling away and running off, giving him the opportunity to enjoy the pursuit. Only she could take his dreams to awe-inspiring heights and ski with him on snow-capped mountains, swim in blue lagoons, and stroll along strips of barren beaches in the moonlight.

At night, he lay in bed hypnotized by the circling wooden blades of the ceiling fan. As it turned, it stirred his passions for Adriana as the fan made its dreary roundabout motions on its way to nowhere. Each turn of the fan mesmerized him. Each turn allowed him to envision them together surrounded by shimmering candlelight, as he traced her moist lips with his finger, followed by short, sweet kisses.

When he was asleep, she crept into his dreams, and awakened raw images of them naked, intertwined passionately like wild animals hissing, moaning, and purring.

He was tortured when there were times he couldn’t be with Adriana and felt cursed because he had to maintain his distance. But even then, he considered himself blessed because he could enjoy the finer parts of their love in his musings and dreams that others, with the privilege of nearness, might never experience.

Now that Carla was dead, everything was possible.

He called 9-1-1.

The police, EMTs and forensic photographer arrived along with a medical examiner. The detective, Nelson Morales, examined the scene wearing surgical gloves, careful not to move anything. He was a slim Hispanic man with olive skin, a thin mustache and had a front tooth surrounded by a gold border.

Morales was a detective first grade, married to the job. He had no wife, no women in his life, and few friends. Being a detective was his life. He lived and breathed police work twenty-four hours a day. He even came to work on his days off.

Other cops thought he was crazy. But that was Morales—the perfect cop. He never took sick days and there were no complaints against him. He had a clean slate, and he was not only respected for his dedication to the job but also for being a tough, clever man.

Carla Gordon’s body remained prostrate on the floor wearing a gold lamé pantsuit, surrounded by a massive pool of blood stretching to the far wall. Morales examined the scene, his piercing eyes focused on each and every detail surrounding her body. The bloodied X-Acto knife and cell phone stood out and a white wash cloth protruded from her mouth. A forensic photographer took pictures of the scene as the detective jotted notes in a leather-bound notebook and placed the knife, blood-drenched cell phone and the washcloth inside separate evidence bags and sealed them.

Robert stood motionless, his eyebrows furrowed, his lips pressed tight. He didn’t even glance at her body as it was placed in a black body bag, zipped and carted away. The questioning began.

“Mr. Gordon, I’m Detective Morales. I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I apologize for having to ask you some questions, but they’re necessary. Is that all right with you? Do you feel up to it?”

“Yes, of course,” Robert said weakly.

They settled on a couch and Morales opened his notebook.

“Do you know of any reason your wife would want to take her life?” Morales asked.

Robert wiped his eyes, feigning remorse. He spoke in a soft monotone. “She was diagnosed with depression and was seeing a psychiatrist. He placed her on an antidepressant and later added a drug to treat her psychosis.”

“A psychiatrist, eh?” Morales raised his eyebrows. “And his name?”

“Dr. Abe Rothstein. He’s in Miami.”

“Would you care to tell me something about what she was treated for?” The detective jotted everything down.

Robert hesitated. “From what I understood from Dr. Rothstein, Carla suffered from depression and lived in two separate, distinct worlds. My general impression was that one was real, the other a fantasy.”

“I don’t want to probe, but do you want to say more about that? Your personal observations, I mean. It might help us evaluate the circumstances and reasons why she took her life.”

“Carla said some bizarre things. She was convinced that she alone was the author of my books and obtained her inspiration for the few edits she had written from angels whispering in her ear. I had permission to view her medical records which indicated she envisioned her body in a distorted way when she looked in a mirror. She was shorter—fat. She believed our dog RayRay’s barking contained messages telling her to constantly wash her face and apply insecticides to remove crawling roaches. Things like that.”

Morales’s eyes widened. “Did the doctor provide a more detailed diagnosis for her actions?”

“He said she suffered from a major depressive disorder, and as a result was delusional and suicidal.”

Morales turned a page in his notebook. “When was the last time you saw your wife alive?”

“This morning at about eight-thirty when I left for my editor’s office in Miami.”

Morales sat back and stroked his chin. “And his name?”

“Michael Harris. He works for Greenleaf Literary Press.”

The detective glanced around the room. “Mr. Gordon, did your wife leave a note?”

“When I arrived home at seven and saw her lying there, I sat and cried, then looked for a note or anything that would give me a clue for a reason why she took her life, but I couldn’t find any.”

“With your permission, would you allow me to search for one?”

Robert nodded. “Of course, go ahead.”

Morales returned fifteen minutes later and said he hadn’t found a note, only a few hand-written letters in a drawer, none pertaining to suicide.

The medical examiner interrupted and asked to speak with Morales in private. Robert couldn’t hear their conversation but noticed that the ME did most of the talking as Morales nodded. The conversation was brief and the detective returned.

“Again, I’m sorry for these questions.” Morales looked into Robert’s eyes as if to assess him, and paused. “Did you and your wife have any arguments that would give her cause to take her life?”

“We argued over small issues, but nothing major. We were always cordial and polite to each other.”

“I understand.” Morales hesitated, then asked in a low voice, “Were either of you seeing anyone special outside of your marriage that might make your wife want to kill herself?”

“There is a woman in my life who I spend time with, but I don’t think my wife would feel threatened by her.”

“Sort of a friend of the family?”

“You might say that,” Robert said.

“Tell me more about this woman.”

Robert clenched his lips for a moment. “She’s an admirer of my books and runs a fan club. So we meet occasionally to arrange for book signings and literary events.”

“And her name for the record?”

Robert heaved a deep breath, his gaze darting. “Adriana. I don’t know her last name.”

“Did she visit here when your wife was present or did she interfere between you and your wife in any way?”

Robert leaned his elbows against his thighs and stared at his feet. “No, not really. Carla knew little of her.”

Morales added a long memo to his notes. “The medical examiner believes it was a suicide. Although suicide is no longer a crime in the state of Florida, police procedures require that we temporarily close off this area and consider it a crime scene until we’re convinced your wife acted alone. It’s just protocol, but I must ask you not to leave town and I’d like you to be available to answer any questions that might arise. Our investigation will take time.”

“Okay.” Robert nodded, remaining calm despite the tragedy. “I’ll be staying on my sailboat, Endless Summer, at the Crandon Marina. It’s ten minutes from here. I’ll have my cell phone on.”

“That’s fine, as long as we can reach you.” The detective was about to leave when he turned. “Oh, one more question, Mr. Gordon. Were there any prior arrangements made regarding a funeral?”

Robert thought about the few times he and his wife had discussed such things “I think I remember her will stated that she wished to be cremated without a service,” he said.

The photographer took more pictures of the scene from different angles and the medical examiner recorded his findings into a microphone. Detective Morales completed his investigatory report, entered Robert’s contact information in his notebook along with the name of Carla’s psychiatrist, gave him his card, and left.

Robert drove to the marina on Key Biscayne. Now he could be alone with Adriana without any distractions. The worst was over. He was free.

He called her and she agreed to meet him at the boat in an hour. It was a drizzly night. Robert arrived early to provision Endless Summer with food and wine before Adriana’s arrival. He took a break and strolled along the dock. The wet splintered wood beneath his sandals sagged and gave way a bit to cushion his feet. He slowed his pace and studied the sailboats as they gently tugged at their dock lines in the calm wind. Then he stopped and remembered Morales asking, “Were either of you seeing anyone special outside of your marriage?”

Did Morales think I killed Carla and cut her wrists to make it appear a suicide?

He shuddered.

Adriana arrived dressed in blue shorts and a white T-shirt and carried a soft-covered designer canvas boat bag.

They stood on the dock under an amber light, their faces aglow. He gazed into Adriana’s eyes. “Carla is gone. Our lives are ours,” he said.

Adriana took his hand. “What happened?”

“She killed herself.”

“I’m sorry for her…but we both knew it would happen. Now we can be together.” A small frown creased her lips. “Still, you must have feelings for her after ten years.”

“I did the first year we were married. Beginnings are always the most exciting, but as you know, it wasn’t long before we drifted apart. Our lives were all about being cordial to each and nothing else and we lived in a mundane, emotionless world. We never had the intimacies you and I share.”

They kissed under the soft light and held each other.

A smile brightened Robert’s face. “The past is behind us. Let’s take advantage of this beautiful night and sail to Bimini. We can stay for a day and head back. I just want to be alone with you, away from everything—just us. We can’t stay long.”

He led her to the boat and helped her board. “I promised to be available to the detective handling the case,” he continued, “but I think I’ve covered everything with him already. He probably won’t call.”

The rainy weather passed, giving way to clear skies. They put out to sea under a starry sky at three a.m. on a 125-degree course to Bimini, with only one- to three-foot seas and less than fifty nautical miles ahead of them. After a few hours, the lights of Miami faded behind them as they followed their course at an easy five knots with only the rushing sound of the bow waves passing them by.

Robert set the auto pilot, letting the boat steer itself as they sat, leaning against the mast as Endless Summer made her way through the dark sea. He tasted the warmth of Adriana’s lips until their passions overflowed, leaving them out of control with only their instincts to make decisions for them. Robert’s heartbeat skyrocketed as he heard her moans and deep breathing blend with the gentle sounds of Endless Summer’s frothy white bow waves passing on each side of the boat.

A moment later, Adriana lifted her arms and moved on top of him. Robert slid her T-shirt off, pulled her down to him and kissed her breasts. His eyes widened and his heart pounded as their hands explored each other. Soon, he felt himself deep inside of her. He gazed at Adriana’s face, distorted with passion, her mouth open, her eyes closed, and her head tilted toward the sky. Her voice screamed into the night and the sound danced in the wind as Robert gazed at the stars above her moving from side to side. Then, in an instant, their bodies exploded into one delicious, frenzied burst of passion—their hearts beating as one. Moments later, they held each other as their breathing slowed. Soon their feelings gave way to sweeter, more sublime intimacies as they shared short kisses and gazed at each other, grinning before they slipped into a peaceful sleep in each other’s arms.

They arrived in Bimini at one p.m., waited to clear customs, and went into town to enjoy delicious conch salads at a ramshackle wooden hut at the busy waterfront. Robert glanced at her, his heart swelling at her radiance. His love for her was far beyond his wildest dreams. She was perfect…his soul mate.

They went back to the boat, showered, dressed and then danced the night away at the Bimini Big Game Club in nearby Alice Town and made love in the cabin of Endless Summer when they returned.

The next morning, the two lovers toasted each other with glasses of cold, crisp Chardonnay and shared more sweet kisses as they listened to the mellow strains of La Boheme.

They slipped into their swim suits, loaded snorkeling gear into the dinghy, and headed out to Sapona, a concrete shipwreck whose upper half sat above the water. They were alone. Adriana took off her Bikini top, held it and they snorkeled under the hulk. The visibility was perfect. The sun’s rays ran deep, lighting the coral sea treasures below as the bright colors of the reef, Angelfish and clownfish filled their eyes.

Robert guided Adriana toward a bulkhead of the ship. He held her there as her legs straddled him. He kissed her breasts and watched her eyes close. Her legs tightened around him as he moved deep inside her. They took their time and made love.

Only afterward did Robert realize his cell phone had slipped out of his swim shorts. His underwater search proved futile. He panicked for a moment, fearful that leaving the jurisdiction was a crime and Morales might try to call him, but he soon relaxed. He had answered all of the detective’s questions.

Later that night, they cooked a pasta dinner on board and watched the sun sink into the sea as they sipped a deep red Châteauneuf-du-Pape. The next day, heavy rain delayed their return, but by evening, the red sky at night hinted the weather would clear and sunny. At first light, they began sailing back to Florida.

When they returned to Crandon Marina, Robert dropped Adriana off at the dock near her car and brought Endless Summer into its slip.

A plainclothes police officer stood waiting for him. The man’s posture, short haircut, and dark suit gave him away.

“Mr. Gordon?”

“Yes, what can I do for you?” Robert asked. He knew he shouldn’t feel nervous—he had nothing to hide—but he couldn’t help it.

“I’m officer Lucia and I’m here in an advisory capacity to inform you that Detective Morales needs to discuss a few matters with you.”

Robert wished he hadn’t lost his phone. “Am I under arrest for leaving the jurisdiction?”

The officer smiled. “Leaving the area is not a crime, sir, but there are issues that need to be addressed by the detective.”

“I’ll get in touch with him after I tie up the boat and furl the sails—won’t take long.”

“Very well. I’ll call Detective Morales and let him know. Goodbye, sir.”

While Robert was out of range for the past two days, Morales had tried to call him several times relating to a minor matter, a paper that needed to be signed, but his suspicions were aroused when there was no answer to his repeated calls and had Lucia detailed to the Crandon Marina to see if Robert was aboard his boat. When Lucia reported the boat was not in its slip, Morales ordered him to check the marina periodically until he got lucky and showed up when Robert returned from Bimini.

Morales was uncomfortable with Gordon’s sail to Bimini. Although leaving town was not a crime, his intuition told him something was wrong. Going out of town was a red flag. The detective went before a court and asked for a search warrant, telling the judge he had reason to believe that foul play may be an issue in Carla Gordon’s death since her husband disappeared after being advised to stay in town.

With a search warrant on the books, the police showed up at Robert’s home and asked his permission to enter. He agreed and a detailed investigation of the residence followed. The police, a photographer, and a CSI team were present. When Robert’s office was searched, several items caught Morales’s attention. The most glaring was a pile of hand-written letters taken from a locked drawer. All of them began with, “My dearest Adriana.” He placed them into a plastic bag in the event Robert would be arrested and these letters were offered as evidence in court.

Another letter was found under a pillow in the bedroom. It opened with, “Dear Carla.”

All the letters were photographed and bagged.

 

Before the handwritten correspondence was placed in the plastic bags, the detective skimmed through the six handwritten letters. He picked up bits and pieces from the writings which suggested they were love letters between Robert and a woman named Adriana. Five of them, written to her, contained numerous words that were crossed out and written over. He pondered. Why would Robert, a professional author, be so sloppy about his writings?

Morales shook his head. Of course, he was editing his work. That’s what writers do. But why in this case? They were only letters and they didn’t have to be perfect or polished, and yet there were numerous corrections on every page. Why did he contact his wife, Carla, using e-mail and texts? They lived in the same house. Was he not talking to her? The police checked his computer’s hard drive but found nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe his cell phone would provide information, but when asked for it, Robert had said it was lost while snorkeling and he planned to get a new phone, but for now, the detective was more interested in the letters. Carla’s bloodied phone had been previously placed in an evidence bag. He would get to it later.

The single letter Robert wrote to Carla was found under her pillow. It had no changes or corrections, no words crossed out. Morales scratched his head. Robert’s letters to Adriana appeared to be answers to her letters but where were her original letters? Were they so special that he hid them in a safe place not to be seen by anyone but him? Where were they? In his boat? A safe deposit box? As a detective, Morales knew questions only raised more questions and rarely brought answers. He began where his intuition took him.

He sat at his desk and began reading.

My dearest Adriana,

Thank you so much for your poetic, sweet thoughts of us in your last letter. No one else could ever know the intensity of the love we share. We are blessed with a precious gift. I’m glad you enjoyed the roses. When I inhaled their fragrance before I had them sent from the flower shop, I already envisioned the smile that would cross your face when you received them.

It wasn’t easy for me to get away last night, but I was thrilled when circumstances changed, making it possible for me to see you.

When we watched the wonderful movie Doctor Zhivago on TV, our hands together, we knew it was about us. We shared the same sense of oneness with Lara and Yuri. We knew how they felt because they were so much like us. I was touched, as you were when Lara and Yuri’s passion unfolded in the midst of conflict. We felt their affection as only we could. With each passionate moment in the movie, I felt our hands tighten and smiled to myself. Thank you so much for your love.

Last night was a stolen, unplanned moment of pleasure for us, but bittersweet because time passed too quickly. I was saddened by that when I had to leave. I wanted time to move slowly so we could savor and taste every second. But that was not to be. I know you understand. Perhaps someday.

All my love always,

Sweet kisses,

Robert

Morales knew he had to bring Adriana in for questioning. She was a key player in what was going on and Robert kept his relationship with her a deep, dark secret. Then he read Robert’s letter to his wife.

Dear Carla,

I’m forced to write to you because our conversations get us nowhere. I insist you take action now. It pains me to see you consumed by your depression, anxiety, and panic attacks and am sorry none of the medications are working.

You keep telling me to stop bullying you. I don’t think I am, and perhaps only you perceive it that way. You’ve told me that you feel your life is not worth living. I concur. Most people would agree there’s nothing better than being alive, but that may not hold true if you’re living in such excruciating emotional pain. You’re a person of faith, and you know there’s a better life for you after death where you will find peace and happiness.

I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll be forthright. I’m leaving you. I met someone. Her name is Adriana. She is twenty-two and a dancer from Europe. She has recently been accepted in the ballet de corps of The Miami Ballet Company. I have fallen deeply in love with her, and it would be pointless for you and me to continue in our loveless relationship. I needed to feel love and I found it with her. Without it, my life is meaningless.

Many have taken their lives and found serenity in an afterlife. You will, too. I’m sorry your depression has gotten worse. I’m telling you to take your life, and you must take action now! I know you have a sense for the dramatic. Your first two films proved you have talent as an actress and now you have the opportunity to make your exit with panache. No more pain, no fatigue—just sweet peace and fulfillment. Going from one side to the other is like inhaling the fragrance of a lovely rose. Use the X-Acto knife in the drawer of your night table, and be free.

Robert

The detective’s eyes widened as he scanned each line in disbelief and his jaw dropped when he read the last line: Use the X-Acto knife in the drawer of your night table and be free.

Why were all his letters to Adriana so long, sweet, caring and well-written with so many corrections, and this single letter to Carla so harsh, cold, calculating and deadly—and written with no corrections? Where was Adriana, and why wasn’t she with him now? Had she run off? Did he kill her, too? Where were the letters from her?

Morales slammed his hand down on his desk and yelled, “You bastard, Mr. Big Shot fucking author, you’re a sick son of a bitch.”

He wasted no time and met with the state prosecutor who took the case to the Grand Jury. A few weeks later, they found enough probable cause to indict Robert Gordon on felony charges. Robert was awakened by the police at three a.m., arrested, placed into custody and charged with assisting the suicide of his wife, a second-degree felony. Half asleep, Robert listened to the charge but was taken away before he had a chance to protest.

The next morning, a police officer led Robert into the courtroom for the arraignment process. He was greeted by a man who called himself Joseph Cutler.

“Mr. Gordon, I’m a Public Defender. Is your lawyer here?”

“No, I’ve been through a lot of stress and was confused by the charge.”

“I understand. I was appointed to represent you during the arraignment and with your permission, I’ll fill in until your lawyer takes over. Based on your financial circumstances, you will not be entitled to the services of a public defender after today. During this arraignment, you will be charged with a serious crime. A second-degree felony.”

“Felony?” Robert threw up his hands. “I thought they said that, but I was not present when my wife took her life, so that charge is wrong and I can prove it!”

“Mr. Gordon. You have been indicted and alleged to be an active participant in the assisted suicide of your wife. Suicide is not illegal in Florida, but assisted suicide is. If convicted, you can be facing a prison term and a fine. Do you know of any reason why your wife would want to take her life?”

Robert shook his head and took a deep breath. This can’t be happening. “What do they think I did? I never helped her kill herself. Why would I do such a thing? She cut her wrists. It was her own doing. She was a Christian woman but interpreted the tenets of the church in her own way. Maybe she believed there was an afterlife with no damnation no matter how she died.”

“I understand, religion is often a matter of interpretation,” Cutler said with compassion. “It’s not always easy to find a reason.”

“I can’t think of one, but there’s something wrong here. I don’t get it. What kind of prison time are we looking at, anyway? Maybe I could just cop a plea, do some community service and be out of here.”

The public defender heaved a deep sigh. “If that’s your wish, I’ll talk to Romano, the ADA, about pleading to a lesser charge, but I know he won’t buy it. I suggest you accept the charge as is and plead not guilty. If you don’t want to speak for yourself, I’ll do it for you.”

“That’s okay. It’s only two words.”

“Mr. Gordon, I know you’re a successful author. Your last book, Fire in the Heart, kept me on the edge of my seat from beginning to end. I’m mentioning this because I assume you can afford an experienced criminal defense attorney. I’ve done my share of criminal cases, but if I represented you, I would have to fit your case into my busy workload. You deserve better. Wouldn’t you be better served by a top criminal attorney with better resources who could give you his or her undivided attention? The truth is, you don’t qualify to have a public defender assigned by the court to plead your case.”

“I figured that, Cutler. I’ll get a lawyer, the best one money can buy, but I think you’re making a worst case scenario out of the circumstances. I didn’t kill my wife. I had no reason to help her take her life, so let’s get it over with. I’ll get a private lawyer but for now, I’ll plead not guilty.”

Robert’s hands trembled as the judge entered the courtroom. Cutler, Romano, and Robert were called to the bench. Judge Patton was a woman about fifty, slim, with straight flowing blonde hair.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I’ll be brief. Mr. Romano, fill me in. What’s this case about?”

“Your Honor, the prosecution has evidence to support the fact that Robert Gordon was instrumental in assisting his wife’s suicide.”

Robert shook his head and clenched his lips.

“Do you have any specifics other than those you’ve submitted, Mr. Romano?”

“We have documentation and witnesses who will testify that certain letters and other factors were the main reason the deceased took her life.”

“Letters? That sounds like you’re stretching it a bit, but the Grand Jury has listened to the evidence and issued a true bill, so let’s get on with it. Mr. Cutler, you have something to add?”

“No, your Honor.”

The judge shifted her gaze to Robert. “Mr. Gordon, you’re being charged with assisting the suicide of your wife, Carla Gordon, on October fifteenth this year. If you’re found guilty, you may have to serve a prison term of up to fifteen years and pay a ten thousand dollar fine. Do you understand the charge?”

“Yes.” Robert nodded.

“How do you plead?”

“Not guilty, your Honor. I shouldn’t be charged with this crime. I wasn’t present when my wife took her life.”

“Let the record show that the defendant has pleaded not guilty. If you cannot afford representation, the court will provide an attorney for you. Bail is set at $250,000.”

Mr. Cutler interceded. “Your Honor, my client has never been arrested, has never had any warrants issued, owns his own home, has no criminal record, and is an upstanding member of the community. Under the circumstances, can we reduce the amount of bail?”

“Mr. Cutler, as you know, the ability to pay is not the issue here. The defendant has shown he’s a flight risk and, given his income, I know the amount stated is quite affordable. Bail will remain at $250,000. We will schedule the trial for Monday, November thirtieth at ten a.m. Does that work for you, gentlemen?”

“Yes, your Honor,” Romano said.

“Your Honor,” Cutler added, “I’ve been informed by Mr. Gordon that he will seek private counsel and his attorney will file a notice of appearance.”

“Very well, I will expect the notification from Mr. Gordon’s counsel.”

In a private room, Robert sat with Mr. Cutler and discussed the situation.

“I never expected this,” Robert said, staring at his folded hands. “I can’t believe the Grand Jury indicted me. There is no evidence to prove I was present when Carla took her life.” He heaved a deep breath. “Okay, tell me, who’s the best?”

“My top choice would be Sharon Daniels. She’s an experienced criminal lawyer and she’ll do her best to make sure you walk. She can interact with the police and court staff. She knows all the judges personally, has lunch with them and is a familiar face in courtrooms. It might not be an easy defense. There’s not much case law here—depends on what the prosecution’s got. But that will all come out in the disclosure.”

“Is she part of a large law firm?”

“No, and that’s a good thing. The best criminal lawyers work solo.”

“Thanks, Cutler. You’re a good man.”

“Good luck, Mr. Gordon. You’ll be in good hands. Be optimistic. I want a signed copy of your next book. What’s the title?”

“Crime and Punishment.” He smiled.

Cutler laughed. “That’s a good one. Keep your sense of humor. I’ll watch for it.”

Robert wrote a check for the $25,000 to cover the premium and posted bond.

He spent the next two days with Adriana anchored off Elliot Key, a thin strip of barrier beach not far from Key Biscayne. They swam off the boat and met at the stern ladder where they enjoyed a daily highlight as they hung from the rungs, kissing in the sunshine. Later, they showered together and made love as the warm water splashed over their tanned bodies.

The last hours of each day were often spent on the aft deck, protected from the sun where they shared a bottle of good red and talked as the sun turned deep orange before sinking into the sea.

“It’s a different show every night,” Adriana said.

“It is.” Robert gazed into her eyes. “The evening sky is a work of art painted just for us.”

“Yes, but I’m worried. A trial…court…lawyers. You did what had to be done and you did it for us. I don’t know what will happen, but I believe in you and know everything will work out all right in the end.”

“It’s a trumped-up charge. That detective had it in for me from the beginning. It was probably the only time he stepped into a house like mine. I think he has something against rich people or maybe he judged my morality—cheating on my wife. That’s the way he would see it. Besides, he didn’t have to make such a big deal over me leaving town.”

The sun had long disappeared beneath the horizon, leaving the sky streaked with elongated hues of dark blue, orange, and yellow until a blanket of stars swept over them and a banana moon hung on the horizon. Surrounded by the still air, Robert and Adriana held each other as the boat yawed at her anchor and lulled them to sleep.

Robert awoke early and sat on the deck while Adriana slept. He was confident about his case and had hired a strong legal team in Sharon Daniels and her paralegal, Abby Robinson. Sharon had graduated Magna Cum Laude from The University of Miami Law School, and, Abby, a young African American, received her Bachelor of Science in Legal Studies at St. John’s University in New York. Both were qualified and experienced.

In preparation for the case, Sharon asked Robert to see Dr. James Abernathy three times a week. He was a forensic psychiatrist who specialized in questions posed by the legal system and was a believable witness in court. The defense also hired a retired FBI agent to determine the authenticity of letters and other documents and investigate Adriana’s background.

Two weeks later, Abernathy’s report was sent to Sharon, and she met with Robert at La Boulangerie, a small bakery, and restaurant on Key Biscayne where they enjoyed French baguette sandwiches and freshly squeezed orange juice.

“So the prosecutor thinks I’m crazy?” Robert asked.

She toyed with the diamond pendant hanging over her white blouse and offered him a warm smile. “I wouldn’t go that far, but I think it would be to our advantage if the jury thought you were eccentric. After all, being unconventional isn’t a crime, but it puts the seed of an idea into the minds of the jurors that you are somewhat unusual. That sets the stage for them to believe you when unusual aspects of the case come up in the testimony.”

“Such as?” When the server stopped by to refill their coffee mugs, Robert thanked her before directing his attention back to Sharon.

“For one thing, you’re being secretive concerning Adriana,” Sharon said. “You’ve told me nothing about her, not even her last name. Abernathy has written a great deal about her in his report. All of that information had to come from you.”

“Well, he did want to know something about her, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather not bring her into the case just yet. Is that okay with you?”

“No, it’s not okay. I have to build a strong case for your defense and I don’t want any surprises. Is there a reason why you don’t want to talk about her?”

Robert shook his head. “I don’t want her ostracized. She would be publicly humiliated as being the other woman.”

Sharon paused as if in thought. “That makes sense. A jury would believe a response like that. Continue to answer my questions that way and I’ll spray reasonable doubt all over the jurors—and maybe get you to walk.”

“I’ll try,” Robert said, sipping his coffee.

“It will be to our advantage if Abernathy reported some compromised mental state. The jury could buy into that and show compassion. How do you feel about me emphasizing that finding in court?” Sharon asked.

“Anything that will get me to walk works.”

The case was called at The Miami-Dade Criminal Courthouse on November thirtieth. Robert had already spent a total of nine one-hour sessions over three weeks with Dr. Abernathy.

Robert entered the courtroom with Adriana. She wore a red silk dress and he asked her to sit in the last row of the courtroom. Robert wore a navy pin-striped Armani suit with a matching paisley tie. His black wavy hair, chiseled features, and dimpled chin made him look like a young Warren Beatty and set him apart from others in the courtroom.

He settled in a chair next to Sharon and Abby at the defense table.

Romano sat with his paralegal next to the jury box. After the jury selection process, the panel comprised eight women and four men.

“Is this the kind of jury you were looking for, Sharon?” Robert asked.

“Not too bad with respect to the spread of ethnic makeup, but during the Voir dir I would have preferred fewer women. Usually, they’re more emotional, and I’m not sure we need that in your case—assisting the suicide of your wife. But lawyers don’t always get their way. Nobody is going to have sympathy for you, anyway. I would have wanted more engineers, physics teachers, and train conductors as jurors, people who paid attention to detail and the facts, but these are the cards we have to deal with and we’ll play to win.”

“Would we have done better in a different venue?”

“Not really. Your case doesn’t rest on minority issues like O. J. Simpson’s, for example. His crime was committed in a predominantly white area but his lawyers were able to change the venue to a city dominated by African Americans. It was the biggest mistake the prosecution made. Your case doesn’t have minority concerns and your fame would be recognized in any venue.”

The court was called into session. The docket number and charges were read.

The judge glanced at papers in front of her, then looked at the lawyers. “Are there any motions regarding this case that need to be heard?”

Sharon stood. “Your Honor, the defense moves that the court dismisses all charges. Florida statute 775.083 reads that every person assisting another in the commission of self-murder shall be guilty of manslaughter. However, based on the principle of mens rea, the State will have to show intent on the part of my client with respect to assisting in the suicide of his wife. Since Mr. Gordon was not present at the time and place where she took her life, he committed no crime and as such, I move to dismiss.”

“Thank you, Ms. Daniels. There are other factors to be considered in this case. I will take your motion under advisement. Motion denied. Do you have an opening statement, Mr. Romano?”

“I do, Your Honor.”

“Proceed.” The judge leaned back in her chair.

Martin Romano was a slim man, about fifty. He had blue eyes and jet black hair with strands of white. He was aware that few prosecutors ever got rich, but wealth wasn’t a value in his life. He loved the law, was passionate about being a prosecutor and his reputation for being fair and honest was well-known. He stood close to the jury box, passed his gaze over the faces of the jurors and spoke in a soft voice.

“Ladies and gentleman, thank you for your service. My name is Martin Romano and I’m the prosecutor in this case. The defendant is charged with assisted suicide. The defense claimed a few moments ago that the defendant, Robert Gordon, committed no crime. Really? No crime? The evidence the prosecution will introduce will prove otherwise.

“I will demonstrate by the facts and by the testimony of expert witnesses that Robert Gordon had the intent, motive, and tools available to be instrumental in the demise of Carla Gordon. If he had taken no action of any kind, the deceased would be alive today. Murder is murder, even when acting as an accomplice.

“The prosecution will show beyond a reasonable doubt that the X-Acto knife used by Carla Gordon to take her life was indirectly placed in her hands by her husband and his encouragement to take her life resulted in a horrendous death, leaving her body surrounded by a pool of her own blood.

“I will also prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Robert Gordon was aware of his wife’s suicidal tendencies and her fragility, and he seized the opportunity to torment her and push her over the edge so that she would kill herself. “What was his motive you might ask? Only one,” Romano said. “Mr. Gordon wanted to be with another woman and his wife got in the way. The other woman’s name—Adriana.

“Did Carla Gordon have a choice? Did she have to die? The answer is no to both questions. She was manipulated and controlled by an evil man, leaving her powerless with no alternative but to find the peace her husband demanded by killing herself. The pressure of the defendant’s overpowering insistence that she take her life made it impossible for her fragile state of mind to do otherwise.

“The defense will plead that the defendant was not present when Carla Gordon committed self-murder. That will be a major thrust of their case. But, in essence, Robert Gordon was very much there. Using contrived techniques and technology, the defendant took advantage of his mentally ill wife, a woman whose mind was receptive to suggestions that she kill herself and by his words pushed her over the edge. What kind of man is this? How could anyone be that evil? His reason? His motive?” Romano paused and took a deep breath. “So he could be free to satisfy his lust with a much younger woman.”

Romano walked past the jury, his gaze dwelling on each face as he looked into their eyes. He placed his hands on the varnished wooden bar and asked, “Is Robert Gordon a sick man? No. A mental case? No. Mr. Gordon is quite sane, competent enough to be an award-winning, best-selling author. The proof is in his writing. Being an acclaimed author is only possible if someone has a clear, composed mind. In a recently published newspaper article, his work was compared to Hemingway. So, Robert Gordon is sane all right. Yes, he’s sane, but evil!”

Romano stroked his chin and continued his stroll in front of the jury. “People sometimes yell angry words to others, such as, ‘I’m going to kill you.’ Are those words a crime? No, not always, and those words are often used in a playful manner. However, in the case of the People v. Robert Gordon, circumstances are such that the defendant’s actions and penetrating words said to a mentally and emotionally compromised individual, did, in fact, contribute to his wife’s death without giving her any clear choice in the matter. Not a crime, says the defense? Really?”

He arched his brows. “Ladies and gentleman, Robert Gordon’s motive was pure and simple. He wanted his wife dead and took advantage of her fragility to cause her death so he could be with the younger woman he loved—the other woman. In the name of justice, I ask you to please return a verdict of guilty.”

The judge glanced toward the defense table. “Ms. Daniels?”

Sharon stood. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

Sharon wore a navy business suit, white blouse, and low heels as she approached the jury. Her black hair fell loosely above her shoulders and a single strand of gold chain circled her neck.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Sharon Daniels. I have been an attorney in the State of Florida for the past fifteen years. I do not believe the charges, in this case, are specific to the law. The Florida statute states that ‘every person deliberately assisting another in the commission of self-murder shall be guilty of manslaughter.’ The key words, ‘deliberately assisting,’ implies that my client’s presence would be required during his wife’s suicide. Robert Gordon was not there. Those are the facts. The charges against him do not fulfill the requirements of the statute.” Sharon extended her arms palms up and shrugged as she peered into the eyes of the jurors. “Doesn’t that make sense? I say again, he was not there. I don’t know how this case got this far.”

Ms. Daniels strolled past the jury of eight women and four men, their eyes following her as she paced. Three of the women were African Americans, four were Caucasian and one Hispanic. Three of the men were Caucasian. One was Asian. Their occupations varied. She continued.

“Ladies and gentlemen, a letter that the defendant wrote to his wife will come up in the testimony. Its admission will be questionable to begin with, but ask yourselves, should Robert Gordon be judged on the basis of a hand-written letter he allegedly wrote to his wife? There’s no proof she even read that letter and even if she did read it and it did push her over the edge, the defendant committed no crime.” Sharon’s voice lowered to just above a whisper. “The statute implies that my client’s presence would be necessary. He was not there, so there was no assisted suicide, no homicide, and no crime.

“Besides, writing a letter is protected by the First Amendment, and he could write anything he wanted. Whether the letter did or did not persuade his wife to take her life is pure supposition and of no consequence. But Carla Gordon was also protected by her rights. She had the right to exercise her free will when it came to living or dying, and as a result, she has chosen to end her life on her own terms. Again, the choice was hers—only hers.”

Daniels continued her promenade past the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, how could a letter, no matter how persuasive, be the basis for charging Mr. Gordon as an accessory to assisted suicide? Bottom line—I say again, he wasn’t there, and there is no evidence that proves he caused Carla Gordon to take her life.”

Several jurors made notes. One looked at his watch.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the defense is under no obligation to prove anything. We can just sit here during the trial and say nothing. The proof is the prosecution’s job. It’s their burden. They have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that my client committed the act with which he is charged and they must show that he acted with intent. However, we will demonstrate by expert testimony and other facts that the prosecution has insufficient evidence to support their charge of accessory to self-murder.”

Most of the jury remained focused except for the Asian man who appeared inattentive and kept glancing around the courtroom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you have been given the privilege to judge a man based on the law. His life hangs in the balance, and you are sworn to act in a just and fair manner. I ask you to please carefully examine the facts in an unbiased manner and return a just verdict of not guilty.”

“Thank you, Ms. Daniels,” the judge said. “The court will adjourn for the day and resume tomorrow morning at ten.”

Abby was paging through a thick law book as Sharon returned to the defense table. “Nice job, counselor,” she remarked. “I think you got the jury thinking.”

Robert sat with his hands tucked inside his jacket. He appeared calm, his eyes half closed as if he were watching a boring movie on TV. “That was a good delivery, Ms. Daniels. I couldn’t have written it better myself,” he said.

“Thanks. By the way, call me Sharon. We don’t have to be so formal. I’ve already exchanged witness lists with Romano. He’ll bring a court psychiatrist, the medical examiner, an IT specialist, and Michael Harris. Who’s Michael Harris?”

“He’s the lead editor with my publisher.”

“What does he know about you?”

Robert leaned forward. “Everything about my work. It’s all business. He does a final edit of my books. That’s about it.”

Sharon bit her lip and shook her head. “Romano wouldn’t bring him in if he didn’t have damaging testimony. We have to talk about him.”

“Who are our witnesses?”

“Abernathy, a retired FBI investigator, and maybe you. I’ll do the crosses on Romano’s witnesses and try to find weaknesses in their testimony. Relax. Be optimistic.”

The next morning, the courtroom was filled to capacity. Romano sat back in his chair reading through his notes as the judge chatted with the bailiff. There was no loud talking in the court, just murmuring. The judge looked toward the prosecutor. “Mr. Romano, would you like to call your first witness?”

“Yes, your Honor. If it please the court, I’d like to call Dr. Peter Erlichman.”

Erlichman walked to the stand with a tight-lipped smile and was sworn in. He was tall and lanky, about sixty-five with tired eyes, white hair, and a well-coiffed short white beard. Romano opened the questioning.

“Dr. Erlichman, would you please tell the court something about yourself with respect to your education and profession?”

“I grew up in Rutland, Vermont, finished my undergraduate work at Dartmouth, and studied medicine at the University of Vermont in Burlington where I received my medical degree. Afterward, I attended Johns Hopkins where I did my residency and subsequently received my degree to practice psychiatry.”

Romano paced a few steps back and forth in front of the witness. “And are you in active practice now?”

“Yes, I’m a licensed psychiatrist in Vermont and Florida. I’ve been a forensic psychiatrist for the past twenty-five years.”

“Can you tell the court what you do as a forensic psychiatrist?”

“If someone is on trial, especially for a violent crime, I make an assessment to determine if the defendant is fit to stand trial and determine if his or her mental state was a factor in the commission of the crime. In addition, I answer any questions from lawyers and the court relating to the legalities involved.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Have you had the opportunity to examine the defendant, Robert Gordon, with respect to his general mental state especially when he was alleged to have encouraged his wife’s suicide?”

“I’ve seen him as a patient three times a week for the past three weeks. I performed a series of tests, including blood tests.” Erlichman watched the defendant for a moment, then glanced back at Romano.

“Did you submit your report to the court?” Romano asked.

Erlichman leaned forward. “Yes, I did.”

“Your Honor, I’d like to place Dr. Erlichman’s report into evidence, which I have labeled 1A.”

The judge looked at it and handed it to Daniels, who examined it and the report was placed in evidence.

Romano placed the blood test in Dr. Erlichman’s hands. “Is this the document you sent to the court relating to your examination of Robert Gordon, and if so, would you tell the court your evaluation of the content and other interpretations of his behavior?”

“The blood test showed no drug or alcohol use or any abnormal blood chemistry. My talk therapy and depression screening indicated the patient was not depressed, overly anxious, or exhibiting mood swings or shifts in energy. He was articulate, spoke in a soft voice and overall, his mental state appeared to be quite normal.”

“Did you perform any other tests?”

“Yes, one more. A Rorschach test. Interpretation of his answers to the ambiguous designs or ink blots is more of an art instead of a science and is highly subjective. Keeping that in mind, Mr. Gordon’s answers, after showing him the amorphous blobs, implied a significantly high degree of imagination.”

“Thank you. Your witness, Ms. Daniels.”

Sharon rose to her feet. “May I approach, Your Honor?” The judge nodded, and she approached the stand. “Good morning, Dr. Erlichman. When you performed the screening for Robert Gordon, did it include a test for dissociative identity disorder?”

“No, it did not.”

“Why not, Doctor?”

“That test determines whether an individual has multiple personalities. Given my earlier findings, I didn’t think the test was appropriate.” Ehrlichman's gaze wandered from the witness box to the jury.

“Dr. Erlichman, my client has been charged with assisting in the suicide of his wife. The charge against the accused is largely based on a letter he wrote to his wife telling her to take her life. In that letter, he said he was leaving her for a younger woman. His actions seem to show a disparity between his behavior as a learned, peaceful man, and his basic violent tendencies. That’s quite a contrast. Under the circumstances, if you had examined him for dissociative identity disorder, could that testing have provided a more definitive diagnosis?”

“Perhaps.”

Sharon walked closer to the witness box. “And if you had done the screening, do you think it might have influenced your findings in a way other than what you reported?”

“It’s possible.” The doctor glanced at the judge.

“Thank you, Dr. Erlichman. No more questions.”

“At this point, your Honor, the State calls Dr. Robert Oksman to the stand,” Romano called out.

The witness ambled toward the stand. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his mid-fifties with black, wavy hair wearing a blue blazer, tan pants, and a striped tie. He eased into his seat and opened a small notebook.

“Dr. Oksman, were you the medical examiner on the scene at Bayside Terrace in Key Biscayne on the night of October fifteenth, this year?”

“I was.”

“What time did you arrive?”

Oksman put on his glasses and checked his notes. “Eight-forty p.m. The police and EMT services were already there.”

“Can you give us an estimate of the time of death?”

He looked down at his notebook. “It was approximately between ten and eleven a.m.”

“Upon your arrival, what were your observations?”

The witness shifted in his seat. “A woman, approximately thirty-five years old, was lying dead on the bathroom floor with her wrists slit, an apparent suicide.”

“Did you notice anything peculiar at that time?”

He took a deep breath and looked at the jury. “Yes. When I examined her body, I found that significantly more blood flowed from her left arm than her right.”

“To what did you attribute that?”

“I concluded the left wrist was cut a considerable time before the right one.”

“What explanation do you have for why Mrs. Gordon might have done that?”

Oksman shakes his head. “I surmised that she hadn’t fully made up her mind to kill herself until she cut her right wrist and then stopped to think about it again, but really, I have no scientific explanation.”

“Were there any objects lying near the body?”

“Yes, a bloodied X-Acto knife and a blood-drenched cell phone.”

“Thank you, Dr. Oksman. Your witness, Ms. Daniels.”

Sharon approached the witness and smiled. “Good morning, Dr. Oksman. Will you tell the court who was present at the home of the deceased that evening?”

The doctor leaned forward. “The EMS team, two uniformed police officers, Detective Morales, the ME, and Mr. Gordon.”

“And you saw Mr. Gordon grief-stricken?”

Romano stood. “Objection—leading.”

“Sustained.”

“Let me rephrase. Dr. Oksman, how did Mr. Gordon appear to you?”

“Very Stressed. His lips were pressed tight, his brows were furrowed and he looked as if he was experiencing emotional pain.”

“And how was Mr. Gordon dressed?” She paced in front of him.

Oksman glanced at his notes. “He wore a navy blazer, khaki slacks, shirt, and tie.”

“Did you notice any blood stains on his body or clothing?”

“No, I did not.”

“Thank you, Dr. Oksman.”

Romano looked toward Ms. Daniels.

“I have no further questions,” she said.

“Your Honor, the prosecution now calls Elizabeth Parker to the stand.”

Ms. Parker, a young woman in her mid-thirties with long flowing brown hair walked to the witness box dressed in a dark business suit with a white blouse and heels. She was sworn in.

“Good morning, Ms. Parker. Please tell the court something about your background and occupation.”

“I was born in Boca Raton, Florida and still live there with my husband and two sons, ages three and five. I was educated at The University of Florida in Gainesville and have a Bachelor’s Degree in Information Technology.”

“What is the nature of your specific expertise?”

“I work in network analysis and computer programming, but my specialty is retrieving lost files from various digital driven devices, such as hard disk drives, video tapes, and phone texts. I’ve recently been successful retrieving lost or corrupt classified information for the Federal Government.”

“Ms. Parker, were you subpoenaed by the prosecution to testify regarding text messages on the iPhone of Ms. Carla Gordon?”

“I was and I submitted a copy of my report to the court.”

Romano showed the document to Ms. Daniels and the judge. They examined it and Sharon handed it to the witness. “Is this your report?”

“It is,” she answered calmly.

“Basically, what were your findings?”

“After carefully removing the blood from the device, I aired it so it was serviceable again. I called ATT, gave them my credentials, and asked if they had copies of the texts on this phone. In the past, I was able to recover texts using this simple method, but in this case, they weren’t able to supply the information.”

“Were you able to retrieve any of the texts?”

“I retrieved all of them from October thirteenth to the entire day of October fifteenth.”

“Would you please offer a summary of your findings?”

Ms. Parker hesitated, glanced at the defendant, and then at the jury before she spoke. “Re. iPhone model 6: Service number 561-555-3728; s/n 32734681A: There were a series of texts covering a time period between 9:12 a.m. and 10:15 a.m.” Parker turned some pages in her folder and spoke, reading from her notes. “Carla Gordon sent the first text. It reads:

Did you get there yet?

“Yes, I’m here.

“I’m gonna do it, Robert.

“You’re doing the right thing. You can’t continue to live like this. All will be peaceful for you, and you’ll go to a better life. The X-Acto knife is in the drawer on your night table. You can do it in bed, it will be easier and you’ll be free from pain.

“I can’t continue to live and be part of your life and your little ballet dancer, but I’m not sure I can do anything to hurt myself.”

Parker turned a page in her notes. “A few minutes went by before there was another message,” she said. “Then, there’s a text from Robert Gordon.

“Carla. You still there?

“I have to shower, dress, comb my hair and put on lipstick. I’ll try to do it, Robert.

“You still there? Carla, are you still there.

“There’s another long pause, then Mrs. Gordon’s next text.

“My left wrist is bleeding. I can’t do the other. Tell me what to do.

“Relax, Carla. Take a washcloth, put it in your mouth, and bite down on it. You’re almost there. Just cut your other wrist and find peace. Just do it.

“Another long pause follows. Then a message from Robert Gordon.

“Carla! Carla. What’s happening? Tell me.”

An audible groan emanated from the jury box and several cries of, “Oh my God,” were heard in the courtroom.

“Were there any further texts?” Romano asked.

“No.”

The courtroom was silent. Ms. Parker wiped her eyes with a tissue and looked down. Robert was tight-lipped, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Ms. Parker, can I get you some water?” Romano asked.

She took a steadying breath and said, “No thank you, I’m fine.”

The prosecutor spoke in a soft tone. “Did you find any information pertaining to Mrs. Gordon trying to reach a suicide prevention agency?”

The witness glanced toward the jury. “No, there were no texts or calls relating to that.”

“Were there any texts by Mr. Gordon discouraging his wife from taking her life?”

“No.”

Romano paced in front of the witness as Ms. Parker sat quietly, her legs crossed and her red-rimmed eyes scanning the courtroom. There was a long moment of silence as Romano continued his slow stride along the courtroom floor. He then turned toward the witness.

“Ms. Parker, were there any other electronic devices in the defendant’s home on Key Biscayne?”

“Yes, there were.”

“Please tell the court what they were.”

“There were wired security surveillance cameras designed for outdoor and indoor use covering every part of the house and the property.”

“Surveillance cameras!” Romano exclaimed as he glanced toward the jury.

“Yes, sir,” she answered.

“And how many weeks or months of the video was stored in each of these video recorders?”

“They were programmed for thirty days each.”

“Did you examine the footage over this time?”

“I did. The digital file covered the dates between October tenth to November eleventh of this year.”

“And did it include the entire day of October fifteenth?”

“Yes, it did.”

“Is this tape available for viewing?”

“Yes, it is,” Parker replied.

The prosecutor glanced toward the judge. “Your Honor, with your permission I would like to introduce into evidence a surveillance video of October fifteenth labeled People’s Exhibit 1 along with a document labeled 1B3 showing the chain of custody regarding this evidence. I ask the court that the video taken on October fifteenth be allowed to be viewed by the jury.”

Murmurs ran through the courtroom.

Daniels stood. “Your Honor, I object to the submission of this video. Presenting an extraction of the video and limiting it to the day in question to the exclusion of anything that came before or after October fifteenth will not show events leading up to the demise of Mrs. Gordon, nor events after it. As a result, I deem the partial extraction from the video incomplete and should not be admitted. In addition, the veracity regarding the chain of evidence would need to be challenged since there was ample opportunity for this video to be tampered with while in the possession of others. It could have been changed or modified.”

“Ms. Daniels, I’ll take your objection under consideration and rule on it after lunch. During that time, I’ll review the video and rule on its admissibility. We will resume at two p.m.”

Sharon, Abby, and Robert sat in a quiet corner at the Miami Hyatt Regency restaurant and ordered lunch.

“Sharon, I can understand why you don’t want this video to be played to the jury, but is it only because it reflects badly on Mr. Gordon, or is there something else?” Abby asked.

“Reflects badly? Damn it, that’s an understatement. It’s a recording of her suicide, Abby. A woman will be slicing her wrists open Blood will be all over the place. That will be so dramatic for the jury that they will convict and demand the full sentence for Robert—fifteen years.”

Abby turned to Robert and whispered, “Relax, Rob, that won’t happen. You’ll walk and if you don’t, you’ll never get the max. No way.” She bowed her head.

“Yeah, but the video—”

“I’ll do my best to not allow it,” Sharon said. “No one in the courtroom would have any sympathy for you. They’ll look at you as a man who did a terrible deed. Juries can be unpredictable. Some of the jurors are already looking at their watches.”

“What’s your feeling about this jury?” Robert asked.

“If they follow the law, we’ve got a good shot. I already presented arguments as to why the video shouldn’t be submitted for viewing. It’s clearly prejudicial and if the jury gets teary-eyed after watching the clip, it won’t be good for us. But let’s stay optimistic.”

“Will you change your strategy because of this?”

“No. We’ll emphasize your compromised mental state in addition to the fact you were not present. That’s our case, and we’ll stick to it!”

“So, we’re back to saying I’m crazy?”

“Not quite, but the jurors need to find a plausible reason for your behavior in their own minds. We’ve got a start. You’re a writer. That makes you different from them, and they’re a little bit in awe of authors—especially those who write best sellers, so they might assume you’re eccentric and out of the mainstream.”

“They’re probably right.”

“Yes, but we need to emphasize your mental condition, and I’m sure Abernathy will come through for us big time,” Sharon said, her tone confident. “The bottom line is if we lose the case, I don’t want you to get the max, so we go for the win and convince the court your mental state is strongly compromised. Minimum sentencing will be close to a win for us.”

When the server brought their food, they ate quietly and Robert contemplated his situation, uncertain how it would work out.

The defense team returned early. Only a few people were in the courtroom. It was a smallish, somber courtroom setting with panels of dark wood scattered throughout. All was quiet except for the murmurings of the lawyers and personnel. The floor was clean—spotless. Although a large window to one side of the room added natural light, it didn’t detract from the solemn atmosphere. It was as if justice had to be administered in a cold, calculated manner.

Judge Patton continued the proceedings.

“Ms. Daniels, the Court finds your objection sustained and rules that showing the surveillance excerpt to the jury would be unduly prejudicial. I will only admit the verbal testimony of the clip by Ms. Parker, summarizing her observation of the events of October fifteenth as shown on the video in question.”

The prosecutor strode to the witness box and continued his questioning.

“Ms. Parker, please take your time, even if it calls for a narrative, and tell the court what you observed on the excerpts from the various cameras.”

Parker opened a manila folder and read from her notes. “A woman, who I identified as Carla Gordon awakened, showered, and while still in her nightgown, joined her husband for breakfast. She appeared tired, her eyes half closed, as if she hadn’t slept during the night. Both husband and wife said nothing to each other except for a single word, ‘goodbye,’ at the recorded time of 8:36 a.m.

“Mrs. Gordon went back to bed and lay there until she picked up a cell phone and appeared to begin texting.” The witness paused, her gaze scanned the jurors, then she returned to her notes. “The woman dressed in a metallic gold lamé jumpsuit with wide, long sleeves and pants which were flared at the bottom. The upper part of the garment had a plunging neckline that reached to her waist and had open lacing across the front.

“She took an object from her night table, which was later established to be an X-Acto knife, and entered the large bathroom. She kneeled before an oversized tub, her head down and her hands pressed together in front of her. She appeared to be praying.

“Four minutes and five seconds later, sitting on a chair with her lips clenched, her brows furrowed, she pulled her left sleeve all the way to her shoulder. With her eyes almost closed and her lips pressed tight, she quickly sliced the knife across her left wrist. Her nose scrunched up and her eyes snapped shut. Blood poured over her gold pants and onto the white marble floor. She grimaced in apparent excruciating pain. At the same time, with blood still pouring from her left wrist, she clutched a cell phone and appeared to begin frantically texting.”

Loud gasps and muttering emanated from those in the courtroom. Several members of the jury leaned forward, others pressed their eyes shut and buried their faces in their hands, a few others sat wide-eyed. Some just stared as if in disbelief.

Parker continued. “A minute passed. Mrs. Gordon seemed to be reading a text message, then threw the phone on the floor, stuffed a washcloth in her mouth and bit down. Then she quickly slashed her right wrist. More blood spurted out of her wrist, flooding out of her body and spreading over her clothing.”

The witness began to cry, then composed herself and continued. “Her face was pale. She fell off the chair and remained still, face down on the floor until the defendant arrived at 7:02 p.m. In the video, he stood in front of her body.”

Ms. Parker removed a handkerchief from her purse, wiped away her tears, and took a deep breath. She glanced at Robert, who maintained his composure and appeared emotionless as he sat with his defense team, his elbows on the table and his chin resting on top of his clasped hands. The witness paused, looked at the jury, and resumed her testimony.

“Video from another camera showed the defendant walking into an adjoining bedroom where he picked up a house phone and made a call at 7:09 p.m. Sixteen minutes later, the police turned up with a photographer. Two minutes after that, an EMT team arrived. The team examined the body as Mr. Gordon was seen wiping his eyes with a handkerchief. The photographer was taking pictures from different angles. Forty-five minutes later, the medical examiner entered the room.”

Romano turned toward the witness. “Thank you for your summary. Relating to the video, you say Mr. Gordon was wiping his eyes. Was there anyone with him?”

“He was being questioned by a plainclothes detective, and that’s where the excerpt ends. What I said is an overview of what I saw. I apologize for being overpowered by emotion.”

Sharon raised her hand while sitting at the defense table. “Objection, your Honor. I move that the last comment by the witness be stricken. It is a personal reflection and not relevant to her testimony.”

“Objection sustained.”

The prosecution continued. “Thank you for your testimony, Ms. Parker.” Romano turned toward the defense table. “Your witness, Counselor.”

Sharon leisurely approached the witness and opened a folder. “Ms. Parker, would you tell the court if anyone else was present when Mrs. Gordon took her life?”

“There was no one else there.”

“Is that true on the complete videos in all the other rooms?”

“Yes.”

“Is it also true of the grounds surrounding the property—no landscapers, no one?”

“Yes, it is true. There was no one else shown on the video to be in the house or the grounds.”

“Are there any omissions or missing portions of the video extract that haven’t been reported where the defendant was present?”

“No, every second of the extract is recorded.”

“Ms. Parker, why wasn’t the entire video which covered the period from 8:36 a.m. to 7:02 p.m. or videos from the entire thirty-day period offered in evidence?”

The prosecutor shouted, “Objection. The witness is asked to speculate outside her expertise, and besides, the defense has already agreed to an extract showing active movement on October fifteenth.”

The judge looked at Sharon and frowned. “Sustained.”

“Let me rephrase the question,” Sharon said. “What has become of the video frames prior to and after the sequences extracted?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know.” She interlaced her fingers on the railing before her.

“Okay. On the basis of your sworn testimony and observations, would you reaffirm that the deceased was totally alone at the time she took her life?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Ms. Parker. I have no further questions.”

Mr. Romano stood and glanced at the judge. “The prosecution rests, your Honor.”

Robert whispered into Sharon’s ear, “Her testimony should clear me.”

“Maybe. Sit tight.” Sharon glanced at a man sitting behind her and turned toward the judge. “Your Honor, the defense calls Dr. James Abernathy.”

A short thin man with a full head of black hair and a goatee ambled past others in his row and, in an unhurried manner, settled in the chair in the witness box and was sworn in.

Sharon shot a glance at the judge. “May I approach the witness?”

Judge Patton nodded.

“Dr. Abernathy, would you tell us about your educational background?”

“I was born in Scotland, and when I was of age, I did my undergraduate study at the University of Edinburg and subsequently entered medical school at the same university. Following graduation from the medical program, I completed a psychiatry residency and an additional forensic psychiatry fellowship. I moved to the United States, sat for the necessary examinations, and was awarded my license. I have been practicing forensic psychiatry in Fort Lauderdale for the past ten years.”

“Dr. Abernathy, although it was described earlier by a previous witness, tell the jury exactly what you do as a forensic psychiatrist.”

Abernathy heaved a deep breath. His eyes centered on the jury. “Forensic psychiatrists are medical doctors with special psychiatric training and apply this expertise to answer questions raised by the legal system. When I am called to give testimony for an individual involved in a court case, I provide an objective evaluation so the court may enter my findings in the court record. Above all, I must not be biased.”

“Did you examine Robert Gordon?” Sharon asked.

“I did.”

“Please tell the jury your findings.”

“I found Mr. Gordon to be clinically depressed but functional. He suffers from anxiety, which from my experience is not uncommon for authors.” Abernathy smiled at the judge. “They always have deadlines to meet or have bouts of writer’s block, so I have to be understanding of that.”

Sharon walked closer to the witness box and stood face to face with the witness. “Did you screen him for bipolar disorder?”

“I did, and he showed no symptoms of mood swings or any extreme shifts. He did show mild depression.”

“Did you perform a Rorschach test?”

“I did, but it wasn’t necessary. I already knew this man was imaginative, and it was supported by the test.”

“Dr. Abernathy, part of the testimony given involved texts between Mr. and Mrs. Gordon, even at crucial times. In your expert opinion, can you tell the court the reason for texts rather than speaking to each other?”

“They were separate from each other emotionally and physically. People write with different personalities than they do when they speak and texting provides an opportunity to edit what you type. Since they rarely spoke outside of ‘hello’ or ‘goodbye,’ texting simulated the most natural form of communication for them. Keep in mind the impersonal nature of technology often represents a barrier to emotion and so the need for emoticons. The basis of limited communication is a behavioral trait and related to underlying withdrawal.”

“How often did you see Mr. Gordon professionally?”

“I had nine visits with the man, three times a week, one hour sessions for three weeks.”

“As a result of your meetings, do you have a diagnosis for the defendant?”

“Mr. Gordon suffers from a borderline personality disorder. In his case, it’s characterized by chaotic relationships, one of which has been demonstrated by his irrational behavior with his mentally sick wife. In another instance, he has shared his feelings with me relating to a woman called Adriana, for whom he has expressed great passion. I analyzed their relationship and found it to be driven by lust, not love. He was also delusional about her love for him, which was demonstrated by the exaggerated, unrealistic love feelings he told me she expressed.”

“And the reason for this behavior?” Sharon asked.

“He was controlled by overpowering fears relating to this woman. He fears she will reject him, leave him. Unconsciously, he must fight against these fears, but because of his borderline personality disorder, the relationship they share is chaotic and untenable. For him, it was like fighting windmills. He could never win, never have her love him in a way he desperately needed, but his impulsive nature forced him to keep trying.”

Sharon extended her arms outward, bent at the elbows, her hands open. “Would you say a true and healthy love relationship would be impossible for him?”

“Yes, absolutely. It would be impossible because Mr. Gordon could never really be loved enough by anyone. He would always want more love, but it would always be unattainable. As a result, he is frustrated and committed to search for love all his life, but again, no matter who he finds, she will never be able to love him enough. And that’s his failing. He is a tragic figure. He had to go to extremes to let Adriana know she was his only woman, so he encouraged his wife to take her life to show her he would stop at nothing to impress Adriana. Why? So he could lose himself in a self-destructive fantasy in which only Adriana would love him always. But, again, as I’ve said, there is no way Mr. Gordon could ever feel loved enough.”

“Dr. Abernathy, as a forensic psychiatrist, what legal consideration should be considered in this case?”

“Mr. Gordon is a very sick man, delusional, and is in need of continued psychiatric treatment.”

Robert sat at the defense table, his arms crossed against his chest, expressionless, as he glared at the witness.

“Thank you, Doctor. Your witness, Mr. Romano.”

“No questions.”

“Your Honor, I would like to call Michael Harris to the stand,” Sharon said.

Harris strolled toward the witness stand. He was a distinguished looking man, about sixty with white balding hair and a full white mustache slightly pointed at the ends. He raised his hand, was sworn and Sharon began her questioning.

“Mr. Harris, what is your business relationship with Mr. Gordon?”

“I’m his editor and always do the final edits of his work..”

“Were you present when Mr. and Mrs. Gordon were texting each other and Mr. Gordon was using your cell phone on the morning of October fifteenth?”

“Yes, I was. It was my cell and I feel terrible about—”

“Just answer the question. Are you aware of the surveillance video of her suicide?”

“Yes, Robert sent me a copy.”

“What! He sent you a copy!” Sharon shouted. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“He told me to keep it to prove he wasn’t near his wife when she took her life.”

Mr. Romano jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, the prosecution moves to amend the charge against Robert Gordon. The Florida statute states that the defendant can now be charged with commercial exploitation of self-murder. Mr. Gordon has placed this videotape in the hands of his publisher who could use it for commercial exploitation.”

“Mr. Romano, your assessment is noted by the court, but I will not amend the charge at this late date. There is no evidence that Mr. Harris has actually used this video for public or private exploitation or has any intention of doing so. In addition, amending the charge might be prejudicial to the defendant, and the case may not be easily re-filed.”

Romano sat back, frowning.

Sharon ended her questioning. “Your witness, Mr. Romano.”

The prosecutor shook his head and muttered, “No questions.”

“Your Honor,” Sharon began, “if it please the court, I’d like to call Christopher Adams to the stand.”

The witness limped to the witness box, leaning on a cane. He was well-built, about sixty, fashionably dressed in a dark Navy blue suit, light blue shirt, and paisley tie. After he was sworn, he placed his cane on the wooden railing of the witness box and took a black leather notebook from his inside jacket pocket.

“Mr. Adams, what is your occupation?” Sharon asked.

“I’m a former FBI agent and I worked out of the New York City office, but I’m now retired.”

“Mr. Adams, did you perform an investigation pertaining to Adriana, last name unknown, who was presumed to be a performer in the Miami Ballet?”

“Yes.”

“What were your findings?”

“The information I was given claimed she was a ballet dancer, originally from Brazil. I checked the ballet companies in Rio and all the major cities and towns that performed ballet. The name Adriana came up once. She was a ballet coach in São Paulo in her late fifties. I searched the ballet companies in Florida and the rest of the USA, but came up with nothing positive.”

“Did you do other types of searches?”

“Yes. I investigated drivers’ licenses in Brazil, Portugal, and the United States to no avail.”

“What was your conclusion?”

“Based on the limited information, there was no way I could perform a detailed investigation. She may have existed, but I can say she is definitely not a performer in any ballet company here or abroad.”

“Were you able to locate her anywhere?” Sharon extended her hands outward, palms up.

“No.”

“Mr. Romano?”

“No questions. The prosecution is not interested in this Adriana person. She is not on trial and is not relevant to the case.”

“Your Honor, the defense wishes to place an original letter in evidence. It is signed by the defendant and was written to his wife. I have labeled it D-36.”

The judge and Romano took some time to review it and it was admitted.

“The defense calls Robert Gordon to the stand.”

Robert whispered to Sharon, “What are you doing? Damn! You didn’t prepare me—” He paced with short, hesitant steps toward the witness stand and was sworn in. His eyes scanned the jury as he tried to hide his annoyance.

Sharon spoke in a soft tone. “Mr. Gordon, take a look at this letter written to your wife and tell me if you wrote it.” She handed it to him.

He pursed his lips and shrugged. “Yes, I did.”

“Did you have any intention of killing your wife?”

“No, of course not,” Robert said.

“And yet this letter explicitly states that you asked your wife to take her life. How do you explain that?”

“It was in her best interest. She had no life. She was a mentally sick woman. I wanted what was best for her.”

“Do you know a woman named Adriana?”

“I do,” Robert replied. “She’s a friend.”

“Do you exchange handwritten letters with her?” Sharon stood calmly in front of the witness.

“Yes, we do, I mean it’s natural for—”

“Just answer the question. After a thorough search of your home and boat, there were no letters found from an Adriana, only your letters to her. How do you account for that?”

“Her letters had meaning for me. I kept them in a locked private drawer with my original manuscripts at my publisher’s office.”

“I see. Was it your intention, or the combined intention of you and Adriana, to encourage your wife to kill herself so the two of you could be together?”

Robert stood and yelled, “No! Never! You have to believe me! Ask her yourself.” He pointed toward the rear of the courtroom, his eyes widened, his nostrils flared. “She’s the one in the back row in the red dress.” Robert focused on the row of empty seats in the rear of the courtroom. “Tell them the truth, Adriana,” he shouted. “Tell them we didn’t plan anything. Tell them!”

Sharon’s jaw dropped as she turned toward the rear of the courtroom. Everyone directed their attention in the direction Robert gestured. There was no woman in a red dress in the back row or anywhere. Romano threw up his hands and shook his head in amazement.

“Tell them. Tell them, Adriana.” Robert stood and repeated in a loud voice, then spoke in low muttering whispers as he held his face in his hands. “Tell them. Tell them, Adriana,” he repeated weakly as tears drenched his cheeks.

The judge placed her chin in her hand, appearing shocked, as Sharon took a deep breath and addressed the jury. “Let the record show there is no woman sitting anywhere in this courtroom wearing a red dress.”

She slowly walked to the witness box. Robert sat, bent over, his face buried in his hands, sobbing. “Robert, would you like some water?”

“No, thank you, I’m all right now.” He sat back, took a tissue from his pocket and wiped his eyes.

Sharon waited until her client composed himself. “Robert, do you remember Dr. Abernathy saying you were delusional?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think you are?”

“No,” he replied.

“Thank you. Does the prosecution have any questions?”

With his eyes still widened in disbelief, Romano answered, “Uh, yes…” He folded his arms across his chest as he approached the witness box. “Mr. Gordon, do you believe the handwritten letter you wrote to your wife was instrumental in her taking her life?”

“No. I was only trying to help her escape her depression. Her death was the only solution.”

“So, you sincerely felt it was in her best interest?”

“Yes. She lived in pain.”

“No further questions, your Honor.”

Sharon leaned forward in her chair. “The defense rests.”

“Counselors, do either of you have any summations?” the judge asked.

“I do, your Honor,” the prosecutor replied.

“Go ahead.”

Romano paced in front of the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, you have just listened to a professional storyteller in action. He’s an author, a master at getting an audience’s attention. How does he do it? In books it’s usually called a hook, and his hook in the story he told you was to make you believe he lived in the world of fantasy.

“Why? So you would think of him as delusional and not mentally responsible for his acts so he could evade punishment for the evil act he committed. His theatrics were nothing more than a dramatic attempt to fool you, the jury, into thinking he’s truly delusional and should receive special consideration. But theatrics are not evidence, theatrics are not facts and his theatrics, in this case, were nothing more than a devious plan to lure you to an unjust decision.

“Please don’t allow yourselves to be fooled. His letter encouraging his wife to commit suicide speaks for itself. It was clear, concise and to the point. Even when she was in the process of killing herself and texted him about her doubts, what did Mr. Gordon do? He goaded her on, encouraged her to kill herself, pushed her over the edge and told her to finish the job. He was there, all right. He was there! How cruel is that? Keep in mind, if Mr. Gordon had done nothing, his wife would be alive today. Think about that. If the defendant, Robert Gordon, was not in the picture, Carla Gordon would be alive today. Please return the only just verdict that you know in your hearts is true—Guilty!”

Judge Patton glanced toward the defense. “Ms. Daniels, do you have a summation?

“Yes, your Honor, I do.”

Sharon walked past the jury in slow, short steps. “Ladies and gentlemen, what would you do if someone sent you a letter telling you that you should kill yourself? What would you be thinking of the person who wrote it? Wouldn’t you think that individual was a mental case? Why would anyone do such a thing? If a letter like that were written by your husband or wife, it would be even more unfathomable. Carla Gordon was an intelligent person capable of making her own decisions. She had free choice. She and only she decided to take her life. It was her choice and her choice only, and it was not an illegal act. My client did not assist her suicide.

“The prosecutor alludes to the incomprehensible idea that Mr. Gordon was present because he wrote a letter. This is preposterous. It flies in the face of the statute as well as reason. The truth is, there were no actions on my client’s part that filled the legal requirements of assisted suicide. Suggestions, innuendo, and encouragement do not count by any legal definition. He was not there, period, and the evidence proves it. It’s as simple as that. I ask you to follow the law, keep justice in your heart, and find Robert Gordon not guilty.”

Sharon returned to the defense table. Tears flowed from Robert’s eyes. He laid his head in his trembling hands and remained silent. The jury was charged.

Robert turned to Sharon. “I’m scared,” he said, breathing hard.

“Relax. It’s over now.”

“But what if I get fifteen years? I could never do that. What did I do?”

“I know how you feel. It’s up to the jury to decide. They’re the law now. Try to relax. The sentencing will take place later this afternoon. Let’s grab some coffee.”

When they returned to court, the judge addressed the jury. “Have you reached a verdict?”

“We have, your Honor.”

The bailiff took a folded paper from the foreman and handed it to the judge.

The judge’s and Robert’s eyes met. “Would the defendant stand and face the jury?” Judge Patton asked.

Sharon placed her hand under Robert’s elbow and helped him rise. She and Abby stood beside him.

The foreman of the jury hesitated and sighed for a moment before he spoke. “We find the defendant, Robert Gordon, guilty.”

Robert was stunned.

Judge Patton turned toward the defendant. “Robert Gordon, you’ve been found guilty of assisting your wife’s death. I’ve decided against a separate sentencing hearing. You are sentenced to two years in the state penitentiary where you will receive mandated counseling three times a week until you are released. After that, you will be placed on probation for two years on the condition you continue professional counseling at least once a week until your probation is over. A probation officer will supervise your adherence to the court’s requirements.”

After the sentencing, Sharon and her paralegal, Abby, sat outside Starbucks, under a large green umbrella lingering over creamy caramel lattes.

“So, how did we lose this one?” Abby asked.

Sharon breathed a deep sigh. “We gave it our best shot, but juries are unpredictable. Every lawyer knows that. I could only guess at what was in their minds.”

“It seems they believed his fantasy. But why?”

“They’re human like everyone else. We all search for some fantasy in our lives. That’s why we go to the movies.”

Abby shook her head and leaned forward. “Maybe you’re right, but it’s amazing. They bought the idea that Adriana was a real person despite the evidence.”

“Yeah, even Dr. Super Smart Abernathy bought it, but it’s still tough for me to imagine that the jury continued to believe she was real until he called out to a nonexistent person in open court. That nailed him. In the end, it wasn’t about Adriana at all, and it didn’t matter whether she was real or not. It was about her image and what she represented. She was the other woman, younger and more beautiful than his wife. Oh, and a ballerina. We all know what they look like. None of the women on the jury could ever compete with that. I saw the guilty verdict early on.”

“He was put behind bars by a witness who never appeared in court and didn’t exist.”

“That’s right. He fell in love with one of the characters in his own book and it became his reality. Go figure. Read Gordon’s novel, Fire in the Heart. She’s the main character, and describes Adriana to a T. Robert would have to search to the end of the earth to find someone who loved him, but that could never be because no one could ever love him enough.”

“You got it. Let’s have lunch somewhere,” Abby suggested.

“Joe’s Stone Crab?”

“Sounds great!”

As they slid into the plush leather seats of Sharon’s jet black Mercedes SLK, she thought for a moment and glanced at Abby. “You know, at least we don’t have to worry about Robert being angry and miserable in prison.”

“Really? Why not?”

“He’ll always have Adriana.”