“Congratulations are in order, I see,” Peyton Bennett said after he’d confidently strode into the conference room and plopped a thick stack of files on the highly polished cherry table. It was easily eight feet of burnished wood. The gleam had nearly blinded me when Bennett’s assistant had showed me in.
Bennett pulled out one of the leather rolling chairs and made himself comfortable. He took off, then laid his folded sport coat on the seat next to him. Unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them effortlessly into something that looked Kennedy-like, both fashionable and comfortable. Then his eyes met mine.
I had to envy that, his ease and comfort at walking through the world. I’d have stood in front of a mirror for hours fiddling with my sleeve fabric and would have never gotten it right. I’d have self-consciously messed with my shirt, frustrated the entire day.
For me, this was the true mark of wealth. It made you comfortable with yourself. It made it such that you didn’t crave anyone’s approval. I pulled my mind out of a pit of self-recrimination and looked at Bennett, not just his sleeves. I focused on the pad he had in front of him and the pen he had in his left hand. His hand was sure as he put what was probably Juliana’s name and today’s date at the top of the blue-lined page.
“Congratulations? For?” I asked, then looked around. We hadn’t stepped foot in a courtroom yet. All I’d done was draft a whole slew of preliminary trial motions. I assumed that’s what was in at least one of the many folders that lay between us.
There was a crinkle at the corner of his eyes. They were warm, fatherly. Reminded me that I’d been avoiding my own father whose eyes were also warm, albeit hazel like mine instead of blue.
Bennett’s gaze zeroed in on my left hand. I followed his line of sight and tried not to be surprised.
The ring.
I’d get used to it eventually…the many diamonds large and small that encircled the third finger of my left hand. One day this sparkly ring would melt into the background of my life.
“That’s a lot of sparkle that you didn’t have just last week.” Bennett tapped his pen on the table.
The one I’d silently accepted because it had seemed easier than offering yet another complicated explanation. The one I hadn’t told my parents about because I knew they’d have a lot of questions—warranted questions—this third time around. Questions I didn’t want to answer.
“Right.” My finger wiggled, involuntarily throwing rainbow facets of light around the ceiling and walls. “Yes. Thanks.” I could hear the lack of enthusiasm in my voice. Couldn’t do a damned thing about it.
“Who’s the lucky guy?”
The chair almost scooted right out from under my butt when I jumped at the question. But it was a normal question. I had to remind myself of that so I didn’t get startled the next time someone asked. With a ring this size, there were going to be a lot of someones.
“Ron Pinheiro,” I answered after I stopped moving and the casters quieted. “He’s a partner at—”
Bennett’s face lit in recognition.
“Dalton Lacey. Met him at a Cleveland Bar fundraiser. He’s head of pro bono over there. We talked a bit about how we can get our firms to do more for the community.”
I had to fiddle with my bag and pretend to consider my pen choice for today’s meeting to conceal my face. No doubt they were at a ten-thousand-dollar-a-table event, in tuxedoes they owned, talking about how to help the less fortunate. I’d never met a big firm lawyer who appreciated when I pointed out the irony of that situation.
“So, when’s the big day?”
“Nothing’s decided yet,” I said. I arranged, then rearranged all my own stuff on the table in front of me. Then I gestured toward my middle. “Going to have to plan around this.”
“I get it. If you want one of the judges to officiate though, you should book them early and plan around that.”
“Thanks for that bit of advice.” I hoped my small smile deflected any further questions about due dates and wedding dates and my nonexistent arrangements for all of the above.
A buzzer sounded in the room. Bennett stood and strode to the sideboard where bagels, water, soda, coffee, and tea service obscured a slick black phone. He pressed a button and a disembodied voice filled the space.
“Jacob Lambert’s at reception,” came over the speaker.
Ah, he was finally here—our investigator. The reason for this meeting.
“Show him in. We’re in the—”
“Huron conference room,” she replied. “I’ll go get him and bring him to you.”
I’d already done the pen maneuver, but I wished I had something else to fiddle with. My stomach was churning and not because of morning sickness. This time I was panicking because suddenly I felt out of my depths.
How did I think taking on a murder case with co-counsel who also hadn’t ever represented anyone facing this long a stint in prison was a good idea? I felt like we should abandon our planned meeting and instead start working on the ineffective assistance of counsel brief Clarke’s appellate attorney would surely file upon appeal of her almost certain conviction.
“Have you seen her since our jailhouse meeting?” I asked Bennett instead of tearing out my own hair. I’d shared what Clarke had said to me during my solo visit. Bennett and I had decided there were even more questions than answers. Fortunately trial motions and prep were fairly standard no matter the case.
I’d done my part in preparation so at least there was some forward movement on the case. In a criminal trial, time was always the defendant’s enemy. The prosecutor and cops had done a world of investigation before filing charges. When clients didn’t waive their right to speedy trial, the ninety-day clock ticked loudly. Half the job of criminal defense was playing catch-up.
“No. I didn’t think there was anything new I’d get from her,” Bennett answered. “I thought we could do another visit after this meeting.”
“Today?” I asked with a deliberate glance at my watch.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Before I could delve into the delicate dance of the constitutional right of unlimited lawyer visits versus the practicalities of running the county jail, the sound of footsteps got loud, then the door opened. Bennett and I stood at the same time.
“Casey Cort. Long time no see,” Jacob Lambert said as he came through the door, Bennett’s assistant behind him. Bonnie Medina came through and picked up the bagel platter and moved it to the table. Tubs of various cream cheese flavors followed.
“Anyone want tea or coffee?” she asked.
I wanted tea, but I was super sensitive to my position as the only other woman in a room asking a woman to serve us. So I shook my head emphatically.
“We’ll serve ourselves,” Bennett replied. Bonnie took that as a cue and left the room, pulling the door closed behind her softly. I had to wonder if there was ever a loud sound in this place of plush carpet and muted colors.
Lambert pulled me into a hug. I did my best to extract myself and extended my hand instead. He ignored it, so instead I gestured to my co-counsel.
“Jacob. This is Peyton Bennett.”
“The man who’s signing the checks.” That earned Bennett a hearty handshake from Lambert. “Great to meet you.” To me, he said, “Casey, it’s been a long time. I always hoped that we’d get to work together more after I left the prosecutor’s office.”
“My clients have to be able afford you,” I retorted.
“Good people cost money.” It was something he’d said whenever I’d broached him about a discount. It was a lesson I needed myself.
“From your lips,” I said.
“Have a seat,” Bennett offered. Lambert took a chair at the head of the table after he’d snagged half a bagel and a bottle of water. “What have you got for us?”
The investigator smeared chive cream cheese, then took a big bite of bagel, then held up his hand while he chewed. Once he swallowed, he hefted his own messenger bag to the table. He took out a manila folder, flipped it open. He handed me one of the thick stapled stacks. The other went to Bennett.
Like the good Catholic school student I’d been, I moved the papers in front of me, but didn’t open the packet or thumb through the pages. The nuns had always said it was rude to read when someone was speaking to you.
“What did you find?” Bennett asked. He didn’t beat around the bush or hesitate.
“Your lady, Julian Clarke, was probably abused. You may not have enough for a defense. That battered woman thing, I don’t know about that.”
Lawyering was best left to lawyers, I thought as I shook off the urge to respond. I stole a brief glance at Bennett. From the millimeter rise of one of his eyebrows, I knew that he agreed with me.
“What makes you say so?” I probed. I…Bennett and I could weigh the arguments later. For now, I wanted to be persuaded. To think of how I’d persuade a jury.
“I talked to her parents and friends in New York City.”
“New York?” I asked, as if New Yorkers were somehow devoid of phones or email or other forms of communication. I tried to imagine what it could have been like for Juliana Clarke growing up in New York City. Only images from two television shows Law & Order or Felicity flashed through my mind.
While Cleveland was technically a city, it had barely four hundred fifty thousand people in this brain drain era. On any given weekday, downtown streets could be completely empty. The lights and vibrancy that made a city a city were rarely found here. New York was in a different league altogether.
“Her family may not speak with her, but they haven’t moved from where she grew up.”
“They haven’t exactly disowned her, I think,” Bennett interjected. “But I know they’ve distanced themselves from her for marrying a Black man.”
“That’s just it,” Lambert said. “That her interracial marriage had caused the rift, had been my assumption as well. It’s common enough in this country. Although in my experience, in many cases the white families come around when the couple has kids. The urge to grandparent trumps racism sometimes.”
“But that didn’t happen here,” I pointed out. Not only did I want the backstory, but I wanted to know who could be a character witness for her. Families may be estranged for one reason or another, but I imagined murder would unite people like nothing else, even grandchildren.
“That’s just it. It didn’t happen here. Clarke was still in contact with her family during the first year or so of her relationship with Walker. She seemed to be sending out feelers to see what was normal.”
“Feelers?” I sat forward, suddenly very curious. “What was she saying? And to who was she saying it?”
“She asked her younger sister, Calandra, why it was that Walker was always accusing her of lying and cheating, when she’d been doing nothing of the sort.”
“Is she, or has she been a cheater?” I asked.
I could sell a lot to a jury, but for a group of Clarke’s so-called peers, cheating seemed to be up there with pedophilia as something not tolerated in polite society. I’d read that nearly seventy percent of marriages have cheating, and may have made the mistake of spouting off those statistics one time.
Turns out, juries didn’t like those kinds of odds. Some things were like cooties where the fear of being infected or the memory of having been infected was greater than the thing itself. I schooled my mind away from that topic as I thought of my deception of Ron. That was for another day. Now it was time for digging deeper into the Clarke-Walker marriage.
“No evidence of cheating,” Lambert said.
“What caused the family rift?” I snuck a glance at Bennett. He’d been mostly quiet. It was unusual for a man of his gender, age, and stature. Most law firm partners wouldn’t have been able to help themselves from taking over the meeting. But Bennett was giving me more than equal time. It was an interesting fact to file away for later.
“The first time he hit her. She ran home to her family. Stayed with them. Begged for help leaving him.”
When I saw from Lambert’s posture that he was going to tell it like a story, I closed my eyes, bowed my head, and listened.
“They rented her an apartment on Water Street,” he continued, “in one of the then new buildings. Paid a huge broker fee, put down a hefty deposit. Furnished it straight from Pottery Barn.”
I wanted to move in. Sounded like a dream come true. A perfect place to heal and figure all things out. I’d often thought if I’d had a year off all expenses paid, I’d have cracked the puzzle of life. Maybe that’s what was coming in my future, just with a tiny person in the mix.
I’m not sure how long Lambert had been quiet. My eyes flicked open, collided with his.
“Then…” I prompted.
“She got back together with Ken. Her mom and sister called her almost daily in the beginning to check in on her. To let her know that the Water Street apartment was waiting for her. Even when the calls ended—”
“Wait. Why did they stop calling? Was it out of the blue or did something trigger it?”
“They moved. Clarke and Walker. Changed their phone number.”
“Moved? From where to where?”
“From Coventry to the first house they had. That one was in Shaker.”
“Sorry to stop you. I want to hear it all. But where in Shaker?”
“Chadbourne.”
That was in the Onaway neighborhood. Pretty brick houses. Big green lawns. I sometimes walked there from my apartment when I needed to clear my head.
“Sorry. Go on.”
Lambert spread his hands wide.
“They kept the apartment for her for a full year. The minute they gave up the lease, Juliana called again. This time they didn’t make the same mistake, but offered her refuge in her childhood bedroom. She came this time—”
“For how long?” I asked.
“About two or three days. The minute Ken showed up with a dozen red roses and jewelry straight from Tiffany’s and a mouth full of apologies, she went back. That’s when they closed the door. It was a move straight out of the tough love playbook, if you ask me.”
I refrained from mentioning that not once had we asked him to editorialize.
“What did she tell them? About abuse specifically?” I asked.
“Juliana told her sister that she and Ken were playing pool one time. She was winning. I guess he was a sore loser. He got mad and hit her pretty hard with a pool cue. Enough that it broke the stick and fractured one of her ribs. That’s when they got the apartment.”
“Jesus. Broke a pool cue. Broke her ribs.” I tried to picture it. Tried to imagine the level of anger it would take to hit another person hard enough to break wood and break bone. I’d been the angriest I’d ever been at Sinclair during that dinner. Had probably had many murderous thoughts after the fact. But I can’t imagine having picked up something from the table or even a chair and doing violence against him.
“Did she go to the doctor? Are there records?” The story Lambert shared was a solid brick in the foundation of a self-defense claim. Evidence I could show a jury was better.
“Family friend came and told her the hospital wasn’t necessary,” the investigator answered.
“Was her family friend a doctor?”
“Yes. Clarke had graduated, hadn’t started a job, was uninsured. So he taped her up.”
I did mental gymnastics in my head trying to work out if a family friend who happened to be a doctor added up to doctor-patient privilege. And if it did, would his “patient” Juliana Clarke waive that privilege. I made a note on my pad to research that.
“What about that second time? When her family didn’t pay a year of New York City rent and just invited her home?”
“That’s a little more murky. This time Clarke was having a series of accidents. Had felt like she was becoming clumsy. The call to her family came after a trip to London. It was an early Fernsby work trip. A huge opportunity for Walker to design a new building there. They were in the Tube…the train there.”
“I’ve heard of the Tube even here in Ohio.” I tried not to roll my eyes. What I liked about Lambert was that he wasn’t from Cleveland, so wasn’t biased in the ways natives were. What I never liked about Lambert was that he assumed we’d never heard of or seen anything outside of the state’s borders.
“He kept telling her to mind the gap because she was going to hurt herself. They got off at Kentish Town to visit the British Museum, but her foot got stuck in the gap. She thought he’d pushed her into it.
“He claimed that he hadn’t and the accident was her fault. But she was sure he’d done it because she’d dragged him away from his work to visit the museum with her. They’d been in London for several weeks, and Walker had only gone from work to their rented apartment and back.
“This day, when they were in the Underground, was the single day he’d promised her they’d do something she wanted. But he’d grumbled over breakfast. Argued the entire way down into the train. Lost his ticket twice. She clapped back that he was sabotaging things. Then the stop had come up, and next thing she knew, her boot was caught. It was only some eagle-eyed people who saw what happened and pulled her to safety before the train left the platform again, taking her leg along with it.”
“Wow.” She’d gotten lucky. If it had gone any other way, it could have been gruesome.
My mind stuttered, stalled on how her New York City-based family came into play.
“But if she was in London…”
“They both decided he couldn’t work with her there, so she flew home. But to New York City instead of Ohio. When her family heard what happened, they said it was part of the pattern of ongoing abuse.”
“And Clarke. What did she say to them?”
“She said it was just a very unfortunate mistake.”
“Any hospital visits after this train thing?”
“This time it was a broken toe. Like a rib, there’s no special procedure. Same family friend taped one toe to another toe and she went home after six weeks when she could walk better. And when coincidentally Walker had come home as well.”
“Where’s…Sienna in all this?”
“She was born in eighty-nine. Both of these incidents occurred before that. They were married in Philadelphia on May thirteenth in eighty-eight. That was a Friday, incidentally.”
“They got married on a Friday? Okay, that’s interesting. So these incidents happened in between what?”
“Graduation from Penn and the date they got married.”
“She married him anyway?” All this happened before she was legally bound to him. “Why?” I asked someone who couldn’t answer.
“I can’t speak on that.” No editorializing this time.
“Where are her parents now?” Bennett asked.
“On the Upper West Side of Manhattan,” Lambert answered.
“I didn’t mean geographically,” Bennett retorted. “Will they be willing to testify on her behalf if we decide to go with a battered women’s defense?”
“I thought I’d leave asking that question to you.”
That’s what I loved about Lambert. He left the finesse work to us lawyers. He could ask the hard questions. We could do a much softer approach. One that would probably work better with Juliana Clarke’s family.
“What did you say to them?” Bennett asked.
“That she was in jail for murder, had a trial coming up, and we were investigating for her legal defense.”
I couldn’t imagine the turmoil Lambert’s visit had caused. How many unanswered questions they might have. A visit from Bennett and I would probably be welcome at this point. I had a strong feeling that Clarke wasn’t making collect calls to New York from her cell in the Cuyahoga County jail.
Bennett looked at me. His open face was easy to read. We were on the same page.
“Up for a trip to the city?”
“Can we see Wicked?” I was doing my best teenage girl voice in jest. “I’ve never been to a Broadway show.”
Bennett saw right through my attempt at humor. His answer was straightforward.
“I’ll have Bonnie arrange for tickets.”