Chapter XXXVIII:
Sandy and the Lawyers to the Rescue

IT HAD TO be nearing the hottest hour of the afternoon, four of the clock or so, to judge by the mounting heat in the cell. We were all sweating copiously by this time—even me, who had never sweated a drop in her life. What of my magic? One needs focus to summon even the shortest perspiration-suppressing spell, and I was in such a state of jumbled nerves and emotions that focus was quite impossible, and not for want of trying, either. Visualization being the most reliable means, I meditated on all the ways I could enchant the guards into unlocking my cell and letting me walk free, attributing events to a misunderstanding—to no avail. I could no sooner enchant the guards than I could fly to the moon.

When I thought I might suffocate from the heat and equally stifling company, the door opened and a guard poked his head in. He said, “Morganna Hanks, come with me. They need you in interrogation again.”

Neither his tone nor his demeanor carried any clue regarding why I was being summoned, and my direct question produced no more than a bored shrug from him. I could not decide which concerned me more: my predicament, or the fact that I had lost my influence over men.

My spirits sagged lower as I trudged down the hall beside my guard. Surely the investigators wanted to ask a few final questions of me before levying formal charges. Yes, that had to be it, I convinced myself. I would be questioned, charged, and transferred to a more permanent facility pending trial. If a reprieve had been in the offing, the guard would have told me.

These dismal thoughts did not prepare me for the sight awaiting me inside the interrogation chamber: six of Malory’s lawyers… and Sandy!

The guard let me go, and I all but flew into Sandy’s arms, kissing him and hugging him and fondling his face as if I had not seen him in a hundred years. What of the queenship rules for decorum? The night of terrors had stripped off that façade layer by layer, leaving me a frightened woman so pitifully grateful to see a beloved face. Finally I comported myself enough to say:

“My God, Sandy, what are you doing here? I thought you were still with the Georgia Dragons!”

“You can thank Clarice for tracking me down—in Krakow, of all places. The Dragons versus the Red Dragons, there’s a series for you—”

“But why?”

“Why did I come? When Clarice told me you were in trouble, I had to help. I couldn’t leave you to the tender mercies of the police and the media, no matter how angry I might be with you.”

“And… are you?”

“Still angry?” He cupped my cheek and gazed deeply into my eyes, sending a thrill down my spine. “That is a conversation for later. Now, we”—his arm gesture encompassed the legal team—“must get your version of events and see what we can do with it.”

So I was questioned at length and by everyone in the room, but nobody was unkind or unsympathetic. At the team meeting, did McBain try to assault me? Try to, no; succeeded, yes, and in corroboration I pointed to my blazer’s torn lapel. Did I say what everyone claimed I had said after that? Regrettably, yes. Did I mean it? Only in the context that I had intended to fire McBain if he crossed the line like that again. Why did I choose to walk home? Because he had made me upset. Why did I choose to enter the park? Again, because I was upset. That I said gazing at Sandy, and by his nod I knew he understood my implication: that I had been brooding over his absence and had wanted to sit on our favorite bench to reminisce. Did I know McBain was in the park when I decided to enter it? Absolutely not. Was it dark? Oh, yes. Did I recognize McBain? Not while he was grappling with me. Was I in fear of my life? Absolutely so.

Then came the kicker. Did I intend to kill my attacker?

The Lord Jesu Christ advised that one should always let one’s yes be yes and one’s no be no. So I let my yes be:

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It is how I was taught. If one fears for one’s life, it is always prudent to eliminate one’s adversary, lest he rise up to attack again. I made sure my adversary would not rise up again, but I did not know the man was Ewan McBain until after he was dead. If I had known when he first accosted me, none of this ever would have happened, I assure you.”

“Did he pull a weapon on you?”

Had he? I tried to envision the scene but could not be certain. I said:

“Gentlemen, in my experience, when a man makes violent contact with a woman, the outcome is never pleasant for the woman. My assailant made violent contact with me, and I could not take the chance that he was armed. When I saw an opening, I used it to my advantage.” I threw Sandy an imploring look. “You know I am not in the habit of murdering my employees!” If I sounded shrill, I could not help myself; my queenly composure had yet to return.

Sandy smiled. “We know. And I believe you. They”—he nodded at the lawyers—“don’t have to. It’s only their job to defend you.”

I returned his smile, though my lips felt reluctant to bend in that direction, reeling yet from the night’s traumas. “It is enough for me that you believe.”

“Good.” As if in response to some unseen signal, he and the lawyers rose, and they began packing up their notes.

I drew a breath and clawed for calm, despite the renewed hammering of my heart at the thought of being left alone again. “So… what is to happen now?”

Sandy replied, “We must talk to the other witnesses. You’ll have to stay here awhile yet, but you’ll be safe from reporters. Soon after the initial SNN broadcast, the WBF Commissioner clamped a lid on this story until all the details can get sorted,—but that injunction won’t stop a scoop-hungry reporter who sees you on the street.”

“Yes, we shan’t cast baseball in a bad light,” I could not resist quipping. The return of my serenity would be a very good thing for all concerned but, alack, this was not scheduled to happen anytime soon.

Sandy and the lawyers took their leave to begin their quest on my behalf, and I was returned to the sweltering cell, though now I paid no mind to the heat or the other occupants. Now I had hope, and hope has a wonderful way of casting everything in a dawning light, the very light of heaven itself.

I have no idea how Sandy managed it, but he found a man and a woman who also had been strolling in the park that evening. They had witnessed the fight and upheld my claim that I had been attacked from behind and had acted in self-defense. The Magistrates’ Court decided there was no need to escalate my case to the Crown Court, and there the matter dropped. The international press would have preferred a juicy trial, of course, but I cannot say I was troubled overmuch to disappoint them.

In my deliriously happy state, I rehired Sandy as the Knights’ GM at triple what the Georgia Dragons had been paying him. His response to my offer later, in the sweet freedom of my home, specifically my bedchamber, made me even happier.

Sweeter and more satisfying still was my private revelation to Sandy—and its eventual outcome—of the secret Marco might have taken to his grave and which the awful McBain incident and the other team scandals had nearly succeeded in burying. While covering the breaking Sanctuary story, Marco had learned one of the residents was Sandy’s sister Amanda, presumed dead for the past six years. This was what Sandy had been brooding about that day I found him in the unemployment queue, and had I troubled to inquire about his thoughts, perhaps none of my—our—misadventures would have transpired.

Yet as I tell my team, the past is past; the game goes on. The instant all the legal dust settled, Sandy and I whisked off to DC to find his sister. Our quest ended at three-hundred-year-old Gadsby’s Tavern in Alexandria, Virginia, where Amanda had secured employment following Sanctuary’s demise, serving restaurant patrons while wearing period dress. Six years of struggling for survival had engraved their indelible mark, but could not erase the fine natural comeliness of her face, a gift she shared with Sandy. What familial rift had driven her to faking her death and hiding in Godforsaken Sanctuary rather than seeking help from her brother, I chose not to ask. Nor did it seem important any longer. What mattered was the near-palpable glow emanating from them both as they stood basking in each other’s forgiveness.

Watching Sandy and Amanda reunite, I craved nothing more than to capture that feeling with my estranged brother Arthur. It grieved me beyond words to realize our reconciliation might never come.