For lack of anything better to do, I opened the lunch box and sorted through the contents, laying each item out on the bench next to me. A ham sandwich. A packet of chips. A bottle of water. An apple that looked like it’d lost one too many rounds with a croquet mallet. Who had packed this mess? Prisoners? I leaned my head against the wall, fighting back tears. Would I spend the rest of my life eating crap like this? I had new respect for prisoners of war like Admirals Bill Lawrence and William Stockdale. I was going stir-crazy after only an hour; they’d been locked up and tortured by the North Vietnamese for more than six years.
“I want my lawyer!” I screamed to deaf walls. “I have a right to talk to my lawyer!”
It was probably only a coincidence, but several minutes later Arnold appeared. “Mrs. Ives? Your lawyer is here.”
I could have kissed his scruffy cheek.
Arnold escorted me to a nearby room, where Murray sat at a table on the opposite side of a glass window. I hadn’t seen Murray Simon since the grandchildren were born and Paul and I had updated our wills. Murray had the same round face, a little less sandy hair, and had switched from aviator glasses to a pair of trendy, narrow European-style frames.
As usual, Murray zeroed in on what was bothering me most. Before I could even say “Hi,” Murray got right to the point. “Don’t worry, Hannah, we’ll get you out of here.”
I folded my arms on the table and rested my forehead on them. “Thank God!”
I took a deep breath and gazed up at my attorney. I’d opened my mouth to ask the next question, but once again Murray was ahead of me. “You’re going to be arraigned sometime after three o’clock. There’s nothing I can do about that. You’ll plead not guilty, of course, and we’ll get you home by dinnertime.”
“Not guilty to murder, you mean?” My mouth was dry, my throat so tight I could barely get the word out. Murder.
“No, you’re being charged with manslaughter, Hannah.” Murray paused, waiting for that information to sink in.
“Manslaughter? But what evidence does the FBI have against me?”
“Doesn’t look good. They found the murder weapon.”
I stared at him stupidly.
“It was a hammer, Hannah. They found it in the Dumpster behind Nimitz Library. And I’m afraid your fingerprints are all over it.”
I fell back against the chair. “Of course my fingerprints are all over it, Murray! I was building sets with the damn thing!”
“It gets worse,” Murray said.
“How could it possibly get any worse?”
“The hammer was wrapped in your sweatshirt.”
I shuddered, suddenly remembering the sweatshirt and hot glue gun I’d left lying on a chair in the Jabberwocky room that night I’d fled from Jennifer Goodall’s loathe-some presence. “Oh, shit.”
“And of course there was the argument.”
I nodded. “Can’t bother to deny that.”
Murray whipped off his glasses and laid them on the table in front of him. He leaned forward, his mouth close to the glass. “Hannah, I need you to think carefully. What were you doing the afternoon Jennifer was murdered?”
“I don’t remember exactly, but I know I went downtown to do some shopping.”
“Were you hanging around Mahan auditorium at all, say between three and four in the afternoon?”
“Absolutely not.”
Murray leaned back in his chair. “Then this is a tough one. NCIS has a witness who saw you leaving the auditorium about the time Jennifer was attacked, walking in the direction of the library.”
“What witness?” My head reeled. I remembered the countless times I’d walked between Mahan and the set shop in Alumni Hall, waving to Nimitz staff as they lounged on the loading dock, smoking. I mentioned this to Murray. “Maybe the witness got the day wrong. I know I was shopping that afternoon. There must be credit card receipts somewhere!”
“Paul’s looking into it, Hannah. He’s checking your Amex and Visa card statements.”
“Good.” I relaxed just a fraction. “So, what can I expect?”
“The marshals will escort you into the courtroom. I’ll be there, of course. You’ll stand with me behind the defense table and listen quietly while they read the charges. You’ll plead not guilty-that goes without saying-then the government will request bail.”
“How much bail?” I interrupted.
“About $250,000 is usual in cases like this.”
I gasped, seeing the door that had opened a crack slam shut behind me. “Where are we going to get that kind of money?”
“Don’t worry. Paul and I are already making arrangements for a property bond.”
“Uh-huh,” I said dully, imagining our beautiful old house with a For Sale sign hanging in front of it.
“We’ll counter with a reduced sum,” Murray continued, “because you’re a model citizen with a spotless record, family ties to the community, not a flight risk etcetera etcetera etcetera.”
“Okay.”
“And you’ll have to surrender your passport, I’m afraid.”
“My passport,” I repeated numbly. Did they think I’d head for some South American country with no extradition treaty with the United States? Spend my life drifting aimlessly from one third world town to another? Visit my grandchildren only by video conferencing, assuming said third world country had broad band Internet access? No, I’d simply be a prisoner of another kind.
“But what if they find me guilty, Murray? What then?”
“They won’t.”
“But what if they do?”
“The federal sentencing guideline for manslaughter is ten years.”
“Ten years!” I threw back my head and closed my eyes. Chloe and Jake would be in their teens. Paul would be planning his retirement without me.
Murray pressed an open palm against his side of the glass, his small way of comforting me. Deeply touched, I raised my hand to his, matching it finger for finger, and began to sob.
“Murray, please. I want to go home.” The thought of clean towels, clean hair, and clean clothes made me ache with yearning.
“Hang in there, Hannah.”
“Damn it!” I said, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand. “I didn’t survive breast cancer just so I could spend the next ten years stamping out license plates!”
“Trust me, Hannah. You won’t have to.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears, Murray. To God’s most merciful ears.”
It happened just the way Murray had described. Arnold led me into the courtroom with my hands cuffed in front of me, past the empty jury box, depositing me behind the table with Murray. Agent Crisp was also there, standing at the prosecution table next to a tall dark-haired guy in a navy blue suit.
Murray leaned over and whispered, “That’s Richard Knowles, the Assistant U.S. Attorney trying your case.”
I took my time studying Knowles, sizing him up. He must have felt my gaze on him because he looked up, blinked twice, then went back to shuffling through the sheaf of papers he had laid out on the table in front of him. I caught Amanda Crisp’s eye and smiled, but only her eyes smiled back.
After the judge read the charges and I’d looked him straight in the eye and said “Not guilty” in a strong, clear voice, bail was set at $200,000. Murray had said not to worry about bail. Hah! We were still playing catch-up with Emily’s tuition payments to Bryn Mawr. Paul and I drove previously owned cars. The house needed painting. All that, apparently, was going to have to wait.
Finally the judge released me. The marshals removed my handcuffs and with Murray by my side, led us down a long hallway, where we checked in with pretrial services. On Murray’s advice, I waived my right to a speedy trial so he’d have time to prepare my case.
I had every confidence in Murray Simon. The rape charges against a D.C. shock jock? Dismissed. The SEC bigwig charged with insider trading? Acquitted. And when a Naval Academy football player tested positive for cocaine, Murray’d gotten him off scot-free, too. Everybody knew they’d been guilty as hell.