Chesapeake Tide (33 page)

Eric sighed. “All right, Chloe. I'll get a room in Salisbury and we'll wait this out. Are you going to school?”

“Of course she is.” Libby was furious. “Today was an exception.”

Russ squeezed her shoulder. “I'm for getting a bite to eat. How about you, Chloe?”

Chloe looked at her mother and then at her father. “That sounds good,” she said dubiously.

“I'd like to speak with you privately, Eric,” Libby said. “Why don't you take Chloe to lunch, drop her off at school and meet me at the house later?”

Chloe brightened. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Don't mention it. See you later.”

Russ waited until they'd left the building. “What are you going to do?”

“What can I do?” she said bitterly. “He waltzes in and offers Chloe what she wants, knowing that I won't just send her away.”

“What do you mean?”

She wouldn't look at him. “I'll have to go back to California. I can't just give up my daughter.”

“You and I need to talk, Libba Jane.”

“Not now, Russ. I've got enough on my plate.”

“Now,” he said firmly.

Instinct told her not to argue. Silently, reluctantly, she walked beside him out of the courthouse, down the steps and into a small diner at the end of the block.

He ordered coffee and a sandwich. She wasn't hungry. He didn't press her to eat.

“What is it, Russ?” she asked, unable to bear the silence any longer.

His eyes were level on her face. “It's been one long hot summer since we got together again, Libba Jane. We've been dancing around this issue since the beginning. Now I've got to know. What are your intentions?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me and you know what I'm talking about. I've waited my whole life for you. Hell, I've made world-class mistakes because of you. I've handed you my heart and you've carved it up pretty well. Now it's time. I've got to know if there's any point to all of this. I'm thirty-seven years old. That's on the edge of late for starting over. I'd like someone to care if I come home or not. I'd like to raise a family. We're good together, Libba. What do you say?”

“Is this a proposal?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly she was angry. “That's not fair. You're making me choose between you and my daughter. What if I made you the same offer? What if I asked you to choose between staying here with Tess or coming with me to California?”

“Are you making me an offer?”

She wadded up her napkin, threw it on the table and slid out of the booth. “Damn you, Russ Hennessey,” she said, and stalked out of the diner.

C
ynthia Cameron was even more striking in a pair of skin-hugging jeans and a sleeveless white blouse tied at her waist. The white emphasized her tanned arms and the blue of her eyes. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail and gold hoop earrings hung from her ears. She stood in the doorway of the EPA office and waited for Libby to hang up the phone.

“I'm looking for Elizabeth Delacourte,” she said.

Libby stood. “You've found her.”

Cynthia smiled a dazzling white-toothed smile. “You've got quite a family.”

“Thank you,” Libby said smoothly. “What can I do for you?”

“I'm Cynthia Cameron and I'm prosecuting the case your father is defending.”

Libby waited.

“I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

Libby's eyebrows rose. “I'm not involved in this case, Miss Cameron. I can't imagine how I'd be of any use to you.”

“Call me Cynthia. I'd like to know more about the water contamination in this area of the bay.”

“In that case, let's go next door to Perks. As you can see, I'm short on chairs.”

The two women chatted easily as they walked to the coffee shop. Verna Lee was behind the counter. She smiled at Libby. “How's everything going?” she asked.

“It could be better. We'll have to talk soon.” She gestured to the woman beside her. “This is Cynthia Cameron, the prosecutor for Bailey's case. Cynthia, this is my sister, Verna Lee Fontaine. She brews a mean cup of coffee.”

“How do you do, Verna Lee?” Cynthia looked at Libby. “Like I said, you've got quite a family.”

“Two iced teas, Verna Lee.” Libby pointed to a spot in the back. “We'll take that table.”

“Coming right up,” said Verna Lee.

“Tell me about leakage into the subterranean wells,” Cynthia said when they were seated.

“We don't know for a fact that there is leakage,” Libby replied carefully.

“The front pages of every local newspaper in the area say there is.”

“You know better than to believe everything you read in a newspaper.”

Verna Lee brought over two tall glasses of amber liquid. “Anything else?” she asked.

“No, thanks,” replied Libby, “unless you have more of those brownies you had last week. I'd like to bring some home for Chloe.”

“I'll wrap them for you,” she said, and walked away.

Cynthia picked up her straw and stirred her tea thoughtfully.

“Tell me what you do know for a fact.”

“We know the air station was a sight for intermediate-level nuclear waste and that some of the containers leaked into the bay water. A cleanup was requested and implemented even though it was not reported to the community.”

“Why not?”

Libby shrugged. “Fear of reprisal, lawsuits, you name it. Why are you interested?”

“I'm trying to link Lizzie Jones's cancer with water contamination.”

“Why?”

“Is there a link?” the woman persisted.

“Possibly,” Libby admitted, “but it hasn't been proved, not yet, anyway.”

“Will you testify that there is a possibility?”

Libby stared at her incredulously. “Are you serious? And help you devalue that boy's land so that his mother died for nothing? I don't think so. You don't need my help. It won't make a difference to the case.”

“What if I subpoena you?”

Libby's smile froze. Her warm feelings toward the prosecutor disappeared instantly. “You don't want a hostile witness, Miss Cameron. I'm not stupid and my father is the best trial lawyer this side of the Chesapeake. You may get what I have to say stricken from the record, but the jury will hear it. The facts are that we have water contamination here in the bay and that a few people, a
few,
Miss Cameron, have come down with serious illnesses. Why, we can't be sure. Many have not been affected at all. The government is doing its job to clean up the pollution. Those of us who live here would like that issue to stay out of this trial for obvious reasons.”

Cynthia Cameron stood and threw two dollars down on the table. “Thanks for your time, Ms. Delacourte.”

Verna Lee watched her walk out. She made her way to where Libby sat. “That one doesn't look happy.”

Libby sighed. “No. I can't blame her. She's going to lose that case.”

“Let's hope so. No one around here wants to see Bailey in any trouble.”

“It's odd, isn't it? Lizzie was a pariah when she was alive. Now it's all turned around.”

“Life doesn't always run smoothly.”

“Tell me about it,” Libby groaned.

“What's up?”

“Eric wants to take Chloe back to California and I think she'll go with him. Russ wants me to stay here.”

“That is a problem,” Verna Lee agreed. “What are you going to do?”

“If Chloe decides to go back, I'll have to go with her.” She looked at her watch. “I've got to get back to work.”

“What do
you
want, Libba?”

“What do I want? Why, I want—” She stopped, unable to find the words. “I don't know what I want,” she said at last.

Verna Lee smiled. “When you figure it out, you'll know what to do.”

At the door Libby hesitated. “Verna Lee?”

“Yes?”

“We've never really talked.”

“Do you want to?”

“I think so.”

“When you know for sure, tell me.”

Libby laughed. “I know for sure.”

“You name the time and place.”

“Maybe we should all talk, you and Mama and me.”

Verna Lee smiled. “You need to talk to your mama, Libba Jane. Nola Ruth and I have buried our demons. I think we're fine where we are.”

“Where is that, Verna Lee?”

“Maybe we should discuss that when we have our talk.”

Once again Libby laughed. “All right. I can take a hint. Why don't we get together tomorrow night?”

“Are you sure that's a good time? Your daddy's case should wrap up soon. If the jury comes up with a verdict, you might not want company.”

“You're not company,” Libby said firmly. “You're family. Come for supper.”

Verna Lee's smile was full and warm. “I'll be there.”

Normally, Cole wouldn't have called Bailey to the witness stand. But somewhere around the second day of the trial he decided the boy's testimony was his best defense. Attired once again in the dark suit, with a fresh haircut and glossy shoes, he looked more than presentable.

After he was sworn in, Cole approached the witness stand. “Bailey, will you tell us what happened the night of September 8?”

The boy's voice, choked, well pitched and sincere, carried to all corners of the courtroom. “Yes, sir.” Not a sound could be heard in the courtroom. “Only it didn't start on September 8. My mother went to the doctor for the first time nearly two years ago. She had pain in her back and her legs. At first Dr. Balieu said it was arthritis and to take aspirin. But it got worse so he tested her blood. He said she had leukemia and needed chemotherapy.” He stopped and drew several deep breaths.

“What happened then?”

“It was expensive. We didn't have insurance. She sold off a piece of land to get the money. That's when the developers started coming around. They wanted the whole thing, but she wouldn't sell. She said it was all she had to leave me.” Again he stopped, unable to continue.

Cole waited until the boy was in control again. His voice was very gentle. “What happened after the chemotherapy?”

“She seemed better for a while. We thought it would be okay. But then it came back. I wanted her to go for more treatment but she wouldn't. She said we could sell everything off and if it still didn't work we'd be broke and she'd still be dying.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“I used the computers at school. There were plenty of cases where the first round of chemo didn't work, but later ones did. I wanted her to go for more.”

“Did you tell her how you felt?”

Bailey nodded. “All the time. We argued about it, but she wouldn't listen. Finally, the pain got so bad she talked about killing herself. I wouldn't hear it.” His voice shook but it was clear. “I told her to stop talking like that. I took all the knives in the house and hid them in my truck. Finally she did stop. Then she refused to take any medication, even the pills Doc Balieu gave her as samples. The pain got so bad she would cry for hours. Then she would beg me to help her die.”

Cole Delacourte looked at the jury. Every eye was focused on Bailey. “For how long did she beg you to do this?”

“Every day.”

“For how long a period?”

“Six months.”

“Are you saying that for
six months
your mother was in dreadful pain and she asked you to help her die every day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you say to her?”

“I told her I couldn't do it. I told her I'd be in terrible trouble. She said if I loved her I'd do it anyway.” His voice lowered. “Finally, I did.”

Cole gripped the boy's shoulder. “Are you all right, Bailey? Would you like to take a few minutes?”

“I'm all right, sir.”

“Very well. Tell us about the night you decided to go through with it.”

“I took her to Shad Landing and we ate barbecue outside.” Bailey smiled, remembering. “She liked it. She'd never been to a restaurant. Then we drove to the point and looked out over the wildlife sanctuary while I described it to her. She liked that, too. After dark, we went home.” He swallowed. “I poured her a glass of bourbon, all the way to the top. She drank it down. I thought she'd gone to sleep. Then I held the pillow down over her face. She struggled some, but not much. It didn't take long.”

“Did you ever think that she might have changed her mind while she was struggling?”

“We talked about that. She knew she would struggle. She said it was every animal's instinct to fight for breath. She told me not to falter in my resolve because she knew what she asked me to do was for the best.”

“Thank you, Bailey,” said Cole. “I have no more questions.”

Cynthia Cameron, hands palmed in a prayerful position, slowly approached the witness box. “How much is your land worth, Bailey?”

“I don't know, ma'am.”

“Really? You never discussed with your mother how much money she was sitting on?”

“No.”

“I'll tell you. Your mama left you nearly two million dollars of prime Maryland pine acreage.”

Bailey gasped and whitened.

“Do you know how much another series of chemotherapy treatments would have cost, Bailey?”

He shook his head.

“Answer the question verbally for the court reporter, please.”

“No.”

“About ten thousand dollars.”

He looked bewildered.

“Do you think anyone needs two million dollars, Bailey?”

He didn't answer.

She pressed him. “Do you think you could have spared ten thousand dollars to give your mother another chance at survival given that you still would've had $1,990,000 in land equity?”

He didn't answer.

Cynthia Cameron turned to the jury. “Cat got your tongue, Bailey?”

Cole stood. “Objection.”

“Duly noted,” she said quickly. “I withdraw the question. In fact, I have only one more question to ask the defendant. If you had to do it over again, knowing what you know now, would you still take your mother's life or would you give her a chance to survive if it meant reducing your inheritance by less than half a percent?”

Bailey sat completely still, his face frozen in misery.

“Answer the question, Bailey.”

“No,” he whispered.

Cynthia Cameron shook her head. “No more questions, Your Honor.”

Cole Delacourte's voice resounded throughout the room. “I'd like to cross-examine, Your Honor.”

“Do so.”

“Bailey, did your mother ever discuss finances with you?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you have any notion of the value of your land?”

“No.”

“Did you believe your mother when she told you she would rather die than part with any more of her land?”

“Yes.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Judge Wentworth pounded his gavel. “The court will recess for lunch. We'll resume at one-thirty for closing arguments if there are no more witnesses.”

Cole Delacourte spoke of nothing but inconsequentials as he drove Bailey home that evening. The jury had been excused for the day. There was nothing left to do but wait for the verdict. He knew this might very well be the boy's last night of freedom. Murder in Maryland was not taken lightly, and an eighteen-year-old boy could be sentenced to the men's penitentiary. That was worst case. Cole did not expect worst case, but he was prepared for it. Cynthia Cameron was a worthy opponent. She had done her homework. He had no idea what the outcome would be.

The morning dawned crisp and clear. The Indian summer was over and fall had settled in overnight. The trees were ablaze with color. Energy hummed in the air and the smells of burning leaves and smoking fireplaces wafted through the small waterfront towns.

Bailey, dressed in his dark suit, sat on the front porch. Chloe, who insisted on being in court to hear the verdict, sat with him. Neither one wanted breakfast. Even Serena, who believed food was the panacea for all ills, didn't press them.

Shortly after ten o'clock the phone rang. Cole walked outside. “The jury has reached a verdict,” he said. “It's time to go.”

Somberly, as if they were heading for a funeral, the boy and girl climbed into the back seat of the car. Cole drove and Libby sat beside him. No one said a word until they reached the courthouse.