Undue Influence (36 page)

“Like what?”

“Like our kids.”

“What else?”

What is happening is clear. Jennifer Lang has fallen into the pit of shifting loyalties. The Capitol employment market is not unlike the human auction blocks of the antebellum South. The only difference is that careers are bought and sold instead of people. This is a place where allegiances shift faster than most of us change our underwear. In such a setting there is no such thing as a friend, at least not an enduring one. Ann Edlin, it seems, quickly found the currency of advancement under the golden dome, a few closely held confidences whispered into the ear of her new boss, Jack Vega. “We talked about the divorce,” says Lang. “That would be Laurel Vega’s divorce from her husband?”

“Right.” Lang is seething as she looks at Cassidy, a mix between anger and fear. “And what did Laurel Vega tell you about that divorce?”

“She said it was becoming particularly difficult because of the children. You should understand she was very distraught at the time.”

Lang is trying to sugarcoat it. “And why was the divorce becoming difficult?”

“Because of the custody issue.”

“The children?” prods Cassidy.

I Lang nods. “You have to answer so that the court reporter can hear you.”

“Yes.” Laurel seems to offer up psychic absolution to her friend at this moment, sitting forward in her chair, an idyllic smile on her face, though she cannot see Lang. Laurel’s is a hopeful expression, as if to say, “If the truth will out, I have nothing to fear.” Such is the naivete that seems to run like a disease through Nikki’s family and has afflicted Laurel at this moment. “This was particularly bitter, this custody battle?” says Cassidy.

“You bet. Her husband was being a real prick,” she says.

Woodruff looks at her, a wrinkled brow.

“Sorry, your honor. I could say it in other ways, but it would lose something in the translation.”

“So Laurel blamed her former husband for this? The custody thing?”

“You bet.”

“Did she blame anybody else?”

Cassidy bears down now, going for the jugular. Lang looks at her from the box. She would like to say no, but she has to worry. The prosecutor has clearly talked to Edlin. “In part she blamed someone else,” she says. “What do you mean in part? Who else was there? She didn’t blame the children?”

“No. The children wanted to stay with their mother.”

“At least that’s what she told you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, who else was there to blame?” Cassidy has her back to me at this moment, but I can image the simpering little grin as she narrows the field. “His new wife,” says Lang.

“Melanie Vega. The victim,” she says.

“Yes.”

Cassidy pauses for a moment, and for the first time she moves, toward the jury box, facing them square on, like looky what I brought you. Lang at this moment does not look at Laurel, but stares off, toward the ceiling and the back of the courtroom. “Tell the court,” says Cassidy.

“Why did she blame Melanie Vega for her problems in the custody case?

Wasn’t it Jack, her former husband who was initiating those proceedings?”

“I think she was very upset. I don’t think she knew what she was saying.”

“That’s not what I asked you,” Morgan turns and snaps.

Lang shrinks an inch in the chair.

“Why did she blame Melanie Vega?”

A long sigh from Jennifer Lang, like a body giving up the ghost. Then she says: “Laurel said that Jack would never have gone after the kids if Melanie hadn’t put him up to it.”

“So she didn’t blame Jack, she blamed Melanie?”

“She blamed both of them.”

Lang’s face is twisted up, a pitch for absolution from the stand, now aimed directly at Laurel, in which the return is a generous smile. I’m driving my knee into Laurel’s thigh to keep her from mouthing words of reassuring friendship to the witness, little encouragements like “It’s all right” or “I understand.” Knowing Laurel, she will be uttering these when they strap her into the chair in the little green room. “What else did she tell you?”

“Oh. This is so hard,” says Lang.

“Tell the court what she said.” Cassidy is now moving on the witness box, closing the distance. I could object, but it would only draw more attention. “She said Melanie wanted the kids to spite her. To destroy what was left of her family,” says Lang. Each time she speaks it is a spike in our case, fuel to feed their theories of a motive. “What else?”

says Cassidy. Enough, I think. Jennifer is starting to break on the stand, tears coming with more frequency, a handkerchief out of her purse. I could ask for time, to allow the witness to compose herself, but it would only serve to draw this out, lend more drama. What Morgan wants. Instead I am left at the table, feigning expressions of boredom and disinterest. Unfortunately, at this moment, the jury seems riveted.

“What else did she tell you?” says Cassidy.

“She told me ”

“In her own words if you can,” Cassidy cuts her off.

Lang regroups, looking off at the middle distance. “She told me she told me that there were times when she could have killed the bitch.” This is what Morgan has been searching for, the gemstone in this load of swill.

At this moment there’s a rustle in the courtroom, one of those seminal moments in a trial where there is a palpable shift in momentum. Morgan senses this and turns the blade in the wound one last time, feeling for that mortal penetration. “And who was she referring to? Who was the person Laurel Vega was referring to as the bitch?” A lot of shrugging of shoulders, movement in the box, Lang like some unfortunate fish hooked through the gill. “Wasn’t it Melanie Vega that she was talking about?”

“Yes.” An explosion of tears from Lang. “I didn’t want to,” she says.

Imploring looks at Laurel, all the worse for our cause. Not likely that this is a lie, some fabrication concocted by an enemy. It is the stuff of which truth is made in the eyes of a jury. “That’s all for this witness,” announces Cassidy.

“Under the circumstances, we should give the witness time,” says Woodruff. “Can you go on or would you like a recess?” Lang motions with her hand that she would rather go on, to finish this now. “Cross,” says Woodruff.

“Ms. Lang, just a couple of questions,” I say. “When you heard these words from Laurel, did it strike you that she was serious, that she actually intended to kill Melanie Vega?”

“Objection calls for speculation on the part of the witness.”

“Sustained.”

Still, the seed is planted. “Let me ask you,” I say, “in your life, during a moment of extreme frustration or pain, have you ever said to your children, your husband, to a friend, that there are times when you could kill someone?”

“Sure,” she says. Lang sees where I am going, anxious to help.

“And when you made such statements, were you serious?”

“No.”

“So it was a figure of speech, nothing more?”

“That’s true,” she says.

“Let me ask you. Did you call the police to alert them when Laurel Vega told you that she could kill Melanie Vega?”

“No,” she says.

“And why not?”

I can see Cassidy cringing at the table. “Objection, calls for speculation.”

“No, no. I’m not asking the witness to speculate about the defendant’s state of mind, but to comment on her own. Why she didn’t call the police.” The many ways to slice up evidence.

“Overruled.”

“Why didn’t you call the police and tell them about this comment on the part of Laurel Vega?”

“Because I didn’t think she was serious.”

“Exactly,” I say. “You viewed it for what it was, a figure of speech and nothing more, isn’t that true?”

“Absolutely,” she says. A smile on Jennifer’s Lang’s face, redemption at last. “That’s all I have for this witness.”

“Very well, you’re excused,” says Woodruff.

Lang rises from the stand. She tries to take Laurel’s hand at the table, some consolation, a show of support, but I am blocking her way, ushering her through the railing, out of the courtroom. Each move by Lang at this moment, grasping hands of friendship extended to Laurel, is like a pygmy shooting blow darts into the side of our case. It is not possible to assess what damage has been done here, but the fact remains that unlike the subjects in other figures of speech, Melanie Vega is dead. Clearly someone wanted to kill the bitch. C It is perhaps the most singular and disturbing part of our case to this point that the one piece of evidence Laurel does not dispute is the testimony of Jennifer Lang. In the hallway to the holding cell after today’s session, Laurel apologized for not warning me. She had forgotten the remark made to Lang over lunch so many months before. Idle chatter, she called it. The stuff of a bitter divorce. All of this makes me wonder if she has said such things to others, whether Harry and I should brace ourselves. I have visions of a procession, Laurel’s acquaintances marched to the stand by Cassidy in a line reminiscent of the rush to the Klondike. Hopefully, the damage, which at this point is difficult to assess, is done. Tonight I am busy getting Sarah ready for bed when the phone rings.

“Hello.” The receiver in one hand, I’m trying to untie a knot in Sarah’s shoe with the other. “Hi.” The voice on the other end is distant, something from another planet, and for an instant I do not recognize it.

Then I say: “Danny?”

Sarah’s eyes grow wide. “Oh, let me talk to him.” She makes a swipe for the phone, but misses. “Later,” I tell her.

“Did I call at a bad time?” he asks. “No. No. Not at all,” I tell him. I suppress the urge to ask the one question that I cannot: “Where are you?”

“How’s Mom doing? We don’t get much news back here, and I’m afraid to write,” he says. It is clear that he and Laurel have discussed this, writing, and that she has cautioned him not to. A return address on an envelope, a postmark, and Jack would be all over her for conspiring to violate the court’s order of temporary custody. Letters to the jail are scanned and monitored in a dozen different ways. “She’s doing as well as can be expected, under the circumstances,” I tell him. “Will she be out pretty soon?” he asks.

“We all hope so,” I tell him. “We have a ways to go.” I don’t talk about the downside, what if she’s convicted. But I can tell by the silence at the other end that this thought is now being processed in Danny’s mind.

“I wanted to call her,” he says. “At the jail, I mean. But I’m not supposed to. Mom told me they listen in.” I don’t say anything, but issue a few grunts on the phone. I can’t participate in this and take the stand if I am called again to testify in the custody case. I must be able to say truthfully that I didn’t tell him what to do, that I have no idea where he is. “Is Dad looking for us?”

“Turning over every rock,” I tell him.

He laughs a little, nothing sinister, but amused, that perhaps he has finally outwitted his father. “You won’t tell him that I called.”

I tell him his father and I no longer share much information or news of any kind. “When we pass in the hall, we don’t even say hello,” I tell him. “I’m sorry,” he says, like he is in some way responsible for this.

“Not your fault,” I tell him.

“Sure,” he says. I can sense some awkwardness on the other end, juvenile insecurities. “Is Mom gonna have to testify?”

“I don’t know. We’ll cross that bridge later. There’s a lot of evidence against her, and it would probably help to answer some things if she took the stand.”

“Then it’s not going so good?” he says.

“Some days yes, some days no,” I tell him. “We’re not throwing in the towel just yet.”

“I’m really glad you’re helping her,” he says. “I know Mom is too. She doesn’t always say it, but I know she is.” Visions of Harry and me, Don Quixote and Sancho. I warn him that there are no sure things, a lot of evidence yet ahead of us, imponderables to explain.

When he pursues for details I tell him that I cannot discuss these.

“Maybe it would really help if I came back?” he says. “What do you think?” Laurel would kill me. “That’s not for me to say. We shouldn’t be having this conversation,” I tell him. “Oh. I didn’t realize.” The sense of Danny retreating from the receiver at the other end. Before I can say another word, the operator breaks in. “That’ll be another ninety-five centss please.” I hear the ding of coins tripping the meter of the pay phone.

“We’ll have to talk quickly,” he says. “I’m running out of quarters.”

“Are you okay?” I ask him.

“Oh, yeah. Maggie’s real good to us.”

The first clue that Julie is with him. I don’t ask who Maggie is. I don’t want to know. “Is Julie there?”

“Yeah. Right here. You want to talk to her?”

“Just a word,” I say.

Her voice comes on the line. “Hello, Uncle Paul.”

“Hi, sweetheart. How are you doing?”

“Not so good, I want to come home,” she says. I hear a lot of grousing on the other end, Danny snatching for the phone. “Get away. I wanna talk.” Julie fighting him off.

“Uncle Paul, I don’t know what we’re doing here. Can you talk to Mom, see if we can come home?” she asks me. “Just hang tough,” I tell her.

“Mom’s got enough problems,” I hear Danny’s voice intoning.

“We’re doing everything we can,” I tell her. “It’ll be over before you know it. Then we’ll talk and see what we’re going to do.”

“What do you mean?” she says. “Like who we’re gonna live with?”

It’s tough to bullshit teenagers.

“You’re going to live with your mother.”

“And what if she’s convicted?” she says.

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“What if it does?”

“Gimme the phone.” Danny trying to grab it.

“Stop it,” I tell them, but they can’t hear me. Pain in my ear as the receiver slams into something solid on the other end. Danny wins the battle. His voice comes up on the line. “Don’t bother Mom with this.

We’re fine,” he says.

“Speak for yourself,” says Julie.

“I wanna talk.” Sarah’s tugging at my sleeve.

“Just a minute,” I tell her.

“Tell Julie not to worry,” I tell him.

“Aw, she’s a spoiled brat,” he says.

“Your mom wouldn’t like to hear that,” I tell him. “Give her a break.