Joel Goldman - Chasing The Dead

She shook her head, not believing she’d been so easily duped. Her fingerprints would give the photograph more credibility, especially since no one would believe her when she explained how they got there. She eyed the judge and the envelope, measuring the distance between them, arms at her sides, fists balled, and considered whether to try to wrestle the envelope away from him. He was bigger, maybe stronger, but she was younger, faster, and motivated.

West grunted, stepped back, and wrapped his free hand around the pitchfork.

“Tell me you aren’t that stupid, Alex.”

She let out a breath, releasing the tension in her coiled muscles.

“Not tonight. What do you want?”

“I want you to honor our agreement. Now, I’m willing to forget about the Atwell case.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t give me a choice. I’m bound by the plea agreement. And I’m more interested in how you handle your next case, not your last one.”

“I’ve got a stack of cases on my desk. Which one are you talking about?”

“None of them. You’re going to be assigned to a new case tomorrow. Your client has already confessed to a gruesome murder. All you have to do is go through the motions, get the discovery you’re entitled to from the prosecutor, conduct a limited-and I mean limited-investigation so you can say you did, and when the prosecutor offers to let him plead guilty and be sentenced to life without possibility of parole instead of being executed, you will convince him to take that deal. Now, if you do that, why, then, this photograph will go back to where it came from and it will stay there.”

First the judge hit her with the photograph and now he was telling her about her next case. She couldn’t imagine how he knew what it would be. All she wanted was to get out of there.

“My new client, what’s his name?”

“Jared Bell,” Judge West said.

Alex jammed her car into reverse, turned around, and fishtailed back down the long drive, putting as much distance as she could, as fast as she could, between Judge West and her. She was so angry, her heart was slamming hard enough against her ribs that she was afraid it would explode or her ribs would shatter.

She’d been angry for much of the last year, though at first she tried to ignore the emotion, cramming her feelings into a dark closet, slamming the door and bracing her back against it. The euphoria that had consumed her after she was acquitted of murdering Dwayne didn’t last. Like any drug, it wore off, and when it did, the door sprang open, leaving her raw inside and quick to lash out. Bonnie took the brunt of her outbursts, giving her time and space, until after a couple of months she’d had enough.

“You’ve got to see someone,” Bonnie told her. “We can’t keep doing this-you exploding and me picking up the pieces.”

“I’m sorry. I’m trying. But,” Alex said, shaking her head, “sometimes. . I don’t know. . I just feel. . Shit, I don’t know what I feel except that I just want to scream, I’m so fucking pissed.”

“About what?”

Alex ran her fingers through her short, dark hair. “About what? Are you kidding? I’m pissed that I got Dwayne Reed acquitted. I’m pissed that he killed all those people. I’m pissed that I killed him, and I’m pissed that I’m glad he’s dead. I’m pissed that everything got so fucked-up and I can’t stop fucking thinking and dreaming about it.” Her eyes filled and she wiped away her tears. “And I’m pissed that I can’t stop crying about it. It makes me feel so damn weak.”

Bonnie wrapped her arms around Alex. “The last thing you are is weak, but that doesn’t mean you’re strong enough to deal with this on your own. Post-traumatic stress is a bitch. Nobody can go through what you did and come out on the other side the same person. So do us both a favor and get some help, or I’ll end up more angry than you.”

Bonnie recommended a psychologist, Dr. Jacob Daniels. Alex saw him for six months. He treated her with a combination of cognitive and exposure therapy, helping her to cope with her anger and guilt, though she couldn’t tell him all the reasons she felt guilty. He taught her to use a type of meditation called mindfulness-based stress reduction, telling her that doing the focused breathing exercises was better than taking drugs.

The therapy had helped. She still had nightmares, but the boiling anger had cooled, except when something or someone like Judge West unleashed it. And while the tension between her and Bonnie had eased, she sensed that something else was bothering Bonnie, but when Alex pressed her, Bonnie just shook her head, reassuring her that everything was fine. They’d been together long enough that any other life seemed impossible. But she worried about Bonnie’s unspoken concerns. Now when she woke during the night, it was as much to make certain Bonnie was still beside her as it was to shake off her nightmares.

Judge West had triggered her entire emotional package as if she’d stepped on a land mine when she walked into his barn. Her pulse was racing, her face was flushed, and she wanted to punch something, if she could just stop shaking. She pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall, the stores closed for the night, the lot empty. Cushioning her head on the headrest, she closed her eyes, breathing in and out until she was calm enough to think clearly.

Bonnie had taught her to triage when she found herself in the middle of a shit storm: focus on whatever was causing her the most pain, stop the bleeding, and then move on to the next crisis. Alex combined Bonnie’s medical model with her own, working the facts, taking them as far as they would go, identifying the gaps and digging deeper to fill them in, while resisting the temptation to write a case off as a simple one, because she knew that’s when a gap could swallow her whole.

The photograph was at the top of her critical list. She’d shot Dwayne Reed in the living room of his mother Odyessy Shelburne’s house. Though she’d examined the photograph for only a moment, the setting looked like the crime scene. There was a body on the floor that could have been Reed, but the face was obscured. She was the woman kneeling next to him. That much was certain, and it might be enough to convince anyone else that the photograph was real, but Alex was certain it was a fake-not because it was inaccurate but because she couldn’t imagine who could have taken it. There were only a few possibilities.

Odyessy Shelburne had wanted Alex convicted so badly that she perjured herself on the witness stand. She never would have withheld such damning evidence.

The only other witness to the shooting was Gloria Temple, who was dead. Gloria’s cell phone was loaded with pictures, all of which Alex had seen, and the one Judge West was hammering her with now wasn’t part of Gloria’s collection. If it had been, Alex would be sitting on death row.

Detective Hank Rossi had investigated the shooting, and sending a criminal defense lawyer to prison would have been the high point of his career. If the photo had been out there before her trial, he would have found it, and Patrick Ortiz, the special prosecutor who’d handled the case against her, would have hung her with it.

If she was right about all of that, the alternative that the photo was a fake was still in play.

Judge West knew the prosecution’s theory that Alex had staged the crime scene to make it look like self-defense, and he had access to the crime scene photos, which were part of the court file. If he was worried that Alex would back out of their deal, he could have manufactured the photo to keep her in line.

Or maybe, Alex thought, he hoped the photograph would force her to confess her guilt to him, her admission giving him a more powerful weapon to use against her. But if that was his plan, it hadn’t worked. She hadn’t confessed and never would. Not to him. Not to Bonnie. Not to anyone. Not ever.