Laura Caldwell - Claim of Innocence

“No. The state’s attorneys asked that I be required to stay at home and wear an ankle monitoring bracelet, but Martin put up a fight.”

We both smiled. Marty Bristol was fairly unstoppable once he put on the gloves.

“But essentially,” Valerie said, “I’ve just been going home every day. It’s been very hard. Amanda was my best friend, along with Bridget.” She saw me raise my eyebrows in question. “Bridget is—was, I guess—a friend of Amanda’s and mine.”

“The woman who is going to testify against you.”

Her face twisted as if seized by something. “Yes. So now I don’t have Amanda or Bridget. My daughter, Layla, has been living with me. She just started her sophomore year at DePaul University, but she’s moved back with me because of this…” She raised a hand and waved it around the room. She looked down and smoothed her dotted dress, crossing her lean legs demurely. “Sometimes I wonder if it will be the last time we ever get to spend any time alone together.”

The pain of her statement hit me. “I don’t want that to happen to you,” I said. “Let’s make some time to meet outside the courthouse. Either at night or this weekend.”

She met my eyes, nodded and gave me a small smile. In that, I could see a tiny sign of life—the life Valerie Solara used to have.

“Tell me,” I said, turning to Maggie when she returned and Valerie had left, “what do you want me to do tonight?” On a big trial like this, there was always so much to do—contact witnesses, draft motions, prepare direct exams and crosses, research issues that had arisen that day.

“Do whatever you had planned,” Maggie said, lifting her trial bag, a big, old-fashioned, leather affair handed down from her grandfather. “I’ll give you transcripts to read to get you up to speed. But you could do that this weekend. We’ve got openings tomorrow, and I’m ready to handle that.” She furrowed her brow. “My grandfather was going to cross the detectives next week. I’ll get his notes.”

“How did your mom say he’s doing?”

“Same.” She slid some grand jury transcripts across the table to me and snapped the trial bag closed, a frown on her face. “I may have you handle one of the detectives on Monday.”

“Really? Do you think I can? I’ve never crossed a detective before.”

“Yeah, well, I think this detective in particular might be the best place for you to start.”

“Why?”

A pause. “It’s Vaughn.”

It took a moment for the name to register, then my voice rang out. “Damon Vaughn?”

The bailiff walked into the room, apparently to retrieve something from the judge’s desk. He stopped at the sound of my indignant voice, lifting an eyebrow.

I turned back to Maggie and dropped my voice. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that the detective who made my life a living hell is testifying in your case.”

“Well, before today I was going to let Martin massacre him on the stand, then tell you all the gory details. I didn’t think you would be trying this case with me.”

I thought about Vaughn, a lean guy in his mid-forties. The first time I’d met him was at the office of my old firm after Sam disappeared. The next time was at the Belmont police station after my friend died and I realized that Vaughn suspected me of killing her. Usually, I hated no one. But I hated Vaughn.

“That mother trucker,” I muttered.

Maggie rolled her eyes. “You’re still on your not-swearing campaign?”

I nodded. I was trying to quit swearing. I didn’t like it when other people swore. The problem was it sounded so good when I did it. Still, I replaced goddamn it with God bless you and Jesus Christ with Jiminy Christmas and motherfucker with mother hen in a basket. Maggie was forever mocking me about it. “But I think this requires the real thing,” I said. “That mother fucker.”

“So you want a shot at crossing him?”

I thought about it, then smiled a cold smile. “Let me at him.”

W hen Maggie and I left the courthouse, the city was hot and humid, and the air crackled with a Thursday-night near-weekend buzz.

“I wish I had my Vespa here,” I said. I had driven a silver Vespa since law school. I found it cathartic and freeing.

Maggie nodded at a sad-looking parking garage across the street. “I’ll drive you home.”

I glanced up and down the street. “Can’t I get a cab?”

“Not in this hood.”

“Just drop me off somewhere I can get one.” Maggie lived on the south side, while I was Near North in Old Town. “You have too much to do tonight to be schlepping me around.”

As we crossed the street, Maggie said, “Don’t you think it’s time to get rid of the Vespa?”

My head snapped toward her. “Get rid of the Vespa?” My voice was incredulous.

She looked at me with sort of an amused air. “Yes. Honey, I think it’s time.”

“What do you mean, it’s time? Gas is expensive, and it’s an easy way to get around.”

She gave me a look that was more withering than amused now. “How did you get to court this morning?”

“The El.”

“Then how did you get to 26th and Cal?”

“Cab.”

“And now I’m driving you home.”

“You’re driving me to get a cab.”

We entered the parking garage and took a stairway—one that smelled like urine—to the second floor. “Whatever,” Maggie said. “My real point is you are too old for a scooter.”

“Too old?” The indignation in my voice was strong. I huffed. “And it’s not a scooter, it’s a Vespa.”

We found Maggie’s black Honda and got in it. It was blazing hot, and we both rolled down the windows.

“You’re thirty now,” Maggie said.

“So? You’re thirty, too, and you’re driving this crappy Honda.”

“But I have a reason. I don’t want to go into this crappy neighborhood with a nice car. What’s your excuse?”

“Why do I need an excuse?”

Maggie backed out and headed for the exit. “Well, there’s more than just you being thirty. There’s also the fact that you have been followed by thugs and investigators and such more than once over the past year.”

I fell silent as Maggie turned from the garage onto the street. When Sam disappeared last year, I had been tailed by the feds—and by other people, as well. We were back to Sam.

“So, what did he—” Maggie said before I cut her off.

“I don’t know anything more than I told you. Literally, he said he was engaged, but he wouldn’t set a date if I didn’t want him to.”

Maggie whistled then added, “Holy shit. Or as you would say, ‘Blessed poo.’”

“Oh, shut up.”

“So do you want Sam to cancel the engagement?” she asked.

Confusion seemed to swirl around me, seemed to make the heat thicker. “Doesn’t your air-conditioning work?” I fiddled with the knobs on Maggie’s dashboard. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not until I talk to him.”

“Why?”

Good question. I talked to Maggie about most everything. “Because I don’t want you to shoot it down. Because I don’t want you to be pragmatic or to remind me what happened before. Because I want to hear what he has to say.”

We were both quiet for a second.

“Fair enough,” Maggie said. “Getting back to the Vespa…”

I shook my head. “I’m just not willing to give up something I love so much like the Vespa.”

Maggie nodded. “Well, if you won’t get rid of it, maybe you can borrow Theo’s car sometimes. What does he drive?”

I paused. I blinked.

“You don’t know?” Maggie asked, laughing.

I felt myself blushing a little. I looked at her. “I don’t. I really don’t. When we go out, he gets a cab and picks me up, or we meet somewhere.”