CHAPTER 18
The grieving widow is turned out in yellow. She’s shed her hat and trench coat, revealing a long-sleeved, knee-length coat dress, butter yellow with slightly deeper-hued trim. I’m not certain, but I think yellow is one of those colors we’re not supposed to wear after Labor Day. Life’s rules don’t seem to apply to Louisa Rawlings, though. None of them.
A stern-looking matron relieves Louisa of her handcuffs and then delivers her to us. The Kydd stands and pulls the middle chair out from our table as they approach.
“Thank you, Kevin,” Louisa says as she sits between us. He nods at her and turns pink, but says nothing.
“How are you doing?” I ask her. She seems calm, composed, as if she consciously collected herself during her hours in lockup.
“I’m ready to go home,” she says, rubbing her wrists together. “This place is dreadful.”
She’s right, of course. Lockup is no picnic. But compared with the female violent offenders’ ward of the Barnstable County House of Correction—where Louisa will await trial if this case is bound over—it’s a veritable cocktail party. That’s a reality I won’t mention, at least not at the moment. Louisa will hear a lifetime’s worth of awful realities during the next fifteen minutes. No need to start early.
Geraldine leaves her table and saunters toward ours, her three-inch heels sounding like a metronome as they strike evenly against the wooden floor. Without looking at me—her eyes are focused on Louisa—she hands me a stack of documents. She stands still in front of our table, idly fingering a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of her camel-hair suit coat. She plans to stay awhile, it seems.
On top of the stack is a legal memorandum, a thick one, no doubt researched and authored by Clarence. Beneath it are a few preliminary analyses from the state crime lab as well as the Medical Examiner’s report, hot off the presses. I wonder if his signature is dry yet. I pass the stack to the Kydd and he digs in at once.
Geraldine is still planted in front of our table, blond head tilted to one side, thin arms now folded against her chest, green eyes boring into Louisa. She’s preparing for battle, antagonizing the enemy. Geraldine does this to murder defendants. All of them.
Louisa stares back at her, undaunted. I’m impressed. Murder defendants don’t do that to Geraldine. None of them.
Without a word, Geraldine pivots and strides back to her table. She retrieves another package, a duplicate of the one she gave me, no doubt. She walks to the bench and hands it up to Judge Long. He thanks her and dons his half-glasses.
“Who is that woman?” Louisa asks.
“She’s the District Attorney,” I tell her. “Geraldine Schilling.”
“Is she competent?”
I almost laugh out loud. Louisa may as well have asked if Barbra Streisand can carry a tune. “Yes,” I answer. “She’s quite effective.”
“Too bad she couldn’t find day care for her little boy.” Louisa nods toward the prosecutors’ table and I almost laugh out loud again. Our new Assistant DA looks like he just stepped out of an early episode of The Brady Bunch.
“Be careful,” I tell Louisa. “That’s Clarence Wexler. He’s older than he looks.”
“Perky little thing, isn’t he?”
I’d never thought of Clarence as perky before, but I suppose he is. “He’s Geraldine’s latest protégé,” I tell her.
“He’s an attorney?”
I nod.
“He’s licensed?”
“As of last month he is. Fresh out of law school. Just passed the bar.”
Louisa doesn’t seem troubled by the fact that her day-care candidate is just a few years younger than her most recent paramour. She shakes her head as if she knows for sure now that the entire profession has gone to the dogs.
Wanda Morgan reads out a lengthy docket number and then announces The Commonwealth of Massachusetts versus Louisa Coleman Rawlings. Louisa jumps a little beside me. She looks somewhat surprised, hurt even, as if it were terribly impertinent of Wanda to mention Louisa’s name in open court.
Geraldine is still on her feet, facing the judge. “Your Honor, Mrs. Rawlings stands charged with first-degree murder, based on extreme atrocity or cruelty, in the bludgeoning death of her husband, Herbert Andrew Rawlings.”
For a moment the room falls quiet, the only sound a sharp intake of breath from the chair next to mine.
“As you can see from Dr. Ramsey’s report, the cause of death is drowning, secondary to head trauma.”
Dr. Ramsey took over as Barnstable County’s Medical Examiner little more than a year ago. He’s already proved, more than once, that he’s damned good at his new job. Geraldine isn’t taking any chances with the Rawlings case. She went straight to the top gun.
“The victim’s injuries are consistent with a single blow from behind with a blunt object,” she continues. “Dr. Ramsey concludes that the blow rendered Mr. Rawlings unconscious, after which he was bound with rope at the wrists and ankles, and then dumped into the ocean, still breathing.”
Geraldine pauses and turns to fire a theatrical glare at Louisa, but the attempt at drama is wasted. Louisa doesn’t notice. She’s rigid in her chair, her eyes closed, her left fist pressed against her mouth. Two tears seep out from beneath her long lashes and meander down her right cheek.
“When the Chatham police questioned the defendant as to her whereabouts when her husband disappeared…”
Geraldine pauses again and stares at our table until Louisa opens her eyes.
“…she lied.”
Louisa turns to me and shakes her head, but her eyes are worried.
“The defendant stands to inherit a substantial estate as a result of her husband’s death,” Geraldine continues. “Two million in life insurance proceeds if we’d all been duped into thinking his death was an accident, but that’s just the beginning. Mr. Rawlings’s net worth exceeded six million exclusive of insurance. And his will names the defendant as the sole beneficiary.”
Judge Long takes a minute to scan Geraldine’s paperwork and Louisa leans toward me during the lull. “That’s wrong,” she whispers, shaking her head. “I didn’t lie to anybody. And the life insurance part is wrong too. There’s only a million.”
“Okay,” I tell her.
So Louisa Rawlings is unaware of the double indemnity clause. My gut tells me to leave her in the dark on that issue—at least for a while.
“Ms. Nickerson,” the judge says without looking up from his papers, “how does your client plead?”
I stand to address the court but another voice fills the room first. “Not at all guilty, Your Honor,” Louisa says from her chair.
“Not at all,” she repeats when I look down. For a moment, she seems to think I’m the one she needs to convince.
Judge Long stares at her.
Geraldine does too.
“Not the least little bit,” Louisa adds. She’s wiped her tears away, but her cheeks are still wet and her mascara is smudged.
I lean over to silence her, but think better of it when I take in the judge’s expression. He’s not reading anymore. He’s looking at Louisa, his eyes wide, his smile quite different from the one he earlier bestowed upon the rest of us. If he were a white man, his cheeks would probably be red right now. I wonder if there’s a male on the planet who’s immune to Louisa Rawlings’s charms.
I clear my throat and Judge Long seems to snap out of his reverie. He smiles at me, still looking a bit bemused. “Should I take that as a garden-variety not-guilty plea, Attorney Nickerson?”
“Yes, Your Honor, you should.”
The judge turns his attention back to Geraldine. “Attorney Schilling,” he says, taking his half-glasses off and tapping the documents with them, “I’m sure it’s all in here, but enlighten me, please. You’ve mentioned a possible motive—and you seem to have reason to believe this defendant was less than forthcoming with the Chatham police officers. But what have you got in the way of physical evidence that ties this woman to the crime?”