Harry doesn’t either, apparently. He interrupts his tender melody and leans over to Bert, looking truly sympathetic. “Makes DeMateo look like a walk in the park, huh?” he whispers.
Bert closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Mother of God,” he mutters, “help us all.”
Woody Timmons is in the still-dark gallery, on the aisle end of the front bench nearest us, his notepad and pen in hand, a small tape recorder on the bench beside him. The night clerk must be on his list of courthouse cohorts. And I suspect the clerk will be wined and dined quite nicely this afternoon at the Jailhouse. Woody’s got an exclusive on this one.
Lance Phillips is the only other person out there in the darkness, in the aisle seat opposite Woody’s. Lance, as it turns out, was upstairs, napping in one of the guest bedrooms, throughout our ordeal in the Queen’s Spa. He showed up in the doorway when it was over, just before the Chatham police arrived, asking what all the commotion was about. He must have been in a near-coma is all I can figure. The service must have worn him out. Or maybe it was his tumble to the floor. Or maybe it was just Anastasia.
Louisa enters the courtroom next and, as Geraldine would say, the gang’s all here. Louisa comes through the side door, looking exhausted, in her butter yellow coat dress and heels, beige trench coat and hat in hand. She crosses the room without a single glance at her stepdaughter or her former financial advisor and joins us at the defense table. Once again, the Kydd holds a chair out for her. He really is gallant—a modern-day Rhett Butler at heart. “Thank you, Kevin,” she says, brushing his hand. And just like that, he’s pink again.
Collier and Anastasia should be sitting at this table, of course—not us. They’re the accused now. But technically, they can’t be arraigned until the charges against Louisa Rawlings are formally dropped. And Geraldine Schilling is nothing if not technically accurate.
The night clerk tells us to rise—Joey Kelsey’s not here at this hour—and Judge Long emerges from chambers. He’s in his robe, looking far more chipper than the hour justifies. We all take our seats and the judge looks around the room slowly at each of us, silent. His final gaze falls on Louisa.
“Mrs. Rawlings,” he says at last, “this court owes you an apology.”
Louisa turns to me, uncertain. This is a first. “Go ahead,” I tell her. “No need to stop now.”
She gets to her feet and looks up at Judge Long. “This court,” she says in her soft Southern lilt, “treated me fairly. There’s no need for an apology, Your Honor. I have no complaint.”
She sits and the judge falls quiet again, his eyes not moving from her. “Attorney Schilling,” he says at last, “I trust you have the necessary paperwork.”
She does. She leaves her table and crosses the courtroom, hands a short stack of photocopies to me, and then carries the originals up to the bench.
The Kydd reaches across our table for the documents and I start to pass them to him, but then I think better of it. “You’re off duty,” I tell him. “As of this minute, you’re off for the weekend. And yes,” I add, “that would be Friday, Saturday, Sunday.”
He beams at me. Louisa does too. “I love this job,” he says to her.
Judge Long finishes signing off on Geraldine’s forms, hands them back to her, and then looks over at Louisa again. “You’re excused, Mrs. Rawlings,” he says, removing his glasses. “You’re free to go now. And you take with you the sincere apologies of this court.”
Louisa turns to me. “Thank you, darlin’,” she says.
I wish she’d stop calling me that.
We all head for the center aisle but Geraldine stops us. “I hope you meant that,” she says to Louisa, “about being treated fairly.”
Louisa takes a moment to answer. She looks Geraldine in the eyes when she does. “The court treated me fairly,” she says. “You did your job. And I understand that. But I found you decidedly unpleasant.”
Geraldine laughs. She’s been called worse. “Fair enough,” she says, and extends her hand. Louisa accepts it.
“I know you’ve never practiced,” Geraldine says as we start to leave again. “But do you have any interest in giving it a shot?”
“Giving it a shot?” Louisa looks at Geraldine as if she just propositioned her.
Geraldine tosses her blond head toward Judge Long on the bench. “Well,” she says, “you seem to have a way with the judges.”
“Are you offering me a job?” Louisa lowers her voice as if the word is vulgar.
Geraldine shrugs. “I guess I am.”
Harry leans over to whisper. “Shoot me now,” he says, “so I can live in hell instead of Barnstable County.”
He’s right, of course. Geraldine and Louisa in the same office—worse than hell; hell on heels. And think of poor Clarence.
Louisa spreads her arms out toward the near-empty, cavernous gallery and laughs out loud. Dawn is making an appearance now, soft, early-morning sunlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting off the tin codfish suspended in the center of the room. I’ve always loved spending time in this old courtroom, but it’s pretty clear Louisa Rawlings doesn’t share my sentiment. “You’re offering me an opportunity to spend my days here?” she asks Geraldine.
Geraldine laughs again. “I promise to call you a lawyeress,” she tries.
Louisa takes the Kydd’s arm and they head for the center aisle. “You’d have to promise more than that, Miss Geraldine,” she says over her shoulder. “Much, much more.”
Harry stares, his mouth wide open, as Louisa and the Kydd depart arm in arm. At long last, now that the two of them have hit him over the head with it, he gets it. “That dawg,” he says. He sounds frighteningly Southern.
We watch in silence until they’re almost out of the courtroom and then Harry turns to me, smiling. “You see?” he says. “I told you so. You do like her.”
“I was pretty damned sure she didn’t murder anybody,” I tell him. “But don’t start planning double dates.”
He’s correct, of course. Louisa Rawlings is all right in my book. Even her drawl is beginning to grow on me. And at this particular moment, all’s right in the world, too. Well, in Barnstable County, anyhow.
Anastasia Rawlings is on a fast track—with a one-way ticket—to Framingham. Steven Collier—the brains behind the operation to the extent there were any—won’t see the light of day during this lifetime either. He’s headed to Walpole, the maximum security facility for the Commonwealth’s gentlemen guests.
Woody Timmons is still on the front bench, waiting for the second half of his scoop to begin. Lance Phillips is here too. He’ll have sole custody of Lucifer now, I suppose. And if he can’t go home and pen a best seller after this, he’d better start searching for a day job.
Judge Long is on the bench, bound and determined to dispense justice in a system that sometimes makes it difficult to do so. Geraldine is at her table, equally intent on imposing the harshest possible sentence on her new targets, even if justice be damned.
Luke, I hope, is at least thinking about heading back to Boston College.
Louisa Rawlings is sashaying into the sunrise, Tonto at her side. I can’t help wondering how long it will last.
Me—well, I’m headed home. And Harry is beside me—right where I want him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rose Connors, whose debut novel, Absolute Certainty, won the Mary Higgins Clark Award, grew up in Philadelphia and received her law degree from Duke University in 1984. A trial attorney for two decades, she is admitted to practice in both Washington state and Massachusetts. She lives on Cape Cod, where she spends summers commercial shellfishing with her two teenage sons. She is at work on the next Marty Nickerson novel.