Poetic Justice. Andrea J. Johnson
karma.”
CHAPTER 4
I pushed through the double-doored antechamber at the back of the courthouse and squinted as the stark noonday sun and crisp autumn breeze cut across my eyes.
Free at last.
Fresh air and sunlight were exactly what I needed in the wake of Langley’s attack. Gulls mewed overhead as they flew south. Traffic moved steadily along the narrow streets, and a few townsfolk roamed the pavement for a lunchtime stroll. To my right, beyond the County Administration Building, a cacophony of voices floated over from the town center as municipal workers argued over the fastest way to construct the bandstand and lighting scaffold for Wednesday’s Post-Election Festival.
My drenched clothing, trembling hands, swollen eyes, and spastic breathing didn’t belong in this idyllic setting. I needed a fresh shirt from my gym bag and a private place to regroup before Bickerton P.D. arrived to take my statement, so I hurried across the courthouse parking lot toward my Mustang. A few jabs at the keyless entry pad and the car became my fortress of solitude, where I proceeded to talk myself down from the panic attack and impending hyperventilation.
I reminded myself that water was an essential part of how Bickerton thrived. With the town lying four miles inland from where the Delaware Bay met the Atlantic Ocean, the expectation was that the average resident had a healthy relationship with the sea. Some folks were seafarers reveling in their bounty of blue crabs and shrimp, while others were cutthroat sales clerks determined to cash in on the clams and oysters caught by the local watermen. During the summer, fancy restaurants boasted fresh sea fare with an ocean view, eager teenagers hauled surfboards along the beach route, ferries shuttled people across the bay, and thousands of tourists sunned themselves on the sands of the Atlantic.
I’d lived in Bickerton my entire life, so I loved all of those things about our town. Yet, my relationship with water remained distant and crippling.
Several moments passed before I could breathe normally. I pawed at the damp folds of my white bowtie blouse only to find a stress rash forming on my chest. I needed to remove the shirt or risk inducing another panic attack. As I struggled to pull the drenched fabric over my massive crown of hair, I caught the shape of a fast-moving, tweed-clad figure out of the corner of my eye. Phyllis Dodd, the state chemist, hurried past my vehicle as I ripped off the wet shirt.
Slouching low in my seat to avoid exposing my camisole, I peeked over the dash to get a better look. Phyllis appeared to be fleeing from Spencer Stevenson and Corporal North, who were following her through the parking lot. The trio stopped one row over from mine and started arguing. Dodd, whose height nearly matched the corporal’s, prodded at North’s chest while he straightened his back against the force of her onslaught. Spencer Stevenson settled between the two titans with his arms crossed and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, amused by the unfolding mayhem.
I found that if I didn’t wriggle against the leather of my driver’s-side hideaway, I could hear Phyllis Dodd’s shrill voice fending off the commanding tones of Corporal North.
“I don’t like what you’re suggesting, Corporal. If you indeed found a suspicious entry point on that evidence envelope, any number of factors could have caused something like that. You can’t expect me to respond to something I haven’t seen.”
“Ma’am, calm down,” said North. “I’m trying to explore all of our—”
“Playing dumb isn’t going to fly, Phyllis.” Spencer Stevenson’s frigid tenor cut into the conversation.
“You’re out of line, Stevenson,” said North. “I can handle this.”
“Can you?” Stevenson gave the corporal a dismissive look and stepped in front of the officer so he could stand nose to freckled nose with the chemist. “I got read the riot act in court, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone embarrass me like that again. Someone has to take the blame for what happened. If you don’t give us a straight answer about the envelope, it will be you.”
“Don’t you dare strong-arm me, Spencer, especially when all you’re doing is following orders from that old windbag.” Phyllis Dodd’s voice grew louder. “What neither of you seem to understand is an investigation will shut down the lab. Drug testing for every case will require outsourcing—that alone could cost the state millions of dollars, along with dozens of jobs neutralized and a backlog in the system. On top of it all, we could lose our accreditation. You’re being irresponsible if you follow through on this without proof—”
“Well, if that’s your only battle cry, consider the damage done.” Stevenson’s smirk shone across the parking lot. “I already put a call into the Delaware Department of Justice and the State Police. Missing drugs are all the proof I need. If you have a problem with it, take your concerns to Judge—”
Wannamaker. An alarm sounded in my head. I was supposed to meet her during the break, and I was nearly thirty minutes late.
Remorseful and breathless, I raced into the courthouse kitchen with my gym bag and apologies at the ready. Ms. Freddie, however, was nowhere in sight.
Her robe was neatly folded over a chair by the refrigerator. The settled kettle was still steaming, and she’d pulled the metal tea caddy out of the cupboard, along with two ceramic mugs.
Ashamed as I was to admit it, her absence was a relief. I needed a few moments to change since my camisole was the only garment underneath the suit jacket I’d hastily buttoned over my bare chest when I ditched the wet blouse and raced out of the car.
Taking advantage of the moment, I walked through the kitchen into the stunted passageway that contained the unisex bathroom. The plan was to pull a T-shirt and towel out of my gym bag and undo as much damage from my argument with Langley as possible.
But when I pushed down the oblong handle, the wooden door smacked against something hard and ricocheted shut. I retreated, mumbling words of regret for invading someone’s privacy, but something seemed off. No frantic scrambles or angry rumblings of objection came in response to my flustered apology.
I dropped my duffel and carefully reopened the door. The room was dark and had a tinny odor like copper pennies left out in the rain. I reached inside and groped for the light. This time the wood thunked against what I recognized as a pair of legs splayed across the linoleum.
“Is everything okay in there?” My voice bounced off the tile walls in a shallow echo.
Slowly, I poked my head beyond the threshold to find the top half of Ms. Freddie’s body draped across the toilet seat. She was face down in the water, a purple tie around her neck. The vicious knot replaced the double string of pearls she always wore in court—the strands now sat broken, beads scattered across her back. Blood pooled around a wound nestled in the tangled mass of jet-black hair that snaked its way along the surface of the water.
Her body didn’t move.
I sank to my knees in the doorway, the air knocked out of me. The pit of my stomach tightened and churned as my mind reeled, unable to make sense of the scene.
Grace told me later that I had screamed and passed out.
What I remember is opening my mouth to breathe and finding my throat had clamped shut as the bile, hot as lava, clogged my airway.
I clawed at my neck, desperate to release myself from the creeping darkness that swallowed me.
CHAPTER 5
“They said you two were close,” said Detective Connor Daniels of the Delaware State Police Homicide Division. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
He directed the statement to the top of my bowed head and pushed a box of off-brand tissues toward me from across Jury Room Four’s conference table.
“I should have ignored Langley and gone straight to the kitchen.” Each syllable came out as a moan, mangled by heavy sobs. Yet, I uttered the sentence, repeatedly, like a Buddhist chant. I believed if I said those words enough times, I could change things. I could turn back the clock.