Presumed Guilty

Everyone stood.

The sound of shuffling feet announced the arrival of Judge Klimenko, who creaked behind the bench and sank like a bag of old bones into his chair. He fumbled around in his pockets and finally managed to perch a pair of bifocals on his nose.

“They brought him out of retirement,” someone whispered in the front row. “You know, they say he’s senile.”

“They also say he’s deaf!” shot back Judge Klimenko. With that, he slammed down the gavel. “Court is now in session.”

The hearing convened. She followed her attorney’s advice and let him do the talking. For forty-five minutes she didn’t say a word as two men, one she barely knew, one she knew not at all, argued the question of her freedom. They weren’t here to decide guilt or innocence. That was for the trial. The issue to be settled today was more immediate: should she be set free pending that trial?

The deputy D.A. ticked off a list of reasons the accused should remain incarcerated. Weight of evidence. Danger to the community. Undeniable flight risk. The savage nature of the crime, he declared, pointed to the defendant’s brutal nature. Miranda could not believe that this monster he kept referring to was her. Is that what they all think of me? she wondered, feeling the gaze of the audience on her back. That I’m evil? That I would kill again?

Only when she was asked, twice, to stand for Judge Klimenko’s decision did her attention shift back to the present. Trembling, she rose to her feet and gazed up at the pair of eyes peering down at her over bifocals.

“Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars cash or two hundred thousand dollars secured property.” The gavel slammed down. “Court dismissed.”

Miranda was stunned. Even as the audience milled around behind her, she stood frozen in despair.

“It’s the best I could do,” Pelham whispered.

It might as well have been a million. She would never be able to raise it.

“Come on, Ms. Wood,” said the bailiff. “Time to go back.”

In silence she let herself be escorted across the room, past the gazes of all those prying eyes. Only for a second did she pause, to glance back over her shoulder at Chase Tremain. As their gazes locked she thought she saw, for an instant, a flicker of something she hadn’t seen before. Compassion. Just as quickly, it was gone.

Fighting tears, she turned and followed the bailiff through the side door.

Back to jail.

“That will keep her locked away,” said Evelyn.

“A hundred thousand?” Chase shook his head. “It doesn’t seem out of reach.”

“Not for us, maybe. But for someone like her?” Evelyn snorted. The look of satisfaction on her flawlessly made-up face was not becoming. “No. No, I think Ms. Miranda Wood will be staying right where she belongs. Behind bars.”

“She hasn’t budged an inch,” said Lorne Tibbetts. “We’ve been questioning her for a week straight now and she sticks to that story like glue.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Evelyn. “Facts are facts. She can’t refute them.”

They were sitting outside, on Evelyn’s veranda. At midmorning they’d been driven from the house by the heat; the sun streaming in the windows had turned the rooms into ovens. Chase had forgotten about these hot August days. In his memory, Maine was forever cool, forever immune to the miseries of summer. So much for childhood memories. He poured another glass of iced tea and handed the pitcher over to Tibbetts.

“So what do you think, Lorne?” asked Chase. “You have enough to convict?”

“Maybe. There are holes in the evidence.”

“What holes?” demanded Evelyn.

Chase thought, my sister-in-law is back to her oldself again. No more hysterics since that day at the policestation. She looked cool and in control, which is how he’d always remembered her from their childhood. Evelyn the ice queen.

“There’s the matter of the fingerprints,” said Tibbetts.

“What do you mean?” asked Chase. “Weren’t they on the knife?”

“That’s the problem. The knife handle was wiped clean. Now, that doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. Here’s this crime of passion, see? She uses her own knife. Pure impulse. So why does she bother to wipe off the fingerprints?”

“She must be brighter than you think,” Evelyn said, sniffing. “She’s already got you confused.”

“Anyway, it doesn’t go along with an impulse killing.”

“What other problems do you have with the case?” asked Chase.

“The suspect herself. She’s a tough nut to crack.”

“Of course she is. She’s fighting for her life,” said Evelyn.

“She passed the polygraph.”

“She submitted to one?” asked Chase.

“She insisted on it. Not that it would’ve hurt her case if she flunked. It’s not admissible evidence.”

“So why should it change your mind?” asked Evelyn.

“It doesn’t. It just bothers me.”

Chase stared off toward the sea. He, too, was bothered. Not by the facts, but by his own instincts.

Logic, evidence, told him that Miranda Wood was the killer. Why did he have such a hard time believing it?

The doubts had started a week ago, in that police station hallway. He’d watched the whole interrogation. He’d heard her denials, her lame explanations. He hadn’t been swayed. But when they’d come face-to-face in the hall, and she’d looked him straight in the eye, he’d felt the first stirrings of doubt. Would a murderess meet his gaze so unflinchingly? Would she face an accuser with such bald courage? Even when Evelyn had appeared, Miranda hadn’t ducked for cover. Instead, she’d said the unexpected. He loved you. I want you to knowthat. Of all the things a murderess might have said, that was the most startling. It was an act of kindness, an honest attempt to comfort the widow. It earned her no points, no stars in court. She could simply have walked past, ignoring Evelyn, leaving her to her grief. Instead, Miranda had reached out in pity to the other woman.

Chase did not understand it.

“There’s no question but that the weight of the evidence is against her,” said Tibbetts. “Obviously, that’s what the judge thought. Just look at the bail he set. He knew she’d never come up with that kind of cash. So she won’t be walking out anytime soon. Unless she’s been hiding a rich uncle somewhere.”

“Hardly,” said Evelyn. “A woman like that could only come from the wrong side of the tracks.”

Wrong side of the tracks, thought Chase. Meaning poor. But not trash. He’d been able to see that through the one-way mirror. Trash was cheap, easily bent, easily bought. Miranda Wood was none of those.

A car marked Shepherd’s Island Police pulled up in the driveway.

Tibbetts sighed. “Geez, they just won’t leave me alone. Even on my day off.”

Ellis Snipe, spindly in his cop’s uniform, climbed out. His boots crunched toward them across the gravel. “Hey, Lorne,” he called up to the veranda. “I figured you was here.”

“It’s Saturday, Ellis.”

“Yeah, I know. But we sort of got us a problem.”