In Self Defense by Susan Sloan (phonics books .TXT) 📕

that, whatever the outcome of all this, that day would never come.

The paparazzi pursued her relentlessly.  As the case moved along, and the legal maneuverings began, and the trial loomed, her face was everywhere, in the newspapers, the tabloids, the magazines, and on every local television and cable news channel.  There was no escaping it.  Everywhere she went, people either stared at her or whispered behind her back.  Everyone she had ever known was being pursued for comments.  Richard’s parents were no longer speaking to her.  Members of charitable organizations, with whom she had worked tirelessly for years, either stopped calling or avoided returning her calls.  With the loss of its innovative leader, and the subsequent arrest of its major stockholder, Nicolaidis Industries dropped almost a third of its value.

“Do we need more capital?” Clare asked Henry Hartstone.

“No, we’re all right,” he advised.  “Just give it some time.”

It was March, when word of the new X-ray machine leaked out, before things began to turn up again.

One afternoon in April, Julie came home with a badly scraped knee.

“What happened?” Clare asked, taking her into the bathroom and reaching for the peroxide.

“There was a man at school,” the girl replied.  “He wanted to take my picture.  He asked me all sorts of questions about you.  I didn’t answer, and I tried to run away from him.  But I tripped.”

Clare called David.  David called the school.  The school promised to do what it could to protect the children.

Then, on a day in May, Peter climbed into the Voyager with a black eye.

“Where did that come from?” Doreen asked.

“Billy Tucker called mom a murderer,” the boy explained.

“Your mother’s not a murderer,” Doreen told him firmly.  “What happened was an accident.  She just made a mistake.”

“I know,” Peter said.  “Billy Tucker has a black eye, too.”

The house Clare had never felt comfortable in became her whole world.  She retreated into its depths like a wounded animal, and declined to emerge, even at the insistence of good friends.

“Come on over for dinner,” Marcia Bennett, the neighbor to the north, would invite.

“Thanks, but I’m not feeling very well,” Clare would respond.  “Perhaps another time.”

“As long as you’re not working right now, why don’t we spend a day in town?” Jenny Corcoran, the neighbor to the south, would propose.  “There are two shops that just opened in Pacific Place that are supposed to be spectacular.”

“Sounds like fun, but I’m afraid my mind’s not on shopping right now,” Clare would reply.

“Why don’t you and the kids come stay with us for a few days,” Elaine Haskell would suggest.  “It’ll give Doreen some time off.  It’ll give you a change of air to breathe.”

“Doreen won’t take time off,” Clare would say.  “And much as I hate this house, now more than ever, I think it would be better for us to stay put for the time being.”

She didn’t want the paparazzi following her and setting up camp in front of Elaine’s home in Ravenna.  It was bad enough they had done it in Laurelhurst.

“You know, if you keep hiding yourself away like this, people are going to think maybe it’s because you really did do something wrong,” Nina warned her.

“I don’t care,” Clare said, and much to her surprise, she realized that she meant it.

“Well, maybe you don’t, but your attorney might,” her friend said.  “After all, he’s the one who’s going to have to pick a jury of twelve impartial people.”

“You mean I should be parading myself around town as the grieving widow?”

“Why not?  That’s what you are, aren’t you?”

Clare opened her mouth to say something, and then abruptly closed it again.  “What I am is really none of anybody else’s business,” she said instead.

In total agreement with his client, David Johansen refused to try his case in the media.  Let the public speculate, he told his associates.  In the long run, it would make no difference.

The one thing of note in the months leading up to the trial was that the stalker had stopped calling.

“There hasn’t been any activity reported since the end of December,” Erin observed.

“Not long after Clare Durant was charged,” Dusty mused.  “Why do you think?”

“Hard to tell,” Erin said.  “It may be because Clare’s not as accessible as she used to be.  She doesn’t answer her telephone anymore.  So if he’s calling, the housekeeper is answering, and he just hangs up.  Or it may be that she’s caught right in the glare of the media spotlight, and almost every move she makes is documented one way or another.  Not to mention that that house is locked up like a fortress.  He may have figured she’d be too hard to get to.”

“Do you think he’s moved on?” Dusty wondered.

Erin shrugged.  “I’ve been thinking about that,” she said.  “It would be the first time he’s abandoned a target . . . well, the first time that we would know about, anyway.  But under the circumstances, it would be the smart thing for him to do.”

The stalker was the very last thing on Clare’s mind.  As far as she was concerned, the media had replaced him, in spades, hounding her at all hours of the day and night, following her children around, spying on her housekeeper.  Long before the trial was even scheduled to begin, David had to arrange for private bodyguards to protect the Laurelhurst house around the clock, and to accompany the occupants wherever they went.

Then it was October, a year after the death of Richard Durant, and Seattle was about to find out for itself whether the trial was going to live up to all the hype.

***

At precisely nine thirty in the morning on the first Tuesday in October, Mark Sundstrom stood up, smoothed his hair, adjusted his glasses, buttoned his suit jacket, and turned to face the jury.  It had taken the better part of two weeks to select the seven women and five men, plus four alternates, who were now seated in front of him, culled from over two hundred residents of