Cause of Death by Laura Dembowski (sci fi books to read .TXT) 📕

goodness. I turn on the TV and put something on, it doesn’t matter what; I’m not thinking about what’s playing on the screen in front of me, as long as it’s not about me. The local news just can’t get enough of my story.

Instead of watching I’m going over all the sessions I’ve had with Stanley and his associates in my head, practicing so I don’t freeze on the stand. Stanley tried to get the judge to throw out discussion of the other case, but it didn’t work, so it’s been brought up many times. And it most definitely will be part of my questioning.

Doing the run-through sounds like it would be easy. I figured we’d go over a few softball questions to make sure my story lined up, not that it’s anything other than the truth, and then move on. I quickly found out that this was not the case. Stanley said the prosecutor will have even more difficult and upsetting questions than the ones he asked me, which, when combined with the pressure of sitting in the courtroom, in front of the judge, jury, and gallery, could quite simply crush me. I find this hard to believe, since I ended up in tears after only an hour of his practice questioning. I know my tale of woe inside and out, up and down, word for word. Nothing can surprise me. I have lived my life, and only I know the truth.

Unfortunately, everyone has a different version of the truth, and it’s my word against everyone else’s. Considering the jury already knows for sure that I killed another human being, they might not buy my version of the truth about Lana’s death.

The phone rings. I think about ignoring it, but heed Stanley’s warning, one of many, to answer the phone whenever it rings, no matter what I am doing. It could literally mean life or death, Stanley or one of his underlings calling to alert me to some tragedy or another. As if my life isn’t already tragic enough.

I look at the phone, convinced it’s going to be Stanley telling me there’s another death threat against me or something. Just because the death penalty isn’t on the table doesn’t mean I won’t end up dead, apparently.

It’s Beth. I only have seconds to decide whether to answer it. I pick it up, knowing it’s possible she has even worse news than Stanley might have.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hey, sis,” Beth says. “How you holdin’ up?”

“Oh, come on, this is no big deal,” I say.

I’ve convinced myself this is true, at least I think I have, but when my voice shakes as I talk, I know I’m lying to myself. I down the remainder of my mimosa.

“Yeah, the rest of your life only depends on it,” she says. “I wouldn’t be nervous either.”

I cradle the phone on my shoulder and get up to make myself another drink.

“It’s just another performance.”

“So the truth is a performance?”

“Of course it is. I’ve been trained to look like a dowdy suburban housewife, smile at the right moment, cry at others, look empathetic. That damn attorney made me take his associate and go buy the ugliest fucking clothes you’ve ever seen in your entire life.”

“I’m sorry you won’t look like a bitchy supermodel and make the whole jury hate you,” Beth says, more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

“Me, too.”

“You can change the moment you get home. Hey, what are you doing right now?”

“Nothing,” I answer. “Why?”

“It sounds like you’re tearing down the house or something.”

“I was trying to be quiet,” I say. “I’m making a drink.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Who are you—my mom?” I retort.

“Just want you at your best for tomorrow, despite the unfortunate wardrobe. Is it pink? Tell me the outfit’s pink.”

“Even worse: pink floral. And this white grandma shawl to put over my shoulders.” I make dry heaving sounds into the phone. “I swear I’m gonna throw up just at the sight of it.”

“You’ll live. Once the trial’s over you can burn it.”

For some inexplicable reason, other than the champagne going straight to my head, I panic. I see my life flash before my eyes. What if I can’t convince the jury to acquit me? What if I’m locked up for the rest of my life? What if this is it? It’s all over? The only thing I’ll be able to change into following the trial is an orange jumpsuit. Or worse, a striped one. Do they still have striped uniforms? I don’t know anything about prison. I don’t want to.

I can’t breathe. I can’t see straight. I grab my champagne flute and sink to the floor where I sit, legs out in front of me, leaning my head against the cabinet, my newly dyed hair blending into the cabinets—a shade of mousy brown, because no innocent housewife would have pretty hair.

“What if it doesn’t work?” I ask Beth.

She doesn’t say anything for a minute and I fear we’ve been disconnected. Then she breaks the silence. “You’ll appeal. Or get probation or house arrest. We’ll figure it out. We’ll hire a better lawyer.”

“I won’t be able to afford a better lawyer.”

“I’ll cover it,” Beth says, even though I don’t know if she really means it, or if she could even afford it.

“Will you be there tomorrow?” I ask.

“Where else would I be?” she says, and I feel better. Knowing Beth will be there means nothing bad can happen to me. Although that’s probably just another lie I’m telling myself.

We have a war room at the courthouse. I don’t know how Stanley managed to finagle it, but I suppose that simply shows the great power he has. We are gathered there, and instead of telling me everything will work out and I’ll do fantastic on the stand after so much preparation, they’re blasting questions at me. I’ve never been happier that I had that drink—or five—last night.

“What happened the day your husband died?” one associate asks. I swear she looks too