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

young to be a lawyer, wearing a gorgeous black dress that makes me hate my Macy’s outfit even more than I already did.

“We’ve been over this a thousand times. I’ll be fine.”

“Answer the goddamn question, Margaret,” Stanley chimes in, reading over his notes.

He seems in his own little world, yet he still has an incredibly firm grasp on everything going on around him. He should have been a parent; he would have made a damn good one, and probably wouldn’t have ended up like me. I told him all of that once and he said if he was a parent he wouldn’t have been a good lawyer, and the latter was more important to him. I’m not sure if that comforted me or sent a chill down my spine. The answer will be clearer to me once we hear the verdict.

“He came home from work. He accused me of killing Lana. We got into an argument. We’ve had arguments like that before,” I say, tearing up. The tears are on call, just like a phony smile on a model. “I thought he’d just go to the bedroom and change his clothes. But then he suddenly grabbed my neck and started . . . he started to . . . to strangle me.”

“She’s ready,” Stanley interrupts, without looking up from his papers.

He’s right; I am. I’m going to put on the best show a jury’s ever seen, real or otherwise.

We file into the courtroom. The prosecutor and his team are already sitting at their table, chomping at the bit, totally convinced they’ve got me right where they want me. I flash a quick smile right at that prosecutor. Today’s not about Stanley and his team, nor the judge or the gallery; it’s not even really about the jury. It’s all about me and that prosecutor, and who can outsmart whom. I think I’ll win, but I’m sure he’s feeling exactly the same way.

In the blink of an eye, I’m on the stand. Stanley threw me a few softball questions to get me comfortable on the stand, but it’s so different actually being up here than it was in practice. Even when I was sitting in Stanley’s fake courtroom, his staff’s eyes on me, the pressure was nothing like this. I thought I’d be a rock star, and now I know I’m about to choke. I reach up to wipe my brow but feel Stanley staring at me and hear his words about never looking flustered echo in my ears. I put my hand down.

Before I know it, Stanley is done for now. He’s saving the big guns for redirect, when he’ll get to pick up the pieces of the mess I’ve been warned the prosecutor is going to make of me.

Stanley sits.

The prosecutor is standing and walking over to me. I flinch; I can’t help it.

“Ms. Moore. What were you doing before you found your daughter hanging in her bedroom?”

“Having coffee, catching up on the news. It was like any other morning.” I maybe expected a “How are you doing today,” but I suppose I should remember I’m on trial for murder, not at Starbucks.

“And then what happened?”

“My husband—”

“Your late husband?”

“Yes, my late husband found her hanging in her bedroom. I heard him yell and ran to him . . . and her.”

“Did you take her down? Perform CPR?”

“Dave did that while I ran to call nine-one-one. I wanted to get an ambulance to the house as soon as possible, so they . . . I thought they could save Lana.”

I get choked up a little, but don’t let the full waterworks start yet. I was commanded to save those for later in my testimony, preferably when Stanley is questioning me, but I have to turn on the tears when I have to turn on the tears.

“But they couldn’t?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t want an autopsy performed on your daughter. Why is that, Ms. Moore?”

I never knew that a simple question posed to the doctor in the heat of the moment after literally just finding out Lana was dead would come back to haunt me, but when you are on trial for murder and the doctor testifies, everything is up for grabs.

“Well,” I reply, “would you want an autopsy performed on your daughter if you were certain she had hanged herself, considering you were the one to find her in such a position? Would anyone?”

I’ve managed to calm down considerably since taking the stand. Now that I’m on my game, the gallery has become my adoring audience, waiting for me to hit the high note and take a bow. The judge has been transformed into my director. The prosecutor, my antagonist. My archrival. My enemy.

“I suppose not. What about the tip to the police?”

“What about it?”

“That tip was from your husband, is that correct?”

“Well, I’m not sure that’s ever been proven.”

“That’s not what this recording says.”

He picks a CD off the table in a shiny jewel case and waves it in the air.

“Objection!” Stanley shouts. “We never received that recording.”

“Where did you get that?” the judge asks.

“The police department. It’s public record. All tip lines are.”

“We were told they lost the recording, your honor,” Stanley says.

“And you believed that?” the judge retorts. “Stanley Harmon believed a recording was lost?”

He hangs his head. “I did.”

“Give Mr. Harmon a copy. We’ll take a short recess while he listens to it and confers with his client.”

I don’t know much about the law, but I know that this recording needs to be thrown out, because if my husband thinks I killed Lana, so will the jury, and even I won’t be able to convince them otherwise.

Chapter 21

Margaret

“How the fuck did you let that happen?” Stanley yells at all of us as soon as he shuts the door to our war room.

“How did I let that happen? I couldn’t control my husband. That should be clear, considering I had to kill him so he wouldn’t kill me.”

“Oh, please, I don’t believe that for a moment,” he says.