Unclean Hands, page 3
"Tell me what's going on," he said. The aroma of barley soup wafted in from the kitchen.
Molly grabbed a pillow and placed it on her lap while she twisted to sit on her feet. She wore no makeup, making no attempt to hide the small, purplish bags underneath her eyes. Despite this, she retained the girl next store aura that Rick had responded to when they first met.
"She's not right. Her mood changes come on without warning. Sometimes her kindergarten teacher calls me to pick her up. She's not acting right at school, and they can't settle her down. Last night she, once again, couldn't get herself under control and couldn't fall asleep. I'm a mess."
Rick felt an odd detachment. This was his daughter, and he cared, but he wasn't around and Molly was in charge, for the most part. There'd been similar conversations in the past few weeks over the phone, but each time he thought she was just venting and didn't want his input.
"What can I do?"
She shrugged. "It's nobody’s fault–you're not in her life much. I mean, it's kind of what I want and you don't fight it much."
Shards of nagging anxiety crawled up Rick's spine, and the familiar urge to withdraw crept into his brain. "Do we need to go over this again? I want to be involved. I'm trying to figure out our situation. Can we talk about her and leave us out of the conversation?"
Molly bit her lower lip and waited an extra moment before responding. "Yes, you're right. I'm at a loss for what to do."
Rick leaned forward. "You're much closer to what's happening. I'm trying to throw out some ideas, but do you think you should talk to her pediatrician?"
"Of course. She's scheduled to see her at the end of the week."
He took in a long breath. "When? Should I come?"
"It's during the day. I figured you would be too busy."
"You didn't check with me. I can rearrange."
"No, I got it covered."
He smacked both of his legs with his hands. "Dammit, Mol. Don't you think we should talk before you start making these decisions?"
"If I thought you would put some effort into helping I would've called you."
Rick stood. "Apparently you don't need my input. That's been clear for a long time."
Molly didn't respond and he assumed she wanted him to lose his temper. He took a deep breath. "I'm here for her. I would love to work together on this to find the best solution. Call me if you want my help."
Rick walked out the room towards the front door and Molly didn't say a word to try to stop him.
Chapter Eight
Monica Askew shook her head, attempting to regain her equilibrium. The jarring ring of her cell phone had interrupted a well-deserved nap. The cobwebs in her head interfered with her comprehension of the monotone voice on the other end.
"Ma'am, this is the Mahoney County jail. Will you accept a call from a Mr. Morgan Askew?" The operator's emphasis on the second syllable of her last name caused Monica to focus on the pronunciation of the name, rather than the substance of the question.
"Morgan Askew," she said, enunciating the surname the proper way. "Yes, he's my son."
"Ma'am, may I repeat? This is the Mahoney County jail, will you accept a phone call from Mr. Askew?" She pronounced the name without error.
"Oh my, of course, yes." Monica, now awake, rose to pace around her couch. She waited for a beep and yelled, "Morgan. Morgan. Are you alright?"
A slight hissing and some distortion pinged in her ear, but her son responded. "Mom, yes, I'm okay. I'm in the County lockup. Can you get me out?"
"Of course. Please, tell me what to do." Monica's voice screeched on the last part of the sentence. She continued without pause, "Oh my god, why are you in jail? Did you pilfer something? You know I taught you better."
"Mom, stop. I didn't steal anything."
"So why in the Lord's name are you locked up? I'm so worried." Monica plopped on the polyester couch and fanned herself with a magazine.
"It all happened so fast. I shouldn't talk about this with you, but I need you to get me out of here."
The desperation in her son's voice rang in her ears. She leaned back and collapsed into the cushions. "Honey, I have no idea what to do. Should I find some money to bail you out?"
Askew sighed. "There's a preliminary hearing in a few days. I'm not sure what I should do. I need help."
"I still don't understand. Why are you in jail?"
Morgan paused and the silence ran up Monica's spine. The chills spreading across her back made her shudder.
"Something bad happened. A man died, and they're charging me with murder."
She swallowed the undeniable urge to retch and sucked in a breath to regain a bit of control. "Oh my Lord. Don't you worry. I'll figure this out. I love you son."
"You, too, mom."
The line clicked. She imagined an overbearing guard leading him back to a grungy cell. She pulled the browser up on her phone hoping a picture of the city's best lawyer would pop up because she didn't have any idea where she should begin.
Chapter Nine
Three days after the death of her husband, Emily Hawkins stood on a patch of manicured grass, shaking her head at his freshly dug grave.
The ceremony was short and to the point. The minister, who Jerry never met, as he hadn't been to church for twenty years, made pleasant sounding, generalized comments about the deceased, which could've applied to almost anyone.
Long estranged from most of their family, only her sister and his uncle attended the funeral. They threw dirt on his coffin, and then hugged Emily, before making their departures.
Once sure she was alone, she smirked at the hole in the ground. "You sure must’ve done something stupid," she said kicking a couple of stones into the gap. "This wasn't our plan. How did you get yourself killed? I promise you I will find out. Someone's going to pay for what they did to you and where it's left me."
The flowers she held in her hand fell to the ground as she turned to walk away from his plot. She closed her eyes, trying to picture what took place in the parking lot of B & D, but she couldn't imagine the scene. What happened to him? Why was someone from the store charged with murder? The need to answer these questions replaced the feeling of helplessness which had taken over since the cop knocked on her door.
She didn't know where to turn for help, but the outlines of a plan to give her answers about her husband's untimely death began to form as she walked through the mowed grass away from his final resting place. She didn't glance back as she realized where she would go first.
Chapter Ten
Still dressed in the dark pants suit she wore to the funeral, Emily pulled into the B & D parking lot. The late model pickup truck in the space next to hers towered over her sputtering sedan. She walked towards the cement outer wall typical of many big box retailers. Adorned on the façade was the name of the store in commanding bold letters and in script writing below, the company's tagline: "Your Products . . . at Amazing Prices."
The lot teemed with customers headed to the sliding glass doors at the entrance while others pushed over-sized shopping carts filled with bags of purchased wares back to their cars. Emily shopped here often as it was one of three places in their small town which sold groceries Its competitive advantage was that it also offered the convenience of selling clothes, outdoor supplies, and other items they needed.
The thought of her husband dying, or rather, someone killing him, in this location filled her head. She examined the landmarks differently than the other times she had been here, trying to picture where and how he came to his demise. The painted hash-lines of the crosswalk, the flimsy metal frames of the cart corral and even the towering light standards were always present, but somehow they now took on a different significance as Emily wondered if any, in some small way, contributed to her husband's death.
In the time since Jerry died, the store hadn't contacted her. The police would not give her any details, only putting her off by informing her she had to wait until they completed their report. The local coroner had, at least, contacted her, but failed to provide her with any semblance of a story of what had happened. He told her he called in the medical examiner from the largest county in the state because, "Under the circumstances, this was beyond the capacity of his office."
She stood in the parking lot with her fist clenched, realizing she had almost no information about how or why someone killed her husband. Emily swiped at her eyes and dabbed her nose with a semi-used tissue, gathering her resolve to walk into the store. Unsure of what she wanted to accomplish, she reminded herself to be assertive.
The customer service desk sat to the right of the entrance doors, and she waited in the queue of three customers for the two women offering assistance. It took a couple of minutes before the shorter, older employee waved her to approach.
"May I help you?" the woman asked.
She nodded while looking at the floor. "My name is Emily Hawkins. My husband died here a few days ago. I would like to talk to somebody."
The service clerk creased her forehead. "Of course, honey. Let me find Mr. Oliver. He's the Store Director." She picked up the phone and held up one finger.
Five minutes later, a middle-aged, African-American man, wearing glasses and sporting a deep baritone approached. He stood eight inches taller than her and carried himself like a former athlete. "Mrs. Hawkins, my name is Wayne Oliver. I'm the Store Director. We are so sorry for your loss." He grasped Emily's right hand with both of his. "Can we talk?"
She followed him to a small office near to the registers. "It's not much, but I don't spend a lot of time in here," He grabbed a chair and placed it in front of his desk. He sat on the other side and clasped his hands.
Locking eyes with her, he said, "Please Ms. Hawkins, tell me what I can do for you."
Emily dropped her eyes and pondered how to ask why someone killed her husband in this store. Finally, she said, "Mr. Oliver, nobody will tell me what happened to my husband. I hope you would help me figure out how he died here."
"Yes, ma'am. I agree you’re entitled to find out how he came to pass away."
Emily interrupted. "Sir, not to be rude, but he didn't pass away. He was murdered."
Oliver shook his head and bit his lip. "I don't want to quibble with you, Ms. Hawkins, but 'murdered' is such a strong word for what occurred."
"Well, why don't you tell me what happened, and then we can decide what to call it?"
"I want to give you as much information as possible. The problem is I was on my day off, so I have no direct knowledge of the circumstances of his demise."
Oliver's avoidance of providing her with any details was now beginning to irk Emily, who sat forward in her chair. "I understand you didn't witness what happened, but I assume as Store Director–that's what you called yourself, isn't it?–you would try to figure out how someone is killed on your property."
"Of course. Our corporate office is in the midst of conducting a thorough investigation. They are speaking with everyone present. I'm not involved. It's out of my hands." He turned his palms up.
"Is there any video of what happened?"
Oliver paused, appearing to formulate his words with care before responding. "My understanding is some exists."
"What's on it?"
"Oh, Ms. Hawkins, I'm not at liberty to provide those details."
Emily's eyes narrowed, and she forced herself to slow down. "I would like to watch the video. Please show it to me."
"I wish I could, but I can't."
"Why not?" Her voice almost cracked.
"I'm under instructions not to allow anyone to view it. I made a copy and sent it over to corporate."
"Who told you not to let me watch the video?"
"Our legal department."
"Are you kidding? So far you haven't told me anything. You won't tell me what happened, who was involved or what's on the video."
Oliver's face lost all expression. "Ms. Hawkins, I assume you can appreciate this is a delicate situation. I've been given certain instructions to not talk about this until our investigation is complete. You can understand, can't you?"
Emily's cheeks flushed crimson and her jaw clenched. "No, I don't understand this at all. I have no idea what happened to my husband or why, but I'm getting much more suspicious every moment I'm with you. Is there anything you want to tell me?"
"One detail about the evening was odd and I think triggered everything. I shouldn't tell you this," he said as he leaned forward, "but it all started right after your husband was caught shoplifting."
Emily's heart thumped in her chest. "You act like this is a joke. Jerry was killed on your property and now you accuse him of stealing. You're not being forthcoming with me, Mr. Oliver. Something's odd about how you're treating me and I'm going to figure out why." Emily stood and extended her hand. "The next person you will hear from is my lawyer. Good day."
She felt the sweat on Oliver's hand when they shook. "At least he doesn't know I've never spoken with any attorneys." she thought. "All I have to do is find myself the right one."
She walked out of the store with her head held high and the contours of a plan solidifying.
Chapter Eleven
B & D sat in the commercial area of town. Fast food joints, a couple of diners, hardware stores and strip malls lined the roads. A few small, almost dilapidated, office buildings squeezed in between the retail locations, not garnering much attention from the people who came here to shop.
The small car pulled out of the parking lot. Emily Hawkins gripped the steering wheel, cursing Wayne Oliver's unwillingness to provide any substantive information.
She wasn’t sure where she should drive or how to find an attorney, but knew she wanted to find someone who would give her some advice and shine on a light on the path to solving the mystery of Jerry's death.
She considered yanking out her phone and googling, "personal injury lawyer," but saw a placard on a small building to her right–"Waterston law: We're in it for you."
"Maybe god's sending me a sign," She thought. She lifted the paddle for her blinker and made the turn into the dusty parking lot.
As she entered the darkly lit office, a tall, woman behind the desk with a bored expression who forced a smile when she looked up said, “May I help you?”
"Yes, I think I would like to discuss a potential case with a lawyer."
"You've come to the right place. Mr. Waterston is in his office. Let me find out if he's available or would you rather schedule an appointment for another day?"
"I would like to speak with him now, if possible," Emily said as she gazed around the lobby area. A weathered, leather couch with a couple of tiny holes in the legs rested near to the restroom. Legal diplomas in mahogany frames hung on the wall, lending an air of legitimacy to the operation.
"I'll be back in a minute." The woman ducked away towards the hallway.
Emily leaned on the desk and noted how tidy the area was. The only sounds she could hear were the hum of an air conditioning unit jammed in the window and the faint ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.
Within moments, the woman returned trailed by an angular man in jeans and striped button-down shirt. "This is Rick Waterston," she said, reaching behind to point at her boss. "I'm Audrey, by the way."
Emily grabbed Rick's hand when he offered it, and she appreciated his firm grasp without the mealy handshake some men defaulted to when greeting a woman. His glassy eyes and mussed hair caused her to wonder if he had just woken from a nap.
"I was working on an appellate brief," Rick said, "but I'm glad you showed up. I'd rather have a conversation than focus on the law of restitution. Come, let's go back to my office."
She followed him down the narrow hallway, until he turned into the first doorway. He gestured towards a curved, leather chair while taking a seat behind the wooden desk. Spreading out his arms, he said, "What brings you here today?"
Emily glanced around not ready to answer. A tear formed at the corner of her eye before she spoke. She pushed her mouth to the side and tried to formulate her words.
Rick handed her a tissue, "Take your time."
"I live not far from here, in Westdale. I come over this way sometimes to shop, but I never noticed your office before. I was driving by and thought you might be able to help me." More tears flowed and Emily dabbed at her eyes. "I'm not making any sense."
Rick's lips arched into a smile. "I'm sure I can assist, but you're going to have to tell me your problem. Take a breath and just say what's bothering you." He reached across the desk and patted her sleeve. "Also, remember everything you tell me–at this meeting, or any other conversation we ever have–is private. The law calls it 'privileged.' I can't tell anyone anything you tell me because it's confidential."
"Privileged." Emily repeated. "I like the sound of that." She smiled.
The computer on Rick's desk emitted a slight electronic hum and for a moment was the only noise in the room.
Emily nodded. "A few nights ago, my husband died. Well, from what I understand, he was killed. The police won't tell me what happened. I'm trying to figure out how he died."
Rick leaned forward. "Start at the beginning."
She twisted the tissue between her fingers. "He said he was going shopping, and he went to the B & D. He was late, but I wasn't worried. Then the cop showed up and tells me he had been killed. I went to talk to the manager, but all he did was accuse Jerry of being a thief. He died in the parking lot, but I don't know anything more."
"Let me interrupt you and ask you a few questions and tell me if I have this straight. Your husband went shopping?"
"Yes."
"He never came home?”
"Correct."
"He died, or was killed, in the parking lot of the store?"
"I believe so, yes."
"You still don't know why or how he died?"
