Buried Deep, page 6
“Mr. Hubert?” Judge Medved asked, his head swiveling toward the State’s Attorney. “What sort of case does the state have against Dr. Cabot?”
“Your Honor.” The State’s Attorney was stuttering. “As I said, this isn’t the proper venue for an evidentiary hearing, so I’m not prepared to speak to the State’s case at this time.”
“That’s because there isn’t one,” countered Natalie. “This arrest was part publicity stunt, part pressure tactic.”
“That is absolutely false, your Honor. The victim, Hannah Nilsson, was strangled and buried in the woods twenty-five years ago. The viciousness of the crime alone warrants that bail be denied.”
Strangled? But even before I could even process this horrifying new detail, Natalie was speaking again.
“I’ve read the Coroner’s report,” she retorted. “Nowhere in the report does it say that the victim was strangled. The cause of death is listed as unknown.”
“The victim’s hyoid bone was broken,” Hubert argued. “Which would be consistent with strangulation.”
“And yet, the Coroner couldn’t even conclude whether that break occurred pre- or post-mortem. In fact, there isn’t any evidence that the victim was murdered at all.”
“So you’re suggesting that the victim dug her own grave, hopped in, and buried herself?” Hubert, obviously sensing he was losing the argument, was getting sarcastic.
“Mr. Hubert, do you have any other evidence?” Judge Medved asked.
“Yes, your honor. We have DNA evidence that links James Cabot to the victim.”
DNA evidence? An icy-cold fear coursed through me. What was happening?
“What DNA evidence?” Natalie demanded.
“There was a hair found. The lab concluded with an over ninety-nine percent certainty that the hair matched a sample taken from James Cabot.”
“Your honor,” Natalie cut in. “First of all, the hair in question was not found on or near the victim’s body. The police recovered it from the t-shirt Hannah Nilsson was wearing on the night she went missing. A t-shirt that was on a beach over a half-mile away from where the victim’s body was eventually exhumed. Second, the t-shirt in question belonged to my client, James Cabot. Ms. Nilsson borrowed it from him. And third, my client and Ms. Nilsson were sleeping in the same tent that night. His hair could have ended up on that t-shirt at any point, like when he was wearing it or when Ms. Nilsson was asleep next to him. It does not in any way link my client to this or any other crime.”
“There wasn’t anyone else’s DNA found on her clothing,” Mr. Hubert argued.
“So what, now you’re going to attempt to prove cases on the absence of evidence?” Natalie scoffed.
“Counselors.” The judge on the television raised his hand. “That’s enough. Mr. Hubert, the arrest warrant is clearly defective on its face. As you’re well aware, it should have been issued through Monroe County. I’m dismissing these charges against James Cabot without prejudice. Dr. Cabot, you’re free to go.”
Natalie and I sat on a bench together outside of the jail, waiting for James’s release to be processed.
“So that’s it?” I asked hopefully.
Natalie had a very direct personality, which I thought probably served her well in her chosen profession. When she spoke, she looked right at me, her gaze not wavering, her voice calm and articulate.
“For now. But it’s not really over,” she said. “The State’s Attorney was right. They can get a warrant out of Monroe County, and arrest James again. If that happens, there will be another first appearance, like the one he had today, where the judge will authenticate the arrest warrant. Then James will be held until he’s transported to Monroe County, where he’ll have another hearing to determine if he’s eligible for bond. Worst-case scenario, all I did today was to buy us some time.”
“And what’s the best-case scenario?” I asked.
“That would be for Monroe County to decide that they don’t have enough evidence to prosecute a murder case against James. Which they don’t, in my opinion,” Natalie said. She sighed and tucked a strand of dark hair behind one ear. “However, the problem with this case is that it’s going to get a lot of publicity. The victim was young, beautiful, and died mysteriously. The main suspect in her death is now a successful doctor. No one wants to prosecute a losing case. But, at the same time, it will be hard for the State’s Attorney to pass up the chance to grandstand for the cameras.”
“They’re going to ruin our lives just so they can be on TV?” I shook my head, horrified that anyone would be so callous. So shallow.
“I’m sure they don’t think of it that way. In their minds, they’re fighting on behalf of the victim.”
“Hannah,” I said, mostly to myself. “It always comes back to Hannah. Even twenty-five years after her death, she’s still the center of attention.”
Natalie looked at me quizzically.
“I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have said that. It’s only ten in the morning, and it’s already been a long day.”
“I understand. Did you know Hannah well?”
“No, she disappeared long before James and I met. I’ve just . . . heard a lot about her.”
“From James?”
“From everyone. I actually called a couple of James’s old friends earlier this week—I was hoping someone who was on the trip would remember seeing someone around who was acting weird with her. Someone who might have meant her harm.”
Natalie nodded her approval. “That’s smart. The State clearly doesn’t have enough evidence. Any evidence, really. But it never hurts to have an alternate theory of the case to present to a jury. If it goes that far. Did you have any luck?”
“Unfortunately, no. No one remembers seeing anyone suspicious. Parker Reed, James’s oldest friend, saw Hannah leave the campsite alone that night, while everyone else, including James, was sleeping. That’s the last time anyone saw Hannah.”
“Is it possible Parker Reed could have followed her?”
I took a moment to consider it, and was immediately embarrassed that I had. “I’ve known Parker for over two decades. He has his flaws, but no, I don’t think he would have been any more capable of killing Hannah than James would be. These are great guys we’re talking about—they’re not violent.”
An expression I couldn’t read flickered over Natalie’s face. “I think everyone is capable of violence, if they’re pushed hard enough. Everyone has a breaking point. Anyway, I don’t have to prove that Parker Reed killed Hannah Nilsson. That said. . .” Natalie leaned in toward me and dropped her voice. “What I could do is try to convince a jury that he could have. Create reasonable doubt that James committed the crime.”
“James would never agree to that. He and Parker are like brothers.”
“Which is exactly our problem,” Natalie pointed out, leaning back again. “Parker is the only one who can testify that James was asleep when Hannah left the campsite. If the State does decide to prosecute James, they will obviously be going forward under the theory that Parker is lying to protect him. But you know them better than I do: would Parker really do that?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “Parker would do anything to protect James.”
“Then the question is, would James do anything to protect Parker?” Natalie asked. “Even if that meant going to prison for the rest of his life?”
Despite the wilting heat of the late-morning sunshine, I shivered.
James and I got home just before noon. He took a long shower and went straight to bed, where he stayed for the rest of the day. I could tell from his ashen expression and the even more-pronounced shadows under his eyes that he hadn’t gotten any sleep the night before. I wouldn’t have either, if I were locked up in a jail cell, surrounded by criminals.
I didn’t know if James had called his office to let them know he wouldn’t be in, or if his absence was just assumed. This was the least of our worries. As expected, his arrest had made the front page of the local newspaper, and more than a few of my so-called friends had already posted the story to their social media pages, exclaiming, “I know him!” or “This is the doctor who did my mom’s shoulder surgery!” It was so disheartening, I promised myself I’d stay off social media until this nightmare was over.
If it was ever going to be over.
I did hear from a few real friends. Angie Brent, our next-door neighbor, called and asked simply if there was anything she could do to help. Chantal Tracey, whom I’d volunteered with at Meals on Wheels, left me a message saying she was thinking about James and me.
But then I made the mistake of answering my phone when Stacey Hawkins called—her daughter had been on a travel lacrosse team with Paige when the girls were in high school.
“Hi, Stacey,” I said, when I answered my phone.
“Oh, my God, Maggie. Are you okay? I couldn’t believe it when I saw the paper this morning. All I could think was that you must be in hell.”
That was an understatement. And yet, there was something in Stacey’s tone, an underlying note of excitement, that made me reluctant to open up to her.
“Oh, I’m fine.”
“You’re fine?” Stacey repeated. “How can you be fine? I’d be completely freaking out if I were you! Did you have any idea that James had this history, or were you just completely blindsided by it? It’s like a movie of the week, or something!”
“I’m sorry, I have another call coming in. I have to go,” I said, and hung up.
After that, I stopped answering my phone—although I didn’t dare mute it, in case Natalie called with news. I was also waiting to hear back from Paige, whom I’d called as soon as we got back from the jail. She hadn’t answered her phone, so I sent her a text asking her to call me as soon as possible. I finally heard back from her in the early afternoon.
“Sweetheart!” I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God. I’ve been worried.”
“I had class, and then I went to talk to my lacrosse coach to tell him I have to go home. I’m looking for flights now,” Paige said.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“You can’t expect me to stay in school while Dad’s being tried for murder!”
“He’s not being tried for murder,” I said automatically. And then, remembering Natalie’s caution that this might be only over for now, I added, “At least, not yet.”
“Oh, my God! What does that mean?”
I briefly ran through what had happened in court that morning—the invalid arrest warrant, the possibility that a valid one could still be issued. “But Dad’s lawyer thinks that this is all just a publicity stunt.”
“Mom, do you hear yourself right now? That’s ridiculous. Prosecutors don’t try people for murder just to get on the news,” Paige said.
“Well, maybe not to get on the news, exactly. But they could be doing it to put some pressure on your dad. They’re threatening him with prosecution in the hopes that he’ll panic and tell them something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Obviously there’s nothing more to tell.” I shrugged, even though Paige couldn’t see me. “But they need something. Some evidence about what really happened on that night.”
“The night when Hannah disappeared.”
I didn’t like hearing my daughter speak Hannah’s name. I also didn’t like that this was my first thought. How was it possible that after everything James and I had been through in the past few days, my first impulse was to be jealous of a dead woman? And not just any woman, but a woman who had died far too young, and most likely in a horrible and terrifying way.
“Does Dad know something he hasn’t told the police?”
“Of course not. You know your father better than that.”
“Is that Paige?”
I looked up sharply, startled to see James standing in the doorway to the kitchen. I nodded.
“She wants to come home from school,” I said. “I’m trying to talk her out of it.”
“Mom!” Paige said in my ear. “I’m coming home!”
“Give me the phone,” James said. I handed it to him.
“Hi, honey. . . Your mom is right. You need to stay at school.” He paused, listening. “I’m fine. It’s all just a . . . well, ‘misunderstanding’ is probably the wrong word.” He sighed. “It’s gone beyond that at this point. But my attorney assures me that there isn’t enough evidence for the State to try me, much less convict me.” He waited again, this time for longer. “I wish I knew what happened, sweetheart. Believe me. I’d give anything to go back to that night, and to have been awake when Hannah left the campsite. If I had, maybe she would have been safe. Maybe I could have stopped whatever happened to her.”
I turned away then. I knew what James meant, or at least, I knew what he was trying to convey to Paige. That he wasn’t guilty. That he wasn’t the sort of man who would hurt an innocent woman, and he never was. That he was still the adoring father Paige had always known.
But all I could think of was his words, which were now running like ticker tape through my thoughts. I’d give anything to go back to that night, and to have been awake when Hannah left the campsite. What did he include in that anything? His life with me? Our daughter?
I decided it was probably better not to ask questions I didn’t want answered.
James was not rearrested that night, nor the next day, nor the day after that. Still, when Monday rolled around, he didn’t go into work, and neither one of us had left the house in days, partly because there were reporters staking out our place. They shouted out questions whenever James stepped out, even if it was just for Stella’s bathroom breaks. We had our food delivered and screened all of our phone calls, picking up only for Paige, Natalie, or close family members. I wondered how long we could carry on like this.
On Tuesday, Natalie stopped by the house to meet with James. I offered to leave them alone, so they could speak in private.
“No, stay,” James said.
“It’s fine,” Natalie assured me.
I made coffee and brought it into the living room on a tray, along with mugs, cream, sugar, and a plate of homemade chocolate-chip cookies I’d found in the freezer, probably left over from when Paige and her friends were on one of their frequent baking binges. Natalie accepted the coffee with a kind smile.
“I was just telling James that the fact Monroe County hasn’t issued an indictment or an arrest warrant yet is great news for us. It means the State’s Attorney’s office there doesn’t think they have a strong enough case against James yet. And after the botched arrest here in Calusa County, they’re not going to proceed until they do. They don’t want any more bad press attached to this case.”
“So, what are you saying . . . this could all just go away?” I asked.
“Unless they get more evidence. And in a case like this”—Natalie began ticking off the points on her fingers—“the crime occurred so long ago, no new witnesses have come forward, and the Coroner can’t even pinpoint the cause of death. There’s just not enough to go forward on. Technically, they can’t even prove Hannah Nilsson was murdered.”
“Except for the fact that her body was buried,” I said.
“Even that isn’t enough. The State can’t prove how she died, no matter how obvious it looks. What if she fell and hit her head, and some crazy person came along, found her body, and decided to bury her, rather than calling the police? It may sound farfetched, but this is Florida, after all.” Natalie gave a small smile. “Strange things have been known to happen here.”
The idea that some stranger unconnected to Hannah’s death found her body and decided to give her an impromptu burial didn’t just sound farfetched . . . it sounded completely outrageous. But I understood what Natalie meant. We had to consider what the State could and could not prove. And if they couldn’t demonstrate that a murder had even taken place, they certainly couldn’t prosecute James for having committed it.
“Is there any point where the police, or the State’s Attorney, or whoever will issue a statement officially clearing me?” James asked.
Natalie smiled again, this time a little ruefully. “Unfortunately, no. The State’s Attorney never does that. The best we could hope for is that they arrest someone else for the crime. But, unless some new evidence is found, or a witness comes forward, that seems equally unlikely.”
“But if I’m never exonerated, that means I’ll always be a suspect, right? How is that fair?”
“It’s not. But it’s better than life in prison,” Natalie pointed out.
“I understand. But, in the meantime, while I sit around waiting to see if they’re going to arrest me or not, my entire surgery schedule has been postponed. Some of those surgeries have been scheduled for months.”
“Legally, nothing’s preventing you from going back to work,” Natalie said.
“Sure, but would you want someone suspected for murder to operate on you?”
I was surprised at how irritable he sounded. James rarely snapped at anyone. The stress must’ve been getting to him.
“My point is, things could be worse,” Natalie said. She didn’t seem offended by his tone at all. I supposed she was used to dealing with people in crisis.
I decided to intercede here. “I think what James is wondering—what we’re both wondering—is when we can go back to normal life. Neither of us has left the house in days.”
Natalie nodded, and took a sip of her coffee. “I understand. The problem is that everyone expects the criminal justice system to work like it does on television: lots of detectives assigned to one case, prosecuting it rigorously. But the reality is, the wheels of justice spin slowly at the best of times. Resources are always stretched thin. And cold cases, like Hannah’s death, are never going to be a top priority. Not when there’s a teenager who went missing on Key Biscayne last week, or a shooting that happened outside a bar in Key West last night. My advice would be to return to your normal lives as soon as you can—or as soon as you feel comfortable. And, of course, don’t talk to anyone about the investigation.”
