In Self Defense Susan Sloan (summer reads .txt) 📖

was paying scant attention.  It was just past four o’clock, the weather outside was raw and rainy, and she was waiting for Doreen to bring tea.

Thursday was usually Doreen’s day off, as was this Sunday as well, but ever since Richard’s death, the housekeeper had refused to leave.

“There’ll be plenty of days I can take off when I want to,” she said every time Clare brought up the subject.  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon stay right here.  If I find I need some time to myself, I can just go in my room and close the door.”

It hadn’t done any good to argue, and Clare had to admit she didn’t really try very hard.  Because it was nice to have the company, it was nice to share the burden.  And, too, it was nice to have someone screening her calls.  She had stopped answering the telephone.

“I don’t know if it’s going to be the stalker, or a reporter,” she said to Doreen, “and I don’t want to talk to either of them.”

Clare curled her feet up under her, and with her elbow on the arm of her chair, rested her chin in the cup of her hand and gazed into the flickering blaze.  Her blonde hair gleamed in the firelight, and the flames reflected in her dark eyes.

She had of course been hoping that the process would be simple and straightforward, hoping that the police would accept Richard’s death for what it was, without anyone having to delve into all the messy details.  But it certainly didn’t look now as though that was what was going to happen.  It was her own fault, she knew.  For not doing what she should have done, right from the beginning -- whether anyone believed her or not.

As if to punctuate her thoughts, the regular programming on the television, whatever it had been, was suddenly interrupted for breaking news.

“In a surprising turn of events,” the afternoon anchor declared, “the death of Nicolaidis Industries CEO Richard Durant, initially ruled an accident, is now being called a homicide, and his widow, Nicolaidis heiress Clare Durant, has been charged with the crime.  Refusing to go into details, authorities will say only that sufficient evidence has been developed to convince them that Mrs. Durant may have intentionally shot and killed her husband.”

Clare picked up the remote and flipped through the other local channels.  They were all saying more or less the same thing.  She snapped off the television and heaved a sigh of resignation.  It was not going to be easy, not for her, not for the children, not for Richard’s family.  She would have to be strong, for all of them.  But at least she wouldn’t have to stand alone.

David was on her side now.  She had told him everything . . . well, enough, anyway, so that he could make the right decisions.  It was fitting that he should represent her.  He would think of it as repayment for what her father had done for him and his family, she knew, and he would leave no stone unturned in her behalf.  In turn, she would think of it as the best move she could possibly have made.  Because, after all, she had done the unthinkable -- she had killed her husband.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nine

The King County Courthouse occupied an entire square block of downtown Seattle, fronting, as it did, on Third Avenue, between Jefferson and James.

The twelve-story Corinthian style monolith, with its classic portico, its brick and granite exterior, its traditional high ceilings and marble interior was considered the last word in architectural design when it first opened its doors in 1930.  The fact that the building was still standing proud was probably some proof of that.

It had undergone a number of renovations over time, meant to modernize, to upgrade basic comfort, and to insure the safety of its occupants, but after eighty-five years, age and weather and seismic anomalies were beginning to take their toll.

The courtroom on the fourth floor, where The Honorable Naomi Lazarus would preside over the case of the People v. Clare Durant, was the beneficiary of the most recent remodel.

It was spacious and done mostly in browns and beiges.  The ornate bench, the solid bar, the sixteen jurors’ armchairs, and the ten rows of straight-backed, uncomfortable spectator seats were made of oak.  The walls were a textured off-white.  The floor was linoleum.

The air conditioning was going full force.  Even so, those packed into the spectator seats were perspiring freely, and using whatever they had at hand to fan themselves.  Their discomfort wasn’t by necessity, however, but by choice.  They had stood in line for hours -- some had even camped out overnight -- for the opportunity to get a seat at the big event -- bored housewives, out-of-work dot.com nerds, gossipmongers, and social climbers squeezing in among supporters and reporters.

The media coverage had been relentless throughout the winter, spring, and summer, and speculation was running rampant.  Did she or didn’t she?  Newspapers and tabloids alike asked the question, and were quickly snatched off the shelves by those who seemed to have an insatiable interest in other people’s business, and seemed to take a perverse pleasure in other people’s problems.

“It’s human nature,” Doreen observed.  “Their lives are so miserable, it makes them feel better to wallow in someone else’s misery.”

The holidays had been bleak and seemed to drag on forever, with Clare and the children just going through the motions, no one really wanting to celebrate, no one really wanting to look the other in the eye.  Everybody was glad when they were finally over.

In January, Clare went back to work at Thornburgh House, but by the end of February, it was clear that she was too much of a distraction.  She turned her authors over to Nina and resigned.

“It’s for the best now,” Glenn Thornburgh said.  “But perhaps, someday, when this is all behind you . . .” He let the thought dangle.

“Perhaps,” Clare murmured, knowing