Sidetracked-Kobo (9 page)

“Okay.”

My mind was beginning to kick in.

“I do not want you talking to anyone about Billy, you understand?”

“I haven’t.”

Chief Melcher gave me a look. “Then why did you go to the Graysons’?”

“To see for myself. I just wanted to see how tall that bush is. It’s five feet, eight inches. Considerably shorter than Billy. So it couldn’t be him.”

Melcher stuck his tongue below his upper lip. “I’ll decide who is a suspect and who isn’t. Clear?”

“But it
couldn’t
be Bil—”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do! I saw the man in the Graysons’ yard, I told you that. He was the same height as that bush.”

“I will not argue with you about this.”

Oh, really? Because he knew everything? “How can you ignore an important piece of evidence?”

“I am not ignoring it.”

“Apparently you are.”

Chief Melcher drew back his head. He lowered his chin, lasering me with his eyes. “You listen to me. I’m in charge of this investigation. And
I
will solve it. I expect you to stay out of my way.
Is that clear?”

I pushed to my feet, hands gripped at my waist. “Please don’t drag Billy through this. He’s such a gentle person.”

Melcher tilted his head, looking at me as if I were an animal he’d never seen before. “Can you not hear?”

He really was going to do this. Ignore my pleas for justice. Real justice.

“Miss Miller!”

An arrest would devastate Billy. And turn the whole town against him.

I unlatched my hands. Pulled back my shoulders. “I hear just fine, Chief Melcher. I see just fine. And what I see is a policeman intent on nabbing a suspect in a hurry so he can stoke his own reputation. Who’ll choose to ignore important evidence because it doesn’t fit with his theory.”

Bruce Melcher’s cheeks turned crimson. He strode forward and stuck his forefinger in my face. “If you interfere anymore in this investigation, I will haul you off to jail! And that rich boyfriend of yours won’t be able to help you.”

I stood my ground, looking past Melcher’s finger into his mean eyes, even as my heart rattled my ribs.

“I believe you’ve made your point, Chief Melcher. You can leave my house now.”

He glared at me, moving his jaw from side to side. Then slowly he pulled back, drawing up to his full height. With a final scathing glance he turned on his heel and stomped for the door. On his way out he slammed it hard enough to shake the windows.

I leaned against the table, head drooping. Pete’s footfalls sounded in the hall.

“Why, that no-good, puffed-up piece a flesh in a uniform.” Pete huffed across the gathering room’s wooden floor. “Who does he think he is?”

My eyes closed. “He’s the chief of police, that’s who.”

Pete made a noise in his throat. “Some way to treat an eyewitness.” He stopped before me. His voice dropped. “You okay?”

A part of me longed to confide in Pete right then and there. God knew I needed to talk to
someone.
If I were arrested, or if Melcher even decided to run a background check on Delanie Miller—what would he find? That was the great unknown. Why I’d never applied for a job anywhere. Yet to have been through what I had—and
not
help someone else facing a similar situation, someone as innocent as Billy King …

My stomach turned over. Was I going to throw up?

I raised my head and tried to smile. Didn’t work. My ankles trembled.

Pete clucked his tongue. “Come on now, Del-Belle, let’s sit you down.” He nudged me back into the kitchen chair. Took a seat on the other side of the table. Pete leaned forward on his elbows.

“You listen now.” His words scratched. “You got to pull back on this. That man’s not gonna listen to nobody. But I can run around town and do plenty behind his back. You leave it to me. I’ll find out things. Somebody had to see somethin’. Maybe they’re just afraid to say anything.” Pete spread his hands. “But who am I? Just an old geezer who likes to gab. People’ll talk to me. You’ll see. I’ll text or call you when I can, let you know what I’m up to.”

Tears filled my eyes. Dear old Pete.

We talked for a few more minutes. Through sheer willpower and Pete’s comforting words, I managed to pull myself together.

I pushed back from the table. “I need to go see Clara’s parents. I’m embarrassed I haven’t even talked to them yet.”

Pete assessed me. “You sure you’re ready to handle that now?”

Ready, no. But it needed to be done. I nodded.

“All right then. Just stay away from Melcher.”

A bitter chuckle escaped me. “Don’t worry.”

“You should eat somethin’ first.”

The very thought of food … “When I get back.”

“You promise?”

I sighed. “Yes. Nag.”

He wrinkled his nose at me.

I escaped to the bathroom and did what I could to fix my makeup. I felt one hundred years old.

Fifteen minutes later as I slid into my car in the garage, my cell phone rang. I checked the ID and saw the name Cheryl King. Billy’s mother.

She’d never called me before.

I laid my head back against the seat rest. “Hi, Cheryl?”

“Delanie.” Her voice pulsed with anger. “What did you tell Bruce Melcher about my son?”

Oh, no. “Why, would do you mean?”

“People have been calling, saying you saw Billy on Brewer Street last night around the time Clara was killed. And now the chief’s come to our house and taken him down to the station!”

April - September 1995

Less than six hours after discovering her mother’s body, Laura was arrested for the murder. The detective put cuffs on her hands and chain cuffs on her ankles. She had to shuffle when she walked, like some mass murderer. To San Mateo County Juvenile Hall they took her, up a long hill to a wind-strewn bunch of buildings above freeway 280.

Arrested. For killing my mother.

They took her clothes and jewelry—stud earrings and the small ruby ring she’d gotten for Christmas. Gave her baggy cotton pants and a top to wear. Thick flip-flops for her feet. A woman took her through another door. The world just … stopped. Every door that closed behind her separated her more from where she should be. The walls of the building were dull gray concrete. Long hallways, rooms on either side, each with a door in the middle. In each door a small window, many of them with faces looking out. The faces looked dead, hopeless.

They put her in one of the tiny, windowless rooms with two hard cots. Her “roommate,” a sixteen-year-old who had to weigh over two hundred pounds, with stringy brown hair and a face full of acne, tried to talk to her. Tricia said she was “in” for shooting another teen in a drug “transaction.” Stated the fact like it was no big deal, happened all the time.

For people in here, it probably did.

Laura tuned Tricia out, and after some time the girl finally got the message and shut up. Tricia had some paperback books she could read. No pencils or pens, so no need for paper. Supposedly they could hurt themselves or someone else with a pencil point. When Tricia picked up a book, Laura lay down on her side and faced the grungy wall.

Soon after that came “lights out.”

Laura welcomed the darkness. Not that she could sleep. She could barely feel her body. Her mind kept screaming this was a nightmare. Any minute she’d wake up and be
so
relieved. Was it possible just that morning she’d gotten up on a normal day, gone to school? That she’d been dreaming about going to the prom with Matt?

What would everyone at school say about her? She’d been arrested—for
killing her mother?
Surely no one would believe it. Especially not her friends. They’d come to her rescue, tell that stupid detective she couldn’t have done it.

How long before he let her go? Before he realized he’d made a terrible mistake? As long as they thought she did this, they couldn’t find the real murderer. Her mother deserved justice. Now!

Laura tried to pray to the God who’d always sustained her. But He didn’t seem to hear. Why had He let her be dragged off to jail in the first place?
Why
had He let her mom be killed?

What was her dad doing right now? He’d lost his wife—and now his daughter had been dragged away. He’d just about come unglued when Detective Standish arrested her. He kept yelling they were wrong, how could they
do
this? That he’d never have let her be questioned by herself if he knew this was going to happen. Her dad had followed Laura as far as he could, until she’d been stuffed into some police car. He’d called to her that he’d get her out. To hang in there, he’d
fix
this!

Tomorrow he’d do it. Tomorrow she’d walk out of this horrible place.

The next day dragged by in inches. Most of the time was spent in her room. Except when they went out to eat, or when they were allowed some time in a lounge-type area. It smelled dusty, and the furniture was old and beat up. And she didn’t want to talk to anyone. Worse, her dad didn’t come to get her. What was he doing? What was happening out there in the real world? Laura went from crying to stone stillness and back to crying again.

Her roommate told her to stop hoping. That she’d thought the same thing at first. No one came to rescue her. Now she was in there for six years.

Six years.
It was a lifetime.

On the second day Laura went to her detention hearing. Finally she’d get to tell someone she didn’t do this!

They brought her into court, still wearing the scuzzy clothes and shoes. A bunch of other teens were there too. So was her dad. She was allowed to hug him. He looked gray, like he hadn’t slept at all. Neither had she. “I’ll get you a good lawyer,” he told her. “The best I can find.”

“Why do I need a lawyer? Why can’t I go home?”

He just shook his head.

When she got in front of the judge, she’d convince him to let her go.

Court began. Some guy Laura hadn’t seen before—a prosecutor or something—read the charges for each of the teens in front of her. Then he and some other people would talk to the judge about the case. Then the teen would be led away, back to his or her room in juvenile hall. When Laura’s turn came she wanted to melt through the floor. In front of everyone they talked about how she’d killed her mother. How the evidence was strong. She’d been assigned some woman public defender, who argued halfheartedly for this and that. Laura tried to talk, but the judge told her to be quiet. Panic shot through her. Wasn’t this supposed to be her chance? Why wouldn’t anyone listen?

“I have to talk to him!” she insisted to her lawyer. But the woman only said, “I’ll handle it.” And the next thing she knew, she was being led away. Away from her dad and the windows that looked outside to blue sky.

She refused to eat the rest of that day.

The next day, and the next, and the next, and the next—no change. No rescue. Laura fell into a kind of stupor. When she ate, she didn’t taste. When she talked it was in phrases. Sometimes she thought of her friends and school. What class she’d be in at any time of the day. Now English. Now she’d be in history. She’d have taken her tests days ago, and by now gotten back her grades. She’d have turned in her English paper. Mostly she thought about her mom. Remembered the good times. Christmases and other holidays. Their afternoon talks. The times they’d gone to movies together. And had tea parties when she was little. She pictured her home and her room. Imagined her own soft mattress beneath her, and her pillows. Her own clothes. How she longed for her own nice-smelling shampoo. And toothpaste—the kind they used in the hall tasted awful. All the things she’d so taken for granted, she’d give anything to have back now.

Her dad hired a lawyer. Devlon Brooks, supposedly the best of the best. He looked older than her father, maybe in his fifties. Graying hair and a smooth face. Unlike Detective Standish he dressed in nice suits and ties. He met with Laura numerous times in the glass-walled visiting rooms within straight eye-shot of the people working the desk. The first time they met her lawyer told Laura the “straight-out truth.” She’d be in the hall until her trial—maybe six months away. He needed that long to prepare.

At that, Laura went cold.

They had a lot against her, Devlon said. (He insisted she call him by his first name.) The shoes hidden in her closet had her mom’s blood on them. Rushed DNA analysis had proven that. And the blood on the tops was spatter, like Detective Standish had told her. The only way that could happen? Those shoes had to be at the scene when her mom was being beaten. They also had the murder weapon—the hammer—with her mom’s blood on it, plus Laura’s fingerprints. That, too, had been found in Laura’s closet. Plus there was the ten minutes of extra time she couldn’t account for. Not that she could prove, anyway. And then there was the inheritance, half of her mother’s estate. That provided the motive.

“I didn’t know anything about that inheritance,” Laura said.

Devlon nodded.

“And of course my fingerprints are on the hammer. I’d used it just the week before.”

“We’ll make sure you get to say that in court.”

“I
didn’t
kill my mother. I didn’t wear those shoes and hide them. I didn’t hit her with a hammer. I didn’t do
any
of that stuff.”

“Who would have done this, Laura?”

She had no idea. Certainly not her dad. Besides, she’d learned Detective Standish had cleared him within hours of the murder. He’d been in his office at work. “Whoever it was made it
look
like I did it.” Why would anyone want to do that?

Her father visited as often as he was allowed. At first they talked about nothing but her case. After awhile Laura started asking him about the neighborhood, his work. Had he talked to any of her friends? Kylie and a few others had called a couple of times, he told her. They knew she was innocent.

At least there was that. Something to cling to.

She asked him to tell them to write her. She could receive letters. How she wanted to hear firsthand from her friends. He said he would.