Grand Avenue (48 page)

“What is your connection to Barbara Azinger?” Michael Rose asked. He was wearing a brown, pin-striped
suit whose double-breasted jacket was remarkably similar to the one Vicki had on. Vicki had frowned when she’d first noticed, wondered only half-facetiously if she should call him later to ask what color he’d be wearing the next day.

“Barbara was one of my closest friends.”

“How long had you been friends?”

“For fourteen years.”

“Can you tell this court what happened the morning Barbara was murdered?”

Susan took a deep breath, cleared her throat, looked toward the jury, and slowly, carefully, described the details of that August early morning, hesitating only when her memory reached the door to Barbara’s bedroom.

“What did you see in that room, Mrs. Norman?” Michael Rose asked.

“I saw Barbara.” A violent tremble shook Susan’s normally strong voice. “She was on the floor, covered in blood. She had no face.”

“And where was Tracey?”

“She was on the floor beside Barbara, holding her hand.”

“Did she say anything?”

“She said Tony Malarek had killed her mother.”

“And then what happened?”

“The police arrived. And then the Latimers.”

Michael Rose glanced accusingly at Vicki. “You mean the defense counsel?”

Susan nodded. “Yes. I called her. She and her husband were also Barbara’s friends.”

The rest of Susan’s testimony concerned Tracey’s
odd behavior during her brief stay with the Normans, her changing stories.

“You were growing suspicious?”

“Yes. Tracey seemed almost indifferent to her mother’s death. It was like she had to be reminded to grieve.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Vicki said.

“Sustained.”

“How would you describe Barbara’s relationship with her daughter?”

“Barbara was a wonderful mother. She adored Tracey. She would have done anything for her.”

“In all the years you knew Barbara, did you ever see her abuse her daughter in any way?”

“No. That’s ridiculous. Barbara would never have done anything to hurt Tracey.”

“No further questions,” Michael Rose concluded.

Vicki pushed herself to her feet. “Mrs. Norman, you stated that when Tracey phoned you that morning, she was crying so hard you couldn’t make out what she was saying.”

Susan pulled her shoulders back, glared at Vicki with undisguised contempt. “That’s right.”

“So she was hysterical?”

“She gave the impression of being hysterical.”

“Did she or did she not sound hysterical?”

“Yes.”

“She was so hysterical that you rushed right over. So hysterical you called the police. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“And when you found Tracey, she was on the floor beside her mother’s body, is that also correct?”

“Yes.”

“Holding her mother’s hand, I believe you testified.”

“Yes.”

“Odd behavior for a cold-blooded murderer, wouldn’t you say?”

“Objection.” Michael Rose made a halfhearted attempt at rising to his feet.

“Sustained.”

“What did you do when you saw Tracey sitting in her mother’s blood, holding her hand?”

Susan gave the question a moment’s thought. “I think I put my arm around her, helped her to her feet, took her out of the room.”

“So you were concerned about her well-being?”

“Yes.”

“And was there any doubt in your mind that Tracey was genuinely upset?”

“Not then.”

“Not then,” Vicki repeated. “And after the police questioned her, you took Tracey back to your house. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why was that?”

“Her father was out of town. I couldn’t very well leave her alone.”

“Because she was so upset?”

“Because her mother was dead.”

“And you had no reason to suspect Tracey of any wrongdoing,” Vicki stated rather than asked.

“Not then, no.”

“But then you started having suspicions.”

“Yes.”

“And what did you do?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“Did you call the police?”

“I called you. I asked you to come over.”

Vicki nodded toward the jury. “And when I got there, what did you tell me?”

“I don’t remember exactly.”

“To the best of your recollection.”

“I believe I expressed concern over Tracey’s behavior, that she seemed to be having a hard time keeping her story straight.”

“Do you remember my response?”

For the first time since she’d taken the witness stand, Susan smiled. “You said that people don’t have a hard time keeping their stories straight if they’re telling the truth.”

Vicki also smiled. It was exactly the response she’d been hoping for. “So I was the first one to suggest that Tracey might be lying.”

“Yes.”

“And you argued with me, didn’t you?”

The smile disappeared abruptly from Susan’s lips. “Yes.”

“Didn’t you ask me what possible reason Tracey would have for killing her mother?”

Susan squirmed in her seat. “I might have.”

“So it seemed inconceivable to you that Tracey could have done such a thing?”

“At first, yes.”

“And now? Don’t you still ask yourself why?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“I’ll rephrase the question,” Vicki said quickly. “The prosecution has suggested that Tracey killed her mother because she was jealous of her mother’s new relationship with Howard Kerble. Had Tracey ever said or done anything to give you that impression?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Michael Rose said again. “The witness isn’t a psychiatrist.”

“Overruled,” the judge said. “The witness is perfectly qualified to answer the question.”

“No,” Susan admitted.

“Had Tracey ever said anything that made you think she was unhappy with her mother’s engagement?”

“No.”

“In fact, she seemed happy for her mother, did she not?”

“She
seemed
happy.”

“Wasn’t she excited about being the maid of honor at her mother’s wedding?”

“I guess.”

“You had no reason to suspect otherwise, did you?”

“No.”

“Had Barbara ever expressed any concern that Tracey might be jealous or unhappy?”

“No.”

Vicki turned a puzzled face toward the jury. “You testified that you’d known Barbara Azinger for fourteen years. How often did the two of you get together?”

“It varied.”

“Were you together twenty-four hours a day?”

“Of course not.”

“What then? A few hours every day?”

“We tried to get together at least once a week.”

“I see. A few hours once a week. And yet you’re able to swear with absolute certainty that Barbara never molested her daughter.”

“Yes,” Susan said stubbornly.

“Did Barbara ever discuss her sex life with you?”

Susan glanced at the assistant state’s attorney as if appealing for help. He dutifully rose to his feet, made his objection.

“I’ll allow it,” the judge said.

“Occasionally.”

“Had she ever told you she found her sex life with her former husband unsatisfactory?”

“Yes.”

“And that during her marriage, she regularly faked her orgasms?”

“Yes, but so what? Millions of women fake orgasms. It doesn’t make them child molesters. Barbara was a normal woman. She liked normal sex.”

“Barbara liked sex with men; therefore she had no reason to molest her daughter. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes,” Susan said warily, her voice wobbling, her eyes flitting skittishly from side to side, as if she might have stepped into a trap.

“Thank you, Mrs. Norman,” Vicki said with a smile. “I have no further questions.”

T
he following Monday, the prosecutor called Ron Azinger to the stand.

Ron, who’d grown less dashing and more beefy-looking in the last several years, testified that, despite their divorce, Barbara had always been an exemplary mother, that she and Tracey were exceptionally close, and that Tracey had never said anything to him about her mother abusing her in any way.

“She never complained about her mother?” Vicki asked on cross-examination.

“No, never.”

“A teenage girl who doesn’t complain about her mother? Didn’t that strike you as odd?”

The jury laughed. The prosecutor objected to the question.

“Get to the point, Counselor,” Judge Fitzhenry instructed.

“Mr. Azinger, how often did you see Tracey after the divorce?”

“Every Wednesday evening and every other weekend.”

“What sort of things did you talk about when you were together?”

Ron cleared his throat, crossed one arm over the other, lifted one palm into the air. “I’m not sure. The usual, I guess.”

“Did Tracey talk about school?”

“Yes,” Ron said, though he looked far from certain.

“Her friends?”

“I guess.”

“Does Tracey have a lot of friends, Mr. Azinger?”

“I’m sure she does.”

“Name three.”

“What?”

“Can you name three of your daughter’s friends?”

“Well …”

“How about
one?
Can you tell me the name of one of your daughter’s friends?”

Ron looked to the ceiling. “I think there’s a Lisa.”

“Ah, yes,” Vicki said with a smile. “There’s always a Lisa.”

Laughter broke out among the spectators, as well as in the jury box.

“The truth is that your daughter doesn’t have many friends, isn’t that right?”

“Tracey never seemed to need a lot of people around her.”

“Because she had her mother?”

Vicki saw Michael Rose hesitate in his chair, not sure whether to object. Such questions might actually help his case, Vicki could hear him thinking.

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Azinger, that you used to complain that Barbara was too wrapped up in her daughter’s life? That during your marriage you often felt excluded and shut out?”

“Tracey and her mother were very close.”

“Unnaturally close?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“Didn’t you urge your former wife to see a psychiatrist?” Vicki asked.

“I may have.”

“Specifically, didn’t you once tell her she was a sick woman who needed her head examined?”

How did you know that? Ron’s eyes questioned.

Have you forgotten she was my friend? Vicki’s eyes asked in return.

Have
you?
the ensuing silence demanded.

“I was very angry when I said that,” Ron said.

“Did you or did you not tell your wife she was a sick woman who should have her head examined?”

“Yes.”

Vicki swallowed, took a deep breath, debated whether to do the unthinkable, to ask a question to which she wasn’t 100 percent certain of the answer. She looked at Ron looking at his daughter, knew he’d rather be anywhere but where he was. He loved his daughter. He had no loyalty to his ex-wife. He was a sociology professor, for God’s sake, she could almost hear him thinking. A proud, upstanding member of his community. No way could he have produced a cold-blooded sociopath.

Vicki felt a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
Who said she didn’t know the answer? “Mr. Azinger,” she said with confidence, “do you think it’s possible Tracey was being molested by her mother?”

There was a long pause. “It’s possible,” Ron said.

Howard Kerble made a much better witness for the prosecution. A less imposing figure than Barbara’s former husband, he nonetheless radiated quiet authority. He spoke movingly of meeting Barbara, of falling in love, of their plans for a future together. Their sex life was wonderful, he said when asked. Barbara was a normal woman with normal sexual desires. She wasn’t into anything remotely kinky. The assertion that Barbara had molested her daughter was beneath contempt. Barbara was a devoted mother. Tracey always came first.

“So Tracey had no reason to be jealous of your relationship with her mother,” Vicki stated when her turn came to cross-examine the witness.

“You’d have to ask Tracey.”

“I intend to,” Vicki said, allowing the witness to step down.

“The state calls Christine Malarek.”

It was the beginning of the third week of the trial when the rear doors of the large courtroom opened and Chris walked briskly up the center aisle, looking neither to her left nor right. She was wearing a mauve sweater and gray slacks, and her blond hair fell to her shoulders in soft layers.

She looks more beautiful than ever, Vicki thought, catching sight of Tony in the same seat he’d been occupying
every day since the trial began, directly behind the two rows of seats reserved for the press. Would he make a scene? Vicki wondered. Would he whip out a gun and start spraying the courtroom with bullets? Thank God for metal detectors, she thought, noticing Susan in the back row as Chris was sworn in. Michael Rose asked Chris some perfunctory questions regarding her age and occupation before getting to the heart of the matter.

“Could you describe your relationship with Barbara Azinger?” he asked.

“We were friends for fourteen years. Best friends,” Chris clarified.

“And are you also acquainted with her daughter, Tracey?”

“I’ve known Tracey since she was two years old.” Chris looked toward Tracey, her eyes connecting briefly with Vicki’s before turning away.

“Would you describe Barbara Azinger as a good mother?”

“She was a wonderful mother.”

“Did you ever see her strike her daughter?”

“Barbara didn’t believe in corporal punishment.”

“She never lashed out in anger?”

“Never. Barbara was a very loving mother. She adored Tracey.”

“Did you ever, in all the years you were friends, see Barbara touch her daughter in an inappropriate manner?”

“Of course not.”

“Did she ever confide in you an unnatural interest in her daughter?”

“No. That’s absurd.”

“Thank you,” Michael Rose concluded, nodding in Vicki’s direction. “Your witness.”

My witness indeed, Vicki thought, rising slowly to her feet. Could she really do this? she wondered, tossing such concerns aside with a shake of her head. Did she have a choice?