A nervous humming inside tells me the Tribe is again on tenterhooks. Our track record in striking it lucky is not good. The word judge alone knocks my courage. They say a watched pot never boils, which may or may not be true. Fact is, when you wait for the morning to pass, time crawls at snail’s pace. I suspect it even goes backward while we’re not watching. When I hear movement in the hallway and my door opens, I had just resigned myself to the fact that I’ll spend the rest of my life in a cell.
“Mrs. Reid, your lawyer arrived. Let me take you to the interview room.”
I’m more than a little annoyed. I don’t like surprises. No multiple does. When one’s life is constant chaos and your inner world is an out of control, boiling cauldron of many voices, we long for control in our outside world as much as we can get. But the poor officer can’t know that and I’m in no mood to enlighten him.
“I didn’t call for a lawyer.”
“Then he must be the court-appointed lawyer. Everyone has the right to legal representation.”
Somebody has to explain why I, an innocent woman, have to pay a lawyer to ward off an accusation based on a gun planted by a corrupt police officer. Where did they get a lawyer willing to represent me? Finding a lawyer was not on my to-do-list. I’m in no mood to spill my story to yet another person. I might as well take out a half page advert in the New Zealand Herald and broadcast the circumstances of my sorry life for everyone to read.
“You have to be at court at eleven. You’ve got over two hours.” The warden holds the door open for me and leads me through a labyrinth of hallways, strewn with important looking doors until we arrive at the interview room.
I expected an older gentleman, but the person rising from his chair when we enter the room is anything but old. He’s much too young to be an experienced lawyer. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were a third year-student on placement. He’s about my age if not younger, clad in smart, dark blue trousers and a dark blue blazer combination, a white shirt, and a yellow tie.
He smiles and shows off two snow-white rows of perfect teeth. If he’s a court-appointed lawyer, I’ll eat Ama’s white cap.
“Good morning, Mrs. Reid, my name is Thomas Aldercroft. I’m your lawyer.”
Last time I looked I had a say in who is working for me or not. I ignore his manicured fingers waiting for a welcome handshake. Does every bloody male think he can decide about my life?
“Oh no, you’re not. I’ll skip the good morning because, frankly, this morning is not ranking high on my ten-best-mornings-list. I didn’t ask for a lawyer and sure never asked for you.”
He looks up at me through beautiful long, dark lashes. “My apologies. Scott Thompson asked me a few days ago to look into the research Patrick Armstrong did for you before someone killed him. I thought you’d agreed that I could start inquiries on your behalf.”
Invisible reins pull me back. I didn’t think I was a runaway horse in need of reining in. Sky must have thought I was jumping too quickly to conclusions.
Me? Never. I get the message, thanks, people. I wish Amadeus would be less dramatic with his signs. If he continues like that, he’ll give me whiplash. I shake my head and open the door so he can leave. Everything related to Scott is tainted by his betrayal.
“That may have been the case four days ago. He turned out to be part of the people who are hunting me. He’s dead in my eyes. My path is littered with people who betrayed me. There is no comeback from that even if the betrayal only happened once. I don’t want his help and I don’t need you.”
“Scott? Scott Thompson? That can’t be right. Don’t you know it was he who rang the Police and told them you had been kidnapped? Without him, you would still be on the fishing boat or wherever they planned to take you.”
“I’m not mistaken. I heard how one kidnapper thanked him for his help. They took me to his friend’s place and drugged me there.”
“It makes little sense. Without him, nobody would have known that you and the children were on the boat. I was with him when he gave his statement about his version of the events. Add to this my findings of your marriage, or rather non-marriage, the picture looks grim for Helen Reid and the police officers in Port Somers. They suspected you because Helen Reid called them and described you as a dangerous, mental, loose cannon.”
I hear the words and it’s as if the sun breaks through heavy storm clouds. The tension inside is seeping away.
“Does that mean I’m no longer a murder suspect?”
“I’ve spoken to the Police and the judge this morning. That’s what I came to tell you. You are free to go home.”
“I…” I shake my head. This is all too much, too confusing, too quick. My solid construct of reality falls apart like a house of cards, leaving me stranded in no-mans-land. Everything I know, every fact, every assumption is tumbling inside my head like pebbles in a cement mixer. The Tribe is confused, relieved, happy, and disbelieving, all at the same time. It’s good to know I’m not the only one taken by surprise.
“Heather Millhouse cleared you of the murder of Patrick Armstrong. They are treating it now as a home invasion gone ugly. The police think it’s related to other unresolved cases and are looking for three men.”
I don’t believe for a moment that Patrick’s murder was a random burglary gone wrong, but nobody cares what I believe. I don’t blame the police. Organized child sexual abuse, pedophile rings, and sex trafficking organizations flourish because the offenders are often
