and to believe in, a plan to irradiate the nettles in Chesapeake Bay to improve the swimming.
And then-
And then, having carried out his plan, having killed a man for me, and having had me again for a night, he’d woken without me there, without even a word of farewell. He must have been consumed with memories of my last parting from him, and of the utter silence that followed. Did he feel angry at me? Toyed with? Despairing? I’ll never know. But in the cold of dawn he’d gotten drunk again-hopelessly, terribly drunk-with what consequence you already know.
They meant to keep me locked up, but I called Bill Dennison in on it and he found me an outstanding courtroom man, a Mr. R. Harry Hoopes, Esquire, expensive as anything but worth every penny, Bill claimed. And watching him work on my behalf before the judge at my hearing gave me confidence, as clearly the man was competent, although he unfortunately reminded me strongly of my father, and so any good feelings were mitigated. And for all his promises of getting the case against me thrown out, he got to go home every night while night after night I returned to my cell.
But he made the case I needed him to make. He pointed out the many times I could have let Earl die, and chose to save him instead. He pointed out the fact that I’d given away most of Earl’s money, when I didn’t have to, to Earl’s stepchildren. The argument was made that there was still a good deal left, by the standards of a woman who’d had no electricity, gas, or phone not so long ago, as well as an investment company still operating that would generate more, as I was now a part owner; but Mr. Hoopes, Esquire, countered with the joint accounts, which eliminated any need I might otherwise have had for my husband to die before I could get my hands on his money.
The other lawyer was no slouch himself, ingratiating himself with the judge and sounding oh so reasonable as he worked to tie the noose around my neck-yes, Your Honor, maybe it’s so that she had access already to her husband’s money, but faced with the choice between the money and an old, sick husband or the same money and a young, handsome one, what does Your Honor think a beautiful young woman like the accused would choose? To which my lawyer volleyed back, “… Then why would she kill him?” The reply being, “She’d conspired in a murder, sir, and knew the police were closing in, she needed to pin the crime on him so it would not get pinned on her.” And back and forth it went.
The newspapers got hold of it, as I later learned, and ran story after story, with photographs of Earl from their files and of me from the day of my arrest, Sergeant Young’s body only partly blocking me from view. They’d even got one somehow of me in my uniform from the Garden, how I don’t know, and they ran it over and over, with black bars to cover up what they deemed indecent. Of course this made it appear more indecent than it actually was.
Inevitably, the headline writers, knowing of my job and faced with three deaths in which I was alleged to have served the men in my life a lethal concoction, or anyway one that facilitated their deaths, took to calling me “the Cocktail Waitress”-just like that, with capital letters, one for each capital charge against me. It was a sobriquet that caught on, and one that has dogged me ever since. It is why I finally began taping this, so that my name might be cleared, and my children not be saddled with a shame and notoriety that I never deserved and they certainly do not.
Children-yes. But I’ve leapt ahead of myself.
Mr. Hoopes made his last impassioned statement to the judge late in the afternoon two weeks to the day from the date of my arrest, and I had the night that followed to stew and to wonder what the outcome would be. Would my case proceed to trial, and from there, if I were to lose, on to sentencing? I could practically feel the restraints closing on my wrists and ankles, the metal cap lowering over my brow, and if I slept a wink all night I didn’t know it. But in the morning, word came down of the judge’s decision: two words,
34
I had everything on earth that I needed to make me happy then: besides my freedom, I had, it was true, enough money left, as well as a mansion to live in if I wished, and friends. Except that I did not have the one thing that I wanted, which was my little boy.
On my exit from the prison, before Mr. Hoopes could depart, I asked if he would come along with me for one more task. He eyed his wristwatch, but still flush with his victory on my behalf and no doubt computing the extra fee he could charge, he agreed. We drove straight to Ethel’s house and pulled up in front of their drive just as they were packing bags into the trunk of their sedan. The judge’s decision had leaked somehow and been picked up by the morning papers, and Ethel had lost no time in preparing her husband and Tad for a trip, perhaps a long one, perhaps one-way. If I’d delayed even by half an hour, if I’d even gone home to change my clothes first or shower, I’d have arrived at an empty house, my son vanished.
But as it happened, I spotted him seated in the back seat of the sedan and ran over to the door and flung it open. I heard Ethel shout my name, but didn’t care, for Tad was in my arms and I was swinging him up in the air, showering him with all the kisses I’d been forced to store up since I’d held him last. I had tears streaming down my face, and frightened by it, he began to bawl, but I cooed at him and wiped my eyes and told him not to be afraid, that Mommy was back to stay.
While I was doing all this, Jack Lucas stood looking on, a trunk in each hand and a guilty expression on his face, aware of what it looked like that we’d caught them on their way out. But there was no guilt showing on Ethel’s face, only rage.
“Put that child down, Joan. You’re not taking him away.”
“… I am. I have. He’s taken.”
“What court will let you keep him, Joan? A notorious murderess?”
“I’m free, Joan. The judge found me innocent.”
“Like hell. I read the article. He only said there wasn’t enough evidence to prove you guilty. That doesn’t mean you’re not. There’s not a person in this state who doesn’t know you did it.”
“I’ll thank you, Ethel, not to speak ill of me in front of my boy,” I said, cupping one hand over Tad’s ear. “And if you’re serious about wanting to fight for custody, I’d like to introduce you to my attorney, Mr. R. Harry Hoopes.”
Hoopes came forward, enough steel in his stare to arm a battalion. “Why don’t we talk, Mrs. Lucas, Mr. Lucas-why don’t we just go inside and talk?”
The next several days were consumed with meetings. I was seeing lawyers, realtors, and bankers. The lawyers were probating Earl’s will, and had things I had to sign. The realtors hoped, despite all the attention, to sell the mansion, but on that I hadn’t made up my mind, and anyhow, it had to wait on the lawyers, until their work with the will was done. The bankers were Earl’s partners-they owned only a minority of his firm, but knew how his business was done, and I would have been a fool not to bulge up their share, so they would carry on. I did, the thing was put on paper, in a new agreement that I signed, and then lo and behold, I was a 40 % partner in a prosperous banking concern-EKW Associates, as they decided to call themselves.
I had requests, too, from the papers and the newsweeklies, and from radio and television-more than I could count. But I ignored them all, and had Araminta go out front twice to beg all those who had gathered there to leave, out of respect for the young child in the house if not for me. They didn’t leave. Which meant no playing on the lawn for Tad, and no trips outside for me-except for one.
I learned, to my horror, that Tom’s body had remained all this time in the morgue, unclaimed. Of course, I knew his parents were deceased, and that he had no wife or siblings. But it had never occurred to me that he had no one at all. In time, I guess, he would have been given a public burial of some sort, perhaps in some municipal graveyard, and I couldn’t bear that. For all that he’d done wrong, he still deserved better than a pauper’s grave.
So, I claimed the body, and called the undertaker, and made arrangements, and rode once more to a funeral with Tom by my side, only this time I was sitting with him in the back of the hearse, not a limousine, and he wouldn’t be returning with me after.
I’d worn a black dress, conservative and sober, with elbow-length gloves and a hat, both also black, as befit
