HF01 - Almost Forever Page 21

  Dad fumbled for her hand, knitting his fingers with hers. “Because what happened was an accident. It could have happened to anyone. There’s been enough tragedy, Bryn. It will serve no purpose for you to sit in jail.” His voice rose on the word, and he dropped his head, tightened his grip on her hand. “Haven’t you lost enough?”

  Bryn stared at her father, an awful suspicion niggling at her. “Did you talk to Charlie, Dad? Did you try to get him to—”

  “Of course not. I don’t even know the man, except what you’ve told me about him . . . being Sparky’s owner, I mean.”

  The confusion in his eyes made Bryn weak with relief. Dad was as clueless as she was about Charlie’s motives.

  “Didn’t you take Sparky to see him a while back?” Dad let loose of her hand and straightened in his chair. “In Springfield? What did you tell him then?”

  Bryn didn’t miss Meyer’s questioning gaze. She addressed her reply to the attorney. “Yes. A few weeks ago. I drove to Springfield and visited him at the shelter there.”

  The attorney stared at her. “Did you talk about anything that would have made him come forward?”

  She thought for a moment, but shook her head. “I—that was before my . . . dream. We didn’t talk about the fire at all. He knew Susan was trying to get the shelter back up and running. That’s when he asked me to take Sparky—his dog. We still have Sparky . . . out at Dad’s place,” she explained to Meyer.

  Meyer shrugged. “Maybe the guy just thinks jail would be better accommodations than what he has at the shelter. The place he’s in is only a day shelter as I understand it. It’s been a cold winter—tough on someone like him.”

  “Charlie’s in a wheelchair. He’s a Vietnam vet,” she explained to her father, wondering how Meyer knew that. “But it’s a decent shelter. And they gave him a job there and let him stay full-time. He was happy there . . . proud of landing the job.” She thought about how Charlie had sacrificed Sparky to stay in Springfield. Things weren’t adding up.

  Meyer rested his elbows on the table in front of him, steepled his index fingers, and rested his chin on the spire. “Well, I can’t explain why he’d confess to something he didn’t do, but you can’t both have done it.”

  Bryn stared past the attorney. Why would Charlie have told them he started the fire? Besides the fact that he had no motive, he wouldn’t have had access to the office unless she or Susan was present, too. Susan would have mentioned something like that to the investigators. And though her memories of that night were hazy, she was almost certain that—except for the three or four minutes it had taken her to go out and check on Sparky that night—Charlie had been with her every minute from the time they came down the elevator from the office.

  Meyer’s cell phone chirped. He held up a hand and pulled the phone from his belt. “Meyer here.” He listened for several minutes, his face growing dark. “You’re sure?”

  He flipped the phone shut without saying good-bye. Pounding his fist on the table, he blew a curse through clenched teeth.

  Bryn waited, thinking the attorney had gotten bad news about another case. But he quickly composed himself and looked hard at Bryn. “So much for that . . .”

  “What happened?”

  Meyer dropped his head, silent. His hands formed clenched fists on his knees. Finally he looked up. “I’m sorry, Bryn. That was Perlson. You were right. Branson didn’t do it.”

  Dad jumped up. “How can you know that? Why did he confess, then?” Bryn watched the hope drain from her father’s face.

  “Branson told the police he used lighter fluid to start the fire. But the investigators’ reports said they found no trace of any accelerant.”

  A chilling thought sluiced down her spine. Had Judson Meyer somehow talked Charlie into taking the rap for her? Surely he wouldn’t stoop that low. Or be that stupid.

  “So what happens now?” her father asked.

  Bryn didn’t like the hope in his voice. Especially when she knew Charlie was innocent. Charlie’s confession didn’t change anything. The glimmer of hope that had bloomed, fizzled. And yet she felt relieved for Charlie. “Where is he now? Charlie?”

  “They’re still holding him for further questioning,” Meyer said. “But they’ll likely let him go.”

  “I can assure you he didn’t do anything. If they need me to testify—or whatever . . . I know he didn’t do it.” It broke her heart to think of Charlie locked up. “Can I talk to him?”

  Meyer shook his head. “I would strongly advise against it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mr. Branson may end up testifying against you.”

  Bryn closed her eyes. This was getting messy.

  “I’m going to ask the judge to delay your arraignment until we can get this figured out. I’m not convinced Branson doesn’t know something he’s not telling.” Meyer narrowed his eyes at Bryn. “And frankly, I’m not sure my client is telling me the truth. The whole truth.”

  Did they think

  she wanted to pin

  the blame on Charlie?

  31

  Wednesday, February 20

  Walking into the Hanover Falls Police Station was like going back in time. The same uniformed woman who’d been there the day Bryn turned herself in was behind the desk. Bryn told her what she wanted and the woman picked up the phone and called Rudy Perlson.

  Through the plate-glass window, Bryn watched the police chief hang up the phone and thread his way through the maze of desks and come to greet her. “You want to talk to Branson?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but there’s no way he could have done it.”

  Did they think she wanted to pin the blame on Charlie?

  “I know he didn’t do it. I told my lawyer that. That’s why I want to talk to him. I think— Maybe Charlie was trying . . . to take the blame for me.”

  Perlson absorbed that for a minute. “Then you’re a very lucky lady to have someone think that much of you.”

  “He’ll get to go back to Springfield, won’t he? To the shelter there?”

  Perlson nodded. “As soon as someone can come and get him.”

  “I can take him back, if that’s all he’s waiting for.” She looked at her watch. “I’d have time.”

  The chief shook his head. “I don’t think that would be wise. You’ve already got your lawyer and the judge a little befuddled.”

  Though everyone seemed convinced that Charlie’s confession was groundless, they’d rescheduled her arraignment for this afternoon. Meyer had told her the judge would sentence her as soon as she entered a guilty plea. He seemed to have finally given up on trying to convince her to enter a different plea.

  “I think you’d better stick around until after the arraign—” Perlson seemed to catch himself and looked at the floor.

  She didn’t miss the significance. She might not be free to go after the arraignment. “Mr. Branson is free to go anytime,” the police chief said, recovering. “We’ve called the shelter and they’re trying to find someone to take him back.”

  “Maybe my dad could take him.” Bryn pointed toward the street. “He’s waiting in the car.”

  “We’ll see.” Perlson leaned against an empty desk. “I just want you to know that Judge Clyne is a good man. I think he’ll be . . . fair with you.”

  She looked up, surprised at his words, yet at the same time wondering exactly what Perlson thought was fair. “Thank you.”

  The silence of the courtroom was disturbed by a whispered commotion. Sitting at the table beside Judson Meyer, Bryn couldn’t bring herself to turn and face the gallery.

  From the media’s interest in this story, especially with the complication of Charlie’s “confession,” Bryn assumed there would be reporters present for her sentencing. Judging by the scraping of chairs and the hushed muttering, the media must be arriving now. She only prayed the judge wouldn’t allow cameras inside the courtroom.

  Judson Meyer had arranged fo
r her to have a moment with her father after the sentencing, and to leave the building by a side door, regardless of the outcome.

  She closed her eyes, suddenly more nervous than she’d been since that day she’d walked into the police station to confess. Would she be leaving in a police car, or would she, by some miracle, be able to go home with Dad?

  Oh, Father, whatever happens, please be with Daddy. Comfort him and let him know that You have everything under control.

  She believed that. But Dad’s disappointment in realizing that Charlie would not be a scapegoat for her had been deep. Once again, she feared for his health.

  She felt Dad’s hand on her shoulder, as if he somehow knew she was praying for him. Without turning around, she reached her hand up to cover his.

  But he leaned to whisper in her ear. “You need to turn around.”

  She didn’t want to show her face to the reporters, who were no doubt just waiting for a chance to catch a glimpse of her so they could describe how pale and gaunt and distressed she looked—or perhaps they would describe her as aloof and cold? She didn’t know how the media had spun the story since the whole thing with Charlie was leaked to the press.

  Dad’s persistent squeeze of her shoulder forced her to turn and look out over the gallery.

  What she saw lit fear inside her chest. Seated on three rows of benches behind her, looking somber, were Susan Marlowe and Fire Captain Peter Brennan. Emily Vermontez sat at the end of the row, Lucas beside her in the aisle in his wheelchair and in the row behind them, Jenna Morgan.

  Myrna Eckland, from the library, sat at the opposite end of the bench, head down as if she were praying.

  On the opposite side of the gallery, a row of reporters scribbled on notepads and muttered to each other behind cupped hands. And, behind them, Rudy Perlson sat with his arms folded.

  Why were they all here? Judson Meyer had made it sound as if the arraignment would be short and sweet. That she simply would enter her plea and then wait to find out what sentence the judge would impose. He hadn’t said anything about the families of her “victims”—those whose lives her negligence had snuffed out—getting a chance to testify against her.

  Her mouth went dry. Looking over Dad’s shoulder, she panned the courtroom again. Overwhelmed, she leaned across the table to Meyer and whispered in a shaky voice, “Are they all going to testify against me?”

  He touched her hand briefly and shot her an Are-you-serious? look. Shaking his head, he slipped a ballpoint pen from the pocket of his suit coat and jotted a note on his legal pad. He slid the pad to her side of the table.

  It read: No! They are here in support of you. He underlined the word support twice.

  Her knees went weak. It seemed unbelievable that the very people she’d harmed—stolen loved ones from—could be here to support her. She swallowed past a lump of new grief.

  But scanning the room one more time, she realized the one person who mattered most to her—the one person whose forgiveness she most needed—was conspicuously absent. Garrett.

  She placed a trembling

  hand on the Bible,

  praying her voice

  would remain steady as she

  repeated the oath.

  32

  Mr. Meyer, your client is still prepared to plead guilty today as we previously discussed?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Ms. Hennesey, if you would stand, please, and the clerk will administer the oath.”

  Bryn rose, thankful for the table in front of her. She placed a trembling hand on the Bible the clerk held, praying her voice would remain steady as she repeated the oath.

  “Ms. Hennesey, you are now under oath, and answering any questions falsely may be considered perjury. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The judge looked at her over reading glasses. “Do you understand the charges against you?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “And how do you plead to those charges?”

  “I plead guilty, Your Honor.”

  “And do you make this plea of your own volition, without inducements or threats against you?”

  “Yes. This is my decision alone.”

  Beside her, Judson Meyer stepped to the side of the table and cleared his throat. “Your Honor, I would like it noted that Ms. Hennesey makes this plea against her counsel’s advice.”

  The judge studied her. “Ms. Hennesey, is this so?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Have you had full opportunity to discuss your case with Mr. Meyer and to be apprised of the possible consequences of a guilty plea?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, I have.”

  The judge slipped his glasses up on his nose, picked up his pen, and scratched out something. “Ms. Hennesey, are you satisfied with Mr. Meyer’s representation of you, and absolutely certain of the plea you’ve entered? Can you verify that you wish to plead guilty because you are guilty, and that you understand all possible consequences of this plea?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Has Mr. Meyer explained to you that you have certain rights under the law and if you plead guilty, you will be forfeiting these rights?”

  “He has, Your Honor.”

  The judge read the same list of rights Judson Meyer had asked her to read at their first meeting. Only somehow they seemed more grave coming from the judge’s lips. But nothing had changed what she knew to be true. She was guilty of the charges against her, and nothing in the judge’s questioning changed that.

  “Ms. Hennesey, do you understand each of the rights I have just described?”

  “Yes, sir . . .” She corrected herself. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “You understand that by pleading guilty you waive these rights and that you will not have a trial.”

  “I do.”

  “And you do not wish to change your plea?”

  It seemed he had given her a dozen chances to back out. And with each time he questioned her, she felt a bit less certain. As if he were asking her a trick question and making sure she fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.

  She glanced at Meyer, but his expression was inscrutable.

  She cleared her throat. “I don’t want to change my plea, Your Honor. I plead guilty.”

  The judge took off his glasses and hung them from the neckband of his robe. He clasped his hands in front of him and waited, as if for some signal.

  After a minute of deafening silence, he looked at Bryn, kindly, she thought. She held her breath.

  “Before sentence is imposed, Ms. Hennesey, you have the right to address the courtroom. It is not a requirement, but should you so desire, the law does afford you that opportunity and that right. Do you wish to make a statement?”

  Meyer had told her she would have this opportunity, and she’d written out a brief statement. She unfolded the page and stared at the words swimming before her. They seemed utterly inadequate and futile. But she could not remain silent. The people who had come—she still couldn’t quite fathom that they’d come in support of her—deserved to hear her apology in her own words, from her own lips.

  From her heart.

  She folded the paper in half, then in fourths and laid it on the table. She was thankful no one expected her to look anywhere except at the judge. “Your Honor . . .” She hadn’t choked out two words, and emotion clogged her throat.

  She closed her eyes and prayed she wouldn’t break down. “Your Honor,” she started again. “I only want to say again how terribly sorry I am for the tragedy my negligence caused. There are no words that can take away the pain I’ve caused, and there is no way to bring back any of our loved ones . . .”

  She paused. Meyer had warned her not to let her statement be about herself in any way—her own pain, or her fate at the hands of the court. She hadn’t intended to garner sympathy with her implied reference to Adam. But she did share in their sorrow. Like them, she had lost someone she loved. Two someones. “I only hope that when this day is ov
er, those who lost loved ones in the fire will feel that justice has been served. And I pray that they will someday find a way to forgive me for what happened. I would give anything—my very life—if I could go back and make things right.” She bowed her head. There was nothing more she could say.

  The judge didn’t speak for a few seconds. From the corner of her eye, Bryn saw Meyer nod at the bench, acknowledging that his client was finished speaking.

  The next minutes were a blur of vaguely familiar legal terms as the judge restated the charges against her, the penalties and demands of the law.

  “Ms. Hennesey has demonstrated that she is a law-abiding, conscientious citizen who has volunteered many hours of service to this community. In light of her own loss—the death of her husband—it is the opinion of this court that Ms. Hennesey can make restitution far more effectively by giving of herself through community service than by being incarcerated. And in fact, she has already demonstrated her giving nature with the volunteer work she’s performed in the past. Further, it is the opinion of this court that no useful purpose would be served by incarcerating her. Ms. Hennesey poses no threat to society, her actions were not intentional, and she is obviously remorseful over her negligence. Therefore . . .”

  The judge’s voice droned on in a soothing monotone, but the only words Bryn heard clearly, the only words that had meaning for her were probation and community service. And those words sent gratitude coursing through her.

  Judson Meyer covered her trembling hand with his on the table, and she thought he looked pleased with the outcome. She trusted he would explain everything in detail once they left the courtroom.

  After more formalities that passed in a haze of relief, the judge dismissed the courtroom. Bryn didn’t turn to face the gallery until the soft hum of people leaving the room had died down. But she did allow herself to lean back into her father’s waiting embrace.

  She couldn’t remember when his arms had felt so strong.