My Lost Daughter (42 page)

“Calm down. I don't have an Internet connection. I use the computer to type things up regarding my businesses. Please, Shana, go back to your room now. Someone may have heard you just now. You don't want to go back to the Quiet Room, do you?”

“You should have told me you had a computer,” Shana argued. “We could have hooked up to someone's wireless.”

“Please . . .”

“I'm going, okay, but you should have told me.”

Before she opened the door to leave, Alex was snoring.

VENTURA, CALIFORNIA

At eight o'clock Thursday morning, Lily had a meeting in her chambers with Clinton Silverstein and Richard Fowler. Noelle Reynolds had suddenly opened her eyes and realized she might get the death penalty. As her attorney, Fowler had to present her offer to plead guilty to the district attorney. And since this could conceivably terminate the trial, it was mandatory that a judge be present.

“My client is willing to plead guilty to first-degree murder in exchange for a sentence of life in prison.”

“Oh, really,” Silverstein said, his shoulders squared off for a fight. “Tell her to stick her finger in a light socket. I refuse to let
this cold-blooded murderer get away with life in prison. She deserves to die just like her little boy.”

“Remember,” Lily told the prosecutor, “you've given the jury only two choices and one of those is acquittal.”

Silverstein gave Lily a dirty look. “The only reason Reynolds wants to plead out is she knows the coroner is about to testify that she fed her child pizza laced with Ajax.”

Fowler jumped in. “Just because Ajax was found in the boy's system doesn't prove Noelle fed it to him. Children are famous for eating toxic chemicals. You have to do better than that, Silverstein.”

“For Christ's sake, Fowler,” Silverstein shouted. “She locked the kid in the trunk of the car while she went out partying. You used to be a first-rate prosecutor. How can you even defend this monster?”

“We're trying to settle this,” Lily said, turning to Richard. “What do you have that would mitigate this crime?”

“As you both should know, looks can be deceiving. Dr. Reynolds spent a fortune on psychologists and tutors.” Fowler opened a brown leather litigation case, pulling out a stack of stapled papers and handing copies to both Lily and Silverstein. “What you're looking at is an IQ test that was administered to my client a week ago at the jail. I just got the report yesterday. If you'll look at the last page, you'll see that her score was seventy. Seventy or below is considered retarded, or to be politically correct, developmentally disabled.”

Silverstein hadn't taken the time to condition his permed hair and the dryness in the air made it stick straight up all over his head. He looked either ridiculous or terrifying, like a villain out of a slasher movie. “How could she be retarded? Give me a break, Fowler. She graduated from high school. She even got accepted at UCLA.”

“Which she could not have done without help, as you yourself pointed out in your opening statement. I have other psychological and intelligence tests that were administered to Ms. Reynolds as early as age five. Her father desperately wanted her to fit in with
normal children and spent an enormous amount of time and money to make certain this happened. He hired a long chain of tutors. He sent Noelle to special summer camps for learning disabled children. When she entered puberty, Noelle even went to modeling school so she could learn table manners and how to walk and carry herself.”

Both Silverstein and Lily were hanging on his every word. There were no indications the defendant was developmentally disabled in the police reports or the subsequent investigations conducted by the homicide detectives and the DA's office. Lily and Silverstein were completely astounded.

“Now,” Fowler continued, “considering that my client is borderline retarded, the stress of trying to support herself as well as care for the demands of a toddler was more than she could handle. So she cracked, lost touch with reality. For all we know, she could have become psychotic. Her mother is dead. Her father abandoned her. She had no one to teach her parenting skills. We know she's been self-medicating with various illegal substances for years. Perhaps she even believed that the boy was safer in the trunk than he would be somewhere else. The only babysitter Noelle could afford was a fourteen-year-old girl named Rhonda Westin. She's on my witness list, so she was going to testify on Noelle's behalf.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Noelle claims Ms. Westin was the one who was watching Brandon when he got into the Ajax. She used Rhonda because she only charged a dollar per hour, whereas the older sitters charged far more. We also have to consider that Brandon may have suffered from some of the same disabilities as his mother, which could explain why he consumed toxic substances.”

Silverstein seemed to shrink in his chair. It wasn't a perfect defense, but it was enough to place doubt in the minds of the jurors. The criteria for a guilty verdict was that the jurors must find the defendant guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. The most damning point of all was that the Supreme Court had ruled against capital punishment for the mentally disabled. If Fowler could prove that Noelle Reynolds was retarded, the death penalty would be lost, which
meant the only sentence left would be life without the possibility of parole. Silverstein picked up his briefcase and held it tight against his chest. “I-I won't agree to life. If I did, she'd be eligible for parole in approximately fourteen years, which would be a miscarriage of justice. The child also had trace elements of arsenic in his body. Is the babysitter going to admit she fed him arsenic as well?”

“We have an expert witness who will testify regarding the arsenic.”

Silverstein knew he was defeated and had to push for the longest sentence possible. “The only thing I'll consider is life without the possibility of parole.”

Fowler stood and picked up his papers and briefcase. “I'll have to discuss this with my client and her mental health advocate.”

“Now she has a fucking mental health advocate! You're a bastard, Fowler. When did murderers stop deserving punishment? When they started padding your bank account?” Silverstein sprang to his feet, dropping his briefcase on the floor and lunging at Fowler. “If you dummied this up, I'll . . . I'll rip your fucking throat out.”

“Take your seat, counselor,” Lily said through clenched teeth. “You're accusing a respected member of the legal community of manufacturing evidence. Are you certain you want to do that?”

Silverstein was red-faced and panting. A trickle of drool ran out one corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. “Any deal will be based on the People conducting their own intelligence tests.”

“No problem.” Fowler quickly slipped out the door, evidently fearing Silverstein would come after him again.

Lily turned to Silverstein. “You should have had Reynolds tested months ago. If you had, Fowler might not have been able to sandbag you like he just did.”

“But we did psychological testing. I didn't test her intellect because she seemed to be perfectly normal. The only thing that was at issue was her sanity and her ability to cooperate with her
defense. Dr. Williams said she was immature but otherwise perfectly normal.”

“You didn't look deep enough, Clinton. Get two independent psychologists over to the jail to test Reynolds immediately. If you get the results after hours, call me at home. I doubt if Fowler would stoop low enough to manufacture evidence in a case this serious, but let's do our best to keep him honest.”

Lily was already exhausted and the day had just begun. It wouldn't be a bad resolution to the case if Reynolds agreed to life without the possibility of parole. Then the trial would be over and she would have time to focus all her attention on Shana. She had already purchased a ticket to fly up there Friday night. Maybe she could bring Shana back with her. At the noon break, she would look for a local addiction specialist who worked with patients on an outpatient basis.

She called Richard on his cell phone. “Was Greg able to get in touch with Shana?”

“No,” he said. “He called but the hospital told him she was refusing all calls. I don't know what to tell you, Lily. Oh, thanks for backing me up in there. Clinton's always been a little wacko, but . . .”

“I didn't back you up, Richard. I was doing my job.”

“See you in court.”

“Yeah,” she said, disconnecting.

Life was funny. The man had once been the love of her life. Now he was nothing more than another annoying, egotistical attorney.

THURSDAY, JANUARY 21
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

On the walk to lunch, the sky was overcast and the air heavy with moisture. Shana suspected a storm was moving in. Although her days were spent inside an air-conditioned hospital, Shana knew it had been far too warm for this time of the year. It had to be global warming. At least the rain would give the area a respite from the unseasonable heat they had been experiencing.

The patients seemed to be experiencing a letdown. The magic of the night before had been vanquished in the light of reality. “Are you still going back to Ventura?” Karen asked, as if she knew what had happened the night before in Alex's room. “Why don't you stay here with Alex?”

“Oh, Karen,” Shana said, sighing. “You know I'm not going to stay here at Whitehall.”

“Alex loves you,” Karen told her. “You're the perfect couple. He's an important person. He even told me I could work for one of his companies when I get out.”

“I'm happy for you.” Shana draped an arm around her shoulder. “I'm sure you'll make a wonderful employee.”

In the cafeteria, Shana carried her own tray to the table. Alex
hadn't been around when they'd left for lunch, so she assumed his session with his shrink had run late. She took a few bites out of her turkey sandwich, and then dropped it back on the plate, wondering what had happened to Norman. May and Karen were discussing hairstyles and makeup, so she waited until they stopped talking. “Where's Norman?”

“I don't know,” Karen said. “I haven't seen him around all day. Maybe he's in bed or something. We stayed up pretty late last night.”

Shana didn't feel well herself and decided to skip lunch and go back. When she stood, though, the room began spinning and she sat back down.

Alex appeared and placed a glass of orange juice in front of her. “Drink this,” he said. “It will stabilize your blood sugar.”

“Are you sick, sugar?” May asked, seeing a line of perspiration on Shana's forehead.

“I don't know,” Shana told her. Karen looked as lovely as she had the night before, only now she had four eyes, two mouths, and two noses. Shana began giggling. David had joined them and started throwing paper napkins and chunks of his dinner roll at her.

Alex slapped his palm down on the table. “Stop it, David. You're acting like a child. If you want to eat with adults, you have to act like one.”

“It was my fault,” Shana said. “Don't blame David. He thought I was joking around because I was laughing.”

David shoved his chair back from the table, shot Alex a black look, and then stormed out of the cafeteria.

“I'll go talk to David,” Shana said, placing her napkin on the table.

Alex's dark eyes were flashing with anger. He reached for the back of her chair, pushing it closer to the table. “Eat your lunch.” One side of his lip curled. “Don't baby him. He was acting stupid.”

“Maybe that's why he's here.” Shana tried to stand again, but her arms floated in the air like wings. Karen jerked her head to one side and barked. Shana responded with a high-pitched giggle. She placed her hand over her mouth, fearful she had hurt Karen's feelings. “I'm not laughing at you, Karen. I promise.”

Karen fingered a strand of hair. “It doesn't matter. I'm used to people making fun of me.” Then she blurted out, “Shit, damn, asshole.”

“Please don't take offense.” Shana felt guilty that she'd caused an outburst. “Dr. Morrow gave me some kind of new drug that must be causing me to laugh. Besides, everyone says bad words when they're angry or frustrated. We all have those words inside of us. Maybe if some of us could release all the anger trapped inside, we'd be better off.”

Karen had returned to her lunch when Shana was struck by another fit of uncontrollable laughter. Karen leaned over and hugged her. “It's the medication. Here,” she said, picking up a forkful of mashed potatoes. “You have to eat, Shana. Food will help absorb whatever chemicals they've given you.”

“I can't . . . eat,” Shana told her between giggles. “I . . . I'll choke.”

A few of the other people at the table began snickering. “Stop it!” Karen shouted. “She didn't say anything funny. She's having a reaction to the medication. None of you have any idea how terrible it is not to be able to control yourself. Let's get out of here, Shana.” She stood and took her hand, leading her away from the table.

The two women made their way to the courtyard. Shana was laughing so hard that she wet her pants. Karen's concern intensified. Inside the great room, she headed straight to the nursing station. Peggy was thumbing through a copy of the
National Enquirer
.

“You have to give Shana something to counteract the other medicine,” Karen demanded. “She can't stop laughing. She can't even eat.”

Shana giggled again.

“She's not having a drug reaction,” Peggy said. “None of the drugs we administer cause a person to laugh. We don't dispense laughing gas or LSD.”

“You and that stupid Morrow make me sick!” Karen yelled, flinging her arms around. “Call someone now or I'm going to come over this counter and strangle you.”