Silent Witness Read Free

But what made her presence at the Hall of Justice so surprising was that she made a practice of avoiding Tony’s trials – she did not like courtrooms, and this building held bad memories for her.
    Twelve years before, Stacey had given a concert to raise money for her lover, Senator James Kilcannon, a Democratic candidate for President in the California primary. As Stacey stood next to him, Kilcannon was shot and killed by a Vietnam veteran, Harry Carson, who was in the throes of post-traumatic stress syndrome. Or so had claimed Anthony Lord, who became Harry Carson’s lawyer.
    At the outset, Stacey had despised both men equally: even now, she could not fully account for how she had come to separate Tony from his client, and then to love him. But she had.
    â€˜Congratulations,’ she said.
    Her gaze combined affection with a quiet inquiry. ‘Still,’ Tony said, ‘you’re wondering what I’ve gotten away with, aren’t you?’
    Stacey smiled a little, though her eyes did not: while she had learned to accept, and even understand, the reasons for Tony’s sometimes ruthless devotion to protecting his clients, she could never share it. ‘Not you,’ she said at last. ‘But Gina Belfante did kill him, after all. I understand battered woman’s syndrome, but did this woman “reasonably” believe that she couldn’t leave him?’
    Tony shrugged. ‘With a state-of-mind defense, all the lawyer can do is let the jury decide. In this case, I hope, the jury saw Gina Belfante as she really is. Or perhaps they just concluded that her next husband is safe enough, and the last one no great loss.’ This was not, Tony saw at once, the right thing to have said. ‘If it’s any comfort, Stacey, I’ve never had a client I’ve walked on a murder charge go out and do it again. At least that’s some comfort to me.’
    Silent, Stacey considered him. ‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘I’m just glad it’s over. I missed you.’
    Tony pulled her close, burying his face in her neck. Her hair and skin smelled fresh. ‘Not good enough,’ she murmured. ‘Why don’t we go home.’
    Their home in Pacific Heights was on a private block with a view of the bay. Like the car and driver, the house afforded both security and privacy. It was good, Tony had dryly remarked, that Stacey could afford it. Stacey had suffered stalkers, and some of Tony’s clients were deeply unpopular: even had their lives not imposed on them certain lessons, both had genuine reason to worry for their safety and that of Christopher, Tony’s son.
    This was but one of the prices they paid for a celebrity that was, in the main, unsought: the gazes of strangers in restaurants; the careless gossip of people who barely knew them but pretended they did; the too-quick friendships of others drawn to ‘fame’ for its own sake. But at least Tony and Stacey disliked all this in common, just as they disliked the assumption that they were somehow exempted from what would be stressful for any other busy couple – doubts as to their own careers; the need to keep their marriage fresh; the knowledge that both worked too hard; lingering questions as to whether, as Stacey was unable to bear children, they should adopt; their occasional worries over some change or another in Christopher. Most of all, they shared something that many people did not and that they understood in each other very well: an awareness that happiness was fragile, good fortune a gift.
    True, they did not have to worry about money and, thanks to Stacey’s success, never would. But if they were happy – and more often than not they truly were – it was less because of money than because they loved Christopher and each other, yet respected one another’s separateness. This perhaps helped explain why they remained so close. Stacey had never asked Tony to turn down