Jolene nodded. Those few words brought Tami into the hangar so clearly she could practically smell her gardenia shampoo. “Yes, she would. And she’d kick my ass if she saw us standing here with tears in our eyes. ”
He wiped his eyes. “Yep. ”
“Come on, guys. ” She led him through the building to the locker room. Betsy followed a pace behind.
Jolene limped through the narrow area, lined with metal lockers. At number 702, she stopped.
“Is that my mom’s?”
Jolene nodded, feeling Betsy come up beside her. Jolene hesitated a second, and then spun the lock into its combination. It clicked open.
At the bottom of the locker were a pair of sand-colored boots, a green tee shirt, a helmet, and a silver water bottle. A picture of Seth and Carl, its edges curled up, was taped to the inside wall. Jolene reached in and took the items out, setting them aside. She handed Seth the picture.
That was when she saw the envelope. There was just one—a long, business-sized white envelope with one word written across it: Jolene.
“I knew she’d write you one,” Seth said. His hand made its way to his pocket; he fingered the envelope that stuck up. “It’s her ‘in case I die’ letter. ”
Jolene couldn’t reach for it.
“Do you think she knew?” he asked, looking at her.
“No,” Jolene said thickly. “She thought she’d come home. She wanted to, so much. For you and your dad. ” She took a breath. “I know I’m not her, Seth, but I will be here for you your whole life. If you need anything—advice with girls, driving lessons, anything. You come to me. We can talk about anything. When you’re ready, we’ll talk about your mom and how much she loved you, and what her dreams for you were. I’ll show you some pictures and tell you some stories. ”
“When I’m ready?”
Jolene knew what he meant. She wasn’t ready yet, either. She couldn’t read Tami’s letter until she was stronger, until she was sure the good-bye wouldn’t break her. Hell, maybe she’d never be able to read it.
* * *
The Keller trial ended amid a flurry of icy rain in downtown Seattle. Michael fought for the jury instructions he wanted, and he got them. The prosecution had amended the charges to include both murder in the second degree and manslaughter to the charges—a good sign for the defense. For weeks, Michael had put on witnesses and offered evidence about PTSD. He’d argued fervently that Keith had been incapable of forming the specific intent necessary to commit the crime of murder in the first degree. One witness after another had confirmed Keith’s deep and abiding love for his wife. Even Emily’s mother had tearfully confessed that she had known something was wrong with Keith, that he’d come home “messed up in his head somehow,” and that the killing was terrible and tragic but that she didn’t see how prison would help. “We just have to live with it,” she’d concluded, dabbing at her eyes.
Keith’s own testimony had been the defense’s best weapon. It had been a big gamble to put him on the stand, but Michael had known by then that the jury would only believe Keith if they heard the story firsthand.
With Keith, there were no previous crimes, no barroom fights or petty shoplifting charges in his youth, nothing that his testimony would open the door to. He had been a good kid who had grown into a fine man who had been broken by war. He testified about trying to get help from Veterans Affairs and the helplessness he felt. He cried when he talked about his wife, although he seemed to be unaware of his tears. When he said, “If I hadn’t gone to Iraq, maybe I’d still be working at the feed store and we’d have a baby by now. Theresa. That was the name Emily picked for our daughter. It haunts me, thinking stuff like that,” several of the jurors had shiny eyes.
Michael had hoped—as all defense attorneys did—for either a lightning-fast verdict or a very slow one.
This time, he got his wish. The jury’s deliberation went on and on. For six days, Michael went into the city, sat at his desk. He read reports and conducted depositions and drafted pleadings, but all the while he was waiting. The worst part of it was that he needed to be at home, and yet here he was.
Since Tami’s funeral, Jolene had fallen into a despair he couldn’t imagine, gone to a dark place he couldn’t follow. The tiny footprints of their reconciliation—that one kiss—had been lost in the rubble of her grief. She drank too much and took sleeping pills and slept the days and nights away. She woke screaming at night but wouldn’t let herself be comforted. When he tried, she pushed him away, looking at him through eyes that were wide with pain. The girls steered clear of her. Lulu cried herself to sleep, wondering what had happened to her mommy.
Michael was literally at the end of his rope. He was trying to give Jolene space and let her grieve, but she was pulling them all under water, drowning them, and he didn’t know what to do.
His intercom buzzed. “Michael? The jury’s in. ”
Michael thanked his secretary and grabbed his coat. Within minutes, he was walking up Second Avenue in the spitting cold rain. Damp bits of paper and black leaves skidded along the wet streets, plastering themselves to windows and bus stops and windshields.
Inside the courthouse, he stomped his feet on the stone floor and shook the rain from his hair.
Not far away, a knot of reporters had gathered. More would probably follow. In the past week, both CNN and Fox News had done stories on the case.
“Michael!”
They called out to him, waved him over.
He paused just long enough to say, “No comment yet, guys,” and then walked into the courtroom, where he took a seat at the defendant’s table.
The Kellers had been staying in a local hotel, waiting, and they arrived a few minutes later.