Chapter 2
Tessa forced herself to think of something else, anything but the past. The cellblock was beyond noisy, and she remembered that today was Saturday, one of the two visiting days each week. She planned to finish reading F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby for the third time since she knew there wouldn’t be anyone anxiously waiting to visit her, to ask if she was okay, if there was anything she needed. That was not going to happen.
She had loved reading her entire life, and it was her love of books that continued to protect her sanity. Lost in the fictional world of the Brontë sisters, she devoured their stories, anything to escape her own reality. Books had been her escape as a child and would apparently be for whatever remained of her miserable life in this cell she called home.
Randall Harper, her attorney, occasionally visited when there was something new to report. He’d filed an appeal immediately after the sentencing, as was customary after one’s client had received a life sentence—in her case three of them—one for each count of murder in the first degree to run consecutively rather than, as was normal, concurrently. Randall had warned her not to expect a decision in her favor, so she wasn’t surprised when her appeal had been denied. In point of fact, she really had not cared one way or another. Her daughters were gone, her husband was gone, her family no longer existed. Her life was over, and all the appeals in the world wouldn’t change that fact. She had told her attorney not to waste his time on her. It didn’t matter where she lived, she would still be grief-stricken and labeled a murderer, despite the fact that she was totally innocent of anything other than, perhaps, stupidity.
Liam Jamison. Joel’s half brother. He was the person responsible for her loss, and he had never even been questioned regarding the murder of her entire family. Repeatedly, she had told her story to the police officers. Over and over that fateful Sunday when she had returned from San Maribel. She had begged, pleaded, and finally, she had screamed with such rage, crazed with unparalleled grief, that they’d actually listened to her. She told her story again, over and over, repeatedly, or at least she thought she had because years later, when she had tried to recall the events that had led up to her arrest, she had no clear memory of exactly what she had said to the police that day or any other day aside from her absolute, unwavering conviction that Liam had killed her entire family. Over and over, she had implored them to locate Liam, telling the police she knew he was responsible because he had been molesting her daughters, and that was the reason she had traveled to San Maribel. To arrange a place to hide her girls from the media, which would exploit the horrid act that had changed their lives forever. It didn’t seem to matter what she had said; they would not listen. She recalled being whisked from room to room and questioned until she simply stopped talking.
Literally.
She had told the officers on the scene what she knew to be true. When the detectives had taken her downtown to police headquarters, where she was questioned for hours, so long, that her memory of that day, or it might have been days, was still hazy more than ten years later.
Liam was never investigated; in fact, he was never even located. Sure that Rachelle, her mother-in-law, had whisked him out of the country, never to be found again, Tessa had simply given up on locating him. Rachelle had done a damn good job because Tessa’s attorney said he’d hired the best private detectives in the business, and they had failed to locate him. The one thing that they did know was that he had not been in Japan as she had thought when she flew off to San Maribel. He seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth.
The police investigation, what little of it there had been, centered completely on her.
Her trial was short, taking almost no time at all and occurring scant weeks after the deaths of her loved ones, making headlines across the country. While the case went to the jury after only fourteen days of testimony, she listened to the talking heads discuss her life, what her motive had been: a 50-million-dollar life insurance policy and Jamison Pharmaceuticals. Virtually everyone agreed that she should get the death penalty for her greed.
The talk of her weekend “getaway” had been the subject of a great deal of speculation. A secret lover in San Maribel. A sudden hate for her children. Revenge for an unfaithful husband. On and on the murders made headlines across the country, and there wasn’t a single ounce of truth to any of them.
She had truly lived through a nightmare.
And that nightmare would never end unless she dictated its ending herself. For years now, she had been contemplating how she would go about committing the act that would put an end to her suffering, yet each day, she somehow found another reason to go on. A new book in the library, a rare kind word from a guard, or just the knowledge that it was morally wrong to have acted on such thoughts.
Tomorrow I will rethink my options. She had this thought at least once each day.
The guards were especially watchful on visiting days, their eyes everywhere, never missing the slightest hint of defiance. It could be as simple as one trying to hold the hand of a loved one, a quick sleight of hand in an attempt to pass a joint, whatever the latest craze happened to be in the world of narcotics, or a small weapon. It amazed her how hawkeyed they could be on visiting day, considering how lackadaisical they usually were.
In a different world, she would understand, but she was now a part of this institution that synchronized every minute of her existence with military precision. When she ate, what she ate, when she showered, when she slept, where she slept, what she wore. On and on it went. The only variation to her days were her precious radio, which allowed her to stay informed on the outside world, her books, and the few snacks she was allowed to purchase from the commissary, something she seldom did, again because she did not want to draw any undue attention to herself.
She dampened a much-treasured washcloth and ran it over her face, neck, and arms. Showers were every other day, and she had learned to make do with the small sink in her cell. While she wasn’t going to strip off for a full body wash, which she only did when it was lights out, for now, she settled for a quick once-over, then settled down on her bunk with her book while the other inmates prepared for visitors.
At first, it had bothered her when no one came to visit, other than Randall, of course, whom she never considered a real visitor, but now, she was content for the short span of quiet time these weekend visiting days provided her. While her days working in the prison’s library were cherished, it wasn’t always as quiet as one might think it would be in a library.
So immersed was she in her novel that the whack of a club against the steel bars startled her, and her book flew out of her hands.
“Get up, Jamison. You got a visitor,” said Hicks, her least favorite guard.
Who? she wondered, as she had not had a visitor since Lara, and that had been more than a year ago.
Knowing it was useless to ask who, she simply nodded, picked her book off the floor, and tossed it onto her bed. So much for F. Scott Fitzgerald’s characters’ adventures, but she knew the ending, so it really didn’t matter as it was simply a means by which to pass the time, which, unfortunately, she had more than enough of.
“Hurry up. I ain’t got all day,” Hicks shouted.
Tessa nodded, held her hands out of the small opening for the wrist cuffs that connected to the shackles that would be placed around her ankles when she was out of her cell.
“You ain’t going to the public visiting area. You got some fancy-schmancy legal team here,” Hicks explained, her Southern accent heavy with sarcasm. “Must think you’re special, huh?”
Marcia Hicks was overweight and just as ugly as she was mean. More than once she had passed by Tessa’s cell with a black eye. Tessa wasn’t sure if her occasional injuries were from an inmate, another guard, or possibly from home. Nor did she really care. The woman was evil and a bully, which made her well suited for the job of prison guard.
Tessa hated it when the guards tried to antagonize her, anything to get a negative response just so they could send her to the “hole,” but to this very day, she had never allowed her emotions to control her actions. She simply nodded as if this turn of events was expected, and let Hicks lead her out of her cell.
Inside, her heart hammered like a Gatling gun. As Tessa walked down the cellblock, Hicks behind her, she kept her head lowered, focusing on the cement floor as she took one step at a time, her thoughts all over the place.
A legal team? Hicks was probably just trying to get a rise out of her. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder who’d gone to such great lengths to visit her. The few times Randall visited, they had met in the attorney-client holding room reserved for attorneys to meet with their clients, where they could have actual human contact. One couldn’t sign papers or visit with one’s attorney in the area reserved for public visitations. But they were headed in the opposite direction from the attorney-client rooms. When they reached the end of the hallway with which she was familiar, with Hicks on her heels, she stopped, waiting for Hicks to direct her to her destination.
“Left, stupid ass,” Hicks said before Tessa could ask.
Tessa took a deep breath and released it slowly. She would not allow the crude name-calling to affect her, no matter how hard it was not to do so. She turned to the left and walked down a short hallway, which ended with a utilitarian gray door inset with a small pane of wire-covered glass. She had never been to this area of the prison and had no clue what to expect when Hicks jostled her ring of keys and unlocked the door.
Hicks shoved her into the room, and Tessa stumbled, regaining her balance with the aid of an unknown hand that was offered.
When she saw the face of Sam McQuade, tears filled her eyes. Not knowing or caring why he was here, she walked toward him and wrapped her arms around him, not caring that she was being observed by strangers.
“Sam,” she said, her voice a soft whisper.
“Tessa.”
It was only seconds, but it felt much longer to Tessa when Hicks pushed her away from him. It had been so long since she had had a comforting hug; the utter completeness of the act brought back memories that she had thought were tucked away in that safe place in her mind that she rarely allowed herself to visit. A tingle down her spine settled itself in places that were off-limits to her now.
“Get your hands off her,” an unfamiliar voice said to Hicks. “And leave. You’re not needed here.”
Tessa wanted to shout “Yes!” as loud as she could but refrained, knowing what the consequences would be once this visit was over.
It was unlike Hicks not to respond with some smart-ass comment, but the horrible woman left the room without saying a word, signaling her displeasure only by slamming the door behind her. Perhaps these people had the kind of clout that even a bully like Hicks recognized could spell trouble for her if they decided to make an issue of her crude conduct. One could wish.
“Are they all like her?” the man who had spoken asked, nodding toward the door.
Tessa shook her head. “No.” Her head was spinning, wondering what was happening. It couldn’t be good; that much she was sure of. No one visited a prison to deliver good news; at least she didn’t know of anyone who’d had good news delivered this way.
“I assume you’re wondering why we are all here,” said the man with the unfamiliar voice. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a head of the blackest hair she had ever seen. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, a dark blue suit, and a pink tie, which she assumed to be in recognition of it being October, Breast Cancer Awareness Month. “I’m Lee Whitlow, and these are my associates”—he stepped out of her line of sight—“Steven Kilhefner and Bethany Young.”
Tessa extended her hand, shaking hands with these three strangers who had most likely come with devastating news, hence Sam’s appearance.
Her first thought was that Lara had either overdosed or had been killed. Just the thought caused her stomach to churn with that familiar tugging sensation that she identified as gut-wrenching fear.
Unsure of what she should do, she simply said, “Hello.” It had been a very long time since she had had occasion to display her social graces, and she felt totally out of touch with the real world. Prison life was an entity unto itself, and Tessa was stained forever with the stigma of being a convicted murderer. She felt inhuman, worthless, no longer a part of society or anything that mattered because the life she knew had been taken from her over ten years ago. So, whoever these people were, the reason for their visit didn’t really matter because she knew that as soon as they said whatever they came to say, Hicks would take her back to her cell, where she would return to the world of F. Scott Fitzgerald.
“Please, take a seat,” Lee Whitlow said, motioning to a group of chairs surrounding a low table. She had not even noticed the room’s furnishings until now. There was a brown-metal filing cabinet to her right, with a large desk to her left, and folding metal chairs were placed in the center of the room around a low, round table. No windows. Fluorescent lights. Maybe this is the bereavement room, she thought as she sat down. Never having been there, it was hard to say, but whatever the room’s purpose, Tessa knew her reason for being here could be life-changing.
As soon as she was seated, Steven Kilhefner, a short, stocky man who appeared to be in his early forties, sat beside her and placed a large briefcase on the low table. He removed what appeared to be legal documents, as the files were legal-sized. No, she thought, this cannot be good. Her hands shook, and her mouth was suddenly dry.
Bethany Young must have read her mind. She placed an unopened bottle of water on the table in front of her and four more close to the edge. “We talk a lot, our mouths need fuel,” she said, smiling, a way of explaining the extra bottles of water. Bethany couldn’t have been a day over twenty-one, Tessa thought as she took the water. Of average size, the woman was dressed in beige slacks with a pale blue blouse and wore a smartly fitted navy blazer. Her sunflower-colored hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, held in place with a tortoiseshell barrette. Tessa quickly glanced at Bethany’s hands, but she wore no jewelry. Girl next door came to mind.
Whatever the reason for the water, Tessa didn’t care. She opened the water and drank half the bottle, then steadied what was left in the bottle between her knees.
Sam sat beside her, placing his hand on her shoulder. Again, his touch sent waves of . . . something she didn’t want to put a name to through her. She had not felt a man’s touch in such a very long time. She tried not to focus on the physicality of her situation, the closeness of the man beside her.
She searched the faces of the people whom she assumed to be the bearers of bad news, and asked, “Could you please just tell me why you’re here, and get it over with? Is it Lara? Has something happened to her?” She turned her gaze to Sam, imploring him to answer her questions.
“No, Lara is fine. At least she was the last time she came to the office to pick up a check. That was a few weeks ago,” Sam explained. “I keep tabs on her. I’m confident she’s doing just fine.”
Tessa felt a wave of relief wash over her. While she and Lara weren’t close, she was the only family Tessa had left. If something had happened to her, Tessa would be completely alone in the world. This thought struck her so fast, it took a moment for it to register. She was alone. She would always be alone even though she was surrounded by hundreds of women just like herself. No, she wasn’t like those other women.
She was not a murderer, she truly was innocent!
The thought offered little comfort. This was her home now. She had accepted that and learned to live with the court’s decision.
Tired of waiting, Tessa focused her attention on Mr. Whitlow, asking, “Why are you here?”
Again, Sam placed his arm around her shoulders. She jerked so quickly the water bottle she had secured with her knees fell to the floor, the water forming a small circle around her slipper-clad feet. “Sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be,” Whitlow replied. “You’re nervous, and we understand. Bethany, grab a tissue and give Ms. Jamison another bottle of water.”
The young woman pulled a few tissues from a box on the desk and tossed them onto the small puddle to absorb the liquid, then used a clean tissue to pick up the wet glob and toss it into a garbage can beside the desk.
“Thank you,” Tessa said. She felt foolish and wasn’t used to having people clean up after her. That was her job. Monday and Wednesday, showers, the nastiest of all jobs. Tuesday and Thursday, the library, a much-coveted job. Fridays were spent doling out prescription medications in the prison’s infirmary/pharmacy. Another much-sought-after position. Tessa did not care much for this particular assignment either, but given her education and background, it was common sense that she be placed at the “pill window,” which was always monitored by guards inside the small area that constituted the prison’s pharmacy and outside the window where inmates lined up for their meds. Prisoners must be observed by a guard while taking medication. Inside, an antibiotic or a pill that couldn’t be purchased over the counter at the commissary was extremely valuable.
“I know you must be curious why we’re here,” Whitlow said, stating the obvious.
Tessa nodded, afraid to say anything for fear of the answer.
“Lee, just tell her. You have kept her in suspense too long,” Sam demanded.
“The Florida Supreme Court recently ruled that a suspect’s silence can’t be used against them in court.” He paused for effect. “As you know, during your trial, there were several witnesses who stated you remained silent after your arrest—”
“I told the police,” Tessa interrupted.
Lee held up a hand. “Let me finish, Ms. Jamison, please. I’m sure you will want to hear what I have to say.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Please go on.”
Whitlow continued. “Thank you. I have read the transcript of your trial. Michael Chen had it in for you. Of that there is no doubt in my mind.”
Tessa remembered Assistant District Attorney Michael Chen. She guessed him to have been in his early thirties at the time of her trial. He was smug, she remembered thinking. During the trial, he had done everything he could to draw attention to what he thought of as his brilliant mind, his superiority. That had been her impression even though what he did had little effect on how she felt. She had not really cared one way or another as her life was over whatever the verdict. The trial and Michael Chen’s display of arrogance were merely inconveniences to get through.
She had tried to pay attention to the witnesses, but she had been unable to stop the flow of the images that taunted her, the images of her two daughters and her husband that wracked her brain. She now believed she had been in a state of shock after her arrest, and most likely she had suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder.
What she did recall about the district attorney was an abundance of perspiration and body odor. He reeked of rotten onions and sour sweat. She wondered how his assistants could stand to be in the same room with him, let alone seated next to him at the prosecution’s table. And the words he’d spouted during his summation were as foul as his body odor. She also recalled that his teeth were crooked and unclean. He made a point of standing next to the defense table when he spoke. Tessa remembered how she would inwardly gag when he stood beside her chair. Short, fat, and smelly summed up this disgusting example of a human being.
“Michael Chen’s tactics during the trial were brought to my attention by Mr. McQuade.”
Tessa shot Sam a questioning look.
“I was a lawyer before I was a CEO,” he explained.
Somewhat stunned, Tessa replied, “I never knew.” All she really knew about Sam was he’d been friends with Joel during college, and for the past twelve years, he’d been CEO of Jamison Pharmaceuticals. She knew he held a couple of degrees but assumed they were in the medical and pharmacy field. Sam had been older, and she recalled Joel telling her this once.
“Emory Law,” he explained.
Lee Whitlow took the file from Steven Kilhefner. He opened the manila folder and removed a stack of papers. “This is a copy of the Florida Supreme Court’s recent ruling. Sam brought this to my attention five months ago, and I agree with the court’s decision.”
Tessa’s pulse increased, her eyes filled with tears. She knuckled the tears before they had a chance to fall. She had to be strong. Tough. If she were headed to death row, then so be it. Her daily thoughts of how she could end her existence were possibly being answered for her. Taking a deep breath, doing her best to evoke some inner sense of bravery, she said, “I do not understand. What does this mean?” She was sure she was correct in her assumption.
“We have asked for a new trial, and our request has been granted,” Lee Whitlow stated. “Your conviction has been overturned on the grounds that your Fifth Amendment rights were violated in your first trial.”
Feeling as though she had been punched in the gut, Tessa drew in a sharp breath. The room swirled, the fluorescent lights blurred, and a hand reached for her, steadying her as she almost fell from the chair.
It took a few seconds for her to regain her sense of sight and balance. When she had herself under control, she took one of the unopened bottles of water on the table, opened it, and took a long drink. Her throat was dry and her voice scratchy when she spoke. “I still don’t understand.” A question more than a statement, and she waited for an explanation. “Does Randall know about this?”
“He does, but he’s asked me to take the lead. I have read your trial transcript numerous times, as have my colleagues. During your trial, the prosecution sought and received testimony from numerous state witnesses who testified that you remained silent following the murder of your twin daughters and your husband after you were placed under arrest. As I’m sure you know, the state reminded the jurors of your silence repeatedly during their closing statement. Mr. Chen argued that the jury could weigh your silence after your arrest as evidence of conscious guilt. The case law, Florida v. Horwitz, was expanded several months ago prohibiting prosecutors from using a defendant’s pre-arrest, pre-Miranda silence as substantive evidence of guilt when a defendant chooses not to testify at trial. Because of the recent change in the law, Mr. Chen’s use of your silence violated your Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination, something all are entitled to under Florida’s constitution as well as the United States Constitution. In simple terms, the facts that you didn’t speak to officers after your arrest, did not testify on your behalf, and the Fifth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution states you had the right to remain silent if you chose to, it should not have been used against you, but it was.” Lee Whitlow dropped the papers on the table.
Tessa felt all eyes on her. Unsure of how they expected her to react, she remained quiet, trying to absorb the information she had just heard. Never even giving a thought to leaving Florida’s Correctional Center for women, or as some of the other inmates crudely referred to it, Fucking Cockless Institute, she had accepted her sentence as it was ordered: three life sentences to be served consecutively, which was the rest of her natural life. How did one get past this? Shock, she thought as she tried to summon words to express what she was feeling. Stunned, unable to wrap her mind around the attorney’s words, she remained still, silent.
“Tessa?” Sam asked. “Say something.”
Shaking her head from side to side, she took another gulp of water, then returned the bottle to the table. “Why? I don’t understand. Why now? Why didn’t they believe me then? I told the detectives at the scene the truth. My . . . truth somehow matters now?”
“It’s not always about the truth, Ms. Jamison. Right now it’s about your rights, and the law has changed since your conviction.” Steven Kilhefner spoke for the first time. “I’m Mr. Whitlow’s investigator, but I’m also an attorney. I just choose the investigatory side of the law. I’m going to assist you in getting out of this place while we wait and prepare for your new trial. The circumstances won’t be perfect, but they’ll be colossal compared to your current . . . situation.”
For the second time, the lights blurred, and the room became dimmer. Darkness sought her out, and this time it found her.