Seven Novels of Murder and Madness

By Robert Trainor

Seven Novels of Murder and Madness contains the following full-length novels: The Trial of Shada King, The Book of Dreams, The Blackwater Journal, The Dark Side of the Moon, The Voice of the Victim, Destroyed by Malice, and The Murder of Marabeth Waters. In the space allowed, I will give brief descriptions of these novels.

In the Trial of Shada King, a woman is accused of murdering the man who raped her. Shada claims that she acted in self-defense, and since she was wearing a wire that recorded the shooting, her claim seems to be valid. But upon further investigation, the prosecuting attorney comes to the conclusion that the shooting was staged and that the audiotape is an elaborate hoax.

The Book of Dreams: Detective Shane Manning has a troubling history when it comes to his dreams because many of them are nightmares that often seem to find their way into reality. This was especially true when he was younger--the dream he had back then was something that would haunt him for years. And now, fifteen years later, he's investigating the murder of a college student, but he still can't seem to get away from his dreams, which are leading him down a deadly path.

The Blackwater Journal: Sixteen-year-old Alanda Streets is trapped in a room from which there is no escape. There are padlocks on the door, the windows have been boarded up, and Alanda's only contact with humanity is her father, the man who has imprisoned her and told her that she must die because of the terrible secret she discovered in his past. Is there any way out of her terrifying predicament? Or is her life about to come to an end?

The Dark Side of the Moon: Carolyn Black, a high school teacher, is attracted to Kevin Snyder, a student in one of her classes. Kevin doesn't realize that Carolyn is attracted to him, but everything changes after they make love in the back seat of Carolyn's car. Two weeks later, Carolyn discovers that Kevin is involved in drugs, but when she tells him that she is ending their relationship, he threatens to commit suicide. That night, Carolyn changes her mind about Kevin and desperately searches for him before he has a chance to harm himself. When she finally finds him in his car behind an abandoned house, he is holding a gun to his head. And then…

The Voice of the Victim: Not only is this a clever murder mystery, but it also doubles as a satirical tour through the modern world of guns, murder, and mayhem…a mixture of slapstick comedy, dark premonitions, and a sweeping indictment of everything that Western culture has ever produced…sassy and extremely irreverent…sometimes romantic and poetic, sometimes mocking and belligerent…too bizarre for some, too intense for others...this is the most controversial book that you will ever read.

In Destroyed by Malice, the world's most famous novelist, Barker Drule, is gunned down by an unknown assailant. It isn't long before detective Jeff Willard is convinced that the murderer is a member of the Drule family. Perhaps it's Lenore who was raped by her father; perhaps it's the beautiful Raylene who wrote a novel about a rape victim that her father managed to suppress; or perhaps it's Ricky, the cocaine-addicted son who is desperate to get his hands on his father's money. Unfortunately, when the truth finally comes out, there will be very few left to tell the tale.

The Murder of Marabeth Waters is a dark and satirical mystery that features Devin Driver, a drunken detective who is lucky enough to stumble into the solution of the murder of a prostitute. But after the perpetrator of the crime is arrested and convicted, certain flaws begin to appear in the investigation. Of course, when the detective in charge of the investigation is drunk most of the time, a lot of strange things can happen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Trainor
• Release date: Mar 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393584490

Robert Trainor

Over the past twelve years (since I retired at the age of 59), I've written nineteen novels, four novellas, four non-fiction books, and seven anthologies, all of which you can find in the Kindle Store. Instead of writing a biography of myself, which seems rather irrelevant, I would prefer to write a biography of my books. Here, in the order in which they were written, is a brief sketch of the plots, themes, and subject matter of these books.1/ The Voice of the Victim describes a series of murders in a small city. I've always felt a great deal of empathy for the victims of violent crimes, especially those who are murdered by guns. What, I wondered, would these people say to us if they could speak? When reading this book, it is important to remember that my intention, from first page to last page, was to present the voice of the victim. And, to me, this voice is not a straight-line accusation of weapons and murderers but tends to veer to a pervasive mockery and total indictment of modern culture. This novel is much different than anything else I have written, and there will be many who will object to what the "voice" is saying.2/ Some Things Are Sweeter than God is somewhat along the lines of a classic murder mystery but is certainly not one of those books where the conclusion is some wild revelation that no sensible reader could ever discern beforehand. The protagonist is a forty-year-old woman lawyer who, in her role as a public defender, is required to represent a man who is accused of brutally murdering his ex-girlfriend.3/ The Road Map to the Universe is a well-constructed novel--at one time, I was a tournament chess player, and this book required a great deal of planning and analysis. Essentially, it's a highly unusual murder mystery, but the perceptive reader may be able to identify a standard plot theme lurking in the background. The Road Map also examines an interesting philosophical question: In a universe of four billion galaxies, what relevance, if any, does the human being have?4/ The Great Barrington Train Wreck, a truly offbeat social commentary, includes a unique type of murder mystery and is one of my favorite novels. Although I almost never include anything from my own life experience in my books, I was, just like the protagonist in the Train Wreck, homeless for many years. So I'm familiar with the lingo and attitude that some of the homeless have. This is a catchy, captivating book where the plot seems to materialize out of thin air until it becomes the elephant in the room. Also, to my mind, this tale could describe what happens to Holden Caulfield, the anti-hero of the Catcher in the Rye, as he approaches forty. It's not all peaches and cream! Especially when he falls in love with the daughter of a millionaire, and even more especially when he ends up on death row.5/ Your Kiss Is Like the Sweetest Fire describes a teenage romance between Jaime and Renee, who were adopted at a young age into the same family. It seems illogical to me, but in almost all states, the law views a sexual relationship between adopted siblings who live in the same family as a crime of incest--exactly as if they were related by blood. So Jaime and Renee have this difficulty to contend with, and also, their mother and father are both rather repulsive characters who are totally incapable of helping them. Wait until you meet Renee--I love her.6/ Requiem for the West is partially based on an apocalyptic poem that I wrote during the 1990's. Ten thousand hours is a lot of time to spend on a seven-hundred-word poem! Requiem is also an examination of some apparently abstract themes that seem highly relevant to me: 1/ The pervasive role of explicit sexuality in our culture and the very different ways that people react to it; 2/ The often farcical, Dilbert-like nature of the modern workplace, in this case a college; and 3/ Is doomsday just around the corner? The 1960-2000 version of myself considered a nuclear apocalypse to be inevitable, but nowadays, I'm ambivalent.7/ Frontier Justice was easy to write because once Adriana Jones arrived on page 10, she took over the book, and all I had to do was keep up with her as she overpowered every obstacle that crossed her path. I hadn't intended for that to happen, but that's the way life goes sometimes. Do I agree with, support, condone, or advocate Adriana's way of doing things? Difficult questions. Adriana is my creation, so I have to take some responsibility for her, I suppose, but I look at it this way: To be true to a character, one has to let the person speak and act in a way that is appropriate to his or her personality. I just can't legislate them into political correctness! Adriana didn't just overpower the other characters in Frontier Justice--she also overpowered me. I really like this book--I wish, as a writer, I could think of more characters who are as dynamic as Adriana.8/ A Tale from the Blackwater River is a novella that is meant to be a satire on a certain kind of story that is showing up far too frequently nowadays, but on another level, it's just kind of a humorous tale that was a lot of fun to write. This book is written in the first person by a forty-two-year-old woman named Alanda Streets. I almost published it under the pen name Alanda Streets because I thought some people might say that no woman would ever write a story like A Tale from the Blackwater River, but for those who feel that way, I hope you will ask yourself this question: If the name Alanda Streets had been on the cover of the book, instead of mine, would you have felt that a woman couldn't have written it?9/ The Blackwater Journal is another Alanda Streets novel--this time, she is only sixteen. I couldn't seem to get away from Alanda--she does have a spunky survivor's attitude towards life that appeals to me. In this book, she has to call on all her resources when her evil father imprisons her in a room and tells her that she has only a week left to live. As the days pass by, the terror mounts on her own personal death row. Does Alanda escape? Maybe so, maybe no.10/ Love Letters (Soaked in Blood) is another murder mystery that has a humorous undertone, which many will probably miss. The problem with writing a murder mystery is that anything that can be thought of has already been done about a thousand times. The only original idea left would be to have the most obvious suspect turn out to be the murderer. Think of it--that's probably never been done! And so...maybe you can guess the rest.11/ The Book of the Dead is about a man who goes to his 25th reunion and meets his high school sweetheart. The two of them embark on an impulsive twenty-four hour car ride that will take them through three southern states and bring them face-to-face with death. This is a tale where the boundaries of ordinary reality are stretched out a little bit! I'll leave it to you to decide whether The Book of the Dead is a fantasy or a reality.12/ Destroyed by Malice sees the return of a character who played a minor role in The Voice of the Victim. He's the world famous novelist Barker Drule, but unfortunately, he (and his wife) exit the book on page 1 when they are gunned down in their driveway. It isn't long before detective Jeff Willard is convinced that the murderer is a member of the Drule family. Perhaps it's Lenore, the older daughter, who was, years ago, secretly raped by her father; perhaps it's the beautiful Raylene, who wrote a novel about a rape victim that her father managed to have the publishing industry blackball; perhaps it's Ricky, the cocaine-addicted son who is desperate to get his hands on his father's money; and perhaps it's Dalton Drule, Barker's irascible eighty-two-year-old father who just happens to own the gun that was used to murder his son. In the end, when the truth finally comes out, there will be very few left to tell the tale.13/ How to Write an Imaginative Novel takes you through the whole process of writing a novel and then uploading it to Kindle. Among the many things covered are: Where will you find a plot? What is the best way to find names for your characters? How important is it to punctuate your book correctly? Is there a quick way to learn punctuation and sentence structure? What is the best way to write dialogue? What kind of things should one avoid in a novel? What is the significance of the first draft and why is it so important? How does one begin a book so that it immediately commands the reader's attention? How does one revise and edit a novel? Is it possible to create the cover for your book without spending any money? How does one convert a book to the correct format so that it can be uploaded to Kindle? And finally, how does one upload a book to Kindle?14/ I Ching 2015 contains a complete translation (minus the Confucian commentaries) of this ancient Chinese classic. Also included are detailed instructions on how to consult the I Ching using either yarrow stalks, coins, or dice. (For those who have been using coins, one should be aware that a significant error has crept into the method that many people use to cast an omen. This error, which involves using either three or four similar coins will seriously affect the accuracy of the omens you receive.) Additionally, there is extensive advice on how to interpret an omen. By using the correct method of interpretation, you will be surprised at how much clearer omens become. As part of this advice, I have posed a number of questions to the I Ching and have then interpreted the omen I received. Finally, for each hexagram, as well as many of the lines in each hexagram, I have included my own observations as to the essential meaning of these hexagrams and lines.15/ Blood and Blackmail is an elegant murder mystery with an unusual plot twist that took me some time to piece together. For those readers who enjoy the challenge of solving a crime before the final chapter arrives, this novel should provide you with a truly interesting puzzle. I doubt many people, if any, are going to see the underlying deception that runs throughout this tale because...if I say anything else, I might help the reader unravel this mystery, and I certainly wouldn't want to do that!16/ Fairy Tales by Martians takes a humorous look at the theory of evolution. Science, of course, claims that the human being originated from an amoeba that eventually became a tadpole that eventually became a frog and so on and so forth. However, I just can't conceive of the fact that ten million years ago, two frogs mated in a swamp and because of that event, I eventually arrived on the scene. What kind of a genealogy chart is that? Neither does the seven-day religious version of events appeal to me, so what I'm left with is a very cynical view of both the religious and scientific theories concerning the origins of our existence.17/ The Book of Dreams repeats a very old idea that has been used in many a novel. But here, in this murder mystery, the idea is taken to another level entirely and contains a twist that not many will see coming. The clues are there, starting with the poem in the Preface.18/ The Dark Side of the Moon is a tale about an attractive high school teacher who falls in love with one of her students. However, Carolyn Black is nervous that her sexual liaison with the student will ruin her career. Eventually, she tries to break off their relationship, but when he threatens to commit suicide, Carolyn is faced with an excruciating dilemma.19/ The Murder of Nora Winters was inspired by John Dickson Carr who wrote a number of locked-room mysteries. In this type of mystery, the murder victim is found in a room that does not allow the killer any means of exit. The doors and windows are all bolted from the inside, and it's considered very poor form for the author to create a room where there are sliding walls or secret panels. The solution to the murder of Nora Winters is, I think, relatively simple, but I've woven in enough deceit and misdirection to confuse all but the most astute readers.20/ The Vanishing Victim is a tale of a psychiatrist and a troubled woman who comes to him for counseling. What she reveals to him proves to be a confession to a brutal crime, but he is unable, because of the doctor/patient privilege, from revealing this crime to anyone, including the police. But even more troubling is that the woman's confession, although it contains a number of factual inaccuracies, turns out to have a terrifying reality of its own.21/ The Fatality Game follows a series of innocuous crimes in a rich neighborhood that seem to be more pranks than anything else. But when a woman is murdered in her bed, Detective Cody Barnes realizes that there is something evil lurking under the placid veneer of swanky mansions that are inhabited by millionaires. And when Cody becomes romantically involved with one of the earlier victims, the beautiful Lucinda Kane, the case begins to take on a life of its own that will eventually lead to the deaths of three more people.22/ How to Write an Intelligent Murder Mystery describes some of the adventures I encountered while I was writing murder mysteries (of my twenty-one novels, thirteen are murder mysteries.) This is a somewhat unusual instructional book that attempts to relate the problems encountered in the writing of a murder mystery to the more general problem of writing fiction in today's market where any new novel is almost instantaneously buried under an avalanche of new novels.23/ The Real Meaning of Life is definitely one of my favorite books. It's written in the first person by Patrick Devlan, a twenty-seven-year-old guy who writes murder mysteries. But his father, who is dying of pancreatic cancer, wants Patrick to write something that will take his readers to a "better place." Patrick decides to follow his father's advice, but a few days later, his roommate's pregnant girlfriend is murdered, and Patrick becomes entangled in a real-life murder mystery. Eventually, after his roommate is convicted of the crime and sent to death row, Patrick is faced with a dilemma that will lead him to the discovery of the real meaning of life.24/ Flight 9525 is a non-fiction book that attempts to answer the question as to why there is so much suffering in the world. For the most part, this book bypasses the usual political, psychological, and social reasons for suffering and examines the following: If God is real, then why do human beings suffer? Why would an all-merciful, all-loving, and all-powerful Being permit its creations to suffer? The usual explanations, such as the hypothesis that God granted man free will, don't answer the question at all. In fact, this is a question that's never been answered satisfactorily.25/ The Scriptwriter is the tale of a man who becomes entangled with three different women. There's the incredibly beautiful woman, the incredibly rich woman, and the incredibly homeless woman. Which one will he choose? Events, mishaps, and character flaws lead him to an interesting decision.26/ The Murder of Marabeth Waters contains a considerable amount of subtle black humor and describes the investigation that ensues after a prostitute is found strangled to death. Detective Devin Driver is quickly able to focus on a suspect; not only did this man send a threatening note to Marabeth, but also, her blood is found in his car. As it turns out, the real murderer lurks elsewhere, and unfortunately, Devin isn't a particularly perceptive detective, so it isn't surprising when the wrong person is convicted of the crime. However, even if Devin had been Sherlock Holmes on steroids, he undoubtedly wouldn't have solved this murder.27/ The Trial of Shada King--a district attorney in Hartford, Connecticut, is charged with manslaughter in the shooting death of the man who had raped her ten days before the shooting. Shada claims that she acted in self-defense, and since she was wearing a recording device at the time of the shooting, her claim of self-defense seems to be valid. But why was she wearing the recording device? The prosecuting attorney is convinced the crime scene was an elaborate stage production that was intended to deceive those who would be listening to the tape and that the victim was murdered in retaliation for the rape.28-34/ Finally, I have seven anthologies on Kindle that combine complete versions of many of the books listed above: Four Novels, 5 Novels, Four Murder Mysteries, The Blackwater Novels, Dark Tales, Six Novels, and Five Murder Mysteries. The purpose of the anthologies is that it gives the reader a chance to buy, for instance, five novels of mine at the rock-bottom price of $2.99.I spend a great deal of time revising my books. After finishing the first draft, I go through the book at least eight more times--first page to last page. Each journey through the book is slow and painstaking--no less than three hours and no more than thirty-five pages a day. From my experience, the kind of errors that pop up on some of the later readings can be rather surprising, if not downright alarming! I particularly look for inaccurate punctuation, lackluster sentence structure, and inaccurate or repetitive vocabulary. I also do not permit confusing sentences to stand--I can't imagine that any reader will want to read a sentence twice because I couldn't find a way to explain myself clearly.Finally, I would ask you all to keep an open mind about novels by an author who has no brand name. I am quite unusual because I do not advertise myself in any way, shape, or form (outside, I guess, of this little biography). My books are well-written, entertaining, and thought provoking, but they are often truly original, and I worry about the page-six syndrome. That's the point where some readers abandon a book by an unknown author because of a single sentence, idea, or attitude that seems amateurish to them. Have faith that there are some genuine diamonds in the Kindle arena and have faith that your instinct to buy one of my books was a good instinct. If you read any of my books to the finish, I think you'll feel that your time was not wasted because these novels are not cheap imitations--they are real creations.

Book preview

THE TRIAL OF SHADA KING

COPYRIGHT 2018

By Robert Trainor

PREFACE

Although the final case being tried in the Hartford, Connecticut, District Court on April 8th, 2014, was not an exceptional one, it would later take on a rather peculiar significance when future events seemed to mirror, at least in some respects, the case that was being tried on this warm and beautiful spring afternoon. The prosecutor, whose name was Shada King, was only twenty-nine, but ever since she had arrived in Hartford from New York City in 2012, she had developed a reputation as an aggressive and capable woman who could be a formidable opponent in the courtroom.

The trial had not been a particularly difficult one for the prosecution. Davis Williams, a twenty-eight-year-old factory worker, had been charged with assaulting his live-in girlfriend, whose name was Mandy Everett. About a month before the trial had begun, Mandy had shown up at the police station with a broken nose and collarbone, fractured eye socket, and numerous abrasions to her body. Mandy told the police that Davis had assaulted her inside his second-story apartment and had then pushed her down a flight of stairs.

Davis told the investigating officer that he and Mandy had been standing at the top of the stairs when they began to get into an argument, and when she took out a knife and threatened him with it, he had grabbed Mandy, but then, as they were struggling, she had lost her balance and tumbled down the stairs.

It wasn’t a very believable story, and Davis had been taken into custody. Up to this point, it was still a he-said, she-said type of event, but what proved to be the decisive piece of evidence in the case was the knife—the knife that Davis claimed Mandy had brandished during their altercation. In her statement to the police, Mandy said that Davis had been the one with the knife and had slashed her arm with it while they were in his TV room. After Mandy described the knife to police, it was located in the kitchen of Davis’s apartment. Curiously, there were no fingerprints at all on the knife, but Andy Mason, the detective investigating the case, had discovered a drop of blood on the wooden floor near the entranceway, and when this blood was, through DNA, matched to Mandy, her version of events became entirely credible: The fight had begun near the front door where Davis had slashed her with the knife; he then shoved her outside and onto the landing of the stairs; and finally, after grappling with her on the landing, he had pushed her down the stairs.

The defense attorney, Brian Lucas, had focused on the concept of reasonable doubt along with the unusual circumstance that the prosecution had charged Davis with attempted murder instead of aggravated assault, which would have been much more common in a case like this.

What we have here, said Brian, towards the end of his closing argument, "is nothing less than a vendetta by the prosecuting attorney. Nowhere does the evidence support a charge of attempted murder because to support this charge, there must be, obviously, some demonstration of intent to murder. And so, even if you were to believe every single piece of evidence that has been presented against Davis, as well as all the prosecution’s sketchy interpretations of this evidence, there is no legal basis to support a verdict of guilty. I want to explain this to you carefully because in your deliberations, you must take this into account. What you will be trying to decide is whether Davis is guilty of attempted murder—not, for instance, whether he assaulted Mandy Everett. The defense maintains that it was Ms. Everett who assaulted Davis and not the other way around, but even if you believe that my client assaulted Ms. Everett, that does not allow you to come back with a verdict of guilty. No! To come back with a guilty verdict, you must, every single one of you, come to the conclusion that Davis was trying to murder Ms. Everett.

"What we have here is a fairly standard altercation—one that is typical of so many domestic assault cases. For whatever reason, the two people involved have come to blows. At that moment, no one is attempting to murder anyone. Yes, there is rage—and rage on both sides—but about the most that can be said is that, possibly, one or both of the parties are attempting to injure each other. I think the key thing that Ms. King is missing is that the final part of this fight between Davis and Ms. Everett occurred at the top of a flight of stairs, and so, unknowingly, the danger was heightened.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’m sure all of you have become engaged in a serious and perhaps even violent argument with someone. And my question is this: Are you able to tell me that you were fully aware of your surroundings while this argument was taking place? Did you happen to notice the layout of the room you were in during this dispute you had with your significant other? Could you have been able to describe the color of the vase that held some flowers? Would you even have noticed that there was a vase of flowers? Perhaps you might have noticed those things before the argument began, but if you hadn’t, would you be able to recall things such as this? Of course not—what you would remember are the things that precipitated the dispute, along with the things that were said and done during the dispute. Neither would you have noticed where you were standing, specifically, or what the color of the rug was.

I’m sorry to take all the drama out of this incident between Davis and Ms. Everett, but the actual fact is that after their dispute spilled out onto the landing of the staircase, Ms. Everett continued to battle with Davis before she lost her balance and fell down the stairs. That circumstance does not come remotely close to satisfying the requirements for an attempted murder charge. The simple fact is that two people had an argument during which one of them was seriously injured. Had Ms. King charged Davis with assault, she would at least have a leg to stand on, but given the evidence, the attempted murder charge is nonsensical, and I am fully confident that you will bring back a verdict of not guilty because, nowhere, has the prosecutor proved that there was any attempt by Davis to murder Ms. Everett. 

It was now Shada’s turn to speak. Rising from her chair at the prosecution table, she approached the jury box, and when she was about five feet from the nearest juror, she said, in a surprisingly calm and reflective way, "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. As you know my name is Shada King—I’m an assistant prosecutor for Hartford County, and I have prosecuted cases of this nature before. In fact, I believe that this is the seventh domestic assault case that I’ve been involved in that has actually gone to trial, while there have been many others where I negotiated plea deals. In every single one of these previous cases, the charge that was eventually brought against the defendant was either assault or aggravated assault. But here, in this case, I have brought the much more serious charge of attempted murder against the defendant, so I think it’s fair to ask why I have done this.

But before I do this, let’s review the details of this case. You heard the testimony from Mandy Everett about how she was assaulted inside the defendant’s apartment; of how he punched her in the face, and then, as she was attempting to flee from the apartment, he had slashed her with a knife. Finally, Mr. Williams caught up with Mandy at the top of the stairs outside his apartment, and after a brief struggle, he shoved her down the stairs.

By now, Shada, while still speaking in a measured way, had become more earnest, almost passionate, in her delivery. "Now, since we don’t have a video camera that recorded the incident, we’ll have to reach our own conclusions. Generally, it’s accepted that to convict a person of attempted murder. there must have been an intent to murder, but I think we’ve made a mistake in how we approach this issue. The mistake is that we often think this intention takes place over a period of time—it may not be a long period of time, but still, we feel much more comfortable when the intent is not spontaneous or instantaneous. And yet the legal definition of second degree murder accepts the fact that virtually no time may be necessary in the formation of the intent to murder. The only thing necessary for a second degree murder charge is that at the moment the fatal blow was struck or the fatal shot was fired, the perpetrator wanted to or intended to murder the victim. Five seconds before the trigger was pulled, that thought might not have been there, but if, four seconds later, the perpetrator is seized with the desire to murder another person, then that constitutes second degree murder. And if the victim is lucky enough to survive, then we have what we have in this case—attempted murder.

"But perhaps, as members of the jury, you feel that you need more evidence to convict Mr. Williams than what I have so far given you. So now we’ll proceed to the clash on the landing that led to Mandy’s fall down the flight of stairs. There’s been a lot of verbal sparring over what precipitated the nearly fatal fall of Mandy. Mandy says that she was pushed, while the defendant claims that she slipped. We have no way of absolutely knowing what actually happened because there were no videotape cameras in the stairwell, but we are allowed to make intelligent inferences. The defendant, in his attempt to portray his actions as being motivated by self-defense, has admitted to grappling with Mandy at the top of the staircase. You may remember that Mandy testified how, just before she was pushed down the stairs, the defendant grabbed her, with both hands, by her blouse. The defendant remembers this part of the altercation slightly differently—in his testimony, he stated that they had become, quotes, ‘entangled’—to me, the word entangled sounds like an attempt by Mr. Williams to downplay his role in this crime, but regardless, it’s clear that the defendant was in close contact with the victim and was almost undoubtedly holding onto, grabbing, or clutching her clothes. And so, if that’s the case, and if Mandy really did slip, then why wasn’t Mr. Williams able to impede, or attempt to impede, Mandy’s fall? If you’re holding onto someone and they begin to fall, then it’s obvious that you can either prevent the fall or at least diminish the force of the fall. 

"Personally, I think it’s obvious that Mandy was shoved down the stairs, but it may be that some jurors are still dissatisfied with the charge of attempted murder. I’ll have to leave it to you to decide whether, after being punched in the face and slashed with a knife, Mandy slipped or was pushed down the stairs, but I do think we need to examine whether a deliberate shove down a flight of stairs constitutes attempted murder. To do this, we have to look at how steep the stairs are, how many stairs there are, and whether there is any handrail that a person could possibly clutch onto. You’ve seen the photos of this staircase and have probably observed that there was no handrail. As far as the stairs themselves go, there were thirteen stairs, and the drop from one stair to the next was just under nine inches—meaning that Mandy fell almost ten feet. This is actually a somewhat steeper flight of stairs than normal, and we should also remember that since Mandy was shoved down the stairs, the above average velocity of her fall could be expected to create more extensive injuries than an ordinary fall.

"According to statistics kept by the government, at least 2,000 people die each year from falls on stairs in this country. However, I think there’s a tendency to downplay the danger of a fall down a flight of stairs. We’re much more inclined to give credence to a gun—in other words, if the defendant had shot Mandy in the torso or the head, we would have no problem accepting the attempted murder charge. But we’re much more lenient when it comes to a shove down a flight of stairs because we feel that the perpetrator was probably not consciously thinking of murdering the person. I wonder at what point we would draw the line? If, for instance, in the midst of a heated exchange, a man shoved a woman out of a plane and she wasn’t wearing a parachute, would we be willing to call that attempted murder if, somehow, the person was lucky enough to survive because she landed in water?

"The problem is that while everyone agrees that for an attempted murder charge to be valid, there must be the desire and intent to murder a person, I think there’s some significant confusion as to what constitutes desire and intent. And if no gun is involved, we tend to hold prosecutors to a much higher standard than we do when there is a gun involved. But the fact is that when a person shoots another with a gun, there may have been no conscious intent to murder. For instance, two people are having a violent argument, and one of them, who has become enraged, picks up a gun and shoots the other person in the stomach area. Afterwards, the shooter tells police that he had no intention of murdering the other person and that the thought had never crossed his mind. Rather, it was just an act of spontaneous rage—the person saw the gun, seized it, and pulled the trigger.

"However, because a gun was used to injure the other person, I think we would agree that a charge of attempted murder would be appropriate in this case—even if we believed the person when he said that he had no intention of murdering the victim. So here we have an attempted murder charge where there is no attempt to murder. How can that be? The reason for this is that when a person fires a gun at another, it is very unpredictable as to what might happen. People have been shot in the head and survived, and conversely, they have been shot in the leg and died. Bullets can come within a quarter inch of the heart and cause relatively little damage, but had they been a quarter inch the other way, death would be almost instantaneous. Do you see what I’m saying? No one is going to accept a defense where a person says, ‘I shouldn’t be charged with murder because I was actually aiming a quarter inch to the safe side, but just as I pulled the trigger, the victim moved a quarter of an inch. In that case, it’s murder—it doesn’t matter what your intention was. 

The reason for all this is that the law accepts certain things as a given, regardless of intent. Thus, if you fire a gun at a person, you have to accept the outcome—whether or not that was your intended outcome. Another way of looking at this, which is both fair and accurate, is that certain kinds of intentions are connected to certain kinds of implements. You may be intending to kill a person when you attack them with a pillow, but this carries very little weight in comparison to those cases where knives or guns are used. In other words, intention is inextricably linked to the implement used, and no intention, no matter how evil, carries much weight unless it is backed up with a real physical threat such as a knife or a gun.

Shada went back to the prosecution table and picked up twelve copies of a photograph from a folder on her desk. Walking back to the jury box, she handed each juror one of the photos. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, said Shada, "I want you to look closely at the photograph I have just given you. It shows the staircase down which Mandy Everett fell on the day she had the altercation with the defendant. As you can see, the photo is taken from the top of the stairs and points towards the bottom of the stairs. You can also see how steep these stairs are, and the question I want to ask you is this: How would you like to be standing at the top of these stairs and be forcibly pushed down the stairs? These stairs are killers, ladies and gentlemen of the jury! I’m surprised that Mandy only had a broken nose, fractured eye socket, and broken collarbone, to tell you the truth.

"Now I’m going to ask you to do something that might surprise you—for a few seconds, I want you to place yourself not in Mandy’s shoes as she stood at the top of those stairs but in the defendant’s shoes. Imagine—I know it’s difficult to do this—but imagine that you’re standing beside someone you hate, and before you can even help yourself or try to stop yourself, you reach out and shove the person you hate down the stairs. You are, just like the defendant was, looking down those stairs as you shove the person you hate. What motivated you to push the person? What are your feelings as the person tumbles down the stairs? You may not have used the word murder when you pushed the person, but if you’re honest, you’ll see that murder is much more than a word—it’s the malice that arises in your mind when you decide to shove a person down a flight of stairs. As such, murder is much, much more than an intent—it’s primarily an act of supreme malice, and pushing a person down a flight of stairs more than qualifies as an act of supreme malice.

Go ahead! Look at the photo—only this time, imagine that you’re the one who has just been shoved. Probably, if you break your neck, these will be the last conscious instants in your life. Anyone willing to call it something besides murder? And if you’re somehow lucky enough to survive, as Mandy was, is there anyone willing to call it something less than attempted murder? 

Five hours later, the jury came back with a verdict of guilty. 

CHAPTER ONE

At the time of the Davis Williams trial, Shada (pronounced so that it rhymes with Dada) had been married for a little over three years to a man she had met while she was taking a summer course on Legal Ethics at Columbia University in New York City. Brent Tennerson, who was a year older than Shada, had noticed her on the very first day of class, and it wasn’t long before they began dating. Brent was a little old-fashioned and straight in his approach to life, especially compared to Shada who had a wild streak within her.

During her college days, Shada had experimented with marijuana and had also gone through a stage where she drank fairly heavily for a year or so, but in the end, she had chosen a solid career in the law over the vicissitudes of a party lifestyle where the main goal seemed to be to latch onto a rich young guy who didn’t mind throwing his money around. Of course, there had been that spur-of-the-moment trip to the Grand Canyon during the summer of her junior year at Columbia University, a prestigious Ivy League school. That summer, she was supposed to fill an intern requirement at a law firm in Manhattan, but she had been swept off her feet by Jack Huston, a guy she had met in a bar that spring.

Shada’s parents had been more than a little annoyed with her flight of fancy, since the trip to the Canyon ended up setting her back a semester at college (to the tune of twenty-five grand), but in the end, Shada graduated with honors and had taken a job as a prosecutor with the District Attorney’s office in New York City. However, during the three years she worked there, Shada never liked the job very much—it was way too depressing what with all the rape and assault cases that were constantly appearing on her desk. The worst part was that she wasn’t allowed to take many cases to trial unless it was a particularly egregious crime, and as a result, she plea bargained literally hundreds of cases during the time she worked there. What, she wondered, was the point in having a job like this? Being young and idealistic, Shada wanted to make a difference in the world—it made her practically nauseous to see rapists being given two year sentences with another couple of years of parole tacked on to spruce the whole thing up with an air of respectability.

Fed up with the cynicism and cronyism, Shada had been looking for a way out when she met Brent at the class on Legal Ethics. He was a corporate attorney in Hartford, Connecticut, which was about a two hour drive from New York City. For Shada, it certainly hadn’t been love at first sight, but she began to become charmed by Brent’s old-fashioned ways of courtship—he was, really, a perfect gentleman, and besides that, he was constantly sending her things like flowers and chocolates. And so, by the time the course ended in late August, Brent had abandoned the long commute from where he lived in Connecticut and was now sleeping in Shada’s bed on the weekends.

She didn’t know what to make of it all. Brent was OK...but...he was just a little too stiff and formal for her. On the other hand, he genuinely cared about her, and unlike most of the other men in her moderately large sexual biography, he didn’t seem to have any inclination to fool around with other women. How many times had she suffered through finding out that the guy she was sleeping with was meeting up secretly with some ravishing woman that he had met somewhere? Was she really that unattractive? She didn’t think so...a little slim perhaps, and she often wore glasses, but many men had told her that she had a pretty face. Certainly an interesting face—blue eyes, blond hair, but rather austere lips...not full, not inviting, not sensuous. That was kind of the problem maybe—she just didn’t come across as sensual or lusty, and although she was fairly attractive and a good conversationalist, she gave off an impression of being a little bit too intellectual or bookish. Shada didn’t read books all that much, but she could always remember the way one guy had looked at her and said, in a slightly disdainful way, You must like to read books.

After their summer course was over, in the fall of 2011, Shada quit her job in New York City and moved back to Connecticut with Brent, who owned a small but pleasant house in Medford, which was about thirty-five miles north of Hartford. Initially, Shada was employed at a law firm in Hartford that specialized in casualty insurance. Not that many cases went to trial, and Shada spent most of her time researching claims and being a kind of mediator in out-of-court settlements. It was a boring job that brought little in the way of fulfillment, so she began to search around for something that would be more satisfying. Finally, in the spring of 2012, she was hired as an assistant district attorney in Hartford. Because of her past experience in New York, she had been reluctant to reenter the criminal arena again, but she found her work to be much more challenging and exciting because, in Hartford, there was a tendency, with serious crimes, to avoid plea deals and prosecute offenders.

In May of 2013, Shada discovered that she was pregnant, and in late October, she went on maternity leave. Brent and Shada hadn’t been planning on having a baby until a couple of more years went by, but accidents do happen! Shada had mixed feelings about her pregnancy—Brent was excited about starting a family, but Shada was nervous about the commitment. A child is like forever, she kept telling herself. And she just didn’t know if she was ready for forever. It wasn’t like...she didn’t really want to go anywhere, but now, with her pregnancy, she knew that she would be tied to her house, her husband, and the baby that was coming. Before, in some kind of vague way, she felt that she had choices with her life—if the occasion and mood suited, she could have, at least theoretically, done anything or gone anywhere. Freedom was like an option that was out there on the horizon somewhere. Adventures! But...she wasn’t really an adventurous person anymore—not like she had been when she was younger, so what difference did it make? She could sit around for years fantasizing about all the things she might like to do, but it was unlikely that she would ever follow through on anything. What? Leave Brent and run away in her car to Montana and become a cowgirl? It sounded crazy, but there had been a time when she had thought of doing that.

Actually, she hadn’t thought about Montana in ages, but now that she was pregnant, those kind of old longings came back to her, especially at night when she lay awake and couldn’t go to sleep. I suppose, she thought to herself, that a kid is a kind of big adventure, and then afterwards, in twenty years or so, there will be a human being to show for it. And maybe, if the baby is a girl, she’ll love me, and when we get older, we’ll hang out together and have some great times. Odd...it was difficult for her to imagine hanging out with Brent in her old age. Somehow, he just didn’t seem to be there—not in her imagination at least.

They named their child Anna and settled into a daily routine that Shada began to enjoy. Although at first she felt a little bit guilty about staying at home all day while Brent went to work, where he made around ninety grand a year, it wasn’t long before Shada had become accustomed to the leisurely ways of her new life. In between taking care of Anna and cleaning up around the house, Shada spent her time reading novels—the ones she had always wanted to read but had never been able to find the time for—and also, she was taking an online course that focused on prosecutorial techniques, especially various strategies that could be employed during the cross-examination of witnesses.

Meanwhile, Brent was becoming more and more obsessed with his job and didn’t seem to have much time for her, but still, they almost always ate dinner together. And then, once the dishes were done and they had cleaned up around the kitchen, the two of them would snuggle down and watch some programs on TV before they went to bed. Brent worked most Saturdays, but he always had Sunday off, and by the time Anna was six weeks old, they were talking about having another baby in a year or two.

But that was all like prehistory now because on Wednesday, January 15th, 2014, just five days before her maternity leave ended, everything changed in Shada’s life—January 15th would forever stand as a kind of grim Grand Canyon that separated her past from everything that would follow. January 15th had been a sunny but very cold day, and Shada had been puttering around the house thinking about the rock concert that she and Brent were planning on attending Saturday night. Anna was down for her afternoon nap, and Shada took out her law book and lay on the couch as she began to read about hearsay rules and all the grounds for lawyer’s objections that sprang out of the hearsay rules. Sometimes, these things interested her, interested her a lot, but today, it was all a little too much blah, blah, blah. Your Honor, she murmured to herself, I request a recess for the purpose of taking a nap.

It was about an hour later when she came to—the law book had fallen off her lap and was on the floor. She’d been having a dream about Brent but couldn’t remember what it was about...the sun was glancing in through the western windows and splashed across the room in a pleasant way...she almost felt like she could go to sleep again. But eventually, after a few more pleasant daydreams, she got up...better check on Anna—if she slept too long in the afternoon, it could be a long night for her and Brent.

The baby’s room, which was off the master bedroom, seemed a little chilly, but that was probably just her imagination. Anna was still asleep, so Shada went over to her crib and nudged her...nothing...and...she seemed cold, much too cold. She shook Anna again...nothing, nothing at all. And why was Anna on her stomach? She and Brent had been putting her to bed on her back because they had been told that it reduced the chance of SIDS, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Maybe...she must have forgotten to turn Anna on her back when she put her down for her nap?

Slowly, now, she turned Anna so that she could see her face...Oh, Dear God... Anna’s lips were so blue...such an eeire, eerie blue. Reaching down, Shada grabbed Anna and began shaking her gently...nothing, nothing at all. Faced with this mute and devastating response, Shada exploded in a wave of tears. This, Shada knew, was death—she was as certain of that as she was certain of her name, and when the paramedics arrived, they found Shada holding her baby and rocking her back and forth as wave after wave of tears cascaded down her face. It’s all my fault, she said as a paramedic took Anna away from her. The guy said something, asked her something about mouth-to-mouth, but Shada couldn’t hear much of anything. Collapsing on a couch, she buried her head in a pillow and gave it all up.

She was still there when Brent returned. He was nudging her and saying that someone wanted to ask her a few questions. She’d never felt so black in all her life—her breath came in ragged gasps, and she remembered that somewhere around this time, Brent had given her a glass of water and a white pill, which turned out to be Valium. The medical examiner was asking her questions, but about all she could really remember was that she must have forgotten to put Anna on her back when she laid her down for her nap. She couldn’t have turned over on her own, could she?

No, not at that age, said the medical examiner, an officious looking guy in a blue suit. So you remember putting her on her stomach?

I guess so, said Shada. I don’t really remember, but I must have, so...so it really is all my fault. I... She began to fall into another torrent of sobs.

Don’t do that to yourself, said Brent, as he put his hand softly on her arm. It was just an accident—that’s all.

Shada couldn’t say much of anything—she felt like she was about to faint, but instead, she turned away from Brent and the medical examiner, grabbed a pillow from the couch, put it over her face, and flopped face first onto the couch.

In the days afterwards, Shada couldn’t understand why the whole thing had hit her so hard. Maybe it was partly, or mostly, because of guilt. Bizarre memories came back to her—like something her sister had said many years ago...something about how a cat will just go off and die if it thinks that it isn’t loved. And Shada knew that she had never loved Anna—not really. Some, but not really. It was an OK kind of love but not a real deep enduring love, and so Anna had just gone off and died. It was almost like Anna was Shada’s chore in life, her reason for floating around the house in an aimless way while she amused herself with trivialities. Novels! They had seemed more important to her than Anna—they were things that interested her, while Anna was just...something like her job, her duty in life.

She’d never really wanted to have Anna, but she’d suffered through her pregnancy like a good soldier. All in all, she’d been a good mother, but Shada knew that her heart hadn’t really been into it. And so, lacking any real love, Anna had gone off and died. Really and truly, thought Shada, Anna’s death is all my fault—no getting around it. Hadn’t scientists found that putting a child to sleep on its back greatly reduced the chance for SIDS? And here she’d just gone in and dumped Anna in her crib and not even thought about putting her on her back. It was more like Anna was a sack of potatoes than a child. There was no getting around it—Shada knew that she had failed and failed big time.

Brent didn’t agree with this line of reasoning when Shada managed to talk to him about it. This conversation had occurred about two weeks after Anna died—up until then, Shada had mostly kept to herself and had avoided any mention of Anna’s name when she was around Brent. As a result, their conversations were rather strained and superficial—Brent could see that Shada was avoiding any mention of Anna’s name, and there were also times when he could hear Shada crying when she retreated to their bedroom as soon as they had finished their dinner.

Shada, said Brent, after they had eaten breakfast and were drinking coffee on a Sunday morning, I know that it’s a difficult thing for you to talk about, but we can’t keep avoiding it. Anna has become like...the more we try to avoid talking about what happened to her, the more the whole thing begins to dominate our lives.

It’s not going to do any good to talk about it, Brent. No matter what you say, and no matter what I say, nothing can ever bring her back.

No, of course not, said Brent. But we do have to keep on living.

I thought that’s what we were doing, said Shada. I know it’s kind of like a broken life, but I’m doing the best I can.

Shada, you’re acting like this is your fault.

It is my fault.

Why do you think that?

I’ve already told you about five times—because when I put Anna down for her nap that afternoon, I laid her on her stomach instead of her back. Hadn’t we talked about that over and over again?

Shada, it was just a mistake—that’s all.

It’s a little bit more than a mistake, Brent—after all, it cost Anna her life. Look, I’ll get over it someday, but I’m going to have to live with the fact that her death was my fault. It’s an awful thing to say, but I wasn’t thinking about Anna when I put her in the crib and...I was just so preoccupied with a law book that I was reading that day.

So you’re going to feel guilty about this for the rest of your life?

No, I don’t think so, but who wouldn’t feel guilty?

It wasn’t like you meant to harm her, said Brent.

No, of course I didn’t mean to harm her, but...this is hard to explain, but I don’t think I ever really loved Anna. She was more like my job than my child. I don’t know why it is, but I don’t feel like I’m the type of person who could ever be a really good mother. I can go through the motions and all, but basically, when it comes to being a mother, I’m a failure.

Shada, you’re taking the weight of the whole thing upon yourself. I know you don’t like to go to church with me, but it might really help you.

Brent attended the local Methodist church every Sunday, but Shada had never gone with him as she considered religion to be nothing but a bunch of outdated superstitions.

How would it help me? said Shada, in a neutral tone.

Brent thought this over carefully before he said anything. Shada, I guess it all comes down to whether you feel that there is some power, like God, who has created this world, or whether you believe that we’re just a chance product of atoms and molecules that have somehow magically combined to form the universe.

Shada, although she wasn’t usually much interested in this kind of discussion, was happy to turn the conversation away from Anna, at least a little bit. Brent, what difference does it make whether I believe in God or not? It doesn’t really change anything.

I think it does, said Brent. Because when you trust in something outside yourself, then you can accept things that you couldn’t otherwise accept. You didn’t create this world, Shada, and you’re not responsible for it. People are all confused about God because they don’t see God anymore, but in reality, God is manifested in every moment of every day.

So how come all these bad things happen? Was Anna’s death a manifestation of God? said Shada.

What else could it have been? said Brent. And what other choice does a person have but to believe that? Otherwise, what is there? If there is...if every single event isn’t the manifestation of the will of God, then what is it? A mirage? Don’t separate yourself from the miracle of life, Shada, by drawing down the veil of death. Embrace the life you lead because what other choice is there? Not to embrace it? How can one not embrace life? It’s all that there is.

Shada let out a long sigh, put her hands over her face, and began to cry. At the moment, all she could embrace were her tears.

CHAPTER TWO

Eventually, after a couple of months, Shada was able to put the death of Anna behind her. But the reason she was able to do so didn’t have anything to do with God or the acceptance of His will. Rather, it had to do with a guy that she happened to meet at a convenience store on a Saturday afternoon while she was waiting in line to pay for a bottle of wine. She had seen him while she was browsing through the small wine section and hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him. He was about six feet tall with long flowing black hair that fell almost to his shoulders and a small but fashionable goatee that rounded out his olive complexion. Everything about him resounded with the word cool. Just the way he casually sauntered around the place as if he was gliding on air, and then there were his clothes—an expensive brown leather jacket, grey slacks, and a classy maroon shirt. This guy, thought Shada, either had a lot of money or was maxing out his credit cards.

She’d never been tempted with another guy before—not since she’d met Brent, anyways, but Shada felt like there was some invisible magnetic force pulling her towards him. Stop it! she admonished herself. Everything she felt was so juvenile, but she couldn’t stop herself from finagling around so that when he got in line, she practically pounced—nonchalantly, of course—into the space behind him. What have you got there? she said to him.

Surprised, he turned around so he could see her. Ah! he said with a smile. The same thing as you, I guess, only... He stooped a bit and twisted the label on her wine bottle around so that he could read it. Except that you like Merlot and I like Cabernet.

His smile was pleasant, open, non-threatening. I don’t usually come in here, said Shada, but since I was buying gas, I figured I might as well spring for some wine. Do you live around here?

About thirty miles down the road towards Hartford. Sometimes, like today, I get bored so I figured I’d take the Mercedes out for a joyride. There’s not really all that much to see except roads and trees, but... he shrugged his shoulders enigmatically and smiled.

Shada didn’t know what to say—all she knew was that she didn’t want the conversation to end, but she was too nervous to say anything. Plus, she was beginning to feel that it wasn’t right for her to have feelings like this for another man. Here she was, in a convenience store, making goo-goo eyes at a stranger.

He had turned away from her, and in another minute, when he reached the register, she had almost convinced herself that her feelings had been nothing but a strange wisp of a passing fancy. But still, although she felt a little relieved, she also felt dejected. So this was it—he’d pay for his wine, walk out of the store, and they’d never see each other again.

Which is pretty much what happened except...after he had paid for his wine and left the store, she followed suit, but just after she stepped outside, she saw him standing by her car. Surprised, she said Well, hello! Did you know this was my car?

I saw you drive in, he said. Say, I was thinking—there’s a little Italian restaurant about a mile down the road—it’s called Carbano’s. If you’re not in a rush, maybe we could get a bite to eat.

His eyes were so appealing; his face so captivating. But who knew what kind of a guy he really was. He could be a predator for all she knew...but still, a restaurant was safe enough. Pretending, she looked at her watch. I guess so, but I have to be home in an hour or so.

Sure, he said, not a problem. Do you know where Carbano’s is?

No, I don’t.

OK, just follow me, he said, with a pleasant wink.

The drive was a short one, but it was long enough that it gave Shada plenty of time to think. What in the world was she doing? Why was she being drawn into this? When you looked at the little chit-chat conversation they’d had inside the convenience store, the whole thing was blatantly sexual. Wasn’t it? What else could it be? There was still plenty of time and lots of ways that she could reject him, assuming she wanted to, but there couldn’t really be any other reason for them to have a conversation—it had to be, at least tentatively, a prelude to sex. Maybe they wouldn’t hit it off and all that, but assuming they did...where was this intense yearning coming from?

She’d never been unfaithful to Brent, but from out of nowhere, she could feel herself being swept away by this guy’s magnetism. He seemed so kind, so charming, so harmless. It was a terrible thing to think, but maybe he was looking for the same thing she was. But what was she looking for? She wasn’t really looking for another guy, but...if she wasn’t looking for another guy, why was she practically panting after this guy? Sure, he was as handsome as a movie star, but in the long run, what could possibly come out of it? Suppose...suppose they did...she couldn’t even think of a word that she wanted to use to describe what she was fantasizing because it made the whole thing sound so awful. Like an x-rated movie.

It was just about the weirdest thing that she had ever felt in her life—her mind was telling her that she was being ridiculous, and her emotions were firmly attached to Brent who was a good and decent guy, but inside her, there was something that was insistently demanding that she...no doubt about it—that’s what she wanted to do. And he wouldn’t have invited her out unless he wanted to do the same thing. And she didn’t even know his name.

However, by the time she was inside the restaurant, she had changed her mind about everything. She couldn’t go through with it—it was just plain wrong.

He met her near the front entrance and came up to her, but she said, Look, I’m sorry, but I just got a phone call from my...I can’t, I just have to leave.

She was expecting him to say something, anything, but instead, he reached down with his hand, gripped her tightly by the wrist and began to lead her to a table. What are you doing? she said, in a breathless tone.

They’ve already set a table for us, he said, as he pointed to a corner booth.

But—

Don’t worry about it, he said. We’ll be out of here in thirty-five minutes. His grip was really strong—it almost felt like he could crush the bones in her wrist if he applied a little more pressure. It was so awkward, really. What could she do? Make a scene in the restaurant? Reluctantly, she let him lead her to the booth, but instead of sitting across from her, he sat beside her. Now, she was trapped between him and the wall, but he had dropped his somewhat threatening manner and said, in a pleasant tone, Allow me to introduce myself—I’m Santos Delgado. Spanish, as you can probably tell. What’s your name?

Shada.

That’s an interesting name. What—

Just then, the waitress came up. Would you like something to drink before you order?

We’ll have two glasses of the Paloma Merlot, said Santos.

The waitress left, and Santos glanced at her. It’s rather strange sitting like this, but I’m afraid you’ll run away if I move to the other side of the table.

I don’t mind, she said, nervously. It’s just that I have to be somewhere shortly.

But you’ll have time for lunch?

Shada looked at her watch—she was glad that she had locked herself into a fictitious appointment. Yes, but I really do have to be someplace in an hour.

He smiled in a gracious way and then moved to the other side of the table. There, he said, that’s better.

He stared at her in a speculative way as they opened up their menus and tried to decide what to order. In another couple of minutes, the waitress appeared with the wine, and after Santos ordered lasagna and Shada salmon, Santos said, Let me guess—I bet you’re married.

Self-consciously, she looked down at her wedding ring, and Santos laughed. I hadn’t even thought to look for that, he said. What gave it away to me was the sudden remembrance of a mysterious appointment. That’s very common with married women.

I see, she said. Well, yes, I am married.

It’s such a bourgeois convention, but it does have a certain fascination for some people.

She wasn’t quite sure what bourgeois meant. That doesn’t sound much like a compliment, she said.

Sorry, he said, as he sipped reflectively on his wine. Smiling, he looked into her eyes and said, I was brought up in a middle-class way and ended up rebelling against the whole thing. Too many rules and regulations and nobody ever seems to have any fun in that kind of world.

She was beginning to relax a little bit—he was being sociable, and she had her non-existent appointment to go to. Even so, it was difficult to get around the fact that it felt very strange to be sitting here with this handsome stranger. He was just so fabulously good looking, and she couldn’t help but be drawn in a little bit.

Do you come here often? she said, to keep the conversation going.

He shrugged his shoulders indifferently and seemed bored by the question. After giving her a long and penetrating look that unnerved her somewhat, he said, There’s something that’s troubling you—I can see it in your eyes.

Instantly, Shada thought of Anna, but she wasn’t about to talk about her. Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, he put his hand over hers and said, Why don’t you talk about it, Shada? There’s an old saying that time heals all wounds, but I think that was a mistranslation—really, it’s only by talking about things that wounds can be healed.

I can’t, not here—it’s just too much.

He gave her an inquisitive look. Something to do with the husband? he said, in an amused way.

No. She was getting tired of the conversation.

OK, he said with a sigh. I’m sorry to walk out on you, but I can see this isn’t going to lead anywhere. I think you’re looking for something, Shada, but maybe you’re too scared to find it. Anyways, he said, as he took out his wallet, here’s eighty dollars—that should cover it.

Santos—

No, no, he said with a gracious and rather funny bow. Pardon me for imposing, but— He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a business card, which he handed to her. My cell phone number is at the bottom of the card—call me if you’re so inclined. Don’t worry—there’s no obligation or anything like that.

Santos, I—

Ta, ta, he said with a pleasant wave, and then he turned from her and walked out of the restaurant.

With him leaving so abruptly, Shada felt almost stricken or smitten or something. She had spent the whole time pushing back against him, and he had certainly taken the hint. But is that what she had really wanted? She looked at the business card, memorized the phone number, and then slipped it into her purse. Shada felt like she had just awoken from some strange dream that she couldn’t decipher. The handsome Spaniard with the magnetic eyes who had some kind of almost irresistible pull on her. It was all wrong, of course, but now that he had left her, she felt an almost overwhelming desire to be with him again.

CHAPTER THREE

Brent was being Brent—he was quite kind to her and attributed her depressed moods to the death of Anna. What he didn’t see was that Shada had become bored with their life—it was so unexciting and drab to her, and she was beginning to wonder whether she could ever be really happy with Brent—there just wasn’t much fire or excitement in their relationship. Their sexual life was choreographed and seemed more like a performance by actors who had long since memorized their lines and were bored by the roles they had to play. Been there, done that.

Shada didn’t know what to do—although Brent was a decent enough guy, she wanted to find a way out of the relationship. But how? Her salary was forty-five grand, which was enough for her to survive alone without any help from Brent, so about a month after she met Santos, she decided that she’d have to tell Brent that...God, it was so painful to think about it because he didn’t really deserve what she was thinking of doing to him. However, the moment seemed to arrive when one night after they had just finished dinner, Brent began to talk about where they might go on their summer vacation—earlier they had made plans to go somewhere, maybe Cape Cod, at the end of August or beginning of September.

I was looking at some places online yesterday, said Brent, and I think Yarmouth or Dennis might be a good place to rent a motel for a week. We could just bask in the sun and listen to the waves all week.

Shada was absolutely torn—Brent obviously had no idea what was going through her mind. Did she really want to be the one to tip his world upside down? It didn’t just seem cruel to her—it was cruel, but it seemed like cruel wasn’t a strong enough word to describe it. Whereabouts? she said, to stall him off.

Mid-Cape—it’s not as pricy as places like Chatham.

I don’t know, Brent—I’m not so sure that I can get away from the district attorney’s office then. We’re just swamped with cases right now, so...

But you could ask, couldn’t you? I’ve been looking forward to this trip for a long time. You and I haven’t taken a vacation in all the time that we’ve lived together. It will be good for us to get away.

She didn’t know what to say or do, so she put her hands over her face and started to sob. At the beginning, the sobs were fake, but before long, they became quite real and even seemed to feed off each other.

Shada! said Brent. What is it?

I just don’t know, Brent—I just don’t know about anything. Look at us—what kind of a life do we have?

Shocked, he stared at her for a few moments before he said, Are you still upset about Anna?

I guess so—it’s like I feel...I don’t know what I feel. Not much of anything if you want to know the truth. Sometimes, I think you and I are just going through the motions. There’s just nothing there! I mean, she said shouting and crying, there’s just nothing there!

Shada got up from the table and disappeared into their bedroom. After quickly undressing, she crawled under the covers and sobbed herself to sleep. It wasn’t until much later that Brent came in and got under the covers with her. He had woken her up, but she pretended to be asleep. She wondered how he was going to react to the very large hint that she had just dropped. Probably, like most men, he’d just ignore it and pretend that the awkward and rather frank conversation they had at the dinner table was too mysterious to comprehend. Most likely, he’d write it off as her being in a bad mood, but at least he probably wouldn’t bring up going to Cape Cod together again.

Maybe, thought Shada, that was the best thing. Going on a vacation with him would really be too much of a commitment, too much like saying that she wanted to be with him. Who really knew what the future might bring? Maybe this whole angst about Brent would pass away like a sudden dark cloud on a sunny day, but it was difficult for her to imagine that happening because, when she cut to the chase, Brent just didn’t excite her all that much. Santos was like a wild over-the-top dream, but someone about halfway between him and Brent would be perfect. 

She hadn’t meant for it to happen, and in fact, it happened quite by chance. Shada was walking around downtown Hartford on her lunch break when she practically collided with him.

Shada! said Santos. It’s so good to see you again! How have you been?

He was as handsome and dashing and suave as ever. I’ve been OK, she said. What brings you to downtown Hartford?

Boredom, my friend. Say, let’s just drop into this coffee shop and have some cappuccinos. I could use a boost—how about you?

Alright, she said, as she followed him inside. Shada found a small table near a front window and waited for Santos who eventually came back with the two cappuccinos.

This is really good, said Shada as she sipped on her coffee.

Yes, coffee almost always makes me feel like I can conquer the world. His dark eyes seemed unnaturally bright, almost blazing.

You’ve never told me—what do you do for a living?

I’m a computer programmer for a medical company that’s based in Hartford. It’s a fabulous job because I can work at home most of the time, and they pay me more money than I know what to do with.

How many hours a day do you actually work? said Shada. There was something about him that she found fascinating, almost intoxicating. He had so much of the charismatic energy that she was looking for. But surely, he must have a girlfriend. He didn’t have any rings on his fingers, but still...

Santos shrugged in his usual nonchalant way. Most days, it’s only three or four hours, but occasionally, I’m up all night creating web pages when they come out with a new product.

What about your wife? That sounds like it might be a difficult schedule to adjust to. Shada was determined to find out whether he was married before she went any further with him.

My wife? said Santos, who almost seemed to be offended. Don’t you remember when we were at the restaurant and I said that marriage was a bourgeois custom?

Yes, I remember, said Shada, casually. But...don’t you have a girlfriend or something? She was being so blunt that she almost felt as if she might be about to blush. Maybe, in fact, she was.

I have many girlfriends, said Santos, in an enigmatic tone, but...how shall I say it? I don’t like to, you know, settle down.

At least, thought Shada, he was being honest. How come? said Shada.

Because then I might miss out on the woman of my dreams. I don’t know who this woman is yet, but I’ll know her when I find her.

Tell me a little bit about the woman of your dreams, said Shada. 

He leaned over towards her and said, in a voice that was just above a whisper, It would be...everything is sexual, you know.

Shada drew back from him and attempted to look shocked.

Ah! he said. I’m sorry—I can see that I upset you, but it’s the truth. Just ask yourself this, he said, in a conversational tone; how can a relationship survive unless the sex is like the best that you’ve ever had? Forgive me for talking this way, but you asked, and so I have tried to answer.

Shada thought of her relationship with Brent—maybe Santos was being way too blunt, but she couldn’t disagree with him. So, I guess... said Shada in a stumbling way, where does love come into it? Is it just all about sex to you?

You make it sound as if that’s a sin, said Santos. But I have to tell you that, for me, love is very bourgeois—it’s just a word that the priests made up to hide their own sexual problems.

No! That’s not true, said Shada. Plenty of people have felt love, real love, for another person.

I suppose, said Santos, in a disinterested way. He looked at his watch and said, I really must be going, but I’m glad I ran into you. Once again, just as he had at the restaurant, he left her abruptly—practically jumping up from the table, turning his back on her, and heading for the door.

Just after he had reached the street outside the coffee shop, Shada caught up to him. She couldn’t even understand what she was doing, but she put her hand on his arm and said, Wait.

Surprised, he turned around to face her and said, with his charming smile, Yes—what is it?

I don’t know how to say this exactly...do you think we could get together sometime?

But of course—when would be a good time for you?

How about Saturday? Brent worked most of the day on Saturday, so that would give her plenty of time.

Saturday... he said, as he seemed to think it over. Alright, yes, Saturday is good for me. Maybe we could meet someplace that wasn’t quite so public.

Shada wasn’t an idiot by any