Once Guilty

By Leslie Bendaly

After having spent three years in prison for the murder of her stepsistera murder she did not commitChristine Roberts has been released on a technicality. The joy she had anticipated is quickly replaced by panic when she is pummeled by the facts of her new reality. During her trial, the media dubbed her the Society Murderess, a name she had nearly forgotten but quickly remembers when she is hounded by the press and ignored by her country club friends.

The only way to get her life back is to find the real murderer, but Christine knows she wont be able to do that on her own. With no one to turn to she calls on someone she barely knows. Craig Saunders was the only reporter who had treated her with kindness. His career in need of a boost, Craig agrees to help, already envisioning the headline when they find the real murderer. Their shared attraction is an added bonus.

Lacking information, Christine must also enlist the help of the person she most fears: Detective Mark Kellogg, maybe a crooked cop but definitely the guy who arrested her. As their investigation progresses, so does Craig and Christines relationship, but each is suspicious of the others motives.Personal issues become moot when the pairs investigation leads to another murder, and there is no doubt that their lives are at risk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532035777

Leslie Bendaly

Leslie Bendaly and Nicole Bendaly are inspirational consultants and coaches who have authored over a dozen books between them. Through their consulting firm, K&Co, they empower teams, leaders and individuals to tap their very best by providing the knowledge and tools to do so. Ask them what they find most rewarding in their work and they will tell you that it is seeing the people they support surprise themselves by what they can achieve.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

She sat in her breakfast nook, elbows on the kitchen bar, fingers rubbing her temples. She should have felt happy; she should have felt ecstatic. But she felt neither. Only the growing panic her pounding heart signaled.

Her hazel eyes were locked on the headline in her phone’s Yahoo news feed: Society Murderess Released on a Technicality. She moved the cursor, about to click on the story, then pushed her phone away. She had more than enough stress already - she didn’t need any help from Yahoo.

The damp Kleenex that had been wadded in her hand was of little help as she dabbed her eyes and wiped her nose. She forced her eyes away from her phone and let them wander around the huge kitchen. To think she had lived for three years in a space that would fit between the counter and the kitchen bar where she was perched. She had once enjoyed the large expanse of that kitchen but she now felt like an astronaut who’d been ejected from her tiny capsule into outer space with no life line to the ship. A sudden dizziness made her grab the edge of the bar for a moment.

Looking down at her phone was a better option than looking around the room. Her father had pressed it into her hand when he had picked her up that morning. I remembered your phone used to be permanently attached to you so I thought you would need this, he’d said with obvious pride in having forgotten nothing. Her father was right, she had never been able to resist her phone’s demand for her attention. Some habits die hard, she thought as she reluctantly, but inevitably, reached for it. The cursor hovered over the headline a little longer, and then she held her breath and clicked.

Christine Roberts, dubbed the Society Murderess during her trial, has been released after serving only three years of her life sentence for the murder of her stepsister, Suzanne Roberts.

She held herself tight. Would that memory ever stop being crushingly painful?

Ms. Roberts’ high-profile legal team, hired by her father, Daniel Roberts, CEO of Everest Financial, argued at her appeal in July of this year, that her guilt was no longer beyond a reasonable doubt because of the scientifically flawed testimony of the key witness for the prosecution, forensic pathologist, Dr. Mark Bacon.

That was far from all that had been flawed, she thought, as she shoved the phone aside once more. The entire investigation into Suzanne’s murder had been flawed. It had been obvious from the first few minutes of her first police interview that she was the only suspect they had any interest in. She could feel the old anger that the years in prison had gradually smothered begin to burn again. She slipped her five-foot-five frame down from the bar stool. Fifteen, sixteen - she counted each black and white floor tile as she paced across her kitchen. "Anger only hurts you, not the object of your anger, the prison psychiatrist had told her repeatedly. She knew he was right. She hadn’t liked what anger had done to her - quickly hardening her until the ready empathy she once had for others had been cemented behind some invisible wall. For a long time even the horrific stories of abuse and injustice the other women shared couldn’t penetrate the wall that screamed, Huh, you think you’ve had it tough?" Finally with much effort and support from her cell mate, the tears came, not just for herself but for all of the women around her. She was determined that she would not allow her emotions to slide back three years even if the news media chose to dwell there.

The ring of her land line startled her; her father must have had it reconnected. She picked up the phone knowing who it would be.

Hey, Sweetie Pie. Her father had called her Sweetie Pie for as long as she could remember; she had always been Daddy’s girl. I couldn’t remember your new cell number. I’m glad I caught you at home. Christine smiled a wan smile - her father spoke as though she had a million places to be and just as many people to see. That indeed used to be the case.

She could picture him in his office. He would have put his phone on speaker and would be pouring himself another cup of the tea his secretary kept hot and fresh on his desk. Christine remembered his favourite fine china cup looking fragile in the ex -football player’s big hand. His voice told her that he was smiling his generous smile that showed off the crooked front tooth he had never felt the need to repair.

I’ve been thinking that we should have a family dinner at the club tonight. Your being back home with us deserves a celebration. His voice boomed with his usual enthusiasm.

Panic enveloped her. Her little finger began to twitch as it did whenever she was nervous. She did her best to control her voice to prevent the shaking she knew would be there if it had its way. Oh, I don’t know, Dad. That’s a nice idea, but I think I need to give it a couple of days before I see people.

Nonsense. Her father never doubted his opinions or decisions. Would that she had inherited the confidence gene. He carried on, not waiting for a reply. The best thing is to just get it over with. And what better way than with people who have known you and cared about you your entire life. Swimming lessons, tennis lessons, golf, birthday and holiday celebrations, the club had always been at the center of their lives. Most of her friendships were rooted in the club. Even the man she had planned to marry belonged to what had been her close-knit group of club friends.

Perhaps her father was right. Just get it over with. Besides, he was the one person who had always believed in her and had given her strength to face those years in prison. How could she say no to him?

Sure, Dad, you’re right. Let’s do that. Her voice was bright, but she put the phone down with a trembling hand. The thought of having to chat with those old family friends terrified her. Conversation that used to come so easily had been based on what was now a foreign world. She didn’t know these people anymore, and they certainly didn’t know her - they no longer had anything in common. That thought brought a lump to her throat, but she also saw the irony. If Patty, her cellmate, were there, she would enjoy the humor in the situation; Christine had become comfortable with women who had murdered their husbands, committed armed robbery, kidnapped people, and even one who had hacked her pimp into little pieces. And now she was more afraid of the country club crowd than she had ever been of those women.

She imagined herself back in the therapist’s tiny office, describing to him how the thought of seeing her old country club friends made her feel. She smiled to herself as she replayed the well-worn mantra she was sure he would have selected for the occasion.

You must face reality and manage it, not ignore it.

Being a convicted murderer had been unreal at first. Then prison gradually had become her norm. But being seen once again as the Society Murderess? How could she manage that reality? She had almost forgotten that outside of Lindhurst’s walls, she was known by her tabloid name, with all of the horror it evoked.

As she began to wander through the penthouse, she decided that the first thing she needed to do was anchor herself in her old world and find herself again. She had asked her father to sell the apartment, but she was glad he had refused. He had never lost hope, even when she had.

In each room she paused to reconnect with the things that had been important to her. The jade elephant she had bought on the photo shoot in Hong Kong. She had worked so hard to get the marketing exec job that had taken her there and when she saw the good luck elephant with its trunk waving high, she knew it would be her talisman, reminding her that she could be anything she wanted to be. But, she reflected ruefully, it hadn’t prevented her from becoming something she definitely did not want to be.

The tennis trophy she had taken from the club’s standing champion in a hard-won match was testimony to her belief in hard work and positive thinking. The hard work would come easily to her again. But the positive thinking would take some effort.

And then the silver framed photo of Christine in white tennis dress and sun visor, her dark hair pulled through the back in a pony - tail, smiling up at the tall, tanned, good looking man who had his arm around her waist, holding her close. Kevin was always by her side at the club. Friends had affectionately called them Mighty and Mini; if someone saw her alone the inevitable greeting would be Hey Mini, where’s Mighty?

She tried to remember what it felt like to feel his arm around her, then decided it was best not to and gently laid the picture face down on the mantle.

Those things were who Christine Roberts had been. But bit by bit, prison life had eroded that Christine Roberts until all that was left was prison inmate number 2523, better known as Chrissie. And Chrissie wasn’t at home here…not at all. She had thought she had needed to find herself. Now she feared there was no one left to find.

Her hand went to her jean’s pocket. The bottle of little pink tablets rested there waiting for her to give into it. She pulled it out between finger and thumb, and shook it back and forth until the tumbling pills turned the bottle into a tiny maracas. The prison psychiatrist had insisted she would need them but she was determined to prove him wrong. No, Roberts you are going to do this on your own. If you survived prison you can do this. She pushed the bottle back into her pocket, proud she had resisted, but acknowledging the reassurance she felt at its presence.

CHAPTER 2

Christine had to get out. The silence in her apartment was foreign and uncomfortable and she still had the entire afternoon to put in before her father would pick her up for dinner. In prison, the constant noise had been one of the hardest things to get used to: women yelling in derogatory jest or shrieking in anger, doors clanging, guards shouting threateningly above it all. And then the worst, the night-time sobs of the convicted and the screams in their sleep. But eventually the noise had become comforting, and now Christine couldn’t stand the silence.

Yesterday, her father had used his influence to get her released from prison by the back door of the institution, managing to avoid what he had described as the roaches mobbing the front entrance. But she knew the press would not give up a tantalizing story that easily. She would have to be both clever and lucky to avoid them. Luck she hadn’t always had the last few years, but clever she might just manage.

It wouldn’t exactly be a disguise but she intended to look as little as possible like the Christine Roberts the media had known. Already she had one advantage; the shoulder length auburn hair that had been her hallmark was now shorn. She slipped her feet into sandals, remembering that the last time she had worn them they’d shown off a French pedicure. Now, unpainted, neatly clipped toe nails peaked out. Her jeans and plain white T-shirt shouldn’t attract any attention. She tucked a few obstinate short curls under a baseball cap, selected a pair of oversized Jackie O’s from a drawer full of designer sunglasses, and hoped for anonymity. The Starbucks at the corner of her street had been one of her favorite spots and seemed like a good destination for someone who had nowhere to go.

By the time she reached her building’s lobby, her anxiety was beginning to surge. She managed what she hoped was a cheerful Good afternoon. to the young man at the concierge desk. She wished that Raj was still there in one of his brightly colored turbans. He had become like a second father to her, bringing her soup infused with healing Indian spices when she was ill, always keeping a gentle eye on her comings and goings, even acting as advisor and offering a soft shoulder when her romances went wrong. Her anxiety would have immediately diminished had he been here, but like most of the important people in her life, Raj was gone.

The new guy was skinny and pimpled, and his too big concierge jacket made him look smaller than he actually was. There was something about him that sent a sensation of cold chills, definitely not warm hugs.

She had to think more positively. Come on Roberts. Give yourself a shake and quit feeling sorry for yourself. You are free! Enjoy it.

She tried to follow her own instructions and forced herself toward the front entrance. But once there, she stood staring through the plate glass at the busy street, flooded with sunshine and alive with cars, bicycles, and pedestrians. Her body refused to acknowledge her brain’s command to open the door. She had heard stories of people not wanting to leave prison or being terrified on the outside and even committing crimes to get back in. Her reaction had been What nonsense! Who would not want to get out of that soul crushing place? Now she was beginning to understand.

It wasn’t that she had never been outside at Lindhurst. They had had an hour in the yard every day. But it was walled and presented nothing more unexpected than the occasional scratching, punching, and hair-pulling brawl when tensions got too high, or the time a scrawny mutt had somehow gotten into the yard and was excitedly mobbed by the women. At Lindhurst, the outdoors had been contained and predictable.

She was about to concoct an excuse and run back to her apartment when the concierge arrived at her side. Here, let me get that. He pushed the door open. She stood frozen for another moment until embarrassment won out over fear, and she somehow propelled herself onto the street and into the small city she had grown up in. But Barkley was changing. Before she had gone to prison she would pass only a few other pedestrians on the street that ran in front of her condo building and small parks had thrived between the concrete structures that lined it. Now the street felt crowded and the green spaces had been usurped by shining new complexes.

In prison, it was the ordinary things she had missed the most, and she had played this walk to her favorite café over and over in her mind. But it hadn’t been like this. In her imagination, she was so happy, so carefree that she almost skipped up the street, feeling the sun on her face and stopping to enjoy the beds of flowers that banked the boulevard. Instead, she could barely stop herself from breaking into a run, and the multi-colored petunias, pansies and impatients went unnoticed. A horn blared, a truck’s brakes squealed, a siren shrilled and her bubbling internal volcano began to erupt. She ran at full speed, weaving past some pedestrians, colliding with others. What the fuck! one yelled after her. Watch where the hell you’re going! shouted another.

Her sprint didn’t end until she had pulled open the café door and was leaning against the entrance wall panting. Gradually her racing heart slowed and the café’s aroma sparked the beginning of a feeling of normalcy. Real coffee. Not the burnt smell produced by the thick dark sludge the prison passed off as coffee.

Once she had self-talked her panic into submission she made her way hesitantly to the counter and ordered a large cappuccino. No one paid her any attention. At one time, she would have had a chat with Kathy, who was usually at the till when she came in. They both had had Portuguese Water dogs and always had stories to share about their brilliant pups. But three years was a long time in the cafe business and she saw no familiar faces at all. Sad, but at the same time relieved that there would be no awkward conversations, she chose a sunny window seat and cupped her hands around the large mug. Soon, the last of the tremors ceased and time passed leisurely as she watched, with a sense of amazement, the carefree freedom with which pedestrians wandered by, enjoying the day. A very large woman stopped to share her water with her very tiny miniature poodle, and Christine found herself responding with a smile. How good it felt. Maybe, just maybe, things were going to be alright.

After a while, she noticed from the corner of her eye a group of people pushing through the door. She thought that it must