If I Only Knew(12)

I haven’t seen Richard in months. When my husband was killed, I found that everyone wanted to help. They’d come by with food, mow the yard, fix the shutter that fell, or offer to take Parker to Cub Scouts because . . . I lost that person. Then, they gradually stopped calling or coming over. Their lives had gone on with their own families, and we’d been forgotten.

I get it.

I don’t begrudge them, because when our neighbor passed away, it was the same thing. I would bring casseroles, sew a costume, or anything to help, but it became an afterthought as time passed.

“Yeah, of course,” I say pulling the door open. “Come in.”

He enters, and I can imagine his thoughts about the house. It’s a mess, but I don’t give a shit. I’m a mess. My kids are a mess. It’s only fitting the house be in disarray as well. I’m doing the best I can and fuck anyone who judges me.

“Would you like something to drink?” I ask.

“No, no, thank you. How are you doing?”

I shrug. “I’m making it work.”

A few months ago, I decided to stop telling everyone what they wanted to hear about how we’re doing. The truth is ugly, but it’s real. No one is doing great after they lose their husband like I did. Yes, you find a “new normal” but there’s a void that will never be filled. That’s reality, and I don’t give a shit if it makes me look weak. I’m holding my family together with tape and chewing gum right now.

“Lisa sends her best,” he tacks on.

“Tell her we said hello as well.”

I’ve known Richard a long time. He’s a ruthless lawyer who always had big plans for his life. With Peter by his side, they were an unstoppable team. Right now, he looks like he’d rather be in court trying to defend a killer than here. He shifts his weight back and forth while gripping his neck.

“Richard,” I say after a few moments of awkward silence. “What’s going on?”

He looks at me and I see him slip into lawyer mode. As sad as it sounds, I’ve missed that face. Peter would do the same, and it’s been a while since I’ve seen it.

“We got the trial date set.”

“Oh,” I say, taken back a bit. It was postponed twice and I pushed it so far to the back of my mind, I almost forgot. “When?”

“In two weeks.”

“Soon,” I note.

My chest is tight when I think about all of this being brought back to the front. The trial is supposed to be a form of closure, but I’m going to have to fight through pain to get there.

“We’ve petitioned the court to be released from his defense, but then he contested.”

My head jerks back. “What? You mean you’re going to defend the man who killed Peter?”

Richard walks toward the couch and taps the wood table. “The judge will side with us considering the circumstances.”

“I don’t understand,” I say quickly. “How the hell is this even possible?” My voice is on the edge of frantic. None of this makes any sense.

“Peter’s killer was my client, not his. He was on retainer and Peter was helping out when I was already tied up in another trial. So, there’s a lot of legal crap, but we have to petition the court to be released from being his attorney.”

I release a heavy breath and tears fill my vision. “But that could get denied, right?”

“Well— yes, but it won’t, Danni.”

How does he know that? “Why would he even want you to be his attorney? That seems so stupid.”

“It is,” Richard says. “Which is why we’re not worried about it. The issue is that whatever he said is bound by attorney-client privilege. I can’t . . . tell you more . . . but there’s a reason he wants me to stay on. It could jeopardize his case and if he keeps me on, I can’t testify.”

“So, I could have to go to that courtroom and see you sitting next to the man who shot and killed my husband, your partner and best friend, in cold blood?”

“Danielle,” he touches my arm. “No judge will do this. They won’t . . . we . . . we’re doing what we can to make sure it doesn’t happen.”

I start to move around, needing to work off some of my excess feelings. This can’t be real. If this is even a possibility, I’ll never be able to handle it. If Richard didn’t think there was some real chance, he’d never tell me. A heavy sense of betrayal fills me.

“This! This is why he’s dead! Because you help criminals. People who are murderers, rapists, pedophiles and God only knows what because,” I put my fingers up and air quote, “this is where the money is.”

“I’m not trying to upset you, I just wanted to give you all the info.”

This is unreal. “So what happens if the judge makes you do it?”

“That’s highly unlikely,” he says as soon as I finish.

“But it’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Sure, it’s possible, but not probable. Please, calm down.”

“Then why tell me?” I toss back.

He runs his hand through his hair. “Because if it does happen, I don’t want you blindsided.”

I can’t even imagine what would happen if that had been the case. I try to calm myself, but my imagination runs wild. I envision Richard sitting beside my husband’s murderer, finding a way to get him off on some bullshit technicality, because he’s that good. It would be horrible to see someone, my daughter’s godfather, defend her father’s killer.