A LIFE IN WAITING
“I’ve never seen you agonize so much over a case before, Curtis,” my wife Carrie said as I sat in my easy chair in the living room, pouring over the briefs for a case I had agreed to handle pro-bono. “Why is this one so different?”
We were in our living room, discussing this latest case as we did with almost all the ones I took on. Carrie was not just the love of my life, she was my partner and brought things to the table that I, the logical -thinking lawyer, could not. "It just is. You saw her apartment. How she lived. You said it yourself. It was like she was waiting for something."
"Or someone."
"Yeah. Or someone. I don't know Carrie, I've just never run across anyone quite like her. She stares at you with those puppy-dog eyes and you can’t help but feel sorry for her."
"Okay, I get that. I know how easily you're swayed by any female who reminds you of Maddie." I lowered my head to hide my tear-filled eyes. Any mention of our sweet daughter did that to me. I couldn't help it. Even twelve years after her sudden death from a brain aneurism, I still felt the pain of loss whenever her name was mentioned.
"Then what, honey? Talk to me. What's so special about this one?"
How could I explain it to her, when I didn't even understand it myself? I had been assigned to this case because my name was next up on the roster. But once I met Christie Cooperman, my resolve kicked in and I was determined to give her the best defense I could. And to do that, I needed Carrie's help.
"You saw her place. You were the one who picked up the clues of her suspended life. I guess what I saw was the apartment of a pretty lonely woman."
"Lonely and desperate."
"Yeah, that too. I don't know. It just got to me. She needs my help. Our help."
"Okay, honey. So where do we start?"
That was a good question. "I don't know. But it'll have to wait until tomorrow. Right now, I need to get some sleep and some good loving with the best thing that has ever come my way."
I looked at my darling beloved, whose face broke into a huge smile, and whose green eyes shone with love. Whatever she felt for me, I felt back - tenfold or more. As Tom Cruise said in ‘Jerry Maguire,’ “she completed me.”
The next morning, I awoke to the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and headed for the kitchen to find my wife sitting at the table with my cup already filled and sweetened. In front of her lay my legal notepad, turned to the notes I had made when we visited Christie's sparsely furnished apartment. She waited until I had taken a few sips of my coffee before saying, "Are you ready yet?"
"I guess, though I probably should shower first."
"No. We need to do this before your mind has a chance to filter your reactions."
Oh, she knew me too well. Knew how I'd play the scene over and over again, trying to make sense of it. "You're right, of course. Okay, let's begin."
"Okay," Carrie said, “let's look at her apartment. From what I saw, she’s a bit of a dreamer.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Let's start with the living room. The first thing I noticed is that there are no family pictures except for one of your client with a woman I assume is her mother. There's a picture of yellow flowers in a field hanging over the gas-fireplace, the kind of commercial art you could buy at any flea market or Walmart. Her place looks like a temporary shelter. There’s nothing to indicate it's a home, merely a place to live until…”
“Until what?” I asked, curious. Why couldn't I see what she was seeing?
“Until the man of her dreams comes along and sweeps her off her feet, I suppose. ”
“What makes you say that?”
“Close your eyes and picture the apartment. Tell me what you see.”
I did as she asked, and visualized Christie's living room, but I still didn't understand what Carrie was trying to say. "I’m sorry honey. I guess I’m missing your point.”
“Curtis, it’s all so impersonal. The art, the dining room table that only sat two, a loveseat in lieu of a full-sized couch."
I nodded.
"On the table was a small bowl. In it were about a dozen matchbooks with the names of different restaurants. They were her only souvenirs from her dates with a man she supposedly loves. Remember the scrap book on the coffee table?"
I nodded again.
"The only things in it related to her life with Parker. Nothing of her past. As if she didn't exist until she met him. As if she wouldn't, or couldn't, have any life until she got married.
When she put it like that, yeah, I understood what she meant. I made notes on my pad: 1) talk to her about her hopes and dreams; 2) how Parker fit into those plans.
Carrie stood and moved to the stove. Returning with a freshly brewed pot of coffee, she continued. "Now, let's move on to her bedroom. Close your eyes again. The room is decorated in white and yellow. On the nightstand to the right of the bed is a photograph of her and Parker sitting at a table together in a restaurant, obviously taken by one of those professional photographers who make money shooting and then selling the pictures to the customers.
"There's a double bed, two nightstands and one dresser. No girly things. No make-up table, no headbands, no barrettes, no pictures of family or friends. It's all so bland and functional. She’s in limbo, as if she’s afraid to set down roots because that would mean this was a permanent situation. How long did you say she’d been living there?”
I opened my eyes and checked my notes. “Six years. Since she started working at the real estate office right after high-school graduation.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. Don’t you see? If she personalized the place, that meant she planned to stay. And she didn’t want that. Stay there, I mean. She wanted to be able to pick up and move at a moment’s notice without feeling like she’d be giving up anything important.”
"I get it now." I closed my eyes and walked through the remainder of my client's apartment. One bedroom; a small living room, a small dining room table with two chairs. The kitchen was long and narrow, room enough for only one person. Unlike mine and Carrie's which could accommodate three workstations and seating for six people to watch, kibbutz, and enjoy a glass of wine while we prepared dinner.
There was a generic white ceramic salt-and-pepper shaker set on the stove, and a glass bowl, which held some rotting apples and bananas, on the countertop nearby. (Carrie had found a plastic bag and put the fruit in it to dispose of on our way out.)
“Yeah. I see what you’re saying. Nothing to hold her there.”
“Exactly. Now you’ve got it,” she leaned over to kiss me.
"Now I know why I keep you around." And I meant it. I loved her insight, which is exactly why I take her with me when I go to a client’s house. She sees things differently than I do, and is helping me to better understand what I do see. I made more notes.
We took our coffee cups and moved into the living room. While I reviewed my scribbles from our visit, I stroked my beard, a nervous habit I picked up in law school. Maybe I cared so much because she looked reminded me of Maddie: her hair and eye color, and the way she tilted her head when she didn’t understand what you were saying. Again, I wiped away a tear. Would the pain ever go away?
I shook my head and refocused. What Christie did was horrible, but I felt sorry for her. She looked so small and helpless in that jail interview room. Her chin, chest and arms were covered with second-degree burns, which would most likely scar, but the chance of her getting plastic surgery in prison was extremely slim, so these disfigurements would stay with her for the rest of her life.
When I first saw my client, she was wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, a stark contrast to the gray blandness of the interview room of the city jail. Charged with one count of premeditated murder and one count of attempted murder, Christie Cooperman didn’t look like a killer. But the facts were undeniable. She did, in fact, shoot two people, killing one.
“God help me, I loved him so much,” she said.
“Tell me what happened, Christie,” I began, turning on the tape recorder I always carried in my worn briefcase (a gift from Carrie for my forty-fifth birthday.) “I can’t help you unless you tell me everything.” I reached across the table, grabbing her hands that lay clasped together. She looked so frail. Her short black hair was dirty; her brown eyes were encased with black circles. She looked tired and older than her twenty-eight years. The jail garb floated on her, making her look even smaller than her five-foot-three-inch height. My heart ached for her.
“I….it…it started…it was….,” she tried to say, but holding back the tears was too difficult and they released like a torrent of rain on a stormy night.
“It’s okay,” I told her. “Take your time.”
Finally able to control her sobbing, she tried again. “We met New Years Eve, 2014.” She looked at me and I saw the sadness in her eyes. Her head and shoulders were bent down as if the weight of what she’d done were sitting on top of her. It was only later that I learned what really was upsetting her.
CHRISTIE'S STORY
He walked into the room and it was as if the world stopped as he made his way to me and introduced himself. “Hi,” he said, taking my hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it. “My name is Parker Winston, and you are beautiful.”
I was so flattered and blushed at his comment. We spent the rest of the evening together, chatting and drinking champagne. When midnight struck, he took me in his arms and kissed me, almost causing my knees to buckle.
He was thirty and a successful Personal Injury attorney who had started working with his father right after law school. Together they turned a five-man firm into a twenty-lawyer conglomerate. They owned rental property throughout the city and a piece of the Las Vegas 51’s, you know, the baseball farm team. You know the Samson brothers, don’t you? The guys who own the Las Vegas Hotel and Casino? (I nodded yes.) Well, Parker and his father were in negotiations with them to jointly buy a run-down structure in the downtown area, and convert it into an upscale mixed-use condominium/retail building.
Parker was so good-looking, he could have been a model, and told me he had actually taken some assignments while in college, but he said he got bored with that and decided to concentrate on his true love, the law.
I fell in love with him instantly, Mr. Barrows. He was everything I ever wanted in a man, everything I ever dreamed about – intelligent, kind, good-looking and well-mannered. He wanted to be important and I admired that.”
(A little flighty? Superficial? I wrote on my notepad, stroking my beard.)
I was a high school graduate, but I wasn’t interested in going to college. I wanted to spend my years after high school living life, not learning about it. I started working as a receptionist in a real estate office one month after graduation, and four years later, I had been promoted to assistant to the president, a position I’ve held for the past two years.
I was a party girl and was proud of it. My free time was spent hanging out with my girlfriends, shopping, drinking and generally having a good time. I had just turned twenty-five and loved my life, but I was waiting for the right man to come along to make it even better.
Then, on that New Years Eve, I thought I had finally found him. My boss, Richard McLeary, and his wife, Rachel, invited me to their house for a party. Parker and his father, a recent widower, were also there because they were neighbors. Within a few minutes of arriving, I saw Parker and felt an instant attraction. We started dating the next day when he invited me to brunch. Our relationship turned intimate almost immediately and I was falling hard. He had money and was not afraid to spend it – especially on me – showering me with perfume, jewelry and whatever little odds and ends he would find that he thought I would enjoy.
“How long did this relationship last before things went awry?” I asked.
“Almost three years. I was hoping he would propose Christmas. Or New Years, which would have been our third anniversary. But of course he didn’t.”
“Tell me what happened,” I prompted. God, I hope this never happens to my younger daughter Barb. I hope if she loses her heart this way, that it is, at the very least, returned with the same ferocity.
I started planning my wedding, even though Parker had not yet proposed. I imagined my future - marriage to a successful attorney, the large house in Summerlin with a swimming pool and hot tub in the backyard, and three children (two boys and a girl.) I could see monogrammed towels hanging in the large tiled bathroom, decorated in black and yellow. In my mind, I had decorated the entire house. I saw it filled with memorabilia we would collect from our trips around the world. I would quit my job and be a full-time homemaker who met her husband at the door every night dressed in a short skirt and halter top with a martini in one hand, and the newspaper in the other.
I could see us spending the evening together in bed, watching the TV that would hang on the wall above the solid oak dresser, our wedding picture in a silver filigreed frame on top of one of the matching nightstands.
So you can imagine my shock when he said he wanted to end our relationship.
“What did he say to you? Do you remember?” I asked, making notes.
“Are you kidding?” Christie laughed. “As if I could ever forget. The things he said were so hurtful, I’ll never forget them.”
“Tell me. It’s important for me to understand what you were feeling if I’m going to successfully defend you.”
(Living in Fantasyland? I wrote.)
It was December 3rd, Friday night. He took me out to dinner at La Familia, our favorite Italian restaurant, and ordered a bottle of wine. Half-way through dinner, he told me we were through. He told me my demands on him were exhausting. He said I always wanted him to be with me, which was partly true. But I couldn’t help myself. I loved him and thought he felt the same way about me, but apparently he didn’t. He told me he wanted the kind of relationship with a woman that his father had had with his mother. Tammy had always taken an interest in her husband’s business, even helping out in the office as time permitted. (The same kind of relationship I have with Carrie, I thought.) I know her recent death left a hole in Parker’s heart, and I tried to help him, to be there for him. But he didn’t understand what I was doing, because he said my only interest in the law is the income it would provide.
But that wasn’t true, Mr. Barrows. I loved Parker. I wanted to be part of his life, but he shut me out. “Just another boring day at the office,” he would say when I asked him how his day went.
Christie started to cry. This woman tugged at my heart and I again reached across the table, trying to comfort her.
“I had hoped our relationship would work out,” he told me, “but I don’t feel there’s any future in it for us. I’m sorry, Christie,” he said, “but I think it’s time for us to move on.”
I was surprised. “How could you do this to me?” I shouted. “I love you. You can’t mean this.” I mean, here I am planning my wedding and future, and he’s telling me it’s over? How dare he?
Her voice had gotten angrier as she related this exchange. She stood up, seething with anger, her brows narrowing, her fists clenching. It was obvious she still harbored a great deal of resentment. (Diminished capacity? Note to have her examined by shrink, I wrote. Check mood swings.)
The guard opened the door and yelled for her to sit down, which she did. But the rage was still there and as I made more notes, I encouraged her to continue, which she did in the calm voice she had had before her outburst.
When he dropped me off at my apartment, instead of walking around to my side of the car and opening the door for me, something he always had done, (and one of the reasons I had fallen in love with him in the first place,) he didn’t get out of the car. He actually had the nerve to wish me luck and leaned in to kiss me on my cheek. I pulled away and slapped his face. He didn’t react. After I got out, he just drove away.
For the next three weeks, I was so depressed I could barely function at work. My boss told me I had better straighten up or my job would be in jeopardy. I decided to take some vacation time and try to get my head straight.
But the pain was too great. All I could think about was revenge. How could I get back at him? How could I make him feel the pain I was feeling?
She looked at me and asked, “Do you understand, Mr. Barrows? All I wanted to do was hurt him the way he hurt me. I never meant for things to get so out of hand.”
Again, I stroked my beard. I looked at my client, and saw a young woman in a great deal of pain. I, myself, had never been rejected by a woman; Carrie was the first love of my life and we had fallen in love slowly, over time, and thankfully (and with a lot of hard work,) it had all worked out. I couldn’t relate to what had happened to Christie. But I knew she needed my help and I was going to do everything I could for her. “Go on,” I said.
I started harassing him, calling his cell phone all hours of the day and night and hanging up. I didn’t want to talk to him; I knew that would be fruitless. I just wanted to annoy him. And I succeeded.
I guess he finally had had enough. He called me, and told me to leave him alone or he would file harassment charges against me. (“When was this?” I interjected. “December 20th,” she replied) But that didn’t faze me. He had already hurt me so badly; there was nothing more he could do to me. So, despite his threats, I continued my attack on him.
“Tell me what happened on Christmas Eve,“ I asked.
“I’m getting there,” Christie answered, clearly agitated. Apparently, she was determined to tell her story in her way. It was the first time I had seen any real animation in her voice since I met her. Except for her prior outburst of emotion, she had been talking in a dull, monotone voice.
Earlier that day, I had called Suzanne to cry on her shoulder.
“And who is Suzanne?”
“Would you please let me tell my story in my way,” she said angrily.
The rage was there again, ready to boil over. Was her monotone voice a way of keeping control of her emotions? I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender and she continued. (Impatient? Unreasonable response? Rehearsed? I wrote.)
Suzanne was Frank’s girlfriend. And before you ask, Frank had been Parker’s best friend for over twenty years. Before the breakup, Suzanne had been one of my best friends. The four of us had double dated quite often, so it was only natural that I called her to elicit her sympathy and assistance. But she told me that it was time for me to move on. Parker had, she said, and then she inadvertently told me that she, Frank, Parker and some other friends would be at the Tower Bar at the Silver City Hotel & Casino later that night.
Sitting in my apartment, I relived every moment of our last three years together. And with each passing moment, my resolve to get back at him got stronger and stronger, until eventually a plan started to form.
I knew the layout of the bar, having been there many times before with Parker. I walked into my bedroom, pulled out my sexiest little black dress from the closet and put it on. I rolled on black thigh-high stockings (Parker had told me he loved them on me) and my black and gold three-inch heels. (Parker liked them too. He told me they made me look extremely sexy.) I dabbed on a bit of Passion perfume, his favorite, and finished off the outfit with a gold choker necklace and matching earrings, a birthday gift from him, and drove to the hotel.
I rode the elevator to the top floor and entered the Tower Bar, taking a seat in the back corner. When the waitress came over, I ordered a champagne cocktail, sat back and spied on Parker and his friends.
After drinking and talking with this blond for a couple of hours, the two of them took the elevator down to the ground floor. I followed in the next elevator. The doors opened just in time to see them enter the coffee shop. That’s when I walked to my car, and retrieved the .25 caliber handgun I had purchased last year after being mugged, and put it in my purse.
“How many drinks had you had at that point?” I asked, wondering if I could use that as a defense.
“I think maybe two or three. I don’t remember exactly, but I wasn’t drunk if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Christie, I’m not suggesting you were. I just need to know if maybe your thought process was affected by the alcohol.”
“Yeah,” she replied sullenly, “well, I knew exactly what I was doing. I wanted to hurt him as much as he hurt me.”
“How? By killing him?” I was surprised at her lack of emotion for even thinking about taking a human life.
“If that’s what it took,” she answered.
“Where was your gun?” I asked, changing tack.
“In the glove compartment of my car.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t have it with you when you went into the bar?”
“Yes. I’m positive. I had to walk to my car, which was on the third floor of the garage. And it was cold that night, and I didn’t have a coat. So I know I didn’t have it with me. Why? Does it matter?”
I made notes on my pad, and motioned for her to continue.
I went back into the casino and waited outside the coffee shop for them to come out. I remember debating about whether or not to enter the restaurant and kill him there, or wait until he was outside the casino in the parking lot.
An hour and a half went by and they still hadn’t exited. I remember thinking maybe I missed them. So I entered the coffee shop, brushed past the hostess and walked around, finally sighting them in a booth in the corner.
They were deep in conversation, his left arm on the back of the banquette, his body turned to face her. He never saw me until I sat down next to him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, quite surprised at seeing me.
“Who’s the whore?” I yelled back.
The blond said something, but I shouted at her to shut up. I told her this was none of her business.
That was when Parker said, “Christie, I think you should go. It’s over between us. Just leave and stop embarrassing yourself. You’re making a scene.”
I remember pulling the gun from my purse. I remember pointing it at him, and seeing the fear in his eyes. I remember screaming at him, “How could you do this to me? How could you ruin my life? You dump me and take up with this tramp? Who do you think you are?”
And that’s all I remember until I woke up in the hospital.
“You don’t remember Parker throwing the hot coffee at you?”
“No.”
“Really? You don’t remember firing the gun? Four times?”
“No.”
“Okay, then,” I said. “I think I have all I need for now. We’ll meet again tomorrow.”
“Mr. Barrows,” she said, looking down at the table.
I stopped gathering my papers and looked at her. “Yes?”
“Did I kill him?”
“No, but you killed Diana Wheeling.”
“Who?” she asked, lifting her head.
“The woman with Parker.”
“Oh, too bad,” she said, again lowering her head. In a barely audible voice she added, “It should have been Parker. But I’m not sorry she’s dead. She was a whore who was trying to take my boyfriend away from me.” She raised her head to look me in my eyes. “Was Parker hurt badly?”
“Not too badly. You shot him in the shoulder and side, but he’ll recover.”
“Oh.”
I thought I now understood her bent head and shoulders. It wasn’t that she killed someone; it was just that she killed the wrong person. But did she know that before now? I’d have to check on that.
I stacked my papers, turned off the tape recorder and got up to leave.
“Mr. Barrows?”
“Yes?”
“What’s going to happen to me?”
I sat back down and looked her in the eyes. I wish I could tell her everything was going to be okay, but I couldn’t. “Well, I’m not sure. I’m going to talk to the prosecutors, but I think they want to go after the death penalty. After all, your actions were premeditated.”
“But I only wanted to hurt Parker. I never meant to hurt that bitch. And look what he did to me,” she said, thrusting out her arms so I could see the unsightly burns.
She doesn’t get it, I thought. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I said and walked out the door.
I returned to my office and read the police report and Parker’s statement. I hadn’t reviewed them before meeting with my client, because I didn’t want any preconceived notions running through my head when I first met her. I could always go back for follow-up questions, but I wanted to hear her side of the events first. But now that I had, I wondered how I was going to defend her.
I arranged a deposition with Parker to hear his side of the story.
The next day, I entered the District Attorney’s fourth floor offices in downtown Las Vegas, noting the beautiful view of the city, surrounded by mountains I never tired looking at. It was a sharp contrast to the pain I could see etched on his face as he stretched to shake my hand.
“Parker,” I started, “how are you feeling?”
“I’ll live. Which is more than I can say for Diana.”
He was rightfully angry, but the venom in his voice warned me to tread lightly.
“I understand. Parker, please tell me about the beginning of your relationship with Christie. How you met. What it was like.”
“When I first met Christie, I was infatuated with her. She was beautiful. Thick black hair, pert little breasts, and an ass that screamed to be fondled. Who wouldn’t be taken with her? Our relationship was passionate. She was insatiable in bed, and I was happy to accommodate her.
“But it was becoming exhausting. She wanted all my time and attention and didn’t understand that my job would always come first. I tried to talk to her about my work, but she would invariably change the subject to the things my money could buy us and the places we could travel to. It got to be too much, so after a while I came to the conclusion that it was time to move on.”
The handsome young man looked at me and shifted his weight in the chair, again wincing in pain. “Look, Mr. Barrows is it?” I nodded in assent. “I never wanted to hurt Christie. I did care about her, but she was suffocating me. And I wanted someone who would be my partner in life, not an albatross, a hanger-on.”
“Parker,” District Attorney Henry Hernandez interjected, “please answer Mr. Barrows questions directly, and don’t add your comments.”
“What’s the matter, Henry? You afraid I might actually learn something useful?” I asked the prosecutor.
“My job here is not to make yours easier,” Henry responded coldly. “You asked to speak with our star witness and I’ve made him available. So please confine your questions, and,” turning to Parker, “your answers to the scope of this deposition.”
Parker nodded, and I continued. “Okay, Parker, did you ever tell Christie you loved her? Did you ever talk about getting married?”
“No, never. I liked Christie, I really did. But I started to get the impression that she wasn’t the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. She’s a bit of a ditz, if you know what I mean.”
“No, what do you mean?”
“She started talking about her dream house and driving a Mercedes. Of traveling all over the world and filling the house with knick-knacks we’d purchase. I tried to explain to her that if that ever happened, it wouldn’t be for quite a few years yet. I was still building my practice and that kind of money was at least twenty years in the future, if at all. But I never led her to believe we would get married. Honest.”
“On the night you broke up with Christie, what was her demeanor like?”
“What do you mean?” the young man asked.
“Was she upset? Did she cry? Make a scene? What?”
“Yeah, all of the above. She started crying and screaming at me that I was ruining her life. I just wanted to get out of there; she was embarrassing both of us. I paid the bill and we left. When I dropped her off, I didn’t get out of the car, like I usually did. I just wanted to get away from her as soon as possible.”
“Did you kiss her?” Christie had said he did.
“Yes, I tried to give her a quick peck on the cheek, but she slapped me, then got out. That was the last time I saw her until December 24th when she shot me.”
“Tell me what you remember of that night,” I asked.
“Well, this whole thing with Christie had been pretty upsetting. She was calling my cell phone all hours of the day and night. By the time Christmas Eve came around, I was wound pretty tight. My friend Frank suggested we go to the Tower Bar for a couple of drinks, and he asked his girlfriend Suzanne, to bring a girlfriend with her.
“A half-hour after Frank and I got there, Suzanne walked in with this gorgeous blond, and I was immediately attracted to her. We spent the rest of the evening talking and drinking.”
“And that was Diana Wheeling?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s right,” Parker responded, his eyes gazing out the window as he recalled the events of that night. He hesitated, and I let him gather his thoughts.
“Anyway, after a while, I asked her if she wanted to grab a bite to eat, and after saying goodnight to Frank and Suzanne, we left the bar and went to the coffee shop. We sat at a booth in the back of the restaurant, which was surprisingly empty, and talked for a while. Then the next thing I knew, Christie had sat down next to me.
“I never even saw her,” Parker said, wistfully, twisting his hands in agitation. “Maybe if I had, I could have prevented this.”
Henry put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and said, “Son, there was nothing you could have done. The woman was intent on hurting you.”
“Hey,” I interjected. “You’re assuming facts not in evidence.”
“Relax, Mr. Barrows. This is not a trial, only a deposition. Go on, Parker, tell him what else you remember of that night,” he said, patting the young man on his shoulder.
Now, I’m a pretty affable guy; I get along with most people; and Henry and I have faced off more times than I can count. But he was starting to get on my nerves. Despite the fact that I always call him by his first name, except in court, he refuses to call me anything except “Mr. Barrows.” Which wouldn’t be so bad, except he’s at least ten years older than me and says it with such disdain, it makes me want to throttle him. Maybe he hates me because I’ve beat him at more than sixty percent of our encounters?
“She started yelling at me, I don’t remember her exact words. Except that she called Diana a whore. That much I remember. I told her to leave. She got up and I remember turning back to Diana for a moment to see if she was okay, and I heard her gasp. When I turned to Christie, I noticed the gun in her hand and that she was pointing it at me.
“I have to admit I was scared shitless. I thought she was going to kill me. Reasoning with her seemed out of the question, so I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed the pot of coffee from the table, and threw it at her. I tried to grab Diana’s hand to pull her away from the table, but Christie pulled the trigger. The first shot hit me in the left shoulder and I remember screaming out in pain. I heard two more shots, then a fourth that hit me in my side, right here. (He pointed to his left side, just below his rib.) That’s when I passed out.
“When I awoke in the hospital, they told me what happened and that Diana was dead. Mr. Barrows, can I ask you a question?”
At that point, Henry interjected and asked, “Wait a minute. I’m going to have to put a stop to this. Mr. Barrows, are we done here?”
I wasn’t, but knew the DA wasn’t going to allow his prime witness to ask me anything on the record. “Yes, I think I have everything I need for right now.”
“Okay, then this depo is over. Anything you two want to discuss is off the record and cannot be used at trial, is that understood?”
Parker and I both nodded and Henry and the court stenographer left the room.
“What is it Parker?”
Gingerly, he got up from the table and walked to the wall of windows that looked out on the downtown area. “How is she doing?”
“Christie? She’s a little out of it. She doesn’t remember what happened after pulling the gun out. Why?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m angry. In the very short time I knew her, I thought Diana was a wonderful woman with whom I had a lot in common. I was very attracted to her and think there was a possibility that we could have had a long-term relationship. But I feel responsible for what happened with Christie. I should have seen how our break up affected her. Maybe if I had, none of this would have happened.”
I arose from the table and walked over to the man who was in obvious turmoil. “Parker, without saying anything further about my client’s state of mind or possible defense, I can only tell you that it’s not your fault. You did what you felt was right, and you can’t be held responsible for another’s actions. And no one thinks you are responsible.”
Parker turned his head to look at me and said, “I guess you’re right. It’s just a shame that an innocent person like Diana had to die.”
“Yes it is. What are you going to do now, son?”
“After the trial, I think I’m going to go to Phoenix. My ex-college roommate lives there and he offered to put me up for a while. After that, who knows?”
“Good luck,” I said and watched as he walked out of the room.
At trial, I used a diminished capacity defense. I tried to paint a picture of a young woman who lived her life waiting for her Prince Charming, following in her mother’s footsteps. I explained how Wanda Cooperman’s husband had walked out on her while Christie was still an infant, and Wanda had spent her remaining years also waiting for the right man to enter her life.
I showed the jury photographs of Christie’s apartment. I tried to make them see a young woman whose life was in limbo, waiting for the right man. How, once she thought she found him and then lost him, her well-planned life came crashing down around her. But in the end it was the fact that she walked to her car to get her gun that did her in.
Christie was found guilty of premeditated murder and attempted murder. She was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.
Parker moved to Phoenix and started a new life. He gave up the law, went back to school, received a degree in psychology and now works for the social services department counseling and offering legal assistance to victims of physical abuse.
Faced with being locked up for the rest of her life, Christie’s rage against her former boyfriend escalated. She located Parker’s address via the Internet and started a letter-writing campaign against him, bombarding him with hate mail. He filed a restraining order to try to stop the letters, but so far it has had no effect. He has learned to live with this harassment, moving from apartment to apartment in an attempt to stay one step ahead of her. As of now, she has lost track of him, but Parker knows it’s just a matter of time before she finds him again.
Carrie walked over to my chair, and from behind, she leaned down and kissed the top of my head. “It’s over,” she said. “Let it go.”
“I can’t,” I replied.
“Then write a book.”
So I did. It’s called “Neverending Love,” and it’s on sale now, if anyone's interested.
“I’ve never seen you agonize so much over a case before, Curtis,” my wife Carrie said as I sat in my easy chair in the living room, pouring over the briefs for a case I had agreed to handle pro-bono. “Why is this one so different?”
We were in our living room, discussing this latest case as we did with almost all the ones I took on. Carrie was not just the love of my life, she was my partner and brought things to the table that I, the logical -thinking lawyer, could not. "It just is. You saw her apartment. How she lived. You said it yourself. It was like she was waiting for something."
"Or someone."
"Yeah. Or someone. I don't know Carrie, I've just never run across anyone quite like her. She stares at you with those puppy-dog eyes and you can’t help but feel sorry for her."
"Okay, I get that. I know how easily you're swayed by any female who reminds you of Maddie." I lowered my head to hide my tear-filled eyes. Any mention of our sweet daughter did that to me. I couldn't help it. Even twelve years after her sudden death from a brain aneurism, I still felt the pain of loss whenever her name was mentioned.
"Then what, honey? Talk to me. What's so special about this one?"
How could I explain it to her, when I didn't even understand it myself? I had been assigned to this case because my name was next up on the roster. But once I met Christie Cooperman, my resolve kicked in and I was determined to give her the best defense I could. And to do that, I needed Carrie's help.
"You saw her place. You were the one who picked up the clues of her suspended life. I guess what I saw was the apartment of a pretty lonely woman."
"Lonely and desperate."
"Yeah, that too. I don't know. It just got to me. She needs my help. Our help."
"Okay, honey. So where do we start?"
That was a good question. "I don't know. But it'll have to wait until tomorrow. Right now, I need to get some sleep and some good loving with the best thing that has ever come my way."
I looked at my darling beloved, whose face broke into a huge smile, and whose green eyes shone with love. Whatever she felt for me, I felt back - tenfold or more. As Tom Cruise said in ‘Jerry Maguire,’ “she completed me.”
The next morning, I awoke to the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and headed for the kitchen to find my wife sitting at the table with my cup already filled and sweetened. In front of her lay my legal notepad, turned to the notes I had made when we visited Christie's sparsely furnished apartment. She waited until I had taken a few sips of my coffee before saying, "Are you ready yet?"
"I guess, though I probably should shower first."
"No. We need to do this before your mind has a chance to filter your reactions."
Oh, she knew me too well. Knew how I'd play the scene over and over again, trying to make sense of it. "You're right, of course. Okay, let's begin."
"Okay," Carrie said, “let's look at her apartment. From what I saw, she’s a bit of a dreamer.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Let's start with the living room. The first thing I noticed is that there are no family pictures except for one of your client with a woman I assume is her mother. There's a picture of yellow flowers in a field hanging over the gas-fireplace, the kind of commercial art you could buy at any flea market or Walmart. Her place looks like a temporary shelter. There’s nothing to indicate it's a home, merely a place to live until…”
“Until what?” I asked, curious. Why couldn't I see what she was seeing?
“Until the man of her dreams comes along and sweeps her off her feet, I suppose. ”
“What makes you say that?”
“Close your eyes and picture the apartment. Tell me what you see.”
I did as she asked, and visualized Christie's living room, but I still didn't understand what Carrie was trying to say. "I’m sorry honey. I guess I’m missing your point.”
“Curtis, it’s all so impersonal. The art, the dining room table that only sat two, a loveseat in lieu of a full-sized couch."
I nodded.
"On the table was a small bowl. In it were about a dozen matchbooks with the names of different restaurants. They were her only souvenirs from her dates with a man she supposedly loves. Remember the scrap book on the coffee table?"
I nodded again.
"The only things in it related to her life with Parker. Nothing of her past. As if she didn't exist until she met him. As if she wouldn't, or couldn't, have any life until she got married.
When she put it like that, yeah, I understood what she meant. I made notes on my pad: 1) talk to her about her hopes and dreams; 2) how Parker fit into those plans.
Carrie stood and moved to the stove. Returning with a freshly brewed pot of coffee, she continued. "Now, let's move on to her bedroom. Close your eyes again. The room is decorated in white and yellow. On the nightstand to the right of the bed is a photograph of her and Parker sitting at a table together in a restaurant, obviously taken by one of those professional photographers who make money shooting and then selling the pictures to the customers.
"There's a double bed, two nightstands and one dresser. No girly things. No make-up table, no headbands, no barrettes, no pictures of family or friends. It's all so bland and functional. She’s in limbo, as if she’s afraid to set down roots because that would mean this was a permanent situation. How long did you say she’d been living there?”
I opened my eyes and checked my notes. “Six years. Since she started working at the real estate office right after high-school graduation.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. Don’t you see? If she personalized the place, that meant she planned to stay. And she didn’t want that. Stay there, I mean. She wanted to be able to pick up and move at a moment’s notice without feeling like she’d be giving up anything important.”
"I get it now." I closed my eyes and walked through the remainder of my client's apartment. One bedroom; a small living room, a small dining room table with two chairs. The kitchen was long and narrow, room enough for only one person. Unlike mine and Carrie's which could accommodate three workstations and seating for six people to watch, kibbutz, and enjoy a glass of wine while we prepared dinner.
There was a generic white ceramic salt-and-pepper shaker set on the stove, and a glass bowl, which held some rotting apples and bananas, on the countertop nearby. (Carrie had found a plastic bag and put the fruit in it to dispose of on our way out.)
“Yeah. I see what you’re saying. Nothing to hold her there.”
“Exactly. Now you’ve got it,” she leaned over to kiss me.
"Now I know why I keep you around." And I meant it. I loved her insight, which is exactly why I take her with me when I go to a client’s house. She sees things differently than I do, and is helping me to better understand what I do see. I made more notes.
We took our coffee cups and moved into the living room. While I reviewed my scribbles from our visit, I stroked my beard, a nervous habit I picked up in law school. Maybe I cared so much because she looked reminded me of Maddie: her hair and eye color, and the way she tilted her head when she didn’t understand what you were saying. Again, I wiped away a tear. Would the pain ever go away?
I shook my head and refocused. What Christie did was horrible, but I felt sorry for her. She looked so small and helpless in that jail interview room. Her chin, chest and arms were covered with second-degree burns, which would most likely scar, but the chance of her getting plastic surgery in prison was extremely slim, so these disfigurements would stay with her for the rest of her life.
When I first saw my client, she was wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, a stark contrast to the gray blandness of the interview room of the city jail. Charged with one count of premeditated murder and one count of attempted murder, Christie Cooperman didn’t look like a killer. But the facts were undeniable. She did, in fact, shoot two people, killing one.
“God help me, I loved him so much,” she said.
“Tell me what happened, Christie,” I began, turning on the tape recorder I always carried in my worn briefcase (a gift from Carrie for my forty-fifth birthday.) “I can’t help you unless you tell me everything.” I reached across the table, grabbing her hands that lay clasped together. She looked so frail. Her short black hair was dirty; her brown eyes were encased with black circles. She looked tired and older than her twenty-eight years. The jail garb floated on her, making her look even smaller than her five-foot-three-inch height. My heart ached for her.
“I….it…it started…it was….,” she tried to say, but holding back the tears was too difficult and they released like a torrent of rain on a stormy night.
“It’s okay,” I told her. “Take your time.”
Finally able to control her sobbing, she tried again. “We met New Years Eve, 2014.” She looked at me and I saw the sadness in her eyes. Her head and shoulders were bent down as if the weight of what she’d done were sitting on top of her. It was only later that I learned what really was upsetting her.
CHRISTIE'S STORY
He walked into the room and it was as if the world stopped as he made his way to me and introduced himself. “Hi,” he said, taking my hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it. “My name is Parker Winston, and you are beautiful.”
I was so flattered and blushed at his comment. We spent the rest of the evening together, chatting and drinking champagne. When midnight struck, he took me in his arms and kissed me, almost causing my knees to buckle.
He was thirty and a successful Personal Injury attorney who had started working with his father right after law school. Together they turned a five-man firm into a twenty-lawyer conglomerate. They owned rental property throughout the city and a piece of the Las Vegas 51’s, you know, the baseball farm team. You know the Samson brothers, don’t you? The guys who own the Las Vegas Hotel and Casino? (I nodded yes.) Well, Parker and his father were in negotiations with them to jointly buy a run-down structure in the downtown area, and convert it into an upscale mixed-use condominium/retail building.
Parker was so good-looking, he could have been a model, and told me he had actually taken some assignments while in college, but he said he got bored with that and decided to concentrate on his true love, the law.
I fell in love with him instantly, Mr. Barrows. He was everything I ever wanted in a man, everything I ever dreamed about – intelligent, kind, good-looking and well-mannered. He wanted to be important and I admired that.”
(A little flighty? Superficial? I wrote on my notepad, stroking my beard.)
I was a high school graduate, but I wasn’t interested in going to college. I wanted to spend my years after high school living life, not learning about it. I started working as a receptionist in a real estate office one month after graduation, and four years later, I had been promoted to assistant to the president, a position I’ve held for the past two years.
I was a party girl and was proud of it. My free time was spent hanging out with my girlfriends, shopping, drinking and generally having a good time. I had just turned twenty-five and loved my life, but I was waiting for the right man to come along to make it even better.
Then, on that New Years Eve, I thought I had finally found him. My boss, Richard McLeary, and his wife, Rachel, invited me to their house for a party. Parker and his father, a recent widower, were also there because they were neighbors. Within a few minutes of arriving, I saw Parker and felt an instant attraction. We started dating the next day when he invited me to brunch. Our relationship turned intimate almost immediately and I was falling hard. He had money and was not afraid to spend it – especially on me – showering me with perfume, jewelry and whatever little odds and ends he would find that he thought I would enjoy.
“How long did this relationship last before things went awry?” I asked.
“Almost three years. I was hoping he would propose Christmas. Or New Years, which would have been our third anniversary. But of course he didn’t.”
“Tell me what happened,” I prompted. God, I hope this never happens to my younger daughter Barb. I hope if she loses her heart this way, that it is, at the very least, returned with the same ferocity.
I started planning my wedding, even though Parker had not yet proposed. I imagined my future - marriage to a successful attorney, the large house in Summerlin with a swimming pool and hot tub in the backyard, and three children (two boys and a girl.) I could see monogrammed towels hanging in the large tiled bathroom, decorated in black and yellow. In my mind, I had decorated the entire house. I saw it filled with memorabilia we would collect from our trips around the world. I would quit my job and be a full-time homemaker who met her husband at the door every night dressed in a short skirt and halter top with a martini in one hand, and the newspaper in the other.
I could see us spending the evening together in bed, watching the TV that would hang on the wall above the solid oak dresser, our wedding picture in a silver filigreed frame on top of one of the matching nightstands.
So you can imagine my shock when he said he wanted to end our relationship.
“What did he say to you? Do you remember?” I asked, making notes.
“Are you kidding?” Christie laughed. “As if I could ever forget. The things he said were so hurtful, I’ll never forget them.”
“Tell me. It’s important for me to understand what you were feeling if I’m going to successfully defend you.”
(Living in Fantasyland? I wrote.)
It was December 3rd, Friday night. He took me out to dinner at La Familia, our favorite Italian restaurant, and ordered a bottle of wine. Half-way through dinner, he told me we were through. He told me my demands on him were exhausting. He said I always wanted him to be with me, which was partly true. But I couldn’t help myself. I loved him and thought he felt the same way about me, but apparently he didn’t. He told me he wanted the kind of relationship with a woman that his father had had with his mother. Tammy had always taken an interest in her husband’s business, even helping out in the office as time permitted. (The same kind of relationship I have with Carrie, I thought.) I know her recent death left a hole in Parker’s heart, and I tried to help him, to be there for him. But he didn’t understand what I was doing, because he said my only interest in the law is the income it would provide.
But that wasn’t true, Mr. Barrows. I loved Parker. I wanted to be part of his life, but he shut me out. “Just another boring day at the office,” he would say when I asked him how his day went.
Christie started to cry. This woman tugged at my heart and I again reached across the table, trying to comfort her.
“I had hoped our relationship would work out,” he told me, “but I don’t feel there’s any future in it for us. I’m sorry, Christie,” he said, “but I think it’s time for us to move on.”
I was surprised. “How could you do this to me?” I shouted. “I love you. You can’t mean this.” I mean, here I am planning my wedding and future, and he’s telling me it’s over? How dare he?
Her voice had gotten angrier as she related this exchange. She stood up, seething with anger, her brows narrowing, her fists clenching. It was obvious she still harbored a great deal of resentment. (Diminished capacity? Note to have her examined by shrink, I wrote. Check mood swings.)
The guard opened the door and yelled for her to sit down, which she did. But the rage was still there and as I made more notes, I encouraged her to continue, which she did in the calm voice she had had before her outburst.
When he dropped me off at my apartment, instead of walking around to my side of the car and opening the door for me, something he always had done, (and one of the reasons I had fallen in love with him in the first place,) he didn’t get out of the car. He actually had the nerve to wish me luck and leaned in to kiss me on my cheek. I pulled away and slapped his face. He didn’t react. After I got out, he just drove away.
For the next three weeks, I was so depressed I could barely function at work. My boss told me I had better straighten up or my job would be in jeopardy. I decided to take some vacation time and try to get my head straight.
But the pain was too great. All I could think about was revenge. How could I get back at him? How could I make him feel the pain I was feeling?
She looked at me and asked, “Do you understand, Mr. Barrows? All I wanted to do was hurt him the way he hurt me. I never meant for things to get so out of hand.”
Again, I stroked my beard. I looked at my client, and saw a young woman in a great deal of pain. I, myself, had never been rejected by a woman; Carrie was the first love of my life and we had fallen in love slowly, over time, and thankfully (and with a lot of hard work,) it had all worked out. I couldn’t relate to what had happened to Christie. But I knew she needed my help and I was going to do everything I could for her. “Go on,” I said.
I started harassing him, calling his cell phone all hours of the day and night and hanging up. I didn’t want to talk to him; I knew that would be fruitless. I just wanted to annoy him. And I succeeded.
I guess he finally had had enough. He called me, and told me to leave him alone or he would file harassment charges against me. (“When was this?” I interjected. “December 20th,” she replied) But that didn’t faze me. He had already hurt me so badly; there was nothing more he could do to me. So, despite his threats, I continued my attack on him.
“Tell me what happened on Christmas Eve,“ I asked.
“I’m getting there,” Christie answered, clearly agitated. Apparently, she was determined to tell her story in her way. It was the first time I had seen any real animation in her voice since I met her. Except for her prior outburst of emotion, she had been talking in a dull, monotone voice.
Earlier that day, I had called Suzanne to cry on her shoulder.
“And who is Suzanne?”
“Would you please let me tell my story in my way,” she said angrily.
The rage was there again, ready to boil over. Was her monotone voice a way of keeping control of her emotions? I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender and she continued. (Impatient? Unreasonable response? Rehearsed? I wrote.)
Suzanne was Frank’s girlfriend. And before you ask, Frank had been Parker’s best friend for over twenty years. Before the breakup, Suzanne had been one of my best friends. The four of us had double dated quite often, so it was only natural that I called her to elicit her sympathy and assistance. But she told me that it was time for me to move on. Parker had, she said, and then she inadvertently told me that she, Frank, Parker and some other friends would be at the Tower Bar at the Silver City Hotel & Casino later that night.
Sitting in my apartment, I relived every moment of our last three years together. And with each passing moment, my resolve to get back at him got stronger and stronger, until eventually a plan started to form.
I knew the layout of the bar, having been there many times before with Parker. I walked into my bedroom, pulled out my sexiest little black dress from the closet and put it on. I rolled on black thigh-high stockings (Parker had told me he loved them on me) and my black and gold three-inch heels. (Parker liked them too. He told me they made me look extremely sexy.) I dabbed on a bit of Passion perfume, his favorite, and finished off the outfit with a gold choker necklace and matching earrings, a birthday gift from him, and drove to the hotel.
I rode the elevator to the top floor and entered the Tower Bar, taking a seat in the back corner. When the waitress came over, I ordered a champagne cocktail, sat back and spied on Parker and his friends.
After drinking and talking with this blond for a couple of hours, the two of them took the elevator down to the ground floor. I followed in the next elevator. The doors opened just in time to see them enter the coffee shop. That’s when I walked to my car, and retrieved the .25 caliber handgun I had purchased last year after being mugged, and put it in my purse.
“How many drinks had you had at that point?” I asked, wondering if I could use that as a defense.
“I think maybe two or three. I don’t remember exactly, but I wasn’t drunk if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Christie, I’m not suggesting you were. I just need to know if maybe your thought process was affected by the alcohol.”
“Yeah,” she replied sullenly, “well, I knew exactly what I was doing. I wanted to hurt him as much as he hurt me.”
“How? By killing him?” I was surprised at her lack of emotion for even thinking about taking a human life.
“If that’s what it took,” she answered.
“Where was your gun?” I asked, changing tack.
“In the glove compartment of my car.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t have it with you when you went into the bar?”
“Yes. I’m positive. I had to walk to my car, which was on the third floor of the garage. And it was cold that night, and I didn’t have a coat. So I know I didn’t have it with me. Why? Does it matter?”
I made notes on my pad, and motioned for her to continue.
I went back into the casino and waited outside the coffee shop for them to come out. I remember debating about whether or not to enter the restaurant and kill him there, or wait until he was outside the casino in the parking lot.
An hour and a half went by and they still hadn’t exited. I remember thinking maybe I missed them. So I entered the coffee shop, brushed past the hostess and walked around, finally sighting them in a booth in the corner.
They were deep in conversation, his left arm on the back of the banquette, his body turned to face her. He never saw me until I sat down next to him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, quite surprised at seeing me.
“Who’s the whore?” I yelled back.
The blond said something, but I shouted at her to shut up. I told her this was none of her business.
That was when Parker said, “Christie, I think you should go. It’s over between us. Just leave and stop embarrassing yourself. You’re making a scene.”
I remember pulling the gun from my purse. I remember pointing it at him, and seeing the fear in his eyes. I remember screaming at him, “How could you do this to me? How could you ruin my life? You dump me and take up with this tramp? Who do you think you are?”
And that’s all I remember until I woke up in the hospital.
“You don’t remember Parker throwing the hot coffee at you?”
“No.”
“Really? You don’t remember firing the gun? Four times?”
“No.”
“Okay, then,” I said. “I think I have all I need for now. We’ll meet again tomorrow.”
“Mr. Barrows,” she said, looking down at the table.
I stopped gathering my papers and looked at her. “Yes?”
“Did I kill him?”
“No, but you killed Diana Wheeling.”
“Who?” she asked, lifting her head.
“The woman with Parker.”
“Oh, too bad,” she said, again lowering her head. In a barely audible voice she added, “It should have been Parker. But I’m not sorry she’s dead. She was a whore who was trying to take my boyfriend away from me.” She raised her head to look me in my eyes. “Was Parker hurt badly?”
“Not too badly. You shot him in the shoulder and side, but he’ll recover.”
“Oh.”
I thought I now understood her bent head and shoulders. It wasn’t that she killed someone; it was just that she killed the wrong person. But did she know that before now? I’d have to check on that.
I stacked my papers, turned off the tape recorder and got up to leave.
“Mr. Barrows?”
“Yes?”
“What’s going to happen to me?”
I sat back down and looked her in the eyes. I wish I could tell her everything was going to be okay, but I couldn’t. “Well, I’m not sure. I’m going to talk to the prosecutors, but I think they want to go after the death penalty. After all, your actions were premeditated.”
“But I only wanted to hurt Parker. I never meant to hurt that bitch. And look what he did to me,” she said, thrusting out her arms so I could see the unsightly burns.
She doesn’t get it, I thought. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I said and walked out the door.
I returned to my office and read the police report and Parker’s statement. I hadn’t reviewed them before meeting with my client, because I didn’t want any preconceived notions running through my head when I first met her. I could always go back for follow-up questions, but I wanted to hear her side of the events first. But now that I had, I wondered how I was going to defend her.
I arranged a deposition with Parker to hear his side of the story.
The next day, I entered the District Attorney’s fourth floor offices in downtown Las Vegas, noting the beautiful view of the city, surrounded by mountains I never tired looking at. It was a sharp contrast to the pain I could see etched on his face as he stretched to shake my hand.
“Parker,” I started, “how are you feeling?”
“I’ll live. Which is more than I can say for Diana.”
He was rightfully angry, but the venom in his voice warned me to tread lightly.
“I understand. Parker, please tell me about the beginning of your relationship with Christie. How you met. What it was like.”
“When I first met Christie, I was infatuated with her. She was beautiful. Thick black hair, pert little breasts, and an ass that screamed to be fondled. Who wouldn’t be taken with her? Our relationship was passionate. She was insatiable in bed, and I was happy to accommodate her.
“But it was becoming exhausting. She wanted all my time and attention and didn’t understand that my job would always come first. I tried to talk to her about my work, but she would invariably change the subject to the things my money could buy us and the places we could travel to. It got to be too much, so after a while I came to the conclusion that it was time to move on.”
The handsome young man looked at me and shifted his weight in the chair, again wincing in pain. “Look, Mr. Barrows is it?” I nodded in assent. “I never wanted to hurt Christie. I did care about her, but she was suffocating me. And I wanted someone who would be my partner in life, not an albatross, a hanger-on.”
“Parker,” District Attorney Henry Hernandez interjected, “please answer Mr. Barrows questions directly, and don’t add your comments.”
“What’s the matter, Henry? You afraid I might actually learn something useful?” I asked the prosecutor.
“My job here is not to make yours easier,” Henry responded coldly. “You asked to speak with our star witness and I’ve made him available. So please confine your questions, and,” turning to Parker, “your answers to the scope of this deposition.”
Parker nodded, and I continued. “Okay, Parker, did you ever tell Christie you loved her? Did you ever talk about getting married?”
“No, never. I liked Christie, I really did. But I started to get the impression that she wasn’t the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. She’s a bit of a ditz, if you know what I mean.”
“No, what do you mean?”
“She started talking about her dream house and driving a Mercedes. Of traveling all over the world and filling the house with knick-knacks we’d purchase. I tried to explain to her that if that ever happened, it wouldn’t be for quite a few years yet. I was still building my practice and that kind of money was at least twenty years in the future, if at all. But I never led her to believe we would get married. Honest.”
“On the night you broke up with Christie, what was her demeanor like?”
“What do you mean?” the young man asked.
“Was she upset? Did she cry? Make a scene? What?”
“Yeah, all of the above. She started crying and screaming at me that I was ruining her life. I just wanted to get out of there; she was embarrassing both of us. I paid the bill and we left. When I dropped her off, I didn’t get out of the car, like I usually did. I just wanted to get away from her as soon as possible.”
“Did you kiss her?” Christie had said he did.
“Yes, I tried to give her a quick peck on the cheek, but she slapped me, then got out. That was the last time I saw her until December 24th when she shot me.”
“Tell me what you remember of that night,” I asked.
“Well, this whole thing with Christie had been pretty upsetting. She was calling my cell phone all hours of the day and night. By the time Christmas Eve came around, I was wound pretty tight. My friend Frank suggested we go to the Tower Bar for a couple of drinks, and he asked his girlfriend Suzanne, to bring a girlfriend with her.
“A half-hour after Frank and I got there, Suzanne walked in with this gorgeous blond, and I was immediately attracted to her. We spent the rest of the evening talking and drinking.”
“And that was Diana Wheeling?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s right,” Parker responded, his eyes gazing out the window as he recalled the events of that night. He hesitated, and I let him gather his thoughts.
“Anyway, after a while, I asked her if she wanted to grab a bite to eat, and after saying goodnight to Frank and Suzanne, we left the bar and went to the coffee shop. We sat at a booth in the back of the restaurant, which was surprisingly empty, and talked for a while. Then the next thing I knew, Christie had sat down next to me.
“I never even saw her,” Parker said, wistfully, twisting his hands in agitation. “Maybe if I had, I could have prevented this.”
Henry put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and said, “Son, there was nothing you could have done. The woman was intent on hurting you.”
“Hey,” I interjected. “You’re assuming facts not in evidence.”
“Relax, Mr. Barrows. This is not a trial, only a deposition. Go on, Parker, tell him what else you remember of that night,” he said, patting the young man on his shoulder.
Now, I’m a pretty affable guy; I get along with most people; and Henry and I have faced off more times than I can count. But he was starting to get on my nerves. Despite the fact that I always call him by his first name, except in court, he refuses to call me anything except “Mr. Barrows.” Which wouldn’t be so bad, except he’s at least ten years older than me and says it with such disdain, it makes me want to throttle him. Maybe he hates me because I’ve beat him at more than sixty percent of our encounters?
“She started yelling at me, I don’t remember her exact words. Except that she called Diana a whore. That much I remember. I told her to leave. She got up and I remember turning back to Diana for a moment to see if she was okay, and I heard her gasp. When I turned to Christie, I noticed the gun in her hand and that she was pointing it at me.
“I have to admit I was scared shitless. I thought she was going to kill me. Reasoning with her seemed out of the question, so I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed the pot of coffee from the table, and threw it at her. I tried to grab Diana’s hand to pull her away from the table, but Christie pulled the trigger. The first shot hit me in the left shoulder and I remember screaming out in pain. I heard two more shots, then a fourth that hit me in my side, right here. (He pointed to his left side, just below his rib.) That’s when I passed out.
“When I awoke in the hospital, they told me what happened and that Diana was dead. Mr. Barrows, can I ask you a question?”
At that point, Henry interjected and asked, “Wait a minute. I’m going to have to put a stop to this. Mr. Barrows, are we done here?”
I wasn’t, but knew the DA wasn’t going to allow his prime witness to ask me anything on the record. “Yes, I think I have everything I need for right now.”
“Okay, then this depo is over. Anything you two want to discuss is off the record and cannot be used at trial, is that understood?”
Parker and I both nodded and Henry and the court stenographer left the room.
“What is it Parker?”
Gingerly, he got up from the table and walked to the wall of windows that looked out on the downtown area. “How is she doing?”
“Christie? She’s a little out of it. She doesn’t remember what happened after pulling the gun out. Why?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m angry. In the very short time I knew her, I thought Diana was a wonderful woman with whom I had a lot in common. I was very attracted to her and think there was a possibility that we could have had a long-term relationship. But I feel responsible for what happened with Christie. I should have seen how our break up affected her. Maybe if I had, none of this would have happened.”
I arose from the table and walked over to the man who was in obvious turmoil. “Parker, without saying anything further about my client’s state of mind or possible defense, I can only tell you that it’s not your fault. You did what you felt was right, and you can’t be held responsible for another’s actions. And no one thinks you are responsible.”
Parker turned his head to look at me and said, “I guess you’re right. It’s just a shame that an innocent person like Diana had to die.”
“Yes it is. What are you going to do now, son?”
“After the trial, I think I’m going to go to Phoenix. My ex-college roommate lives there and he offered to put me up for a while. After that, who knows?”
“Good luck,” I said and watched as he walked out of the room.
At trial, I used a diminished capacity defense. I tried to paint a picture of a young woman who lived her life waiting for her Prince Charming, following in her mother’s footsteps. I explained how Wanda Cooperman’s husband had walked out on her while Christie was still an infant, and Wanda had spent her remaining years also waiting for the right man to enter her life.
I showed the jury photographs of Christie’s apartment. I tried to make them see a young woman whose life was in limbo, waiting for the right man. How, once she thought she found him and then lost him, her well-planned life came crashing down around her. But in the end it was the fact that she walked to her car to get her gun that did her in.
Christie was found guilty of premeditated murder and attempted murder. She was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.
Parker moved to Phoenix and started a new life. He gave up the law, went back to school, received a degree in psychology and now works for the social services department counseling and offering legal assistance to victims of physical abuse.
Faced with being locked up for the rest of her life, Christie’s rage against her former boyfriend escalated. She located Parker’s address via the Internet and started a letter-writing campaign against him, bombarding him with hate mail. He filed a restraining order to try to stop the letters, but so far it has had no effect. He has learned to live with this harassment, moving from apartment to apartment in an attempt to stay one step ahead of her. As of now, she has lost track of him, but Parker knows it’s just a matter of time before she finds him again.
Carrie walked over to my chair, and from behind, she leaned down and kissed the top of my head. “It’s over,” she said. “Let it go.”
“I can’t,” I replied.
“Then write a book.”
So I did. It’s called “Neverending Love,” and it’s on sale now, if anyone's interested.
