The Confession by Domenic Stansberry Read Free Book Online Page B

a strap, or a belt?”
    “Not that I remember.”
    Wagoner ignored the answer and returned his attention to me. “If Dillard suffered from this kind of memory loss, in regard to his father beating him, how would this affect his memory of those events.”
    “Well, any number of ways,” I said. “He could remember some of the incidents but not others. He might remember them to a certain point—say to when the beatings started to get intense. Or maybe the whole incident would float somewhere in the back of his head, and seem more like a dream than a memory. He could see his father looming over him . . .”
    “Please,” Dillard interrupted. “My father was a good man.”
    Haney sighed and shook his head. He knitted those unwieldy eyebrows together—they were a natural calamity of sorts, those eyebrows, thick and black, a line of charcoal across his brow—and his face furrowed. “Let’s approach this from another angle. You told me you had a special relationship with your Aunt Florence. You carry a picture of her in your wallet, don’t you.”
    “Yes,” said Dillard. “Aunt Flo helped take care of me growing up. She died when I was sixteen. In a car accident.”
    “She was a good-looking young woman.”
    “I guess so.”
    “She wasn’t so much older than you. Seven, eight years. Did you ever think about her?”
    “What are you getting at?”
    “Well, maybe there’s things you don’t remember here as well. Auntie Flo—she had a temper? She was abusive, bossed you around.”
    “No.”
    “But on other hand, there was a kind of special relationship between you. Sometimes at night—”
    A light came into Dillard’s eyes. He realized where Wagoner was headed.
    I thought of my own childhood, once upon a time.
    “No. Not Aunt Flo.” He shook his head, emphatic. “Absolutely not Aunt Flo. I just can’t say what I think you want me to say. I’d rather die.”
    “Well, I think that can be arranged.”
    Wagoner’s tactic was apparent. The attorney meant to build a case that Dillard’s attack on his wife was rooted in revenge for years of abuse that had been suppressed. His relationship with Angela—the abuse alternating with sexual passion—had unleashed the anger, the rage, he felt for his dead aunt, and that had lay sleeping all these years. He had killed Angela, yes, but under severe duress, unconscious of his actions. This was evidenced in the way Dillard’s mind had disassociated from the awful event, creating a fictional intruder.
    “Not Aunt Flo,” Dillard said again, but when he looked up I saw the weakness in his eyes.
    I put a hand on his shoulder then, and our eyes met, and I reassured him the best I could, by looking into his eyes and smiling and giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze, the kind you give someone at a hospital, or a kid going off to war. I’ve reassured other prisoners the same way, guilty or innocent, sane or otherwise.
    “I don’t want to do my defense this way,” he said, “I want a new lawyer.”
    Wagoner crossed his arms. He’d heard this kind of thing before; so had every attorney.
    “Kaufman,” said Dillard. “Jamie Kaufman.”
    Wagoner let out small laugh. A smile tempted my lips as well, not that I blamed Dillard. Kaufman was a hot ticket these days, ever since she’d taken a death row case out at San Quentin and gotten the man released. It was just that everyone else wanted her, too. Every accused murderer and three-time loser up and down the coast knew her name, and half of them had written her letters, pleading their case. The truth was Dillard had already drained his wife’s estate to pay Wagoner’s retainer, and Queen Jamie wasn’t doing gratis work anymore. All her clients these days had plenty of money.
    “I need some time alone with my client,” said Haney. “I’ll give you a call at your office, to talk strategy.”
    “Sure.”
    “Say hello to Elizabeth for me.”
    “Yes.”
    “She’s a wonderful woman. You take care of her.”
    “I