Chapter 6
Six
Michael Westbury flipped on the radio and took the frozen dinner from the microwave, dropping it onto the stovetop with a muttered curse.
He always forgot about the steam. Turning on the faucet, he let the cool water soothe the stinging burn on his hand.
After waiting a safe amount of time, he peeled back the plastic and dug into the roasted turkey and potatoes.
While he ate, he pored over the files he had brought home from the station and nursed one of the two light beers he allowed himself every night after work.
At the top of the hour, he tuned the radio to a news station in New York City.
“We have a verdict,” the announcer teased before launching into a commercial break that seemed to last forever.
Michael pushed the files aside and took a long drink from his beer bottle. “Come on,” he whispered, his heart beating fast with anticipation while he waited through the interminable commercials.
“The jury has found New York socialite Barry Gooding guilty on all counts in the grizzly stabbing murder of his wife Giselle in their Park Avenue penthouse just over two years ago.”
“Yes!” Michael pumped his fist into the air. “Yes!”
“Assistant District Attorney Brian Westbury had this to say after the verdicts: ‘It’s a great day for the City of New York and for Giselle Gooding’s loved ones. Justice has been served.’”
While Brian’s tone was reserved and professional, Michael could hear the excitement in his son’s voice.
“I’d like to thank everyone in my office who worked with me over the last two years to get this killer off the streets and to provide closure for the Goodings’ two young children, whose bravery and courage has been an inspiration to us all.
District Attorney Stein will hold a press conference later tonight.
I’ll let him take it from here. Thanks.”
“Nice job, son,” Michael whispered. “Nice job.” He picked up the phone and dialed a number in Florida. “Did you hear?” he asked when Mary Ann answered.
“Just now on TV. How about that boy of ours?”
“I’m busting,” Michael confessed.
Mary Ann laughed. “I can picture it. Has he called you yet?”
“Not yet. I’m sure he’s bogged down with the media and a bottle of bubbly.”
“You’ll get a call before the night is over.”
“I know.” He stabbed his fork at what was left of his dinner. “How’s the weather?”
“Gorgeous. I wish you were here.”
“I’ll be down next weekend.”
“I guess I can wait that long.”
He paused and then forced himself to ask, “You doing all right?”
“Define all right,” she said with a laugh.
“I know. Me, too. Fifteen years. Impossible to believe.”
“Life has some nerve going on like nothing happened, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Tugging on the raised corner of the beer bottle label, Michael said, “I wonder what he’d be up to these days.”
“With his good looks and smooth talk, he’d probably be a millionaire several times over by now.”
Michael laughed. “Then I could finally retire, and we could live large in Florida year-round.”
“That would work for me.” Her voice softened. “You understand why I can’t be there right now, don’t you, Mike?”
“Of course I do.”
“When you talk to Brian, ask him to call me when the dust settles.”
“I’m sure you’ll hear from him today or tomorrow.”
“Will you take some flowers to the cemetery this week?”
“Sure.”
“Tell him his mother is thinking of him.”
Michael’s throat tightened with emotion, but he managed to say, “You got it.”
“Love you.”
“You, too, babe.”
Michael clicked off the phone and set it on the table.
He attempted to return his attention to the files, but his concentration was blown.
Pushing back the kitchen chair, he got up, dropped the plastic dinner tray into the recycling, and then wandered down the hallway.
He rested his hand on the doorknob to Sam’s room and worked up the wherewithal to open the door.
The room was just as Sam had left it: clothes in piles on the floor, three pairs of size twelve sneakers scattered about, scraps of paper on every surface, shelves of trophies and mementos, and a rumpled bed.
For years after the accident, the room had smelled like him—an appealing combination of sweat, cologne, and youthful exuberance. Now, it was musty and lifeless.
At times, Michael could still hear his boys running through the house as toddlers, as Cub Scouts, as Little League standouts, and as high school stars.
The two of them, looking so much alike that sometimes even he had to take a second look before he called them by name, were always together, always close, always a pair until one was gone.
During the chaotic years of working and raising a family, a man doesn’t have time to prepare himself for the day when his house will once again fall silent. He doesn’t know until it’s too late that the quiet can break a father’s heart.
When she was home, Mary Ann dusted in Sam’s room once in a while, but otherwise they kept the door closed. They’d talked about cleaning out the room but had never gotten around to doing it. Michael suspected they might’ve moved if the specter of dealing with Sam’s room hadn’t hung over them.
Michael sat on the bed and reached for the photo on the bedside table.
On one side of the double frame, Sam and Jenny were decked out for her junior prom.
On the other side was a group shot of the eight friends in formal attire at the same prom.
Tracing his fingers over the picture, he brushed away the dust that had settled on the glass.
Such beautiful kids, Michael thought, and such an awful waste.
He and Mary Ann had set out to have four children but had been blessed with only two—one right after the other.
They’d tried for years to have more, and when it didn’t happen, they had thrown themselves into enjoying every minute with their two boys.
The six others in the picture had become their extras, and they had mourned the loss of every one of them—and suffered through the added burden that came with being the parents of the one who’d been driving.
Fortunately, they’d never once felt an ounce of recrimination from any of the other parents.
He suspected they had taken a “there but for the grace of God go I” philosophy, knowing that by the luck of the draw it’d been Sam Westbury behind the wheel that night when on any given night, it might’ve been one of their kids driving the doomed car.
Not a day had gone by in fifteen years that Michael hadn’t thought of Sam and the lingering questions surrounding the accident—questions that had never been answered to Michael’s satisfaction.
But after more than thirty years in uniform, he knew the only thing that could clear his son’s name was the one thing he didn’t have: hard evidence.
Despite constant, relentless effort, he’d never found a shred of evidence to prove anything other than what they already knew: the car driven by his son had taken the curve on Tucker Road at a speed of at least forty miles per hour—fifteen miles above the speed limit—barreled into a massive oak tree, and burst into flames on impact.
Since the accident, two more rattled drivers had reported seeing a man standing in the middle of Tucker Road, but Michael and his officers hadn’t been able to catch him.
Years of beefed up patrols in the area had yielded nothing.
Tired of seeing him defeated by the situation, Mary Ann had encouraged him to let it go, but he never would.
As long as he had a breath left in him, he would work to clear his boy’s name.
Michael returned the photo to Sam’s bedside table and left the room, closing the door behind him.
In the room that used to be Brian’s, Mary Ann had set up her sewing machine and Michael had installed a computer.
He chuckled at the dichotomy—a shrine to the boy who’d died and nothing in Brian’s old room to remind them of the boy who had lived.
Not that he would care. True to his word, Brian had never come home again after he left for college.
The phone rang, and Michael dashed into the kitchen to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Dad, did you hear the news?”
Michael smiled at the rare sound of euphoria in his son’s voice and a party going on in the background. “I sure did. Congratulations, Bri.”
“Thanks. It’s a huge relief. That bastard was guilty as sin, but he had one hell of a defense attorney. I was sweating this one big-time.”
“You did a great job.” Michael had read every word written about the trial and knew Brian had left nothing to chance.
“My eyes are burning from the champagne they sprayed at me when I got back to the office.”
“Enjoy the celebration. You’ve certainly earned it.”
“You’ve just got to wonder how a guy can do what he did in front of his kids.”
“He’s a monster, and thanks to you, he’s exactly where he belongs tonight. Where are the kids now?”
“Living with Giselle’s sister in Missouri, and I hear they’re doing a lot better. They were amazing during the trial.”
“I read about them in the paper.”
“Their testimony definitely sealed the deal. Hopefully, they can move past it now and have relatively normal lives.”
“With luck, they won’t remember much of it,” Michael said, even though he was skeptical. Some things could never be forgotten. “Mom sends her congratulations, too.”
“I’ll call her when we hang up.” Brian paused before he asked, “How’s she doing?”
“She seems to be hanging in there.”
“And you?”
“I’m okay. Tough time of year for all of us.”
“Yeah. I could come up if you don’t want to be alone that day.”
“What’s this?” Michael joked. “You? Come home?”
“I would if you needed me.”
“I know, son.” His good boy had grown up to be a nice man. “But it’s not necessary. We’ll plan a weekend in New York soon. Mom will fly up to meet us.”
“Saul’s been making noise about me taking a vacation now that the trial is over.”
“When was the last time you had one? A real one?”