Kitabı oku: «The First Wife»
From the files of Kelly Chapman
JANE HAMILTON. First wife of murder suspect and bigamist. Well-regarded magazine editor.
Close friends with Bradley Manchester—who wants to move their relationship to a deeper level.
Jane is resisting. But unless she confronts the past—with honesty—she won’t attain happiness in the present….
Praise for the novels of Tara Taylor Quinn
“One of the skills that has served Quinn best…has been her ability to explore edgier subjects.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Combining her usual superb sense of characterization with a realistically gritty plot, Quinn has created an exceptionally powerful book.”
—Booklist on Behind Closed Doors
“I thoroughly enjoyed [Behind Closed Doors] to the point where I could not put it down to attend to such routine things as eating. I was riveted from the first page to the last.”
—All About Romance
“Tara Taylor Quinn has created a masterpiece with The Night We Met…. This novel deserves to sit on every reader’s shelf as a keeper. I highly recommend all readers of women’s fiction, romance and series grab their copies today and prepare to be taken for the emotional ride of their life.”
—Love Romances and More
“Lisa Jackson fans will fall hard for Quinn’s unique ability to explore edgy subjects with mesmerizing style.”
—BookReporter.com
Dear Reader,
Welcome! You’re about to get details from the first of many private files of psychologist and expert witness Kelly Chapman. This character first presented herself to me a couple of years ago, and I’m excited to share her life and her files with you.
Kelly is in demand all over the country, but she’s lived in the same town, Chandler, Ohio, most of her life. She has also counseled many of the citizens of Chandler, so while she is loved by many, intimate personal relationships are kind of out for her. At home she’s happily ruled by her four-pound toy poodle, Princess Camille, who allows Kelly to address her as Camy.
The First Wife is the story of Jane Hamilton, a successful magazine editor who’s on top of her game until she finds out that not only has she been lied to in the most hideous way, but she’s also been lying to herself. She’s called to testify at a trial. The defendant is her ex-husband. The crime—he’s been accused of murdering his wife. Jane is the first wife. Complications arise from the fact that Jane’s husband was a bigamist—married to the woman he murdered at the same time he was married to Jane. And there’s a third wife, too. But the complications don’t end there. Don’t worry, though. Jane does find love again. And you’ll learn what happened during Jane’s first marriage and afterward. Kelly Chapman takes great notes!
For access to more of Kelly’s files, check out these upcoming MIRA releases in THE CHAPMAN FILES—The Second Lie (October 2010), The Third Secret (November 2010) and The Fourth Victim (December 2010).
I love hearing from readers. You can reach me at P.O. Box 13584, Mesa, Arizona 85216, or through my Web site, www.tarataylorquinn.com.
Tara Taylor Quinn
The First Wife
Tara Taylor Quinn
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The author of more than fifty original novels published in twenty languages, Tara Taylor Quinn is a USA TODAY bestselling writer with over six million copies sold. She is known for her deeply emotional and psychologically astute novels. Tara won a 2008 Readers’ Choice Award, is a four-time finalist for the prestigious RWA RITA® Award, a multiple finalist for the Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Booksellers’ Best Award and the Holt Medallion, among others. She has appeared on national and local TV across the country, including CBS Sunday Morning. When she’s not writing or fulfilling speaking engagements, Tara loves to travel with her husband, stopping wherever the spirit takes them. Home is in Ohio, where they live with their two dogs.
For Tim. My first and last. I love you, babe.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
PROLOGUE
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Chandler, Ohio
I WAS SITTING at my kitchen table that morning, having a banana and trying to decide whether to skate first—I’m an avid in-line skater—or read a couple of patient files and then skate, when the phone rang.
Not all that unusual. I’d lived in Chandler my entire life—except for when I was in college. I was on the committee to beautify Main Street, volunteered at our version of a soup kitchen, belonged to a book club, mentored a doctoral candidate for State Board of Psychology Licensure. And any number of my clients had my home phone number. I lived in a small town. There was no escaping them.
And truth be told, I didn’t want to escape them. I wanted to help them. I cared about them. Regardless of what the professors had taught us in all of my Clinical Psychology classes—that we were not to personalize our work—I got emotionally involved with my patients’ care. My professors’ theories worked on an academic level. They didn’t work in Chandler. Bottom line was, trauma didn’t punch a time clock. So neither did I. But I digress.
I was going to read files. Two in particular. And I was going to skate. The only question was which I would do first.
And then the call came.
Camy, or Camelia as the royal queen of the four-pound toy poodle world is more formally known, jumped down from my lap as I grabbed the phone.
I recognized the number on the display. Sheila Grant was one of Ohio’s leading county prosecutors. She also happened to live in Chandler—probably because, as the seat of Ford County, Chandler has the only courthouse.
A few years older than me, Sheila had been at her job a long time. And with her lover, Geraldine, even longer. I respected her. Liked her, even, but we’d never been close. Sheila enjoyed motorcycles, demolition derbies and pig roasts.
I didn’t.
“Hello?” That was the way I always answered the phone. Didn’t matter that now, with caller ID, I knew who was on the other end. I mean, what if it was my dad’s number and I let out a “what do you want?” and it turned out to be a cop using my dad’s phone to call and tell me Dad was dead on the side of the road?
“Good, you’re there,” Sheila said, her voice as feminine as her skin was tough.
“Yep. For the moment. What’s up?”
“I have a case.”
Of course she did. It was the only reason the prosecutor would be calling me at home. If she was selling raffle tickets for her latest cause, she’d have caught me at the courthouse. Or my office.
“What kind of case?”
“It’s a strange one, Kel,” Sheila said. “Murder, but that’s not what’s weird.”
“Okay.” I grabbed the pen and pad of paper from the counter because it was closer than the one on the table. Or the one beside the couch. Besides, it had colorful spring flowers in the background. I had a feeling I was going to need some cheer for this. “Fill me in.”
I hadn’t started my career with any desire to be an expert witness. And certainly not one who was nationally registered and got calls from all over the country. That hadn’t been my goal. But our purposes in life aren’t always clear to us, are they?
“I’ve got a guy who killed his wife.”
Dead wife, I jotted.
“The weird part is, I need you to interview his wife.”
Reading what I’d just written, I said, “I’m not real successful with dead people.” I’m also not callous, but Sheila seemed to bring out the dark in me.
Or maybe it was the stuff we dealt with that did it.
“This is a different wife,” Sheila replied, her serious and detached tone unchanged. “James Todd was a bigamist. Twice, actually. I spoke with Jane Hamilton, his first wife, early this morning. Seems to be in some kind of denial. I may need you to meet with her, too.”
“He was married to three women?” What a guy.
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t that make him a polygamist?” Like it mattered. I was just trying to take it all in. Bigamy, deceit, I wrote.
“No, just twice a bigamist. He married Lee Anne Todd, the murder victim, while he was married to Jane. Kept them both for a couple of years and then divorced Jane, apparently without either of the women being the wiser.”
“What was he doing, a test run, to see which woman he preferred?”
“Who knows?” Sheila’s disgust was obvious. “But he wasn’t satisfied with wife number two, either. He married wife number three, Marla Anderson, last year, while still married to Lee Anne. Several months ago he asked Lee Anne for a divorce. She refused. She’d been spying on him, following him. She found out about wife number three, including the fact that Marla is an heiress, and threatened to expose him unless he paid her to be quiet. We think that’s why he killed her.”
“For what? To avoid a bigamy charge? I mean, what was he looking at? A fine?”
“Technically he could have done a little jail time, but avoiding the bigamy charge wasn’t his motive. Money was. If Lee Anne exposed him, his marriage to Marla would be legally void. Marla would know that their relationship was a hoax, and all that money would no longer be his. He either had to resign himself to paying Lee Anne forever to buy her silence—and to living with the threat of exposure hanging over him—or he had to get rid of her.”
“Do you know this or is it just theory at this point?” I knew how Sheila generally operated. Theory to proof, rather than proof to theory like some of the other prosecutors I’d worked with. Either way was fine with me. I just liked to know, going in, if I was up against opinion or fact.
“A bit of both. We’ve got some substantial evidence, but a lot of it is going to rely on the character witnesses. I need you to talk to Marla. Let me know if you think she’s telling the truth about this guy. She insists he’s the gentlest man she’s ever met. Never shown any temper or violence. If you think she’s lying I might need you to testify.”
“Okay.” I was interested. Very interested.
“She’s hostile at this point.”
I wasn’t surprised. The woman was married to a liar. Was probably in love with a liar. And, for now, she was desperate to believe a liar.
“I’m assuming spousal privilege doesn’t come into play?”
“Right. At the moment, anyway. Their marriage is void, but now that he’s a widower, they can always re-marry. He’s out on bond.”
So he might still get the money anyway. If Marla Anderson believed in him long enough to marry him again. I liked it better when life was fair.
“You said you already spoke with his first wife?” I read my notes. “Jane Hamilton.”
“Yeah.”
“Does she remember him being violent?”
“She says he wasn’t, but I’ve got some suspicious domestic violence police reports….”
“Suspicious how?”
“The cops were called, but not by her.”
“Who called them?”
“The hospital.”
“Jane Hamilton was accident-prone?” I guessed. I’d seen it before. More than once.
“Apparently. Or her husband was and she just happened to be in the way each time.”
“Did the police investigate?”
“Yeah. They were concerned, but there was never enough evidence to file charges.”
“Why are you so sure he killed Lee Anne?”
“He was the last person known to be with her. His fingerprints were found in her car. Footprints found at the edge of the cliff match his shoe size. There was bruising on her back that wasn’t explained by the fall. And the way she landed, the distance out from the edge of the cliff points to her having been pushed hard rather than falling. He had motive….”
“Who’s paying for his defense?” I asked, though I’d have bet that I already knew the answer.
“Wife number three.”
I’d have won my bet.
CHAPTER ONE
“JANE, TALK TO ME.”
Jane’s heart pounded as Brad’s gaze met hers. Pressure, rising like a tidal wave from within, strangled her throat and throbbed behind her eyes.
She had enough to handle without Brad Manchester adding to the mix.
Sitting on a log in the wilderness in Illinois, part of a two-hundred-acre plot of land Brad had purchased with plans to someday build a cabin on it, Jane just wanted a couple of hours away from all the stress. The basket and water bottles, remains of their picnic lunch, still lay on the blanket spread a few feet away. Brad sat with them.
They’d left their homes in Allenville, a suburb of Chicago, only hours ago. Right now it felt like days.
The rough bark dug into the backs of her thighs through her jeans. A twig poked just behind her right ear. Strands of chocolate-brown hair hung loose from the clip holding her twisted bun. She’d sweated off most of her makeup—she never left home without it on—an hour into the day-long hike.
Her employees would look askance if they could see her now. As the editor of a new national women’s magazine, with only initial backing and the threat that if they failed they’d be left in the dust, Jane prided herself on being always professional and well put together.
She didn’t usually let her hair down.
Except when she was with Brad. He was her buddy. Safe.
Usually.
“You’ve been distracted all day,” Brad said now.
Jane nodded, not quite meeting his eyes.
“We’ve been friends what, two years?”
“About that.” Long enough to see the countless women who flitted in and out of his life almost as frequently as he changed his underwear. And to share in many, many court triumphs with him as he represented abused women seeking freedom.
“I’ve seen you happy, worried, angry and exhausted, but I’ve never seen you look so…lost.”
She felt lost. And utterly alone.
“Obviously something serious has happened. What I can’t figure out is why you aren’t talking to me about it.”
At her silence, his expression intensified.
“I thought we could tell each other anything.”
Not quite. But almost.
“Have I done something to…”
“No! Oh, God, no, Brad. You… I… You’re my best friend.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then, why don’t you tell Uncle Brad what’s got you so distracted that you completely missed my last three attempts at conversation?” His words, while cloaked in levity, increased the tension tightening her chest.
Funny how one phone call could undo years’ worth of moving on.
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to recall anything he’d been talking about during the lunch stop.
“Don’t be sorry. Just tell me what’s wrong.” He sat forward, feet on the ground, his arms resting on his knees.
“Did your doctor say something? Are you sick?”
He knew she’d been for her yearly physical a few weeks before.
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m in perfect health.” Physically, at least. And she was determined to be so mentally and emotionally, too. She’d fought too hard to let someone else win now.
“You got another threat, then,” he guessed. It was a testament to how rattled she was by the call she’d received that morning that she hadn’t thought once about the threats. She’d received a couple of pieces of anonymous mail at work, one each for the past two weeks.
Do what’s right or else.
Until this morning, the threats had occupied her thoughts almost constantly. She’d read the words countless times, trying to figure out what they meant. What they referred to.
And hated that she came up blank.
“No,” she said. “Though I got a call from the police yesterday. They found no fingerprints other than mine and Marge’s on the letters. The envelopes had been handled by so many people they couldn’t identify any thing. They’ve talked to everyone and didn’t find anything.” Which hadn’t been a surprise to her. She knew her staff. If any of them had a problem with her, they’d talk to her face-to-face.
“So what happens now?”
“They’re running a search for similar crimes on other magazines, particularly those dealing with women’s issues. They’re also checking into relatives, spouses and ex-spouses of the women at Durango.”
Jane wasn’t all that upset by a check on the women’s shelter where she and Brad both volunteered. Extra police protection wasn’t a bad thing when you were afraid for your life.
“What about you? Do they think it’s safe to continue going into the office?”
“I can’t not work.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“They’re running extra patrols around the office, and around my house, too. And they suggested I hire someone….”
“And did you?”
“Marge made some calls. Found a guy who’s going to be starting on Monday at Twenty-Something.”
“What about at home?”
“In the first place, I can’t afford a round-the-clock private bodyguard,” Jane said. “In the second place, the danger is clearly at the office—even the police think so. I haven’t received any threats at home. And in the third place, I couldn’t stand to have someone shadowing my every move. I’d rather take my chances.”
Brad didn’t look entirely convinced. “So why couldn’t you tell me about this?”
“I just forgot….” As soon as the words slipped out, Jane wished she could take them back. Brad would’ve been satisfied with the threats as the reason for her unusual mental absenteeism.
Brad stood up. “Forgot?” He shook his head. “What’s going on, Jane?”
As Jane thought about the phone call from the Ohio prosecutor, she tried to figure out what she could tell Brad. Brad Manchester might be determined to live footloose and fancy-free, but he was also one of the most decent men she’d ever known. He truly cared.
And while he dated a lot of women, maybe because there were so many of them, Jane was the one he turned to when he needed a friend.
He wanted to return the favor.
She didn’t blame him. She didn’t blame anyone.
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she should blame her creep of an ex-husband. Or the woman who’d stolen him away from her.
Except… Lee Anne was… And James was… Jane did blame herself.
When she could stand the internal cacophony no longer, Jane jumped up, stepping over the backpack she’d worn on the hike. She stopped a couple of feet from the ledge directly in front of them. It wasn’t a sharp drop, but it was the high point of the property. It seemed as though they were in heaven up here. At the top of the world. And for as far as she could see there was nothing but green, trees, hills, brush, grass and wildflowers. Wilderness.
No pavement. No cars. No people.
No subterfuge.
Sometimes, looking into Brad’s deep brown eyes was a lot like standing there at the top of the world. They’d managed to rise above life’s complications to form a bond that was near perfect.
He was the truest friend she’d ever had.
“I’ve never trusted anyone like I trust you,” she blurted.
Her career she had down pat. But not this.
Not being emotionally vulnerable. Or out of control.
Jane continued to survey the world. “I… This is just something I have to handle on my own.”
“You sure about that?”
Hell, no. She wasn’t sure about much of anything at the moment. Except that she had to be strong, had to take care of herself.
“This is me you’re talking to, Jane. I’m on your side, remember?”
There really was no reason to panic. She’d had a phone call. A blast from the past. Nothing that affected the woman she’d become. Nothing that affected her life today.
And the threats—she’d hired protection for herself and her staff. The police were working diligently on that investigation.
“Maybe I can help.” Brad was just a few feet away.
Her only close friend. A lawyer. The best.
“I got a call this morning.” The statement could have been random.
“Who from?” He’d come closer.
“A prosecutor. In Ohio. Chandler, Ohio.”
“That’s where your ex moved after your divorce, isn’t it?”
“Right.” It didn’t surprise her that he’d remembered a detail he’d heard only once—one night when they’d shared a bottle of wine and exchanged divorce horror stories. “James has been charged with murder. They want me to testify.”
Two short sentences. Manageable.
“What!” Brad turned her around, brought her back toward their blanket. His hands were surprisingly gentle on her shoulders. Odd that she’d even noticed. He’d touched her before. A hand on her back as she preceded him into the theater. Or a restaurant. And she’d never reacted. Brad meant nothing to her in the physical sense, no matter how attractive other women found him.
“Who’d he kill?” His fingers slid from her shoulders, but the warmth of his touch lingered. “And why would they think you know anything about it?”
Another surge of panic swept over her.
Jane wasn’t a complete stranger to court. She volunteered at Durango, a Chicago women’s shelter, helping battered women with professional writing like letters and résumés, and helping them gain healing through personal writing, too. She’d been asked to be a supportive shoulder during domestic abuse trials several times. That was how she’d met Brad. He offered free legal advice at the same shelter.
Jane also volunteered as a receptionist one night a week for a local Victim Witness program, a government-funded project that provided free support to victims obtaining protection orders.
She was seasoned. The call that morning, while disturbing, shouldn’t be debilitating her.
“They say he killed Lee Anne.” She couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t seem to focus on anything but the words. They just repeated themselves, again and again, in her mind.
“My God. Lee Anne’s dead?”
Brad sounded as though he’d known the woman, rather than just having heard about James’s second wife from Jane. She nodded. “What happened?”
“She was found at the bottom of a cliff.” Jane shuddered, glancing back at the expanse below them. Standing atop the cliff—looking out—could seem like heaven and could quickly become hell. “Her hyoid bone was broken, which could point to strangulation, but there was no obvious bruising there. But there was some on her back.” Jane rattled off the facts as though reading a finance report. They seemed just as distant, just as impersonal. “Lee Anne apparently told a friend that she was going to meet James for lunch. But they never made it to the restaurant she’d said they were going to. Her car was found at the base of a trail leading up to the cliff. James’s truck was spotted in the same area and there were footprints his size at the cliff. Broken foliage and dirt patterns indicated a struggle. His fingerprints were found inside her car and when questioned, he’d said he was at home that morning, alone. They told him his truck had been seen near the cliff. After which he admitted to being in the woods with her, to being in her car, but he claims that they talked and that she was still sitting in her car, perfectly fine, when he left.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Six weeks.”
“They’ve had enough time to go over the body, then. Did they find anything to indicate that she’d been pushed?”
“The prosecutor, a Sheila Grant, said that the coroner found fingerprint-shaped bruising beneath the skin on her back.”
Brad practiced family law these days, mostly representing abused women, but he’d also done a stint as a prosecutor, so he was familiar with the challenges Sheila Grant could be facing. From everything Jane had heard, he’d been a great prosecutor. And he’d been stifled by politics and people above him who were apt to seek convictions and sentences based on factors other than the severity of the crime. Especially if there was an election or a point to prove.
A breeze blew through, rustling leaves and cooling clothes still damp from the sweat she’d worked up on their hike. Chilling her skin.
“What exactly does Ms. Grant want from you?”
And that’s where her throat froze up.
“Jane?”
“She wants me as a character reference.”
Brad studied her from below his lowered eyebrows and she could almost hear that talented brain of his whizzing along. A prosecutor would only seek character testimony from someone who had information that would support the murder theory.
“Did you tell her you would testify?”
“Yes.” And then she quickly added, “But I don’t know what good I’m going to be. It’s not like I expected something like this. I’m in total shock. The James I thought I knew was weak and selfish, but he wasn’t a murderer.”
“Very few people have any idea someone they loved is capable of murder,” Brad said, taking her hand in another unusual show of physical support. Something she rarely needed.
She let him link her fingers with his and held on.
“I come up against it again and again,” he was saying. “The shock. The disbelief. You know this as well as I do. With all of the articles Twenty-Something has done, your volunteer work and the editorials you’ve written, you’re as much an expert on domestic abuse as I am. I’m sure you can quote statistics.”
Probably. Being the CEO of a start-up magazine focusing on issues facing today’s young women did have its benefits. And what she hadn’t gleaned from her work on Twenty-Something, she’d learned through her years of volunteering.
Domestic abuse. Brad’s words, couched in generalities, lay between them. She’d told Brad her ex-husband had been unfaithful. His infidelity had been the reason for their divorce.
She’d told him the truth. At least, as much of it as she’d known.
“Sheila Grant told me this morning that James is a bigamist. And that I’m one of his victims.”
A victim. Jane hated the sound of that. The feel of it. As though she’d been branded.
Brad leaned back, staring at her. “You’re still married?”
“No!” Shaking her head, she squeezed his hand. And still didn’t let go. She’d been hanging out with Brad for a couple of years now and this was the first time they’d held hands. “My divorce is perfectly legal,” she said. “But it hadn’t happened yet when he married Lee Anne. He wasn’t just having an affair with her—he’d taken her to Vegas and married her.”
“Then, he wasn’t really married to her at all.”
“Apparently he’d asked her for a church wedding, complete with an Ohio marriage license, after our divorce, still without telling her about his first marriage. It was for their anniversary. He told her the Vegas wedding didn’t feel legitimate enough.”
“What a guy.”
“Yeah and it gets worse. He married a third time, about eighteen months ago.”
“Let me guess, he didn’t bother divorcing Lee Anne first.”
“Right.”
Brad frowned, taking on the look she’d seen him wear in the courtroom. His thinking face. “If he doesn’t want her around anymore, why not just divorce her?”
Jane relayed what Sheila Grant had told her about the triangle in Chandler, Ohio. Some supposition. Some not. Brad seemed to agree with the prosecutor’s blackmail theories, but Jane didn’t know what to think. The whole thing—James being a bigamist, her not knowing that her husband was lying to her in such a fundamental way—was just too unbelievable.
A lot of men could pull off an illicit relationship on the side. But a second marriage? And she hadn’t even suspected?
Where was the strong, capable woman who’d been given the chance to head up a new national magazine? Who stood at the head of a Chicago boardroom and justified spending thousands of dollars on copy and cover art, layout and gloss? Who, in her spare time, helped vulnerable women find their feet?
Could the real Jane Hamilton please stand up? A mental version of the old television show To Tell the Truth played in her brain. Or should that be, Could the real Mrs. James Todd please stand up?
She was spiraling out of control. Didn’t know herself. Didn’t know what—
“Did he hit you, Jane?”
Brad’s softly spoken question broke through her internal torment.
“No! Of course not.” She’d have known what to do about that.
They stood there, peering into each other’s eyes. She tried to smile at the man who’d become such an important part of her life.
“But he hurt you.”
Of course he had. He’d been unfaithful to her. He’d been her mentor. Her professor. And then her friend and lover and husband. She’d looked up to him. Learned so much from him. And…
Was she really so pathetic that she’d overlooked enough lies that he’d been able to hide a second family? Had she been that desperate to keep James in her life?
Brad was watching her and the idea of him seeing her as a helpless victim felt far too threatening.
For no reason. Her sense of self-worth came from within.
Still she broke away and dropped down to the blanket. She held the container with the fruit they hadn’t yet eaten, but didn’t open it.
“I wasn’t abused.” The constriction in Jane’s throat lessened. “There were a couple of accidents that were blown out of proportion. That’s all. Sheila Grant got hold of some old police reports.”
Brad sat down beside her, his long frame seeming to take up far more of the blanket than it had earlier.
“You called the police?”
She shook her head. “I told you, they were accidents. Which the doctor in the emergency room felt compelled to report. The police asked some questions, and they left. No charges were filed.” Holding the container of fresh strawberries in her lap, she glanced up at him. “God knows, I appreciate the law that requires medical personnel to notify police whenever they see something that suggests abuse, but in my case, those calls just caused a lot of embarrassment. James was a professor at the local university. Well liked. Respected. He was not a wife beater.”
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