Zena's law : a novel

When does a totally sane woman take the law into her own hands? When does such desperate action become necessary? Zena Carraway answers both questions in the astonishing pages of this explosive drama.#13; A mixed race single mom who lost her first husband in a horrible fire soon after the honeymoon, and then goes through a turbulent divorce from a disastrous second marriage, Zena Carraway needs a change of scenery'and luck. When an opportunity comes to move from Minneapolis, and her past, she seizes the chance to begin a new life in the small, coastal town of Tryons? Cove, North Carolina. Little does she know that she has jumped from heaven to hell.#13; While she does find the love of one good man, Zena encounters, one by one, the demons of racial hatred, child abuse, a hostile town full of enemies, and finally, a vicious gang rape that also leaves her small daughter in permanent, speechless trauma. When the prosecutor, judge, jury, and even the law itself fails to give her justice, she has no other choice than to punish the ringleader herself. Zena's revenge unleashes a terrible demon of her own, which results in her having to stand trial for murder. #13; #13; #13; #13; Will Zena Carraway lose everything? Her children? Her lover? Her very life? You will find out at the amazing climax which will both shock and surprise you.#13; #13; #13; #13;

Chapter 1 Like inevitable death, the second hand of the Seth Thomas wall clock jerked upward in syncopation to Zena Carraway's heartbeat. Ten. Nine. Eight. Try as she might, Zena could not remove her eyes from the hypnotic red needle of time. Six. Five. The silence in the courtroom was absolute. Zena discovered she was holding her breath the last few seconds. Three. Two. One. Nine o'clock. It had begun. "All rise," the Bailiff said. Zena's gaze dropped from the clock to the man. She stood on untrustworthy legs as the Bailiff finished his monotone command, "Superior court, Tuscarora County, State of North Carolina, is now in session, Judge B.T.W. Freeman, presiding." Zena hoped her quaking knees wouldn't fail her. It wasn't like this twelve short months ago, when she had stood in this same courtroom; an angry witness, full of righteous energy. This time she herself was on trial. Judge Booker Taliaferro Washington Freeman clumped in like a black-draped Clydesdale, his eyes immediately locking in on hers. She quickly looked away, at the clock. Ten seconds had passed. Only ten seconds. You can die in less time than-- "Be seated." Judge Freeman's gavel fell once, dropping Zena back down onto her chair like a clubbed seal. She felt her attorney's strong fingers close around her arm; an instant transfusion of strength. Remembering his last minute instructions, she began breathing deeply. The drumbeat of her pulse receded, like a ghost train pulling away from a station. Zena found she was able to focus again on her surroundings. She could no longer hear her own heart beating. She took one more deep breath and leaned forward on the hard oak chair, glancing at the prosecution table where Burke Twilly and Bess Talbot sat: silent, but certain enemies. And behind the polished rail, the jury; three white men, one black man, six white women, and two black women. Twelve pairs of eyes were focused on her. Zena swept a weak smile past them, praying it would camouflage her fear. In turn, all twelve looked away. No comfort there. Where lay comfort and friends? Out of the corner of her eye she could see, sandwiched between strangers in the spectators' seats, the two men she most loved and respected. She wished her mother could have been there too, but she was staying with Zena's children. Neither man was looking at her. I love you, Dad. You'll never know how glad I am you're here. I love you, too, Doctor James O'Brien. I would marry you if I could... "Is the prosecution ready?" Burke Twilly said, "We are, Your Honor." "Proceed." "Thank you, Your Honor." Beastie Hammond gave Zena's arm another gentle squeeze as Burke Twilly rose to make his opening statement. She was relieved, now that all eyes had moved to the tall, impeccably dressed District Attorney walking toward the jury box, brushing his hair back and removing his glasses with practically the same gesture. Zena knew he would not use notes. She had seen him in action before. Much as she disliked him, Zena had to admit the man was striking in a courtroom. She knew the jury would be impressed even before Twilly uttered his first carefully chosen sentences. But Zena was not ready for the venom in his voice when they finally came. "There, ladies and gentlemen, sits a murderer." Burke Twilly pointed, arm outstretched, like an Old Testament prophet. "A killer who was found with her victim's blood and brains all over her nearly naked body, holding a still warm shotgun in her lap." Then he fell silent, for what seemed an eternity. Zena felt the stare of every eye in the packed courtroom focus immediately on her. It was all she could do not to cringe. His accusatory arm still extended, the District Attorney continued, "My friends, Zena Carraway is a calculating woman. Cunning. And vicious. Calculating enough to plan the murder of William Raymond Parker, cunning enough to lure him like a lamb to his seduction, and vicious enough to then execute him in cold blood. She did all these things, ladies and gentlemen, and the State will prove it. We will prove, beyond any shadow of doubt, that Zena Carraway had the motive, the means, and the opportunity to commit this heinous crime." As he spoke he moved ever closer to Zena. Zena's instincts took over her reason and told her to bolt from this courtroom. Run. From everyone and everything. She felt her knees flex under the table. She was partway to her feet when Beastie's gentle hand pulled her back down. "Sticks and stones," he whispered. "Breathe." Zena was glad he was sitting to her right. His build formed a partial barricade between herself and her accuser. She forced herself to sit tall, to ignore the churning in her stomach. Beastie gave her an approving nod. Again, her heart slowed--the adrenaline rush was over. Control, Zena, control. They can't hurt you. You've got the best lawyer on the east coast. When Twilly paused again to face the jury, she stole a quick glance backwards. Jim O'Brien gave her a smile as welcome as a kiss, fists raised in a two-thumbs-up gesture, but her Dad's head was turned to listen to what the D.A. was saying. "...hated Billy Ray Parker. Hated him enough to bring rape charges against him. Assault, battery, and rape, and when--right here in this very courtroom--those charges were proven false, she began planning her revenge. Hatred and revenge, ladies and gentlemen. These were her motives. Her reasons to kill. And kill she did, but not until she had crafted a diabolical blueprint for murder. That plan, which we will show you in detail, will prove premeditation. Murder with malice aforethought, and for that Zena Carraway must pay. The State believes she should pay with her own life." His tone was so poisonous that his words might have been acid-etched in the air, Zena thought. But she was surprised to discover that those words had no effect on her. She had thought about the death penalty so much that it had lost all meaning. As a nurse, she'd seen many worse ways to die. Lethal injection was quick and humane. That was really funny. Burke Twilly had played his ace. Brought out his nuke, and it meant nothing to her. She felt a sudden urge to giggle. She let out a little hiccup, then another. Beastie squeezed her arm again, urgently. "Careful!" The urge to laugh faded. "He's blowing it," Beastie whispered. "Remember what I predicted?" Zena did. Twilly was overdoing it. His venom might very well work the other way on the jury, gaining sympathy for her. They'd discussed Burke's vindictiveness toward her--it certainly hadn't started with this trial. Some of it stemmed from her rebuff of a crude pass he'd made at her nearly three years ago, but the majority of it was from the last trial. "It must be burning a hole in his gut," Beastie'd said. At that trial, Twilly was humiliated, and his rapidly advancing political career had taken a nosedive. Burke Twilly now needed a conviction in the worst way. But perhaps he was going about getting it in the worst way, too. "Ladies and gentlemen, I don't need to remind you that it is your duty to be here. It's also your right. It is your right as citizens to protect the privileges of life common to all of us. The right to..." Resisting an urge to stick her fingers in her ears, Zena chanced another look back into the courtroom that so much resembled a church sanctuary. Behind father and lover sat her few remaining friends. Her support group was pathetically small. Anne Carter and Cal Willard were there, pale and tight-lipped. Directly behind them sat the faithful Mary Reames, daubing a yellow handkerchief to her eyes. Zena couldn't see the rear doors, but knew Deputy Topaz Jones was standing at her usual post. Everywhere else were faces of people who were no longer her friends. And those who had never been. And strangers. People she had never seen before. Some refused to look at her directly, but many did, with revenge traveling along the glide path of their stares. The smell of biblical stone-throwing retribution permeated the room--and the jury. Zena knew that the common denominator for each of the twelve was religion. Each was a regular churchgoer. During the jury selection process, Burke Twilly had given in a little here and there in order to make sure the jury had a majority of God-fearing members. Now he was exploiting that. "...the course of this trial, you will sit in judgment on one who has no respect at all for the rights of others, or for the law. You will sit in judgment on a woman who believed she had the power only God can command..." Don't listen, Zena told herself as Twilly preached on. But what else could she do? She glanced around the courtroom, at the sleepy-eyed judge hulking behind the highly polished veneer of the bench, at the flags of the United States and of North Carolina hanging limply from their staffs, at the court calendar with the anticipated days of the trial blacked out, at the reporter sitting at her machine, fingers flying, at the square of blue sky visible through the high windows. Blue sky. Think about blue sky. Freedom. Flight. No, don't think about that. "...God has told us we must not kill. Every society in the civilized world has told us we must not kill. The law of our freedom-loving land says we must not kill. But Zena Carraway felt she was above the law of this land, this State, above the law of civilized people, even above the law of Almighty God." She felt the warmth of Beastie's bulk next to her. "Ignore Twilly," he'd said. "Think about something else. Think about what you love. Think about Kat." She's safe with Mom. Kat's safe with the most loving grandmother a child could have. They can't hurt her again, not in this courtroom. Not like they did before. The way they poisoned her kitten. The way they poisoned her speech. No, Zena. Don't think about Kat. That's why you're here. Because of Kat. Zena closed her eyes. Twilly paused again, and Zena looked up in time to see him turn slowly, stare at her, then face back to the jury, raising both arms dramatically. "Who is this woman? Where did she come from? What led up to this terrible crime? Let me take you back, three years ago, when Zena Carraway moved down here with her two children from up north..." Zena almost smiled at the tone Twilly used with up north. As if he'd said, "The city sewer." She even thought she saw a glimmer of a smile on the face of the black juror at the end of the front row. "From the moment she arrived, she set herself against the grain of Tryon's Cove and its people. She felt she was above us, as well as above the law. We welcomed her; we accepted her and her children. But rather than reciprocate, rather than learn our traditional courteous ways, she pushed and shoved to impose her cold and calculating northern ways on us. She disrupted everything she touched. And she went out of her way to touch everything. She even went so far as to tell us how to run Little League--" "Objection!" Beastie was on his feet so fast that Zena's jaw dropped. "Sustained." Without missing a beat, Twilly fast-forwarded. "With the gracious help of Polly Taylor, a grand lady whom you all know, Zena Carraway found a fine home to live in, and enrolled her daughter, Kat, in Wee Wranglers Day Care, the best there was, and where she met the man who was to become her victim." Zena glanced sideways. H. Beasley Hammond engulfed his chair like a huge beanbag doll, eyes half shut. A rumpled rhino feigning sleep. Zena knew better. Beastie was waiting his turn. He wouldn't have long to wait. Twilly was clearly winding up his statement. "...ending last November twenty-first, ladies and gentlemen, when Sheriff Johnson found Billy Ray Taylor--what was left of him--on Zena Carraway's kitchen floor. The defendant, partly covered with the tablecloth, but mostly in Billy Ray's blood, was holding the telephone in one hand and a twenty gauge shotgun in the other, cool and calm as a marble statue. She claimed that Billy Ray had raped her--for the second time, my friends--and that she had shot him." Twilly gestured toward Zena again, folded his arms, and continued, this time in a soft, confidential tone, "Take one more look at the defendant, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Who do you see? What do you see? A highly attractive woman in her mid-thirties? A very pretty face? Certainly. Some might even say beautiful. But I submit to you that pretty face is a mask, hiding a mind of pure evil. Hers is a body possessed. Possessed of lust and vengeance. I am confident...no, I am certain that when you hear the evidence we will present, you will find the defendant, Zena Carraway, guilty of murder in the first degree. Thank you." Judge Freeman's bass voice, declared an early lunch recess. His announcement came one second after Twilly turned away from the jury box, and only five more passed before Zena broke down in Beastie Hammond's arms. Three hours later, having eaten part of a chicken salad sandwich and changed her blouse, Zena watched her attorney saunter casually over to the jury box. "Afternoon, folks. My name--leastwise the one that's on my birth certificate--is Horace Beasley Hammond, and I'm a lawyer. Miz Zena Carraway's lawyer. No doubt some of you, maybe all of you, have heard that a lot of people call me Beastie. Beastie Hammond. Well now, why you s'pose that is? I'll tell you why. It's because I'm a reg'lar dragon when it comes to the law, and when it comes to justice." His suit, Zena noticed for the first time, looked like it was deliberately rumpled. She made a mental bet with herself that if she looked inside the coat she'd see a Penney's label. "I'm normally a real mild mannered ol' boy. Love to eat me a good meal, then go sit for a spell in my rockin' chair, maybe smoke a cigar and watch a little bit of television. Just like any other ordinary feller. But folks, I can be a real tiger when somebody breaks the law. Y' see, I love the law more'n anything. It's the glue that holds our shaky society together. Protectin' that precious thing is why I became a lawyer in the first place. Yessir, I can get mighty upset when somebody breaks that law. Takes it in their own hands. I 'spect y'all feel the same way." Beastie Hammond paused, frowned, and removed his right hand from his trouser pocket and scratched the back of his head. Zena could have sworn she saw an imaginary battered straw hat tip forward. "But you know what gets me really mad? Folks, I get some kinda worked up when lawyers forget--or ignore--one simple, very important fact: The law exists not only to deliver justice, it's s'posed to protect us from injustice. Every last one of you folks sittin' behind this rail here knows that the law says a person is innocent till proven guilty. Innocent-until-proven-guilty. "When prosecutors try to turn that the other way 'round, I fight back tooth and nail. I've fought so many of 'em for so many years now; it's why they call me Beastie. I don't mind that, folks. Don't mind it one little bit, 'cause as long as I'm in this courtroom, I'm gonna make sure that the law, and all who serve the law--which includes you folks sittin' in this jury box--make sure justice is also served. Justice, my good friends." Beastie waved an extended index finger in Burke Twilly's direction. Zena saw the heavy gold signet ring on his third finger flash. She knew what that was. She'd asked. "BPOE? Stands for Best People on Earth. Fraternal Order of Elks, Miz Carraway," he'd said. She idly wondered how Beastie dressed when he argued cases in front of the Supreme Court, which she knew he had. Not like this. She made another bet with herself. "That persecu--I mean prosecutin' attorney over there told y'all you're here because it's your duty to be here. He told you it was your right to be here. I won't argue those points, but what about the one he left out? He said nary a word about justice. You are here to make sure that in the case of the State versus Miz Zena Carraway, justice will be done. That's all. That's all this court asks of you, it's all the law asks of you, and it's all Beastie Hammond asks of you." Beastie moved closer, gripped the rail with both hands, and lowered his voice. He looked slowly and carefully into the eyes of every juror. "That young feller over there can talk himself blue in the face tryin' to convince you of any number of things, tryin' his best to make you find Miz Carraway guilty of murder, and, guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Folks, he can't do that. Oh, he'll try. He'll try real hard, and, he's pretty good. But he will not be able to convince you that Zena Carraway murdered William Raymond Parker. Now, why not?" He turned his back on the jury box and walked over to the prosecution table. Placed his hands on the edge and leaned forward, looking into the eyes of Burke Twilly for a long moment before turning back to the jury. Smiled. Jammed his hands back into his pockets and sidled down to the far corner of the jury box. Zena had seen him do that once before. She knew he was positioning himself so that he appeared to be talking to those sitting in the courtroom as well as to the jury. She shot a quick glance up to the bench. Judge Freeman hadn't reacted. His face was still a black glacier. Beastie cleared his throat. "Why not? Folks, the answer to that question is real simple. Zena Carraway is innocent. Innocent right now. Today, tomorrow, throughout however long this trial lasts and forever after it is over with. Mr. Prosecutor Twilly will never be able to convince you otherwise, because of one reason and one reason only. Injustice. The prosecution can work till doomsday, but they can never prove a lie, folks, and the truth is...the simple truth is that Miz Zena Carraway didn't murder anybody. The law gives you the right to defend yourself. That's all there is to it. Before this trial is over, you will all know the truth, and that truth will compel you to bring in a verdict of not guilty, and set my client free. Thank you kindly for your attention." He turned to the judge. "That's the end of my opening argument, Your Honor." There was a stirring and a low murmur of surprise in the courtroom. Zena held her breath until Beastie sat down. He was actually humming. She looked at him, her eyebrows up. He whispered one single word. "Trust." Judge B.T.W. Freeman rapped his gavel once and pronounced, "Adjourned until nine a.m. tomorrow," and stumped out of the courtroom, looking, Zena thought, exactly like the All-American defensive lineman he'd once been. The jurors began to file out of the jury box. A couple of reporters ran for the doors. Zena stood and turned full around. Her father gave her a wan smile, and Jim's grin was pasted on. Deputy Topaz Jones escorted Zena back to her cell, but not before she was allowed to make a phone call to her mother, who was with Zena's children at Jim's house. "...and Mom, would you please bring me a change of underwear tonight?" By eleven that night, fifteen minutes after her mother left, Zena felt the pressure building again. Everything closing in, compressing her body like an accordion. She'd fought it hard every time it happened, but the claustrophobia persisted. This time worse than ever. She had to do something about it, she knew, and right away. She sprang forward the three paces to the barred door and yelled, "Topaz? Are you down there? Topaz?" No answer. Zena bit her lip, took a deep breath, exhaled, and then fished inside her bra for the sleeping pills Jim had given her. Thanks to the new friendship and through-the-bars company of Topaz Jones that usually lasted until midnight, Zena hadn't needed one before, but now she swallowed two of them, with a swig of the tepid water from the plastic Evian bottle. She lay back down on the bunk, not bothering to undress. "Let me take you back three years ago," Twilly had said. My God. Has it really been three years since Minneapolis? No, that was another person. Another life. Zena Carraway was not used to taking any kind of medication, and the pills worked fast. Even so, morning would be several nightmares away... Excerpted from Zena's Law by Tom Lewis All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.