Page 17 of Hard Heart

Since I was off the clock, I poured myself a glass of wine as I settled in to read. At least a thousand bucks had been wasted on procedural discussions as Sykes’s team of lawyers argued about everything from the length of court days to jury sequestration to admissibility of evidence. Virginia also had a fun little rule that meant if a lawyer didn’t object at the right time, the issue was waived on appeal. As a consequence, the defence would make a whole bunch of objections at the end of every day, just to get them on the record. Then the judge died. Keeled over as he was putting on his robes. The jury hadn’t yet been seated, so they simply found a new judge and started over, but damn.

In a way, I was glad to see all those points documented in case they helped later, but tonight, I found myself flipping through the pages to get to the good parts. And by “good parts,” I meant the witness testimony. The various news sources I’d referred to had portrayed Sykes as grumpy and volatile, an antisocial loner prone to unpredictable mood swings. His relationship with Costello was described as “tempestuous.” But each of the seven roommates had testified, even Greyson Meyer, who hadn’t been present during the period in question, and their stories were remarkably consistent.

Sykes was an introvert, quiet, dark, and fond of his own company. No, he was never violent, and he was more likely to walk away than escalate an argument. He didn’t have many friends, but to those he did have, he was fiercely loyal. Norquist mentioned a possible “friends with benefits” arrangement between Levi and Ruby, and nobody else seemed surprised by the possibility, although she also saw other men on a casual basis. No, they hadn’t heard a thing on the evening of the murder. No, there were no fights that they were aware of; Ruby and Levi had been laughing and joking at dinner the night before.

None of them had seen this coming.

Levi Sykes was just a normal guy with a tendency to get depressed on occasion.

On the other hand, the prosecution had painted him as a monster with serious mental health issues, an addict reliant on a laundry list of prescription drugs. His substance abuse had in turn exacerbated violent tendencies rooted in bipolar disorder, they said, and on the evening in question, he’d simply snapped.

Reading that part of the transcript sent heat rushing through my veins in anger, and if I’d been in court, I’d surely have been thrown out for objecting from the public gallery. Heidi thought Sykes’s parents were weird, but I was beginning to understand their rabid defence of their son. If my parents had been sitting in their place with Flora on the stand, they’d have acted exactly the same.

She’d been diagnosed with bipolar disorder at sixteen, and yes, there had been some challenging times. She’d screamed at us. She’d thrown things. She’d locked herself in her room and refused to speak to us for days. The doctors thought her problems stemmed from childhood trauma, and the inciting incident hadn’t been hard to pinpoint. She’d been eight years old, on a playdate at a schoolfriend’s house in Surrey when the girl’s older brother decided suicide was his best option. The two kids had seen his head disintegrate from a shotgun blast. Even after intensive therapy, nightmares had plagued Flora for years, but medication helped, and for the most part, she led a stable and fulfilling life.

There were moments growing up that I’d felt jealous over the amount of attention she got—there was Margaret, the golden child; Flora, the beloved but sickly child; and me, the screwup—but as I got older, I came to realise that she hadn’t asked for any of the problems she suffered. I loved her dearly, and now she was my biggest cheerleader.

She wasn’t a monster.

The prosecution had tried to equate mental health problems with homicidal urges, and that made me see red. If Sykes had murdered Ruby due to an underlying health issue, he needed professional help, not life imprisonment. As an aside, I wondered why his legal team hadn’t tried for an insanity defence.

I added to my notes, then picked out the parts where the roommates had talked about Ruby. She’d grown up in Montana, the only child of an alcoholic mother who’d beaten the odds and won a scholarship to Georgetown. Ruby, not her mum. One of the podcasts said nobody had shown up to court for her, no family, no friends, and that broke my heart. Her roommates described her as smart but naive, outgoing yet secretive, friendly but distant, adventurous but appreciative of creature comforts, and a little bit wild. Yes, she had a temper, but she simmered down as fast as she blew up.

A woman of many faces.

The defence characterised her as a slut, a tease, a temptress who slept around and tormented men with her beauty. They suggested the bruises on her neck and thighs came not from rape but from role play, and although they didn’t say it in as many words, they alluded to the fact that she’d asked for her fate.

Not everyone agreed. There had been an interesting exchange between Sykes and his own lawyer.

Q: Isn’t it possible, even probable, that Ruby was sleeping with at least one other person in the house?

A: No.

Q: But you said your relationship wasn’t exclusive.

A: It wasn’t.

Q: So, back to my previous point⁠—

A: She wasn’t bringing men home with her, and she wasn’t sleeping with my friends. I’m not going to sit here and let you blacken her reputation.

I was fairly sure Sykes’s lawyer had face-palmed at that point. How were you supposed to mount a competent defence when your own client was working against you? The transcript was both fascinating and confusing, as were the main characters in this tragic tale.

And I was beginning to realise there was only one way to get the answers I craved, and that was by talking to Sykes himself.

Had I lost my mind?

Why did I feel drawn to this case above any other?

I wasn’t calling Sykes the “Sexy Strangler,” but I was becoming as obsessed as one of his Manassas groupies. Maybe I should start a podcast. At least then I’d have a plausible excuse for all the questions I was asking.

I picked up the pen again and flipped to a fresh page in my legal pad, but the phone rang before I could start writing. Saved by the bell.

“It’s me,” Flora said.

“I know. Your name comes up on the screen.”

She giggled. “How’s the car?”