A Good Killing (20 page)

“Hypothetically,” Anna said, “what if Jody is lying to me? What if she’s been lying to me since I got there?”

“Welcome to the defense side of a case,” Jack said wryly. “The first thing any good defense lawyer learns is: Don’t trust anything your client tells you. There are a lot of ways you can figure out what really happened, but asking your client is often the least reliable.”

“I know. But she’s not just my client. She’s my sister. I thought we told each other everything. I went to defend her thinking she was innocent. I believed her when she said she was. But what if she’s not?”

“Sounds like the world might be a better place with the coach gone from it.”

Anna stared, shocked to hear that sentiment come from the mouth of the chief homicide prosecutor. He smiled.

“Don’t look so surprised, Anna. I don’t believe in vigilante justice. But I’ve handled enough cases where the community believes that a murder victim got what he deserved, that their children were safer with him gone. Over and over, I’ve argued that we need a system where citizens don’t take justice into their own hands. Over and over, I’ve heard the response, ‘That man needed a good killing.’ Believe me, those cases are harder to prosecute. You can use that sentiment to help defend your sister.”

“I don’t know if I can defend her, Jack. I’ve devoted my entire adult life to putting rapists and murderers in jail. Fighting for justice.”

“If you do your job right, justice is on your side.”

“How so?”

“In some countries, I, the Homicide chief, would just get to
decide whether somebody’s innocent or guilty. Maybe we’d have a trial, but it would be for show. Is that justice? Of course not. Our Founding Fathers didn’t guarantee that every crime would be punished. But they guaranteed that every accused would get a defense attorney. Because it’s not justice unless there’s a fair trial, and in America we don’t want a conviction unless it’s a conviction beyond a reasonable doubt.”

“But I always pictured myself fighting crime, not for criminals. I don’t know if I can do it, Jack.”

“Our justice system doesn’t work unless there are great lawyers working hard on both sides of the V. I’ve made some mistakes in my life. Imagine if my career, and my family, and my whole life was on the line because of the worst mistake I’d ever made. I’d want someone great on my side. And there’s no one I would want there more than you.”

She loved the logic and calm he brought to every situation. She loved his deep, steady voice.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

“I miss you more.”

She wasn’t sure who leaned forward first. Jack’s lips were on hers, her arms were around his neck, and they were kissing with the intensity of two lovers reunited after a long absence. For a moment, she was only aware of the taste of his mouth, the scent of his skin, the warm, familiar curve of his chest. Then she remembered the red negligee upstairs. She slapped him, hard.

He pulled back. He met her eyes and looked simultaneously surprised, hurt, and like he understood completely.

She stood and stepped away from the couch. A horn honked from outside. She glanced out the window. Grace’s white BMW idled in the driveway. Her hand stung.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “If I didn’t do that, I might’ve never stopped.”

“No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry to have hurt you. To keep hurting you.”

“It’s not your fault. But—I have to go.”

Anna gave Raffles one final cheek scratch. Jack helped her carry and load the suitcases into Grace’s car. They stood facing each other. She looked at his mouth, still tasting it, then looked away. She stuck out her hand. He smiled gently, and shook it. “Call me anytime. I’ll do anything I can to help you.”

She nodded, swallowed, and climbed in the car.

Grace gave her a sympathetic look. “You okay?”

“Mm hm,” Anna managed, through the tightness of her throat. She watched Jack, watching her, as the car pulled away.

•  •  •

That night, Anna sat at Grace’s elegant dining room table, sipping pinot grigio while Grace clicked through Apartments.com on her sleek silver Mac notebook.

“Ooh, look at this one-bedroom in Dupont Circle,” Grace said. “Granite countertops, stainless-steel appliances, exposed brick walls.”

“Mm,” Anna said. It was beautiful, in a great neighborhood, and within her price range. She imagined living in it. Waking up in the spotless bedroom, showering in the luxurious bathroom. Her life would be much like the apartment: beautiful, sterile, and meaningless.

She thought of walking through Jack’s house today, all the meaningful things inside it. And none of them were hers. Even the little girl she’d thought she would raise. None of that was permanent.

Anna remembered what Grace said about why sisters can be so cruel to each other:
Family is forever.
She looked at the computer, where Grace was clicking to another apartment, which was even more beautiful, sterile, and meaningless than the last.

Jody was the one thing Anna could count on—always had been. She was the one truly permanent thing in her life.

“Grace, I’m not sure I want a new apartment.”

“You want to stay here at my place?”

Anna shook her head. She pulled out her phone and texted her sister.

Hi Jo. I’m sorry. I’d really like to come to your obygyn appointment tomorrow. Would that be okay with you? And then maybe we could talk afterward.

She’d be spending a small fortune on airfare, but she didn’t care. Better to do that than make the mistake of her life.

The screen flashed with little dots indicating Jody was reading the text message. Anna waited for her response. It didn’t come for a long time.

32

W
hen I woke up the morning after I made the report to Sergeant Gargaron, the pile of my clothes still lay on the floor in my bedroom. It had been two days since Owen Fowler raped me and sixteen hours since I’d reported it to the police. I stared at the pile. In it were my best going-out jeans, a pair of lavender Jockey underpants, my favorite padded bra, and a light blue shirt with a big silver snowflake on it. I loved that shirt.

Mom knocked on my open door and came in carrying a mug of cocoa. She sat on the edge of the bed and handed it to me. We both looked at the pile. It was like having a pile of dog poop in your room, and not being allowed to clean it up. She said, “I’ll call again today.”

“Okay.” I nodded and took a sip of the hot chocolate. She’d even put tiny marshmallows on the top. She must’ve really felt sorry for me.

“I was thinking,” she said. “Let’s call Anna.”

“No.”

“She would come right home. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.”

“I don’t want her to come home.”

“She’d want to help you.”

“I don’t want her help. I don’t want her to know.”

“You know, your sister is your best friend. Sisters are always there for each other. Blood is thicker than—”

“Yeah, I know, Mom. You’ve told us that, like, a thousand times. But you don’t have to tell your best friend everything. Don’t tell her. Please. I don’t want her to see me that way.”

You were my hero, Annie. And I was ashamed. Worst-case sce
nario: you’d be disappointed in me. Best case: you’d feel sorry for me. Actually, maybe that was the worst case. You were “the smart one,” but I was “the tough one.” At least I was supposed to be tough. I couldn’t stand the thought of you seeing me as a victim.

Mom said, “Sleep on it.”

“I already did.” I lay back down and pulled a pillow over my head.

“Good point.” She tossed the pillow aside. “Time to get up.”

I groaned. It was Monday. The idea of facing my classmates was unbearable. “I’m not going to school today.”

“I would think not.”

That made me perk up. “Can I just stay in bed?”

“No.”

She made me get up, take a shower, and get dressed, which—I admit—did make me feel better. I tried to ignore the putrid pile of clothes as I stepped around it. We watched a marathon of
Law & Order
reruns and sat on the couch all day, eating Cherry Garcia out of the container. I love those crime dramas, how everything is tied up so neatly at the end. They always get some kind of closure and justice, unlike the real world.

Mom kept checking her cell phone. We didn’t talk about it, but we both were waiting for the police to call and tell us what was going on with the case. The phone was silent.

Around noon, she ordered pizza. At some point, I realized she had taken another day off work. I gratefully laid my head on her lap during a commercial. She stroked my hair, which felt so good, I started crying again. She didn’t say anything to try to comfort me—what could she say?—but she just kept running her fingers through my hair. Eventually, I dozed off.

I woke up to the sound of her phone ringing. I sat up into low evening light. Mom looked at the incoming number. “You ready?” she asked me.

“Yeah.”

Mom answered, had a brief conversation, and handed the phone to me.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Hello.” A deep male voice was on the line. It sounded more formal than Sergeant Gargaron. “Is this Miss Jody Curtis?”

“Yes?”

“This is Lawrence Upperthwaite, Holly Grove’s District Attorney.”

My heartbeat picked up. I’d never spoken to a DA before. I said something clever like, “Mm hm?”

“Sergeant Herb Gargaron briefed me on your case, and I’m calling to give you some information about it.”

“Okay?”

“Unfortunately, there isn’t enough evidence to go forward at this point. But if that changes, we will let you know.”

“Um. What if I don’t agree? Can I get another lawyer? One who believes in my case?”

“Ah, no. This isn’t like a slip-and-fall, where you can hire any lawyer you want. Criminal cases can only be brought by the DA’s office. And we’re declining to take this case. Which, I must tell you, is probably the best thing for you in the long run. These things can get quite ugly. Part of my consideration is protecting you from all that.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Feel free to call me if you have any questions.”

He hung up. I handed Mom the phone.

“They’re not bringing the case, are they?” she asked. “They wouldn’t tell me. Said they had to talk to the ‘complaining witness.’”

I shook my head.

“Goddammit!” She paced the room. “Those bastards.” She launched into a string of curses, including some words I’d never heard her say before or since. After a while, she seemed to notice me, still sitting on the couch.

“Oh, honey.” She wrapped me into her arms. “This is one messed-up world. We women have always gotten the shit end of the stick. It’s just the way it is. I’m sorry you had to learn so young. I wanted to protect you from it for a while longer.”

We held each other tight. There was nothing else to hold on to.

After dinner, she picked up the clothes from my bedroom floor and ran them through the washer and dryer in the basement of the
building. That night, we sat on the porch in our winter coats. She lit two cigarettes and handed me one. We smoked and watched the red and white lights speeding past each other on the highway.

For a long time, I believed what Mom said that day. Women are destined to inherit the scrap heap of the world. She had history at her back. Burkas. Child brides. Honor killings. The Salem witch trials. It’s happened over and over, on every continent and in every era. Better to accept that, she thought, and get on with whatever life you can scrape together from the leftovers.

But you know what? Mom was wrong. She tried her best, and God bless her for everything she did, but she was wrong about a lot of things. Most of all, she was wrong about women being powerless. I know that now. If we band together, if we stand shoulder to shoulder, if we refuse to accept their shit anymore, we can do something about it.

You did, Anna. So did I. We just did it in different ways.

That night, though, I was still just a kid. I hadn’t figured out my power or place in the world. After Mom went to sleep, I went to the basement and got my clothes from the dryer. I put them in a plastic grocery bag, walked out to the back of the building, and threw them into the Dumpster.

33

A
nna walked into the doctor’s office waiting room. The seats were filled with young couples poring over
Motherhood
magazines. Several of the women had round pregnant bellies. Some of them had brought their own ecstatic mothers, too. One young woman sat alone: her sister, Jody. Anna took a deep breath and walked over.

Anna had come here straight from the airport. Her bags sat in a rental car in the ob-gyn’s parking lot. But she’d made it in time.

Anna sat next to her sister. Jody’s pregnancy was not yet showing. She still wore her regular jeans and a T-shirt, although her breasts now strained against the fabric.

“You don’t look pregnant,” she said quietly. “You look like a porn star.”

Jody looked up from her
People
magazine. “It’s so cruel,” she said. “I finally have some boobs, and I can’t use ’em.”

Anna smiled. “Thanks for letting me come today.”

“Thanks for coming.”

They were shown to a small examination room, where Jody changed into a paper tunic. A nurse took her blood and some other vitals, then left, saying, “The doctor will be right with you.” As they waited, Jody sat shivering on the examination table. Anna took off her jacket and draped it around her sister’s shoulders.

The obstetrician wore a white jacket, sensible pumps, and a salt-and-pepper ponytail. She had the kind, unflappable expression of someone who had seen every sort of crisis that could befall a woman. She glanced at Jody’s bare ring finger and Anna in
the guest chair, then smiled gently. “So,” she said. “We tested your blood, and you are definitely pregnant.”

Jody started to cry. “I’m such an idiot,” she said. Anna stood and rubbed her back.

“It’s okay,” the doctor said, handing Jody a tissue. “Every week, I see intelligent, strong women in your situation. We live in a time when we control so much of our destiny. It can come as a big surprise when Mother Nature has an agenda of her own. Does the father know?”