The Good Sister (25 page)

“Objection!”

“Would you comprehend the
subtle and complicated
way his mind works?”

“I said I object, Your Honor!”

“And I heard you, Mr. Jackson.”

“I withdraw the question,” Cabot said. “I have nothing further at this time.”

On the third day of the trial, after calling several more witnesses, including Celia, the Durans’ housekeeper, a social worker,
and a number of psychologist scholars who testified that postpartum psychosis was extremely rare and seldom, if ever, rendered
a woman unable to tell right from wrong, Clark Jackson called Merell to the stand.

Beside Roxanne Johnny drew a sharp breath. Like her, he had been preparing himself for this moment; nevertheless, hearing
Merell’s name spoken by Jackson was like a gunshot out of nowhere, an ambush.

Months earlier, when he learned that his daughter would be called as a witness against Simone, Johnny’s outspoken rage had
provided headlines for all the supermarket
tabloids. Emerging from a long pretrial conference with the prosecutor and Judge MacArthur, Cabot told him that Jackson had
prevailed.

“She’s going to testify. The judge says she’s old enough.”

“Testify about what?” Roxanne asked. “She and I were together in the garage. Why doesn’t he call me as a witness?”

“Goddamn it, Cabot, she’s a kid.” Johnny stormed across the attorney’s office on the third floor of a renovated downtown building.
The corner windows overlooked Broadway, eight blocks east of the court complex. “I don’t want my daughter—”

“What you want doesn’t count here, Johnny.”

“Of course it counts. I’m her fucking father. What’s Jackson going to do to her?”

“Calm down, Johnny. The judge won’t let Jackson get away with anything. He’s as concerned as I am about Merell’s well-being.”
Cabot said, “If she were my witness, I’d ask her about the 911 call. I would try to establish a link between what happened
at the pool back in July and the incident in the garage. He wants to show a pattern of intent.” Cabot paused as an ambulance
passed on the street below, its siren screaming. “Jackson knows we’re going to say that in the garage Simone didn’t know the
difference between right and wrong. But if he can convince the jury that just a month or six weeks earlier she tried to drown
Olivia—”

“That’s a pile of crap!”

Ellen had finally told Johnny the truth about that day. He didn’t believe her.

Cabot said, “Jackson will be happy if he can just plant a suspicion of intent in the jury’s mind.”

Johnny sank onto the office couch, his head down, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Everything will be done to protect Merell,” Cabot assured him. “During any prep sessions, there’ll be a court-appointed social
worker in the room to protect her rights. Jackson’s a good lawyer and I wouldn’t expect him to try to intimidate her, but
just in case, we know there’ll be someone with her. She won’t be alone.”

Johnny resumed his restless pacing of the length of the room, his face twisted in frustration. Roxanne had never seen him
this way and his changed demeanor was mildly gratifying after all the times she’d seen him flaunt his power. He was accustomed
to getting what he wanted, to having money and influence behind him in every fight; he didn’t know how to deal with powerlessness.

Cabot said, “It’s an interesting tactic, using Merell.”

“Interesting?” A drop of sweat slipped from behind the orb of Johnny’s ear. Roxanne watched it move down his neck and disappear
beneath his shirt collar. “More like child abuse.”

“Jackson’s taking a chance. It’ll all depend on how the jury takes to her. Merell’s not a reliable witness, if you ask me
he’ll take advantage of that. She lied—”

“She’s not a liar,” Johnny said.

“She told one story to the 911 operator and another to the police. One of them was a lie.”

“She got confused. That’s all that happened.”

“Whatever.” Cabot shrugged and Roxanne thought she saw pity in his expression when he looked at Johnny. “Jackson’s going to
try to convince the jury that she lied to protect her mother.”

“I’ll talk to her, we’ll get her story straight once and for all.”

“No. You won’t do that.” Cabot strode across the office and stood in front of Johnny. “Sit down and listen to me.”

Roxanne thought Johnny was going to argue.

“From this point on,” Cabot said, laying down the law in a way that stopped Johnny’s objections, “in your house, with anyone
in your family, there will be no discussion of anything connected to this case because if there’s the slightest suspicion
that you’re trying to influence the prosecution’s witness…”

“You’re telling me I can’t have a conversation with my own daughter?”

“It’s a crime, Johnny.” Roxanne sat on the couch beside him and placed her hand on his shoulder. She was startled by the heat
of his body and the rush of tenderness she felt. “You could go to prison.”

“And if you tamper with a witness you can forget any chance for Simone. If you want her to go to jail for twenty years, that’s
the way to do it.”

“All right, all right.”

Roxanne saw that until that moment Johnny had misunderstood the situation. He had believed himself to be in charge, with Cabot
operating according to his wishes, but now he had been forced to submit, to bend his will before another’s, and it pained
him. She saw him grimace.

It was chilly and damp in the courtroom on the afternoon of the third day of the trial when a female bailiff escorted Merell
down the gallery’s center aisle, through the gate in the bar, and into the witness box.

That morning as she was leaving home Roxanne had seen three crows hunkered on the branch of a canyon eucalyptus. They seemed
to be watching the house like a trio of dour monks, menacingly still. An omen, she thought, and not a good one.

Merell looked taller and bonier than when Roxanne had seen her a few days earlier. Her bangs had been cut too short, accentuating
the bend at the end of her nose and giving her a slightly orphaned look. Her cowlicky hair was pulled back in what was, for
Merell, a tidy ponytail. She wore her Arcadia school uniform, Mary Janes, and knee socks. There was a note of obstinacy in
her voice when she swore to tell the truth and stated her name. Seeing her there in the witness chair, vulnerable and yet
fierce in the way little girls can be, Roxanne felt something in her chest give way, as if the muscles that held her heart
in place were slowly tearing.

“And how old are you, Merell?”

“Nine.”

“Where do you attend school?”

“Arcadia Academy.”

After every answer Merell squared her shoulders and closed her mouth in the tight straight line so like Gran’s that Roxanne
found herself hoping that the old woman’s spirit was in the courtroom now, giving some of her strength to her great-granddaughter.
It was a thought worthy of Elizabeth.

“What grade are you in?”

Merell looked straight ahead, focused on the middle of Clark Jackson’s red-and-black-patterned tie.

“Upper primary.”

“That would be about fourth grade, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Do they teach you the difference between right and wrong at Arcadia Academy?”

“I guess.”

She had to be frightened, but she hid it well. Two days earlier a note had arrived in the mail addressed to Roxanne in the
careful penmanship of a fourth grader. It contained one sheet of paper on which was written a single sentence.
I hate him
. There was no return address, no signature. She would not be intimidated by Clark Jackson. She would show him how tough she
was. Roxanne wished she could caution her before the trial went further.
Jackson is dangerous
, she wanted to say.
Tread cautiously, little girl
.

Jackson paced a little. “Will you describe for the court exactly what happened in the first week of September 2009, the day
you came home from Macy’s with your aunt Roxanne?”

Merell was prepared for this question and spoke so automatically that Roxanne thought she must have memorized the words. “We
came in the house and I heard a noise like a car in the garage, and I thought someone was stealing one of Daddy’s vintage
cars.”

Jackson led her through details of where and how the cars were stored and maintained.

“What did you see when you opened the door to the garage?”

“I didn’t open the door.”

Jackson looked at her with mild surprise.

“My aunt Roxanne opened it.”

“Very well, continue.”

Roxanne guessed that Jackson didn’t have children. He tried to sound kid-friendly, but he wasn’t convincing.

“There were five cars in the garage, you say. Which one did you notice first?”

“The Camaro.”

“And tell the jury what you saw in the Camaro.”

For the first time, Merell’s confidence faltered. She looked up at the judge.

MacArthur spoke like a kindly grandfather. “I know it’s not easy, young lady, but you have to answer the question.
This is the law and I can’t change it. Go on now, tell folks what you saw.”

“The twins were in the backseat.”

“The backseat of what?”

“The car. The Camaro.”

“What were they doing?”

“They looked asleep.”

“And your mother?”

“I don’t remember exactly.” Merell tugged on her bangs as if she could pull them down to cover her face.

“I think you do remember, Merell,” Jackson said.

“Objection, Your Honor, the witness has said she doesn’t remember.”

“Overruled.” The judge looked down at Merell. “Try to answer Mr. Jackson’s question, Merell. Do the best you can.”

“My mother was in the front seat and the twins were in the back.”

“Was your mother alone?”

“I said the twins were there.”

“In the front seat. Was she alone in the front seat?”

“She was holding my sister Olivia.”

“And Olivia is the baby?”

“Claire’s the baby now.”

“Your mother was holding the baby Olivia, who was how old at the time?”

“Eight or nine months?”

“What was your mother doing?”

“I thought they were asleep.”

“What did you do?”

Merell described how Roxanne had opened the garage door and together they had dragged Simone and the girls into the air outside.

“I called 911 and then I threw up.”

Someone in the gallery laughed.

Jackson said, “That was a good picture, Merell. Very clear.”

Merell smiled. Tears stung Roxanne’s eyes when she saw how needy she was, how at war her emotions were that she should at
once hate this man and yet bloom in the light of his praise.

“Do you ever tell lies, Merell?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on now.” Jackson grinned at the jury. “Everyone lies once in a while, Merell. Do you mean to tell me—?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Is the prosecution trying to impeach its own witness?”

“Withdrawn.” Jackson’s look at the jury implied Cabot’s objection was frivolous. “Merell, let’s go back to something that
happened back in July, the third week of July. That was the day you made a 911 call. Do you remember that?”

“I guess.”

“You, your mother and sisters were around the swimming pool in the afternoon. Your grandmother and the nanny were also there,
am I correct?”

“We did that lots.”

“Of course. However, I am speaking of the day you made a call to the 911 operator. Do you remember that day in particular?”

“Yes.”

“Please tell the court exactly what happened on that day.”

Merell squared her shoulders. “I called 911 and said Olivia was drowning.”

Jackson said, “Your Honor, I submit into evidence the recording of Merell Duran’s call to the 911 operator.”

“Noted,” the judge said. “Go on. Play it.”

Into the silent courtroom came the voice of a terrified child crying, “My mother’s trying to drown my sister.”

The effect of the recorded message was damning and it spread through the courtroom like toxic fumes. Judge MacArthur rapped
his gavel and called for quiet in the gallery.

Jackson asked, “Was that your voice on the recording, Merell?”

“Yes.”

“What happened after you made that phone call?”

“The police came.”

“And what did you tell them, Merell?”

“I said Mommy had Olivia in the pool and she squirmed and slipped out of Mommy’s arms. It was an accident.”

“What else did you tell the police?”

Merell fidgeted; even from where she sat, Roxanne saw
the color rise in her cheeks. “I said I made up that Olivia was drowning because I wanted to see what would happen if I called
like an emergency.”

“Let’s get this straight.” Jackson sounded perplexed. “You told two different stories, Merell. Which was the truth?”

“Objection, Your Honor. The prosecutor is cross-examining his own witness.”

MacArthur pushed his fingers up under his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Overruled, Mr. Cabot. I’m going to give Mr. Jackson
some latitude with this reluctant youngster.”

“You told two stories. One of them was a lie. Am I right?”

Merell sat on her hands. “I guess.”

“Merell, did your mother try to drown Olivia?”

“No. I told you—”

“Why should the jury believe anything you say, Merell? Maybe you were lying to the police. Maybe you’re lying now.”

“Sometimes—” She didn’t finish her sentence.

“Sometimes what, Merell?”

She pulled her hands up and shoved them under her arms. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell the court what you were going to say.”

She didn’t speak.

The judge said, “Answer Mr. Jackson’s question, Merell. And remember you’ve taken an oath to be truthful.”

“Sometimes… there’s a good reason to lie.”

At the back of the gallery someone laughed softly.

“Would you lie to protect your mother, Merell?”

“Objection, the prosecution is asking this witness to—”

“Overruled.”

“Would you lie to protect your mother?”

“No. That would be perjury.” Merell sat up straighter and grabbed the arms of the witness chair. “Perjury is a crime, and
you can go to jail.”