The Perfect Mother (13 page)

“I saw her the same day, right after you did. She told me you and her dad had just left.” Julia hesitated and looked down. “She was really upset, Mrs. Lewis. I guess she had some kind of fight with her dad?”

Jennifer ignored the question and thanked her for going. She told her that all the people trying to help Emma thought that her case could be cleared up if she would just tell the truth and stop protecting Paco. “It’s hard, because maybe she will have to admit that some of what she’s been saying isn’t true, but she won’t consider changing her story, not if she thinks it will get Paco in trouble.” She watched Julia’s reaction carefully, hoping she might give something away.

Julia frowned and bit her lower lip. It seemed to Jennifer that she was deciding how much to reveal of what she knew.

“Julia, please, if you know anything about Paco that might help separate him from Emma, tell me. That’s the best way to help her.”

Julia avoided looking at her. “What if I know something that might hurt her case? Do you want me to tell you that?”

Jennifer tensed as she girded herself for bad news. “Yes,” she said. “I need to know everything.”

Julia glanced around uncomfortably to see if anyone was listening to them. Jennifer suggested they go out for a cup of coffee. They found a café nearby and Julia scanned the neighboring tables to be sure she didn’t know anyone.

“Look, I think you’re right about Paco. She’s blind when it comes to him. You know he’s a drug dealer, but she may be more involved in that than you think. I mean, I’m sorry to tell you this, and I don’t even know if it’s true, but some of the kids say she had kind of become his partner. They said they sold the drugs together.”

Jennifer stopped her. “But you don’t believe that, do you? That couldn’t be true.”

Julia blushed, stammering as she answered. “I don’t . . . I mean, I’m not . . . Look, if she did, she justified it by believing the money was going to the poor people in his village who had no jobs and no hope of getting any in this economy. I’m sure that’s what he told her, anyway.”

“What do you mean? Do you think he was lying?”

“Who knows? Even if it was the truth, it’s no excuse.”

“I know. Of course. But who did he sell to?”

“I don’t really know. Mostly students, I’d guess. A lot of the foreign students, the ones they call
los orgasmus.

Jennifer vaguely remembered Emma mentioning something about this but couldn’t recall the context. “What does that mean?”

Julia looked embarrassed. “You know, from orgasm. They’re a group of foreign students who like to party and go to bars and take drugs and sleep around. That kind of thing.”

“And Emma was involved in that too?”

“I don’t know. But lots of them had money and they spent it on drugs.”

The waiter came over and Julia ordered a café cortado. Jennifer asked for a café con leche. She sensed that Julia was holding something back. She leaned in and spoke in an intimate, confiding voice. “I’d like to know more about Paco, Julia. Has he been in Seville a long time? Who was his girlfriend before Emma? Who are his friends? Do you know anything about that?”

Julia looked uncomfortable. She seemed to be making up her mind about something, and finally she blurted: “I know that he was not always nice to Emma. That’s something else I wanted to tell you, but I wasn’t sure if I should. I saw them together a lot before she moved in with him. He’d be with her and then break up with her. He’d criticize her and make her feel awful about herself. Then he’d be charming and make everyone think he was great. He’d berate her for being rich, for being privileged, for being an American. He always had some girl after him and he’d use that to make her jealous, but if anyone else looked at her, he’d go ballistic. He didn’t like us and tried to get her to stop seeing so much of us, which she actually did for a while. He took the money you sent her, but he always said bad things about you and your values. We all thought it was kind of an abusive relationship, but she thought he was a saint or something.”

Jennifer nodded slowly, taking it in, trying not to show any emotion. She asked again if she knew any of his friends or the name of even one former girlfriend. Julia said there was a guy she’d seen around them lots of times but she didn’t know his name. He was Spanish. She thought he’d known Paco for a long time, maybe before he came to Seville. He hung out at the Triana Bridge almost every Saturday starting around midnight, and he was always stoned.

“I need to speak to him,” Jennifer said, her voice rising in excitement. “Today is Thursday. Do you think he’ll be there this Saturday?

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“Would you go there with me so you can point him out?”

Julia hesitated. “I wouldn’t want him to know I mentioned him.”

“He won’t know. I promise. Just point him out and I won’t even talk to him right away. I’ll bring a friend of mine who used to be a cop.”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Lewis. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Please, Julia. It’s the only lead I’ve got.”

Julia reluctantly agreed and they made a date to meet at the bridge a little before midnight on Saturday. Then Julia rummaged in her bag to pay for her coffee, but Jennifer stopped her, saying this was definitely her treat. Julia thanked her, gathered her books, and left quickly.

As soon as she was alone, Jennifer pulled out her cell phone and tried Roberto again. This time he answered.

“Diga.”

“Oh, Roberto, I’m so glad to hear your voice. I need to talk to you. A lot has happened.”

“I know. I saw the papers and there’s a lot of online traffic.”

“Not only that. I also have some news. Someone for us to talk to about Paco.”

“Bueno. I have some news about our friend Paco too. I have to make another stop, but I’ll be back early tomorrow morning and come straight to your hotel. Please don’t go anywhere. Wait for me.”

“I will.”

T
he morning was long gone and still Roberto hadn’t come. She’d been up for hours, had ordered room service for coffee and sweet rolls and, having decided that presenting Emma’s side might be better than saying nothing, had fielded half a dozen phone calls from reporters all over Europe. Finally she’d called the hotel operator and told her not to put through any more calls. She could look over her messages later. Anyone she wanted to talk to would reach her on her cell phone anyway, she thought. Calls to the hotel would almost certainly be from people she didn’t know.

She had read with dismay the follow-up article in the
International New York Times
and had also had the London
Times
delivered to her room, and she couldn’t believe what they had already dug up. She read again that Emma had been a “party girl” who lived a fast, sexually promiscuous life; that she had dropped out of school and eventually moved in with Paco, who was also in custody, in a shabby apartment far from the usual student section; and that Paco was known as the local drug dealer. There were quotes from unidentified students in the program suggesting that Emma was more interested in partying than studying and others saying that she always seemed cold and unfriendly. One young woman said that her impression was that Emma was so enthralled with Paco she would have done whatever he wanted. That story was in the
Times
, and the reporter was at least honest enough to follow up with a question about how well her informant actually knew Emma. “Well, I didn’t actually know her personally,” the young woman said. “But I knew many people who did.” The reporters had also interviewed friends and professors at Princeton who were shocked and disbelieving that the serious, hardworking student they knew could be involved in this kind of scandal. It was as if Jennifer were reading about two completely different people.

Her cell phone rang, and although she didn’t recognize the number, she answered the call.

“Hello, Mrs. Lewis. This is Theodora Aspek from the London
Times.
Please don’t hang up.”

“How did you get my private number?” Jennifer asked.

“I just want to ask you one question. I want to give you a chance to tell your side, your daughter’s side. The police say that the victim’s body was found in the bedroom near the bed, but they were able to ascertain that the victim wasn’t killed there. They say the body was dragged from the kitchen, leaving a trail of blood. Do you have any response to that?”

Jennifer felt her face flush with anger. “There were two victims that night. One was my daughter. Please don’t call me again.” She hung up.

But she wondered about the information. Did that reporter get a leak from the police? Was what she had said true? She called José and asked him. He said that the information was correct. She asked how they could possibly know unless Emma had told them, and he said that the chemical luminol could detect blood even when it had been wiped away. The detectives were able to see the path the body was dragged along by the reconstituted blood evidence, which glowed in the darkened room once the luminol was applied. She had heard of this chemical earlier from Roberto, she remembered. She hadn’t known enough to fear the results.

“Emma’s story didn’t account for that,” José pointed out, “and they will now of course go back to her and Paco and try to get them to admit what really happened.” He was surprised that the reporter already knew, because he had only just been informed of this development himself. He suggested that Jennifer change her cell phone number immediately and give it only to close friends and family. “There’s one more thing,” José added. “They applied the luminol to the kitchen knife. They found traces of blood on it and incomplete fingerprints in the blood that might be Emma’s.”

“Might be? And might not, right? Besides, she lives there. Of course the knife might have her fingerprints. The blood might have been hers—she probably cut herself. At home, she was always cutting herself when she sliced tomatoes. That’s probably what happened.”

“Perhaps.”

Her anxiety was mounting again. “Have you heard anything from Roberto?” she asked. “He was supposed to be here this morning and he hasn’t arrived and hasn’t called. It’s not like him.”

José said he didn’t have any information but assured her that if Roberto said he’d be there and wasn’t, there was a good reason. She asked if he could arrange another visit to Emma, saying that when she called, they told her a visit was not possible at this time.

“They have told me her visiting privileges were under review,” he said, his voice apologetic.

“But why? I don’t understand. They originally said she was permitted two visits a week.

José sighed. “They report that she has continued to be uncooperative and they have decided to put her on a restricted visitation schedule,” he said. “But I will try to get that reversed. I don’t know how much I can do.”

Saddened and frustrated, Jennifer didn’t respond.

“You can call her,” José added. “They still allow her to use the phone.”

“I tried; she won’t take my calls.”

“Oh?”

“I think she’s still angry at what Mark said in our last visit. But she won’t talk to me either. I don’t know what to do.”

“I suggest you keep trying, senora,” José said in a sympathetic tone. “And soon you will be able to visit her, I hope.”

She felt caged in the hotel room, every impulse thwarted. Not only was she blocked from reaching Emma; she was also unable, because of the time difference, to reach her children in Philadelphia, who would surely be needing her help to get through all of this now that it was public. They would still be sleeping now, but she would call them before they left for school, which was still two hours away. She didn’t know what to do to pass the time. Why didn’t Roberto come?

She decided to take a walk—maybe she’d shop for some presents for Lily and Eric—and went downstairs. As she exited the elevator and walked through the lobby toward the entrance she heard a commotion and someone outside shout, “There she is!” She tried to ignore this and make her way out of the hotel, but a throng of at least fifteen reporters shouting questions crowded around her as she exited. “Did she do it?” “Is she getting fair treatment?” “Does she feel remorse?” “Do you believe her story?” “Was she a problem at home?” She backed up and took shelter inside the lobby, where hotel guards prevented the reporters from entering. She felt flustered and her heart was pounding. She turned to go back upstairs but was stopped by the hotel manager, who asked if he could have a word with her in his office.

She settled into a black leather chair as the manager sat behind his desk. It was quiet and cool in the air-conditioned office and she felt herself calm down a bit.

“I’m sorry, senora. I understand that this situation is difficult for you,” he said kindly.

“Yes,” she answered, “but I am convinced it will get better.”

He looked uncomfortable and shuffled some papers. “I hope you are right, senora. But in the meantime, I’m afraid I must reluctantly ask you to make other arrangements.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean, we are a tourist hotel and the best in the city. We cannot afford to have scenes outside our door such as the one you just participated in.”

“I hardly participated. I was accosted.”

“Yes, I am not saying it is your fault. But it will continue until you leave, and so I am forced to ask you to find another place to stay while you are here in Sevilla.”

She didn’t beg him or argue with him. She simply rose and walked to the door with as much dignity as she could muster. “How long do I have?” she asked.

“It would be best if you could leave by tomorrow, but if that is impossible, you could stay until Monday.”

She nodded and walked out. When she was back in her room, she sat on the bed and allowed herself to cry. Afterward, she splashed cold water on her face and tried calling Roberto again. Still no answer. She called José again—she thought his voice sounded weary; he must be tired of her—and told him what had happened, and he suggested she rent an apartment instead of a hotel room. He said he would ask his secretary to find something and she thanked him. It was time to call the kids in Philadelphia, but she felt so disheartened that she knew it would be hard to sound the note of confidence she thought they needed. Still, she reminded herself, she’d been an actress; she could fake it.

But she put it off, deciding to check the Internet first to see if there were any updates. There were probably lots of tweets about all this, she realized, but she didn’t have a Twitter account and wouldn’t know how to use it if she did. She’d have to ask Roberto when he came. In the meantime, she used her iPad to log on and typed in the URL for the
Huffington Post
. As she had feared, the story about Emma was on their home page and included the damning photograph that was in yesterday’s
NYT
and all the British papers. She quickly scrolled through it, ascertaining that it didn’t add anything new. But when she reached the end, she was shocked to see dozens of comments from readers. It seemed that everyone had an opinion, and every opinion was negative. Many were cruel and insulting and some gave links to blogs that, when she opened them, opined freely about Emma’s behavior without a shred of credible evidence. One person, who signed herself “tellall,” claimed that Emma had slept around promiscuously at Princeton and had seduced her best friend’s fiancé. How could that be? Jennifer thought. She knew Emma’s best friend. She wasn’t engaged—didn’t even have a boyfriend. Was it someone else? Was it a lie? No way to tell. Another, from Spain, asked what did anyone expect? Emma was known, this person wrote, as the “
reina de los orgasmus
.” Jennifer had only recently heard about them, she thought. Now Emma was supposed to be their queen. This was absurd. A guy calling himself “spanishstud” said he had gone to Paco’s to buy drugs and Emma had been there. He said she had looked stoned and was watching cartoons while he concluded the transaction. Cartoons? Emma? Still others wrote outraged comments condemning Emma as a rich, entitled American who was ruining the reputation of American foreign students and deserved to “rot in jail.” Someone else suggested that the government close the program altogether, as it was bringing bad publicity to Spain. Many other posts were in Spanish, so Jennifer couldn’t make them out.

She read what she could voraciously, hypnotically, overwhelmed. Her reactions ranged from despair to fury. Who were these people? How could anyone possibly tell who was lying and who was telling the truth? And how could others feel entitled to have such strong, condemnatory opinions on a subject they knew nothing about? Where did all the bile come from?

She had to talk to Lily right away, she realized, feeling guilty that she had put it off. She would see all this on the Internet and she had to be armed against it. And maybe even Eric needed to be prepared. Kids at school would have heard their parents talking and might well repeat what they had heard. She hoped Mark and her parents were talking to the kids, helping them through this, but everything that had happened to her since she had been a mother told her that only she could adequately handle something of this magnitude. She didn’t—she couldn’t—trust anyone else. She decided she would go home for a few days. She couldn’t get in to see Emma for another week anyway, and Roberto would track down the background of the elusive Paco Romero.

With that resolution, she picked up the phone and punched in her home number. As she expected, Lily was distraught. She said reporters had been calling the house and were camped out in front of it and at her school. Mark had instructed them not to talk to anyone, but the kids at school seemed to like the attention and she saw them standing in groups talking to the same reporters she had ignored.

“I just don’t understand,” she said plaintively. “Did Emma do this? Everyone seems to think she did, but I can’t believe it.”

“Of course Emma didn’t do this. This is an injustice and you have to stand up for your sister, darling. You know her. You know what she’s capable of, no matter what people are saying.”

Jennifer asked about Eric, and the news there was no better. The kids in his class had been hearing gossip from their families for days. Where they had learned of it was a mystery; it had only just made the international news. But somehow the word had gotten out, or some version of it was being bandied about. Jennifer had no way of knowing what they were saying, but Lily said the effect was disturbing. Eric was being treated with either scorn and attacks or discomfort and pity from formerly close friends and even their parents. He was miserable and acting out at school.

“Should I come home for a while?” Jennifer asked. “I could get away for a week and it wouldn’t hurt Emma.”

Lily thought about it. “No,” she said finally. “We’ve got Dad and Pops and Granny, and Emma only has you. And besides, it will only get worse if you’re here.”

Jennifer was stung. “Worse? Why?”

“Because all those reporters will follow you. There will be even more of them.”

She was right. She told Lily she was proud of her and asked her to be brave and then asked to speak to Eric. He didn’t want to come to the phone and she could hear Lily and Mark in the background urging, cajoling, and finally ordering him to pick up.

“Hello,” he said sullenly.

“Eric, honey, I know you’re mad. I’m so sorry this is happening. But I’ll be back before long and so will Emma. We’re a family and we do these things for each other. I need you to be brave and loyal, like I know you are, and to remember that by being here, I’m helping your sister when she most needs it. Okay?”

He didn’t answer.

“Okay, Eric?”

“Yeah,” he said, barely audible. “But I gotta go.”

“Okay. Let me talk to Daddy.”

She updated Mark on the recent call from the London
Times
and they agreed that now that things had heated up he would be more valuable staying where he was and helping to manage the story on that end. They had to get their side out, to stress Emma’s longtime empathy for the poor, her volunteer work, her good grades and hard work. When they hung up, there was less tension between them than before.