by A F Carter
phone we might (but don’t) have with him. I know it’s delib-
erate, a kidnapping really, an abduction, but it’s not my body he wants or my money. It’s my liberty, our liberty. Someone
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has to pay and beggars like Greco can’t be choosers. There
are no cameras in this room, no witnesses, my word against
his if he claims I never asked for a lawyer.
Time consumes my spirit, I’ve no watch to count the sec-
onds, the minutes, the hours, but each unit gnaws at me. I
know I’m supposed to draw on some kernel of resolve, to gird my loins for the battle sure to come. But I’m helpless, only wishing for oblivion as I’ve been wishing all along. I’m not up to this, not sufficiently courageous or stubborn or defiant, never was and never hope to be, my purpose in the greater
scheme of Carolyn Grand residing on the opposite end of any
spectrum you’d care to name. And who’s to help me now?
I read the graffiti on the walls, as I imagine every suspect confined alone to this small space has, a step forward, a step to the side, the walls too ugly to touch. freedom for all;
resist; never pick up a dead man’s gun; we only have to be
lucky once; kill all cops. I’m wondering how they did it—
in here, close confined—and if they were punished when the
detectives returned. Were they slapped, punched, did they
scream out their defiance as they wiped the blood from their many faces?
And where is Bobby right now, right this minute?
I know my every move has been choreographed: you will
pace, you will read the graffiti, you will curse yourself and your fate, you will, finally, try the door that you know is
unlocked, just to see if maybe Greco was bluffing, maybe
there’s no one out there. But there is, of course, a police-
woman who barely looks up before I’m back inside, the door
closed, trapped and afraid.
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The door reopens only a minute later, the same police-
woman, short, stocky, a block of flesh, eyes as cold as they are indifferent. She wears a wedding ring on a thin gold
chain, a widow with mouths to feed.
“I need you to come with me.”
“I want to call a lawyer.”
“I don’t know anything about that. You’ll have to speak with the detective. But right now, I need you to come with me.”
I realize that’s how they do it, dumb insistence, rote rep-
etition, a physical threat at the ready, do it or else. “Where am I going?”
“A lineup.”
I’m in a room with five other women, their chatter relaxed.
They know each other, cops probably, volunteering in
casual dress. I’m in jeans and a red sweater, an outcast
nonetheless, standing alone, no one to counsel me. I have
to fight for myself. The white paint on the back wall is broken by numbers, one through six, spaced four or five feet
apart, ten feet up.
A uniformed cop, an officer, a man, walks into the room,
the others hopping to attention, me off alone in a corner.
“Almost ready, so let’s get under the numbers. And you”—he
points to me—“here, number four.”
Almost in the middle, I walk up, summoning the will
to demand a lawyer, but he holds me off, his tone when he
speaks a blank nothing, the voice of a robot. “When your
number’s called, take three steps forward and wait for fur-
ther instructions. Don’t do anything on your own.”
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He’s retreats and I’m left staring at a mirror I know is a
window on the far side, others gathered to bear witness. I
want to appeal to the women around me, state my claim of
innocence, but I don’t really exist for them, just a chore, like morning coffee spilled on the bedroom carpet, blot it up and move on.
The lights brighten and a voice barks through a speaker:
“Number one, step forward. Turn to the left. Step back.”
I’m taken through the same routine when my turn comes,
step forward, turn to the left, step back. The procedure only changes with number six. She’s asked to turn to the left, take another step forward, tilt her head down, then it’s over and I’m being led back through the building, room by room, the
precinct oddly empty this late on a weekday. I follow, tired, disheartened, meek, when the policewoman finally breaks
the silence.
“You need to use a bathroom?”
“No, not now.”
“Do yourself a favor, lady. Use the bathroom. Who knows
how long it’ll be until you get another chance.”
Her indifferent tone doesn’t change, nor does her manner
or the reserved distance in her brown eyes. There’s just this much, a confession of her own impotence, do the job, do the
job, this is all I can give you.
I use the bathroom, splash water on my face and neck,
straighten my hair, dry myself with paper towels. I’m turn-
ing to go when I feel Tina surround me and I know she’s
been there all the time. But it’s Eleni’s voice I hear: “Endure,”
she tells me. “Endure.”
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CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
SERENA
Greco reappears only a minute after the door closes
behind me, expression grave, an oncologist delivering
bad news. I’m sorry but . . . He shuts the door, drops a stack of files onto the desktop, and sits.
“It ain’t good the way it went.” He shakes his head. “Two
witnesses from the Golden Inn? You remember, right, the
Golden Inn where your father was killed? Well, they ID’d
you right away. So, I know you were there.”
“I wasn’t.” The words please me in some way, the truth a
mere technicality here, but the truth nonetheless.
“Two people saw you there, Carolyn. They’re not both
wrong.”
“I don’t make that claim, only that I wasn’t there.”
Greco lays his hands flat on the desk. He leans forward,
mimics my supplicant’s tone: “Somebody else was there,
another me, but it wasn’t me. Okay, I’m willing to play that game. So, let’s pretend for a minute. Two witnesses claim
they saw Carolyn Grand at the inn, one of them on the stairs, one on the third floor where your old man was killed. That
puts Carolyn Grand in the building, at least physically. True?”
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If only Eleni were here, or Martha or Kirk, they’d say
exactly what I’m thinking: how do I know you aren’t lying
about the witnesses? Only I can’t bring myself to pronounce
the words. They won’t cross my vocal chords, the barrier
physical.
“There is no Carolyn Grand,” I finally mutter. “We’re a
collective.”
“I’m not arguing the point. This is more like a hypotheti-
cal. If two witnesses ID a suspect within fifty feet of where a man was murdered, and this suspect knew the victim and
had a definite grudge against him, what would you think?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Think.”
“If that’s the way you want it.” He reaches into his jacket
pocket, removes a card. “I’m gonna read your rights to you,
in case you don’t already know ’em. You have the right to
remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided
for you.” He slides the card across the desk, along with a pen.
“Sign on the bottom, where it says I explained your rights
and you understand them.”
“If I do, will you get me a lawyer?”
“Absolutely.” He watches me sign, then takes back the
card and slips it into his pocket. “So, I won’t ask any more questions. I’m just gonna talk. But if you should feel the urge to jump in at some point, don’t hesitate.”
“What about my lawyer?”
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“All in good time. Remember, we’re just talking here. ”
Greco rises, removes his jacket, lays it over the back of the chair and sits down, a gun beneath his armpit fully exposed, the maneuver leaving him diminished, no matter his intentions. “Lemme start with this. You had every right to hate
your father. Even more, from where I sit, you had the right
to kill him. The man who enslaved you as a child was liter-
ally stalking you. And he wasn’t taking no for an answer. If you disagree with that, say so.”
I don’t disagree and I don’t speak. I’m thinking that my
father’s death would be a kind of self-defense, except that I can’t bring myself to believe that we’re capable of murder,
the taking of life and light. I don’t want to believe it.
“Okay, so that’s settled. You have a right to self-defense.
Nobody says otherwise. Plus, you reported the stalking to
authorities more than once, but no action was taken. So, I’m asking: What were you supposed to do? Wait around till he
caught you alone one day? Were you supposed to hope you
survived, hope you had a chance to report him?”
I can’t help it. I raise my hand to my face. The stitches
are out and the swelling’s mostly gone, the fading bruises
now light enough to conceal with makeup. Yet, despite its
ferocity, O’Neill’s attack was nothing compared to what our
father did to us, did in cold blood, laid-back, enjoying every second, prolonging the thrill.
“I’m sayin’, Carolyn, if I was your lawyer, that’s how
I’d advise you to play it. Tell the jury that you went to the Golden Inn hoping convince him to stay away from you. But
then he attacked you, maybe tore at your clothes, and you
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knew that you’d always be in danger as long as Hank Grand
drew breath. Crazy with fear and knowing a system that
hadn’t protected Carolyn Grand in the past couldn’t protect
her in the future, you exercised the only available option.”
Unable to contain myself, I finally speak, as Greco knew I
eventually would. I do no more than repeat myself: “I wasn’t there.” But I know as I say the words that I’ll speak again. My world tightens around me. This is unbearable.
“Great, let’s say you don’t remember.” He leans over the
desk, taps my forehead, the touch like a hammer blow. “But
there’s only one brain, Carolyn, which you all share. The
memories are stored in that brain, if only you’d take a closer look. So, what I’m gonna do is arrange for that lawyer you
mentioned. See, I haven’t forgotten. And you, in the mean-
time, need to think seriously about what I said. The longer
you try to evade responsibility, the worse it’s gonna look to a jury. And by the way, something I didn’t mention. The DNA
evidence came back this morning, which is why I picked you
up. The witnesses are just icing on the cake.”
And so I sit, the seconds piling up, absorbing the final blow, staring at Greco’s jacket still hung over the back of his chair.
What I’m feeling is desolation, that it should come to this, because if one of us was in that room it could only have
been to kill Hank Grand, reconciliation never in the cards
for any of us, including our father. I rise and pace the room, three steps forward, three steps back. I can’t escape a rising despair, that we’re trapped, that our fate was sealed long ago, an accident of birth, that I might as well confess.
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Hank Grand lived in a two-story home with a basement
and an attic. So many places to hide, it took Daddy forever
to find his daughter because she never gave in to his threats, never made a sound. Did she know, absolutely, that he would
eventually find her? Or did she, each time, hope to escape
him forever? Or was she merely stubborn, fighting back, the
beatings inevitable, even (and maybe especially) when she
was good?
I feel as though I’m hiding right now, that we’ve been hid-
ing all our lives, every hideout also a trap. I’m trapped in this room, my world closed off. I stare at the mirror-window, certain I’m being observed, a white rat on the vivisectionist’s table. Let’s take a look at that liver, that kidney, that heart.
Let’s core the girl out, leave her empty and lost.
When I can’t stand the tension, my nerves screaming, I go
to the door and pull it open. My policewoman is in place. She barely looks up. Behind her, Greco’s face-to-face with a taller black woman, pleading. The woman’s gold badge is pinned
to the lapel of a navy suit and she’s listening with her arms crossed below her breasts. As I back into my little room, her attention flicks to me for a moment and I’m again that specimen under the microscope, awaiting the touch of a scalpel.
Greco comes in a few minutes later and I’m already thinking
you’ll never get out of this room unless you give him what
he wants. He’s all smiles, though, and he’s carrying a bag of corn chips and an orange soda.
“I called for that lawyer,” he says. “But he might be a while getting here. Bein’ as it’s so late.”
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I can’t help myself. I open the soda and drink from the
bottle, my dry throat responding gratefully to the carbon-
ation, the sugar rush instantaneous.
Greco pulls his chair closer to the small desk between us.
“Right, so what we spoke about before, the witnesses, the
DNA, you gotta agree with one thing. Carolyn Grand was in
that room. If I’m wrong, say so.”
I shake my head but decide not to speak.
“Then we agree. Excellent. You were in the hotel on the
night your father died, spotted on the third floor where your father rented a room. So, what do you think Carolyn Grand
was there to do? Because here’s another thing you should
know. Hank Grand was unconscious when he was killed.”
Greco nods his head several times, the gesture seeming rote.
“Yeah, that’s right. When Carolyn Grand entered her father’s room, she found him helpless. Plus, Carolyn knew exactly
where her father would be at eight o’clock that night. My
partner s
aw the note.”
“I don’t have anything to tell you,” I explain. “That night
is empty, blank, unseen, the far side of a moon I’ll never visit because the only way to get there is to die.”
“Here we go again. This Carolyn didn’t kill her father. A
different Carolyn did it. But you will admit that some Carolyn drove a knife into Hank Grand’s back. Am I right or wrong?”
Greco’s asking a direct question and I know I’ll never see
that lawyer. I look around the room, no tape recorder, no cameras. Greco can do whatever he wants to me, just like Daddy. I start to rise, then slump down again. “I can’t speak for anyone else.” I’m barely whispering. “I’m not responsible.”
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“But you do live in the same apartment with all the other,
the other whatevers. That’s true, right?”
“Yes, it’s true.”
“And you’ve been living there for a long time?”
“Yes, right.”
“So, if something you use all the time, say every fucking
day, suddenly went missing, you’d have to know about it.”
Greco’s smile is wolfish. He’s been setting this up from the beginning. “Any knives missing, Carolyn? Any long sharp
knives that were there one day and gone the next?”
“I wouldn’t know, Detective. I don’t cook.”
“Bullshit.” He slaps his palm on the table. “Fuck it. Just
fuck it. Everyone says you’re crazy, but I’m not buyin’. I think you know exactly what happened and I want you to tell me.
So, let’s start at the beginning. Your old man hands you a
note. The Golden Inn Hotel at eight p.m. You didn’t have to
go, but you did. Because you were afraid of your father? That makes exactly zero sense. No, you went because you wanted
the scumbag out of your life once and for all.”
“It’s not true.”
“Really? You know that for a fact, Carolyn? Because
a minute ago you told me you weren’t there. You told me
you didn’t even exist on the night your father was killed. So how can you be sure I’m not right? Unless you’ve been lying
all along.” He grinds to a halt, then leans over the desk and sneers. “Time to cut the bullshit, honey. Those movies your
father made? The movies with you in ’em? I watched them.
We all did, the whole precinct. And there’s one I remember
especially. You went into the woods to pick berries and