He looks across the well of the court at her, but she turns her head away.
“Olivia wouldn’t listen,” he continues. “I remember her cackle: You would be happy to promise me never to repeat such conduct, but I know your promise would be worthless—this is an addiction and you are a weak man. You cannot and will not reform. And Vera? She will be hurt, but it’s high time she shook off the allusions and delusions under which she has been living. Yes, those were her very words.
“She let me hang for a while, then she said that she had thought about it carefully and concluded that she had only one recourse—to see that justice was done and that I pay for what I had done to her daughter and her grandson.” He points to the envelope, which now lies on Naomi’s desk. “That envelope was her revenge. No, not revenge—Olivia wasn’t a vengeful woman—her reckoning, her sentence, her justice. But I digress. I left Olivia’s house, shaken. I didn’t know what she would do with the photos, but I had no doubt that she would do something. I had standing in the community, ambitions.”
The Fixer, I think. Most people having done what he had done would have gone away and waited for the blow to fall. Not Joseph; he would fix the problem.
“I went home that night as usual, had dinner with my wife as usual. And then, just as we were finishing, Olivia called. She was in one of her confused states; she couldn’t find her pills; could we come help? I hated her in that instant, hated her with an overwhelming passion, and that is when the thought of killing her crossed my mind.”
The courtroom rustles with audible gasps. Time stops until the clacking of laptops from the press bench resets the clock.
Justice Buller stares down at Joseph. “What are you telling us, Mr. Quentin?” she asks, her voice a hoarse whisper.
Joseph looks at the judge, swivels to the jury. “I am telling the court this. I killed Vera Quentin.”
The face of the foreman registers disbelief that shifts to anger—whether at what Joseph has done or at the fact that Vera will not be convicted is unclear. Other jurors shift in astonishment. A few—the librarian and the beautician—cast sympathetic glances at Vera.
“As I drove Vera to Olivia’s house, the thought grew. Killing Olivia would solve all my difficulties. She would never wreak what she called justice on me. And Vera and I would be free of the incessant demands that were ruining our life. Olivia kept saying she wanted to die; well, now was her chance. You must understand, the plan, even as I hatched it, shocked me profoundly. I know I have made mistakes, committed crimes because of my addictions, but killing someone was—and is—on some level unthinkable. And yet, I saw no other choice.
“I went back to Olivia’s house near midnight. I know the security cameras at my residence show my doors did not open, my car did not move, and no human traversed our grounds that night. My alibi, I thought, my perfect alibi. And everyone accepted it.” He laughs harshly. “It was so easy. Between the garage and the edge of the property there is a tunnel, which comes up just beyond the fence in a copse of wood. The previous owner of the property had escaped the USSR at the height of the Cold War and lived in fear the Russians would come for him—the tunnel was his paranoid delusion. We laughed about it, Vera and I, and a couple of times Nicholas, as a teenager, used it to sneak out when he was grounded. It was our little family secret.”
His eyes find Nicholas, now staring stonily ahead, then seek out Vera. She is staring at him, incredulity on her face. “This is not easy,” he says.
“Go on,” Justice Buller says, her tone glacial in its coldness.
The courtroom waits in preternatural quiet as Joseph Quentin straightens his shoulders and reveals how he executed the murder—found the morphine, injected it.
“I was quiet, stealthy. One thing went wrong, however. When Olivia was quite still, no pulse, I looked for the envelope. I had to find the photos. But after an hour of frantically mauling through everything in Olivia’s room—gloves on, I was careful—I couldn’t find them. Olivia must have had second thoughts and destroyed them, I told myself. Or maybe something worse, something I could not imagine. I worried that the photos might surface, but as the months went by I relaxed. In the end, I concluded that, despite my initial conviction that Olivia would share the photos, she had understood that these things are best kept within the family, and destroyed the envelope and its contents.” He wipes his eye with his handkerchief. When he next speaks, his voice is thick. “It was dreadful, the killing of Olivia. The whole time I was terrified that Vera would hear the noise and come downstairs. But I was fortunate in that regard at least.”
I sense Vera’s self-reproach from across the courtroom. I fell into a sound sleep, she had testified. If she had wakened when Joseph entered the house, Olivia might still be alive.
Joseph plows on. “But the worst part was the regret. It was one thing to end the life of Olivia Quentin, who was old and longing to die. But it was another to find that my wife was charged for the crime I had committed. It had never occurred to me that the police would charge my wife, sleeping innocently upstairs, with the murder. I tried my best to get her a plea deal that would have her out of prison quickly, but my wife, who had always accepted my advice and guidance, refused to plead guilty. There was nothing more I could do, except get her the best counsel I could and bear the proceedings with such grace as I could muster.”
I fight to keep the revulsion I feel from showing in my face. Like his wife and son, I, too, am Joseph’s dupe. Memories flood back. That first lunch, when he begged me to take Vera’s case, We’ve come so far together—I can’t walk away. If I can’t fix this situation, I want it to end with dignity. All the talk about how whatever happened, he wanted to salvage what was left of his family. Family loyalty, but only in service of him. I bought it all and became complicit in his deceit.
Justice Buller breaks the silence in the room.
“Mr. Quentin, I have no words to describe the enormity of what you have done.” She picks up her pen and prepares to deal with the details. She turns first to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I direct you to retire and return forthwith with a verdict of not guilty on the charges against Vera Quentin.” Then she swivels back to Joseph Quentin. “Mr. Quentin, in my capacity as an officer of the court, I charge you with first-degree murder in the death of Olivia Stanton.” Her eyes settle on me. “Counsel, I thank you. We owe you a debt of gratitude for seeing that justice, which so easily could have been reduced to a tragic travesty, has in the end been done.”
The jury files out impassively. They have heard what they have heard, and like it or not, they know what they must do. Three minutes later they return. “What is your verdict?” Clerk Naomi asks.
The foreman stands. “We find the accused, Vera Quentin, not guilty.”
“Order in the court,” cries Naomi, a note of triumphant satisfaction in her voice, and Justice Buller, gowns swinging in indignation, disappears behind her door.
Vera sits in shock, unable to believe what has happened. The sheriff, too, is paralyzed by the drama, and so it falls to Naomi to release the latch on the prisoner’s box with a graceful flick of her finger.
Her voice rings out through the courtroom. “You are free to go, Mrs. Quentin.”
Jeff is shaking his head in disbelief, and across the aisle, Cy sits staring into the middle distance.
I lean over. “Mr. Kenge, now the case is over.”
CHAPTER 56
TOMORROW AND TOMORROW AND TOMORROW, Shakespeare said, creeps in this petty pace.
My tomorrow comes with a crash. I am dreaming. Mike is with me. He is telling me something, I strain to hear what it is but I can’t make it out. I want to stay, want to listen, but I can’t. “Mike,” I hear myself scream, as I swim into wakefulness and the harsh reality that Mike is no longer with me.
I lie between the covers, shaking, and watch the room slowly come to life with the dawn. Furniture emerges from the darkness in grey chiaroscuro—a chair, a table. Slivers of light slant where my heavy d
rapes come together. Today is the day I have been dreading.
The day after Mike died, a thin young man with dull brown hair came calling at my condo. “It’s Sunday; I can’t see anyone,” I said to the disembodied voice at the entry panel.
“This is about Mr. St. John’s will,” he persisted. “It is urgent.”
Nothing will ever be urgent again, I wanted to tell him, but I let him in all the same. In dulcet tones he told me that Mike’s will named me next of kin and executor. Next of kin? my mind stumbled. Mike didn’t have a lot of close friends, no parents or siblings, but there were flocks of St. John cousins.
“You’re sure?” I whispered.
He proffered the document, pointed to the paragraph. “Certain.” And then I remembered Mike joking, years ago when we were in law school, that he was considering making the best lawyer in our class his executor. His final, backhanded compliment.
Half-numb, I set about making the necessary arrangements with the help of Debbie. Tears filled her eyes as she noted my instructions. A long coffin, a small mass in the cathedral—Mike was a believer to the end—burial in the St. John plot. Saturday.
Now Saturday has come. I put on my best black suit and, at the appointed hour, take the elevator to the lobby.
Benson is there, waiting for me with a sad smile. “The funeral home sent a limo,” he says.
“I can walk,” I say, but Benson insists.
Outside, I slide into the back seat. I remember that after the service is the burial. The limo may be a good idea after all.
A handful of people in black huddle near the entrance of the cathedral. As Mike’s official next of kin, I must take a front pew. As I make my solitary passage down the long aisle, the assembled St. John clan watches. I don’t begrudge them their bitterness. I am the woman who abandoned Mike, and then came back. They don’t know the details but they know I was with him when he died, and that’s enough.
The organ drones. Undertakers in black wheel the coffin in. I touch Martha’s hand—she and Brock have come to support me. “Thank you, Martha,” I whisper. “I need you.” I crane my neck back; Jeff gives me a nod from the pew where he sits with Jessica. I need him, too.
“No man is an island,” the priest reminds us as he welcomes the mourners. I used to think I could go it alone; I have learned better. But I have also learned the perils of love. To love is to open ourselves to loss.
The service is short. Keep it simple, I instructed the priest, Mike wanted things done well, and simply. I force myself to sit ramrod straight as the tears steal down my face.
When the last prayers are murmured, the last incense wafted, the pallbearers step forward, and Martha and I follow the coffin down the stone steps to the waiting hearse. Martha gives me a gentle buss as I retreat into the limo.
“Jilly,” a voice says from inside.
I turn and start. In the far corner of the passenger seat is Cy. My breath sucks in. This is neither the time nor the place to settle the slings and the slights and the weight of lost lives that lie between us. It was one thing for him to comfort me in the hospital—a kind gesture—and I am grateful that he finally did the right thing in the case and allowed Joseph to confess. But he has no place in my final farewell to Mike. In this moment, I need to be alone.
“You don’t belong here, Cy, please leave.”
“No, Jilly. You’re wrong. I should be here.”
Outside the limo, a rank of St. John cousins stares stonily at me through the blackened window. I will not give them the satisfaction of a scene. The limo moves forward. We ride in silence, my gaze fixed ahead.
The cemetery is green and lush. Leafy oaks shade the lawns between the stones that remember those who once lived. I follow the men who carry the coffin to the freshly dug grave. Cy limps after, a pace behind.
We are alone—the priest, the funeral men, Cy, and me. Together, we watch as the coffin is put on the bands that straddle the grave, listen as the priest drones the final prayers.
I step closer. Cy hands me a single red rose. I stare at it, then bend and place it on the polished surface of the coffin, where it rests in perfect poise. A shuddered cry escapes me, and I weep. The pain I have kept bottled up releases in a paroxysm of grief; the regrets I have repressed surface. Why did I never tell Mike that I loved him? Why did I never show him how much I needed him? What is it about me that makes me keep my counsel and my distance, afraid to reach out and trust?
The priest crosses to shake our hands in farewell. The funeral men hover, they want to get the job done and go home, but I cannot move. After a few more moments, Cy takes my arm and gently turns me back toward the waiting limo.
“This is where Lois lies,” he says, halting at a freshly covered grave bedecked with camellias. We stop for a while, remembering her. The sun has gone down; a chill wraps itself around us.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Jilly,” Cy says, drawing his coat tighter. “A few months after Lois fell under the bus, a homicide detective came to see me. Billy Fence. Tenacious guy, never lets a case go until it’s solved. Anyway, Billy had some cockamamie theory, said I pushed Lois, said he had witness statements to prove it.” He halts. “Did Billy come to see you?” His eyes are pale and steady as he searches my face. He isn’t afraid; he just needs to know.
I take my time. “Yes, Cy, he came.”
“You saw us fighting.”
“That’s what I told Billy.”
“What else did you tell him?”
“I told him that after what you did to me on Trussardi, I had no time for you, Cy. I told him that nothing would please me more than to see you behind bars for killing your wife.”
“And then?”
“I told him it was an accident.”
Cy searches my face. “Why, Jilly?”
I shrug. “It’s the truth.”
We are at the limo. I slip into the back seat.
Cy leans in, grasping the top of the door to steady himself. “You’re a good person, Jilly. I owe you.”
He steps back and shuts the door, and the limo glides into the waning light.
CHAPTER 57
PEACE SILENTLY SNEAKS UP WHEN you least expect it.
I am seated on a bench on First Beach, across town from Truitt & Co., where others labour into the lee of the day. The glow across the bay of the late October sun meets the sand and splinters into a thousand small waves at my feet. I feel the warmth of the sun on my face. I am at peace.
My mind wanders through the aftermath of my last big case. I can still see Vera that last day after Joseph’s confession, rising in the prisoner’s box as though to follow the man who had been ready to have her go down for the crime he committed.
Vera is slowly coming to terms with her sorrows—the grieving she could not do for her mother; the pain of her husband’s perfidy. Next year her first book of poetry will be published. The Undertow, she’s calling it. The poems speak of terror and love and minds gone wrong.
Nicholas’s jazz group is playing most weekends and gathering accolades from the critics. Over a long lunch, he told me he’s going to complete his law studies just in case. He also shared that whether the codicil is good or not, he intends to give anything he inherits to help people find care, solace, and gentle deaths at the end of their days.
Joseph is in prison. The proceedings were brief. He took his just desserts with dignity, that much must be said.
Absent a glitch, May will be granted refugee status in January. She has taken a new name in a new city, where she will complete her high school and study, with luck, to become a doctor. From the murk of desolation, tentative dreams emerge.
Our little firm soldiers on, sans moi. Jeff, with Alicia at his side and an articled student in the wings, is deep into a six-week trial on the drive-by shooting of an innocent pedestrian.
There’s a reason I’m not there with them now. The Monday after the trial of Vera Quentin, I rose as usual. I showered, dressed, drove to work. I parked my aging Me
rcedes in the basement of my building, climbed the stairs to my office, and closed my door.
Vera Quentin’s trial had chewed a jagged chunk out of my professional life. So much to do, so much to catch up on. Alone in my office, I opened a file, stroked my yellow marker through words on the page. But my eyes refused to focus. I put the marker down, shoved the file aside, and swiveled my chair to stare at the morning-black window. I watched the sun shafting down the narrow street to the east, dark alleys, huddled shapes beneath tarps. I remembered my days there. Ground zero, they call it, the place where the hopeless come to die. Helping them drove me to become a defence lawyer. But now, as I regard the ever-present desperation, I feel only weariness.
How long I sat there I don’t recall, but I emerged from my room to find the office in high throb.
“A Mr. Sanchez wants you to call him immediately,” Debbie informed me, waving a paper in the air. “Something about a fraud charge. The cases are pouring in, Jilly—everyone’s saying you’re a hero for getting Joseph Quentin behind bars.”
“I’m leaving, Debbie. I won’t be back for a while.”
Debbie’s painted lips opened in the beginning of a protest, then she nodded. “Go,” she said. “We will hold the fort.”
So here I sit, four weeks later and tanned from harvesting grapes with Martha and Brock, watching the sun sink from my bench on First Beach.
“Ms. Truitt,” a gentle voice says.
I look up. Vera Quentin.
“May I sit down?” she asks.
“Of course,” I push over to make room.
She is wearing a trench coat against the chill and her brown hair swings free. She smiles.
“I hope you don’t mind. I’ve seen you here before. After the trial I moved out of the house and rented a condo here on the beach. Away from the darkness and the trees, into the light.”
“Spoken like the poet you are, Vera. Congratulations on your book.”
“Forthcoming book,” she corrects me. “Not quite there yet. But thank you. The publication of my little verses will bring me modest satisfaction.” She grows contemplative. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
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