“You were a good mother, a good daughter, a good wife,” I say.
“The perfect mother, the perfect daughter, the perfect wife,” she says with a bitter laugh. “But perfection is a sentence, by which you condemn yourself to do what others deem right. No one can be perfect and be true to themselves. I know that now. And everything was perfect. Until it wasn’t.” She laughs harshly. “I was even perfect at pretending all was perfect. Denial, the prosecutor called it at the trial. He was right; I perfected denial. I might have gone on that way. But something snapped in me. I abandoned my pursuit of perfection.”
“How so?”
“Are you still my lawyer, Jilly?”
I tilt my head, not understanding. “If you want me to be.”
“I do. Because I want to tell you something you must never tell anyone else. Lawyer-client privilege?”
“Lawyer-client privilege. Promise.”
“I killed my mother.”
“What are you telling me?” I ask hoarsely. “Joseph killed your mother. He’s doing twenty years in prison for it.”
She shakes her head. “No, I killed my mother; I can say it now. But I do not weep for Joseph in prison. It was he who made me do it that terrible night.”
“You should not have told me this,” I say, but she continues, oblivious to every reality but her words.
“What a great story he concocted about what he did that night. He didn’t sneak out of the house through a tunnel—that tunnel has been blocked for years. It was his idea that I stay overnight with my mother, his idea that I kill my mother. He told me I had to do it for him, for the family. He told me about the envelope, the pictures; he wept and promised it was all over. I was overwhelmed. It won’t be hard, Vera. You know she wants to die. No one will ever suspect us, and if they do, I’ll fix it. His voice still rings in my ears as I tell you this, as though he were here with us. He was so convincing. And I, the perfect wife, obeyed.”
Her eyes are deep pools. “I killed her numbly, like a robot, and then I went upstairs, crept between the covers, and slept. But the next morning the consequences of my blind act hit me like a tsunami. I phoned Joseph, hysterical. I’ll be right over, he said. Get the photos. Well, we all heard Riva’s testimony. They were gone. After I gave the police my statement, I fell ill, incapable of talking, walking, thinking. And out of that came a realization of where my pursuit of perfection had led me.” She turns to me. “I had two options, Ms. Truitt. I could end my life. Or I could become a real person, a person who makes her own decisions, her own way.”
My mind struggles to untangle the knots of what I’m hearing. Jeff was right—Vera is a woman of dimensions we have yet to fathom. This whole time she knew about Joseph’s deceit. She knew when I first met her. What an actress she has been. I think back on the times when I suspected her, only to reject my wavering in the end and believe her protestations of innocence. I think of the system we call justice and how it gets to the truth. Such a difficult thing, knowing the truth; as systems go, the criminal trial comes out better than most, but still may fall short.
“So, you denied killing your mother, refused to plead guilty. Your own way.” A high price to pay, I think.
“I held out hope that I wouldn’t be convicted at trial. I knew that was slim—you told me so yourself—but I would not go down Joseph’s way, supinely taking the entire blame for my mother’s death.”
“What about the overdose? What was that about?”
“Joseph spiked my drink with sleeping pills after we came back from the club. He was desperately afraid of a trial—he did everything in his power to avoid it. In his eyes, I was neurotic, unreliable. He was afraid that, in my newly healthy and independent state, I would tell the jury the truth—tell them that he had made me kill my mother to protect his dirty secret. So with the trial a certainty, he poisoned me before it was to begin. If you hadn’t come by Friday morning, I would be dead.”
“But Nicholas showed me the pill bottles. He said he found them empty in your bathroom.”
She smiles. “Joseph planted the empty pill bottles in the bathroom to make it look like I had killed myself. But Nicholas knew I would never have done that. He picked the bottles up, intending to confront his father. But in the end, he just handed them over and went along with Joseph’s suicide scenario. You need to understand, Jilly, Nicholas was well-trained—What’s done in the family stays in the family.”
“Why weren’t your afraid of him, after he tried to kill you? Why did you continue to insist that Joseph would fix everything, make everything right?”
“Because I believed he would. Poisoning me was an act of aberrant desperation. It was risky, to be sure—I could have died—but in his mind he believed it was the only way to put the trial off. In the hospital he came to me. He held my hand, told me how sorry he was. He was weeping.”
I remember Joseph’s haggard face as he emerged from Vera’s room, remember the moment when he hugged me in thanks for saving her. Maybe she’s telling the truth, on this at least. Then I think of all the other things Joseph Quentin did and repress a shudder. How many moral choices did Joseph Quentin subvert?
“Why, in the end, did Joseph stride down the aisle of the courtroom and tell the jury he killed Olivia, if you did it?”
She looks out over the sea. “I’ve pondered that. At first, I thought it was an impulse—he knew the news that he was found in that house the night before would spread through the profession like a grass fire, and his reputation would be destroyed—and then it came to me. It was always his plan to save me. He waited until the end of the trial, hoping against hope that some defence would emerge. And when it didn’t, he intervened. He knew he wasn’t blameless. He wasn’t a good man—I know that—but in his heart, he loved me, was loyal to me. It was the ambition, the lust—”
“He was a narcissistic, selfish, manipulative monster,” I say, “ready to kill you to save himself. Ready to run away from himself and the damage he inflicted on others, until he could no longer deny, no longer run.”
If she hears me, she gives no sign. The wind is picking up, keening with her words.
“How I loved him, with what tenderness,” she whispers.
“Everything I touch with tenderness, alas, pricks like a bramble,” I murmur. “We love, but not always wisely. We reach out in tenderness, but what we touch bloodies us.”
“The haiku. You remember it from that first day.”
I turn away. “I remember.”
She stands. “Goodbye, Ms. Truitt. And good luck.”
I watch her figure disappear down the beach. Denial takes many forms.
CHAPTER 58
THE CHILL FOGS OF AUTUMN have descended on English Bay, but still I find myself drawn to the ocean and First Beach. I settle my Lycra-clad form on the cold bench and pull my puffy jacket close around my shoulders. The first signs of winter, and with them, a sense of change in the air.
Today is a walking day. No driving, no running. My life has fallen into a quiet rhythm where hours no longer count. In two weeks, I will go back to Truitt and Co., back to files and trials and the stress of believing I hold the lives of others in my hands. But today is a time apart.
An hour ago, I sat in a medical clinic at Davie and Burrard. A few tests, a physical, all long overdue.
The doctor had a kindly face and hair of wavy gold. Perched on a stool, she motioned to a chair opposite. “Good news,” she advised over rimless spectacles. “You’re in great shape.”
“Thank you.”
“And something else. You’re pregnant. About six weeks, I would guess.”
I took in the words. Of course, I should have known, should have been more careful. After Mike and I broke up last year, I stopped taking birth control. And somehow, when we came together again, it didn’t matter. If two people commit to each other, the future will be what it should be, Mike had said. Except he was wrong: he isn’t here.
For a long while I sat in silence until the doctor’s voice pull
ed me back. “I understand. You’re single; you’re alone; you have a busy practice. It’s very early in the pregnancy. If you wish to discuss alternatives—”
“No,” I said, a bittersweet feeling welling deep within me. “I will keep this child. It is all I have left of him.”
Now, as I sit on my bench by the sea, I touch my stomach, picture the life beneath my hand.
We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones, a wise man wrote. Out of all the infinite chances of life that never come to be, I was one of those who won the lottery. I was born. The fact that each life must end does not negate its miracle. We, who have been granted the grace of life, are the lucky ones. Every life is a gift. Every life is a mystery. If we are wise, we cherish it for what it is, what it was, good and bad.
I think of my own parents. Vincent Trussardi, wherever he is, unaware that he will be a grandfather. The mother I never knew.
And Mike. I close my eyes against the sun and see his fingers sliding over the keys of the piano. Debussy’s “Fille aux Cheveux du Lin,” a golden song for his dark lady. He is gone, but my ear still hears the music, the crescendos rising, peaking, slowly fading to merge with the lap of the waves.
We struggle through the pain. We live for the moments of transcendence. We remember. We are the lucky ones.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Deep thanks to the many who made this book possible.
Thank you to my editor, Sarah St. Pierre, whose sharp pen and keen eye for detail enhanced every page of the manuscript.
Thank you to my agent, Eric Myers, who continues to believe in me and encourages me to carry on.
Thank you to my husband, Frank, who kept my spirits up during long days of writing in the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, and to my family, who sustained me through the project.
Last but not least, a special note of gratitude to the readers of Full Disclosure, who told me they wanted more of Jilly Truitt and urged me to write this sequel.
A CONVERSATION WITH JOHN GRISHAM AND BEVERLEY McLACHLIN
The following excerpt is taken from a joint interview with The Globe and Mail’s Judith Pereira, which was published in October 2019. It is reprinted here with permission.
Judith Pereira: Let’s start with why both of you decided to write thrillers and what excites you about the genre.
Beverley McLachlin: I had wanted to write fiction before I went on the bench many years ago, but it wasn’t compatible with a judicial career. But as I approached retirement, I thought that before I died, I wanted to try this. I didn’t think it would go anywhere, but it did, in fact, get published. And why courtroom drama fiction? Because that’s what I knew. I’ve seen a lot of the drama and pain and conflict lawyers have to work with, so I started to write about it.
John Grisham: Well, I love courtrooms. Uh, not necessarily as a defendant—I do get sued occasionally. They’re filled with people, lawyers, juries, businesses, and you have the full-blown drama of a big trial. Most of them are old-fashioned courtrooms and they’re historic. I don’t like modern courtrooms that much. In 1985, I had been practising law for four years and I was in my home courtroom in a small town in Mississippi, observing a trial that was very dramatic. I was just there as a nosy lawyer and I saw something that would eventually change my life, because it inspired the story of A Time to Kill. That’s how it all got started—in a courtroom.
BM: It’s the same for me. I just love the courtroom, whether as a lawyer or a judge. I love the human drama that plays out within the room.
JG: If I’m reading a legal thriller or procedural about a courtroom drama, I can usually tell pretty quickly if the writer is a lawyer who has spent time in a courtroom. If they’re not, there’s just not the edge of authenticity that a real lawyer brings to the description, to the tone, the setting, the dialogue, the conflict. Most lawyers are pretty good writers and storytellers because we see so much. Rarely can lawyers put both those together, but when we do, the stories are very authentic.
BM: I, too, have read books where the courtroom scenes just fall flat, sometimes for technical errors, but sometimes just because the voice isn’t there. Even though you’re writing fiction, you have to be authentic.
JP: Sometimes fiction can feel so real and affect me even more than nonfiction. How do you get your story ideas?
JG: Probably all of them have some kernel of truth—maybe something that happened to me. But I do a lot of reading of news magazines and newspapers. I’m not necessarily looking for stories, but I like to read about issues involving lawyers, the law, prisons, capital punishment, wrongful conviction. It’s not always pleasurable, but it’s always compelling. The Reckoning goes back to a story I heard someone tell thirty years ago—I think the story is true, but I’m not sure. For some reason, I kept it for thirty years and then embellished it a whole lot and wrote the novel. Writers are always on the patrol for an idea or a story, a face, a word, a bit of dialogue, or a cool setting.
BM: I’m an amateur compared to you, John, but I find myself compelled by the stories popping up in the paper about some justice situation, and maybe I can see some of the characters and take off from there.
JP: Do you find the genre has changed since you began writing, John? Are people looking for something different today when they’re reading crime or mystery novels?
JG: The genre is pretty sleepy. Thirty years ago, Scott Turow published Presumed Innocent and that book just electrified the genre, because it’s such a beautifully written, smart book and it did so well. There were other people writing before Scott, but I didn’t pay any attention to them. He inspired me to finish my first novel. It didn’t work, but when The Firm took off in 1991, I was really motivated to stick with the legal thriller. But the book I’m writing this morning, in my opinion, is the same that I’ve written over the last thirty years.
BM: I also found Presumed Innocent so compelling. I think it’s easier today because people are used to and love courtroom scenes. The usual comment I get about Full Disclosure is that they loved the last third of the book, which was all about the courtroom. It’s hard to write it, because you start with Day 1 and Day 2, and trials tend to take a while, and I thought people wouldn’t be able to follow it—maybe it’ll be too technical. But they loved it. I was told that some Canadian criminal law professors are using the book to illustrate how trials could go and to generate discussion on some of the ethical and other issues that arise. So I think the genre has come into its own because people are interested in the law and in some of the issues. For my second novel, I’m going to be looking at some sort of cutting-edge issue where people have different views and try to build the book around that.
JG: Judge, you’re right. It is extremely difficult to write courtroom scenes without boring the reader. If you watch a trial, there are some dramatic moments, but for so much of it, for lack of a better term, it’s dead time, where not much is happening, especially in civil cases. It will put you to sleep. But for a courtroom thriller, you gotta keep the pages turning. You also have to keep it plausible. It’s extremely difficult to tell the complete story accurately in a courtroom without boring the reader.
BM: I’m glad I’m not the only one.
JP: So how do you deal with that? How do you make sure the pacing is right?
JG: If I’m worried the scene could drag a bit, I constantly read and reread it, and read the chapter before—it’s a constant process of making sure the story is moving. And my wife reads it. She has a real knack for pacing and plotting. My editor in New York also reads it. I listen to both of them all the time. The one criticism that bothers me is when one of them says a section is dragging.
BM: My first novel was a learning experience for me. I had a pivotal scene the whole book turns on and I did it in three pages, which I thought was good, because any lawyer would use thirty pages. The editor told me to get it down to one paragraph and I thought, how can I do this? Yet, I did. The other thing I found was that dialogue was really important and keeping i
t smart and rapid seemed to help me keep the pages turning and keep everything alive.
JG: Dialogue, when you use it properly, can really turn the pages. You can have a little bit of explanation, especially when you’re dealing with the law, but you can’t do too much. And that’s where lawyers get into trouble—they feel compelled to share their vast knowledge of the law with their readers. That’s why lawyers can’t make it as writers—they talk too much.
JP: John, you were talking earlier about how much you read. What do you read when you’re writing?
JG: When I’m writing fiction, I don’t read fiction. If I’m reading a great novel, I’ll catch myself using sentences that are longer or shorter, or maybe a bigger vocabulary—just things I wouldn’t normally do. But I have to read a lot of nonfiction for research. For this book, I’m writing about for-profit prisons in the U.S., overcrowding, mass incarceration, sentencing disparities, wrongful convictions. I have to know what I’m talking about.
BM: I’m always reading, but like John, I don’t read a lot of fiction when I’m doing this. What I am doing is delving into all sorts of things that sometimes I wouldn’t ordinarily read about.
JP: Do you find it hard to get into a writer’s schedule after forty years as a judge?
BM: I write when I can, but I love to get stretches of time, so I’ll do it at my cottage or someplace where usual things don’t interfere. I started this just as I was finishing up being a judge. So, I got up at 5:30 in the morning to do it and had to stop at seven and then I went to court. That was hard. Ideally, I love to just start in the morning and go till at least noon and then maybe shut the door in the afternoon, read a bit of poetry, and come back refreshed the next morning.
JP: What poetry do you read?
BM: Oh, all sorts. Wordsworth, Yeats, T. S. Eliot, and lots of others. I just find that reading poetry is great because it makes you realize how careful you have to be with words.
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