by Joy Fielding
“You’re a class act,” Charley said.
“And you’re a real prude, aren’t you, Charley? Despite the trail of discarded lovers and two bastard kids, you’re a prude at heart. That’s a laugh.”
“Glad I amuse you.”
“Oh, you do. You do. Alex and I used to laugh about you all the time. How you thought you were so smart when you were so damn stupid I could hardly believe it. You fell for everything, just like Alex said you would.” She stretched her arms above her head, yawned loudly. “He knew just how to get you interested in doing my story.” This time she laughed out loud. “He told me exactly what to write in that letter, how to flatter you in one sentence, tease you in the next. Then you went to see him and he told you that you weren’t a good enough writer, that I deserved better, knowing it would make you all the more determined to do it. Just like he knew the best way to get inside your pants was to pretend he didn’t want to. You fell for everything, didn’t you, Charley?”
“Whose idea was it to murder those children?” Charley asked, once again trying to get the focus off her.
Jill began playing with her hair, twirling it around her fingers. “Alex’s. I was complaining about having to baby-sit those brats every weekend, and he said we should just kill them. I thought he was kidding at first, but then he said how we could torture them first, like I told him I’d done with that kitten. His mother used to punish him by burning him with cigarettes when he was little,” she added, almost cheerily. “Did you know that?”
Charley closed her eyes, refusing to feel sorry for him.
“Anyway, the idea just kind of took off from there.”
“So, you knew all along what was going to happen to Tammy Barnet. You weren’t sorry at all,” Charley stated, remembering Jill’s earlier disclaimers.
“Oh, no, don’t get me wrong. I felt really bad about what happened to Tammy. She was a pretty neat little kid. I was really upset when she died. But, I mean, what choice did we have?”
“What choice did you have?” Charley repeated dully.
“Well, she could identify us. I mean, there was no way she was gonna keep quiet about what happened, and we couldn’t take a chance of getting caught.”
“And yet you did get caught.”
“Yeah, but not right away. First we did the Starkey twins.” There was an almost wistful look in Jill’s eyes. “What’d you think of the video, by the way?”
Tears sprang to Charley’s eyes. She stared at the table and said nothing.
“Aw. You were moved by it. That’s so sweet.”
“Shut up, Jill.”
“I thought you wanted me to talk.”
“I want you to die,” Charley snapped, watching Jill’s eyes open in alarm. “But we don’t always get what we want, do we? At least not right away. Tell me, what was Alex’s reaction when you were arrested?”
“Kind of like you just now. He almost lost it.”
“Because he was afraid you’d cut a deal with the prosecution?”
“No!” Jill looked genuinely offended. “Alex knew I’d never betray him.”
“And he was prepared to let you take the fall all by yourself.”
“No point in both of us being locked up. Besides, he was always working ways to get me out of here. Whose idea do you think it was to do this book?”
“He thought the book would get you out of jail?”
“Off death row anyway. Once all that stuff came out about me being abused….”
“Was any of it true?”
“Oh, it’s all true. My father, my brother, Wayne. They all had their turn. Did you ever get ahold of Wayne, by the way?”
“No. He was killed in Iraq.”
“Really? Can’t say I’m too broken up about that.” Jill twisted her lips from side to side. “Alex understood what I’d been through. Did you know he was molested by one of his mother’s boyfriends when he was about eight?” She continued on before Charley could answer. “Anyway, we thought that even if nothing else came out of the book, at least we’d have a good time doing it. And it was a way of staying connected. Of keeping the dream alive, as it were. ‘The family that plays together’ kind of thing. And it helped pass the time. It can get awfully boring in here.”
“And you picked me to write it because…”
“Because you were just so perfect. It was like you were made to order.”
“Were my children always part of your plan?”
“Are you kidding? They were the driving force.” Jill took a deep breath, allowed herself a small smile. “I mean, we had a good thing going. Why should we let a little thing like prison stop us from having fun? We wanted to do a book; we wanted to find some kids. Alex said we’d be killing two birds with one stone.” She laughed. “Aw, come on, Charley. You have to admit that’s kind of clever.”
“You expect me to find something clever about killing my children?”
Jill shrugged. “Guess not.”
“What about my brother?”
“The cherry on the whipped cream. I mean, well, he’s not exactly Mr. Reliable, you have to admit. We knew we couldn’t depend on him. But he sure came through in the end, didn’t he? I mean, we always planned to implicate him in some way, if we could. But who could have ever predicted he’d show up that morning and make blueberry pancakes? We couldn’t have written a better script. I mean, we were kind of flying by the seat of our pants, just waiting for the right opportunity. And then, bingo, Bram comes knocking. So Alex decided right there at your breakfast table to put those drugs in your juice. But if he hadn’t done it then, he’d have done it later. You gotta know when to pick your moments. Like Alex telling me when to call his apartment and drop that bombshell about your brother. You were puking your guts out, so you weren’t exactly thinking clearly. And it wasn’t all that far-fetched. Bram had a history of substance abuse, he was irresponsible, and he knew my sister. All that was left was to give him another name.”
“Jack,” Charley acknowledged softly.
“Jack,” Jill repeated with a smile. “But we had other options, too. Believe me, there were lots of potential suspects. That friend of yours, the one who gave you the dog? Glen? Alex made up that story about him maybe knowing my brother. And then, of course, all those threatening e-mails you kept getting, the ones targeting your children.”
“You’re saying Alex sent them?”
“He’s so smart.”
“Pretty stupid not to destroy the videotape,” Charley reminded her.
“Yeah, that was unfortunate. Just when we thought everything was going so well. Guess we got cocky.”
“Guess you did.” Charley reached across the table and turned off the tape. She stood up, dropped the recorder in her purse.
“Wait. What are you doing? You’re not going, are you?”
“I think I have everything I need.”
“But you don’t,” Jill protested. “There’s lots more stuff I haven’t told you yet. We’ve hardly touched on what goes on in here, the guards, the sex….”
Charley pushed her shoulders back, took a deep breath, and smiled from ear to ear. “Tell it to the judge.”
CHAPTER 37
THE PALM BEACH POST SUNDAY, OCTOBER 7, 2007
WEBB SITE
Approximately nine months ago, something very interesting happened to me. No, I didn’t get pregnant. What I got was a letter from a killer. The killer’s name was Jill Rohmer, whom I’d christened the Beastly Baby-Sitter in this very space several years earlier, and she had a proposition for me: agree to tell her story, and she would agree to tell me everything, including the identity of her lover and accomplice, the devil who made her do it. As we all know by now, the devil’s name is Alex Prescott, and he turned out to be a triple threat, being not only her lover and accomplice but her lawyer as well. He is currently recovering in a prison hospital from the near-fatal stab wounds he received at Raiford while awaiting trial. It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy.
And I ought to know. You see
, Alex Prescott was my lover, too.
“I think we have a lot in common,” Jill wrote to me nine months ago. At the time, I thought this was a crock of you-know-what. Beyond certain superficial similarities, I couldn’t see that we had anything in common. Yet as I got to know Jill, I came to believe we were more alike than I had initially realized. We were both the product of unhappy childhoods, our mothers having been either physically or emotionally absent, and our fathers physically or emotionally abusive. Our relationships with our siblings were strained and unsatisfying, while our relationships with men were mostly fleeting and ill-conceived. We both used sex as a means to getting what we wanted, which rarely worked because we rarely knew what that was.
Which brings me back to Alex Prescott.
Please bear in mind that when we met, I thought he was an upstanding member of the community, a dedicated attorney, and a sensitive and caring individual who drove an old convertible and played a mean guitar. Turns out he played me even better. Turns out he was the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing. Turns out I can be fooled.
You see, in all the time I spent with Jill Rohmer, those hours spent talking to her, sizing her up, watching for the slightest narrowing of those big, chocolate-brown eyes, and listening for the slightest change of inflection in the misleading softness of her voice, I never really got to know Jill at all. What happened was that she got to know me.
Sociopaths are good at that. You give; they take. And they’re experts at providing people with what they need to see. A good friend of mine once told me that. He also told me that being fooled doesn’t make you a fool.
Liars and con artists prey on the good natures of others. And while no one has ever accused me of being especially good-natured, I’ve discovered some interesting truths about myself during these last nine months: I’m not nearly as cynical and hard-edged as I thought I was. Turns out that despite everything that’s happened, or maybe because of it, I find I actually believe in the essential goodness of others. Turns out I believe people are capable of change. Turns out I’m even a bit of a romantic. I was, after all, named after Charlotte Brontë. (I was also named after a spider, which might account for my sometimes nasty bite.)
I’ve spent much of the months of my extended hiatus from the pages of this paper soul-searching, recovering my spark and equilibrium, and enjoying the two most fabulous children in the world. (Yes, I know. Your children are fabulous, too. Just not quite as fabulous. And must I remind you?—it’s my column.) In the meantime, much has changed. My mother, for example, has straightened up, so to speak, recently marrying a man she met last year on a weekend cruise to the Bahamas. He’s a lovely man, and they have a beautiful condominium on the ocean, where my children, my brother, my dog, and I are frequent guests. My two sisters, Emily and Anne, have recently contacted me about possibly coming to Florida in the not-too-distant future, maybe even bringing their children, for a long overdue family reunion. I even have two new stepsisters—Grace and Audrey, after Kelly and Hepburn—whom I’m having great fun getting to know. My brother just enrolled full-time at the College of Art and Design in Miami, and has been sober and drug-free for almost ten months. I’m very proud of him. There’s also a new man in my life, the aforementioned good friend who is the very opposite of Alex Prescott—he is the sheep in wolf ’s clothing. I even have a new bathroom!
So maybe a seed was planted in my belly nine months ago after all. Only the baby I produced is thirty-one years old, stands five feet eight inches tall, and weighs one hundred and twenty-four pounds. I’m happy to report she has a full head of blond hair, an inquisitive mind, and an alarmingly big mouth.
I’m using it now to thank all the people who have supported me with their e-mails during my absence. Between bouts of navel-gazing, I was busy completing my book, Down the Hill: The True Story of Jack and Jill—which hits bookstores this week. To those of you who aren’t so happy about my return to the Palm Beach Post, too bad. Remember, it’s a free country, and nobody is forcing you to read my columns. But if you don’t like them, please keep those nasty e-mails to yourself. As my mother used to say—well, maybe not my mother, but somebody’s mother surely—if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything. As for me, I’ll continue to say whatever I please, as plainly and as clearly as I can. Because unlike Jill Rohmer and Alex Prescott, with me, there are no hidden agendas. And must I remind you again?—it’s my column.
FROM: Happy Reader
TO: Charley@Charley’sWeb.com
SUBJECT: You
DATE: Mon. 8 Oct. 2007, 08:33:21–0400
Dear Charley, Welcome back!
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
Table of Contents
CHARLEY’S WEB
ALSO BY JOY FIELDING
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CONTENTS