What a Mother Knows

by Leslie Lehr

  “Not exactly,” Kenny said. He looked at his wife, who gave him an encouraging squeeze. “I got a call from my buddy in the DA’s office this morning. There’s a rumor they’ll file criminal negligence charges against you. And possibly vehicular manslaughter.”

  Cathy covered the plate. “That’s almost the same as murder in the second degree.”

  Kenny winced at the harsh comparison.

  Cathy looked at him. “Isn’t that what you said? That there are varying degrees of manslaughter charges? Including gross negligence based on being ‘reckless, with disregard for human life’?”

  Kenny shrugged. “Close enough.”

  “What happened?”

  “Dillenger’s team has dug up forensic evidence that looks damaging.” He set a document in front of her.

  Michelle didn’t even bother trying to decipher the legalese. “And?”

  “They scavenged the wreck. Tests show that the locking pin was never secured. That means Noah Butler was not wearing his seat belt.”

  “Maybe he couldn’t get it to work and gave up.”

  “That’s plausible. But they also collected tire remnants that are nearly intact. Not the kind of rubber loss that results from a skid. Now they can include punitive damages, alleging ‘conscious disregard’ for passenger safety. They’ll have experts to testify that you didn’t brake at all.”

  “But why go to all that trouble?”

  “More money—that you would pay, not the insurance company. Plus, it would set things up nicely for the DA to bring a criminal charge. According to my buddy, the DA needs the eighteen- to twenty-four-year-old vote in the next election, and he’s not above avenging a rock star’s death to get it.”

  Michelle rubbed her eyes. “Am I going to jail, Kenny?”

  “Not if I can help it,” he said. “The civil claim against you now is essentially about financial liability. You could get fines and maybe a year in county. But a criminal charge is a felony, that’s the big leagues. Then we’re talking about state prison.”

  Cathy saw Michelle trembling and put her hand on her husband’s arm. “That’s enough, honey.”

  “She needs to know.” Kenny turned back to Michelle. “We don’t want to give the DA time to build up the case. With Rodriguez out, I could take over as the main trial lawyer. It’s unusual to have one lawyer represent both the insurance company and the defendant, but in special circumstances like this, it’s in the best interest of the client. The judge will allow it.”

  “How will this keep me out of jail?”

  “If we win a defense verdict—meaning you are found to be ‘not liable’ in the civil trial, then the DA will be less inclined to file a criminal charge. He’d need all twelve jurors to disagree with the civil ruling and find you guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. It would look like he was a celebrity ambulance chaser, trying to keep his name in the news.”

  “So the whole thing would blow over?”

  “It could. If we win.”

  “Then go for it. I just want this to be over.”

  “So does the Butler estate, trust me,” Kenny said. “My guess is that Noah’s father initially had Greenburg file the civil charges because he wanted someone to blame. And between you, me, and the wall, the Killer Mom mystique is good publicity for album sales. It pumps up his son’s legend. But the man is well aware that your policy limits and personal assets won’t offer a big payday. Especially if the jury doesn’t find a preponderance of evidence against you.”

  “It was raining,” Cathy offered. “Maybe your stiletto slipped.” She raised an eyebrow at Michelle then went to the kitchen. “Anyone else for tea?”

  Michelle ignored the dig and turned back to Kenny. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll reconfirm our trial date in Santa Monica.” He closed his briefcase, but didn’t get up. “So long as there’s no new evidence to delay the proceedings, we’ll be fine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, mind your own business. Sit tight and try to remember what happened. The more detailed your knowledge, the less there is to be left to the jury’s imagination. And depending on how the seat belt argument goes, the issue of character may arise. No matter what the facts are, the jury decides the verdict. And juries can be swayed by unconscious bias. Anything that implies you had reason to dislike Noah Butler could influence them to think your personal feelings affected your reactions in the heat of the moment.”

  Michelle thought of the photographs of her daughter scattered by her bed, but said nothing. When Cathy leaned around the doorway from the kitchen to give her a hard look, she recalled what Noah’s mother had said about his “trouble.” She also recalled her pact with Cathy. She looked back at Kenny and played dumb. “You mean like Nikki dancing in his video?”

  “Good Lord, everyone’s already seen that,” Cathy called from the kitchen.

  “I’d argue it’s circumstantial. Either way, Nikki’s testimony might help you. Have you heard from her?” Kenny watched her shake her head no. “If you had, would you tell me?”

  Michelle leaned her head in her hand.

  The teakettle whistled, but Cathy’s voice was sharper. “Kenny, give me a hand? Now!”

  Michelle heard him go to the kitchen. Fervent whispers of their daughter Emily’s name followed, then Kenny’s protest. But the strident tones softened, and Michelle recognized the sounds of a marriage that worked. She was embarrassed by the intimacy. And more than a little jealous.

  Michelle’s cell phone rang from the bedroom. She sat up and called to the kitchen. “You know Drew wants a divorce, right?”

  Kenny emerged carrying a cup of tea. “I was sorry to hear that. The timing isn’t ideal, but it shouldn’t hurt the case.”

  Michelle had nothing to say that wouldn’t sound pathetic. She’d dared to hope that Kenny would explain some legal advantage. She was suddenly conscious of how naked she was beneath her robe. She heard her phone ring again and wondered if it was him. Except now she wasn’t so eager to answer. “Does Drew know about the new evidence?”

  “Yes,” he said, setting the tea down. “We’ve spoken about having you examine the wreck. A visit might jog your memory.”

  “No, thanks,” Michelle said, warming her hand around the teacup. “I went to Topanga Canyon, and that didn’t do much good.”

  Kenny nodded. “I know it sounds frightening, but now that there’s new evidence, we need something to contradict it. Any little detail will help your credibility. Thanks to county budget cuts, the wreckage is still in a junkyard downtown.” He pulled a paper with the address from his pocket.

  Michelle took it reluctantly. “Isn’t there something else I can do?”

  “Plenty. Get me a list of character witnesses—people without so much as a parking ticket who would testify on your behalf. Get me records of your volunteer work, donations to charity, that sort of thing.”

  “PTA meetings count,” Cathy said, returning from the kitchen.

  Michelle rose and walked them out. As the door closed, she heard the phone click over to voice mail. She trudged back to the bedroom and read Wes’s name on the caller ID. Michelle relaxed. He would be a character witness for her, she was sure of it.

  Her stomach growled, but there was no food in the house. She wandered back to the dining room and dipped a lemon bar in her tea. It wasn’t so bad, she decided. There would be a lot worse food in jail.

  28

  A few days later, Julie was driving them in circles, lost in an industrial area downtown. When Michelle read the address Kenny had given her, Julie jammed her foot on the brake of her Acura. The cement truck behind them shuddered and stopped inches from the back bumper. The driver laid on the horn until Julie stuck her arm out the window, her bracelets jangling as she waved him around. The trucker’s mouth opened, but a tanker lumbering across the freeway above them drowned out his angry words. Michelle coughed at the exhaust fumes. “Sorry.”

  Julie backed the car to the dirt-cove
red sign for the LA County Impound and pulled into the gravel lot. Barking Dobermans lunged against a fence topped with barbed wire. Julie freshened her lip gloss in the mirror.

  “Why bother?” Michelle asked.

  “Because you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” Julie said. She came around to help Michelle out. “And they close in five minutes. If you notice anything about the car, even the tiniest thing, tell me.” She pulled a notepad and pencil from her purse. “This legal stuff can come back around and bite you in the tush. The judge in my custody case wouldn’t take my word for anything, but Jack had his lies all typed up, so he was golden. Ready?”

  A stringy man with a five o’clock shadow unlocked the gate and beckoned them to sign in at his trailer. Michelle followed Julie in a wide berth around the snarling dogs, and slipped her new driver’s license under the plexiglass window. The man—Gus, according to the name on the pocket of his short-sleeved shirt—turned to the faux wood paneling and lifted a grimy clipboard off a hook.

  Michelle was distracted by the calendar posted near the hook. Miss May wore leather chaps astride a gleaming motorcycle. Michelle wondered if Nikki would ever shoot a picture like that, or worse, pose for one. She signed her name slowly, as if to make it perfect, until Gus cleared his throat. Michelle put the pen down. She could delay all she wanted, but it wouldn’t get her out of this.

  A hush fell over the group as Gus led them back between the rows of wreckage. They tiptoed past the mangled metal corpses as if it were a real cemetery. The steel bodies were coated with dust, making each wreck look like a member of the same doomed family. Michelle shivered, as if spirits lingered in the air around them. But the only signs of life were the cars flashing like a strobe light as they sped across the concrete overpass and blocked the blue sky above. What was it Cathy had said so long ago? “There but for the grace of God,” that was it. And the grace of brakes, and seat belts, and good intent.

  Gus stopped at Lot 709. They stood before the hollow frame of Drew’s SUV. What little remained after the wheels had been removed and the seats torn out did resemble an accordion, just as Becca had said. The hood was nonexistent; the brackets were bent like bobby pins. Michelle stood anchored to the ground. She was too terrified to move any closer.

  Julie flashed another smile at Gus and wandered around to the dented tailgate—the only part that still suggested a vehicle. “Are we allowed to touch it?”

  “Suit yourself,” Gus said, crouching in the dirt. “Every time the Santa Ana’s blow, more shit falls off.” He whistled and the dogs snarled in the distance. They bounded through the wrecks to nuzzle at his touch.

  Julie poked a metal shard and black chips flaked off. “Not even car paint lasts out here.’’

  “Naw, that’s just blood,” Gus said.

  Julie blanched, then turned to Michelle. “Yours?”

  Michelle felt Gus’s scrutiny as he scratched the mongrels behind their ears. She stepped toward the gaping hole in the frame on the passenger side. She pretended to be oblivious, as if it wasn’t such a miracle she got out of this alive. Then again, maybe it was a curse.

  When she tugged idly at a scrap of cloth beneath a metal joint, it cracked like a potato chip. Despite two rainy winters, a hot summer, and constant diesel fumes, the crackled grain of black leather was apparent. But it wasn’t a remnant of the upholstery—the seats had been covered in the patterned fabric now coating the doorjambs like a melted web. Her finger caught the edge of a small rusted circle, and she rubbed it until she could see an outline of wings, like the Harley-Davidson shield. It was a metal snap from Noah’s jacket. She dropped it in the dirt.

  A shadow flickered over them, then dust rose like a ghost as a police helicopter whirred past. Michelle heard the familiar thwack-thwack-thwack just as Gus warned them to cover their eyes. Too late. She was already blinded by the swirl of soot, like the blanket of fog that had coated Topanga Canyon that morning.

  Steam rose from the narrow strip of pavement that Michelle spied through the flailing windshield wipers. The bordering trees and mountains were hidden in the low-lying cloud. It looked as if she and Noah were alone, tunneling through heaven.

  He was raving mad as he punched the radio buttons, shouting about Morrison and Manzanek, Timothy Leary and psychedelic drugs. Rebuttal points buzzed in her brain, but mostly she wanted to end that head-banging beat, to brush his hand from the buttons, to make him put his goddamned seat belt on…

  “Anything?” Julie’s voice broke in, dissolving the cloud of memory.

  Michelle startled. Her heart was pounding so loudly that Julie must have heard it. What about Noah’s seat belt? She was furious with him, she remembered that much—and that alone could incriminate her.

  “Nope,” she said. “At least nothing you should write down.” Michelle took a deep breath and kicked the frame in frustration. A small object fell out and bobbled across the dirt. A bolt or a washer, Michelle didn’t care. But Julie leaned over and snatched it.

  “No souvenirs,” Gus warned. “Police won’t even let me use scraps for a sculpture. Fucking cops.”

  “That’s awful,” Julie said, making a show of leaning over to adjust her ankle strap before standing up. Michelle saw her stuff something in her bra before turning around. “So you’re an artist?”

  Gus lifted a metal blob on the bike chain beneath his soiled collar. “I dabble.”

  “Sweet,” Julie said, asking about his art as he led them back through the rows of carnage.

  Michelle trailed, trembling from the magnetic pull of memory. She heard only barking and the sound of her own breath until they were outside the gates and Gus was locking up.

  Once buckled into the car, Julie punched on her CD player and pulled out of the parking lot. The soothing voice of a self-help guru enveloped them as they merged into traffic. Julie cast curious looks at Michelle as they joined the line of cars waiting at the on-ramp to the Santa Monica Freeway. When the light turned green, Julie wove over toward the far lanes heading west. Rush hour traffic bunched up as they approached the 405 North to the Valley.

  “You mind if I take the coastal route?”

  “No. But can we stop by the clinic first? It’s on the way.”

  “Dr. Palmer’s clinic? Office hours are probably over by now.” They cruised under the congested overpass and sped toward Santa Monica.

  “I’m sure Wes will wait if I call.”

  “You call him Wes?”

  “Why not? He calls me Michelle. And he’s leaving for Pittsburgh tomorrow for a meeting. I need to talk to him.”

  “About your therapy? Can’t you call the nurse tomorrow?”

  “It’s not about my arm.”

  “Then what’s it about?” Julie asked. “Oh no, you went to see him after your fall at the office, didn’t you? Please don’t tell me he’s the one hiding that memory card.”

  Michelle sighed. “I trust him, Julie. You’ve been so generous with all you have going on, but you’re busy. I spend hours with him every week.”

  “He gets paid for it,” Julie said.

  “No, it’s more than that. He really seems to care.”

  Julie didn’t bother to look up from the road. “That’s called projection, Michelle. Everybody falls for their doctors. It will pass.”

  “He was going to give me balls today—manipulatives, he calls them, to strengthen my hand.”

  Julie wove her way to the carpool lane on the left. “Don’t you have plastic cups or something to use at home? I could lend you some old sandbox toys.”

  “I guess I could work with the nesting dolls,” Michelle said. “They’re small.”

  “Hate to see one crack, though. That design is unique, right?”

  “Yes, but I doubt they’re worth anything, except to my mother. It’s not a complete set.”

  “That makes them perfect to practice small motor movement. Forget the clinic.”

  “Please, Julie. I want to ask Wes to be a character witness.”
r />   “I’ll be a character witness,” Julie said.

  Michelle flipped the visor down to block the glare from the sun. “Thanks, but you’re a divorcée fighting a custody battle.” Michelle pointed at the 26th Street exit.

  Julie jammed her foot on the gas pedal and swerved around another car. Michelle watched the Santa Monica Airport and St. John’s Hospital whiz past. “If you think being divorced will make me look bad as a character witness, how do you think you’ll look, confiding in your celebrity doctor?”

  “He’s not a celebrity.”

  “Really? He has a book. There’s probably a Dr. Wesley Palmer fan club on Facebook.”

  “He only wrote that to help win a research grant,” Michelle protested. “He’s a hardworking guy who grew up riding the bus across town to go to a decent school and earn scholarships to college.”

  “That’s exactly the kind of information that you shouldn’t know. And don’t call him by his proper name or you sure as hell won’t look like a loyal wife. It might work if he was fat and ugly, but I met him at your house. He’s gorgeous! This friendship is dangerous, Michelle. I’ve read every book on divorce in the LA library system, and with this hot bachelor in the picture, Drew could sue for alienation of affection. You’d end up with nothing.”

  “Calm down, Julie. The divorce papers say irreconcilable differences. Besides, Drew left right after I got home from the hospital.”

  “To work. To support you,” Julie said, slowing with the traffic by the 4th Street exit to the courthouse. “Leaving LA is not the same thing as leaving your marriage.”

  It sure felt that way, Michelle thought. The granite courthouse loomed south of the freeway. The orange sunlight reflected in the windows was the color of prison overalls. “You really think I need to be married to avoid jail?”

  “No. You might even get a sympathy vote for getting dumped. But not if you’re dating your doctor before anyone’s even signed the papers.” Julie glanced over. “Seriously, Michelle, you’re educated and pretty and have a nice house in the Valley. And you used to work in Hollywood. The only people who can’t get out of jury duty in LA are hardworking blue-collar folks or the unemployed. They’ll associate you with the celebrities who get away with murder. So to speak.”