by David Ellis
“Objection,” says Ron McGaffrey. “Argumentative.”
“Sustained.”
“Other than telling you not to call her on the phone, and the fact that she had been ill the previous weekend, what else did your mother say to you, or you to her?”
“It’s—” Jessica brings a hand to her face. “It was a while ago.”
Roger Ogren looks at the judge. He waits a beat to see if Jessica will continue.
“Did you ask your mother if she had murdered Sam Dillon?” he asks.
Allison stood against the window, overlooking the courtyard surrounded on all sides by the dormitories. Jessica sat on her bed, not looking at her mother, hands on each side of her head.
“You can’t say one way or the other whether I killed Sam Dillon,” Allison said.
“You didn’t kill him, Mother. You couldn’t possibly—”
“Jess, they’ll expect you to say that.” Her delivery was gentle. “They’ll expect you to defend your mother. What matters to them are the facts. And the fact is, you couldn’t say one way or the other whether I killed him. Right?”
“She said people might be saying a lot of things. She said I shouldn’t believe them.”
“Saying a lot of things about Sam Dillon’s death?” Ogren’s tone suggests impatience. He knows the answers to his questions, and Jessica isn’t delivering. “Saying things about her involvement in his death?”
“Yes.”
“But did you ask your mother if she had murdered Sam—”
“She said that we shouldn’t talk about that. That it would be a bad idea to discuss it.”
“Okay.” Roger Ogren takes a step. “But I want to ask you whether you asked a specific question. Ms. Pagone”—the prosecutor allows for an intake of air; as much as Jessica has fought him, he has been allowed to repeat this question several times, and her lack of cooperation only helps his cause here—“did you specifically ask your mother whether she killed Sam—”
“Yes.” A flash of anger—frustration, probably, and regret—colors Jessica’s face.
“And how did your mother react to that specific question? Whether or not she had killed Sam Dillon?”
Jessica swallows hard and lifts her chin. Allison holds her breath. This should be it. This should be the end. In a few moments, Jessica will be allowed to put this behind her. She will not let her attorney cross-examine her daughter.
“She didn’t,” Jessica answers. “She wouldn’t answer that question. We never discussed it again.”
Jane McCoy turns down the car radio as Harrick reviews his notes from the trial today. She likes to think of herself as hip to today’s music, but she is having difficulty enjoying the violent lyrics and the thrash guitars filling the airwaves these days. That, she figures, is exactly how her parents felt. She is getting old. Forty years old this July and she’s a dinosaur. She’s got hair clips older than these idiots on the radio, spouting about “bitches” and “forties.”
“Okay,” says Harrick. “She said she got to Allison’s at about eight-thirty that night. She was studying and doing laundry.”
“And what time did she say Allison came home?”
“Two in the morning, give or take.” Harrick flips through his notes. “She said mom threw up when she walked in. She was a mess. She had dirt all over her.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and she said that her mom admitted having an affair with Sam. That’s pretty much it, more or less.”
McCoy laughs. “Try ‘less.’ What did Allison’s lawyer do with her?”
“Nothing. Didn’t ask a single question.”
“Interesting. Did she get tripped up at all?”
“No.”
“She’s lucky,” says McCoy.
“Oh, I don’t know about ‘lucky.’ That girl knew exactly what to say.”
“Woman,” McCoy corrects.
“What?”
“Woman. Jessica Pagone’s a woman, not a girl.”
“Oh, well pardon me.” Harrick chews on his ever-present toothpick. “That ‘young woman’ knew exactly what to say and how to say it. She may have left the puzzle half-finished, but that’s not the same thing as perjury. I didn’t hear a single thing in there that could be proven false.”
McCoy switches to talk radio, which is buzzing about the Pagone murder trial.
“Yeah, well, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” McCoy says.
ONE DAY EARLIER
TUESDAY, APRIL 27
The university library is the perfect cover for a graduate student preparing for final exams. Ram Haroon gets very little done in the way of studying. Few do at this place. Most people are surfing the internet in the computer rooms or sitting on couches and talking over steaming cups of coffee.
Haroon heads over to the book stacks on the top floor of the library. West side, third from the end. He pretends to mull over a series of books about northern Africa. He pulls three books down and places two of them on the next shelf below, opens the other one and begins to peruse it.
A moment later, through the space created by removing the books, a note passes through from the other side. Haroon’s eyes move about; no one is watching. No one would bother. He takes the note and reads it.
Things are looking bad for her. Trial starts tomorrow and their case is in chaos. Prosecution’s case is strong and she has nothing to point away from her. She knows she will be convicted.
She doesn’t know about us. There’s no way. I would know if she did.
Haroon rolls his head on his neck casually, then removes a pen from his pocket and scribbles on the sheet of paper, passes it through.
I still don’t like it. She might know but not want to tell. She might wait to testify at trial to spring it.
The note comes back with new words written beneath his message.
She won’t testify. Too much at stake from her end. She would rather die. Her words, a direct quote. She’s on edge.
She would rather die. Haroon smiles. He takes the paper and places it in the book he has open. He waits two minutes or so before writing his response and sending it through:
A person looking at the death penalty might find it more appealing to end things on her own terms. I think it is time for Mrs. Allison Pagone to commit suicide. I will need your help on timing, of course. Will she continue to speak freely?
A long moment passes. Probably his partner is just being careful. In all likelihood not a single person is paying them any attention, standing in the corner stacks as they are. Still, the notes cannot pass too closely together, too many times. Finally, the response arrives:
Of course. If you can’t trust your ex-husband, who can you trust?
“Exactly,” Ram says, as he crumbles the note in his hand and picks up one of the books he has pulled. He will read it for a few minutes, then wander out of the library.
ONE DAY EARLIER
MONDAY, APRIL 26
Allison thinks of her daughter as she sits on a swing in her backyard cradling a glass of wine. Mat Pagone is pacing around the yard, undoubtedly remembering the barbecues on that porch and the games with Jessica in the sandbox. Thinking about things she cannot fathom.
She wonders if there will ever be a time when she can look at this man and not feel cheated. Will she ever get past this? Will she ever look at Mateo Pagone simply as the father of her child, and not as the asshole who took her for granted and cheated on her and, probably, poisoned their daughter’s mind against her? Will she ever be able to look back at the decades with him without the words wasted years springing to mind?
No, Mateo Pagone is not a bad man. He is old-school, a man who thinks that some of the marital vows do not apply. But not a bad person. Probably doesn’t think he has done anything wrong. And they drifted apart. Became less alike the longer they were together. Actually, the better way to say it is that Mat stayed the same, Allison grew up. Developed. From the moment she first indicated she wanted to take night classes toward a college degr
ee, Mat was against it. Wanted to keep Allison the way she had been, dependent, supportive, compliant, and she didn’t mean that in a bad way. It was just all Mat knew, what he had seen from his parents, and their parents. The wife stays home, cooks, cleans, raises the child. Mat works and provides for them. She could sense the objection to the classes right away. Not an outright “No,” but active discouragement. Why not join the PTA? he had suggested. A bridge club. Be a Girl Scout leader. But she did it, anyway, felt that she needed to do it for herself, took college courses part-time, fit them around her daughter and husband, and tingled with anticipation for her future.
Something glorious is going to happen.
She got a college degree in theater, performed in community plays and had no inclination, whatsoever, of making it a career, had no illusions about becoming a star of the stage. In truth, she acted only for herself, not the audience, for the freedom it brought her. But soon she ached for more, and found another way to perform theater. She attended law school part-time, mostly at night. Got a job as a public defender. Wrote a novel and made more money than he did. Their marriage moved farther downhill with each step. At the end Mat wanted to preserve things—she will never know what part of that was appearances and what part was a love for Allison—but even he had seen that the end had come once Jessica moved out to go to college.
The way I am now, I’m no wife for you.
“Jessie’s thinking about studying abroad next year,” Mat tells her. His hands are stuffed in his pockets. He kicks at a stray weed in the lawn. “Spain. Sevilla, probably.”
“Okay.” She is disarmed at her response, however appropriate it may be under the circumstances. She has little to say about her daughter’s life now, little right to inquire. Allison had always supported the idea of studying abroad. Jess had been noncommittal. It isn’t difficult to discern what change has prompted her daughter’s desire for new surroundings. Anywhere, at this point, is better than here.
“I told her you and I would discuss it,” he adds, looking at her. The wind kicks a few strands of his thick hair up. He is wearing a light yellow jacket that is probably insufficient for a cold spring day.
“Your call,” she says with no emotion. She feels a tug at her heart. She’s not sure what Jessica would think of her opinion, anyway. On instinct alone, she’d probably do the opposite of what Allison recommended. Allison hadn’t seen it coming, Jessica taking her father’s side in the divorce. But Jessica has always adored Mat. It puzzled Allison, always, how the father who spent so little time with his daughter gained such an elevated stature in Jessica’s mind. She could probably count on one hand the number of diapers Mat changed. The number of meals Mat cooked. The number of piano recitals and choir concerts he attended. Everything Allison did, all those years, selflessly, yes, and she didn’t expect a gold medal for it, but how was it that Mat came away the shining parent?
Well, that wasn’t hard to figure. Mat spoiled her. Imposed no discipline. It was Allison who played the bad cop, Allison who pushed her daughter to study and imposed a curfew after that incident with the high-school teacher. And really, she loved the fact that Jess and Mat got along so well. What mother—what wife—wouldn’t want that?
But she had expected more when she and Mat split. No, she didn’t expect Jessica to accept the news with open arms. But Jess was twenty years old, for God’s sake. She had been raised to keep an open mind, to think things through. How could Jessica so easily find fault in one parent and not the other? Allison doesn’t know the answer to that question. She doesn’t know what Mat said to their daughter. She doesn’t know what methods of manipulation Mat employed to subtly cast blame in Allison’s direction. All that she knows is that Jessica would do anything for her father and would never blame him for a thing.
Mat drops the subject, looks into the cool air, closes his eyes momentarily.
“Let’s go inside,” Allison suggests.
Mat follows her into the living room, then heads to the adjacent kitchen. Allison closes the window in the living room, overlooking the backyard.
“My attorney thinks the frame-up theory makes us look desperate,” she calls to Mat. She sees, through the window, her neighbor, Mr. Anderson, following his daughter out into his backyard for a game of catch. She remembers when Jennifer Anderson was born, can’t believe she’s now eight years old, jumping around with a baseball glove, eagerly awaiting warm-weather sports.
“I agree,” Mat says from the kitchen. “Who gives a damn about hair and broken fingernails and earrings? You were there at some point, is all it proves.”
She looks away from the window toward the kitchen. Mat was probably glad to be in the next room when he said that. He’s right, but that’s beside the point. He’s acknowledging her relationship with Sam, however fleetingly. Mat must be envisioning the spin that Ron McGaffrey will put on this evidence. An earring fell out, a nail was broken, a hair was pulled out during moments of passion. Wild sex on his couch. On the kitchen table. In his swimming pool. On a trapeze over his bed. Men have the capacity to visualize the most painful scenarios in their jealousy.
The truth is that it was incredibly awkward, initially. Allison had been with exactly one man her entire life. Everything had been one way. The first time she and Sam made love and she watched him above her, Allison’s heart pounded like never before, one part excitement and three parts utter fear. It was more like her first time than her thousandth.
Sam was taller than Allison by several inches, unlike Mat, so she had to raise her chin to see his face as he rose above her. He had less hair on his chest. A thinner frame. He liked to cup her head with his hand, play with her hair. He liked to kiss her more. Liked to watch her. Made less noise in his climax, clenching his jaw and closing his eyes, little more than a guttural sound from his throat. Liked to stay inside her longer afterward. He was slow and steady.
She realizes that Mat is watching her, standing in the living room with a bottle of wine. She wonders if he can guess what is going through her mind.
Mat had been more like a jackhammer. Quick, powerful thrusts, not a gentle partner. He was a square-framed, strong man, a hunter-gatherer, and he liked to take the lead, needed to. Didn’t like it when Allison improvised. He wanted to initiate, wanted to choose the position. Liked to be on top, liked to lie above her, not on her, as if in the middle of a push-up, his triceps bulging, his chest muscles flexing. She often wondered whether he was doing that for her or for himself.
“Forget the frame-up,” Mat finally says. “The best witness is you. Say you didn’t do it.”
Allison looks away, toward the couch. “I can’t testify, Mat. You know that.”
“We’re talking about your life, here, Allison.”
“They’ll catch me in lies, Mat. I’ve lied to the police. And they can force me to talk about other things, too. It’s not an option.”
She walks over to the window again, wants to see the enthusiasm on her young neighbor’s face, wants to experience a moment of vicarious joy. The girl flings the baseball over her father’s head, and it bangs off the back door.
“I’d rather die,” Allison says.
ONE DAY EARLIER
SUNDAY, APRIL 25
Allison finds Larry Evans in the coffee shop at the grocery store. “I got you something,” Larry says to her. He slides a small package across the table.
She can tell it’s a paperback before she opens it. She can also tell that a man wrapped the present. It’s a self-help book, one of those positive-mental-attitude guides she has never read.
“It’s about seeing the finish line,” he says, and laughs. “I’m guessing you’ll choose not to read it.”
Allison smiles. “Sometimes I don’t know what I’d do without you, Mr. Evans. Sometimes I feel like you’re the only—well.” She looks at him. “Thank you.”
“You have a lot of people supporting you, Allison. You read the websites?”
“Oh, God, not lately.” She has appreciated, on some lev
el, the support she has received on her book website, allison-pagone.com, as well as several websites seeking to capitalize on the case, including her favorite, freeallison.com. But she can’t help but feel some distance from these people. They aren’t really saying that they believe her to be innocent. They don’t know her and they don’t know the facts, at least not all of them. They feel a connection to her, presumably because of her novels, and they don’t want to confront the real possibility that one of their favorite authors has committed murder.
“No,” she says, “I prefer my news from the tabloids. Did you see the Weekly Inquisitor up front?”
Larry laughs. “I did. ‘Killer Novelist in Love Nest with Ben Affleck.’ The photo takes ten years off you, by the way.”
“Yeah, I’m really pleased.”
“My point is,” Larry says, “a lot of people are supporting you.”
“Well, I think the list is pretty short.” She sighs. “I mean, Mat has really been great. It’s a bit odd, under the circumstances, but he’s been great. It’s just that—I think he wonders about me. I don’t think he’s convinced of my innocence. I don’t think my lawyer thinks I’m innocent, either. And I think you do.”
Larry frowns at the mention of Allison’s ex-husband. He has been plenty clear, over the last months, about his opinion. “Oh, I think Mat knows you’re innocent,” he says.
She will not engage him. They have done battle on this front more than once. The development in her relationship with Larry Evans over the last few months has been interesting. He came to her initially as an aggressive journalist, unseasoned, which he pitched as an advantage to her. Regardless of his experience or lack thereof, he could be seen as little more than part of the pack of media people who wanted her story, wanted to write a true account of the murder of Sam Dillon and the trial of Allison Pagone. But then, as he began to dig, he took up Allison’s cause. He has shared his information with her. And he has slowly shown himself to be someone who is less concerned with getting the behind-the-scenes story of Allison Pagone’s trial than with showing that Allison is, in fact, innocent.