by Adam Mitzner
“I really didn’t have a passcode,” I say, understanding that this fact is essential to any defense that involves someone else sending the text from my phone. “And I can do you one better on your theory about how Richard came into possession of my iPhone. On the night Lauren was killed, Richard was alone in my office. He could have taken the phone then.”
LeMarcus smiles like he’s hit the lotto. “That’s good. Very good, in fact. Now tell me, who can testify that he was in your office alone?”
I think for a moment. Then I realize I know the answer to this one.
“Rita DeSapio. She’s the secretary that Lauren and I shared. Her desk is between our offices. Even if she doesn’t remember, I’m certain we can prove Richard was in the building that evening, because he must have signed in downstairs.”
“Excellent. Now, about the phone. How can we prove that you didn’t have it that evening?”
I know that this is going to be more difficult. “I bought a new one the next day,” I say.
He nods but isn’t convinced. “Okay . . .” he says, pausing, most likely in the hope that I’m going to give him something better to work with. We both know that if I did send the text and then murder Lauren, the first thing I’d do is get rid of my phone, so a purchase the next day doesn’t prove very much.
“Stuart and I can both testify to it,” I finally add.
“Let’s put a pin in the idea of your testifying for the moment. Stuart will be enough to get us closer to reasonable doubt. Who can support that your phone wasn’t passcode protected?”
He means other than me, another indication that he’s not so much putting a pin in the discussion regarding my taking the stand as tabling it indefinitely.
“Stuart,” I say, because he’ll be my stand-in on any evidence that I can’t put in myself.
“Good. Now, the last piece is about the gun. They’re going to try to link you to Papamichael, but we’re going to do our best to link him to Lauren. My guess is that, given Papamichael’s seniority, he crossed both your paths. I suspect we’ll end up fighting to a draw on which of the two of you he could have given a gun. But that’s fine by me, because they bear the burden of proof.”
“I’d be willing to testify that Lauren mentioned his name to me,” I say, trying to put my thumb on the scale so that my testimony helps my defense.
“Noted,” he says, “but it won’t help very much. The jury isn’t going to believe you just because you say so. They’re going to believe the case files.”
The primary reason LeMarcus does not want me on the stand is that the jury will think I’m lying. He doesn’t care if they reach that conclusion because I am committing perjury, or because that’s what jurors usually think when the defendant takes the stand. Either way, my testifying makes a guilty verdict that much more likely.
“So, let’s see where that leaves us,” LeMarcus asks, but I can tell it’s a rhetorical question, with that point driven home when he keeps right on talking. “The secretary testifies that on the evening Lauren Wright was murdered, her husband, Richard Trofino, entered your office and was there alone for several minutes. Your husband testifies that when you got home, you did not have your phone, and that he knew from prior experience that it was not passcode protected, because it was often handed to your son to play with. The next day you bought a new phone, and the Apple store confirms that, which further drives home that your phone was stolen the night before by Richard. And, as for the gun, Lauren Wright knew Detective Papamichael, so he must have given her his weapon some years back. Richard used it to kill her.”
LeMarcus offers me a satisfied grin. He looks exceedingly pleased with the world we have just constructed. Richard Trofino murdered his wife after sending messages on the phone he stole from me and using the Glock 19 his wife procured from Detective Papamichael. Simple.
Stuart kisses me on the lips the moment I return home from LeMarcus’s office.
“How’d it go?” he asks.
“LeMarcus didn’t say that if I’m convicted he’d serve the time.”
He grimaces at my gallows humor.
“We came up with a defense today. It’s a good one too.”
“Yeah? Care to share?”
“Richard Trofino. We’re going to claim that he took my cell phone when he was in my office, read the texts between Lauren and me, got insanely jealous, but realized that if he killed his wife in their apartment he’d go to jail. He decided that the better play was to frame me by sending her a text from my cell phone. Oh, and we’re reasonably sure that Lauren worked cases with Papamichael at some point, and that connects Richard to the gun. So it all fits together rather nicely.”
Stuart nods that this makes sense to him too.
“I think it’s my best defense,” I say. “I’ve considered all the other options. Believe me that I have. This one is the most likely to result in my acquittal.”
Stuart nods again, even though I appreciate that he isn’t professionally equipped to make an informed decision about trial strategy. I decide to change the subject to something much dearer to my heart.
“How’s the little boy today?”
If Stuart is put off by my abrupt segue, he doesn’t show it.
“He’s good. He’s working on a special project in his room. “Why don’t you go check on him? I’ll start dinner for you.”
When I open the door of my son’s room, I see Jacob hunched over his desk, so involved in whatever he’s doing that he’s oblivious to my presence. He’s had that desk since he was born, but I don’t remember him ever sitting at it before. Another reminder that my little boy is growing up. Whereas that reality would previously not have been the source of any distress, now I can’t help but take it to the next step and think about him going the rest of the way through life without me.
I kiss him on the top of his head. If I’ve startled him, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he doesn’t react at all.
“Whatcha working on?” I ask.
“I’m writing a book,” he says matter-of-factly.
“What’s it about?”
“A boy and a computer. The computer’s name is Jane. The boy’s name is George. And they’re best friends. But the computer . . . it’s old and it doesn’t work as good as the new computers. Oh, and George’s job is working with computers, so he really needs a good computer or people won’t give him money.”
My son has updated Mike Mulligan. In place of a steam shovel, he’s using a computer. I couldn’t be more proud if he’d written War and Peace.
“That sounds really interesting. What does . . . George do about it?”
This causes my son to turn to face me. His expression shows he’s worried, perhaps for Jane the computer.
“I’m not sure yet,” he says. “I want there to be a happy ending, so Jane and George can still be friends. But . . . I don’t know what you do with old computers. Do you?”
I actually give this some thought, hoping that I can solve the problem. In the actual Mike Mulligan, the author has a footnote crediting the person who gave her the idea for the ending. Maybe Jacob will do me that honor as well.
“How about . . . I don’t know. Maybe Jane is perfect for teaching little kids how to use a computer? And maybe George can become a teacher and they can work together in the school.”
Jacob smiles with the power of a thousand suns. I smile even more broadly.
“I’ll make George an art teacher like Daddy, and Jane can be used to teach kids how to draw.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
And then he turns away from me to continue working.
39.
ELLA BRODEN
Saturday night at Lava looks as different from my Thursday-night gig as those performances do from open-mic night. It seems as if each type of show draws an entirely different crowd. Tuesdays are for the bohemians, the slackers, the ne’er do wells. People who can’t afford to buy tickets to see live music but are happy to listen to
wannabes play. Thursdays bring out the millennials, but Saturday is for grown-ups.
The median age appears to be above my own. The patrons are, for the most part, coupled up. No doubt more than a few have hired sitters and refer to the excursion as “date night.” Some of the men are even wearing sports jackets.
For my own attire, I picked the very first outfit I ever wore to perform as Cassidy. I purchased it on eBay, and the label sewn inside the collar bears a designer’s name that I could never have afforded new, although I’m well aware that the dress could be a counterfeit. When that thought first occurred to me, it only made me cherish the garment that much more. We were kindred spirits in that way. It’s black and short—too short to be worn by anyone but Cassidy. It actually shows less skin than most of her costumes, but I think it’s the most provocative, on account of the fact that nearly the entire front and back are see-through black lace.
Gabriel’s reaction when he saw me in my Cassidy outfit was an eye roll followed by a smirk.
“No?” I asked.
“No . . . I mean, yes. You look . . . spectacular. I just . . . I still can’t believe you get up in front of people wearing that, is all.”
“Not me,” I said. “I’d sooner die. Cassidy.”
I’m wearing my overcoat when I enter Lava. I’ve asked Gabriel to come with me this evening. Ever since I broke that taboo and allowed him entry rights to Lava, I’ve realized that it had been a mistake to try to separate my worlds. His hand is on the small of my back, but as soon as we’re a step inside, he moves in front to clear the crowd. I walk behind him. He must spot Karen before I do, because he abruptly zigs. A few steps later, I see that he’s heading straight for her.
It’s hot in the club, and Karen’s dress bares her shoulders and arms. It gives me the best view I’ve had yet of her impressive body art, the main feature of which is a serpent that curls around her arm from her bicep to her wrist.
Gabriel gets the first double kiss, and then me. I can feel Karen’s hand on my back; it’s almost as if she’s trying to ascertain the contours of my outfit beneath my coat.
When our embrace ends, she says, “Need to see the merch.”
This time I don’t do the stripper routine. With Gabriel beside me, I can’t pretend I’m Cassidy, so I simply remove my coat and hand it to him. He drapes it over his arm like he’s a coat-check boy.
“Me likey,” Karen says.
“Thanks,” I reply.
“You’re going on at ten sharp. I’ve looked at your set list. Good choices, all of them. I think you should move the one you wrote up a slot, maybe two. Don’t get me wrong, I love that song, but closing with two up-tempo numbers is better.”
A minor change in song order usually doesn’t faze me. For some reason, however, my legs suddenly feel like jelly.
“You okay?” Gabriel asks as soon as Karen leaves us.
“Yeah . . . all of a sudden . . . I don’t know what just came over me.”
“Do you want a drink?”
I do. I’m badly in need of something to calm my now-runaway nerves.
A man vacates his stool the moment we reach the bar, and Gabriel motions for me to sit.
“Relax. You’re going to be great,” Gabriel says. “You always are, Ella.”
I want to tell him not to call me that. Not here. But instead I ask the bartender for a whisky. Once it’s poured, I reach eagerly for the drink, and finish it in two gulps.
“One more,” I say quickly.
“Take it easy,” Gabriel says. “You want to be relaxed. Not smashed.”
He’s right. I take his advice, nursing my second whisky. Gabriel’s attuned enough to my needs that he knows to be quiet now, allowing me to stay in my own head. As I’m collecting my thoughts, it occurs to me that Gabriel’s use of my name wasn’t by mistake, but design. He wanted to remind me of who I really am.
Karen’s introduction lasts longer than it does on Thursday nights. She spends nearly all of it finding different ways to communicate what a thrill it is for her and for Lava to host Onyx. It’s obvious from the screaming that the crowd is here to see them perform. It makes me even more nervous, and I finish the last drops of my second whisky.
“But before Onyx gets up here, you all are in for something that you’ll not soon forget. There’s only one woman who I think can match the intensity that Onyx brings to the stage, and that’s Lava’s very own . . . Cassidy!”
Karen’s introduction garners enthusiastic applause, although it’s not nearly as loud as when Onyx was mentioned. When I reach the stage, she hands me the microphone. With her hand covering the top of it, she whispers, “Blow the roof off this place like you always do.”
A moment later, I’m alone before the crowd. I shut my eyes. To my surprise, tonight it’s neither Charlotte I see in my mind’s eye nor Lauren, but Gabriel. I open them quickly and focus on the genuine article.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you all so much for being here tonight.”
The introductory chords to “Light My Fire”—the cheesy organ riff that lets you know at once that you’re going to another place—fills the room. I go with it, and am all too happy to be swept away.
After “Light My Fire,” I sing The Pierces’ “Kissing You Goodbye,” which is new to my repertoire. I like that it sounds spooky and has the word goodbye in it. Then I take it down a notch with “Nothing Compares 2 U.” I do that one because I read somewhere that Sinéad O’Connor sings it in honor of her mother, despite the fact that it was written by Prince, who was undoubtedly thinking about a woman gone for seven hours and fifteen days. Then I bring it back up to eleven with Fiona Apple’s “Sleep to Dream.” I disregard Karen’s advice that “Never Goodbye” should follow and keep the original playlist, with Bruce Springsteen’s “Brilliant Disguise” next.
Even among the throng before me, Gabriel stands out clearly. He holds a clenched fist above his head, his way of telling me that I’m doing great.
“Thank you, all of you. I’ve got two songs to go. My next one is not a cover, so don’t feel bad if you don’t know who sang it.” The crowds laughs. “Someday maybe someone will cover it somewhere and say this is Cassidy’s ‘Never Goodbye,’ but right now, it’s only mine.”
I hadn’t given any prior thought to where I was going with this. In fact, until this very moment, it never even occurred to me to change the arrangement.
“Usually when I perform this song, the band backs me up,” I continue. “But if it’s all right with you all, tonight it’s just going to be me. I want you to hear it exactly the way it sounded in my head when I wrote it.”
My declaration of independence is met with a rousing cheer. I make my way to Jonah, who is one of the best piano players I’ve ever met, and ask him to slide down a bit on the piano bench. “The rest of you guys,” I say to the band, “just stay put. I’m going to do this old school. Just me and the piano, but I would greatly appreciate it if all of you would stay up here onstage for moral support.”
To a bandmate, they smile. A few offer nods of encouragement, which is enough to start my fingers playing the melody. Even though this is by far the largest crowd I’ve ever played, it’s as quiet as it was when I first laid down the chords alone in my apartment. I don’t hear so much as a breath coming from the audience. My voice is the only sound in the room.
It’s not until the applause breaks out that I’m awakened from the trance. Jonah, who I had completely forgotten was less than six inches from me, leans into my ear. “Oh my God,” he says.
My knees wobble when I get back up, but I make it back to the center of the stage. Then I close my set with Alicia Keys’s “Girl on Fire.”
After I’ve sung the last lyric, I can’t hear my own voice thanking the crowd above their applause. It hits me that I won’t be taking the stage for a few weeks now, while I’m performing on that other stage I call home: the criminal courtroom. As I’m wondering how much longer I can straddle this dual persona, I see the one constant in my li
fe, my own personal North Star in my constellation of confusion. Gabriel. I leave the stage and follow that beacon right into his embrace.
“I love you,” he says.
No qualification. No trying it on for size. Just a declaration.
“I love you too,” I say without missing a beat.
40.
DANA GOODWIN
I didn’t want to invite anyone for Thanksgiving. My parents offered to fly in from Arizona, but I told them not to come. I also said that I didn’t want them to come for the trial. I just couldn’t bear them seeing me that way. Stuart’s mother is too ill to travel, and it’s a condition of my bail that I can’t leave the state.
I suggested to Stuart that we treat the holiday like any other Thursday. I have nothing very much to be thankful for this year, after all. He said that he would do whatever I wanted, but then he put his thumb on the scale by offering to do all the cooking.
So it’s just the three of us.
The thought has never been far from my mind that this may be the last Thanksgiving I will spend with my son. Prison is worse than death in that way. Thanksgivings would continue to come, but I’d never be with Jacob.
Although I’ve rejected the idea of jumping bail, suicide has never strayed far from my thoughts. The last way I can achieve freedom, if everything turns against me.
As far as I can tell, Jacob still knows nothing of the hurricane swirling around me. As Stuart toils in the kitchen, my son and I watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, challenging each other to be the first to scream out the name of the character balloons when they appear on-screen. He wins with each character he knows, and I’m surprised how many he does—SpongeBob, Hello Kitty, Pikachu, Thomas the Tank Engine. He thinks Paddington is Winnie the Pooh, but I don’t correct him. To my surprise, he has no idea who Snoopy is, but comes back strong with the Power Rangers, Ronald McDonald, and the prehistoric squirrel from the Ice Age movies.