The Girl Next Door

by MacDonald, Patricia

  “Thank you, Officer Mazurek,” said Whelan. “We want to thank you for coming forward with your information. We’ll hear from Dr. Quinteros now.”

  A dark-haired young man in the second row stood up and walked toward the center aisle. Meanwhile, Mazurek nodded, and his wife got up and went behind the wheelchair to push him out of the room. Dr. Quinteros gave them both a friendly nod as he assumed the witness seat. Mrs. Mazurek wheeled her husband’s chair down the center aisle.

  As Mazurek and his wife passed the table behind where Duncan sat, the two men nodded gravely at one another, although there was no physical contact between them. But the woman reached out impulsively and put a hand on Duncan’s shoulder.

  “Mrs. Mazurek,” Whelan said in a warning voice, as the guards in the room surged forward, and then resumed their positions as she quickly drew back her hand.

  Whelan waited until Mazurek had been wheeled out the back door of the hearing room before continuing. “Now,” he said, shuffling through the papers in front of him, “Dr. Quinteros.”

  The young doctor sat with his forearms resting on the arms of the witness chair. He was wearing a dark shirt and a tie, but no jacket. The gaze in his narrow black eyes was at once aloof and alert. His face resembled that of an Aztec chief, all angles and planes. His coal black hair had obviously been combed back, but it parted off center and fell in a curve beside his high, sharp cheekbones.

  “You are Dr. Andre Quinteros,” said Whelan. “You work at the Bergen County State Prison infirmary. Is that correct?”

  Quinteros nodded. “Correct.”

  “Can you tell us about the injury sustained by Mr. Mazurek in the prison uprising?”

  Quinteros leaned forward and recounted, in technical terms, the severity of the guard’s injury. “Without immediate attention, a tear in the artery like this is life-threatening,” he said in conclusion.

  “So,” said Whelan, “is it your opinion that Mr. Avery here did indeed save the life of Officer Mazurek?”

  Quinteros looked gravely at Duncan. “Absolutely,” he said.

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Mr. Whelan, I’d just like to add, if I might …?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, Duncan … Dr. Avery … often helps me in the infirmary. I think highly of him and I value his opinion. I … would miss his help, but I hope you will see fit to grant him his parole.”

  “Thank you, Doctor, for coming in today. We won’t keep you from your work any longer.”

  The young doctor stood up and smiled at Duncan, and Duncan nodded. Nina watched in mute gratitude as the good-looking doctor started to walk down the center aisle. As he reached the row where she was sitting, he suddenly glanced over at her. Nina was used to catching the eye of good-looking men, but all the same, she flushed as their eyes met. Suddenly, he gave her a brief nod of support as if he had recognized her and knew why she was there. At first she was too surprised to react. Then, recovering herself, she turned in her seat and tried to smile at him, but Quinteros had already exited the hearing room.

  Whelan shuffled his papers again. “We have several testimonials as to the role that Mr. Avery played during this prison uprising. We also have the customary reports of his good behavior and a dearth of citations for any kind of infraction of the rules.”

  Nina knew what was coming next, and she dreaded it.

  “Of course, the victim of the murder for which you were convicted and sentenced cannot speak for herself, but we do have someone here to make a statement on her behalf.” He looked up into the rows of seats. “Mr. Avery?”

  Patrick rose to his feet and walked to the front of the room. He sat down in the empty chair. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored pinstripe gray suit, a dazzling white shirt, and a gray silk tie, which was his work uniform as an investment banker on Wall Street. Patrick made a huge salary at his job, and he liked to flaunt it. He always dressed expensively, drove a Jaguar, and had filled his enormous house with expensive antique furniture and paintings. He was stockier than he had been in high school, but was still fit-looking. His curly hair was prematurely gray, his face tanned and his expression grim.

  “And you are …” said Whelan, though he knew perfectly well.

  “I am Patrick Avery. The victim was my mother, Marsha.”

  “And the prisoner is your father …” said Whelan.

  “That’s right,” said Patrick.

  “And, Mr. Avery, can you tell us how you feel about the possibility of your father being paroled at this time, in light of your experience, the loss of your mother.”

  Patrick smoothed down his tie and the color rose to his face. “I remain firmly against it. I don’t believe that Duncan is sorry for what he did, or feels any responsibility. It’s admirable that he helped that guard, Officer Mazurek, and kept him from bleeding to death. Apparently, he had no such second thoughts about my mother. He destroyed our family and he took my mother’s life away from her. She’s never seen our …” Patrick voice began to tremble, and he stopped to compose himself. He took a deep breath. “Our children were deprived of their grandmother. My sister and brother and I were deprived of our mother. I respectfully ask that you deny this man any leniency. He did not show any to us. Our loss is permanent.”

  There was a murmur, as always, among the board members after Patrick spoke. He made a forceful witness. Whelan motioned for them to be silent, and then Patrick was excused. He did not look Duncan in the eye, but went back to his seat and sat down beside Gemma, who grabbed his hand.

  “Now, we would like to speak to the prisoner. Mr. Avery, we have your request for parole here before us. Now, it says that if you were to be granted parole, you would have a place to live with your daughter, Nina. Is that right?” Duncan nodded slightly and looked back, for the first time, at Nina. Nina smiled at him.

  Whelan looked in Nina’s direction. “Is that right, Miss Avery?”

  “That’s right, sir. I have a two-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I have plenty of room for him.”

  “Special permission would have to be granted for you to live outside of New Jersey, but because of the proximity of Manhattan, this would not seem to present any problems in terms of fulfilling your obligation to meet with your parole officer and so forth. Now, as to work … Mr. Avery. You no longer have your medical license.”

  Duncan cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was soft and difficult to hear. “A former … colleague of mine, Dr. Nathanson, runs a medical clinic in Newark where I would be employed as a paramedic. There are plenty of jobs I can do there that don’t require a medical license.”

  “Yes, I see we have an affidavit from Dr. Nathanson to that effect. Board members, do you have any questions for Mr. Avery here? Miss Davis?”

  A black woman with her hair skinned back into a bun, wearing black-rimmed glasses, nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I do have a question. Mr. Avery, as your son who spoke here has stated, you have never accepted responsibility for this crime, despite your conviction. And consequently, you have never expressed any remorse. Now, this lack of remorse on your part makes me question whether it would be safe to release you into society again. What can you say to me about that, Mr. Avery?”

  Duncan sighed. “The same thing I have always said, Miss Davis. I can’t accept responsibility for a crime I didn’t commit. Parole or no parole.”

  “That’s it?” she said.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You were found guilty, sir,” she reminded him sharply.

  “It was a mistake,” he said.

  The woman made a soft clucking sound and shook her head slightly as she made a note on the paper in front of her. “I’m finished with him,” she said.

  “Any other questions?” Whelan asked.

  The other board members shook their heads.

  “All right,” said Whelan. “We need to confer a few minutes about this. Can I ask all of you to wait out in the corridor? Bailiff, please take the pr
isoner to the holding cell.”

  Duncan glanced back at Nina, and she smiled at him with a confidence that she did not feel. It always came down to the same thing—her father’s refusal to admit his guilt. But how could he do that, even to be free? He didn’t do it. He couldn’t say he did. As Duncan was led away, Nina walked out to the corridor.

  She went over to the water fountain to get a drink. Patrick walked up behind her. Nina took her drink and straightened up. “All yours,” she said to her brother.

  Patrick had a drink as well. Then he straightened up also and looked sadly at her. “How you doing?” he asked.

  Nina nodded. “Okay, good.”

  “How’s Keith?” he asked, referring to the man with whom Nina shared an apartment. “Still in L.A.?”

  “Yeah. HBO ordered four more episodes after they saw the pilot.”

  “Great. How about you? Are you still doing that Inge play?” Patrick asked.

  “No, that closed,” said Nina. “But I just got a callback for a Eugene O’Neill Off Broadway.”

  Patrick smiled wanly. “Another fun evening at the theater.” Patrick did not share his sister’s taste for serious, family-centered dramas.

  Gemma walked over and joined them. She was still incredibly thin and still dressed exclusively in drab colors, although her clothes now had expensive designer labels. Her smooth, parchment-colored complexion was etched with tiny lines, but she still didn’t bother with makeup. Gemma’s hair was cut short in a fashionably spiky style. She still looked like a college student, although she was now a professor, wife, and mother. Her only obvious concession to their wealth were the various rings she wore and twisted nervously on her fingers. She’d always worn rings, but these sparkled with real gems. Nina reached out to embrace her and felt Gemma’s bony shoulder blades poking through her gray cashmere sweater.

  “How are the kids?” Nina asked. Patrick and Gemma had twin boys, Simon and Cody, who were seven years old.

  Gemma shrugged. “Always fighting.”

  “Tell them I said hi. How’s your class schedule this year?” Nina asked.

  Gemma stared at Nina and then at her husband. Patrick had shoved his hands in his pockets and was jingling change. “We are out of touch,” said Gemma. “Didn’t you know that I resigned?”

  “You quit teaching?” Nina asked.

  Gemma nodded. “A few months ago. One of my mother’s colleagues sent me all the research she was working on before she died. I decided to organize and catalog all her work and put it into a book. Try to get it published.”

  Nina knew that Gemma’s mother had died when she was about five. She’d been a scientist who was doing research on genetics in an isolated Andean village when she died in a hiking accident.

  Gemma had come to live in Hoffman with her father, an airline pilot, and his second wife, a woman who ran a bridal shop called Your Perfect Day. That marriage had long since ended, and Gemma’s father was married for a third time and now lived in Arizona. “Gemma, I think that’s wonderful,” said Nina. “It’s such a great way to honor your mother’s memory.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Gemma. She glanced warily at her husband.

  “I don’t think Patrick agrees.”

  Patrick jingled the change in his pockets impatiently. “I don’t care. If that’s what she wants to do, that’s fine.”

  “Not that I can get much done with those boys around,” said Gemma.

  “You’ve got full-time help, for God’s sake,” he snapped. “What am I paying Elena for?”

  Gemma flinched slightly and looked around the crowded corridor. “Did you hear from Jimmy?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “He said he might come, but you know Jimmy and stress,” said Nina.

  Gemma nodded. “He seems to be staying straight.”

  “Still living with the Connellys,” said Patrick with exasperation in his voice. “He’s thirty years old. I wish he’d find himself his own place to live.”

  “I talked to him the other night and he sounded okay,” Nina said. Jimmy had battled drug and alcohol addiction, but with a lot of help from the family who had taken him in, he had straightened out. Now he was an avid bodybuilder, and had a steady job working at a store that sold flooring. He’d also become quite religious, often attending services three times a week. Nina thought Patrick’s judgment was, as usual, unnecessarily harsh, but she didn’t say so.

  A silence fell among them. Despite their differences about their father, the three siblings had maintained their relationship over the years. It was never easy. They had been separated after the death of their mother and their father’s incarceration. Patrick went off to college; Jimmy went to live at the home of their mailman, George Connelly, whom Duncan had asked to look after Jimmy; and Nina was taken in by her mother’s aunt, Mary. The house on Madison Street was sold to pay for Duncan’s defense. Their father was a topic they simply avoided whenever possible. But today it wasn’t possible.

  “Look,” said Nina. “I don’t know what’s going to happen in there …”

  Patrick took a deep breath and gazed up at the ceiling.

  “But if they decide … in his favor this time …”

  “That’s a big if,” said Patrick sharply.

  “If they do,” Nina continued, “I want all of us, the children, everyone, to try and make peace with one another. Patrick, he’s never seen his grandchildren …”

  “Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that,” Patrick said coldly.

  “Patrick, please,” said Nina. “Can’t you try?”

  Patrick glared at her and shook his head. “I will never understand you, Nina. How can you still believe in him? What does it take to make you see the truth?”

  “How can you not believe him?” she cried. “How can you judge him like that? If it were me, would you judge me that way?”

  “That’s different. You’re a good person, Nina. I know for a fact that he is not. How could you have sat through his trial and have any doubt? For God’s sake, he was sleeping with the woman next door …”

  Nina thought ruefully of Brandon’s mother, Sheila. After the affair was revealed in the newspapers, the Ross family moved away. Sheila came back to testify for the prosecution at the trial, saying that Duncan was in her bedroom, right next door, on the night of the murder. By her account, at least a half hour elapsed from the time Duncan slipped out of her bedroom to the time she heard the sirens on the arriving police cars. She testified that Duncan often talked about how unhappy he was in his marriage.

  “Okay,” Nina said. “He committed adultery. Nobody’s denying that. But it’s not the same as murder.”

  Patrick shook his head. “And at your insistence we spent every last penny from the sale of the house to hire lawyers, and their detectives, to try to exonerate him. And where did it get us? Well, let’s see. We found out that he’d seen a lawyer behind Mom’s back about getting a divorce.”

  Nina shook her head. “That’s no proof. That doesn’t mean he would kill her.”

  “You’re just kidding yourself, Nina,” Patrick said. “I’ll tell you a fact. We know for a fact that when Duncan ‘found’ his wife dying, he did not even call nine-one-one. He did not try to get any help for her.”

  “He was about to when I walked in,” Nina insisted. “And what about the money from her pocketbook? They never found it.”

  “It was probably in Duncan’s pocket,” Patrick scoffed. “That burglar theory didn’t fool the jury. That was just a brainstorm he had, to try to make it look like an intruder. Nina, his prints were on the knife, they’d had a huge fight that afternoon, and she told a woman at the Art League that he had threatened to kill her. How can you believe in him in the face of all that? He’s playing you for sympathy. You can’t even see it. It makes me hate him all the more.”

  A court attendant opened the hearing room door and looked around. Spotting them by the water fountain, she gestured for Nina, Patrick, and Gemma to return. Without answeri
ng her brother, Nina led the way back into the hearing room. They went back to their opposite sides of the room, like boxers going to opposite corners, Patrick’s angry questions still ringing in Nina’s ears like landed blows. How could she ever make him understand? Of course, she’d had her moments of doubt about Duncan. Of course, she’d wondered. She was only human. But there was no way Nina could ever convince Patrick to believe in their father, because it came down to a question of faith.

  Arnold Whelan waited until they were seated and Duncan Avery was escorted back in. Then he turned to Duncan and peered at him over the top of his half-glasses. Nina’s heart felt like it was being squeezed in her chest. She tried to read the expressions of the board members, but they were poker-faced. Please, God, she thought. Please. He has suffered so much. Please, let him have his life back. Let me have him back in mine while there’s still time. “Mr. Avery,” said Whelan.

  Nina held her breath.

  “The board has voted to grant your request for parole …”

  Nina gasped, and then her heart soared. It was over. He was free! She could hardly believe it. She was going to be able to bring him home and give him back his life. From across the room, she heard a groan, and when she turned to look, she saw Patrick pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, as if he were trying to quell a migraine or staunch a bleeding wound.

  2

  NINA placed the bouquet of flowers in the center of the table, and stepped back to admire the effect of her efforts. Everything looked ready. The china, glasses, and flatware in the apartment were strictly utilitarian, but the flowers and the pretty fabric napkins she bought gave the table a festive air. While it would be a tight squeeze, and she’d had to borrow two chairs from the woman who lived in 8-C, they would all fit around it. She looked at her watch, and then out the window at the gloomy November afternoon. It was Saturday, and she had asked her sister-in-law to get her brothers and the children there by five. Gemma had promised that she would do her best. They’ll come, Nina thought, although her own jumpy stomach belied her confidence. It’ll be fine, she told herself. Stop worrying. But it was impossible not to have her doubts.