The Perfect Mother: A Novel

by Nina Darnton

  He smiled and walked to his filing cabinet, from which he withdrew a bound printed document containing several pages. He handed it to Jennifer.

  “This is an employment contract,” he said. “It is in Spanish, but I have included an English translation for you. You and your husband should read it. My terms are clearly stated. To begin, as a goodwill gesture, I ask for my first payment of five thousand euros in advance. This goes toward both salary and my expenses, which I will enumerate and give you weekly. After these formalities are concluded, I will begin.”

  Jennifer started to read.

  “Excuse me, senora,” Roberto said.

  She looked up.

  “I apologize, but I have another appointment. Would you please read this later and discuss it with your husband?”

  She folded the papers and put them in her bag. “Yes, of course. But I would like you to start right away and my husband is not here. I will read the papers, and if we go forward, I will sign myself.”

  “As you like . . . May I ask why your husband is not here?”

  She was about to answer when he added, “I have a little girl. If she was in trouble, I would be there with her.” He spoke sadly, with quiet sincerity.

  Jennifer bristled with the outrage one feels when someone says something one has thought but tried to stifle. “I’m sure you would try to be with her, as he has,” she said in a cold tone. “Perhaps you think we are rich Americans. We are not. We are not poor, but we are not independently wealthy. My husband has to work to pay all these bills, including yours. And we have two other children who need at least one of us at home. I don’t think it’s right to find fault with him.”

  Roberto was contrite. “You are right, senora. I meant no harm. I apologize. I misspoke because of my own sadness.” He waited for her to politely inquire what that was, but she was silent.

  “I am divorced,” he said finally. “My child lives with my former wife in another city. I find the separation very painful.”

  She resisted her natural impulse for compassion. She didn’t want to swerve from her main concern. This man offered some hope, yet his manner was both peremptory and surprisingly intimate and, she thought, inappropriate. She put this down to cultural differences, but she was determined to stay strictly on an American business-only basis. “I’m sure it is,” she murmured. Then she gathered her belongings, said good-bye, and told him she would be in touch very soon.

  Jennifer went straight to the hotel to tell Emma that she had found someone who seemed like he could help them. She took the elevator to the third floor and knocked on the door of the room they had reverted to sharing after Mark left. Emma had been sleeping a lot lately, or just hanging around in her pajamas—signs, Jennifer knew, of depression. Not that Jennifer blamed her, under the circumstances. Still . . . She used her key to let herself in, calling Emma’s name as she entered. There was no sign of her daughter but rumpled sheets and some of her clothes flung around the room. At least Emma was awake, Jennifer thought, and was probably out getting a bite to eat. It would have been nice if she’d left a note, though.

  She sat down in one of the comfortable armchairs. She had pulled out the contract, turned to the English translation, and started to read when she noticed that the hotel phone was flashing. The message was from José. He had bad news. The pathology report was completed. The investigators had determined that the victim’s wounds could not possibly have been made by a person who fit the description Emma had given the police. They were pressing forward with the theory that Emma had invented the story of the Good Samaritan, that there was no Algerian. Along with the knife found in her kitchen, they felt they had enough to hold her. Jennifer took a deep breath and called José. He answered on the first ring.

  “I got your message,” she blurted as soon as she heard his voice. “But it doesn’t make sense. It’s all circumstantial. Maybe her description was wrong. She was traumatized; she can’t be expected to have an accurate memory of what he looked like.”

  “We can argue that point in court, if necessary. But they have enough to suspect she is withholding evidence. They believe she knows more than she says. . . .” He paused, then continued quietly, “And there is another problem. The boy’s parents have arrived from Madrid. In Spain, even if the police don’t think they have enough evidence to press charges against a suspect, they must hold her and continue to investigate if the victim’s family makes an accusation. Emma has already been picked up and is at the police station.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I am with her. She is very upset. You should come quickly. And one more thing—the reporter for the Diario is here. Whatever she asks, don’t answer.”

  Jennifer headed for the door but then stopped. She rummaged through her bag until she found Roberto’s card and quickly dialed his number. “Habla Roberto,” his recorded voice sounded. “Digame lo que quiera.”

  “Roberto, this is Mrs. Lewis. I haven’t read your terms, but I agree to whatever they are. My daughter is in jail at the police station. I don’t know what to do. Please, can you come?”

  He picked up the phone. “I will meet you there, senora.”

  CHAPTER 8

  When Jennifer got to the police station José and Raul were waiting for her, but Roberto had not yet arrived. José continued to fill her in. Emma was being held as a material witness who was a flight risk and ineligible for bail. The police now believed that she was covering for someone, probably her boyfriend. “They do not have a motive, of course,” he explained, “since they still have not located the boyfriend, but they are speculating that Emma was cheating on him, that he walked in and found them in bed and killed him in a jealous rage.”

  At this point Jennifer interrupted, outraged. She was frankly astounded that the police would build this murderous fantasy out of such scant evidence, and she told him so. “Do they have even one shred of evidence to support this theory?” she asked. “It just sounds so cliché, like they’ve seen too many bad movies.”

  José allowed that they did not—at least not yet. But he pointed out that these scenarios were cliché because they often occurred. And there was something else, he offered with a sigh. They had discovered that the Spanish boy had gone to the bank that day and withdrawn one thousand euros in cash. It was the last night of the feria and his family sponsored one of the many tents, or casetas, that had sprung up on the fairgrounds illuminated with thousands of brilliant lights. According to his roommate, he had been asked to buy supplies and pay some of the workers. He definitely had the money in his pocket when he left to go out that night, his roommate said. His pocket was empty when the police searched his body. When Jennifer countered that he must have spent it, José said the police checked and none of the supplies had been paid for and the workers still awaited their pay.

  “He could have lost it,” Jennifer countered. “He could have spent it on something else.”

  “Sí, senora. Or it could have been stolen.”

  Jennifer paused. “What are you saying? You don’t think Emma had anything to do with this, do you?”

  “What matters is what the police think. And for the moment they are not saying anything about that. Their first priority is to find her boyfriend”—he scanned his notebook—“this Paco Romero, and they believe Emma knows where he is and refuses to tell them. They will hold her and try to convince her to change her mind. As I said from the beginning, if you can encourage her to tell what she knows, it will help her.”

  Jennifer felt hopelessly frustrated. They all insisted on seeing Emma as a liar at the least and possibly much worse. Even her lawyer seemed to have that mind-set. “She doesn’t refuse,” she practically shouted. “She doesn’t know where he is.”

  José suppressed his obvious discomfort, but pressed on. “We have to assume that some of what she says may not be true. According to the police, she was seen with him at the feria hours before the murder. This directly contradicts her claim that she hadn’t seen him for a few days.” />
  Jennifer was unfazed. “I don’t know about that. Who said she was with him? Why believe that person over Emma? And I’m sure she’d love to know where he is now. Don’t you think she wishes he were here, that she feels abandoned by him, upset that he doesn’t come back?”

  José asked Jennifer to sit down, but she was too nervous to comply. He lowered his voice and spoke kindly. “I think she should not expect that kind of consideration from this man. He is not perhaps what she is used to. He is . . . we call it here . . . un golfo.”

  Jennifer looked perplexed. José’s unmasked sympathy made her even more nervous. “What is that, please?”

  “I think in English you say a thug. A bad egg. Trouble.”

  “What? How? What are you talking about?”

  “The police have investigated him, starting with his arrest record. He is older—thirty-five, to be exact, and though he used to be a student and is still well-known among them, he dropped out and never completed university.”

  Jennifer waited.

  “He sells drugs, senora,” José blurted. “Bad drugs—heroin, cocaine, ecstasy, methamphetamine.”

  Jennifer could feel an almost physical sense of dizziness but pushed past it.

  “Emma certainly would not have known that, or she wouldn’t be with him,” she said, almost to herself, sitting down heavily. She turned to José, who had sat down beside her. “She is against drug use of any kind,” she continued. She spoke fiercely, running her sentences together, gaining speed as she talked. “She was the president of a club she founded in high school. They called themselves the Perfect Squares. They only ate organic foods and avoided all drugs, even medicine. I had to fight with her to take an aspirin if she had a headache. That’s why this is so ridiculous, you see, she couldn’t have—”

  “I believe you, senora,” José interrupted with a sigh. “But be that as it may, her boyfriend was a drug dealer, and she and everyone else knew it.” He tentatively put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Children grow up. Sometimes it doesn’t turn out the way we thought.”

  She shook off his hand and stood up. “You don’t understand. I know my daughter,” she snapped. “I need to see her. Where is she?”

  She stormed over to the front desk to ask if she could visit Emma. Just as she got there, Roberto walked in. In that moment, before she could stop herself, not knowing why and certainly not intending to, she ran to him and burst into tears.

  “No, senora,” he said firmly. “This is not the way.” He turned to José, who had followed her and was standing by helplessly. The men exchanged exasperated looks.

  Jennifer, embarrassed, pulled herself together. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually behave this way.”

  “It’s all right, senora,” Roberto said in a loud voice. “Everyone understands a mother’s tears.” He lowered his voice so only she could hear him. “But you must control them for the time being. Can you do that?”

  She looked down and nodded.

  He turned to José. “What has happened?”

  “The girl is being interviewed. Mrs. Lewis wants to see her.”

  “Of course. Is that a problem?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” He led Jennifer back to the waiting room, then withdrew for a few private words with José before both men returned to Jennifer’s side.

  “She is in an interrogation room. An officer will bring you to her,” Roberto said. “You must convince her to cooperate.”

  “She is cooperating,” Jennifer protested. “Just because she isn’t telling them what they want to hear doesn’t mean she isn’t telling the truth.”

  “I understand that,” José said. He turned to Roberto. “But she refuses to talk about her boyfriend. If we are to help her, he must be found.”

  “And if she doesn’t know where he is?” Jennifer also addressed Roberto.

  “She refuses to acknowledge that she saw him the night of the murder,” Raul added. “The police have spoken to several students who saw them together in a bar earlier that night.”

  Jennifer had a hazy memory of Julia saying something like that.

  “I’ll talk to her. Please, let me see her.”

  When Jennifer entered the interrogation room, Emma was sitting at the table, her head resting on her arms. She looked up and her face brightened. “Mom,” she breathed with relief. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  In spite of the gravity of the situation, Jennifer felt relief at those words. She sat down next to her daughter and tentatively stroked her arm. “Of course I’m here, darling. I’ll always be here.”

  Now it was Emma’s turn to break down. “I’m so sorry, Mama, for the way I’ve been acting. I’ve just been so scared and worried, and I thought you and Daddy must be so angry at me, so disappointed in me, I didn’t know what to do.” She was crying so hard, it was difficult to catch all her words.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay, I understand,” Jennifer said, pulling her close and hugging her.

  “No, it isn’t okay. It will never be okay again.”

  “Whatever happened, we’ll face it together. All of us. But you have to tell me everything so I can help you.”

  Emma pulled away. “I’ve told you. I’ve told everyone. They say someone who is short couldn’t have made this wound. I don’t know. I didn’t measure him. He was there.” She burst into a new flood of tears. “Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”

  “Forget that, Emma. Let’s just talk about Paco.”

  Emma stopped crying. “Why?” She sniffled and wiped her eyes. “That’s their obsession. He had nothing to do with any of this.”

  “I know. I believe you. But we need to find him. They say you deny seeing him the day of the murder, but others—”

  Emma interrupted. “It wasn’t murder. It was self-defense.”

  “Yes. Well, whatever it was that ended that boy’s life. They know you did see Paco that day. Others saw you together. Don’t you understand that if you lie about that, they think you lied about everything?”

  Emma looked down. Her nails had been painted blue and the polish was peeling. She seemed to be studying them and concentrating on using the thumbnail of one hand to scrape off the remaining polish on the other. She didn’t speak.

  “Listen, Emma, I’ve found a really good person to help us. He’s a detective but also a kind of trial manager who knows how to act and what to do. He’ll find other people to talk to and try to verify your side of the story. But everyone is helpless if you don’t tell us how to find Paco. If he’s not involved, as you say, what are you afraid of?”

  Emma sighed deeply. She spoke so softly Jennifer could barely hear her. “I don’t actually know where he is. I’ve e-mailed him, but he hasn’t written back.”

  “Did you tell the police that?”

  “No.”

  “Will you tell them now? And will you tell them the truth about your relationship and the fact that you were with him earlier that night?”

  Emma shot a sharp look at her mother, then stood up and paced the room. “I wasn’t with him that night. There’s a lot you don’t know, Mom. A lot you’ll never be able to understand. It’s going to start coming out and I know they’ll put the worst spin on it. Will you try to not judge me too harshly? Will you take my side?”

  “Of course I will. But what are you referring to? How bad can it be?”

  “I can’t tell you. You’ll hate me.”

  “I’ll never hate you. Tell me, Emma. Whatever it is, it’s better if I hear it from you.”

  “I can’t. I really can’t. Not yet. But if you hear bad things, please remember that I didn’t do anything for bad reasons.” Her eyes brimmed again with tears. “I’m not a bad person, Mom. I swear I’m not. You know who I am. And Paco isn’t bad either. You’ve got to believe me.”

  Jennifer was frightened. “I trust you. But you need to tell me what to expect. I already know more than you think I do. He’s a drug dealer, right? He dropped out of school and makes money by selling d
rugs to students. Is that what you don’t want me to know?” She deliberately kept her voice even and, she hoped, nonjudgmental.

  Rather than helping clear the air, this seemed to make Emma angry. Her voice rose and her body stiffened. “You see? I knew you wouldn’t understand. You can’t even say it in a neutral way. Just listen to your voice. You make him sound so evil, like he takes advantage of poor innocent students.”

  Now Jennifer was angry. “Well, what does he do, Emma? How else can you characterize what he does?”

  “These students are not little kids. They know exactly what they’re doing and what they want. You know these kids that come here from all over Europe? They come on scholarships; they’re called Erasmus scholars. You know what everyone calls them? They call them Orgasmus—that’s a play on their word for orgasm, in case you missed it, because they are so promiscuous and wild and take so many drugs. If it wasn’t Paco, it would be someone else they’d get their drugs from. And Paco doesn’t do it for himself. He uses the money for good causes—to help poor people, people who can’t find jobs and can’t feed their families.”

  “Yes, so you said.” Jennifer wanted to know how deeply Emma was involved, but she realized that wouldn’t be productive. What was important now was for Emma to lead them to him. The rest could come later.

  “I think I understand,” she said slowly. “Is this what you were worried we would find out?”

  “Partly.”

  “Partly? What else? Please tell me. Trust me, Emma.”

  Emma sat down. She took a deep breath and let it out through her mouth, making a slight whistling noise.

  “I can’t, Mom. I’m sorry. You’d better go now. But I promise I’ll tell the police what I can.”

  Jennifer wanted to make one last plea before leaving. “Emma, I hope you know what you’re facing. You want to protect him and that’s loyal and I admire the impulse. But are you willing to go to jail here, in Spain, for years, for something you didn’t do? If Paco is innocent and he is a good person, he should be here to help you. If he’s guilty and he’s a good person, he shouldn’t let you take the blame for his crime. Either way, he should be here.”