She sped around the Beamer, shifted into fourth, and cut back into the fast lane to avoid a truck in the slow one. The Beamer blared its horn. She gave the driver her middle finger. As if. It was his own damn fault, driving that slow.
The road widened into three lanes, and she was able to navigate around cars more easily. She sped past a highway patrol officer who was pulled off on the side of the road.
She hit the brakes. “Oh shit. Oh shit.”
She glanced over her shoulder and saw his face. He had been watching. She checked that she’d slowed down to the speed limit and kept an eye on the rearview mirror. He was coming for her. Please don’t come get me. Of course he would. Things never worked out for her. Please. I don’t have time for a speeding ticket today.
The patrol car pulled into traffic. He was definitely coming for her. God, why can’t I be lucky just one time? I deserve this. I deserve to see Chuck after all I’ve gone through for him.
The patrol car passed several cars, narrowing the distance between them to only three cars. No lights yet. She held her breath and clenched the steering wheel. The car behind her was right on her tail. She moved into the right lane. The Beamer flew past, slowing only long enough for the driver to wave his finger at her. A big smile on his ugly face. “Screw you, asshole,” she mumbled.
The police car was two behind her. The lights went on. She collapsed into the seat. She was going to miss Chuck. There were tears in her eyes. She was going to lose it. She was going to fall into a puddle in front of a police officer and tell him what? That she was trying desperately to make visiting hours because her boyfriend, whom she’d never actually met, was in Folsom Prison. No. That wouldn’t work. She let the sobs build up. She’d tell him another story. Use the sobs to her benefit. She calmed a little.
She had to think about missing Chuck.
She had to cry.
In the rearview mirror, the highway patrol car pulled into the fast lane and sped by. She exhaled and let out a cry. He wasn’t after her. As the patrol car passed, she smiled at the officer through her tears, but he wasn’t watching her. She wished he would pull over the jerk in the Beamer, but the patrol car passed that, too, heading fast up the left lane.
When the patrol car was out of view, she glanced at the clock on the dash: 12:34 and it was six minutes fast. She was only twenty minutes away. She’d be there by one o’clock, which would give her enough notice to have time with him.
She pulled down the vanity mirror and checked her eyes. She’d have to touch up her makeup when she got there. They had exchanged pictures, so he knew what she looked like. And she hadn’t done some typically stupid thing like send a picture of herself when she was ten years younger or twenty pounds lighter. It was a picture of her. Not a bad one, of course, but realistic. She wanted to look her best today.
Even fifteen or twenty minutes together would be enough. That was all she needed. Maybe a shorter time would be better. He would be unhappy that she’d come. He was very clear that they shouldn’t see each other. She wondered if he would recognize her. It was just the one picture. Maybe she could pretend she was from his attorney’s office or something. She stared down at the clothes she’d thrown on. Yoga pants and a long zip-up. She didn’t look like anyone from a law office, and it was Sunday.
If she were one of those skinny women with the expensive workout clothes, the kind with the high, perfect ponytail and the long, lean legs, then she could.
But that was not her.
She forced herself to take slow, steady breaths to wash out the adrenaline. She had worked herself into a lathered frenzy. She winced at the term. Her father’s. That was what he called it when she got upset. As a child, she’d asked him what it meant, and he told her that lathered was what happened to horses after they ran.
In hindsight, it might have seemed like some sort of compliment to be compared to a stallion, but he quickly made it clear that the frenzy was a kind of madness, one she had inherited from her mother.
It was impressive the impact he’d had on her, considering she spent only a week or two a year with him throughout her childhood. It didn’t take much to plant the seed of self-loathing in a child. She hated herself when she got upset like this, and it was always her father’s voice in her head.
“Calm down,” she commanded, remaining in the slow lane and keeping at least two car lengths from the car in front of her, a real challenge on a California freeway. But she put her will to it. She might have a frenzied side, but she was willful, too. Another compliment, care of her father.
Soon she was at the Folsom Boulevard exit ramp and turning on to Natoma. Prison Road was surrounded by grassy rolling hills and dotted with thick, old oak trees. As she crested the hill, she saw the prison grounds in the distance. The campus was larger than she’d expected. The parking lot itself might have belonged to a football stadium, though it was mostly empty.
While she’d anticipated the ugly, industrial-looking buildings, some of them actually looked okay, a bit like castles in Scotland might look. Something about coming down the road through the grassy hills toward the high metal fence filled her with giddy pleasure. And beneath that, something stronger, more profound.
This was the rising tide of her life’s meaning.
After all the missteps, all the wrong turns and failures, she had finally met her match. And he was here—just beyond the guard’s gate. He was inside these walls, but because of her efforts—her brilliance—he would be out soon. Within months. Her work was done, and his attorneys were beginning the appeals process.
She slowed at the gate and lowered her window. The guard stepped out of the small structure, clipboard in hand. “You here for visiting hours?”
“Yes, sir.”
He glanced at his watch. “Processing ends in ten minutes, so make your way straight through the main doors. They won’t accept any new visitors after one. No exceptions.”
“I thought it was a half hour before.”
“An hour, ma’am.” He raised his hand, and the red-and-white gate rose. He waved her through, and she put the car into gear and drove on into the parking lot. According to the car clock, it was 12:53 when she shut the engine off. She had brought a bag of makeup to freshen up, but she wasn’t going to miss the processing. Instead of fussing, she lowered the mirror, pinched her cheeks, gave them a couple of light slaps to work the color into them, and got out of the car.
Processing involved verifying her identity, filling out pages of paperwork about who she was and why she was there, then going through a metal detector and submitting her purse to X-ray. She was behind an angry Hispanic woman who was hugely pregnant. It took some effort not to stare at the huge tattoo that covered the large portion of exposed breasts before disappearing down into her tank top. It was one fifteen before she was inside.
“Wait here. We’ll call you when it’s your turn.”
She wondered where Chuck was when he got the call. She was under the impression that he worked out quite a bit. During one call early in their relationship, he’d told her how much working out helped break up the monotony.
That and reading. He was always reading.
She had recommended Unbroken to him, and he’d told her where he was in the book when they talked. She remembered when he was reading about Zamperini’s time in the Japanese concentration camp.
“It’s a lot like that in here, Cici,” he’d said, using his nickname for her the very first time. “You have to be able to take the punches to stay alive.”
As she waited, she kept her head down and pretended to be reading something on her phone while she studied the people in the room. The visitors were almost exclusively women. A few older ones who might have been mothers or even grandmothers of inmates. The others looked younger, and she saw, with some remorse, that they were nicely dressed up for their visits. The woman two seats away had long orange nails with tiny jewels at their tips. She smelled strongly of a vanilla perfume and wore a low-cut black wrap dress that showed
off her full figure. She drummed her fingernails on the armrest of her chair and swung one red-sandaled foot impatiently. On her right ankle was a tattoo that read KAMAL 2008.
The woman glanced her way and rolled her gum into a line between her front teeth before blowing a bubble and popping it with a little smack. Her eyes rested on Cici’s hand, the one she had at her mouth. The woman’s gaze was like a series of sharp punctures to the thin veneer of her confidence. Within seconds the doubt began to fill her like water into a punctured raft.
And then she heard her name. Once. Then again and she rose, wiped her hands on the side of her jeans, and hurried to the guard stand.
“Charles Bollardi. Booth nine.” The guard pointed.
She moved down the line of divided glass cubbies, passing a crying woman and one whose body was pressed up against the glass.
She moved past booth six, then seven, and slowed as she came upon eight. Her stomach was in knots. What if he was angry that she’d come? What if she’d blown the whole thing for him? But surely he would have just sent her away . . .
“Move along, bitch,” said the woman in booth eight. “You ain’t part of this conversation.”
She hurried past and found booth nine empty. Chuck wasn’t there. The corridor on the other side of the glass was empty. She edged closer to the glass to see if someone was coming.
But there was no one. Only a guard, standing with his back to the white wall, hands behind him, eyes moving along the line of prisoners.
She sat down, set her purse on the shallow desk, and folded her hands in front of her. Then moved her purse to the floor and put her hands in her lap. Quickly she pinched her cheeks again. Slapped them until the heat flooded her skin, and, as she did, he came into view.
She gasped at his size as he sat across from her. He’d looked large from the courtroom pictures, but she hadn’t expected him to be so tall. He was six two or three at least. She clasped her hands together as he pulled out the chair and fell into it. He lifted the receiver off the wall, and when she didn’t move, he rapped it on the glass and motioned to hers. Her hands trembled as she reached for hers. An awkward laugh bubbled in her throat.
“He—” She cleared her throat. “Hello.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
Her mouth dropped open, and spittle edged out the corner of her lips. She wiped it quickly and gave him a nervous smile. “I know you said not to come, but I had to.”
He shifted in his chair uncomfortably and frowned.
“I hadn’t heard from you in almost a week and I guess . . .” She waited for his expression to crack, for him to realize it was her. “I was going a little crazy, you know?”
“No. I don’t know. I don’t have a goddamn clue.” His voice was different—he suddenly seemed so crass, so unsophisticated.
“I’m sorry, Chuck,” she offered.
“Who sent you? Was this Carmen’s idea? I’ll kill that fucker.”
Even his tone was wrong. On the phone, he’d always sounded husky and a little distorted, but she’d chalked it up to the connections, being inside the prison and on a cheap cell phone.
But the change was more than the voice.
His language was different. He was different.
“Chuck,” she whispered.
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and squinted at her. She touched her own mouth as though he was telling her she had something on her face.
“I know I wasn’t supposed to come,” she whispered. “But aren’t you even a little happy to see me?”
Chuck leaned into the glass and tapped, beckoning her closer to him. She moved in until their faces were separated by only the thin distance of bulletproof glass. She studied his lips as he spoke, anticipating his words.
“I’ve got no fucking clue who you are.” Spittle flew from his lips and sprayed across the glass. “Tell whoever sent you to go to hell.”
Chuck stood and slammed down the receiver. She could see that his lips were moving, but she couldn’t make out his words. A moment later he was gone.
The receiver clenched tightly in her hand, she stood frozen, watching the door where Chuck had disappeared. She felt the stares of the other prisoners, the visitors. The woman in the next booth glared at her, whispering into the receiver. Behind the glass, the guard watched her.
How could he just leave?
Her heart felt as though it might burst from behind her lungs. Her pulse drilled into her temples.
It was hard to breathe. Her chest was so tight. She rose to her feet, shaking. After what she’d done for him. He could not just walk out on her. He loved her. He promised he loved her. Her fist gripped the receiver until it was painful. No. No. She slammed the receiver against the glass divider. “Chuck!” she shouted, her own spit spraying across the glass. “You get back here, Chuck!”
She slammed the phone again, then let it clatter to the desk as she pressed her fists on the glass. “You asshole. You can’t just ignore me, Chuck. I’m not going away. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. You get out here and face me like a man, Chuck!”
A firm hand latched on to her left arm. She spun, certain it was Chuck. She faced a guard, jerked her arm free as another clamped on the other side. She tried to free herself, thrashing in the arms of the two police officers. “Let’s go, lady.”
“Let go of me. I need to talk to Chuck. I need Charles Bollardi. It’s important.”
“Sure, lady,” the other guard said. “Let’s go find a place to cool off for a while.”
She lifted her legs, made herself deadweight. As she hung between the two officers, they dragged her away. People began to clap. Someone howled. Pounding from behind the glass, muted whistles.
She stood on her feet then, straightened herself up. “You can’t do this to me. You do not want to screw with me,” she warned the police as they led her to a solid white door. A third officer held the door open. Inside was only a table and two chairs. A perfect place for her and Chuck to talk.
Because they had to talk.
41
Charleston, South Carolina
Fisted hands deep in her pockets, Schwartzman was trembling as she walked out of Frances Pinckney’s service. The roll of tape in her pocket, the Ziploc bag, the thin leather gloves of Ava’s, she hadn’t used any of it.
The air felt unnaturally warm, wrong for how cold she was. The sunlight was blinding, and she stood on the concrete steps, blinking into the bright light.
She glanced back at the mortuary, unable to recall anything that was said about the deceased. She could conjure rough images of those people who were seated at the front of the room, standing in front of the closed casket. She could picture their mouths moving. Handkerchiefs clutched in tight fists. Halting, emotional speeches. The ceremony felt dream-like to her, seated in the last row. As far from the body as possible in the room.
She had nothing.
Schwartzman had failed to get within fifteen feet of the coffin, not that it would have mattered with a closed casket. She looked back at the building, imagining the morgue-like room below where Frances Pinckney had been prepped. Where strands of hair and skin cells would have been scattered across the floor like leaves in autumn. Schwartzman stood close but also infinitely far.
She had no way to get to that place. Even if the prep room hadn’t already been cleaned, there was no way to positively identify which hair belonged to Frances. She could hardly plant just any hair. It had to be a match. And evidence of Ava wasn’t enough without Frances. It would be too easy to point the finger at Schwartzman. The accused was married to a medical examiner who wanted him behind bars. She was even at his home the night he was arrested. Of course they would say she had planted the evidence. Her aunt’s hair, her skin cells, they would be easy to come by.
It would never work unless she had something from Frances Pinckney.
She could go back inside. Perhaps she could ask about the mortuary prep rooms, as a sort of professional interest. Even if
they let her in, they would certainly not leave her unattended. And even unattended, there remained the issue of cleanup, of identifying the right hair, the right skin.
She would have to think of another way.
An image of the cemetery came to mind. Digging up the body. Shudders coursed up her spine and rolled across her shoulders. She was not going to dig up a body.
“Anna.”
She turned into the sun and shielded her eyes as Harper Leighton approached. Dressed in a skirt suit and low heels, she hardly looked like the same person as the woman in her uniform. Behind her was another woman dressed in black. Harper motioned to her. “I wanted you to meet Caroline Pinckney, Frances’s daughter.”
Schwartzman reached out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Yours, as well. Mama talked about Ava all the time. She was a wonderful friend to her after Daddy passed.”
Schwartzman swallowed. Ava might have told her about Frances, too, if they’d talked more often. She might have even met Frances, had she visited. Had she been in touch. Had she been more attentive.
Of course, if she’d done things right, they all might be sitting at lunch, Ava and Frances beside them.
“You should come back to the house,” Caroline said, touching Schwartzman’s arm. “You can meet my brothers. We’re on Jasper Street near Radcliffe.”
Caroline Pinckney excused herself, and Schwartzman watched her go. Only then did she realize what she’d been offered. The house. Frances Pinckney’s house was perfect. Her DNA would be all over that house.
The sun warmed her.
“You doing okay? You look a little flushed.”
Schwartzman felt the heat in her cheeks, the desperation of wanting so badly to collect something to use to frame Spencer. “I’m okay. I think it was just warm in there.”
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