Grand Avenue

by Joy Fielding

  “Are you gay, Mrs. Malarek? Yes or no?”

  Chris opened her eyes, a look of calm settling across her heart-shaped face, as if she’d finally made peace with who she was, as if she were through running scared. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice steady and strong. “Yes, I am.”

  Thirty-Four

  Vicki,” her secretary informed her over the intercom. “That was the courthouse. The jury’s back.”

  “What? That’s impossible.” Vicki checked her watch. “It’s been less than three hours!”

  It was too soon. It was way too soon, Vicki thought, grabbing her coat and rushing for the parking lot. After a trial lasting the better part of five weeks, it was inconceivable the jury could have reached a verdict in less than three hours. What did it mean?

  “Is it good they’re back this fast?” Tracey asked as they resumed their seats in the courtroom.

  Vicki lifted her hands into the air. Your guess is as good as mine, the gesture said. Jury trials were always a crapshoot. You could never predict what a jury was going to do, no matter how many experts you hired, no matter how carefully you researched the jury pool. Juries created their own dynamic, their own logic, their own rules. It was impossible to second-guess them. It was useless to try.

  Just as it was useless trying to predict a verdict by the length of time the jury took to reach it. Some juries were slow and methodical, reviewing each piece of evidence before casting their votes; others were quick and decisive. Some were so impatient, they voted as soon as they reached the jury room. Why waste time reviewing the evidence when everyone was already in agreement? Five weeks was long enough. Let’s get this show on the road and get the hell out of here.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached your verdict?” Judge Fitzhenry inquired, sounding surprised by the question, as if he too hadn’t expected to be back in court so soon after his final instructions.

  “We have, Your Honor,” the middle-aged man who was the jury foreman answered.

  Vicki held her breath as she and Tracey rose to face the jury. This was it. Another few seconds and it would all be over. Ditto her friendship with the two women whose love and support had sustained her for fourteen years.

  Perhaps in time Susan and Chris might have forgiven her for defending Tracey. They might have come to understand that she’d done it as much for Barbara as for herself. But her cross-examination of Chris had gone too far. She’d stepped over the line, used the shared intimacies of their friendship as a weapon, inflicted more damage in an hour than Tony had managed in a decade. Hell, Tony was an amateur compared to her.

  No, Susan and Chris would never forgive her. Whether she’d ever forgive herself would depend largely on the verdict.

  The jury foreman looked directly at the judge. “We find the defendant …”

  He looks so serious, Vicki thought. And he’s not looking at Tracey. None of the jurors were looking at Tracey, which wasn’t a good sign. I’m sorry, Tracey, she apologized silently. I’m sorry, Barbara. Please forgive me.

  “… not guilty.”

  “Oh, my God,” whispered Vicki, her knees buckling.

  “Oh, my God,” Tracey squealed as the courtroom erupted. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” She threw herself into Vicki’s disbelieving arms. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  And suddenly lights were exploding in Vicki’s eyes as cameras clicked and reporters thrust microphones at her mouth, waved notepads and pencils in her face. Spectators were shouting their congratulations at her from all directions as Michael Rose pushed angrily past her into the corridor, the word bitch dropping from his tongue like acid, searing her soul. Sore loser, Vicki almost shouted after him, but laughed instead, knowing the sound of her laughter would be far more corrosive. She watched Ron approach his daughter, carefully wrap Tracey in his arms, although his young wife hung back, a look of discomfort haunting her unlined face. Tracey thanked each member of the jury. “Good luck to you, dear,” Vicki heard several of the jurors murmur.

  “Thank you,” Tracey repeated again and again, as convincing in victory as she’d been on the witness stand. “Thank you so much.”

  It took over an hour for Vicki to pull herself away from the assorted members of the media and get back to her office, where she received an impromptu round of applause from her partners and colleagues.

  “Bravo!” her secretary chirped, leaving her desk to offer a congratulatory hug.

  Vicki found the display unsettling. Maybe she was just tired. Definitely grumpy. Which was strange because she normally felt so elated after a victory. Especially a victory of this magnitude, unquestionably the biggest of her career. A muted “Thanks” was all she was able to muster for the excited throng gathered outside her office door.

  “Your husband called to congratulate you,” her secretary said after everyone had left. “He said to tell you he’s tied up in a meeting, but he’ll see you later.”

  Vicki nodded, pretending to brush some hairs away from her forehead in an effort to mask the disappointment she felt creeping into her eyes. Surely she wasn’t about to cry! Good God, she must be tired! Still, it would have been nice to share her triumph with somebody other than the hired help. If not Jeremy, then with Susan or Chris. Or Barbara, Vicki thought, entering her office and collapsing into the massive chair behind her desk, for the first time in months fleshing out the person behind the name, allowing thoughts of her murdered friend to fill her mind. Images of Barbara marched before her eyes. Still wearing those damn three-inch heels, Vicki thought with a smile. “I know you understand,” she whispered into her hands as tears rolled down her cheeks and into the corners of her mouth. And then, suddenly, all the phones were ringing at once.

  “Are you here?” her secretary called out.

  “No,” Vicki called back, impatiently wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Take messages.”

  “What’s the matter?” a voice asked from the doorway. “Not in the mood to celebrate?”

  Vicki didn’t have to look up to know whose voice it was. “Susan,” she acknowledged, her voice as flat as a deflated tire. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I heard the news on the radio. Thought I’d take a chance you’d be here.”

  “I take it you didn’t come to congratulate me.”

  “On the contrary. You were brilliant, as usual. It’s not everyone who can pander to a jury’s basest prejudices and make it sound so noble.”

  “You think that’s what I was doing?”

  “What would you call it?”

  “The truth,” Vicki said simply.

  “The truth?” Susan shook her head in wonderment. “The truth is that nothing happened that night between Chris and Barbara and you know it. The truth is that even if something did happen, it was completely irrelevant. The truth is that being gay doesn’t make you a child molester. In fact, most adults who molest children are straight. Twisted as hell,” she continued, her voice lowering, as it always did when she was very upset, “but straight.” Susan walked to the window, her eyes focused on the light snow falling to the street below.

  “I know you don’t understand.”

  “What is it I don’t understand, Vicki? The jury’s decision? You’re wrong. I understand that jurors are human. I understand that no one wants to believe a nice, middle-class teenager would up and murder her mother for no good reason. It’s much easier, much more comforting, to demonize the mother. And why not? We hate mothers in this country almost as much as we hate homosexuals.” Susan stepped back from the window, focused her strong gaze on Vicki. “I think I even understand why you took this case.”

  “And why is that?” Vicki braced herself for the accusations she was sure would follow.

  “Believe it or not, I don’t think it was all about fortune and fame. I think you were doing what you honestly felt Barbara would have wanted. And the really funny thing is that I agree with you. I think Barbara would have wanted you to protect Tracey, in spite of everything.”

>   Vicki realized from the burning sensation in the middle of her breasts that she was holding her breath. “Then you understand why I had to do the things I did.”

  “No,” Susan said quickly. “I’ll never understand the things you did.”

  “You’re talking about Chris,” Vicki acknowledged, rubbing a budding headache away from her forehead. “Is she all right?”

  “Well, let’s see. She lost her job because of all the negative publicity, and she had to move out of her apartment. Plus her relationship with Montana is back at square one, and she can forget about ever seeing her kids again. But, hey, let’s look at the bright side—a cold-blooded sociopath got off scot-free. So, why wouldn’t she be all right?”

  Vicki said nothing. What could she say?

  “The extraordinary thing is that I think Chris really is all right. She’ll find another apartment. She’ll get another job. I think in time she might even find it in her heart to forgive you. You know Chris. She’s very loyal to her friends.”

  Vicki felt the words stab at her heart. “And you? Can you forgive me? We’ve been through so much together.”

  “Yes, we have.”

  “I love you,” Vicki said, tears returning to her eyes.

  “I love you too.”

  “Will you ever forgive me?”

  Susan walked to the office door. “Not a chance in hell.”

  Vicki was on her fourth glass of red wine when the doorbell rang. “Rosa,” she called out before realizing her housekeeper had left at least an hour ago. What time was it anyway? She checked her watch, but the two hands were dancing back and forth across the diamond-circled dial, and she couldn’t make out whether it was closer to eight o’clock or nine. Who would be dropping by without calling, no matter what time it was? She pushed herself off her dining room chair and stumbled toward the front door. Probably Jeremy or one of the kids. How many times did they have to be reminded to take their keys? Where was everyone anyway?

  “Tracey!” Vicki said, opening her front door to the rosy-cheeked young woman, stepping back to allow her entry. What was she doing here?

  “I probably should have called.” Tracey shook the fine dusting of snow from the bottoms of her black boots, although she made no move to take off her heavy lambskin jacket.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Great,” Tracey replied easily, looking around. “Am I interrupting anything?”

  Vicki waved away her concern with a tipsy hand. “Not a thing. Actually, I’m all alone. Jeremy’s tied up in a meeting, and the kids are … somewhere.” She laughed. She vaguely remembered Josh muttering something about hockey practice, and Kirsten was probably at the library. “You want a glass of wine?” Hell, Vicki thought, weaving her way back to the dining room, if the kid’s old enough to kill her mother, she’s old enough to have a drink.

  Tracey followed after her. “Better not. I’m driving.”

  “Your father let you drive his precious Mercedes?” Vicki poured what little wine remained in the bottle into her glass.

  “Actually, I’m driving my mother’s car.” Tracey giggled. “I guess it’s mine now.”

  Vicki gulped at her wine.

  “You have such a beautiful home.”

  “What brings you all the way out here?” Vicki plopped back into her chair, almost missing the burnt orange leather of its seat.

  Tracey remained on her feet on the other side of the long, narrow table. She shrugged, as if she weren’t quite sure what had brought her to Indian Hill. “I needed some air. It’s so chaotic at my dad’s house. The kids are always screaming. I think I might have to get a place of my own.”

  Vicki downed the rest of her wine.

  “What happens to the house?” Tracey asked.

  “The house?”

  “My mother’s house. Is it mine or my dad’s? I know he still pays the mortgage and everything.”

  “I don’t have a clue,” Vicki told her impatiently, eager now to get the young girl out of her house. “You’d have to ask a lawyer.”

  “I am asking a lawyer.”

  “Sorry. Not my area of expertise.” Vicki covered her nose with the now empty wineglass, inhaling its heavy musky scent. She debated going downstairs to the wine cellar and opening another bottle. Or maybe she’d just hit herself over the head with it. Knock herself unconscious. Hell, whatever gets you through the night.

  “I guess I should go.” Tracey smiled, went nowhere. “Are you gonna be okay?”

  “Me? I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

  “ ’Cause you seem sort of …”

  “Drunk?”

  Again Tracey giggled.

  God, what an annoying sound. “Tracey, do you mind if I ask you something?” Vicki heard herself ask.

  “Shoot.”

  An unfortunate choice of words, Vicki thought, before plunging ahead, the room tilting slightly to the right. “Why did you kill your mother?”

  Tracey swayed from one foot to the other. Or maybe it was Vicki’s head that was swaying. She couldn’t be sure. “You know.”

  “I know the case we presented to the jury.”

  “Then you know everything.”

  “I also knew your mother.”

  A look somewhere between boredom and consternation settled across Tracey’s normally placid face. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that the jury’s not here right now. The trial is over. The defendant has been exonerated.”

  “And I can’t be tried again, isn’t that right? No matter what?”

  A feeling of queasiness curled around Vicki’s stomach, like a cat in a basket. “That’s right.”

  Tracey shrugged, studied the brass and crystal chandelier hanging above the dark, antique oak table. “Then you’re right,” she said easily. “My mother never molested me.”

  The room tilted violently on its side. Vicki gripped the sides of her antique chair, fought to stay upright, to keep from screaming. “You made the whole thing up?”

  Again Tracey shrugged. “Well, not all of it. I mean, she was always touching me. You know how she was.”

  “I know your mother loved you more than anything else on earth.”

  “I loved her too.”

  Vicki closed her eyes, saw Barbara, Susan, Chris. Dear God, what had she done? “You loved her but you killed her for no reason.”

  “There was a reason.”

  “What was it?” Did this conversation make any sense? “Because you were jealous of her relationship with Howard?”

  Tracey was already shaking her head. “It wasn’t that.”

  “What was it?”

  “You won’t understand.”

  “No, I probably won’t. But tell me anyway.”

  “I’m not sure I can explain.” Tracey undid the top button of her winter jacket, fanned her face with her fingers, as if trying to get air into her lungs. “We were so close, it was almost like we were the same person sometimes. Like I didn’t really exist when she wasn’t around. Do you know what I mean?”

  Vicki nodded, but in truth she had no idea what Tracey was talking about.

  “It was so great after my dad left and it was just the two of us. We were always together. But then she met Howard, and everything changed. Suddenly she had this whole other life, and I was just … I don’t know … I was nothing. It was like I didn’t exist anymore. Like she’d stolen my breath away. And the only way I could get it back, the only way I could get my life back, was to kill her. Do you understand? I didn’t want to hurt her. I just wanted my own life back.”

  Vicki’s head was swimming. Had anything Tracey just said made any sense? “And now?” she asked, the words banging against the side of her skull. Like the club Tracey had wielded at her mother’s head, Vicki thought, closing her eyes. “You feel nothing? No guilt? No remorse?”

  There was a long pause. “I feel relief.”

  Oh, God.

  A key twisted in the front-door lock. “Hello,” Jeremy called out sec
onds later. “Anybody home?”

  “In here.” Vicki made no move to stand up, knowing she’d never make it to her feet.

  Tracey smiled. “I should go. My dad’ll start to worry. I can show myself out. Thanks again,” she called back when she reached the hallway, then: “Hi there, Mr. Latimer. How are you?”

  Ever the polite young woman, Vicki thought, as behind her the grandfather clock ticked away the minutes. Vicki pictured her father sitting in his bed, staring at the nursing-home walls. Was this how he spent his nights? she wondered. Counting the minutes till morning, praying for unconsciousness to overtake him?

  “Vicki?” she heard her husband say. His voice was coming from a far distance, although he appeared to be standing right in front of her. “Are you all right? Vicki?”

  Vicki blinked, slowly nodded her head, thinking, He looks so old.

  “Tracey seems like a very happy girl.”

  “Well, we certainly wouldn’t want Tracey to be unhappy.” Vicki held up the empty bottle of wine. “I’ve been celebrating. Why don’t you get another bottle from downstairs and join me?”

  Jeremy smiled sadly. “I’m not sure I’m up to celebrating tonight, darlin’.”

  Oh, God, him too, Vicki thought. What was his problem?

  “I had an interesting meeting earlier this evening.” Vicki regarded him quizzically. Why was he talking about meetings?

  “With Michael Rose.”

  Oh, God. Vicki felt her stomach drop to the floor. “You had a meeting with Michael? Why?”

  “Trust me, it wasn’t my idea. He showed up at my office, ambushed me as I was about to leave, gave me quite an earful.”

  “Well, I certainly hope you didn’t take anything he had to say seriously. He’s just angry and jealous and probably drunk.”

  “Probably. Still, he was pretty convincing.”

  Vicki stared into her husband’s hurt and knowing eyes. Could she really insult him further by lying about her affair to his face? Hadn’t she done enough damage already to the people she loved? “It didn’t mean anything,” she admitted, sobering up much faster than she would have liked.