The Price of Silence

by Camilla Trinchieri

  “You got it.”

  “Was April nineteenth your first time in that building?”

  “No way. I modeled for Tod a hell of a long time. I’m in lots of his paintings.”

  “Exactly how long did you model for Mr. Curtis?”

  “Two sessions a week for seven months.”

  “In your comings and goings, did you encounter residents or visitors at 313 Lowry?”

  “Some.”

  “Do you see any of the people you encountered sitting in this courtroom?”

  Kirby points a long arm at Emma Perotti. “Her.”

  “The defendant?”

  “I seen her a coupla times.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “My last sitting with Tod.”

  “Can you pinpoint the day?”

  “April nineteenth, last year.”

  “Can you explain under what circumstances you saw her?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Guzman’s shoulders tighten as his smile widens. “Where and how did you see the defendant on April nineteenth of last year?”

  “She was ringing the doorbell on the fifth floor. Tod lives on six and I always walk up ’cause it’s good for my quads.”

  “Did she see you?”

  “She didn’t turn around, if that’s what you mean. I’m pretty light on my feet.”

  “But you got a good look at her?”

  “I saw her profile. She’s got one of those long noses. You can’t miss it. I said to myself—Jewish or Italian, one of them two for sure.”

  “Do you recall what time it was when you saw the defendant ringing the doorbell on the fifth floor?”

  “I sure do. Three-fifty p.m.”

  “How can you pinpoint the time so precisely?”

  She grins. “Tod did that. I was twenty minutes late and he was pissin’ mad.”

  In his cross-examination, Fishkin asks Ms. Kirby, “How do you know Emma Perotti was ringing the doorbell instead of, say, just standing in front of the door?”

  Kirby leans her torso to one side and gives him a slow, patient look. “ ’Cause her finger was glued to the bell, that’s how, and what’s more I could hear the buzzin’ comin’ from inside.”

  Fishkin shakes his head. “I should have thought of that. The buzzing must have been very loud.”

  “If that’s a question, I’ll tell you that I don’t know how loud it was, but it sure was annoying, you know, like those grasshoppers in the summer that never shut up?”

  “Then you heard the buzzing more than once?”

  “Sure did. I heard it coming up to her floor and going up to Tod’s.”

  “As you were walking up from the fifth floor to the sixth, you kept hearing the buzzer?”

  “Yeah. I just said that.”

  “Did you hear the door open?”

  “No, just the buzzin’. If there was anybody in there, they must have been deaf.”

  Fishkin’s eyes shine. “Thank you, Miss Kirby. No further questions.”

  Emma

  I went back to the loft two days before An-ling died, when I knew she would be at school. I still had the keys. Zhong Kui, the demon slayer,watched me as I walked over to the corner and looked at the still life An-ling had been working on.The canvas was crowded with the objects of her everyday life— cell phone, toothbrush, her laptop, a bra, a box of Tampax, a Chinese takeout carton—painted with bold, sure strokes of brilliant color. I surprised myself with how proud the beauty of her painting made me.

  Carefully, I crossed to the other side of the loft, trying to avoid the sound of my own footsteps, aware that I was now an intruder.My mattress was stripped bare and held rolls of linen canvas and a jumble of stretchers and unassembled frames.

  In the refrigerator was some sticky rice in its takeout carton, a box of dried apricots, an apple. She’d substituted smoking for food; the place smelled like a giant ashtray.

  On the bottom shelf was a bottle of iced tea that only I drank. I picked it up and threw it against the wall.The bottle shattered, spraying tea and shards of glass on the wall, the floor, on me. I was sorry the glass hadn’t cut me.My anger would have liked to see blood, especially my own.

  I grabbed a broom and a sponge, swept up the glass, wiped the stains from the wall and the floor and fought the urge to continue cleaning, to wash the pile of dishes, the cabinets, the bathroom, scour every inch of the place, as if Clorox could remove sins.

  In the bathroom I turned off a leaky faucet. Clothes spilled out of the laundry hamper. I emptied it on the floor, sat down next to the mess, held up her T-shirts, her cargo pants, the pink shirt with the missing button she didn’t want me to replace. I smelled the towels for her lavender scent. I smelled for sex. The sheets were clean of semen.The relief that came over me was as liberating as it was absurd.

  I folded each item—towels, T-shirts, pink shirt, cargo pants, undies, sheets—with care, pressing out the wrinkles with the palm of my hand, as I had always done. At the doorway I looked back into the room. A mouse met my gaze from behind a dirty glass on the kitchen counter. I reached for the broom.The one time An-ling had sighted a mouse on the stairwell she had screamed to wake the dead, convinced it was the ghost of an evil spirit. Killing this mouse would be my last present to An-ling. I tiptoed forward to the kitchen, smacked the broom on the counter.

  Once, twice.The mouse was too fast for me.

  A few blocks away, in the Ukrainian hardware store, I bought a can of insulation foam. The owner remembered me, offered a series of perfect English sentences as my reward for having given him a grammar book.

  I went back to the loft and found the hole next to the water pipe, underneath the sink. I inserted the plastic straw into the nozzle, pushed the straw deep into the hole and pressed.A sizzle of glistening foam, as soft and white as shaving cream, bubbled out, swelled and stiffened, until it looked like a giant viscous wart.

  Josh

  After I swear on the Bible and sit down, Guzman’s face goes so soggy with fake pity I want to puke. And I can’t look at Mom or Dad. I just know she’s crying and Dad’s keeping a stiff upper lip but inside he’s got to hate me for shaming us all.Why don’t I just tell the jury it was all my fault and get it over with?

  Guzman inches closer. I think of a sneaking cat with me the bird. Except his step is loud.There’s no need for surprise here. I drop my eyes to his feet.

  “Joshua, I know this is difficult. I don’t want to make it any harder for you.”

  Fishkin thinks Guzman’s going to go easy on me so the women jurors won’t get their backs up. Like I believe any of them.

  “I’ll only ask you a few questions.”

  His shoes are black, lace-ups.The shine doesn’t hide how old they are.

  “Did you ever visit An-ling Huang at the loft your mother had rented for her in Brooklyn?”

  “Yes.Next you’re going to ask me why. I was curious. I’d never been to Brooklyn before. Or been in an artist’s loft.”

  The Judge leans over, her face and hair both gray. “It’s better for you if you confine your answer to the question asked.” She has this deep, soothing voice and she smiles as she speaks.

  “Did you visit An-ling many times?” Guzman asks.

  “Yes.”

  “How many times approximately?”

  I drop my hand on my knee to stop it from jiggling. “I have no idea.”

  “Can you tell us when you went to see her?” He takes another couple of steps closer.The heels of his shoes hit the floor hard.“When did you visit An-ling at her loft?”

  “You want dates?” I make it sound like he’s asking the dumbest question.

  “That won’t be necessary.Was there a particular day you saw her?”

  “Saturdays.”

  “When on Saturday?”

  “Mornings.” I want him to keep walking. I want to hear the sound of his heels again. Not his voice.

  “Was your mother there?”

  He thinks
he’s so clever. If I don’t answer he’s going to move.

  “Please answer the question.”

  He does move. Thunk, thunk go the heels. Now I’ve got him! I look up.“Mom had classes.”

  “Did you ever visit An-ling on Sundays?”

  “No.” Guzman wears elevator shoes. Those heels are at least three inches high. That makes me feel better. I mean he’s just this poor vain guy who thinks he’s fooling people.

  “Did your mother have classes on Sunday?”

  Fishkin stands up. He’s got to be at least six feet tall.

  “Objection. Hearsay.”

  “Sustained.”

  Guzman tries to look like he doesn’t care. “Can you describe your relationship with An-ling Huang?”

  “We were buddies.”

  “What did you do together?”

  “We hung out.Talked, laughed, ate junk.What friends do.”

  “You were friends, nothing more?”

  I know what’s coming next. Let them kick me in jail for contempt of court. I’m not going to answer.

  Guzman goes back to his desk, thunk, thunk, thunk, and picks up some papers. Thunk thunk, thunk, back to me. He’s not fooling anyone.

  “I am handing Joshua Howells People’s Exhibit Fourteen.”

  He hands me the papers.“Joshua,will you please read the e-mails you sent to An-ling Huang the week before her death out loud to the jury.”

  I’m not ashamed of what I wrote. I’m not. I only wish it didn’t hurt Mom so much. I only wish . . .

  “Read out the date and time, too.”

  I wish I was Harry Potter.

  “Please read, Joshua.”

  Here goes, People’s Exhibit Fourteen, one naked kid, guts spilling out.“April 13, 11:37 p.m.‘I don’t believe this.What happened? What did I do?’ ”

  “A little louder, please.”

  I’ll shout. Lend me your ears so I can bury my family.

  “‘You’ve got to tell me. I’m going crazy here.’ ”

  “April 14, 6:47 a.m. ‘Why don’t you answer me? Am I shit all of a sudden? Mom found out, is that it? She put you up to this? There’s got to be a reason. Just give me a reason and I’ll leave you alone.’

  “April 15, 2:12 a.m.‘You said you loved me,why did you change your mind? Is this a sick joke? Did you meet someone else? No, this is Mom’s doing, right? She found out and had a fit, didn’t she? That’s why you dropped me. Just tell me that. Is it Mom’s fault?’

  “April 17, 9:29 p.m.‘Dad says you can’t reach the moon if you don’t stretch your arms. I tried, but I guess I have to accept that my arms are too short.You can keep the St.

  Christopher medal if you want. It’ll keep you safe. I love you, Josh.’ ”

  I fold my e-mails, hand them back to Guzman. I should stop here, but I can’t.

  “An-ling was great, okay? She was beautiful inside and out and I loved her but my mother loved her even more than I did.” I’m looking at Mom now. She’s dry-eyed, but her head’s going back and forth like one of those window car dolls.“She’d never hurt An-ling.”

  An-ling alive, that’s what I wish for more than anything.

  “No further questions,Your Honor.”

  “No cross,Your Honor,” Fishkin says.

  The prosecution’s next witness is Linda Franklin, an attractive blonde woman in her early fifties. She is wearing a pale blue suit and a calm, self-confident expression.

  “How long have you been teaching at the Manhattan Saxton School?” Guzman asks.

  “Twenty-five years.”

  “What do you teach?”

  “For the past eight years I’ve taught eighth-grade English.”

  “Do you recognize anyone in this courtroom as one of your students?”

  “Yes, Josh, the boy with the white polo shirt.”

  “Joshua Howells?”

  “Yes.” She nods at her student, gives him a small encouraging smile.

  “Do you recall where you were on April nineteenth of last year?”

  “I recall perfectly where I was that day. I, and four other col- leagues, took a busload of students on a field trip to the state capitol.”

  “Did the trip take up the whole day?”

  “And then some. We met at the school at six-thirty a.m. and the bus didn’t bring us back from Albany until after eight that night because we got a flat tire on the New York Thruway.”

  “What students went on the trip?”

  “The seventh and eighth graders. Forty-one students in all signed up and came on the trip.”

  “Was Joshua Howells one of them?”

  “Yes, he most definitely was.”

  Guzman gathers his papers from the podium and smiles.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Franklin.” He walks back to his desk, as a court officer escorts Mrs. Franklin out of the courtroom.

  Judge Sanders looks at the clock on the wall, which reads 4:05 p.m., then looks back at Guzman expectantly.

  Guzman smiles. “I have no more witnesses, Your Honor. The State rests its case.”

  EIGHTEEN

  THE FIRST WITNESSES for the defense are three teachers and four students from the Welcome School, who testify in favor of Emma Perotti’s character. After their testimony, Fishkin calls on Mrs. Hannah Owens of Cleveland, fifty-eight years old, short and plump, with carefully arranged gray hair crowning a plain, round face. She is wearing a new pink pant suit which shows suitcase creases, pink pumps and a cream-colored blouse tied at the neck with a bow.

  “Mrs. Owens, did you know An-ling Huang?”

  “Not with that name.”

  “Under what name did you know her?”

  “Jean Marie. That’s the name Bill, God rest his soul, and I gave her. Jean after Bill’s mother, Marie after mine. But Jean is what we called her.”

  “What was your relationship to her?”

  “She was my adopted daughter. An-ling was the name the orphanage gave her, but we wanted her to have a nice American name.”

  Subj: Fairytales and fantasies

  Date: 04-14-05 8:00 EST

  From: Chinesecanary@BetterLateThanNever.com

  To: EPerotti@aol.com

  Let me introduce you to Hannah bandana banana, my adoptive mother.

  Let me introduce me to you: Abandoned, adopted and Americanized in Cleveland, Ohio.

  Her husband traveled a lot to Beijing on business. He was a solar panel expert. In the States they could only get a black baby. That’s what he told me. Water Buffalo Bill, my American baba, with a thick neck and a slow mean look. Yellow was better than black.

  They bought me in 1983, when I was eleven months old. Adoptions were still illegal then in China. The government spent money on solar panels, but not on millions of abandoned children left to starve in lice-infested orphanages. We were almost all girls, that’s why it didn’t matter what became of us. Even now, no Chinese mother is allowed to officially leave her child in an orphanage. It brings shame on the government. If we are lucky, we are left on the steps of a hospital during the night and a good heart will find us quickly and hand us over to an orphanage. If not, the wild dogs or the bandits come and carry us away, the dogs to eat us, the bandits to sell us as slaves.

  Hannah and Bill paid for me in hard cash bribes, which Bill said should have made me feel I was worth something. They didn’t choose me. No wandering around the orphanage to pick the prettiest, the healthiest, the one who smiles back and wins your heart. Even now when adoption is legal, they don’t let you choose. Maybe they’re thinking if you want a child, you will love any child. Maybe they’re thinking a child is like a sack of rice, the same as another sack of rice.

  Bill and Hannah had fifteen minutes to make up their minds. I screamed my head off for the full fifteen, Hannah told me, but they took me anyway. To them, my crying was a sign of good health.

  I was given dolls to keep me company, crayons to draw with. I had clean clothes to wear and cookies to eat.

  When I was eight years old Hannah had
a son. They blessed God every minute for their good fortune. At night, when both mama and baby were asleep, Bill would come to my room and tell me not to be sad, not to be jealous of his son because he, Bill, loved me best. He could do things to me and make me do things to him that made him very happy. Hannah never stopped him.

  I became a teenager. Bill’s visits didn’t stop. I worked hard not to let anger seep out of my body, leave footprints on the floor. I brought home good report cards, cleaned up after myself, ran errands, went to church with them on Sundays. In the effort to keep my emotion secret, in the effort not to slam my fist in their faces, I became a pod without the peas, a clam shell without the flesh. What little of me there was left I kept in the library, between the pages of the books I read about China. Jung Chang, Anchee Min, Amy Tan, Bette Bao Lord, Maxine Hong Kingston and many many others—they spun the stories my mother would have told me, stories to grow on, to tell me who I was, warnings to guide my behavior. The glasses and plates kept slipping even when my hands grew large.

  “Mrs. Owens, were you in touch with your adopted daughter at the time of her death?”

  “No, sir. She walked out on us a week before she was supposed to start tenth grade. She was fifteen years old.”

  “Can you tell us what happened?”

  “The Lord knows I would if I had any idea. We gave her everything a child could possibly want, but Jean was difficult right from the get-go. We did our damnedest to please her, but she had no gratitude. Just left a note and off she went. Bill hired a detective to find her—cost us a bundle—but she didn’t want to come back and I wasn’t about to force her. She had a job, she said she was happy. We told her to call us anytime she needed anything and we never heard from her again.”

  “You mentioned she was difficult right from the start. Can you tell us how?”

  Guzman stands up. “Objection! I don’t understand the point of this testimony, Your Honor.”

  “Overruled,” Judge Sanders says. “The point Mr. Fishkin is trying to make is perfectly clear, counselor. Please answer the question, Mrs. Owens.”