The Whole Truth
They call me in after Taylor, but before Lindsey. At the entry, I walk past a line of framed portraits, men in high collars from a hundred years before. The courtroom is not too large, with about eight rows of benches in the back, a big desk on a platform in front for the judge, and tables on each side for the lawyers.
There aren’t many people. A few reporters with their notebooks, Jamie’s family, a few girls who must have graduated with her, some old people, and Charlie. He’s at the back, on the left side, eyes down, hoodie up. I’m not sure I’d notice him if I wasn’t looking for him; he sits still and blends in, a chameleon, as if he’s become part of the bench.
He’s been here all morning, hearing them say who-knows-what about Kyle, about Jamie, about the heart of darkness that makes someone shove a crowbar down a girl’s throat. He doesn’t look up when they usher me to the little wooden box in the center of the room where I’m supposed to sit in a green upholstered chair and tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
I raise my hand, say “I do,” take my seat, and state my name.
I am trying not to look on the side of the room where Kyle, a blurred bit of orange in my periphery, sits between his lawyer, Mr. Wirtz, and a middle-aged woman in a gray pantsuit.
The lawyer on the other side of the room, Mr. Hayes, begins. “You remember me, correct? Now I’m gonna ask you some questions, but I want you to look to the judge when you answer. Will you do that?”
I nod.
“Where’d you go to high school?”
“Midland.”
“Did you know Jamie Strand?”
I nod again.
“Answer out loud, if you would, and speak up so everybody can hear you, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, my voice echo-y in my own ears. “I knew who Jamie was, but she wasn’t in my classes or anything.”
“She was one year ahead of you in school?”
“Two years,” I say.
“And Kyle Paxson? Did you know him?”
“Yes.”
He makes me tell it all, how I met him in algebra when I was a freshman and he was a senior. How he had my number from a group project we did. How I saw him sometimes after he graduated, but never really thought of him as a friend.
“When did you last see Kyle in person?”
I tell them how I saw Kyle outside the Hardee’s, about a month before Jamie was killed. I was walking toward my car when he came over from the Advance Auto across the street, where he was working at the time.
“And what did you talk about?”
“We didn’t say much. I asked him how he was doing. He said he was working, that things were getting rough at home, you know, with his grandma. He said he was thinking about moving to Florida.”
“And he saw you with your new car?”
“Yes, after we talked, I got in my car. He saw me in my car before I drove away.”
“Did Kyle contact you at any point after that?”
“Just once.”
“When was that?”
“July eleventh last year.”
“You’re sure of the date?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m certain.” It’s not like I could exactly forget.
“How did he contact you?”
“He sent me a text. He said he wanted to hang out.” It’s so weird to me, talking about all this while Kyle is over there, the unseen orange blur in this very room. I keep my eyes forward, focused on the judge, who is younger and thinner than I expect a judge to be—blond with a caterpillar mustache. From where I’m sitting, a circular brass emblem on the wall behind him seems to frame his head like a crown for baby Jesus.
“Did Kyle offer you anything?” the lawyer asks.
“What do you mean?” I ask, then I remember. “Like drugs? I guess. He said he had stuff.”
“And you took that to mean marijuana?”
“Yeah.” It feels so weird admitting this in front of a judge.
“And how did you respond?”
“I didn’t,” I say. “I didn’t respond.”
True, but is it the whole truth?
“And that was July eleventh, the day Jamie Strand was murdered?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“How did that make you feel—knowing he’d contacted you out of the blue, trying to see you on the very day he went on to murder another girl?”
“Horrible,” I say. “Like it could have been me.” I’m trying to hold it together now, trying not to think about Jamie, bruised and battered, wrapped up in a dirty tablecloth.
Trying not to look at Kyle.
But then, because my eyes apparently have their own will, I do. I look full-on at the immobile lump of him.
Kyle sits, head angled toward the judge, shoulders sloping off in a curve. The mild pudge of his belly. His shaved head and dark glasses. His bland, stupid face. Vacant eyes. Less scary than pitiful.
Not that I pity him.
“I felt… I felt… What he did to her,” I say, still looking at Kyle, “it was so cruel. She didn’t deserve it. No one deserves something like that.”
I turn my eyes back to the judge. “But I guess it doesn’t matter what you deserve,” I say. “When I heard what Kyle had done, I knew it could have been me.”
The randomness of Jamie’s murder has always disturbed me, but killing Kyle now, if he gets death, that’s the opposite of random. He absolutely deserves it. And all this process, the judge with his robe and gavel, the lawyers with their files, the lurking bailiff and the portraits of dead men peering down from the walls—all of this is as intentional as it gets. It will be calm, measured. A metal gurney and a needle in his arm where the poison seeps in.
But—for all its calm—will it be so very different in the end? Will his death undo anything? Bring Jamie back? Bring justice to our unjust world?
An eye for an eye?
But his blank eyes cannot equal her bright ones. There is no evening this scale.
“I’m sure he would have killed me if he’d had the chance,” I say. “But killing him now…”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
Answers
But there are further questions. At least for me.
I tell my parents I’m fine, to go on without me, that I want to wait for Lindsey. But as much as anything, I just need a minute alone to breathe. I can almost feel the zillion microscopic questions buzzing through my body.
“You sure?” Mom asks.
I give her my I can handle myself smile. “I’ll catch a ride with Linds.”
My dad leans over, tucks my hair behind my ear. “I was proud of you in there.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, though I’m not sure what there was to be proud of.
With them gone, I watch the door to the courtroom, clearing my mind, waiting for Lindsey to walk out.
But when the door finally opens, a stream of people shuffle through. Everyone must be breaking for lunch. First some old people come through, then the reporters, then more old people.
One, a lady, I swear I’ve seen her somewhere. Her tan coat is unbuttoned, and her pale blue blouse matches a flower tucked into her coat’s lapel—a small blossom, unnaturally blue. She’s carrying an old-lady bag that’s the same color, and her gray hair is topped with a little black hat.
She passes me on her way to the water fountain, but then stops and turns back, her black flats clicking against the floor tiles. Coming close, she leans down as if sharing a secret. Her breath is warm and yeasty, her lips determinedly red. There’s a tiny crumb of egg caught on her chin-whisker.
“He was trouble, that boy. But what he done, that’s what he done. And he’ll be the one paying for it.” Her voice rises, no longer a whisper. “You girls, you ain’t to blame. I ain’t either. I done my best, what with his daddy. I raised that boy best I could. None of us could’ve known what he was gonna do. And what happens now, if they kill my boy, he got no one to blame but hisself. Like I told you and them ot
her girls, it’s not your fault.”
“Like you told me?”
Her eyes lock onto mine. “That’s right.” She points a bony finger in my face. “And I meant it. You remember that.”
Then before I can blink, she passes on down the hallway.
And… what? Who was that?
When Lindsey comes out of the courtroom, my head is still whirling.
“Charlie’s with the Strands. They went out the back way. There’s this other door the lawyers use.… Um, are you okay?” She waves a hand in front of my face. “Sweetie?”
“Oh my God, Lindsey. Oh. My. God. The old woman… you remember at Jamie’s memorial service at the start of the school year?” She looks blank, but I go on anyway. “We saw her in the stands. All alone, it was weird, remember? Well, she was just here. And get this.… She said that she had told me and the other girls that it’s not our fault. And she was wearing a flower on her coat, like one of the little blue ones in that bouquet I got. She’s gotta be the one who sent us that stuff.”
Lindsey looks as confused as I feel.
“And I think—I think she’s Kyle’s grandma.”
Swings
I text Charlie to meet me at the coffee shop that evening, but he doesn’t show and he doesn’t text back. After twenty minutes, I leave and drive by his house, and then the river. No Charlie. No Charlie’s car.
I go back by the coffee shop, but his car isn’t there either. Instead of going in, I park and walk over to an empty playground in the alley nearby. It’s supposed to be for the Baptist Church, though I don’t ever see anyone playing in it.
I sit on a swing and drag my feet through the mulch.
Today shook me up. Having to answer all those questions right across from Kyle while he sat there like a lump, emotionless. The old woman with the dyed-blue flower on her coat, just like ones she left on my porch. Her pointing that bony finger in my face and telling me it’s not my fault if Kyle gets the death penalty.
And that’s his grandma. The person who puts you on her knee and plays pat-a-cake. The one who’s supposed to love you best.
Was she like that all along, so harsh and detached, or did what happened make her that way?
It couldn’t have been easy to have a boy she raised go out and kill someone. And before that, didn’t Kyle’s dad shoot himself?
If I feel guilty about what happened to Jamie, what must she feel? If there’s any feeling left after all that.
After Lindsey dropped me off, I skipped the rest of the school day, stayed curled up in my bed—but in my mind, I was there—there without being there—beside Charlie on that hard courtroom bench, listening to each painful word.
And for what? What good does all that pain do?
I’m not saying we don’t learn from pain, but that’s just a coincidence. All those sweet little life lessons might be pain’s by-product, but they’re not its purpose. Pain is its own purpose. And in general it’s a purpose that deeply sucks.
I saw somewhere that in pop songs the word most commonly associated with pain is love. Which makes sense, I guess. Love can hurt like nothing else.
Or maybe it’s just that all pop music is about love. If I did some research, I might find out that the word in pop music most commonly associated with dog is love, too. The word most commonly associated with toothbrush or bridge or door—all love. Whatever.
I think about texting Lindsey to come get drunk with me. I’m sure we could find someone who would buy us beer. But I know it’s a bad idea. Plus, that’s the last thing Lindsey needs. The last thing I need.
Instead, I swing—pointing my feet skyward as my heart plunges to my shoes. The air is cool, and I’m washed with the dizzy feel of coming and going, going and coming, reaching out to my limit, only to be jerked back. I close my eyes and mutter Zen bullshit in my head. Become the swing. Let the swing become you.
The air shifts, and I feel a soft, wet chill sift down on my face, the only exposed part of me.
“Hey.”
I stutter to a stop, opening my eyes to find Charlie, hoodie up, the picture of rain.
The Obvious
“Hey.” I start with the obvious. “It’s raining.”
“Yeah,” Charlie answers, plunking down in the swing beside me. “Ironic.”
“What?”
“The day Jamie was murdered was sunny, beautiful,” he says, twisting his swing around, the metal chain clinking over his head. “And today—when we’re finally getting some justice—it’s like this.” He turns a bare palm up to catch a few drops, which glisten silver under the streetlamp.
“Justice?” I ask.
He stops turning and digs his heels in the mulch. The tension in the chain over him creaks.
“It’ll happen. It has to. He’s going to pay for what he did—no one could hear that and not—” He shakes his head, falls silent.
I don’t know what to say, so I sit, unmoving, in my swing and watch his hand as it grips the chain.
After a half minute’s silence, I ask, “When will they have a verdict?”
“Who knows? There’s more tomorrow.”
“You’re going to go?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that—are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“What?”
“I just mean, that’s got to be the worst. Do you really want—”
“Want?” He growls. Like actually, wild-animal growls. “Jesus. I owe her that much, don’t you think? She had to live it. The least I can do is sit there and listen. That bastard, that bastard—so yeah, it’s the worst, but—don’t you get it?” He lets go of the chains and sinks his head into his open hands. “I wasn’t there for her. I couldn’t protect her. I didn’t even know it was happening.”
I am wet now. The rain, soft as it is, has drenched me. I put my hand on Charlie’s curved back. He looks up, eyes stripped. “I have to be there,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it.
“For what?” he asks.
“Everything,” I say. “For everything.”
When Charlie stands, the swing chain clangs like an awkward conversation.
“I need some air,” he says, walking away, though we’re already out in it.
Days
The hearing isn’t finished on Thursday. Or Friday. I go to school, text Charlie that I can see him if he wants. If it’d be helpful. If he’d like to talk. If he needs a run. If… anything. He doesn’t text back.
So, I give him space.
I look for Mark Lee in gym because, what? I’m going to ask him if he knows how Charlie is? Yeah, that’s my sad little plan. But Mark Lee isn’t there on either day. I’m hoping that means he’s been in the courtroom with Charlie. Where I can’t be because of the whole testifying thing. I’m hardly President of the Mark Lee Fan Club, but I’d consider a trial membership if it meant Charlie didn’t have to go through this alone.
Meanwhile, I watch from the sidelines as the paper and local news channels report on the case—new details floating to the surface like pond scum. They don’t use my name in print, hallelujah. Or the names of Lindsey, Taylor, and Blair, who apparently was called back into town to testify. We’re just “a series of girls Paxson approached prior to the murder with offers of drugs and money in exchange for sex.”
Not exactly. But thanks anyway, local news.
There’s stuff about Kyle’s bad childhood, his psych evaluations, job performance, outbursts at school. Like we’re playing #10RandomFactsAboutMe.
Then come new bits about the murder itself. How Kyle rode in the back of a squad car, directing police to the site where he murdered Jamie, and then to the road thirty-five miles away where he dumped her body. His little behind-the-scenes tour.
Charlie has got to be lost in all kinds of awfulness right now, but by Friday I just want—I don’t know, a sign that he isn’t lost for good.
You ok?
Then, in roughly forty-five-minute intervals:
You ok?
&n
bsp; Really. Are you ok?
Okay??????
Then, when he still doesn’t answer, I send random emoticons, because why not. It’s not like English was working, anyway.
Charlie finally texts back after midnight.
Yes.
It’s better than a “No,” I guess, but just by one letter.
Would it help to talk?
No.
He responds right away this time.
No offense. Just not up to it.
Maybe after this blows over.
Which seems unlikely. When is this likely to “blow over”? Should I set my alarm for The End of Time?
Ok.
Then I grumble and toss my phone onto the carpet.
My Saturday comes and goes in a funk. I try to do homework and ignore how quiet my phone is. I try to forget Kyle’s face. His nothing face. Faceless un-face.
By Sunday, I’m tired of my own head. Charlie texts, but he basically says the same thing: Not yet. So I haul myself out of bed and meet Lindsey at the mall. There’s a sale at the huge makeup store she loves.
“It was so weird,” Lindsey says, pawing through a bin of eyeliner. “I mean, God.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Did you look at him?”
“Ugh. He looked awful. All pasty and out of it.”
She picks out a teal eyeliner from the tub, and we walk over to the eye shadow display. “So Charlie is still…”
“Yeah,” I say. “He just—needs time to process.”
“That has got to suck.” She dabs her finger on a sample of a swampy green color and rubs it across her lids.
“I guess it’s like he’s living through all of it again.”
“I meant for you,” she says.
“Oh,” I say, “yeah, that too.”
“How are your parents taking it?” she asks.
“Pretty low-key,” I say, though the truth is that my parents have been on high alert all week. On the Parental Freak-out Advisory Scale, I’d say they’d rank a solid Code Orange. They keep asking me how I feel, and telling me they’re here for me if I need to talk. But I know it bugs Lindsey that her own mom is so out of the picture, and I don’t want to make her feel any worse.
How She Died, How I Lived Page 22