The judge came into the room and to the bench. “We’ve called the state’s attorneys.” He looked at our small knot of people. “And I need you to get your client back here, please. We have a verdict.”
75
Valerie was hunched over, her fingers folded, her face resting forward on them as if she were praying.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury…” the judge said, his words slow, weighted. “Have you reached a verdict?”
The foreman stood, an older man with keen eyes. “Yes, we have, Your Honor.”
“Please hand me the verdict.”
The foreman passed the verdict to the person on the left, who passed it on down the row of jurors. Most of them looked tired, a few looked disgruntled. No one looked at Valerie.
Finally, the verdict forms were handed to the sheriff. Chest puffed up, the sheriff took slow, deliberate steps toward the bench, almost as if he were performing some kind of military march.
I scooted close to Valerie, put a hand on her back. She was slumped forward, but there was an incredible amount of energy coming from her body, which was hot.
The sheriff handed the verdict papers to the judge, who read them, then cleared his throat.
“In the matter of the State of Illinois v. Valerie Solara,” the judge read, “the people find Valerie Solara…”
Valerie sat up. She stared at the judge, as if she’d already heard bad news.
“Not guilty of first-degree murder.”
A loud cry from Valerie, as if the sound had shot from her throat. Scuffles and murmurs from the press in the gallery, many of who scampered out to report the news.
Valerie fell forward again, crying hard. And Maggie and I moved to our client and wrapped our arms around her.
We sat in Valerie’s apartment, Maggie and I on the couch, Valerie in a chair across from us. The chair had a wood back and its cushions were covered in a textured, red fabric. It looked like an expensive piece of furniture, one made for some home other than this.
After the verdict was read, Maggie and I had walked over to Ellie and Tania to shake their hands. None of us said anything, just gave each other nods.
When they’d left, we suggested a big dinner out, but Valerie, wiping her eyes, said she wanted to go to her apartment, and she wanted Maggie and me to go with her.
“I’m so glad,” Valerie said now. “I’m so relieved at this verdict, but…it’s…well…” She looked from Maggie to me and back again. She sat up straight, breathing in, seeming to breathe in strength. “This is not over.”
“Valerie,” I said, “you were found not guilty. Not guilty.”
She nodded. “Yes.” The movement of her head stopped. “But…” She fell silent.
Maggie and I glanced at each other. What’s going on here? I asked her with my eyes.
No idea.
I looked back at Valerie. “Where is Layla?”
Valerie hadn’t allowed Layla to be in the courtroom for the reading of the verdict, in case it went the other way. I don’t want her to hear the word guilty about her parent, Valerie had said. I know what that’s like. It stains you.
“She wasn’t here when I got home,” Valerie answered. “She sent me a text that she went to get me my favorite meal from Salpicon, a Mexican restaurant on Wells. They make a sopa de tortilla like my father did.”
“So she knows about the verdict.”
“No.”
Maggie and I exchanged another glance.
“Call her,” Maggie said. “Tell her it’s over.”
“It is not over.” Valerie shook her head, looking despondent. She looked at me in a beseeching way.
“Valerie,” I said, “is there anything you want to tell us?”
Maggie sent me a warning look.
“Mags,” I said, “isn’t it true if she wants to talk to us now, she can speak about anything she wants?”
Maggie looked at Valerie. “I suppose.”
“Well, I don’t think Valerie is going to tell us something that would require us to go to the judge,” I said. “Something like…well, that you killed Amanda Miller?” It was out of my mouth. I couldn’t hold it back.
“I didn’t,” Valerie said fast, fierce.
Maggie gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Even if you did kill her, that wouldn’t cause us to go to the judge. Telling us of a crime in the past is still covered by attorney-client privilege.”
Valerie stared at Maggie, seemed to be digesting her words. Then she blurted, “I didn’t intend to.”
Silence in the room.
“Not her,” Valerie said. “I didn’t mean to kill her.”
And then some of the pieces fit together. Then others clicked, locked in.
“You meant to kill Zavy,” I said.
She nodded. “We both did.”
“You and Amanda.”
“Yes.”
“Because of his relationship with Layla?”
“More than that. There’s more.”
“Is this about his arrests in New Orleans?”
She shook her head. “We didn’t know about that.” A pause, as if she were making a large decision. Finally, she looked at me and spoke. “Remember when I told you about that Tuesday night, when I went to talk to Bridget and Amanda?”
I nodded. “You had something to tell them.”
“That’s right.” She took a breath. “Can I talk about this now?”
“Yes,” Maggie and I said at the very same time.
76
That Tuesday night, about a year and a half ago, Valerie said, she had decided she couldn’t keep quiet anymore.
All that week, she had been going over and over the events in her head, thinking of what she’d seen. Or what she thought she’d seen.
She’d had a spring barbecue party earlier that week, inviting Amanda, Zavy and their kids, as well Bridget and her boyfriend at the time and another family Layla knew from school. Valerie said she was a nervous hostess, always cooking up a storm but relying on her friends to keep the conversation flowing and the other guests satisfied. Yet it had been a lovely time. Valerie had even begun to relax, to stop worrying that people would think about the wonderful house she used to share with Brian and compare it unfavorably to the apartment they were in now. But no one seemed to notice.
By the time things started to wind down, Valerie was happy. She’d gone upstairs to find Layla before everyone left. The party was meant to be a support for Layla, a way to be around other families, instead of just the two of them, as it had been since Brian’s death. But sometimes her daughter’s grief of losing her father sprang up during such times. Layla had told Valerie that sometimes it hurt her to see families who were still whole. Valerie understood and respected Layla’s emotions. She would give her time when she saw Layla disappear, as she had that night. Then she would go upstairs and often find her sitting on her bed, sometimes just staring at the floor or zoned out in front of her computer. But always she required her to come downstairs when the party was over, insisting that Layla say goodbye to their guests, as Valerie’s mother had taught her.
When she’d gotten to the top of the stairs that night, she’d seen Zavy. The stairs were carpeted, and apparently he hadn’t heard her because he didn’t turn. Valerie opened her mouth about to say something, but a movement caught her eye. It was Zavy’s elbow jutting back and forth.
What is he…? Valerie started to think, but then the movement made his body turn just a little, and she could see. He was touching himself. Rubbing himself on the outside of his pants. He’s masturbating.
She thought to turn around, to leave the embarrassing situation alone, but then she saw that his attention was focused on Layla’s barely open door. Looking past him through that crack, she could see Layla sleeping on her bed, lights on. Layla’s head was to the side, pillowed on a sheet of her long hair, and her legs were splayed out, the way they were so often when she slept. She was wearing a dress, and that dress had slid up her legs, revealing a slice of white pa
nty.
Valerie must have made some kind of sound, because Zavy turned, his hand dropping to his side. He looked startled for a moment, then his face slid into an oddly casual expression.
“Hey,” he said. And then he slipped into the bathroom.
Valerie stood frozen, listening to the sounds of silence in the bathroom, then running water. She wanted to pound on the door and then pound on Zavy’s face, but the whole thing had happened so quickly.
Confused, frightened, angry, she woke Layla, brought her downstairs and within minutes the party had entirely broken up. Valerie was terse with her guests, and soon everyone was gone, Zavy leaving with a jovial, “Great to see you guys!” that belied anything amiss.
The next Tuesday night with Amanda and Bridget, once they’d finally gone into Bridget’s blue living room, Valerie had looked at them. “I’m just going to say it,” she said.
They nodded. That was how they had always worked—just say it.
When she paused again, her friends looked a little confused, waiting for her to divulge whatever it was.
Finally, she said, “At the party on Saturday night…”
More nods.
She told them that she’d found Zavy watching Layla sleep.
“Sure,” Amanda said. “He loves Layla like he loves his own kids. He was probably checking on her.”
“That’s kind of what I thought. At first. But he hadn’t heard me come up the stairs. He didn’t know I was there. And he was…” Her voice died away.
“He was what?” Amanda said, a puzzled expression on her small face. She brushed away her hair that flipped up at the ends, and peered at Valerie.
Valerie closed her eyes in order to speak the words aloud. She told them what she’d seen.
“That’s crazy!” Amanda said.
Valerie eyes darted to Bridget’s. She shook her head, too, as if in utter disagreement.
“I know what I saw!” Valerie said.
Amanda put her drink on the coffee table with a hard plunk. Wine sloshed over the sides, but no one moved to mop it up. Amanda leaned forward so that her thin body strained toward Valerie’s, her eyes alive with anger. “Zavy adores Layla! But only as a daughter.”
Valerie shook her head. “I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want it to be true but—”
“Does this have to do with the time you hit on him? Do you resent Zavy?”
“No!”
“Then you’re being ridiculous! You yourself said, you only saw him from behind.”
“I’m…” Valerie thought back to that night. “I’m pretty sure,” she said, but her voice was now nearly a mumble.
Amanda’s face softened a bit. If Valerie read her right, which she usually did, it was an expression of sympathy.
Bridget spoke up for the first time. “Honey, you’ve been through a hell of a lot since Brian died. You don’t get over those things quickly. It’s natural you’re going to be overprotective of Layla. She’s what you have left of your family.”
Valerie blinked fast, an attempt to clear the pain from her mind. As always, the reminders of her losses made her wince.
When she opened her eyes fully again, Amanda spoke. “Look, Bridget is right. And trust me, if Zavy did that, I would kill him myself. But he is not that kind of a guy.”
“I didn’t think so, either,” Valerie said, “but—”
Bridget held up a hand. “Zavy is a great man, Valerie. We’ve always said that. All of us.”
Valerie shook her head, small at first, then she felt herself shaking her head in bigger arcs. She hadn’t thought the hard part was going to be convincing her friends to believe her. The hard part, she had thought, would be simply telling them.
Amanda soon excused herself with a lame excuse about the charity ball she had coming up that weekend. When Bridget and Valerie were alone, they went over it again and again. Bridget was sure there had to be an explanation. But without Amanda’s anger, Valerie grew more and more positive about what she had seen. There was no doubt. Then she was swamped with an overwhelming sense of dread because she knew she would never again let Layla be around Zavy, and she knew that would mean the slow death of her relationship with Amanda. And, because the three girlfriends had been a package deal from the start, things with Bridget would slide, too. That very thought then filled her with grief, as if her friendships with them had been the cork in the bottle that kept her from being overwhelmed—kept her open to the future. Without them, the grief she always held at bay would envelope her.
But Layla was her number one priority. Always had been, always would be.
77
Zavy Miller unpacked the presents he’d bought for Tessa and Brit on Oak Street. He considered wrapping them, but he thought it more elegant to simply tie a pink bow around each. He put two on Tessa’s bed, the other on Brit’s. Then he walked toward the kitchen, thinking that everything would now be returning to normal, or at least the normal that he had dreamed of for so very, very long.
His reverie was interrupted by the ring of his cell phone. He lifted it from his pocket. It was Ellie Whelan, the district attorney. He smiled as he answered it.
Sounding clipped and bitter, she said, “Mr. Miller, I have some bad news.”
Zavy had reached the kitchen by that time, the space he and Amanda had designed together. They had been so happy once. They had been happy up until the end. He amended that a little. Something had happened to Amanda before she died. It started maybe seven months before she died. A fight with Valerie, Amanda had told him. Whatever the fight was about—she wouldn’t say—it seemed to cause her angst. She started seeing a therapist to talk about it, said she didn’t want to speak about it with anyone else, didn’t want anyone to think poorly of Valerie. Soon, she was on antidepressants. They seemed to help somewhat. But then that week before she died—the fits of weeping, the slamming of doors. He had chalked it up to oncoming menopause.
Until he had come home that afternoon and discovered Valerie in his kitchen, the guilty look on her face as she scooped the blue powder into the dish.
He shook his head and dispersed those thoughts. He cleared his throat to let Ellie know he was listening. “I’m sorry,” she said. “The jury delivered a verdict of not guilty.”
He sat at the kitchen table, staring around at the space that he thought would be full of laughter and love after the trial. What would happen to all of them now?
“I’m sorry, Mr. Miller,” Ellie said again. Then silence.
“Yes.” He waited. Not guilty, she’d said. He felt the disappointment pool around him.
Ellie spoke up. “I don’t lose a case very often. And I don’t like it.” Her voice was bristling. “Frankly, I think the jury made a mistake, but my boss doesn’t want to do any posttrials on this. This is the end.” Still he said nothing and after a pause, she said, “Again, I’m sorry.”
78
I watched as Valerie tucked her feet under her now, still in the red chair, her posture defeated despite the victory in court. She seemed to grow weaker as she told Maggie and me the story.
The night she spoke to Amanda and Bridget, Valerie didn’t sleep. In her mind, her greatest fears had been realized. She knew what she had seen, but her friends didn’t believe her. She was back in a place she knew so well—damaged and fearful because of a man. Helpless.
“I had stopped trusting men a long time ago,” she said. “I knew that they had the capacity to harm. I never got over my father’s guilty verdict and execution. I didn’t believe it of him, but I knew I was probably wrong.” She laughed a little and looked at Maggie. “I guess I was right to believe in him, though.”
“You were,” Maggie said. “And Martin wants to spend the rest of his career exonerating your dad’s name.”
Valerie nodded in a slow, sad way. “I got pregnant with Layla on purpose after my dad died. I think I was trying to create someone I could trust. I knew I wasn’t in love with Layla’s father—I wouldn’t let myself fall in love with
any man. I picked him because he was good-looking. I knew he had good genes. And I knew that he wouldn’t have any interest in raising Layla. I know that’s cruel—to bring a child into this world whose father won’t want to be involved. But I also knew I would be a good parent. I wanted to raise her by myself. I couldn’t trust anyone, especially not any man.”
“But you later married Brian,” I said.
Valerie permitted herself a smile. “Brian. It was so surprising. I never thought it could happen. But I loved him. He was a great father to Layla. And then he died.” Something ravaged her face, as if she’d seen something horrible. “And then Zavy. It’s my fault. It’s my fault.”
“But how?”
“I trusted him. Brian restored my faith in men, and I let my guard down.” She blinked. “Maybe Brian wasn’t even the good guy I thought he was, maybe…” Her voice had gotten louder, taken on a quality of a cart heading downhill, with only a second to stop it until it careened out of control.
“Valerie.” I leaned forward across the coffee table and put a hand on her wrist. Her skin was soft but cool, almost as light as air, as if it might disappear like froth. “Brian was one thing. Zavy is another.”
She looked at me with such sad eyes. Eyes that said, God, I envy you for that innocence. God, I would give anything to believe you.
Valerie kept talking. She told us that after that night in the blue room, she didn’t see Amanda often and when she did, it was strained. But six or seven months later, after Layla had gone off to college, Amanda knocked on Valerie’s door one December day. It was eleven in the morning. She hadn’t called before she arrived, and Valerie was surprised to see her.
Amanda stood on Valerie’s front porch, shaking a little, although the December day was unseasonably warm. “You were right.”
Valerie looked down at Amanda’s hands and saw she was holding a small video camera. She raised her eyes again and met those of her friend. What she saw in Amanda’s expression was a volatile jumble of despondency, rage, shock, fear.
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