Gone Again

by James Grippando

  News of her ex-husband’s testimony—that evil Debra had rehomed their daughter—had gone viral on the dance-mom grapevine.

  Live piano music floated from behind the studio door and soothed Debra’s ears. Every so often the strong Russian voice of Madame Potapova herself could be heard. An eight-count in English. A dance combination in French. A word of praise in Russian. Debra focused on the music. Tchaikovsky. She was no aficionado of classical music, but after four years at the academy she recognized most of the pieces. This one by Tchaikovsky she would never forget. It was the same music that had played in the background on a Tuesday long ago, when Sashi was just fifteen—when Madame Potapova had pulled Debra into her office to talk in private about her daughter.

  Sashi has the natural facility,” said Madame Potapova in her heavy Russian accent. “Legs are beauteous. Hands, exquisite. Those feet—her arches—are a gift from the ballet gods.”

  “Thank you, Madame Potapova,” Debra said respectfully.

  Potapova had such an elegant nature that, even when seated behind a desk, her posture and positioning exhibited the lines of a classic ballerina. But she rarely smiled. She definitely wasn’t smiling at this meeting.

  “But Sashi cannot stay in my academy.”

  Debra’s heart sank. She knew what Madame Potapova’s response would be, but she had to ask the same question that she’d asked so many times before, whether speaking to the administration at Sashi’s third high school or to the headmistress of a dance academy.

  “Can Sashi have just one more chance? Please?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve been more than fair. She comes to class, and she’s always the last to get her pointe shoes on. When I give the girls a combination, she either stands there, defiant, refusing to dance, or she makes up her own combinations and does whatever she wants. And then there’s the talking and distracting the other girls. If I reprimand her, she sasses me. I can’t have that in my class.”

  “Could we possibly do a few private lessons?”

  “That’s not possible. My time is very limited. Not even my most talented students are able to get the private time they deserve.”

  “Please. I can pay more than the going rate.”

  “It’s not about that,” said Potapova. “There are issues here that I do not feel I am equipped to resolve.”

  Join the club.

  The headmistress’s expression turned even more serious than usual. “Today Sashi threatened to kill herself.”

  Debra froze. “When?”

  “Fifteen minutes after you dropped her off.”

  “In front of the whole class?” asked Debra.

  “No. She was acting up during barre and bothering the girls around her. I gave her three warnings, but she ignored me. I finally pulled her out of the studio, left Ms. Alvarez in charge of the class, and took Sashi down to my office. I told her ‘That’s it. No more, Sashi. Don’t come back to the academy until you can behave yourself.’ That was when she totally broke down.”

  “You mean crying?”

  “I mean bawling. She went on and on about how her life is more tragic than Anna Karenina’s, how nobody understands what’s going on at home. Finally, she said she just wants to kill herself.”

  “I have never heard her say that before,” said Debra.

  “I don’t know if she is being dramatic, or if she is serious. But this is something I don’t think you should ignore.”

  “No, you’re absolutely correct. Thank you for telling me.”

  Potapova hesitated, then continued. “There’s something else she said. It’s about your husband.”

  A wave of trepidation washed over Debra, and she was afraid to ask. “What about him?”

  Potapova looked her in the eye and said, “Sashi says that he makes her feel uncomfortable.”

  “Well, Gavin can lose his temper.”

  “It’s not his anger that bothers her. Sashi says it’s the way he looks at her. The way he touches her when no one else is around.”

  Debra caught her breath. “Madame Potapova, I can assure you that Gavin has never done—”

  “I’m telling you what Sashi told me.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Debra. “We’re getting Sashi the best help we can afford, but what you’re describing is very typical of a fifteen-year-old girl who is attachment-challenged.”

  “Attachment-challenged?”

  “Yes. All of the misbehavior you’re seeing isn’t really her fault.”

  “Surely it’s not my fault.”

  “Oh, no. I wasn’t suggesting that it was anything you did. But when you threw her out of ballet class, Sashi did the one thing her brain is programmed to do whenever something bad happens. She has to make it better right now. Over the years she has learned that anytime she gets in trouble, the one thing that never fails to fix the situation is to tell stories that will make people feel sorry for her. It’s really that basic: Sashi’s brain says, ‘I feel lousy right this second, and all I have to do now is manipulate this person into feeling sorry for me and coddling me by telling this sad tale that my parents abuse me.’ All she is looking for is someone gullible enough to buy her story, right there in that second.”

  “Ms. Burgette, do I come across as gullible to you?”

  “No, not at all. But Sashi thinks she can manipulate anyone.”

  “If that’s the case, I absolutely don’t want her coming back to my academy. Alexander is more than welcome to stay. But Sashi, no.”

  It was a familiar verdict. “I wish you would reconsider.”

  “No, that’s my final decision.”

  Debra chose not to push the issue. Maybe it was because she knew that Madame Potapova was not one to change her mind. Or maybe she’d just lost too many battles in the never-ending fight to find someplace—anyplace—for Sashi to fit in.

  “Thank you for letting Alexander stay,” said Debra. She rose and started toward the door.

  “Ms. Burgette. There’s one other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I know you say these stories that Sashi tells are made up. But I have almost two hundred girls here between the ages of six and seventeen. I can’t take chances. I don’t want your husband coming here.”

  “That’s really unnecessary, Madame Potapova. My husband is an honorable man.”

  “Your husband is lucky I’m not passing this along to the Department of Children and Family Services.”

  “Please don’t do that,” said Debra. “Please, don’t.”

  Potapova narrowed her eyes, turning on her powers of interrogation. “Are you absolutely certain that Sashi is making this up?”

  “Yes, I’m a hundred percent certain.”

  Their eyes locked, and they held it for a period of time that seemed much longer to Debra than it actually was. Debra hoped that she was getting through to her, because she didn’t know how she could tell Gavin that he’d been banned from the academy like a sexual predator.

  Finally Madame Potapova spoke.

  “I’m less than a hundred percent,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  I’m ready, Mom. Let’s go,” said Alexander.

  He was standing before her in the hallway, dressed in Potapova Academy black sweatpants and a white T-shirt. Flip-flops had replaced his ballet shoes, and a nylon gym bag was slung over his shoulder. Debra rose from the folding chair and gave him a quick hug. Together they walked down the hall and left the academy through the main door.

  “How was class?” she asked as they started down the sidewalk.

  “Good. Where’d you park?”

  It wasn’t an idle question, and she knew the answer would please him. “Right in front of Matryoshka Deli Food.”

  “Awesome! Can I get ptichye moloko?”

  Debra had only a rudimentary grasp of Russian, but she’d heard those two words often enough to know about the bird’s milk cake, a dessert made famous by the pastry chef at Praga, one of Moscow’s most famous restaurants. It was a thick slice of Fren
ch marshmallow covered in chocolate, and Russians had been crazy about it for decades. “Bird’s milk” didn’t sound either biologically possible or particularly appetizing to Debra, so she could only assume that something was lost in translation.

  “Of course you can,” she said.

  Darkness had fallen, and Potapova Academy and Matryoshka Deli were at opposite ends of a safe and well-lit strip mall, but Debra was enjoying the walk with her son on this warm night. They passed a Ukrainian restaurant, a Latvian bakery, a law office that displayed the flag of either Belarus or Moldova in the window—they looked nothing alike, but Debra always mixed them up—and a host of other small businesses that catered to a Russian-speaking clientele that wasn’t strictly “Russian.” As they continued down the sidewalk, Debra noticed a man standing beside his car in the parking lot, the dome of his shaven head shining in the yellowish glow of a streetlamp. He seemed to be staring at them. Debra tried not to be obvious about it, but as they passed beneath a storefront overhang and walked in the shadows, she cast her gaze in his direction for a better look. He didn’t move. He kept looking at her. Watching her. Watching Alexander.

  Debra walked faster, quickly changing direction, holding Alexander a little closer to her than she might otherwise have held him.

  “Mom, what are you doing?”

  “We’re going to the car,” she said in a calm but assertive tone.

  “But what about my cake?”

  “Not tonight.”

  They were just a few steps away from the car, but Alexander was gently pulling toward the entrance to Matryoshka Deli. Debra pulled much harder in the opposite direction.

  “Mom, you promised!”

  She unlocked the door with her keyless remote and opened the door for him. “Get in, Alexander.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t like the way that man was looking at us.”

  “What man?”

  “Just get in!”

  Alexander did as he was told and closed the door. Debra hurried around to the driver’s side and noticed that the man was still standing beneath the streetlamp, still watching. She climbed behind the wheel, quickly started the engine, and backed out of her parking spot as fast as she could.

  “Who was looking at us, Mom?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Then why are you acting like this? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No,” she said, glancing in her rearview mirror as she drove away. The man in the parking lot was gone, she noticed. “None of this is your fault, Alexander.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Jack drove from the federal courthouse to the Freedom Institute. Andie had called and told him to meet her there. She and Theo were in the reception area, formerly known as the living room, when Jack opened the front door.

  “Watch out for the cable,” said Andie. She was standing beside a cluttered desk in the center of the room.

  “What cable?” he asked, but his foot found it. He stumbled to the floor and landed on hands and knees, which put him at eye level with Theo, who was under the desk, working on a tangle of more computer wires.

  “You okay, bro?” asked Theo.

  Jack had to think about it. Andie hurried over and asked the same question, minus the “bro.”

  “I’m fine,” he said as he climbed to his feet. “What are you doing?”

  “Installing a microcell,” Theo said from under the desk.

  “A what?”

  Andie explained. “Parts of this old house are cellular dead zones. You can’t be stuck here with zero bars on your cell when the baby says it’s time and I’m headed to the hospital, trying to call you. The microcell fixes that. We just have to figure out how to run the network cable without turning the room into an obstacle course.”

  Theo popped up from under the desk. “I got an idea,” he said, and then he left the room.

  Jack stepped closer to his wife and spoke softly, so as not to be overheard. “Are you sure he knows what he’s doing?”

  “Nope,” said Andie. “But he works for free.” Andie ran her finger along the desktop. The dust was so thick that she could have written her name in it. “Free is the upper limit of your budget, I’m guessing.”

  Andie settled into the desk chair, which squeaked as she swiveled to look around the room. It was the kind of place that real estate agents would have described as “charming” with “good bones” and “lots of potential.” The floors were Dade County pine, which hadn’t been used in south Florida construction for at least seventy-five years, and the finish was original. Chunks—not chips—of plaster had fallen from the walls, which needed much more than a coat of paint. The crack in the ceiling was the Miami version of the San Andreas Fault.

  “Can we really swing this, Jack?”

  “Swing what?” he asked.

  “You, working here. Can we swing it financially?”

  “I told you before: I don’t work for the Institute.”

  “Really? In the last week, what have you worked on besides the Dylan Reeves hearing?”

  “I have my regular caseload. But a death case naturally puts other things on hold.”

  “Will you actually get paid for all your time?”

  “At some point. I submit my time and expenses to the court, and, if it’s ‘reasonable,’ I get paid under the Criminal Justice Act. It will be the government rate, not my normal hourly. But I get paid.”

  “What will you do when Hannah comes to you and says the Freedom Institute can’t pay its light bill, its property taxes, or whatever else they’re in arrears on? Are you gonna tell her ‘too bad, so sad’ and keep your check from Uncle Sam?”

  He shrugged. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” she said, and her expression turned serious. “I’ve been thinking. We’re a two-income family. Each of us should be able to follow a career path that makes us happy—within reason, of course.”

  “Andie, you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to drop my practice to do death penalty work.”

  “But if that’s what you want, you should be able to. Even if, you know, it was just you and the baby. For some reason.”

  “What—what are you saying?”

  She paused, then finished her thought. “We’ve never talked about this, but my benefits from the Bureau include life insurance. It’s not a lot, but I thought you should know about it.”

  Jack’s confusion was turning to concern. “Did the doctor tell you something that you’re not telling me?”

  “No. It’s nothing like that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Jack, listen to me. You knocked up a girl and got married. You’re just one step away from being a grown-up, so let’s get this life insurance conversation out of the way.”

  Humor—the oldest trick in the book for hiding bad news. “You promise you’re not holding something back from me?”

  “I’m fine. If I weren’t, I would tell you.”

  “Okay, good.”

  She smiled coyly. “Actually, the doctor did tell me one thing—a happy thing—that I haven’t told you.”

  “What?”

  “You sure you want to know?”

  “I do now.”

  Another sly smile. “How do you feel about the name Riley Suzanne?”

  Jack did a double take. “It’s a girl?”

  She nodded. “Dr. Starkey slipped and told me. I hope you’re not mad.”

  He smiled, hurried around to her side of the desk, and hugged her in the chair. “I’m not mad. I love Riley. And I love that we’re having a girl.”

  “Me, too,” she said.

  “In fact, as soon as Theo finishes with this microcell, I’m going to call my accountant and set up her college fund. Hannah tells me she has a connection at Barnyard. But it’s very expensive, you know.”

  “You mean Barnard?”

  The inside joke was funnier when Hannah had told it. “Yeah, Barnard.”

 
Jack’s cell rang. Five bars. Whatever gadget Theo had tweaked on the other side of the house had done the trick. The microcell was working.

  Judge Frederick’s law clerk was on the line when Jack answered.

  “Mr. Swyteck, I just sent an e-mail notification, but the judge asked that I speak directly to all counsel to advise that Mr. Mendoza will be transported to Miami tomorrow morning. The evidentiary hearing will reconvene at six p.m. tomorrow in Judge Frederick’s courtroom. You should come prepared to examine the witness. No continuances will be granted.”

  “I’ll be there.” Jack thanked her and hung up. Then he shared the news with Andie, who understood the immediate ramifications.

  “Theo can take me home,” she said.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. It’s gonna be a late night, right?”

  Jack thought of the work ahead of him, the hours of preparation it would take to control a witness like Carlos Mendoza and expose him for what Jack already knew he was: a man for whom an oath meant nothing, and who would say anything for his own benefit.

  “Really late,” said Jack.

  Andie gave him a kiss, then called out for her driver—“Theo?”—but she got no answer. “Where’d he go?”

  “I’ll get him,” said Jack. He started down a dark hallway that led to what used to be the Florida room, which was still the largest room in the old house. It was the space covered by Jack’s lease. It used to be Neil’s office.

  Jack stopped in the open doorway. Theo was inside. Jack knocked on the doorframe, but Theo didn’t stir. His gaze was locked onto the far wall. Jack hesitated before entering, recalling Hannah’s words on the night she’d pointed out that he had yet to enter Neil’s space:

  “It’s a room in a hundred-year-old house, Jack. The biggest room. The nicest room. But just a room . . . What are you afraid of?”

  Jack drew a breath and stepped inside, the floorboards creaking beneath each footfall. He walked past Neil’s old desk. On it, in the glow of a brass lamp, where a nameplate might have sat, was an engraved desk plaque that bore one of Neil’s favorite sayings: “An Eye for an Eye Makes the World Blind.”

  Jack continued toward Theo, his gaze slowly sweeping the room. Countless plaques, awards, and framed newspaper clippings covered the walls. It had been years since he’d read some of the older articles. While the newsprint had yellowed with age, the clippings still told quite a story, from Neil’s roots in civil rights litigation in the South—“Volunteer Lawyers Jailed in Mississippi”—to his role as gadfly in local politics: “Freedom Institute Lawsuit Against Miami Mayor Sparks Grand Jury Indictment.” All were impressive. But Theo was transfixed by the framed article near the window with the eye-catching headline “Groundbreaking DNA Evidence Proves Death Row Inmate Innocent.”