Her Pretty Face

by Robyn Harding

  The jury nodded that they understood, but they couldn’t keep their eyes off Amber Kunik. No one could, not for long anyway.

  Neil Givens began by establishing the witness’s relationship to the man on trial. Shane and Amber had dated for almost two years, had lived together for fourteen months. The lawyer’s tone was gentle, coaxing. Amber seemed so young, so fragile, like she might shatter under any kind of overt pressure. The prosecutor nudged Amber to tell her story.

  “Shane wanted a girl,” Amber said, in her childlike voice. “I had to help him find one.”

  “Did Shane tell you why he wanted a girl?”

  “He wanted to have sex with her,” Amber said. “And he wanted me to have sex with her while he watched.”

  A low murmur emanated from the spectators. The judge silenced them with a look.

  “And where did you find Courtney Carey?” the prosecutor continued.

  “She was at the Dairy Queen. She was alone, and she seemed kind of upset.”

  DJ felt his father tense, on his left. On his right, his mother vibrated with repressed emotion.

  “I think she was having a Blizzard,” Amber said. “That’s how I started talking to her. She was having an Oreo Blizzard and that’s my favorite kind, too.”

  “And mine,” the prosecutor said. The gallery chuckled and Amber smiled. DJ wanted to punch Neil Givens for joking with this girl, to scream at the audience for laughing. His sister’s murder was not fucking funny.

  “I invited her to come smoke a joint with Shane and me,” Amber recounted. “She seemed really excited to get stoned. And she liked me, I could tell. She trusted me.”

  His mom covered her mouth to muffle her sobs. DJ rubbed her back ineffectually. His dad remained still, but a muscle in his jaw twitched.

  “How did you and Mr. Nelson get Courtney back to your house?” Neil Givens asked.

  “Well, we all smoked up together in Shane’s truck, and then Shane said we should have some drinks. Courtney said she liked wine coolers, and that’s also what I like to drink. We had that in common . . . like the Oreo Blizzards.”

  She sounded like a kid, even though she was twenty.

  “So, we bought some peach-flavored coolers, and a bottle of Jack for Shane, and then he drove us back to our house.”

  “And what happened when you got there?”

  Amber’s eyes flitted toward DJ and his family. They may have connected, briefly, with his mother’s, but they promptly returned to the prosecutor. “Shane gave me some pills. I think they were Valium. I crushed them up and put them in Courtney’s drink.”

  “And then?”

  “Courtney got really tired and she puked a bit. I told her she could lie down on the sofa. I put a blanket on her and she fell asleep.”

  “And what did you and Shane do while she slept?”

  “I performed oral sex on her while Shane watched.”

  DJ and his parents were too stunned to react, but the gallery erupted in a chorus of gasps and whispers. It was less the content than the blasé tone of voice that had set them off. Amber didn’t sound like a kid anymore, she sounded clinical and detached. She sounded heartless. Judge Calder banged his gavel, trying to quell the whispers of outrage, the murmurs of disgust.

  “Order!” he boomed. “Any spectators who can’t remain quiet will be removed!”

  This got the crowd to settle. No one wanted to miss what came next. When calm had been restored, Neil Givens continued his questioning.

  “Why did you perform that sex act on Courtney Carey?”

  “I had to. Shane would beat me if I didn’t do what he wanted.”

  “Did Mr. Nelson abuse you in other ways?”

  Amber Kunik’s eyes filled with tears and her voice trembled. She had become that vulnerable little girl again. “He would yell at me and call me horrible names. He said I was worthless, that I came from trash. He enjoyed hurting me. He enjoyed humiliating me. I was living in hell.”

  DJ watched Shane Nelson scribble a note and slide it along the table to his lawyer. The defense counsel, Martin Bannerman, was thick and beefy, with the flat-faced look of a former boxer. Bannerman’s expression was aggressive, his posture tense, like at any moment he was going to spring out of his chair and object. But he didn’t. He remained seated, mute, glancing at the scribbles his client presented to him, listening to Nelson’s murmured comments.

  The prosecutor continued, in the same gentle, coaxing manner. “And what did you witness Mr. Nelson doing to Miss Carey?”

  That matter-of-factness returned to Amber’s tone as she described Nelson’s vile and repugnant actions. DJ could feel his mother trembling beside him; his dad reached across him to squeeze her hand. DJ wanted to take his mom’s free hand and drag her out of the courtroom. He wanted to stand up and yell at this pretty girl to stop saying these violent, obscene things in her nonchalant, almost bored voice. But if he disrupted the courtroom, he wouldn’t be allowed back in. And he had to be there.

  “And then, I guess Shane got bored of her.” Amber looked down, and her voice softened. “He said we had to get rid of her.”

  “Bullshit!” Nelson blurted.

  The gallery dared to whisper after this outburst. A strangled noise escaped from DJ’s father’s throat, while his mother shivered in silence.

  Judge Calder looked down on the witness. “Would you like to take a break?”

  “I’m fine,” the girl said, bestowing on him a grateful smile. And she was fine. Amber Kunik was completely comfortable relaying the horrifying details of DJ’s sister’s torture, rape, and murder. She only sounded small and broken when she talked about her own abuse.

  But the judge looked at DJ, at his mother and father. They were not fine. They were not fine at all. He banged his gavel.

  “We’ll recess for today.”

  frances

  NOW

  When Frances awoke in the darkened room, she was momentarily discombobulated, but it took only a few seconds to recognize her girlish surroundings. The digital clock glowed 5:42 a.m., and the events of last night flooded back to her. She was in Daisy’s room. Marcus was sleeping peacefully across the hall. At least, he should be. Frances’s cannabis intake could have rendered her comatose last night. If her son had called out for her, would she have awoken?

  She scrambled out of Daisy’s bed and scurried across the hall. Cracking the door to Charles’s room, she peered inside. In the predawn light, she could just make out the large lump on the floor that was her son’s sleeping form. Frances could hear his heavy, nasal breathing as he slept deeply, soundly. With a quick glance at Charles, curled up in a fetal position on his single bed, she closed the door behind her.

  On silent feet, she crept down the stairs to the main floor. She would find her purse and her tiramisu pan and be gone before anyone awoke. Marcus would rise with a newfound confidence and independence, never knowing his mother had spent the night just fifteen feet away. A small light over the stove glowed. The spacious kitchen was pristine: Kate and Robert must have cleaned before retiring. Her pan, washed and dried, sat on the bare counter. Now where was her purse?

  She recalled setting it down when she entered the home last night, perhaps next to the couch in the living room? Padding to the front of the house, she found the blinds closed and the room pitch-dark. Pausing in the entryway, she waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the lack of light.

  “Hey.” The voice—young, female, sleepy—came from the sofa. It was Daisy, displaced by Frances, lying on her makeshift bed in the living room.

  “I’m sorry to wake you,” Frances apologized. “I’m looking for my purse.”

  “I think it’s by the chair.” The girl pointed.

  Frances followed her direction and retrieved her bag from its spot on the floor. “Thanks, Daisy,” she whispered. Her vision having adjusted, she noticed the girl was still fully clothed, her jacket draped over her in lieu of a blanket. Kate must have forgotten to prepare her daughter’s camp. “I’m s
orry I took your bed last night.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I wasn’t feeling well, so your mom suggested I lie down for a bit,” Frances fibbed. “And then I fell asleep.”

  “My mom said you were sleeping here because you weren’t comfortable being away from Marcus.”

  Frances felt a stab of betrayal. She had thought Kate understood her insecurities, had expected her to cover for her. She felt embarrassed at being caught in a lie.

  “Yeah,” she admitted. “I guess I’m too overprotective.”

  “Not really,” Daisy said. “I think parents should care where their kids are.” There was an edge to her voice, and Frances thought about last night. Kate and Robert had let their fourteen-year-old wander off into the dark, without even asking where she was going, how she was getting there, when she’d be home. Frances moved closer.

  “Did you have a nice dinner with your friends?”

  “I didn’t go for dinner.” It must have been the darkness between them that created a confessional aura, because the girl continued. “And I don’t have friends.”

  Frances perched on the arm of the sofa, near Daisy’s feet. “Where did you go?” she prodded gently.

  “I just rode around on my bike.”

  “That’s not very safe, Daisy.”

  “Maybe not,” she said, with an indifferent shrug, “but it turned out fine.”

  “There are predators out there, men who look for girls on their own, girls who are lost and alone.”

  “I can take care of myself,” the girl retorted. Frances backed off, took a different tack.

  “Why do you feel like you don’t have any friends?”

  “Because I don’t,” Daisy said flatly. “There was this thing with a boy. . . . Nothing happened, but he told everyone that it did, that I was a crazy nympho or something. And I just let everyone believe it.”

  “Why?” Frances was flummoxed. “Why didn’t you defend yourself?”

  “I don’t know. . . . I wanted to push everyone away. I wanted to be alone.” The girl’s voice trembled. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

  Frances slipped off the arm of the sofa and sat near Daisy’s knees. She could see the girl’s eyes, shining with unshed tears, in the dark. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Daisy. High school is hard. Life is hard. But you have a family that loves you, and in the end, that’s all that really matters.”

  Daisy’s voice was quiet. “You don’t really know us.”

  “I know your mom,” Frances said, with a hint of indignation. Though it had only been a couple of months, she knew her friendship with Kate was deep and genuine.

  “You might think you do.”

  Frances didn’t respond. Daisy was angry with her mom and trying to disparage her. The girl probably resented her parents for making her move, for fostering new friendships while Daisy was being ostracized. Mother-daughter issues were common, especially in the teen years. Frances’s relationship with her own mother was still tense, having never fully recovered from the horrific crisis they’d endured. Frances had needed her mom then, but the woman had emotionally abandoned her. Frances didn’t blame her, after what Frances had done, but the desertion still stung. She understood Daisy’s angst.

  “I know your mom loves you,” Frances finally said, not based on anything Kate had said or demonstrated, but because all parents loved their children. It was the most basic human instinct.

  Daisy said nothing, and Frances was suddenly unsure how to fill the awkward silence. “I should go,” she said, patting the girl’s denim-clad knee. “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m always here.”

  The girl sat up a little. “Do you mean that?”

  There was something so needy, so intense, in the child’s voice that Frances hesitated, for half a second, before she said, “Of course I do. I remember what it’s like to be your age. Here . . .” She reached down and picked up the girl’s phone from the floor next to the sofa. “Put my number in your phone.”

  Daisy tapped the digits into her contacts. “Thank you,” she said, setting the device next to her. “That means a lot.”

  Frances gave Daisy’s leg a squeeze and stood. “Go back to sleep,” she whispered, making her way toward the door. As she was stepping into her shoes, Daisy’s voice came through the darkness.

  “Please don’t tell my mom that we talked.”

  “I won’t,” Frances said automatically. She knew how to keep secrets.

  * * *

  The predawn walk home was silent, peaceful; even the constant hum of the freeway was muted at this hour. Frances’s house was a fifteen-minute stroll from the Randolphs’ neocolonial home. It wasn’t until she reached it that she realized she didn’t have a house key. Jason had driven them there and must have driven himself home once the effects of the marijuana had worn off. There was a spare key hidden in the backyard, under a metal watering can, but picking her way down the overgrown path beside the house in the dark, and rummaging through the yard in search of it, was a recipe for a twisted ankle at least. She rang the doorbell; she had no choice.

  After several minutes, a light flicked on inside, and she could see her husband’s mussed hair in the glass panes at the top of the door. It swung open to reveal Jason, in his dark blue robe, rumpled from sleep. He looked groggy and mildly perturbed.

  “I’m sorry to wake you,” Frances said, hurrying in out of the chilly morning. “I didn’t have a key.”

  “It’s okay,” he grumbled.

  “Go back to bed,” she said, kissing his cheek. “It’s still early.”

  Jason stretched his arms overhead. “I’m up now. I’ll make coffee.”

  Her husband shuffled to the kitchen as Frances removed her shoes and draped her coat over the banister near the door. She took a moment to survey her abode. In contrast to the Randolphs’ spacious, tasteful, and orderly home, the Metcalfe residence was small, cluttered, and chaotic. Their neutral sofa, sagging in the middle, the cushions fraying around the seams, housed two of Marcus’s hoodies and a blanket yanked from Frances and Jason’s bed. A dark wood coffee table was almost invisible under its toupee of remotes, mugs, video game cartridges, and spare change. The television sprouted a plethora of tangled cords attached to an Xbox and a number of other consoles, including a DVD player. (When was the last time they had watched a DVD? 2005?) On the floor, near her feet, an immersion blender, in its box, sat waiting to be returned to the store. Scrutinizing the mess, Frances suddenly felt motivated to get things in order, to de-clutter and pare down.

  But first . . . coffee.

  The late-autumn sun would not rise for another half hour, and with it, their boy would return home. Frances and her husband sat at their small kitchen table (one end relegated to unread newspapers, fitness magazines, school forms, and bills) and sipped their caffeine. They were both quiet and bleary, Jason in his robe, Frances in her slept-in clothing, drinking in silence. Finally, Jason spoke.

  “What was that about last night?”

  “What?”

  “Marcus is eleven, Frances. He’s old enough to spend the night at a friend’s. Especially when we know the parents.”

  Frances nodded. She knew he was right, rationally. But feelings weren’t rational, they were feelings. That didn’t make them wrong.

  “Our son has a few issues, but what kid doesn’t?”

  “Issues? He tried to get a classmate to drink his pee.”

  “When I was in seventh grade, Andrew Turnmill took a dump in a Girl Guide cookie box and planted it in our teacher’s desk.”

  “Ewww.”

  “I know. . . . But he turned out okay, in the end. I think he manages a Whole Foods in Denver.”

  “Remind me not to shop there.”

  “Marcus made a mistake and he understands that now. We don’t have to treat him like a toddler or a . . . breakable china doll.” Jason touched her fingers. “Why won’t you let him grow up?”

  Her partner was staring at her, and she
met his slightly bloodshot gaze. Looking into his sleepy, handsome face, she was tempted to tell him the truth. It would all make sense once he knew what she had been through, the pain and the ugliness and the guilt. It would be a relief to stop pretending, to stop hiding what she’d done. But she couldn’t risk it. Jason was too kind, too good, too moral. If he knew who she really was, he would leave her. He could never find out.

  “I was just stoned and paranoid,” she said. “I’m not going near pot again.”

  “Good plan.”

  “What went on after I went to bed?”

  “Not much.” Jason sipped his coffee, his dark eyes avoiding hers.

  “What?” she pressed.

  “Nothing. I just . . . got a weird vibe off Kate.”

  “What kind of weird vibe?”

  “It was like she was flirting with me. Right in front of Robert. It was pretty uncomfortable.”

  It was not uncommon for women to flirt with Frances’s attractive husband, but it was uncommon for him to notice. Jason, despite his swarthy good looks, was largely oblivious of his effect on other females.

  “Did Kate say something? Do something?”

  “Not really. It was just a vibe.”

  Frances thought about the moment she’d witnessed between Kate and Jason in the kitchen. Her friend had assured her it was innocent. Her mind flitted to that day at the waterfront restaurant. Kate had flirted so effortlessly with those salesmen, had even seemed to be flirting with Frances at one point.

  “I think Kate’s just the flirty type,” she said. “How did Robert react?”

  “He didn’t seem bothered by it. In fact, he seemed cool with it.”

  “You probably misread the signals. Because you were stoned.”

  “I guess.” He stood with his empty coffee cup. “Or maybe Robert and Kate are swingers.”

  “They’re not swingers,” Frances retorted. She considered herself a progressive, open-minded person. What consenting adults did behind closed doors was up to them. But she wasn’t entirely comfortable with her BFF being a swinger. Especially if her swinging sights were set on Frances’s husband.