by S. E. Grove
“Yeah.”
“It’s possible. But he might not. The first person who’s going to read it is a lawyer who represents me, and then she’s going to show it to a judge. My guess is that then Charlie’s lawyer will read it. But after that, who knows.” I shrugged. “He’s got a lot on his plate right now, like his father’s death and half an inheritance.” I left out the part about a homicidal brother.
She continued staring at the street for a few seconds, some unexpressed indecision playing at the edges of her eyes. Then abruptly she reached into the pocket of her sweatshirt and drew out a piece of paper folded in four. “Okay, here it is. I don’t remember a lot. I wrote what I could.”
“Thank you, Nicole,” I said, taking the paper. I held it up. “This is a lifesaver. So thank you, really.” She looked me straight in the eye then, and I saw a familiar weariness: the loop of fear and exhaustion, fear and exhaustion, fear and exhaustion.
She nodded at me. “Good luck to you.” She shut the glass door and shuffled off in her sweats and slippers toward the elevator.
For a few seconds I watched her go, and I thought about the scars Ruby had talked about. I knew that when I read Nicole’s statement, it would recount an event in the not-too-distant past, described dispassionately in broad strokes, with areas of stark precision and areas of stark omission. The wound had been ugly, but possible to ignore; it was the scars that hurt.
33
NATALIA
OCTOBER 15–4:30 A.M.
It was past four in the morning when we left Pill Hill and headed to the address June had given us in Piedmont. In silence, Joey drove up the winding roads, past the dark houses and the blooming gardens. Sprinklers shushed their precious store of water over the grass, camellias, and roses.
The judge’s house, a spacious bungalow with peach trim, was all alight. A maid answered the door and led us down a corridor with wisteria-themed wallpaper. She opened the door to the study, a square room lined with bookshelves and filled with pale furniture. A white sofa, two white armchairs, a white desk. The curtains and pillows were dotted with poppies. There were no books on the bookshelves, only curio pieces gathered from every corner of the world. A Chinese vase. A Swiss clock. An African mask.
Cass, Tabby, June, and Gao hovered by the desk around an older lady with bifocals. Judge Horn. Her black hair was a bowl cut that looked lacquered. She wore a velvet dressing gown, and her sharp nails were painted lilac. June had her reading a pile of papers a foot high. “I’ve seen this before,” the judge grumbled, setting it aside. She looked up at me and Joey as we approached the desk.
“Ah. The evidence has just walked in,” she said, baring something between a grin and a snarl. “You’re Natalia?”
I reached out across the desk to shake her knobby hand. “Natalia Peña, Judge Horn. Thank you for doing this, Your Honor.”
“I haven’t done anything yet,” she said. “It depends on what you’ve got in that little paw of yours.”
Wordlessly, I gave her the file folder with the three statements in it.
Judge Horn slapped it down on the table like an unruly animal and wrestled it open. Then she bent over the pages and murmured to herself as she read. Every now and then, a word emerged clearly from the constant stream. “Gutless . . . prison . . . fine time . . . cheek.” She fell abruptly silent as she read Nicole’s statement. She held up the rather crumpled piece of paper before her eyes, frowning fiercely. The fingers were bent and bony, but there was not even a whisper of a tremor. She put the paper down and looked at me over the bifocals. “You have met this person? Charles Philbrick?”
“I have, Your Honor.”
“And did you have a similar experience?”
“I did. Different outcome, but only by chance.”
She tapped a lilac fingernail against the papers and looked me over skeptically. “Something tells me it wasn’t chance.”
“I am perhaps more inclined to aggression than the usual house cleaner,” I conceded. “But with respect, what happened to me is not the point. There are at least seven other women with similar stories who weren’t available to give statements on such short notice. I hope even these three demonstrate a pattern.”
For a few seconds Judge Horn pondered, frowning at me over the bifocals. Then she slammed the folder shut again with the same air of combative unrest. “Damned right they do.” She scrabbled at the pile of papers that June had prepared. “You all understand that I can only challenge custody, I can’t alter it.”
June nodded. “We understand.” She glanced at me, at Cass and Tabby. “Your challenge will still need to be presented in court in San Francisco.”
Judge Horn was looking at me. “The judge in San Francisco will decide, ultimately, whether Charles is fit or not.”
I’d wanted more, but it would have to do. “I understand,” I said.
“Give me a pen so I can start signing and get back to bed.”
While June obligingly handed her a pen, the rest of us glanced at one another silently. Cass wasn’t counting her chickens yet, but Tabby allowed herself a smile of victory. Gao raised his eyebrows a fraction of an inch to celebrate the moment.
For several minutes the only voice was June’s, briefly introducing each document that she placed in front of Judge Horn. June looked tired. The tiny knots of hair close to her skull were as tidy as ever. She wore a suit and heels and light makeup. But I could see by the weight of her shoulders that she’d hardly slept in days. She was exhausted. “Sorry,” June said. “Next line.” She rubbed her temples briefly.
Tabby put her arm on her friend’s shoulder.
“We’re almost done,” June said, as much to herself as to the judge. “This is the affidavit that Cassandra and Tabitha Lawson have already signed.”
“Notarized?” the judge queried.
“Yes, of course.”
“Who’d you get to do that? Russell?”
“Polochenko.”
The judge cackled. “Ha. Bet he was happy to be dragged out of bed.”
“Russell is out of town for a training.”
“Hm, she’ll be sad she missed this fun.”
June lifted her eyebrows and sighed. “There was no better alternative.”
“Bring Polo a chocolate crepe tomorrow morning and he’ll forget all about it.”
“Thanks for the tip, Your Honor.”
The judge signed with a flourish and handed the sheet to June. “Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
Judge Horn pushed her chair back and rose creakily to her feet. She surveyed the room, looking at each of us in turn. Then she came over to me and patted my shoulder. “Good work, Peña.”
“Thank you again, Your Honor,” I said.
She shook her head. “I’m no magician. You’ve still got a few hurdles to jump.”
“I realize that.”
She studied me for a moment longer. “Go on, then,” she said. “See what you can do with that piece of paper.”
* * *
—
Once when Cal was three, I lost him. We were at the library. Mom was upstairs in nonfiction, and Cal and I were downstairs in children’s. The librarians had a glass cabinet filled with elephant miniatures, and Cal liked to stand in front of it gazing at their mismatched plenitude. Porcelain elephant with eyebrows. Purple elephant with gold earrings. Goofy elephant with too-small legs. There were easily a couple hundred of them. Cal stared and I sat on the floor near him, reading. Except when I looked up after what I thought was just a minute, he was gone. I stood up, not panicked yet, and looked for him. No Cal. I started to feel a winch of anxiety winding in my stomach. Anxiety and I were on good terms then. A near-constant companion, a hovering friend, a little too persistent. I walked over to the picture book section, calling, “Cal?” No Cal. Then I started getting frantic. I called his name, running down the short aisles and lo
oking at the other kids wildly, not really seeing them because all I could see was not Cal, and in this frenzy of calling and running, Mom appeared at the end of the aisle.
“What’s going on?”
“Cal is gone,” I said, the words bursting out of me, choking me on their way out. I was crying.
“Hm,” Mom said thoughtfully. Unfazed, she walked to the circulation desk. I followed her, tripping over myself. Mom explained to the librarian that a three-year-old was missing, and the librarian made an announcement that crackled over the speakers like a line in an ancient radio play. Calvino Peña, a three-year-old boy, is missing. If you see an unaccompanied child near you, please bring him to circulation downstairs. We stood and waited. In those minutes, my mind flung out a web of terrifying futures: police, mysterious phone calls, Cal kidnapped, Cal dead, me weeping inconsolably by the side of a grave. They shuffled and reshuffled, all incoherent and all certain of the doom that lay ahead. I turned to look over my shoulder at the elephant cabinet, wondering if I would forever think of that spot as the last place I’d ever seen him, and there he was. Standing just as he had been, with his nose pressed to the glass. He was only lost for a few minutes, but it had felt like an eternity.
* * *
—
Rather than pile like clowns into Cass’s car, Joey and I rode with Gao, and June rode with Cass and Tabby. There was no traffic on the bridge. Inside Gao’s car, we were mostly silent. I could feel Gao wanting to ask about Philbrick, but he seemed to have decided not to say anything until we knew what was happening with Cal.
I trusted June, and I knew she’d use the legal challenge for all it was worth. But it still seemed like a thousand things could go wrong. I had the nickel-sized decal in my bag, just in case.
34
NATALIA
OCTOBER 15—5:37 A.M.
We left the coupe and the police car in the deserted street and walked through the damp air to the shimmering RealCorp building, all one hundred decals on the windows lighting up the night with their beautiful blonde woman and her eight-second catharsis. On the ground floor, the lobby was bright.
The first thing to go wrong was the reception. Glout wasn’t there. Nor were the friendly models. Instead, we found a rugby player in a security uniform staring at the doorway, trying not to move his arms so his muscles wouldn’t burst the seams of his sleeves. I told him I was there to see Hugh Glout and he said, by way of nonanswer, “You’re expected in the boardroom.”
He turned and walked toward the elevators, and we, after exchanging glances, followed. The elevator ride was silent. A minute later we were walking down a wide corridor on the top floor; it seemed more art gallery than pharmaceutical company. I’m pretty sure I recognized a Rothko. And maybe a Lichtenstein. The heavy carpet swallowed up our footsteps. Halfway down, the walls turned to glass.
Opening a door to the left, the rugby player ushered us into a glass-walled sitting room with leather sofas the color of butter. Another security guard with a crooked nose and lidded eyes stood by, protecting the furniture. Beyond the sitting room, behind yet another glass wall, was the boardroom: long, with dark wood and a gorgeous view of San Francisco at night. Twelve men, four women, and three unassuming secretaries sat around the table, reading silently, poised to take notes, or clumped in pairs, conferring. One of the men was Glout.
Only Glout looked up as we reached the sitting room, and he gave me a look I couldn’t read. Knotted eyebrows, tight lips. His papery skin was blotchy; his arms rested unnaturally on the table as if he had to hold himself in place. After we’d waited silently for two minutes in the buttery sitting room, a man with peppered hair and a pale blue button-down glanced up at us, spoke to the secretary beside him, and returned to the perusal of documents. The secretary got up from the table and came out to meet us.
As she opened the door, I caught a whiff of the stillness in the boardroom. No conversation. No scribbling or typing. Only tension. And concentration. The secretary wore a silk tie-neck blouse and a pinstripe skirt. She closed the glass door behind her and looked us over, blinking a few times. I couldn’t really blame her. Gao the prizefighter, arms crossed; Cass and Tabby, who happened to be both wearing black, so they looked like vengeful mimes; and Joey and I still dressed for a night out at the speakeasy. We did look a little ridiculous. Fortunately we had June, who was perfectly suited to the occasion. She stepped forward, the delegate for the clown crew.
“June Johnson, attorney for Cassandra and Tabitha Lawson. I am here to present the RealCorp board with papers signed by Judge Merle Horn of Alameda County. We are challenging the custodianship of Calvino Peña, whom Judge Horn advises be returned to the Lawsons.” She held out a fat stack of papers. “I think you’ll find that the materials demonstrating Charles Philbrick’s unsuitability as a custodian are incontestable and potentially quite damaging, should it be necessary to rely upon them for proceedings beyond these. We could avoid a more public process in San Francisco if Judge Horn’s recommendations were taken now.”
The secretary pressed her lips together, polite demurral stopping just short of disdain. “Ms. Johnson, if you would follow me.” She looked sideways and over our heads, as if trying to spare her eyeballs any further unpleasantness. “The rest of you may wait here.”
June swept into the force field of the boardroom, and the rest of us stood around like jilted teenagers until we drifted, one by one, onto the buttery sofas.
I can’t read lips. So I just watched June hand over the papers to the man with the peppered hair. He passed them without a glance to the silk tie-neck. June was still talking, her hand motions polite, explanatory, concise. She tilted her head slightly for a final nod. Old Pepper leaned back in his chair and spoke slowly. Extending a hand in explanation, he gestured to Glout, still sitting rigidly at his end of the table. June glanced at Glout. Her eyes lingered, then shifted back to Old Pepper. He finished what he was saying. June asked a question.
“This isn’t going as planned,” Gao said. I looked over at him. He was leaning forward, elbows on knees, staring down the boardroom as if burning a hole through the glass.
“What’s wrong?” Tabby asked quickly.
“I’m not sure,” Gao replied.
“They must want to take it to court,” Cass said.
I glanced up at the two security guards, who stood at either side of the glass door that led to the corridor. There was a deliberate looseness to how they stood. Too deliberate.
When I looked back into the boardroom, June was looking down at Old Pepper with her chin lifted. What was that? Defiance? I didn’t have a chance to speculate further, because Silk Tie-Neck stood up and gestured to the door. June didn’t argue. As she came out into the sitting room, she met my eye, but I didn’t understand a thing.
“Miss Natalia Peña?” the secretary asked, holding the door open as she looked at me.
I stood up. “Yes.”
“Dr. Hugh Glout would like a word with you.”
I followed her, conscious of the silence behind me, of June not speaking and the rest of them waiting. Waiting for the door to close.
It clicked closed behind me. The room smelled of clashing aftershaves and printer ink. Silk Tie-Neck padded around to her seat and sank into her chair. I looked at Glout, who was staring at the dark wood table, an oversized coffin with beveled brass at the edges. I looked at Old Pepper, who was reading something. He put the paper down and raised his eyes, his face expressionless. “Miss Peña, before you leave, Dr. Glout wanted to pass on some of the test results.” He glanced at Glout. “I’m not sure why, but that’s his prerogative.”
“Let’s try this again,” I said, taking a few steps forward so I was a little too close to the table. A few of the people sitting around it looked up at me. “My name is Natalia Peña. What’s yours?”
Old Pepper raised an eyebrow. No supercilious smile, just the eyebrow. “I’m afraid I don’t ha
ve time for lengthy introductions. We’re facing considerable time constraints this morning, Miss Peña.”
“Not lengthy. Just a name will do. Unlike you, I don’t have the benefit of omniscience.”
Before he could answer, Glout cleared his throat noisily and stood up. Now I could see what it was. The blotchy skin, the tight lips. He was nervous. “Nat, this is Ellis Ayles, one of RealCorp’s senior board members.”
“Thank you,” I said, giving Ayles a pointed look. He missed it, because he was already looking down at his fat stack of papers.
Glout cleared his throat again. “Nat, I wanted to tell you a few things about Calvino’s test results.” He was holding something in his hand. A scrap of gray cloth, something cheap made of jersey, and he kneaded it with his bony fingers. As he spoke, his breathing caught and he swallowed. Glout was not just nervous. He was near panic.
I felt a dim awareness at the far edge of my brain. Gao’s warning about plans derailed, June’s chin lifted in defiance, Glout’s shaking nerves. Something was very wrong. I couldn’t see what it was yet. But I felt it, like a high-pitched whine that you suddenly notice, realizing it’s been going on now for a while.
“What about Cal’s results?” I asked carefully, holding my eyes firm on Glout.
“I wanted you to know that in the last test he did in my lab he scored 1012.” His eyes dove down to the table for a moment and his whole face flushed red. “A perfect score.”
I wasn’t following. He was saying something important but I just didn’t understand what it was. “What does that mean? Perfect how?”
Glout took a deep breath. “If he’d had the key,” he said, “he couldn’t have scored any better.”
“Okay,” I said. It still meant nothing to me. I glanced at Ayles, who was reading again. No answers there.
“It’s a test I designed myself,” Glout went on, a little more steadily. “A test that scores empathy. Cal was, you could say, a perfect empath.”