Little Voices

by Lillie, Vanessa

  The unattributed quotes were picked up in other articles as “neighborhood perceptions,” whatever that means. For a couple news cycles in the first week, national tabloids ran Phillip’s articles, adding the “hot nanny” quotes and photos. Going viral meant Phillip had little control over the coverage. That was when he changed gears.

  Phillip is featured in a special edition of Good Day RI. This half-hour news talk show normally includes local interests: a chef sharing her shrimp scampi recipe or an anchor stomping grapes at the South County wine festival. But two weeks after the unsolved murder, Phillip appears to have pitched a whole show focused on the murder, with him in the driver’s seat.

  I click on the video and turn up the volume. After the lead-in, Phillip is sitting in the guest chair, looking sharp in his dark suit and hipster glasses. I watch Good Day RI regularly, the cohosts smiley and upbeat, the man bald and woman blonde, both white. It’s not every day they have a black male guest join them and even rarer that it’s someone breaking news about a local murder.

  Ester begins to whine, and I hurry over to rock her bouncer. She’ll need to be fed soon, but I get her calm enough to continue.

  Phillip runs through the evidence, teasing the breaking news of a tape. But first there’s footage of the Mathers home, three stories and imposing, before the video shows the other large houses along Cole Avenue. Then there’s a long shot of Belina’s house, which I’ve never seen. Her apartment is located on the west side of Hope, close to busy North Main Street. Phillip explains to non–Rhode Islanders, national producers in particular, the subtext East Siders already know.

  The shot pans to more weathered and less pristine places. “The closer you get to North Main, there are fewer single-family homes. Instead houses are split, floor by floor, into apartments.”

  Phillip wants to be clear that Belina was a renter. She was pretty but poor, working for a family in the right kind of East Side neighborhood while she lived on the wrong side of Hope Street.

  The male anchor is full of theories, noting on the map how a boat could have come up the river if the cemetery were closed. They’ve obviously never been there. There are at least a half dozen ways someone could get to where Belina was murdered, including two walking paths. But, yeah, maybe a boat.

  The blonde anchor asks, with a deep, serious voice, who would want to harm a nanny. That’s the moment I see something click for Phillip. He needs a villain.

  “If she had a lot of boyfriends, as some suggest,” he begins, pushing his black-framed glasses up his nose, “one of them may have been jealous.”

  I nearly throw my computer. It’s bad enough that internet trolls are lying about Belina and Alec, but we certainly don’t need our journalists gossiping on air. Phillip knows better.

  You’re so arrogant to assume you know anything at all.

  On to the last segment, with the breaking news of a tape. Working with the media was a small part of being an attorney in DC, particularly when I was working a high-profile case. Best guess, this tape got Phillip the meeting with the Good Day RI executive producer. But the end goal would be to parlay this local half-hour segment into an advertisement for national news producers about what an excellent guest Phillip Hale could be. This could be very good news for both of us.

  I’m impressed with this move. Phillip may have been forced out of the media game for a little while, relegated to being a basement blogger with a few hundred clicks a week, but now he is back.

  He’ll come for you too.

  After a short lead-in, the video plays. It’s dark, and the time stamp reads 6:07 p.m. The footage is slightly grainy and mostly dark colors, giving the effect of The Blair Witch Project. If Phillip had somehow been given the choice of full-color HD, he’d still have gone with this version.

  There is a woman in the distance at the center of the shot. She strolls across the frame toward a side road. I’m holding my breath because I don’t need to see her face to know how she stands, the way she tosses her long hair as it blows in the wind.

  And you’ll never see her again.

  Phillip’s voice-over begins, his tone serious and solemn. Neither anchor interrupts; it’s now his show.

  “Belina Cabrala entered Swan Point Cemetery on the East Side of Providence after it was closed for the night. She wandered alone in the growing dark. Here we see Belina walking toward a gazebo that overlooks the river. It’s a quarter mile from where she will be murdered within hours.”

  Murdered and alone.

  You could have done something once.

  She trusted the wrong person.

  The camera zooms closer, and she is standing at the center of the gazebo. Her silhouette is dark against the setting sun’s brightness, fading into the long line of the riverbank in the distance. Her hair continues to blow in the wind until she tucks it inside the jacket she’s wearing. It’s oversize on her shoulders, and I know she didn’t have it on when I saw her that afternoon. In fact, I’ve never seen her in it before. It was so warm that day. Why wear it? I see her nuzzle the shoulder, and then it clicks. That’s Alec’s jacket.

  Phillip continues. “We’ll never know her final thoughts before she met her death. Belina seemed to have had a lonely life or, at the very least, a mysterious one. Most of her life was in Newport, living with her mother off and on while her father was never in the picture. Her social media had no photos of friends, and none have come forward since her death. Some say she had many boyfriends, but they also remain elusive. Who would a young woman meet in a secluded cemetery after dark? What kind of encounter did she expect? Why would they need such privacy?”

  I roll my eyes at his lazy reporting, the “hot nanny” narrative being picked up even by him.

  The footage continues, and Belina turns to face the camera, her jaw set, her eyes determined as if she’s made a choice. She stands up straighter, heading toward the river. Where she’ll die.

  She wanted your help.

  You didn’t even try to stop her.

  Tears slide down my cheeks, and I have to hold my breath to get control. I fight these emotions. Fight this voice. Ester and exhaustion give them dominion again.

  It takes a bit of focused breathing, but I’m back to the video. The segment cuts to the wide-eyed anchors, visions of New England Emmy Awards dancing in their heads. Phillip, in his nice suit and tie, hipster glasses, and deprecating grin, played this all just right.

  I head to my whiteboard and add Phillip to my growing list of areas of inquiry. But not as a suspect. As my only way forward.

  Across a bridge you burned.

  Before I return to my desk, I text Phillip, asking to meet. Preferably at our old spot.

  Chapter 7

  It’s completely dark in the house when I open my eyes, which are burning from too little sleep. A key is turning in the back door lock, and Jack’s shoes echo on the hardwood floor.

  He’ll know what you’ve been up to.

  Breaking your promise.

  Obsessing over cases again.

  I slowly sit up on the couch in the living room, where I moved to give Ester a bottle. She fell asleep on my chest, and I joined her soon after.

  I whisper for him to be quiet as he turns on a lamp. His shoes thump onto the floor, and he heads over to us. After first kissing my forehead, he gently takes Ester and disappears upstairs. Most evenings, he puts her to bed. She falls asleep much easier for him. If only she’d stay that way for more than a couple hours at a time.

  It’s almost eight p.m., a little late for dinner, but Jack texted he’d be hungry, and I said we’d make something together.

  I head to the kitchen because cooking is the right place to channel my anxiety about Alec. It’s also where Jack and I fight, and that’s coming too.

  I turn on the lights to illuminate our kitchen, nicely updated but not especially big or modern. Everything is within a few steps, except the small alcove with a table and two chairs. I can see an older Ester there whizzing through her math homework,
a brother and maybe a sister pestering her as they fight over the last slice of carrot cake, freshly baked.

  Belina will never have that family.

  You could have helped her, but you didn’t.

  I stare at the ceiling light, blinking back tears, trying to focus on how to bring up Alec’s problems. With him in mind, I ask Alexa to play Radiohead, Kid A.

  As the soft opening beats of “Everything in Its Right Place” thrum, I take the garlic from the window ledge. I crack off five large cloves and smack each of them harder than required with the side of a large knife before slicing them thin. What I don’t use in the sauce I’ll drop into butter I’m melting for the garlic bread.

  I fill our spaghetti pot with water. Jack walks into the room as I turn up the flame. He’s changed into sweatpants and a ratty Georgetown hoodie. When I saw him in it for the first time, we were in law school, and he showed up at my apartment in the sweatshirt, then brand new, bright navy-blue with letters white and crisp. I rolled my eyes, explained wearing your own college’s shirt is like going to a concert with the band’s shirt on.

  He frowned, and I said, “Anyway, what’s the big deal? It’s not like we’re at Harvard.”

  That got a laugh, which was my aim.

  “My uncle Cal sent it, so I have to wear it.”

  “But he’ll never know,” I said. “He’s all the way up in Providence.”

  Jack shrugged one shoulder, his cheeks flushing a little as he said, “Yeah, but I’ll know.”

  I never teased him about it again. I’d have married him in it.

  Jack steps into the kitchen and kisses my cheek before heading over to the wine fridge.

  “We’re cooking together, huh?” he says on a pause. Then he pulls out the Chianti we first tried during our honeymoon in Italy, and we grin at each other.

  “We are cooking,” I say, handing him the corkscrew. “And talking about Alec.”

  He sighs and opens the wine before taking two glasses out of the cabinet to fill them. He hands me one, and we raise them at each other and both take long sips.

  He wishes you were your old self.

  We only fight while cooking. We’ve done this many times, chopping together while airing grievances or a slight that we can’t let go. Working side by side, stirring and tasting together. Somehow, putting together a meal, helping each other chop or season, talking things through, and finally sitting down with our shared victory makes a peaceful table.

  I’d like to claim the idea as mine, but it’s something Jack observed growing up, from his uncle Cal, who’s very “involved” in Rhode Island politics. Uncle Cal would invite opponents or conspirators over to his house to cook, drink, and eat together until eventually the guest acquiesced to whatever was on his agenda. In fact, Uncle Cal cooked with me once, when we first moved here, convinced me to take on a couple cases for him. Over lamb chops, he confessed he needed someone like me.

  Uncle Cal cut into his bloody-as-hell lamb and said, “You’ve got three things I need.” He held up a pinky. “The myopic obsession of a prosecutor.” He chewed a bite, and the ring finger followed. “The ability to follow the money, also very important, but not as important as”—he lifted his middle finger to indicate number three—“very few scruples.”

  I started to protest, genuinely disagreeing, but he silenced me with the hand still displaying the three fingers.

  “These characteristics are the only reason I gave Jack my blessing to marry you. We can make him governor at the very least.”

  “The suspense is killing me,” Jack says, bringing me back to him. He tops off my wine. “How’s Alec?”

  “About as good as the prime suspect could be.” I set the glass down. “You could have said.”

  He swallows thickly and starts peeling the onions. I hand him the large knife I used on the garlic. He’s halfway done chopping before he pauses and sets the knife down. “This case is breaking my heart.”

  He needs you.

  You’re pushing him away.

  Just like before.

  I straighten up, crossing my arms. “Then why don’t you help him?”

  “Because I don’t know if he’s innocent, Dev.”

  “If you talked to him,” I say softly, remembering the exhaustion, the anguish on Alec’s face. “If you looked into his eyes.”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t get involved. The detective on the case is a smart man. He’ll find the right person.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s a pretty naive view.”

  “Is it?” He begins chopping again. “Hey, Mayor, you know the murder investigation grabbing all the headlines and making us look inept? Mind if we pressure the cops to stop looking at the prime suspect? He’s an old college buddy of mine.”

  “Alec is really alone,” I begin, picturing him on the lawn with the wastebasket. “Everyone is against him. He steps out of his house, and there are bags of shit on his lawn.”

  “I noticed that on my run the other morning,” Jack says quietly. He slides the diced pieces into the bowl with the garlic. “I understand why that would strike a nerve. Alec’s situation is not yours.”

  I take a shaky breath and dump the bowl into the pan. The garlic and onions sizzle in the olive oil. Of course Alec’s situation is different than what I faced as a girl, but there are similar threads through both. The isolation and feeling of being ostracized. “We’re both innocent,” I say.

  Are you so sure?

  Were you really innocent?

  Why were you the only one they wanted to leave?

  “Devon.” Jack takes my elbow, pulling me close. “They found Alec’s DNA at the crime scene and on her coat.”

  I think back to Phillip’s video and how surprised I was that she was wearing a bulky coat on that warm night. “I’ve never seen her wearing it before.” I throw my hunch out there. “I think it’s Alec’s.”

  His eyebrows go up. “How do you know what jacket she had on?”

  “I saw her wearing it on the video Phillip played on Good Day RI.”

  “Christ,” he says and heads over to the refrigerator. He gets out the two packages of meat. “Did you review all the coverage?”

  Instead of waiting for an answer he knows, he rips open the white paper and dumps the meat into a bowl. “There’s too much evidence. You can’t start digging . . . not like last time.”

  You’re breaking what little was mended.

  He should have left you crazy and jobless in DC.

  “Alec told me about the blood in the trunk,” I say too sharply, realizing I’m hurt he kept so much from me. I take a deep breath to keep myself from saying something nasty. I add chopped mushrooms to the sizzling skillet. “Misha said Belina scraped her arm on the stroller when she was putting it in the trunk.”

  “Who’s naive now?” he says. He shoves up his sleeves to knead the chopped Portuguese sausage with the hamburger meat.

  “The detective,” I say as if I haven’t researched the lead investigator, Detective Frank Ramos, as thoroughly as possible this evening. After I sent a text to Phillip, I even called an old contact at the police department. He said Detective Ramos was a twenty-year veteran who kept his head down. He’d hardly worked any murder cases until catching this one. “The detective is dragging it out. He doesn’t like Alec for it.”

  The little phrase feels good hanging in the air. It’s something cops would say when I worked at the Sex Offense and Domestic Violence Section of Washington, DC’s US Attorney’s Office. I interned there all through law school, and it was the only job I applied for after graduation. I understood how detectives worked. Why the good ones would drag their feet in an investigation when something wasn’t right. Go back and find more witnesses. Interview the suspect again. So the charges would stick. So the right person would go to jail.

  The charges didn’t always stick. Our office was infamous for not taking as many cases to trial as we should have. “He said / she said” bureaucratic bullshit. After watching rapist after ra
pist after child molester never even see the inside of a courtroom, I began to take the burden of proof and “beyond a reasonable doubt” into my own hands.

  As if someone like you could make a difference.

  When your whole life is nothing but paying for sins that can never be forgiven.

  It started small, getting someone to hack into the computers, steal a few bank records. But then I needed more. So I started stalking violent offenders out on bail to seedy motels. Sleeping in my car outside an accused pedophile’s home. Harassing bowling buddies and joining Bible study to find more witnesses or corroborate the victim’s testimony.

  Justice at any cost, including my safety and sanity, proved too much. And after my boss refused to move forward with prosecuting a human sex-trafficking ring, I leaked confidential information to the press. No one else had access to those files. I knew it’d be my job on the line, but I didn’t care. What’s a career when you see a room of abused women chained to the floor? Have to look them in the eyes, see that familiar broken gaze, and say you don’t have enough evidence to prosecute?

  I was almost disbarred. Jack convinced me to leave my dream / waking nightmare job that would certainly destroy me.

  He should have left you then.

  He regrets it now.

  Regrets this whole awful life you’ve built.

  “We have to have lines and to stay within them,” Jack insisted. I promised I always would.

  So we got married, Jack got a great job as chief of staff for the mayor’s office, and we moved to Providence. I started doing freelance business fraud cases, like the Anderson indictment. And until I started working for Uncle Cal, life was as normal and happy as I’d ever experienced.

  You’ll never experience it again.

  I finish stirring the drained pasta into the sauce, thinking of all I’ve gained, not just postcollege but from Kansas forward. I can keep to the lines Jack drew for us, to preserve the life we have since built.