“That’s it!” Glenda Craft, loud and angry. “Time-out. We’re taking a break.”
“We’re not taking a break until I finish this line of questioning.”
“No, we need a break, and we’re taking one right now!”
“I’m not going to allow you to take a break and go off the record until I finish this line of inquiry.”
“Come on, Rachel, let’s go.”
Rachel looked uncertainly at her lawyer and slowly got up, walking off to the left of the camera. Now all Juliana could see was an empty side of the conference table and a white wall. The time code kept racing along.
Madden raised his voice. “If you guys get up now, I’m going to suspend the deposition, and I’m going to go to court and file a motion.”
Craft: “Do what you want. Come on, Rachel, let’s confer out in the hall.”
Madden: “I am suspending this deposition based on improper conduct by the plaintiff’s counsel, and I intend to file a motion to ask the court to intervene and instruct the plaintiff’s lawyer to allow me to conduct this deposition as I’m allowed under our rules of civil procedure, without improper coaching and interruptions.”
The blank table, the white wall stayed on-screen for another ten seconds, and then it went dark.
She understood why the defense lawyer was pissed off: he was on a roll, he’d gotten the plaintiff in a corner and wanted to keep her there. And the plaintiff’s lawyer, Glenda Craft, had in fact been coaching the witness. In her objection to Madden’s question, about what Rachel wore that night at Madrigal, she’d all but supplied Rachel’s answer. On the other hand, she shouldn’t have interrupted the deposition, taking a break while a question was pending and meeting with her client. You didn’t do that.
Juliana figured she’d wait for the plaintiff’s lawyer to submit her opposition, and then she’d make a ruling quickly, which meant within the week.
She ejected the disk and packed up her files. She had a meeting at Jake’s school to get to. Her regular life went on.
* * *
—
Duncan picked her up outside the courthouse for the conference with Jake’s math teacher. They’d decided to go together.
She got in, said, “Hi.” Wary.
Duncan said, “Hi.” Same.
They avoided each other’s eyes. Juliana watched the road.
Duncan’s 2014 Prius was littered with coffee cups and empty Diet Coke cans. The cans rattled around, sliding front to back and side to side as he drove. For a long time, she listened to the uneven clatter. Once again she was distracted by that obsessive part of her brain that kept cycling. She kept seeing the dead body of Matías Sanchez. The man with the shaved head and the steel-rim glasses: Greaves, and his terrifying threats. Trooper Markowski and—what was his name, she’d forgotten. What would happen to that video that Matías had shown her, the blackmail video?
“Doing okay?” Duncan said.
“I’m okay,” she said. She was grateful he asked about her.
“Do we have a strategy here?”
“I don’t even know what’s going on with Jake in math. Did he tell you? He wouldn’t tell me. He said he didn’t know how he’s doing.”
“Oh, he knows.”
“Does he?”
“I’m sure. But he won’t tell me either.”
“Wild guess: not so good.”
A long silence passed. She started thinking again about the police and what they wanted. She hated being this scattered and willed herself to think about Jake and his damned math class. “Has he been doing his homework?” she asked.
“I assume so. He goes upstairs to his room and puts on his headphones and taps away at the keyboard. Sometimes I hear him talking on the phone.”
Another long silence.
Then she said, “He hasn’t stopped vaping, has he?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t smell pot, but you wouldn’t, with a vape pen, right?”
“That’s right.”
Another pause.
“So our son is vaping to take the edge off, and lo and behold, he’s flunking math. I guess that’s taking the edge off, all right.”
Duncan rolled his eyes.
Sometimes, she thought, Duncan acted more like his son’s pal than his father. But he was a warm and loving father, and that was the most important thing. He was born and bred to it: he came from a big and loving Italian family, where (at least as she imagined it) there was always a pot of marinara bubbling on the stove. He and his brothers and sisters bickered constantly but always came through for one another.
The Espositos could not have been more different from the Brodys. Her mother practically mainlined her martinis after work every night. Her father was what today you’d call emotionally unavailable. He was an articulate man, a brilliant teacher, but he rarely spoke at home except to complain about the administration at the school where he taught. A general fug of disappointment always surrounded him. He was always working on his novel, which no one ever saw. It was never published, and as far as Juliana knew, it was never completed. All he’d say about it was that it was “literary.” He was recessive, a shrinking violet: always removed, always distracted. He was barely even there. He emerged from his shell only to grouse about something. Follow his rules and leave him alone.
Her mother only drank at home, never at work, or so she insisted. But she drank a lot at home. To the extent that dinner would usually burn in the oven. Twice she’d almost burned down the house. It got so bad that Juliana started making dinner. Then, since her mother always slept late, Juliana had to start making Calvin’s lunches every morning. She remembered putting in those little red boxes of raisins for him instead of the fun-size Kit Kat bars left over from Halloween, being the responsible mom-type figure; she also remembered Calvin’s howls of protest. There were plenty of times when she wanted to go into a sulk, to throw a fit, to act like a kid. To be a moody adolescent. But that felt like a luxury she couldn’t afford. That they couldn’t afford.
Everything in the Brody house went unsaid; everything was distant and swaddled in batting. She’d grown used to the silences.
She’d looked at her parents’ lives and thought: I want no part of that. Her dad, desperately unhappy and unloved in his job. Her mom, living in a world of pretend. And then if you rebelled against them, like Calvin, you got yourself killed.
So it was Duncan’s family-centric warmth that had really attracted her to him, even more than his brown eyes and his long lashes and his perfect butt. More than his passion, his intellectual stubbornness. In a way, it came down to how much he loved his mother.
Jake’s math teacher, Mr. Wertheim, was a clumsy, overweight man in his late twenties with thick glasses and an inability to look you in the face. Juliana had forgotten what his first name was. He was just Mr. Wertheim. He opened the door to the classroom with a surprised look that implied that he’d forgotten they were coming. The classroom was otherwise empty. They sat in chairs with tablet arm desks, facing one another. Mr. Wertheim cleared his throat and looked down at the desktop. He wore a green tartan plaid shirt. His big belly barely fit behind the desk. He traced a figure eight on the desk with his index finger and cleared his throat and said, “Um, I think Jake is a really smart kid with a lot of potential, but he’s failing math.”
“Failing?” Juliana said.
“The last three tests he’s gotten an F. And he hasn’t turned in the last six homework assignments.”
Juliana looked at Duncan, who looked rattled. “What can he do about it?” Duncan said, ever the optimist.
“That’s the thing. I don’t know. I’ve offered to stay after school to work with him, but he has yet to take me up on it. I figured he’d have time after school since he’s quit the soccer team.”
* * *
—
As t
hey left the classroom, Juliana said, “He quit soccer?”
“I’m stunned. Jesus.”
“Wow. So what’s he doing after school every day?”
He was silent for a beat. “Not his math homework, clearly.” He laughed painfully.
They walked for a while in silence. Outside the building they said hi to Jake’s history teacher, Ms. Howland. Juliana wondered whether he was flunking history too. She looked at her watch. “We’re fifteen minutes early to pick him up. From whatever he’s doing. You want to wait with me?”
“I do. Thanks.”
They sat on the wooden bench outside the main entrance, where kids waited for their parents.
She said, “Our son’s flunking math, and we’re flunking parenthood.”
After a long silence, they both started talking at the same time. “You know,” Duncan said as she said, “Can I say something?” and then “Go ahead.”
Finally Duncan collected himself. “I’m not ready for you to come home yet,” he said. “We built something together—it’s not me and it’s not you, it’s something else, and maybe we have a responsibility to it. Now, I’m not the perfect husband, I know that. This isn’t all on you.”
“Thanks,” she said. “But it kinda is.”
He hesitated. “Yeah, it kinda is,” he said, and he smiled. A pause. “So we’ll talk to him?”
“Whatever good that does. He keeps telling me soccer is ‘fine,’ and he doesn’t elaborate, but that’s sort of typical of the way he is these days, with me anyway.”
A few minutes later, her phone rang. It was Martie Connolly. “I just got a heads-up,” she said. “The two police detectives are on their way. When do you think you’ll be back?”
Her stomach knotted. “Give me half an hour,” she said.
Jake showed up a while later, his heavy backpack looped over his right shoulder, his big headphones around his neck.
“How was soccer?” Juliana and Duncan said in unison, unintentionally.
Jake looked from one to the other, realizing something was up. “I didn’t go to soccer,” he admitted.
Gently, Juliana said, “What’d you do, Jake?”
“I worked in the library.”
“Uh-huh.” She didn’t persist, because she was fairly certain he was lying.
They were all getting much too good at that.
“We need to talk,” Juliana said.
37
She tried Lyft, but the app said there were no drivers available and she didn’t want to be late for the interview with the detectives. So she requested a Wheelz black car, and the app said the driver, whose name was Mohammed, would be arriving in seven minutes. Gradually the time counted down to one minute and then “arriving now,” and a moment later a black BMW 7 Series limousine pulled up to the curb. It glinted in the watery light of dusk. She said good-bye to her husband and son and got into the back of the car.
She greeted Mohammed. The BMW smelled new. She sat back and tried to relax, checking her e-mail on her phone. The sedan pulled into the rush-hour traffic on Beacon Street.
Jake had been understandably defensive. He said his math teacher was “overreacting” and that he promised he’d do better in math. No, he didn’t want a tutor. He apologized for “kinda lying” about going to soccer practice, but he was doing homework in the library and working on a “project” that he didn’t want to talk about.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t been particularly engaged during their talk with him. She’d been far too distracted. She kept mulling over what the state trooper had said. A couple things have come up.
That could be any number of things. He had sounded reasonable and accommodating, but that was the pose of a guy with a winning hand. It made her nervous.
“Judge Brody, it’s time,” the driver said.
She looked up. Surely she had misheard him. For an instant she wondered how the hell he knew she was a judge. As far as he knew, her name was Juliana, no last name. That was the most information Wheelz gave the driver, the passenger’s first name and a number, the average score other drivers had given her.
Then she recognized the man’s face, and an electric charge crackled down her spine. Greaves.
“Pull over,” she said. “Now.”
“I’m afraid we have something to discuss.”
“I have nothing to say to you. Pull over.”
“My employers are running out of patience. You’ve already hit your deadline. Tell me why we should give you any more time.”
“I have nothing to say to you.” She grabbed at the door handle and tried to yank it open, without success. She tried again. It was locked from the inside.
“You think you’re calling the shots, but you’re not.”
“Are you?” She inhaled sharply. Her heart was racing.
“I’m a messenger. Nothing more.”
“I know who you are. You’re Donald James Greaves, dishonorably discharged from the Marines twelve years ago for assaulting your commanding officer. Employed by Fidelis Integrated Security for eight years. You’ve lived in Jacksonville, North Carolina, and Memphis. You’re certified, level two, in Russian kettlebells, you take Lipitor for high cholesterol, and I know who you took to your high school senior prom.”
Greaves was silent for several seconds.
“So pull the goddamned car over and let me out now.”
“We’re almost finished, Judge. Plus, we’ll be arriving at your destination in a few minutes.”
“We’re finished.”
“I think you need me to explain your situation. As clearly as possible. You have not been cooperative, and my employers are not happy about this. So the requirements have escalated. Listen to me closely, please. The defense will be filing a motion for summary judgment. You will respond in the usual way. You’ll schedule an oral argument, you will take the motion under advisement, and then you will issue a written decision granting that motion, thereby ending the case. This will all happen quickly: once the defense files the motion, you will have no more than a week to grant it.”
“And if I deny the motion?”
“First up would be a scandal that totally incinerates your career.”
“Maybe I can live with that.”
“Oh, but that’s the thing. You can’t. After a very public disgrace like that? No one’s going to question your decision.”
“My decision.”
“You’ll have it easy. It’s your husband and your children—they’re going to have to live with it. You—who knows how it happens. Is it an overdose of pills? A leap out the window of a tall building? Suicide by motor vehicle, like your brother? Do you want to write it, or shall I?”
“What the hell are you talking about? Write what?”
“Your suicide note.” He was silent for a beat. “You have some pondering to do.”
38
The two detectives gawked at the view as they entered Martie’s condo. They all shook hands. Juliana smiled at them politely while her mind raced through her horrifying exchange with Greaves. Detective Markowski, the state trooper, was wearing a mismatched suit: a blue jacket and lighter blue pants. Detective Krieger, the Boston policeman, was the nattier dresser, in a sharp gray suit with a purple tie, looking like a network anchorman.
Lucy, the Jack Russell terrier, growled at them, sitting alert. As if she sensed their hostility.
Martie showed them to her living room and offered them coffee, which Krieger declined but Markowski accepted gratefully. While Martie went to her kitchen to prepare the coffee, the two cops made awkward small talk with Juliana. They understood they couldn’t ask Juliana anything of substance until her attorney returned with the coffee.
Once Detective Markowski had his coffee, cream with two Splendas, Martie sat at a high-backed chair and folded her arms. She had a large presence, even though she wa
s petite. When she walked into a room, you noticed her.
“It’s good to meet you,” she said. “I’m Martha Connolly. You probably don’t remember that I was chief justice of the Supreme Judicial Court back in the day.”
“Of course we do, Your Honor,” said Markowski.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” added Krieger.
“Now, Judge Brody is not only my client today, but she’s an old, dear friend. She’s one of the finest judges I know, and not just in Massachusetts. She is a woman of impeccable character. But you know what they say, a lawyer who represents herself has a fool for a client, and Judge Brody is no fool.” Both detectives were watching her closely. “In light of her stature as a public figure and the sensitivity of this matter, I’m here to be sure that the integrity of this process is maintained and that her rights are fully protected.”
They both nodded, and Markowski said, “Understood. We’d like to apologize, first, for taking your time on this matter once again, but we’ve received some new information we’d like to ask you about.”
Detective Krieger busied himself writing on a clipboard.
“Let’s start with the decedent’s hotel, the, uh, Home Stay Inn in Allston. We’ve had a chance to review the hotel’s surveillance tape, and we wanted to clear up a couple of points. Did you say you’ve been to this hotel?”
“Asked and answered,” Martie said, before Juliana could say anything.
Markowski feigned a confused look. He’d already asked her, and she’d denied ever being there. He was trying to entrap her. They wanted her to think they had her on videotape, so she’d no longer dare try to deny it.
But she knew better. They had no tape. He was bluffing.
“As I’ve already told you, I have not been to that hotel,” Juliana said.
Martie scowled but said nothing. She obviously didn’t want Juliana to talk.
Markowski seemed to be studying his notepad, as if the right answer were there. The other man looked from his partner to Juliana and back again.
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