All You Get Is Me (16 page)

“My dad’s not afraid.” I feel my jaw clenching.

Millie smiles at me sympathetically like maybe she understands that it might be tough being the daughter of a person like that. “Honey, everyone’s a little bit afraid of Brody Burk.”

After we leave Millie’s, Storm and I walk up the street to the post office, which is the unofficial pickup spot for casual farm labor, so there are always a lot of Hispanic men standing around watching for pickup trucks. This is also the place where they come to convert their paychecks into money orders so that they can send them home to their families. I’ve always been invisible to these men but today I get a weird vibe from them. I don’t think they’re looking at Storm’s nine-foot-long legs, I think they’re looking at me. It appears that the word is out among the farmworkers. And maybe I’m a little paranoid but the locals we pass along the way all seem to be carrying the
Gazette
, reading the
Gazette
, or buying the
Gazette
. I guess Storm was just trying to make me feel better. I had no idea that it was such a popular paper. I always assumed that people around here read the
San Francisco Chronicle
or the
New York Times
. I thought that small-town living would make you crave national news. I couldn’t have been more wrong about that. These people don’t want to know what’s going on in the world.
This
is their world.

Chapter 15

T
he law offices of Funk, McIntyre, and Monk, where Connie Gilwood’s lawyers will be interviewing me, is located in a beige plaza occupied by other lawyers’ and dentists’ and doctors’ offices, generally a group of professionals that people dread visiting. It’s about ninety degrees outside and the oak-paneled boardroom that the receptionist escorts us to is as chilly as a meat locker. It feels nice for about thirty seconds and then my teeth start to chatter. It must be some sort of intimidation device. My dad and I sit down in giant leatherette chairs that are gathered around a massive oak conference table. The outside wall of the boardroom is made of glass and you can actually watch the farms disappear from here as the developers take over a few hundred acres at a time and turn them into “communities” and strip malls. There isn’t much to do as we wait for the lawyers except listen to the receptionist, back at her desk, repeat, “Good afternoon, Funk, McIntyre, and Monk,” over and over again.

I’m wearing a clean white blouse with short sleeves, and my linen skirt and sandals. I showered this morning, but the air-conditioning in my dad’s truck has never worked so I already feel grimy and rumpled, but I don’t care. I just want this over with. My dad is wearing his work clothes (but they’re clean) and a big fat “don’t mess with me” look on his face.

After a couple of minutes, two men in matching serious suits enter the boardroom. A woman, a court reporter, devoid of all facial expression, follows behind them and sets up her little machine in the corner. Her suit is the color of concrete. The men introduce themselves to my dad. One of them is Monk, the other one is named Johnson. His suit is a better fit and quality than Monk’s. I’m guessing he’s in from the big firm in the city. The big gun sent in to keep the damages to a minimum. My dad introduces me. Monk sizes me up and his “cool as a cucumber” expression vanishes. Johnson’s expression is unreadable. He’s better at this. On the drive over, my dad told me this might happen. I’m what they call a “grade-A” witness. I’m young and bright and fresh and I look like I tell the truth. If this case goes to trial and I walk into a courtroom and tell the jury what happened that day, they will hang on my every word. And no matter what I tell them, they will believe me. The insurance company wouldn’t have a prayer. The lawyers exchange a look. I know what this look means. It means that this case cannot go to trial.

Uncle Ned rushes into the room at the last second. He’s dressed as a lawyer too. There’s not a trace of banjo player on him anywhere. He’s carrying a leather briefcase and he shakes hands with the grim twins and squeezes my shoulder as he sits down next to me at the boardroom table. He leans across the table and shakes my dad’s hand as though they’re just casual acquaintances and not old friends. I feel as though everyone in this room is pretending to be someone they’re not. To everyone here, I look like a person who isn’t capable of telling a lie, but in the last few weeks I’ve told so many lies that I’ve lost count. Even my being here is a big lie because somehow I never got around to telling Forest about it. Somehow the right moment never arrived.

Johnson trains a small video camera on me and loads a tape. Then I take an oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.

Johnson sits across from me and rifles through a stack of papers. He looks up at me and smiles like the Cat in the Hat. It appears that he’ll be asking the questions and Monk will watch and learn.

“Aurora. Can you tell me about the morning of the accident, starting with the moment that you got into the vehicle with your dad?”

“Okay. Well. It was about six a.m. . . .”

“About six a.m.? Can you be more exact?”

“It was six a.m. We got in the truck and my dad started driving down Orchard Road toward the freeway.”

“Was it daylight?”

“Yes.”

“Was the weather clear?”

“Yes.”

“Continue.”

“I started to doze off.”

Johnson and Monk exchange looks.

“I woke up a few minutes later because my dad was looking in his rearview mirror and yelling.”

“What was he yelling, Aurora?”

I look over at my dad. His eyes narrow. I know he can’t remember what he was yelling. Uncle Ned is scribbling notes.

“He was yelling ‘Goddamn development people!’”

“How do you suppose he knew it was a development person in the vehicle?”

“They’re always in a hurry like that.”

“So, he was yelling because the driver of the car behind you was in a hurry?”

“No, the SUV was right behind us, right on our bumper, and she . . .”

“She? You could tell it was a woman driving?”

“Sure. She was right behind us.”

“Okay. Continue.”

“She was honking her horn. I think she wanted us to let her pass but there’s no shoulder there, you can’t pull over.”

Johnson and Uncle Ned take notes furiously.

“We came to the part of the road that runs straight for a while but you’re still not allowed to pass there. The lines are solid yellow.”

“The lines were solid yellow? You’re sure?” asks Johnson.

“Yes.”

“You seem to know a lot about driving, Aurora. Have you ever driven a car yourself?”

I swallow. “Uh, no,” I answer, not a lie. I’ve driven a Jeep, not a car.

“You’ve never driven? You live on a farm. You must have driven something, a tractor, perhaps?”

My dad is watching me with interest.

“Uh . . .” I remember that I’m under oath. “Yeah, sure. I’ve driven a tractor and . . . a Jeep.”

“A Jeep. On the highway?”

“Uh, yes.”

My dad’s eyebrows go up. My first, in a long list of lies, is exposed. I know I’m going to hear about this later.

Johnson makes a note. “Okay, so you know a bit about the rules of the road.” Monk grimaces. Not only am I a star witness but, at fifteen, I have driving experience.

“Let’s continue with what happened that morning. You came to the part where you’re not allowed to pass. . . . ”

“And the woman pulled out from behind us and started to pass us. When she got up to my dad’s window she slowed down for a few seconds and gave him the finger. She took her eyes off the road and looked right at him.”

“Can you show us the, uh, gesture? You know, with your own hand?”

“Sure.” I give him the finger. My dad and Uncle Ned grin and look away.

“Okay.” Johnson reddens slightly. “Let the record show that Miss Audley is holding up the middle finger on her right hand. Continue.”

“The straightaway ends there and the road dips down into a little valley. The pickup came around the corner in the oncoming lane and the SUV couldn’t get out of the way in time and she smashed into the right half of the front bumper. The pickup spun around and flipped over the edge into the ravine and the SUV continued on for a few hundred feet and tipped over in the middle of the road.”

“Was the pickup driving in its own lane?”

“Yes. She tried to pull off to the right when she saw the SUV but there was nowhere to go.”

“And who called 9-1-1?”

“I did.”

“And why you and not your dad?”

“He told me to. He jumped out of the truck and ran to help Sylvia.”

“Sylvia. The woman driving the pickup?”

“Yes.”

“And was your dad able to help Mrs. Rodriguez?”

“Well, no. Sylvia was trapped. But he took the baby, Rosa, out of her car seat. And carried her out of the ravine and gave her to me. Then he went back to Sylvia. He talked to her until the paramedics came.”

“And did your dad try to help the SUV driver?”

“No.”

“Was Mrs. Rodriguez alive when they pulled her out of the pickup?”

My eyes fill with tears. “Yes. I think so. But she looked really bad. Her arm was crushed. She was losing a lot of blood.” I wipe my eyes on the back of my hand and Uncle Ned hands me a tissue. The court reporter gets a tiny wrinkle between her eyes but she keeps tapping away.

Monk and Johnson exchange grim looks.

“Did you get a good look at the pickup after the accident?”

“Yes. Actually I have photos of it.”

“You took photos?” Johnson’s eyes widen slightly.

“Yes.”

“How did you think to take photos during all of this?”

“I take photos of everything. I’m a photographer.”

“A photographer.”

“Yes.”

“You have photos of both cars at the accident scene?”

“Yes.”

Johnson’s and Monk’s eyes meet again.

“So, Aurora, to your knowledge, no one else saw the accident?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Okay, Aurora. I just have one more question and I want you to think about this very carefully. If Connie Gilwood, the woman driving the SUV, hadn’t slowed alongside your dad’s truck to deliver that, um, gesture, do you think she still would have hit the pickup?”

I try to relive that moment but it’s just impossible to remember something in split seconds when it all seemed to happen in slow motion. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Thank you, Aurora. That’s all we need from you today.”

Everyone in the room seems to exhale. Uncle Ned gives me a discreet thumbs-up and my dad comes around the table and hugs me. I think now would be a good time to tell him that it was me who backed the tractor into the side of the barn in May and not Steve.

On the way home in the truck my dad tells me that he thought it went really well. I wait for him to mention the fact that I’ve been driving without his permission but he says nothing.

“You’re a star. You were fantastic. There’s no way they’re going to put you on the stand. I’m confident that they’ll try to settle.”

“On TV the star witness always turns up dead.”

“That’s just TV crap.”

“I hope that this is all over soon. Do you think the insurance company will pay?”

“Insurance companies are slippery. They’ll try all kinds of tricks to weasel out of paying. They might appeal it but I don’t see how they have too many options here. Connie hired her own lawyer too, which is smart. She’s going to need one.”

I wonder for a second why he called her Connie and not Connie Gilwood like he usually does. It seems a little familiar for someone he’s never really met. I suddenly feel an overwhelming need to talk to Forest. I want to tell him everything that happened today and have him assure me in his quiet way that it’s all going to be okay. As we drive through town, I look for his car on the off chance that maybe he’s here. I would feel so much better if I could just catch a glimpse of his face. I don’t see his car anywhere. I look in the window of Millie’s but there’s no one sitting in the booths. It’s the kind of hot where no one feels like eating and coffee is out of the question.

When I get home, I climb the stairs up to my room. My legs feel like lead. My bedroom is as hot as it ever gets, even with the oak tree shading the roof. My windows are wide-open but the curtains stay dead still. I turn a fan on high and pull off my sticky clothes. I stand in front of it naked and let the breeze cool my skin before I pull on my cutoffs and a tank top. Rufus has disappeared to the coolest corner of the barn. He’ll stay there till he’s hungry and then he’ll emerge covered in straw, looking sheepish because he knows he’s neglected his guard dog duties.

I sit down in front of my computer and open my mail. There’s an email from Forest. It was written half an hour ago.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Re: Miss u

Roar,

Where have U been? I’m dying to see U. Can U meet me later? I’ve been thinking about your chin all day, your lovely, lovely chin. Call if U can.

Yours 4-ever,

4-est

Ever since I told Forest that I hate email abbreviations, he includes them in all his letters. I run my finger along my chin, trying to figure out what’s so lovely about it.

I can hear my dad on the phone downstairs in the kitchen. He’s all fired up about the deposition. I think he must be talking to Uncle Ned. He’ll probably be on the phone forever so I send Forest an email telling him to meet me at the tar pits in an hour. I pull off my clothes again and put my bathing suit on and put them back on over it. I load up my backpack with a bottle of water that I fill from the pitcher in the fridge with chunks of ice in it. I also grab a plastic container of Ambrosia melon chunks and two plums from a bowl sitting on the table in front of my dad. He winks at me. Since the deposition I’ve been elevated from “daughter” to “secret weapon,” kind of like the pen that shoots poison darts in a Bond movie. I find a sort of clean towel in the laundry room and go back upstairs and click my email on again. Forest has responded: