“Probably going to say she was crazy. After all, it worked before.”
Melisandre couldn’t help overhearing what the woman was saying. And it wasn’t because her ear had, as one’s ear will do, separated out the sound of her own name in the jangling acoustics of this suburban Starbucks. This woman intended to be heard. The hand cupped by the mouth, the lowered head—it was all a pantomime of whispering.
Melisandre knew what she needed to know. She should expect to be recognized, anywhere. She hadn’t been paranoid after all.
She had driven out to the suburbs thinking to enjoy a moment of anonymity. Now it was official: She had no anonymity. Had it been like this after Isadora died? She couldn’t remember much about the immediate aftermath, which she had always considered a blessing. But she was sure that things had been less circus-like even when her trial was under way. Yesterday, back in her apartment after the bail hearing, she had seen her face over and over and over again on the various news channels.
Melisandre Harris Dawes, acquitted of killing her child, now suspected in her ex-husband’s death
. It was interesting to see how different points were emphasized depending on the channel’s slant. On the local news shows, they were almost giddy with the geography of it all—a big story! Happening here! The more conservative outlets leaned on the idea that justice had not been done the first time and now see what had happened, neener, neener, neener. But even the liberal ones, the programs that should have been allied with a woman who had been acquitted, indicated subtly that they were not giving her the benefit of the doubt this time.
The one thing that everyone seemed to agree on was that she was a big fat juicy bite for all of them to chew. She was a commodity, something capable of filling the infinite space on the Internet and cable television.
“CRAZY” MOM MURDERS AGAIN
. That headline, on one particularly scurrilous site, was wrong on so many levels that she couldn’t help deconstructing it. “
Crazy
.” Did they doubt she was crazy then, or were they anticipating that she would claim to be crazy now?
Mom
. She was not Stephen’s mother.
Murders Again
. But that was a legal term. She had never murdered anyone. That verb implied intent. Melisandre may not have practiced law for more than a decade, but she still understood the concept of intent.
But now she knew the truth, all for the cost of a drive to Turners Grove. Her privacy was gone, and not only in Baltimore. Thanks to the
Daily Mail
, she was receiving attention in London. Probably Cape
Town as well. A notorious figure on three continents. Should she buy a wig, wear dark glasses? Never leave her apartment?
Over
her
dead body.
She stood up and walked over to the whisperers, forced eye contact.
“Thank you for your interest in my legal standing,” she said. “Although the details of my defense are not something I can discuss publicly, I thought you’d like to know that we do not currently plan to enter a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity. The plea will be not guilty. Because I am. Not guilty.”
The whisperer pressed her spine back against the soft chair, creating the maximum space possible between her and Melisandre. But she was not completely cowed.
“Baby killer,” she said.
“How original,” Melisandre said. “Do you think I haven’t heard that before?”
She raked her eyes over her accuser’s outfit, her nails, her hair. The woman reached out and put a hand on the stroller next to her, as if Melisandre were the bad fairy at the christening. What was the bad fairy’s name? Melisandre never thought she would forget a single word of the stories she had read to Alanna and Ruby. But she had deconstructed those stories for her children, too, and rephrased things as she saw fit.
“Stay-at-home mom,” she said in the manner of a doctor making a nonserious diagnosis. “The little boy in the stroller isn’t your only child. The other is school age, or at least in preschool. Montessori, I bet. Well fixed. You have time to get your nails done, although your roots are due for attention. You’ve opted out, as they say. I did, too. Had a career, decided not to work anymore. I’m sorry—decided not to work
outside the home
. Opting out is a badge of status, as surely as your car is, probably a high-end SUV, with DVD player in the backseat and seat warmers. You spend your days taking care of two
children, rushing here, rushing there, hunkering down in this coffee shop for a bit of gossip. And you are bored out of your mind.”
“I’m not bored,” the woman said, but not convincingly.
“Really? If you weren’t gossiping with your friend, I bet you’d be staring at your phone, checking e-mail and posting to Facebook.”
The woman winced. Target located, hit.
“One thing about having been crazy,” Melisandre said. “I get to tell the truth now. All the time. Twelve years ago, I wasn’t that different from you. Then something happened. This weekend my ex-husband was killed, tragically. My children, who lost their sister when they were small, have lost their father. Perhaps, instead of whispering about me, you might want to visit, show your concern. They live not twenty minutes from here. Do you know how to make a casserole?”
She walked away, proud of her ability to remain composed. Melisandre had once had the makings of a good trial lawyer. Tyner had been the first to tell her that. “Whatever you do, you should be a litigator,” he said. “You’re a cool customer, hard to shake. Nothing rattles you.” But inside, she was jelly. It took a toll on her, saying such things. Sticks and stones—what a silly saying. Words were incredibly potent. Words wounded terribly. She would tell her daughters as much when they came back to live with her. Because they would. She had to hold on to that belief, her vision of her future. They were all she had now.
She bided her time, waited until the two gossipers left, then trailed after them just to be provocative. Ah, a Porsche SUV. So she had been on the nose there. Melisandre drove a Lexus hybrid, for the sake of the environment, but she also liked the car’s quiet motor, how it crept through parking lots. Under the right conditions, you could sneak up on someone in this car. Minutes later, she glided past the woman, who was still struggling with collapsing the stroller, her toddler crying lustily in the car seat. Melisandre waved cheerfully.
Maleficent
, she remembered. The name of the bad fairy was Maleficent. How ham-handed, that use of
Mal
. Was that Disney or the source material? But the fact that it was close to
magnificent—that
was clever. There was a kind of magnificence in being bad. She felt better than she had in days.
“A pizza party!” Tess told Carla Scout. “We’re having a pizza party!”
The party was, in fact, an evening meeting at Tyner’s law office. He had asked to meet face-to-face after Tess told him about Lopez. All her emergency babysitters and backups were unavailable tonight, so Carla Scout sat at the conference table, drawing contentedly. Novelty went a long way with Carla Scout. An unusual place and the promise of pizza might keep her under control for however long it took Tyner to praise Tess and outline their strategy.
“You did good work,” he said. Simple words, but not ones Tyner used easily, and Tess preened a little. Maybe he had demanded that she come downtown because he wanted to tell her face-to-face that she was getting a bonus. “Too bad we can’t use a bit of it.”
“What? You asked me to develop alternative scenarios and I’ve given you
three
—her alone, him alone, or, my favorite, the two acting in concert. He’s got a B and E past, she’s as sullen and angry a teen as I’ve ever met. And she’s six blocks away the night it happens, a fact that she has kept to herself.”
“Do you really think Alanna took her baby brother with her to murder her father?”
“You’re not paying me to think. You’re paying me to develop new information. This is a gold mine. What did the police say when you told them?”
“I didn’t. We work for Melisandre, not the city of Baltimore. And she’s furious. She asked me if I thought there was any circumstance
under which she would implicate one of her daughters. Her only goal now is to clear her name so she can have custody of those girls.”
“Aren’t you obligated to tell the cops what Sandy and I found out?”
“All you found out is that Alanna left the house Friday night and went out for pizza.”
Tess wanted to throw a Carla Scout–style tantrum. It was infuriating to have this information discarded. And possibly unethical. Wasn’t it Tyner’s responsibility to overrule his client when she wasn’t making decisions in her best interest?
“This is crazy.” Tyner glared, and Tess realized her gaffe. “I mean, not
crazy
, but—No, sorry,
crazy
is the best word. I did exactly what you asked and now it’s not right? This is like some damn fairy tale where a mercurial princess keeps changing the rules.”
“Tess—even if you had something more substantial, think about it from Melisandre’s point of view. She’s not going to save herself at her daughter’s expense. If anything, she might lie to protect her daughter. She could even be withholding key information.”
“You can’t allow that.”
“No. And as things progress, if we end up going to trial—then I’ll do my best to persuade her that there is no gain in her trying to paper over these facts. But we have to drop this for now. Forget Alanna.”
“I should at least talk to her about that night. After all, she’s also the person who can ascertain where Felicia was, and when.”
“Stay away from Alanna and Ruby. Those are Melisandre’s orders, and you work for her.”
“Fine. She still owes me for the time that I put in, right?”
“Of course she does. She’s not contesting your billable hours, just asking that we leave her children alone. How much time have you put in this week?”
Tess pretended to do a swift calculation on her iPhone. “Ninety hours and about three thousand miles.”
“Very funny, Tess.”
“It’s hell finding parking in East Baltimore. I don’t know how many times we circled the block.”
“I understand you’re upset. But, for now, concentrate on other things. Melisandre has suggested you talk to Ethan, Stephen’s best friend. When he was interviewed for the documentary, he indicated he’s not as close to Stephen as he was. Who knows what he might say?”
“Okay. Maybe I should go through all the documentary interviews and notes then—”
“
No
.” Tyner’s tone was sharp, even by his standards. “I mean, I just don’t want to open that can of worms yet. The state’s attorney’s office hasn’t requested them.”
“But they will,” Tess said. “And we’ll need to know what’s on them.”
“Harmony can brief me on that. Just go to talk to this guy Hinerman.”
“What about the interview with Stephen?”
“Harmony transcribed it. He gives a two-minute statement, saying he will not be participating in the documentary, but wishing Missy well.”
“Okay, but—”
“Jesus, Tess, stop second-guessing me. I know what I’m doing.”
Tess didn’t doubt that Tyner knew what he was doing. She was less sure of Melisandre. But she was being paid, so she went home and did as instructed. Made an appointment with Ethan Hinerman, read his interview, then watched it using an encrypted Internet link that Melisandre had provided. The interview seemed flat on paper, but
seeing
it—She watched it again. There was something pulling at her memory, but it wasn’t about Melisandre. No, there was another case, another mistrial. And Hinerman contradicted himself on a small but telling detail. Of course, people got stuff wrong all the time. But they got it wrong in the same way. He got it wrong twice within seconds. Where had he found the file of papers?
After Carla Scout went to sleep, Tess sat in her own bed, laptop on her stomach, and Googled various search strings, each more horrific than the last. Strange to fall asleep in the middle of such a task, but it had been a long day. Hours later, she awakened to Crow’s concerned face—he clearly had seen the article on her screen, was possibly contemplating a call to social services. But Tess was instantly awake, jumping up so suddenly that she had to catch her laptop to keep it from sliding to the floor.
“Nailed, him!” she crowed to Crow. “NAILED HIM.”
Ethan Hinerman’s office was in a mildly run-down block of Cathedral Street. The trash-strewn street depressed Tess. Baltimore had always had a scruffy side, but it had felt vibrant, a lovable mutt of a city ready to play or brawl. Now swaths of downtown were being replaced by apartments and condos, but there seemed to be fewer and fewer
people
downtown. Definitely fewer jobs. Hinerman was a holdout, someone who hadn’t decamped for a suburban office with convenient parking, and property records showed this elegant brownstone as his residence as well. She should like him for that.
Inside, the first-floor office was gracious and well kept. An anxious or depressed person might start to feel better just sitting in this waiting room, with its working fireplace, lush rug, deep, soft armchairs. Oh, and new magazines! Tess, who was fifteen minutes early for the appointment she had arranged this morning, grabbed a
People
with someone on the cover whom she didn’t even recognize. This was
happening more and more, and not because Tess lived in some rarefied cultural bubble. Now if a Wonder Pet had been on the cover—she opened the magazine, enjoying the fire’s warmth, reviewing her day in her head. Carla Scout went to day care on Wednesdays, then was picked up by Tess’s mother, then was taken to the house. Or was it the babysitter? Tess had to get to the dry cleaner’s before it closed today—
never mind, read about the pretty people even if you don’t know them
.
The next thing she knew, someone was shaking her shoulder. Jesus, she had fallen asleep. This chair was really comfortable.
Ethan Hinerman, bigger and shaggier than he had appeared on Tess’s laptop, was at the stage of life where his beard was outpacing his hair. The beard was thick and almost entirely red, while the hair on his head was thinning and running to more of a mousy brown with gray at the temples. He wore what Tess thought of as hyper-stylized preppy garb—a bright green-and-white-checked shirt, a bow tie, a brown tweed jacket with elbow patches. Old Baltimore. As opposed to the Full Towson, which was white belts and white shoes.
“Tess Monaghan?” he asked. “Don’t worry, you’re not the first person to fall asleep here.”
“Are therapists’ waiting rooms supposed to be so comfortable?”
“I don’t know about other therapists. I want people who come to see me to associate our time together with good things, pleasant things. Because, in the end, it should be positive.”
“Yeah, well—” Tess wasn’t about to confide that her only time in a therapist’s office had been court-ordered. “Given the parking situation in this neighborhood, that’s a good idea. I had to park over on Hamilton. I don’t understand why there are so many cars when there seem to be fewer and fewer people.”
“I’ve wondered that myself,” he said, leading her into his office. This room was even more beautiful, with another fireplace, although no fire. “I’ve been here for twenty-five years. When I first
started working here, I could walk to Louie’s Bookstore for lunch or get takeout from Sascha’s. I’m such a Baltimorean that I still think of Donna’s as being the new place—and the Mount Vernon location closed years ago. I think I used to see you in the bar at the Brass Elephant. Ah, well, I can still walk to the library. And Iggies pizza.”
“I love Iggies,” Tess said, still trying to find her equilibrium. It was humiliating, being awakened by someone she was interviewing. But maybe it would lower his guard. “So—Melisandre Dawes.”
“She still uses that name?”
“She prefers the full handle, Melisandre Harris Dawes, but yes. She still uses her ex-husband’s name. I understand you were his friend, go all the way back to Gilman with him.”
“Yes, but I didn’t really have a relationship with Melisandre.”
“And why did you assume I was going to ask that?”
“Because—well—you work for her, right? Work for her lawyer. And this is clearly about her trial—”
His fumbled words helped her recover, find her footing in the conversation.
“I’m here because Melisandre suggested I speak to you.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t a clue. She told me to watch the interview you taped for the documentary. I did. Seemed pretty ordinary to me.”
“Oh, that. Yes, I agreed to speak for the record. As a favor to Stephen.”
“A favor to him?”
“Yes.”
“Yet you say in the interview that you’re not close anymore?”
“Did I?”
“Your exact words were, I believe, ‘literally and figuratively.’ Full props for using those terms correctly. Go, Gilman.”
“Well, thank you. I guess.” She had thrown him off his stride. Gilman boys were allowed a certain mock humility, but others were
supposed to be awed by their alma mater. “Yes, Stephen remarried and moved to the suburbs. He’s in a different phase of his life. Was. I still can’t quite believe he’s gone.”
“What did you think of him marrying someone younger?”
“I thought it was his business. And that he should get a prenup. Not that he asked me.”
“Because you no longer spoke?”
“You make it sound as if there were a feud. It was nothing like that.”
“No, Melisandre made it sound as if there were a feud. She’s the one who suggested I speak to you, after all. Based on the video. Man, she must have been furious with you back then. When you testified against her.”
“No, not really.”
“No?”
“Melisandre understood why I felt I had to testify. That it wasn’t malicious or perjury. Just an error.”
“Are you familiar with the Andrea Yates case? She went to trial several months before Melisandre did. The woman who killed all five of her children?”
“Vaguely.”
“You know what’s really interesting? She got a mistrial, too, the first time around.”
“Really?”
“The state’s expert witness, a psychiatrist, testified that there had been a
Law & Order
episode in which a woman used postpartum psychosis to disguise a homicide. But there was no such episode. In Yates’s case, the evidence didn’t come out until after the trial and she won a new trial three years later, in 2005. In Melisandre’s case you testify Thursday, and, boom, her attorney has the goods to contradict you on Friday. Mistrial on Monday.”
“Was that the timing? I think I testified on a Wednesday?”
“Oh, so you think that’s what matters? The calendar?”
“Well, speaking of the calendar—if you’re trying to link the two things, that makes no sense. Melisandre’s trial was in 2003. You said the Yates conviction was thrown out on appeal in 2005.”
“But it came to light before the sentencing phase in Yates’s trial in 2002. The mistrial was requested then.”
“Then I guess Melisandre’s lawyer had followed the Yates trial closely.”
“Okay, let me see if I understand what you’re saying: Melisandre’s lawyer follows the Yates case closely. Sure, that makes sense. So when a psychiatrist—”
“I’m a family therapist. And I testified as a friend of the family, not an expert witness.”
“So when a therapist—excuse me, a family friend, although you said you weren’t really Melisandre’s friend—when the
husband
’s friend testifies that he saw this folder of newspaper clippings, Melisandre’s lawyer immediately finds it suspect, does the research, and contradicts the witness in cross the next day.”
“It was a famous incident, the one I described. Melisandre’s lawyer was the mother of two small children, a harried professional not unlike the woman in the article. She remembered it well.”
“Huh. Wow. Well, lucky for Melisandre, right, that you went into all that detail about the one case? Or was she the one who got lucky? I mean, you were Stephen’s friend, not hers. But she was the one who benefited from your testimony. Or was she?”
“I’m not sure, I can’t—Look, it was a mistake. An honest mistake. I didn’t commit perjury.”
“Yeah, I’d say that, too, because there’s no statute of limitations on perjury in a criminal trial in Maryland.” Tess was only 75 percent sure of this information. It didn’t matter. What mattered was what Hinerman said next.
“Yes, I know.”
Bingo. “Why?”
“Well, because, because it came up in some other context. With a client.”
She nodded and smiled at him in the fakest way possible. “I’m sure it did. Anyway, false statement, mistrial requested, mistrial granted. I guess Baltimore judges are a little more liberal than Texas ones, and a folder of newspaper clippings is worse than just saying a TV show aired. Shows more intent, planning. If such a folder ever existed.”
“It did. I mean—I was told—” He was smart enough to correct himself in midsentence. “I saw it.”
“You were told that it existed.” Tess tried to assume the comforting, confiding pose that came so naturally to Hinerman. “Hey, I know you can’t undo what was done. But being truthful now counts for a lot. I’ll protect you to the extent that we can. Just tell the truth.”
Hinerman sighed and tented his hands, speaking more to his fingers than to Tess. “Stephen told me about the folder, said he couldn’t bear to be the one who testified about it. He told me he had been so upset that he had thrown it away, but he briefed me on what was in it. Article after article about women harming their children, under all sorts of circumstances. He said I could call the prosecutor, say I had just remembered it. It was for his daughters, you see? He couldn’t bear to be the one who offered the testimony against their mother. That’s what he said and I believed him. I gave the testimony. And the next day, I was sandbagged. I had no idea that the dates were wrong. I had trusted Stephen’s memory.”
“Is that why your friendship with Stephen fell apart?”
“No, not then. I assumed it was an honest mistake on his part. It was only later—really, only a few years ago—that I realized why Stephen needed me to testify, why he set me up. Alanna was on the witness list. Alanna was going to testify.”
They said that last time
. Tess saw Alanna, standing in the doorway. Now she understood.
“And he wanted to spare her that?”
“He wanted to spare himself. Alanna had seen him having sex with the nanny. Then told her mother. Stephen didn’t want that to come out. Not his image, you know? He’d rather suppress relevant information about his wife’s intent than let the world know that he cheated on her. But I didn’t figure that out until a few years ago.”
“How?”
“In my experience, a lie can be like a tiny seed lodged in a tooth. You can’t see it, you barely feel it, but there’s always this sense that something’s off, that the pieces don’t fit. And then one day, it falls out and you think,
Oh, that was it
. Around the time when Stephen decided to remarry, I counseled him to get a prenup with Felicia. He was offended, but I was just trying to look after Alanna’s and Ruby’s interests. He said something about how this was real love, not like the other times, and I thought,
What other times?
He could have been referring to his dating life, but he hadn’t been serious about anyone since his marriage ended. Then I realized there must have been someone during the marriage, maybe several someones. I asked him point-blank, and he admitted it. He denied that he had set me up at the trial, but I knew. I knew. It was so obvious all of a sudden. How could Stephen have confused that sequence of events?”
“So you’re pretty angry with your old friend.”
“
Disappointed
, I think, is the better word. I don’t blame him for having an affair. But his cowardice, his willingness to manipulate a trial for his benefit, with no interest in what the truth of the matter was—I found that sad. He pulled every string he had for Melisandre’s retrial—wrote a letter on her behalf to the judge, paid for the experts who supported the diagnosis of postpartum psychosis.”
“You know I have to ask where you were Friday night.”
“At a very boring professional dinner at the Sheraton in Towson, one where I was in full view for the evening. I gave the keynote.”
“Sorry.” Tess gave him a lopsided smile. “Just doing my job. It’s interesting, what you’ve told me, but I can’t decide if it’s helpful.
I mean, if Stephen set you up as you suspect, that was good for Melisandre, right? As you said, Alanna’s testimony would have created the case for intent, a revenge killing of a sort. Could he have been so coldhearted that he would have let his wife slide on homicide just to keep his reputation intact?”
“I don’t know. At one time, I would have told you that Stephen was incapable of that kind of deviousness. But, at one time, I would have told you that Stephen would never expose his oldest friend to a perjury charge. Maybe he rationalized that it was okay, as long as he was going to have full custody of the children. Maybe he told himself it was in their best interest. Miss Monaghan—”
“Um, Ms. But Tess is fine.”
“There’s one more thing I should probably tell you.”
In Tess’s experience, one more thing was usually the most boring, irrelevant thing in the world. But she brightened with what she hoped was plausible enthusiasm.
“Yes?”
“I’m not the only person who figured this out. Alanna did, too.”
“When?”
Not last week, not last week, not last week
.
“She came to see me Thursday—”
Tess lost a few words then to the part of her brain screaming,
Oh, Jesus fucking Christ
.
“She came here, to the office. She asked me point-blank about the mistrial.”
“But who told her? Or did she figure it out like you did?”
“Stephen had told her that Melisandre had ‘sold’ the girls to him after she was acquitted, taken a lump sum and agreed to leave, never see them again. But Alanna saw how he benefited. She believes the real story is that he paid her mother never to speak of the affair.”
“Was she angry?”
“More sad, I would say. She kept asking me, ‘How could they do it?’”
“Do what?”
“Put her in that position, at such a young age. I told her that her father was thinking of her, too, that it was better that she never testified. What if her mother had been found guilty? How would a five-year-old make sense of it? Whatever her father’s motives, it was for the best.”
“Did she believe you?”