“—guilty of first-degree murder.”
Maggie popped up from her seat even before Ellie had found hers. She waited for a minute, then when Ellie was in her chair, looked at the judge. “Your Honor, I’d request that the state remove their exhibits.”
“Granted.” The judge nodded at Ellie Whelan. “Counsel?”
I saw Maggie cover a small smile. Ellie had tried to leave the autopsy photo in front of the jury, a good move, but Maggie had countered it, not just taking it down, which she could have done, but getting the judge to make the state do it after Ellie had taken a seat.
Ellie shot an annoyed look at Tania Castle, who jumped to her feet and removed the photos.
Maggie introduced herself quickly to the jurors, then said, “Boy, that was a good story, wasn’t it?” She nodded. “Kind of like watching a soap opera, am I right? All that stuff about coveting someone else’s husband, about poisoning someone? That’s really interesting, huh?” She nodded as if to concede the point. “But that’s all that was—a really interesting story. A story concocted by the state in order to lay blame for the tragic death of Amanda Miller. But this woman—” she moved behind Valerie and placed a hand on her shoulder “—is not to blame.”
She took her hand off Valerie’s shoulder and went to a podium, placing her notes on it and crossing her arms. “And do you know what? The state can’t just spin a good story. They have to prove that Valerie Solara was guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.” She intoned again, “Beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Maggie looked at the state’s table for an uncomfortable, quiet second, then back at the jury. “But how are they going to do that? They told you you’d hear from Mr. Miller about some…what did they call it? A seduction. They told you you’d hear from other witnesses. But isn’t it interesting that they are accusing Valerie Solara of planting poison in her friend’s food…and yet they didn’t tell you that you would hear any evidence of Ms. Solara buying the medication. You know why?”
The jury waited for the answer.
“Because there isn’t any evidence of her acquiring it. None. They couldn’t find any link between Valerie and the drug that killed Mrs. Miller. That’s interesting, don’t you think?” She huffed out loud, as if expelling disbelief.
“And they want to talk about friendship? Well, let’s talk about it.” She put a blown-up photo of three women on the easel.
“These women met fifteen years ago at a gym here in the city. Amanda Miller was newly married to her first husband. Valerie was a single mom. Her daughter, Layla, who is nineteen now, was just four. And Bridget was a surgical nurse. Usually, Amanda was busy with charitable events, Valerie was busy being a mom and Bridget was always working. Usually, they wouldn’t have had time to make new friends. But on that one day, they all had time for one reason or another. After they met at a gym, they went to a restaurant nearby to talk. It was a Tuesday. And for nearly every other Tuesday after that, up until the time Amanda Miller died, these women met to share their lives. They were immediate friends. They were like sisters. There was no one who supported Amanda more than Valerie and Bridget and vice versa. That continued to the day she died.
“You will hear from witness after witness who will tell you how close these women were. You will hear Amanda’s husband, Xavier, tell you that himself. He will tell you that he never would have suspected Valerie Solara of wanting to kill her friend. Her best friend. Their other best friend Bridget will tell you the same thing. They will all tell you that Valerie wasn’t like that. She wasn’t jealous, she wasn’t violent, she couldn’t hurt anyone. You will hear this over and over. Because it’s true.”
Maggie picked up her notes and reviewed them. She explained that Valerie Solara didn’t have to put on any evidence herself. She didn’t have to prove anything at all.
Maggie stopped, dead center of the jury. “A woman died. By all accounts, a lovely woman, a good mom. When someone like that dies, we all want someone to pay for it. But the right person must pay for it. We cannot allow them—” she turned and pointed at the state’s attorneys “—to rush to judgment and pile up inconsequential tidbits to make it appear they have the person who committed this when they do not. That’s not how the American criminal justice system works. You are the upholders of that system. Your job is large. Your responsibility is massive.” She looked up and down the row of jurors. “Do it,” she said. “Do your job.”
18
A mother’s words can soothe. But just as easily they can sting.
Recently, I had been hearing my mother’s words about my father, about how I owed him respect, how I should make “some attempt” to give him that. They had hurt at first, but then the sting wore off. Yet they kept winding through my head, then into my heart, creating a slow-building guilt that, once it had taken hold, could not be released without me doing what she wanted me to. What I needed to do, I suppose.
And although I still hadn’t spoken to him, Sam’s offer to cancel his wedding—his ultimatum, if I was honest—was reverberating through me. I needed my dad’s cold, unflinching analysis.
As soon as court was over for the day, I called my father.
He answered on the first ring, as if he’d been waiting all day or maybe all month, for this call. I told him that I wanted to see him. I thought about asking him to have dinner, but none of my usual places, the ones where I might step out on a Friday, seemed right. Twin Anchors, Marge’s, Benchmark—they all seemed too casual, places to meet a friend.
“Can I stop by your place?” I asked.
There was no pause before he said yes.
My father lived in a nondescript midrise building on Clark Street, just south of North Avenue. Although I’d known the location of his building, it wasn’t until I pushed through the revolving glass doors that I realized that it was nearly equidistant between my mother’s house and my own. Did that mean something? As always with my father, I had no idea.
Likewise, I didn’t know what to expect from my father’s apartment, but I sensed it would be worldly and interesting, something like my father himself or the person I thought he was.
But when I got there, I saw the apartment was a place for someone transient, a place where no one would live for long.
The gun-metal-gray couch was dark enough to hide any stains and looked like the type rented from one of the furniture places on Milwaukee Avenue. To the left was a reading chair that had once, maybe, been interesting. But now the wood arms were nicked and scarred, the formerly ivory paint across the top yellowed. My guess was that it was the fruits of Dumpster-diving or a visit to a secondhand store. A squat old table, too low, sat in front of the couch and chair.
The living room held little else but a small desk in the corner, which faced the wall. If the apartment had been mine, I would have put the desk near the window, in order to look outside and get a glimpse of the world. But my father was different from me. Maybe he didn’t need to see anything at all.
We stood at the threshold of the room, my father quiet, letting me study it. I looked at him then. It still startled me to see him, a handsome man in his late fifties, instead of the younger version of him, forever memorialized in my brain. His wavy hair was now salt-and-pepper-gray instead of chestnut-brown like Charlie’s. He was still trim, but he was more refined than when he was younger. After living in Italy, he dressed like an Italian—slim-cut linen trousers,
