Staring down at the bright feast of fruits at the supermarket, sitting shoulder to shoulder like a rainbow of soldiers, she couldn't help comparing the serviceable russets and grays of the Grafton County Correctional Facility to the unintended beauty of the grocery store. The options were staggering--should she pick the tangerines, the green Granny Smith apples, the smooth-cheeked tomatoes? A choice at every turn--the complete antithesis of being told to eat this, to walk here, to shower now.
She reached toward the Clementines. They were Chris's favorite, and she would have loved to bring him some the following Tuesday ... but was that even allowed? She imagined one of those burly blue-suited men splitting the fruit into sections to check for razor blades, much as Gus herself had mashed Chris's Halloween candy when he was a child, looking for pins. Except she had been searching out of love. The officers would be searching out of duty.
Gus opened the bag and spilled the Clementines back onto their pile.
Can you believe it?
In that household?
Gus turned around, pushing her cart toward the array of lettuce, but all she saw were several Bainbridge biddies doing their weekly shopping.
Well, I believe it. I saw the boy once, and he was ...
Did you know the father won some medical honor?
Gus clenched her hands on the grip of the shopping cart. Steeling herself, she wheeled toward the women who'd busied themselves sniffing melons. "Pardon me," Gus said, baring her teeth in a tight smile. "Did you have something you wanted to say to me, directly?"
"Oh, no," one of the women said, shaking her head.
"Well, I would," her companion announced. "I think when a child that young commits a crime as horrible as this one, you have to lay the blame at the feet of the parents. After all, he'd have to learn that behavior somewhere."
"Unless he's just a bad seed," the first woman murmured.
Gus gaped at them. "Do you mind telling me," she said softly, "why this is any concern of yours?"
"When it happens in our town, it becomes our problem. Come along, Anne," the second woman said, and they sailed into an adjoining aisle.
With high color spotting her cheeks, Gus left her partially filled shopping cart and headed out of the store. It was only because she had to jostle past a mother with twins at the checkout that she even noticed the newspapers on the stand. Folded to reveal its headline banner, the Grafton County Gazette screamed MURDER IN A SMALL TOWN, PART II. And in much smaller print: "Evidence Mounts Against High School Scholar-Athlete Jailed for Killing Girlfriend."
Gus focused on the headline again. PART II, it said. What had happened to PART I?
The Hartes received the Grafton County Gazette, most people in the area did. As hokey as it was, with its lead stories about dairy farm silos that burned down and school budget impasses, it also was the one paper that covered the town of Bainbridge. A good number of households got the Boston Globe, too, but only to compare the crime statistics and political posturing and basically remind them how idyllic their lives were in New Hampshire. On nights they were too busy to crack open the Globe, the Gazette--a maximum of thirty-two pages--was something they had the time to read.
The only time Gus could remember not reading the paper, in fact, were those days surrounding the arraignment, when she had been so sick at heart that she could barely function in her own world, much less read about the one around her.
Gus took several deep breaths and read the article. Then she flipped to the masthead, found what she was looking for, and rolled the newspaper up beneath her arm. So what if they found proof that Chris had been at the carousel? There had never been any question that he was at the scene of the crime. She did not realize until she had reached her car that she'd taken the paper without paying. For a moment she considered going back in to leave thirty-five cents, then she decided against it. Fuck it, she thought. Let them think the whole family's full of felons.
THE OFFICES OF THE Grafton County Gazette were almost as somber as the jail, a pleasant thought which gave Gus the impetus to march up to the receptionist with two-toned hair and demand to see Simon Favre, editor in chief. "I'm sorry," the receptionist predictably said. "Mr. Favre is in--"
"Trouble," Gus finished for her, and pushed through the double doors that led to the editorial offices.
Green computer screens scrolled and beeped; in the background was the sound of a printer. "Excuse me," Gus said, addressing a woman who was sitting at one of the desks, bent over a string of negatives with a loupe. "Could you tell me where Mr. Favre is?"
"That way," the woman said, pointing to a door at the far end of the room. Gus nodded and crossed toward it, knocking once and then swinging open the door to find a smallish man with a telephone tucked to his ear. "I don't care," he said. "I told you that already. All right. Good-bye."
He looked up at Gus and narrowed his eyes. "Can I help you?"
"I doubt it," Gus said crisply. She slapped her copy of the Gazette down on his desk so that the offensive headline was clear. "I want to know when newspapers started printing fiction."
Favre made a sound at the back of his throat and twisted the paper so that he could read it right side up. "And you are?"
"Gus Harte," she said. "The mother of the boy who is accused of an alleged murder."
Favre pointed to a word. "We say it's an alleged crime right here," he said. "I don't understand--"
"No, you couldn't," Gus cut in. "You couldn't, because you don't have a son who's innocent, but who has to sit in jail for nine months until he has a chance to prove it. You couldn't, because you let a reporter take a piece of information from the police for the shock value. My son never hid the fact that he was with Emily Gold when she died, so why make it seem like that's the turning point of the case?"
"Because, Mrs. Harte," Favre said, "it's a good hook. And there aren't a hell of a lot of those in our neck of the woods."
"That's exploitation," she said. "I could sue you."
"You could," the editor in chief said. "But I'd think you're paying enough for legal bills right now." He stared at her until she looked away. "Of course, we'd be willing to hear your side of the story. As you're probably aware, the girl's mother gave Lou an exclusive; he'd be happy to interview you as well."
"Absolutely not," Gus said. "Why should I have to make explanations for what happened, when Chris did nothing wrong?"
Favre blinked once. "You tell me," he said.
"Look," Gus said, "my son is innocent. He loved that girl. I loved that girl. There's your truth." She smacked her palm down on the newspaper. "I want a retraction printed."
Favre laughed. "Of the story?"
"Of the tone. Something which says more clearly than this garbage that Christopher Harte is not guilty until he's convicted in a court of law."
"Fine," Favre agreed.
He'd given in too easily. "Fine?"
"Fine," Favre repeated. "But it won't make any difference."
Gus crossed her arms over her chest. "Why not?"
"Because the public's already got wind of this," the editor said. "It might even have been picked up on the AP." He crumpled up the newspaper into a ball and tossed it into the trash. "I could say your boy sprouted angel wings and flew to heaven, Mrs. Harte. That could even be the truth. But if people have already sunk their teeth into the story, they're not going to let it go."
SELENA WALKED INTO Jordan's house, slipped off her coat, and stretched out on the couch. Thomas, who'd heard the door, came running out of his bedroom. "Oh, hey," he said. "What's up?"
"Look at you," Selena said, yawning. "You get more handsome every day."
"You gonna go out on a date with me yet?"
Selena laughed. "I told you. Your senior prom, or when you hit six feet two, whichever comes first." She picked up a half-finished can of Pepsi, sniffed it, and drank, eyes scanning the mess of paperwork on the living room floor. "Where's your father?"
"Here," Jordan announced, stomping out of the bedroom i
n a baggy pair of sweats and a Nike T-shirt. "Who the hell gave you the key to my house?"
"I did," Selena said, unruffled. "Made a copy months ago."
"Well, by all means," Jordan said. "Don't ask my permission first."
"Lighten up." Selena turned to Thomas. "What's gotten into him?"
"He got the discovery from the AG's office today." Thomas shook his head dolefully. "He needs a soft shoulder to cry on."
"I don't have soft shoulders, and I don't make a habit of getting it on with people who pay me," Selena said.
"I'm not paying you," Thomas pointed out.
"Good-bye, Thomas," Selena and Jordan chorused. With a laugh, Thomas went back to his room and closed the door.
Selena rolled to a sitting position on the couch as Jordan sank into the piles of paper littering the floor. "That bad?"
Jordan tapped his finger against his lips. "I wouldn't necessarily say it was all bad. It just isn't categorically good. A lot of the evidence could go both ways, depending on the point of view."
"You're going to keep him off the stand."
Selena said it as a statement, knowing full well that would be Jordan's intention.
"Yeah." Jordan's eyes swept over Selena, reclining against the pillows with the Pepsi in her hand. "I think we've got a stronger case that way." Now that Chris had volunteered the information that he had not planned to kill himself, that was his story. Period. If he got up on the stand, that was what Jordan ethically would have to coach him to say. On the other hand, if he kept Chris off the stand, Jordan could say whatever the hell he wanted to get his client free. As long as Chris didn't perjure himself, Jordan could use any damn defense he liked.
"Say you're a juror," Jordan hypothesized. "Which of these two versions are you more likely to believe: Chris, who outweighed Emily by fifty pounds, was really along for the ride that night to try to stop her from killing herself, but couldn't manage to yank the gun away from her? Or: they were both going to kill themselves in this beautiful testimony to their love ... except then Emily blew her brains out and they were all over Chris's shirt and it wasn't so beautiful anymore, and he passed out before he could use the gun on himself."
"I see your point," Selena said. She gestured toward the loose piles. "Where should I start?"
Jordan rubbed his hands over his face. "I don't know. It's going to take me days to get through this. I guess, first off, try his parents. We need a flawless character witness or two."
Selena reached for a piece of paper, flipped it over--laundry ticket--and began to make a list. As Jordan buried his nose in a forensics report, Selena picked up the nearest file. The police interview with the Golds, postmortem. Nothing unexpected from Emily Gold's mother--a lot of hysteria, a healthy dose of grief, a strict refusal that her darling girl was suicidal.
"Oh, that?" Jordan said, glancing over. "I skimmed it this afternoon. You're not going to get squat out of the woman. She gave an exclusive to the Gazette." He grimaced. "Nothing like a little unbiased reporting to help speed justice along."
Selena didn't answer. She had turned the page and was riveted by the second interview. "Melanie Gold's a lost cause," she agreed. Then she smiled at Jordan. "But Michael Gold might be your saving grace."
BEING A MOTHER GIVES YOU a singular sort of vision, a prism through which you can see your child with many different faces all at once. It is the reason you can watch him shatter a ceramic lamp, and still remember him as an angel. Or hold him as he cries, but imagine his smile. Or watch him walk toward you, the size of a man, and see the dimpled skin of an infant.
Gus cleared her throat, although there was no way Chris would be able to hear her across the din of other visitors and the sizable distance. She crossed her arms and gripped her elbows, trying to pretend that the sight of her firstborn in regulation prisonwear did not affect her; that the dull wash of fluorescent lights on his hair did not seem unnatural. As he came closer, she fixed a wide smile across her face, certain the strain would split her in two.
"Hi," she said brightly, hugging Chris as soon as the officer stepped back. "How are you doing?"
Chris shrugged. "All right," he said. "Considering." He began to pick at the snaps on his overwashed shirt--not the faded jumpsuit he'd been wearing before, Gus noticed. The matching shirt and elastic-waist pants looked like surgical scrubs, and were short-sleeved, even in December. "Aren't you cold?"
"Not really. They keep the thermostat at seventy-eight degrees," Chris told her. "Most of the time I'm too hot."
"You should ask the officers to turn it down," Gus suggested, and Chris rolled his eyes.
"Now why," he said, "didn't I think of that?"
A tight silence noosed them. "I saw Jordan McAfee," Chris said, finally. "And some lady who helps him with his cases."
"Selena," Gus said. "I've met her. Striking, isn't she?"
Chris nodded. "We didn't really talk that much," he said. He looked into his lap. "He told me not to tell anyone about what happened."
"Your case, you mean," Gus said slowly. "That's not surprising."
"Mmm," Chris agreed. "But I was wondering if that included you."
Well, there it was. All the normalcy Gus had worked so hard to create--the smile, the embrace, the idle conversation--dissolved against the simple fact that no matter how hard she pretended, the relationship of mother to son was irrevocably altered when one of the parties was in jail. "I don't know," she said, trying to keep the dialogue light. "I guess it depends on what you're going to tell me." She leaned forward, whispering. "Professor Plum, in the Library, with the Wrench?"
Startled, Chris laughed, and it was the best moment Gus had had since this whole nightmare had begun. "I wasn't going to be that obvious," he said, his eyes still smiling. "But I think it might hurt you all the same."
She tried to ignore the chill fluting over her skin. "I'm made of fairly hearty stock."
"You must be," Chris said, "or else where would I have gotten it from?" The thought of James, with his Mayflower antecedents, fell between them like a stone. "The thing is," Chris continued, "I told Jordan something that I already told Dr. Feinstein. Something I didn't tell you."
Gus sat back, trying not to assume the worst. She smiled, encouraging him.
"I wasn't suicidal," Chris whispered. "Not that night, and not now."
The bald fact that this confession had not been "I'm guilty" had Gus grinning like an idiot. "Well, that's wonderful," she said, before she had a chance to reason it through.
Chris stared at her patiently, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When her eyes widened and her palm covered her mouth, he nodded. "I was scared," he admitted. "That's why I said what I did. And Em, well, she was going to kill herself. I was playing along to try and keep her from doing it."
Gus reeled from the implications of the admission. It meant that her son was not a hair away from killing himself, certainly that was news for celebration. And it meant that the reason she and James had not seen suicidal tendencies in their son prior to that night was not due to their own negligence, but because there were no suicidal tendencies.
It also meant that Chris, unjustly accused to begin with, was being condemned for being a hero. And that, had he turned to someone else to help him save Emily, this entire horrible outcome might never have come to pass.
Suddenly aware of all the other ears around them, Gus shook her head imperceptibly. "Maybe you should write all this down," she suggested, "and just mail it to me." She cocked her head at the inmate beside Chris.
Turning slightly, he reddened. "You're right," he said.
"I'm glad you told me," Gus hastened to add. "I can even understand why you said what you did to the ... authorities. But you didn't have to lie to us."
Chris was silent for a moment. "I didn't see it so much as lying," he said finally. "It was more like not telling all of the truth."
"Well," Gus said. She wiped at her eyes, feeling silly for having to do it. "Your father will be thrilled. He didn't u
nderstand how someone with so much going for him would want to kill himself."
Chris pinned her with his gaze. "It can happen," he assured her.
"Maybe you'd like to tell your father yourself," Gus said softly. "He's in the car. He wanted to come in--"
"No," Chris interrupted. "I don't want to see him. You tell him, if you want. I don't care one way or the other."
"You do care," Gus insisted. "He's your father." When Chris shrugged, she felt her anger rise on James's behalf. "He's just as much a part of you as I am," she reminded Chris. "Why won't you see him, when you let me visit?"
Chris traced a scar in the table. "Because," he said quietly. "You never expected me to be perfect."
ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, one of the officers stopped on the catwalk in front of Chris and Steve's cell. "Get your stuff together, guys," he said. "You're getting a room with a view."
Steve, who'd been reading in the upper bunk, leaned down and looked at Chris. Bounding to the floor, he gathered his belongings. "Do we get to stay together upstairs?" Steve asked.
"Far as I know," the officer said, "that's the plan."
They had both petitioned the Classification Board for a transfer to medium security, although the likelihood of actually being granted permission seemed slim after the debacle with Hector still fresh in everyone's minds. But neither Chris nor Steve was about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Chris jumped up from his own bunk and collected his toothbrush, his spare jumpsuit, a pair of shorts, and his stash of commissary food. He glanced at the pillow and blanket on his bunk, then turned to the officer. "Do I need to take those?" he asked.
The officer shook his head, then directed them out of the catwalk, past the other maximum security cells. Some of the inmates hooted as they passed, or called out questions. By the time they reached the stairwell near the control room, it was quiet again.
"You two have the top bunks," the officer said as they made their way upstairs. This did not come as a surprise to Chris; the less seniority you had, the worse position you got--and upper bunks were considered less desirable than lower ones. It also meant that there would be two people already in the cell he and Steve were about to enter, and like any combination of elements, it remained to be seen how they all would mix.