That Night

by Chevy Stevens

  “Not sure what you’d call it. Sounds like Shauna goes over sometimes and cleans up Cathy’s house—tries to get her to clean up too. Brings food, toys to the mother’s house for the kids, stuff like that.”

  “What is Shauna doing these days? Cathy said she was married.… Is it the same guy?” I hated how much I wanted to hear that she was fat and on her third marriage, preferably miserable.

  “Yeah, that older dude. He owns a big trucking company and they have a fancy house, cars, but apparently he’s not around much. Cathy was kind of rambling.”

  “About what?”

  “She was hinting that she knew some other things about Shauna—basically saying Shauna isn’t all that shit-hot. I get the feeling she might kind of resent how Shauna’s been taking care of her.”

  “She likes it but she resents needing it.”

  He looked up at me from underneath the brim of his baseball cap.

  “Yeah, exactly. I knew you’d get it.”

  I fought the sensation of our old connection rebuilding, the similar way our minds worked. “So what does that have to do with anything?”

  “I told her I had some information about that night, just messing with her. I said there was another witness, someone who saw Shauna’s car tearing away. Told her if she knew something, she better spill it before the others did. She got real scared—and twitchy, like she was jonesing. I knew I couldn’t get much more out of her then, but she agreed to meet with me tomorrow night.”

  I felt disappointed, but what had I expected? A confession and years of bullshit suddenly wiped clean? We’d need a lot more than that, details, hard facts.

  “Doesn’t sound like she’s going to make it easy,” I said.

  “That’s why I want you to come with me when I talk to her.”

  “No, no way.” I took a step back, about to turn away.

  “Just listen.” He held out a hand in a plea, his eyes asking me to wait, the same look he’d get when we were kids and he was trying to get me to stay with him a moment longer. I felt another tug inside, tried to ignore the old memories piling up, tried to remind myself how dangerous this all was.

  “If she saw you, and you were talking about Nicole,” Ryan said, “it would mess her up a little more. She saw you once and look what happened. She’s not a bad person. She was screwed up when we were kids, she’s still screwed up, but I get the feeling somewhere in there she wants to make things right.”

  “All she wants is another hit. Did you give her money?”

  He looked embarrassed, his cheeks flushing as he glanced away, watching Captain, who was sniffing around in the grass near the edges of the parking lot.

  “You did,” I said, “and now she’s stretching it out. Telling you nothing about nothing.”

  He shook his head. “She knows something. You can see it in her eyes. It’s been eating at her.” He sounded angry. “We could’ve been out a long time ago.”

  “But it didn’t happen, and the only thing that’s going to happen now, if I go anywhere with you, is both of us getting sent back to prison.”

  “Shit, they’re just waiting for their chance. I’ve seen Hicks watching my house.”

  That was alarming. Doug Hicks was a sergeant now. I’d never forget the interrogation, the things he said, his voice droning on and on. We know you did it, Toni. You might as well tell us now, so the courts will go easier on you. You know what will happen to you in prison? I didn’t know. But I sure found out.

  “Then what the hell are you doing here?” I looked around the parking lot again.

  “Relax. I’ve got my own watch going on. He’s with his family tonight.”

  “Don’t you have a job?”

  “I’m doing some labor stuff, trying to get onto one of the tugboats.” He was holding his chin high, the way he used to when he was self-conscious, like he wished he had something better to impress me with. I’d never cared what he did, always loved that he worked with his hands, that he was strong. Loved knowing he could fix anything, even me. But not anymore.

  “Focus on that,” I said. “Forget Cathy.”

  “Not going to happen, Toni. I’m going to break her, but it’ll happen quicker if you’re there. I’m sure of it.”

  “That’s not going to happen either.”

  “Why are you giving up so easily?”

  “I’m not giving up. It’s just…” I searched for words to explain what I was feeling. I wanted to prove our innocence badly, especially after seeing my parents in the store, but I was terrified of losing the little bit of freedom I’d finally gotten back. The thought of going to prison again made my chest tight, panic racing down my legs. No, never again.

  “I just can’t. I can’t do this.” I stopped, thinking of my mother again, how she’d said almost those exact words to me.

  “You are giving up, Toni. Just like you gave up on us.” His gaze was holding steady on mine, waiting for an answer.

  “I didn’t give up on us. We were in prison—our relationship was over.”

  “It wasn’t for me.”

  He was still holding my gaze. I couldn’t look away, couldn’t break eye contact. I didn’t know what to say, just shook my head, at the words all jumbling in my head, the frustrated thoughts and anger at how our lives had gone, at the things he was making me feel and say and think. I said, “My parents, my mom, she’s not speaking to me. But my dad, we might meet for coffee. I don’t want to mess that up. I don’t want them to see me go back…”

  “How’s that really going to be, Toni? You and your dad sitting there, you knowing he’s still not sure if you’re guilty, him thinking about Nicole the whole time.” I sucked in my breath, my eyes stinging. Ryan was right. It would be agonizing, like the prison visits all over again. I’d been stupid, thinking things would be different because I was on parole.

  Ryan was still talking. “My dad’s dead. I never got to show him I wasn’t a fuckup, that I didn’t murder your sister, but my mom’s still alive. And you can still prove it to your parents. I know we can do it.”

  I was tempted. Then I thought of Suzanne, her warning. It was a long shot that we’d get Cathy to confess to anything, and we’d likely get caught doing it. I’d be back in Rockland, where Helen’s friends were no doubt waiting for me.

  I shook my head, tears building behind my eyes. “I can’t do it. Just stay away from me.”

  For the second time I left Ryan standing alone in the parking lot.

  * * *

  That weekend Mike hired a new waitress. I was peeling carrots in the kitchen when she came back to introduce herself. She looked about sixteen and was stick-thin and pale. Her long straight hair was dyed jet-black and she had blunt bangs, ending just above her dark-rimmed eyes. Her hands were covered in silver rings, skulls and crosses. She also had a heavy chain around her neck with a cross and was wearing black leggings and a tunic. Great, another Goth teenager thinking she’s badass just because she dressed in black.

  “Hi, I’m Ashley.” She stuck out her hand.

  I shook it. “Welcome on board.”

  I thought that would be the last of it and turned back to my work, but she lingered, looking around the kitchen, fiddling with some spices. What was she doing? Then I caught her sneaking sideways glances at me. She knew who I was.

  I set down the grater and put my hands on my hips. “Can I help you?”

  “Sorry.” Her cheeks flushed. “It’s just … I saw a TV show about your case. It was for this journalism class I was taking last summer.”

  So that was it. I was angry, but part of me also admired her guts. Not many people had the balls to just straight-out say crap like that. Usually they pretended like they didn’t know, but I could always tell what they were thinking

  “I don’t like to talk about that.” I could be just as blunt.

  “That’s okay. I mean, I can understand why you wouldn’t. You’re trying to move on with your life.” She grabbed a carrot and started grating. “I wanted to work here b
ecause I need money—I’m saving for film school. My mom doesn’t know I’ve got a job yet. She doesn’t like me doing anything I really want to do.”

  Her bitter tone made it clear that she resented the hell out of her mother. But I couldn’t figure out why she was telling me all this. I stared at her, waiting.

  She looked at me from the side. “I also wanted to meet you.”

  What was the deal? Was she one of those kids who got off on crime? Thought it was cool or something?

  “Why would you want to meet me?”

  She stopped grating and faced me, her eyes intense. “I want to film you.”

  Didn’t see that one coming. “What the hell for?”

  “For a documentary. I want to tell your side of it. What happened back then, what your life is like now, why you came back here, stuff like that.”

  “Kid, you’re insane if you think I’m going to let you film me.”

  “Really?” She looked disappointed. “I thought you’d want people to understand you more, see your side of things, you know?”

  “People are never going to understand me.”

  “You’ve always said you’re innocent. The documentary could get you exposure, and some new witnesses or evidence might turn up. I’m really good at investigating stuff. I’ve been part of the Vancouver Film Festival every year.”

  We held eyes. Was she making it up? Saying she wanted to help just so she could film me, then screw me over somehow like all the reporters had? She seemed serious, but it could be part of her angle. Either way, I didn’t want anything to do with her, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be her little project.

  I turned back to the carrots. “It’s too late to help me now—I already went to prison. Mike probably needs you up front and I’ve gotta get this finished.”

  “Just think about it, okay?” She handed me the grater.

  “There’s nothing to think about.”

  She leaned forward, her face serious. “I’ve read the interviews with you, all the newspaper articles, everything you said, and Ryan, how in love you two were. I got it, you know? You were just angry, at your sister, your parents, but that didn’t mean you killed her.”

  I didn’t know if I was messing with her or wanted to hear what she’d say, but I asked her, “So who do you think did it, Ashley?”

  She glanced down, fiddled with one of the carrots for a moment. “I don’t know, but the police, they only looked at you two. I watch those cold case shows. I know how it goes when the police focus on someone right away.”

  “Some of those cops are still pretty well known in town.”

  She hesitated, a flash of fear in her eyes. “When you’re searching for the truth, you have to be willing to look at everything.”

  I wanted to slap her down for her naïveté, her youthful ideals, but mentally I said, Be nice, Toni. She’s just sixteen.

  “Thanks for wanting to help, but I’m not going to make a documentary. It’s over and I’m trying to move on.”

  “But it can’t ever really be over, can it? What happened to you?”

  Okay, now she had it coming. “You know what makes it worse? Thinking about it makes it worse. Talking about it makes it worse. Having teenagers who don’t know shit about the real world asking questions about it, that makes it worse.”

  “I totally get that.” She nodded, still trying to find a way around me, to speak my language and connect. This kid didn’t give up. “All I’m trying to say is, I don’t think you got a fair chance. And I can help you.”

  “Life isn’t fair. You’ll figure that out in a hurry.”

  “Maybe just read this when you get a chance.” She reached down into the side of her combat boots and pulled out some papers she had stuffed in there.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s an essay. I wrote it last semester. Just read it, please.” She walked out, the door swinging shut behind her.

  I glanced down at the essay. It was titled “That Night.”

  * * *

  When I got home after work, I took the papers out of my bag. I was tempted for a moment to burn them or chuck them out. What did I care what this girl wrote about me? But I was curious. Sure, I’d had letters from people over the years who said they believed in my innocence, but they were all fruit loops or fame junkies or kids in law school who wanted to prove themselves—until they found someone else who had a more interesting story, until they decided that maybe I was guilty.

  I sat at my little table and stared at the essay, then thought, Fuck it, and started reading. It was well written, a thoughtful look at the whole case. She’d talked to some of my old teachers and friends, waitresses at the restaurant, even Nicole’s friends, including Darlene Haynes. And my friend Amy, who told her how Shauna and her friends had bullied me. It was unnerving, how adult Ashley came across, how in many ways she did seem to get it, that I was just an angry teenager who fought with my sister but it didn’t mean I killed her. She’d even talked to Ryan’s father. She’d tried to talk to mine but my mom closed the door in her face.

  Ashley also wrote about the trial, how the most damaging testimony had come from Shauna and the other girls—my known enemies. They were popular, and I was the underdog. She referenced some psychobabble about teen girls turning on each other, the viciousness and pack mentality that can arise, how gossip can become truth in people’s minds. She cited some cases where it had been proven later that people gave false testimony against someone they didn’t like, and questioned if Shauna and her friends had lied. At the bottom, she also speculated about the real murderer, and whether Ryan and I could be innocent. She finished by saying, “Whoever the murderer is, wherever he is, he didn’t just end one life that night—he ended three.”

  The next day at work I left the essay in Ashley’s bag with a note stuck to it: Good writing, but I can’t do the documentary. Sorry.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CAMPBELL RIVER

  SEPTEMBER 1996

  The police tried to talk to me a couple of times over that weekend. They’d bring me out of my cell, then sit me in that same room, the heat jacked up, offering me water or a cigarette, trying to be my friend. I’d take both, puffing on the smoke, which only made me more anxious. I never saw Frank McKinney again, but before I was arrested my mother had left him several messages that he didn’t return. Mom would pace in the kitchen, the phone tight in her hand, saying, “Frank, I just need to know that you’ll find whoever did this.”

  Hicks was the one who interviewed me. He’d tell me again about all the evidence they had stacked against us and how much easier things would go for me if I just cooperated with them. I kept my mouth shut. I thought about Ryan and how he was faring. It was taking all my strength not to defend myself, not to tell Hicks to fuck off, but I had a feeling Ryan would handle the interrogations okay. He was used to people and teachers giving him a hard time.

  Finally it was Monday and I was brought before the provincial judge. My lawyer said Ryan was probably coming in after us. My parents were in the courthouse, my dad in a suit and my mom in dress pants and a blouse, her hair pulled back. They both looked nervous, their faces strained. I thought I’d find out about bail that day, but now my lawyer explained what he hadn’t wanted to tell me on Friday. This was just to set a bail hearing with a Supreme Court judge. That would take another couple of weeks. Meanwhile I’d be in custody at the pretrial center over in Vancouver, in the women’s unit. I was going to jail. I listened to the judge asking my lawyer questions, talking about things like disclosure, but I couldn’t grasp anything, couldn’t stop thinking about jail. What would happen there? Would I get beaten up? What about Ryan? Would he be hurt?

  I’d been transported by sheriffs that morning to the courthouse, and they took me now in one of their vans to the airport. I watched the world go by, already feeling separate, removed from the people going about their day, on their way to work or home, carrying on with their lives.

  I’m going to jail. I’m going to
jail, to jail, to jail.

  The pretrial center was a terrifying place, concrete and institutional. Because of my age, I was held in protective custody, placed in a cell with heavy metal doors and a small window. I sat on my bed and cried so hard I threw up. They brought food later, dry tasteless stuff that I couldn’t eat. The next days were a blur. I sat scared in my cell most of the time, sometimes venturing out to the TV room but leaving when the news came on because I’d see an anchorman talking about me with photos of my dead sister up on the screen, or a shot of my parents’ anguished faces as they left the courtroom, or my high school photo. The other women in protective custody gave me curious looks, but no one talked to me. They just whispered in their little groups.

  Two weeks later I was brought before the Supreme Court judge. My lawyer, Angus, argued that I wasn’t a flight risk, pointing to my parents, saying I didn’t have the means to run away, didn’t have a record. Though Angus was heavy, moved awkwardly, and sometimes seemed to drift off midsentence, he spoke so passionately and eloquently on my behalf I began to hope that maybe everything would be okay, that maybe we could win at trial.

  I was granted bail, but I had to stay in the holding cell at the courthouse for a couple more days until my parents were approved as guarantors. Then I was brought before the judge again and had to agree to all the conditions. I’d have to meet with a bail supervisor weekly, continue to live at my parents’, not drink or do any drugs, have a curfew, hand over my passport, not leave the jurisdiction of the court—but the worst was that I wasn’t allowed to have any contact “directly or indirectly with co-accused except through legal counsel.” I started to cry when Angus explained later that it meant I couldn’t communicate with Ryan until we went to trial, cried even harder when he said it could take a couple of years to get a date. My only hope was that something would happen in the meantime. There would be a break in the case and we’d go free.

  “Angus is the best,” my father said on the tense ride home from the bail hearing. “The best lawyer on the island.” He was saying it forcefully, like he was trying to convince himself. My mom glanced over, watching his face, then gazed back out the window. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. I saw her trace a small symbol in the condensation in the window and remembered how she and Nicole used to play tic-tac-toe on the windows when we went on road trips.