17-YEAR-OLD BELMONT STUDENT ARRESTED, ACCUSED OF KILLING MOTHER
Part
Two
29
THE FIRST SNOW is always the most magical. It comes late this year—not until January. Blanketed in white, Belmont Academy looks like it belongs in a Dickens novel.
If not for the chain-link fence around the perimeter.
Two and a half months have passed since Courtney was arrested. Her trial is still a few weeks away, but the media has already set up camp outside the school. Their equipment is protected by tents, mini-heaters keep them warm, and a vendor sells hot coffee out of a van while someone else hands out flyers for a local business.
This is just the beginning, Sonia realizes.
The security guard waves her through, and she restrains herself from flipping off the reporters while passing by. She parks and gets out of her car, not bothering with her mantra. Even if she repeated it a thousand times, today would not be a good day.
Just inside the front door, the counseling room has been set up. Sonia walks past it and goes straight to the teachers’ lounge. Frank is the only one there, which is surprising. The parking lot is at least half-full.
“Oh,” Frank says. “Hey.”
“Good morning,” she says.
He sits in the corner, watching her as she puts her lunch in the refrigerator and makes a cup of coffee. He looks even worse than last week, if that’s possible. Pale skin, dark circles under his eyes. Even his muscles look like they’ve shrunk.
“Everybody’s in the Porter Room,” Frank says.
“Is there a meeting? I didn’t get a notice—”
“No meeting. They set up a TV down there.”
Sonia purses her lips. School was the one place she’d expected to escape the madness, but apparently not. With a sigh, she puts sweetener in her coffee and leaves the lounge with every intention of going back to her classroom. Instead, she ends up in the Porter Room.
It’s wall-to-wall packed with faculty and staff, all of whom are staring at a giant screen. The reporter on TV is a woman with platinum hair and so much makeup.
“. . . awaiting the arrival of the assistant district attorney and the defense lawyer. Courtney Ross is not expected in court today for the first pretrial motion, or during jury selection. We don’t expect to see her until the trial begins.”
When they cut to a commercial, the talking starts.
“Are those reporters going to be outside for the whole thing?”
“Shouldn’t they be at the courthouse?”
“They are. They’re everywhere.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Sonia seconds that. After the holiday break, just as everyone had started settling into the new semester, it had all exploded again. The case, the trial, the media. It’s even worse than when Courtney was arrested.
Jesus Christ, indeed.
A furniture commercial is playing when the TV goes silent. Ms. Marsha steps in front of the screen, the rustle of her tweed skirt echoing through the room.
“If I can have your attention for a minute,” she says. “This will not be an easy time for our students. The school will be under a spotlight until this . . . event is finally over, and many reporters will try to interview both you and the students. We prefer that you do not speak to them, though of course that choice is yours to make.” She pauses to look around the room, making a threat with her eyes. “Downstairs, the counseling room is still fully staffed for anyone who needs it. It will be open until six every evening, and on Saturday mornings.”
Someone coughs. Behind Ms. Marsha, the reporter is back on TV, but no one can hear her.
“Last but not least, please refrain from discussing the trial during class. Students will be checking their phones throughout the day and, no doubt, will be talking about it. Let’s keep class time limited to your regular agenda.” Ms. Marsha takes a deep breath. Sonia notices how tired she looks. Everyone who works at Belmont appears to have aged ten years over the past couple of months. “Does anyone have questions?” Ms. Marsha says.
No one does.
The first bell rings. At least one thing hasn’t changed. Ms. Marsha still has impeccable timing.
Sonia’s first class goes about as well as expected. Belmont enrollment is down by at least 10 percent—no one knows the real number, and no one in admissions is talking, but all the classes feel smaller.
As directed, she doesn’t mention the trial, or Courtney, during class. But the students do, both before and after. Throughout the day, she hears snippets about what’s been on the news, what the pundits predict will happen, and what the kids think.
“She did it.”
“Totally.”
“No way. Courtney would never.”
“Did you ever meet her mother?”
By the time the day is over, Sonia feels so heavy. And she is heavy. None of her clothes fit; some are even too tight to wear. Stress eating. That’s what her husband called it as he handed her another stress ball. She has three now: one at work, one at home, and another in her car.
They haven’t helped much.
Also, she prefers to eat.
At home, she doesn’t turn on the TV. She has no desire to hear— again—what happened today at the courthouse. She doesn’t want to hear about the charges against Courtney, or how they suspect she killed her mother. Maybe intentionally, maybe not. It depends on which reporter is talking. Some say she drugged Ingrid Ross, others say she poisoned her, and a few describe what Courtney is accused of doing as “tampering.”
And everybody’s read the text messages—at least the ones that have leaked. Courtney repeatedly saying her mother was driving her insane convinced a lot of people she’s guilty.
Sonia doesn’t believe a word of it. Not. One. Single. Word.
While dinner is in the oven, she slices up some cheese and takes out a few crackers for a little snack before her meal. She almost has the first bite in her mouth when the phone rings. She recognizes the number but doesn’t answer.
Before listening to the voicemail, she eats two crackers with cheese. Newly fortified, she plays the message.
“Mrs. Benjamin, I’m calling for Jeffrey Brewster. Mr. Brewster has finalized the witness list, and your name is on it. Once the trial begins, we will let you know what day you will be needed to testify. I’ll give you a call soon to review your testimony. Please let me know if you have any questions.”
Sonia hits delete.
Half the teachers at Belmont were put on the preliminary witness list. That was normal, they were told. The list always has more names than are needed. Everyone was preinterviewed and prepped, just in case. But now, Sonia will have to get up on that stand, swear on the Bible, and testify.
For the prosecution.
30
FRANK DOESN’T WANT to see the news, hear the news, or even talk about the news, but when he gets home from work, his wife is watching it on TV.
“That poor girl,” she says.
“Yeah.” He drops his bag and heads into the bathroom, where he shuts the door and turns on the water. It’s the only place he can’t hear the TV.
A minute later, Missy knocks on the door. “Honey?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re having spaghetti tonight. It’ll be done in about half an hour.”
He already smelled the sauce. The onions, tomatoes, and garlic made his stomach flip-flop as soon as he walked in the door. “Great. Be out in a minute.”
When he returns to the family room, little Frankie is playing on the floor with plastic cars, crashing them together, over and over and over again. The noise is maddening.
“Stop that,” he says to Frankie.
Frankie does. For a minute.
The news is still on, and Courtney’s picture stares back at him. It’s the same one they’ve been showing
on all the TV stations. The picture, taken from her social media account, shows her outside with friends, but they’ve been cut out. It’s just Courtney, posing for the camera, her hip stuck out and her skirt just short enough to raise a few eyebrows.
Horrible. It’s all so horrible.
For the rest of the evening, he stumbles through the motions. Eat the spaghetti, give Frankie a bath, put him to bed, go back out to the family room for quality time with Missy. Tonight, it revolves around an episode of Bosch, followed by more news.
“Coming to bed?” Missy says.
“Soon.”
“Okay.”
“You know what?” he says. “I think I’m going out for a drive.”
“A drive? Now?”
“It’s all this stuff about the school.” He waves his hand toward the TV. “It’s just . . . I just need to get out for a minute.”
Missy gives him a sad look, and it’s almost more than he can bear. “Okay. I understand.”
She always understands. It makes everything so much worse.
Frank does get in his car and drive. He goes straight to church.
The Unity of Life Church is where he goes for answers. When he was trying to decide if he should ask Missy to marry him, he came here to pray for guidance. When she was pregnant, he came here to pray for a safe delivery and a healthy child. When he recently hurt his shoulder, he came here to pray for a speedy recovery.
The praying always made him feel better. Always made him feel like he’d come to the right place.
Now it doesn’t.
He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be talking to God. He should be talking to the police, starting by telling them what Ingrid did to him.
Or at least what he remembers. It isn’t much.
At the fundraiser, where he saw Ingrid, she was wearing a sleek black dress that showed off her curves. Their conversation was normal at first. Nothing out of the ordinary for a teacher and a board member. The bar came next, and a drink.
“I’d really like to discuss the math curriculum with you in more detail,” she said. Her lips were a deep shade of red. Painted-on color that didn’t smear on the edge of her glass.
“I’d like that,” he said.
“And I’m not just saying that. I really do mean it.”
“So do I.”
“Then let’s go,” she said. “Right now. Let’s go around the corner to Mona’s. We can have a drink and discuss it.”
He went. Because when the president of the Collaborative requests your company, you show up.
And when she keeps ordering cocktails, you drink.
They talked about math, about Belmont, maybe even some gossip. Nothing too bad, nothing harmful. Although by then, the night had become a little hazy.
She ordered two more drinks.
It never occurred to him that she might not be drinking them, that maybe she was emptying her glass into the planter behind them. He didn’t think about that until later.
He remembers, sort of, when they got up to leave. She took him by the arm and led him out the door. A burst of cool air hit him, although he didn’t shiver, didn’t feel too cold.
That’s the last thing he can recall.
He woke up alone in a hotel room.
31
THE MALL, OR what’s left of it, is an atrocious place. Sonia walks past the empty retail spaces, heading into the only decent store left. She has nothing to wear to court. Nothing that fits, anyway. And that won’t do, not at all, because she’s going to be on TV.
No way around it, as far as she can tell. The trial itself won’t be televised, but everyone is filmed walking in and out of the courtroom. She’ll be identified, too. Everything will be on the record and public.
The idea that she, Sonia Benjamin, a representative of Belmont Academy, is being forced to testify against one of their own is abominable. It makes her want to scream.
Instead, she grabs a piece of hard candy out of her bag and shoves it into her mouth.
She already knows what they’re going to ask. They went through it in the preliminary interview, and again this afternoon, when one of the DA’s assistants had called. The woman sounded as young as Sonia’s students.
Her questions were the same as last time. As much as Sonia wanted to lie, she didn’t. Couldn’t. And she can’t stop thinking about how her answers will sound in court.
Did you ever see Courtney Ross with her mother?
Yes.
Once? More than once?
Several times.
Did you ever see them argue?
Yes.
More than once?
Yes.
What did they argue about?
I didn’t eavesdrop. I walked away to give them privacy.
Did Courtney ever talk to you about her mother?
Yes.
What did she say?
That her mother was rather demanding.
What was her mother demanding about?
Her grades, her activities. She texted Courtney quite a bit, asking where she was and what she was doing. Courtney said she didn’t like that. It made her feel like a child.
Did she say she loved her mother?
No.
Did she say she hated her mother?
Yes.
More than once?
Yes.
You’ve been a teacher for over a decade, and you’ve seen many students and their parents. In your opinion, was Ingrid Ross’s behavior unreasonable?
At times, yes.
Can you describe how?
She was insistent about Courtney attending Yale, and only Yale.
Did you ever see Ingrid hit her daughter?
Not hit her, no.
Did you ever see her lay a hand on Courtney at all?
I saw Ingrid slap her.
* * *
IT HAD HAPPENED in the fall, a few weeks after the first semester started. The first issue of the Bugle was twenty-four hours away from publication, and Sonia was at the school, working late with Courtney.
Ingrid was already angry when she showed up. Courtney looked horrified to see her.
“Why didn’t you answer my texts?” Ingrid said.
“Because I’m working.”
“Since when do you ignore your phone when you’re doing schoolwork?”
“I wasn’t ignoring it. I just don’t sit around all day with nothing to do, like some people.”
If venom had a voice, it would sound like Courtney’s.
Ingrid smacked her so fast, Sonia almost couldn’t believe it had happened. Courtney’s whole face turned red, and for a second, Sonia thought she would hit her mother back. Instead, she ran out of the room.
“Ingrid,” Sonia said.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Ingrid threw up her hands, palms forward. “She was just so disrespectful.”
Sonia wanted to tell her that she was the one being disrespectful, but she kept her mouth shut. It wasn’t her place, even if they were on school grounds. Sonia was well aware of the laws regarding children and corporal punishment by parents. An open-handed slap is legal in every single state. As far as the law is concerned, there was no reportable action.
The next time Sonia was alone with Courtney, she’d tried to get her to talk about it. But Courtney shut her down, refusing to answer any questions.
Now, she would have to tell the story in court and it wouldn’t help Courtney one bit. It would only make things worse. She knew what the prosecution wanted, could see the story they were planning to tell. Courtney had an aggressive, overbearing mother who’d pushed her to the breaking point.
That’s motive.
An understandable one, too. They weren’t going to make Courtney out to be the devil in a schoolgirl uniform. She was just a kid who’d had enough.
It wasn’t self-defense, either. Ingrid didn’t die in the middle of an argument or a fight. Courtney poisoned her mother. Or so they say.
In the store dressing room, Sonia cringes when she thinks about the final question. The worst one of all.
Did you tell anyone you saw Ingrid slap Courtney?
No.
Sonia hadn’t done a thing.
Never told anyone, never mentioned it to the school officials.
Because Ingrid Ross was a parent. Without parents to pay the bills, Belmont wouldn’t exist.
32
IT’S GETTING IRRITATING how often Zach’s father is right. Yet another one of his sayings has turned out to be true.
Money can open doors.
He’s right: It does open doors. Even jail cells.
It’s the middle of the night, long past Zach’s curfew. Doesn’t matter. This is the only time he can see Courtney, so he has to sneak out.
When he arrives at the side door, he sends a text to the night guard. The woman who opens the door is almost sixty years old, with short white hair and a nervous twitch in her eye. She also has a mortgage she can’t afford because her deadbeat ex-husband doesn’t pay alimony and doesn’t show up for his court dates.
The internet can be a beautiful thing.
Zach didn’t think twice before contacting this guard, whose name is Kay. Yes, it was illegal. Yes, she could’ve reported him. He knew that and did it anyway.
Because it was Courtney. She was there for him when no one else was. She’d saved him from what could’ve been years of being bullied. Of course he would do this for her. No question.
“Come in, come in,” Kay says, almost pulling him inside. She slams the door and locks it behind him.
“I really appreciate this,” Zach says, pulling an envelope out of his pocket. “Thank you again.”
She looks in the envelope before answering. “This never happened.”
“What never happened?” He smiles at her. Winks.
Kay smiles and leads him down a hallway. The whole place is dark, with cement floors and dark green walls. It’s not like anywhere Zach has ever been or would want to be. But Courtney was here even on Christmas.
For Your Own Good Page 10
