For twenty-one years I wore what Daddy wanted me to wear, maintained my hair at a length and in a style that was ‘ladylike’. I kept the right friends, I drove the right car, I supported the right political candidates. I watched the right shows, read the right books, spent just the right amount of time on the phone.
Sad thing is, it wasn’t just me Dad kept under his thumb. It was Mom, too. We ate what he wanted to eat when he wanted to eat it, slept when he wanted to sleep, lived where he wanted to live. My mom simply stood no chance against my dad’s despotic personality.
And yeah, sure, sometimes in the dead of night, as I lay naked between the sheets next to Brody, I worry. Because there is simply no more use in ignoring the fact that I am more like Dad than I am Mom.
A couple of weeks after my parents died, I chopped off my hair and launched a mission to ink every last inch of me. Pierced parts of my anatomy my mother never so much as muttered aloud. I wasn’t lashing out at life or anything. And I was by no means happy that my parents had perished. I missed them desperately; particularly Mom, I miss her still. But after their deaths, for the first time I felt completely free to be myself, not just because my father had always wanted me to be someone else – the perfect student, the toughest athlete, the most girlish girl – but because it was only once my parents died upside down in a fucking kayak (on their thirtieth anniversary, no less) that I recognized life was absurd.
Mom and Dad didn’t leave behind much in the way of money, but it was enough for me to quit hawking hard-on pills and move to New York to earn my MFA in filmmaking. But first, two weeks in Hawaii, where this girl, who was more than an acquaintance but less than a friend, invited me to stay at her house on Tantalus.
Physically, Piper Kingsley and I were polar opposites (as in: her body was perfect), but we’d met in New York while she was auditioning for Good Day! and clicked right on the spot. Had one of those nights you can’t really remember yet that’s why you’ll remember it from the nursing home. You just know you had a good time.
Piper flew back home to Oahu the next afternoon but we’d friended each other on Facebook, which, for better or worse, can instantly transform a total stranger into an omnipresence in your life. We ‘liked’ each other’s pictures and posts, even commented. And not just when we felt obligated due to a newborn or death.
Piper and I genuinely liked each other, I think. So when I remarked one day on the eye-catching tide pools in the background of her latest profile pic, she told me I needed to fly out there. I replied that’d be awesome, the way you respond to casual invitations doled out over social media. Later, though, she made clear in a private message that she’d been serious. She’d moved to the States from Australia right after college and, though she got on well with her colleagues, had no real friends in the islands.
Although spontaneously taking a 5,000-mile flight was antithetical to the parented me, since I’d budgeted some of my modest inheritance for travel anyway, off the newly orphaned Riley Vasher went.
I’d had a blast – not just beaching, clubbing and drinking, but conversing – and promised to come back. Then life happened. Studies and boyfriends, Brody and Professor Leary, all competed valiantly for my time. And with a camera or screen constantly in front of me, I quickly lost interest in what 500 ‘friends’ I barely knew were eating for dinner each night. I fell off Facebook entirely, and somewhat sadly, it was as though 495 people suddenly dropped from my life, Piper being one of them. Because who the hell phones or even emails anyone anymore, right? What are we anyway, a bunch of troglodytes?
I’d planned on calling Piper when Brody and I moved to Oahu, of course. I just kept putting it off; there was simply never a good time. And I didn’t desperately miss Piper, because she had once again become a substantial part of my life through the magic of television. I saw her on the local news every evening at six – cracking corny jokes, guessing at the weather, predicting the size of the surf up North Shore – and I simply assumed, as we always do before someone dies suddenly, that we both had plenty of time.
When we neared the top of Tantalus the road was cordoned off. Uniformed cops staged a perimeter around your quintessential crime scene. The uniforms were security, there to safeguard the crime scene investigators, who were adorned in baggy white paper suits, nitrile gloves and industrial respirators, but typically wore no bulletproof vests, and carried no guns or Tasers.
The forensics team were scampering around like hell, suggesting an outdoor crime scene susceptible to the elements. Up here at nearly 20,000 feet, a cold, hard rain could materialize at any moment and damage delicate forensic evidence. Already, arbitrary drops had been dotting our windshield all the way up the mountain.
I said sayonara to the driver, stepped out of the Elantra, and immediately breathed in the scent of wild ginger, guava and mango, maybe fresh eucalyptus. With just a twinge of guilt, I studied the lush scenery as a potential backdrop for my film. Visitors to Hawaii don’t necessarily come for the rain, but some of the wettest areas of these islands are, indisputably, also the most breathtaking.
I plucked my iPhone from my back pocket and started toward the yellow tape, but before I could tap the camera icon I received a text message from Brody:
WALK DOWN MTN TO NEXT HOUSE, X INTO BACKYARD.
I gazed down the road. Residents here valued their privacy, and paid well for it. Rarely could you see your neighbor’s house from your own, and Piper’s was no exception.
I texted Brody that I was on my way but first paused, waded through a thin crowd of onlookers, and snapped a few pictures. The best of them were shots of the lead detective, Lance Fukumoto – an elegant septuagenarian who vehemently refused to retire – as he greeted the first responders then entered the house.
Seconds later I snaked my way back through the growing throng and started down the mountain. Walked a little over half a mile to the neighboring two-story which, surprisingly, remained dark. I entered the property through an unlocked iron gate and proceeded past the garden to the rear of the house.
Slinking through the backyard like the world’s worst cat burglar, I set off a sensor and suddenly found myself trapped in a glaring shaft of light. For a moment, I froze. Then, finally, I snapped out of it and darted toward the rocks. There, I eventually found Brody waiting anxiously with his Canon 5-something-or-other balanced on his shoulder.
Together we started back up the mountain, this time through the rainforest behind the houses as opposed to the open road. Branches sharp as cat claws tugged at the exposed flesh of my arms and legs, while I slapped willy-nilly at mosquitoes.
Frankly, I was surprised Brody seemed eager to exert so much energy. But his effort only heightened my hopes that he’d found the perfect perch from which to shoot the backyard, where he said a young guy in a T-shirt and boxers was being questioned without handcuffs.
By the time we reached the clearing Brody had chosen, Detective Fukumoto was surveying the backyard too, off to one side, his eyes on the pool, where a nude woman floated facedown, arms spread wide like a high diver’s.
It was Piper. With her ginger hair unfurled on the water, she looked like a broken Barbie doll afloat in the bath.
My stomach clenched as Brody filmed.
Focus.
The pool was lip up, there was blood on the surface. Not a massive amount, but when blood dilutes, it doesn’t take much.
‘Pull her out of the water,’ Fukumoto ordered a pair of cops in white paper suits.
My discomfort instantly morphed into exhilaration.
My eyes widened.
My ears finally popped.
‘That,’ I said quietly to Brody. ‘That right there. That is our opening shot.’
THREE
I like to experiment. Like to play with the footage until I’m fully familiar with it; that’s what the rough cut is for. Now that I’ve logged, labeled and organized the video files in a manner that makes sense only to me, I can begin to eliminate the scenes I’m certain won’t make the fine cut – li
ke the footage of Nicholas Church elucidating the fifty-year history of Miranda rights while sitting on the toilet in his suite at the Four Seasons.
In the days and nights to come, I’ll also be formulating some semblance of a structure and selecting master scenes. And because we recorded on video rather than film, I’m free to bend, twist and flip every image; to try each scene in divergent positions; to alter the pace of the film from fast to slow to fast again.
Coincidentally, video versus film was the first argument of our business partnership. Sure, I get why Brody favors the handwork, the physical act of cutting a scene from its home on the reel and splicing it to another. It makes the film feel more real, more concrete. But it’s merely a matter of taste. Not unlike the difference between a physical book and an e-reader, vaping versus smoking a bowl. Just your typical standoff, old against new. And since video is much less expensive, easier to edit, and far more liberating, I remained adamant we shoot in HDTV from the very beginning.
It’s an argument I obviously won but one Brody’s still sore about, and ostensibly the reason he stayed home tonight.
‘You don’t need my help,’ he opined from the couch. ‘Video editing is your time to shine.’
But then, I win most fights with Brody these days, because our squabbles are typically about money, and last I checked Brody was living off me, not the other way around. Not that Professor Leary disliked Brody, but if he’d wanted us to partner up and split the money he would have named Brody in the will.
I don’t know, maybe he has a point. I did tell Brody before we moved out here that we were going to be equal partners in this, fifty-fifty. But you’d be surprised how fast paradise and filmmaking can join to drain a six-figure windfall.
So we clash.
We’re not quick to make up either. No. It’s during these battles that we each retreat to our respective corners. Stare one another down, try to outlast the other. Of course, sooner or later he’ll show up with a peace offering and the whole thing will go away … at least until the next flare-up.
Yet I love Brody to pieces. Love him for his aloofness, for his calm, for his ability to make me feel like I’m someone who matters. Sure, Brody has his faults, we all do. He seldom reaches for his wallet; my feet smell. He dresses in flannel and corduroy even in the tropics; I occasionally drink orange juice straight from the carton.
He has a good heart, though, and that’s what matters. Despite spending an inordinate amount of time melting into the couch ripping bong hits, he is fanatical about getting involved in good causes and local politics.
Sure, given his fervor for the environment and animal rights, Brody’s indifference over serious issues in our relationship can be frustrating. But we’re also so alike in so many ways. Neither of us, for instance, could ever work a conventional job again. And not just because of the drug tests. We each have a thirst for autonomy that’s impossible to quench. We each demand dominance over our own destiny. We each identify as both artist and intellect, both pragmatist and dreamer.
And he’s different now, different from the man he was just six months ago. The murder, the investigation, the trial, the verdict have changed him. In ways I never could. Astonishingly, just prior to closing statements, Brody proposed to me, on camera, in front of a crowd. He’s even been hinting at wanting children, another full one-eighty from his stance not a year ago.
Ironically, once he finally asked, I realized marriage requires compromise and sacrifice, and it’s difficult for me to surrender control. I don’t want to become my mother. And, yes, sometimes in the heat of a particularly spirited argument, I worry that Brody will one day become his. Right now he’s the reverse of her in every way. But in time … it’s impossible to tell.
Still, I owe him an answer. I’ve pushed aside the proposal for too long, using our moviemaking as a pretense, and it’s straining our relationship to breaking point. Worse, it’s damaging our documentary. We’ve been together in one way or another for three years now. Brody finally wants a formal commitment and deserves one.
He’s been my rock on this project from conception through principal photography.
And the truth is, I’ve behaved so fucking badly these past several months.
FOUR
Edit the opening last, Professor Leary always told me. Wait until the rest of the documentary is cut. Because during the editing process your film will evolve. So much so that the opening you originally imagined might no longer fit. Since the opening sets the pace, sets the style, sets the tone for the rest of the film, you need to know the film’s overall pace, style and tone to discover your opening, not the other way around.
But I know my opening already, have known it all along. Of course, you don’t have to tell your story in chronological order. But where better to start than the night of.
On the night the weathergirl died, Brody arrived on-scene fully equipped. In addition to his video camera, he had packed his black Bionic Ear and Booster set, which could pick up and record a whisper from a hundred yards away. He split apart a pair of earphones and handed one to me.
As Brody panned from Piper’s body across the yard to Fukumoto, I crouched beside him, stuffed the single bud into my ear, and watched and listened intently.
Fukumoto hummed the chorus of ‘We’re Off to See the Wizard’ as he approached the man in the T-shirt and boxers, who’d apparently been lorded over by two uniforms from the moment police arrived at the house.
‘Ethan Jakes,’ Fukumoto said, as though rolling the name around on his tongue. ‘Ethan Jakes as in The Two Jakes?’
Ethan nodded. ‘Well, I’m solo now, but yeah. My brother Nathan and I used to play under that name.’
‘I have to say, you and your brother were very good. Are very good, I’m sure.’ Fukumoto’s voice was crisp and clear and deep, as though he was born for audiobook narration. ‘My wife and I used to go down to Da Bleu Sharq to watch you boys play. What was the name of that tune my wife loved? “Don’t Wait Up Past …”’
‘Past Dawn,’ Ethan said, clearly flattered he had not only been recognized but had encountered a genuine fan.
We would later learn that Detective Lance Fukumoto had never so much as heard of The Two Jakes before that evening, that on the way to the scene of the homicide he and another officer had researched Ethan Jakes on the web. Had perused his Wikipedia page, scanned his social media history, even downloaded one of his songs.
‘“Don’t Wait Up Past Dawn”,’ Fukumoto said wistfully. ‘That’s the one my wife so loved, God rest her soul.’
Fukumoto never had a wife either. He had a husband who worked downtown as a tax attorney and remained very much alive. But the veteran detective had wanted to relate to Ethan on as many levels as possible before Ethan gained the sense to lawyer up. So this version of Fukumoto knew Ethan’s music – was nostalgic for it. Had lost his own wife, so he knew what Ethan was going through. He’d even name-dropped God because Ethan’s website mentioned he’d play churches and bar mitzvahs for a discounted fee.
‘Should this be a two-shot?’ Brody breathed.
‘No,’ I said softly. ‘Go wide. Keep the uniforms in the shot.’
‘You sure?’
‘Could be important; they’re sort of hemming him in.’
Fukumoto turned his head up to Ethan, who stood a few inches taller. ‘Let me ask you, Ethan,’ he said. ‘May I call you Ethan?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, sure.’ From the sound of his voice, Ethan had not only met a new fan but found a new friend. From the look in Ethan’s eyes, maybe even a soulmate.
‘Do you live here?’ Fukumoto said.
Ethan contemplated the yard as though he needed to double-check. He crossed his arms, stared down at the tall grass surrounding his feet. ‘Yeah, more or less.’
‘Good, because I want to help you, Ethan. But we have only one shot at this. And I know you want to help us track down your girlfriend’s killer as swiftly as we can.’
Ethan shifted his hands to his hips and
looked the detective in the eye. ‘Yeah, sure, of course.’
Fukumoto nodded curtly, then spun around as though his next move was a given. ‘You don’t mind, then, if we look through your truck along with the house,’ he said over his shoulder.
Ethan hesitated. His lips parted without sound.
Fukumoto halted his steps and slowly rotated to face Ethan again.
Ethan said, ‘I’m sorry, was that a question?’
Fukumoto said the only thing he could: ‘Yes.’
Ethan eyed the dark woods for answers, for one split second even stared straight into the camera he wasn’t aware of. ‘Do I need a lawyer here, or …?’
Fukumoto shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Do you?’ The implication, of course, being that only the guilty need lawyers.
Ethan visibly wrestled with the decision. The footage shows his lips bent firmly in a frown, his tongue sweeping over his teeth, jaw working as he chewed the inside of his cheeks. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, his pupils ping-ponged from the pool to the house to the woods and back. At one point he even looked to the uniformed officers as though asking their opinions on the subject.
Finally, he said, ‘Nah, I don’t need one, I’m all right.’
‘Of course you are,’ Fukumoto said warmly. ‘If you don’t mind, we’re just going to look around the house for now, see if Piper left behind anything that might help us learn what happened here tonight.’ He paused. ‘Then we’ll search your truck.’
Ethan said something then, something that could later be disputed, possibly something crucial to the criminal case and thus crucial to our movie. The Bionic Ear, however, didn’t pick it up and we didn’t hear it. Because a mosquito flew into my mouth and hit the back of my throat. Causing me to fall backward against a tree and cough like I’d caught walking pneumonia.
They’d heard something. That much Brody and I concluded right away.
‘Stay perfectly still,’ he hissed, as a thin ray of light advanced in our direction.
The Rough Cut Page 2
