But first I needed to take a closer look in the bedroom closet. As Millie had pointed out, there could be something helpful tucked somewhere, though it already felt uncomfortably intimate, standing there in the doorway in my nearly bare feet. Lingerie, sex toys, there was no telling what I might find. After all, Zach and Amanda had been at a sex party that night. And now, here I was mixed up in whatever they had done. As if I didn’t have enough of my own problems. It had been so reckless to ask Paul about Zach’s case. Stupid, actually. I braced myself as I finally stepped inside the massive closet.
I opened one drawer after another. Clothes and more clothes, that was all. There was actually nothing very personal anywhere, much less anything scandalous. I lifted the lid on a jewelry box to an eye-popping collection—necklaces, bracelets, and earrings with colored stones and, yes, plenty of actual diamonds. It seemed to rule out a robbery, unless Amanda had interrupted the burglar before he’d found the stash he was looking for. Maybe I’d cut short his return trip to finish the job.
I headed back out into the bedroom, where I looked over the built-in bookshelves. There were dozens of classic novels, Shakespeare plays, and Nietzsche, separated every dozen books or so by a short cluster of coffee-table and art books stacked on their sides. Amanda’s, surely. Back when I’d known him, Zach hadn’t been much of a reader, a fact he’d seemed to offer as a challenge to anyone willing to judge him. Amanda—poor background, uneducated, but a big reader and a great mother, not to mention gorgeous. A jury was going to make somebody pay for what had been done to her.
As I turned back from the shelves, a nearby nightstand caught my eye. The top drawer was open slightly. I made a note for myself in my phone: Fingerprint nightstand drawer. Then I used the edge of my shirt to open it.
The orderly, impersonal contents of the top drawer bore no resemblance to my own overstuffed night table, with its tangled headphones and receipts for store credit that had long since expired. There was a small tube of very pricey, very female hand cream next to a thin box of tissues—it was Amanda’s nightstand, presumably. The only genuinely personal item was a card from Case that—judging from the childish handwriting—had likely been written years earlier: I luv u momy. You ar the best and only momy.
My throat tightened. That poor little boy off enjoying camp somewhere, having no idea the loss that had already befallen him. It was a loss I felt daily, even all these years later.
The bottom drawer of Amanda’s nightstand was empty, apart from a single Moleskine journal. Using tissues, I lifted it out. As I flipped through the lined pages—empty, it turned out—a small card with a modern drawing of two roses at the top fell to the carpet: Thinking of you xoxo. No signature. Maybe Zach wasn’t such a lousy husband after all. I picked up the card from the carpet, careful to hold it only by the edges. On the back was the name of a florist in stylish typeface: “Blooms on the Slope, Seventh Avenue and St. John’s Place.”
I set the florist’s card down on the nightstand for safekeeping, only to have it fall promptly back to the floor. When I bent to retrieve it a second time, I caught sight of something under the bed. Something large and dark shoved up near the headboard.
I got down and pressed my face to the carpet, using my iPhone flashlight for illumination. More journals under the bed. Dozens of them. Stacked neatly and carefully and pushed deep against the baseboard, in a place where officers might easily have missed them.
Using the tissues, I grabbed a few of the journals from different stacks. Unlike the pricey Moleskine in the drawer, these journals were mismatched, very worn, and much cheaper looking. I flipped quickly through the first few pages of each. One seemed to be from Case’s first year, two from Amanda’s late childhood and early teen years. I felt guilty invading Amanda’s privacy, but the journals could provide a gold mine of alternate suspects. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need to read much to find one good one for a jury to latch onto. But reading through Amanda’s journals in any kind of detail wasn’t a project for right now. A trial and the actual need for exculpatory evidence like alternate suspects was months away. Instead, I needed to finish up at Zach’s house and get back to the office to write the habeas writ. That was Zach’s only way out of Rikers.
The three journals still safely under the tissues, I headed quickly back toward the steps to the floor above. Straight ahead at the top was a small guest room; the bed was adorned with more bright decorative pillows than a bed in a boutique hotel. It was a chic museum of a room that looked like it had never been used. I checked the closet for the golf clubs, but it was empty except for more pillows and a couple of extra blankets.
At the other end of the hall was what looked to be Zach’s office. There was a lot of dark wood and leather and more books lining the shelves—Sailing Alone Around the World, The Oxford Companion to Wine, A History of the Modern Middle East. There were testosterone-fueled biographies, too: Steve Jobs, John F. Kennedy, J. P. Morgan. Maybe the books were a front—who Zach wanted to be—or maybe Zach was a wine-drinking sailor now? Eleven years was eleven years.
I remembered then how that conversation in Mahoney’s about our ambitions had ended back in law school.
“Well, I admit it: money drives me,” Zach had said after my impassioned defense of my future in public interest. “And not because I care about buying things. I care about what the money says about me.”
“Okay, that’s gross,” had been my honest response. “And what do you think money says exactly?”
“That I’m better than them.”
“Them who?”
Zach had been quiet then for a moment, considering. “Them everyone.” He’d looked up at me. “Everyone except you.”
And then he’d started to laugh. At himself, I’d thought at the time. Standing there now in his swanky, contrived home office, I wondered if he’d simply been telling the truth.
I headed over to Zach’s desk, but paused momentarily before opening the first drawer. What if I stumbled on something I’d rather not know? Something Zach hadn’t been worried about, because I was going there only to look in Amanda’s desk. Well, that was what attorney-client privilege was for. And while there were questions you didn’t ask a maybe-guilty client, it was better to be prepared for every last bad fact the prosecution might already know about.
I needn’t have worried: the contents of Zach’s desk were neat, orderly, and totally unexceptional. Some desk supplies and some personal files related to Case, which seemed to undermine the whole I-knew-nothing-about-my-kid speech Zach had given me. The other drawers were much the same. There was nothing about Zach’s new company either. A home office for somebody who apparently never worked from home.
Zach’s computer was on, but password-protected, the lock screen a lovely photo of Zach, Amanda, and Case as a baby. The truth was more imperfect, sure. Zach had already admitted as much. But idyllic images like that wouldn’t hurt with a jury.
As I moved away from the desk, my stocking feet caught on something sharp.
“Ouch!” I hissed, bending down to fish it out of the thick carpet.
It was a small white strip with some diagonal blue lines and arrows on one side above a thicker black line. It looked vaguely similar to the ovulation strips I’d used in those brief, foolish weeks I’d thought Sam was doing well enough that we could start trying to conceive.
An ovulation strip was potentially damaging evidence. Being pregnant, trying to have a baby, trying to end a pregnancy—these things could bring out the worst in a marriage. I could already imagine the scene a prosecutor might sketch: Amanda arrives home from the party later than Zach, angry that he left without her, and announces that she wants to get pregnant. Zach doesn’t want another kid. They argue. Things get out of hand.
I looked down again at the little test strip. The bright side of being on the defense? It wasn’t my obligation anymore to disclose facts helpful to the other side. I stuck the strip in a tissue and shoved it in my pocket. I’d use it if—and only if—it somehow b
ecame helpful to us.
I paused on my way out of the office at the closet door. It wouldn’t open. I tugged harder, but it wouldn’t give. For a moment, I wondered if it might be locked, but then, finally, after one last pull, it gave way. There at the back of the dark closet was the bag of Zach’s silver golf clubs, gleaming in the half-dark.
I left Millie waiting for her crime scene experts as well as, hopefully, a tech from the actual NYPD, and headed back to Young & Crane to draft a very persuasive bail appeal. I also needed to get someone from the managing clerk’s office down to Philadelphia first thing in the morning to resolve Zach’s warrant. I wasn’t showing up at a hearing with that outstanding. If staying on Paul’s good side meant I had to stay on as Zach’s attorney, I was at least going to do a respectable job.
On the subway from Brooklyn to Manhattan, I started paging through Amanda’s journals, still under the tissues, though more halfheartedly now that Millie had pointed out we’d be unlikely to be fingerprinting them. I read first from the more recent one, from when Case was a young baby.
October 2010
He sat up today! And, oh my goodness, was he proud of himself. Huge grin! I got some video of it. Fingers crossed that it came out. I’ll ask Zach tonight if he wants to see. Or maybe I’ll just save it for the weekend. By then who knows what else Case will have done!
I can’t believe I thought that I couldn’t do this. That, after everything, I might be too clumsy or even cruel. As it turned out, loving Case has made all the difference.
Most notable was what I didn’t find in any of Amanda’s “new parent” entries. There was not a single complaint—not about the sleeplessness or the crying or the being overwhelmed. Everyone I knew who’d had a baby—which was most people by now—complained about such things. It was human nature. But Amanda seemed inhumanly grateful. She didn’t gripe about Zach either. He worked a lot, that was obvious from her entries, but she was so genuinely understanding. In keeping with Zach’s description, their marriage seemed distant, but not actually unhappy.
I flipped to the middle of the second journal, with more girlish script.
May 2005
I got a job at the Bishop’s Motel! Where Momma worked, cleaning rooms just like her. The manager, Al, said absolutely no way at first. I guess it’s illegal to let somebody work at thirteen (stupid). He caved when I started to cry (wasn’t even on purpose). It’s only part-time, so it’s not going to take care of the back rent right away. But it’s a start. I’ll hide the money better this time, too. Daddy’s gotten good at finding things. The pills—they give him a lot more energy.
So far, I’d managed to keep Amanda, the person, a hazy image at arm’s length. But now I felt swamped by sadness, guilt, too, for all that I’d taken for granted. Amanda had been only thirteen when she’d started working at a motel to support her possibly drug-abusing father. And she’d been excited about it.
I’d been thirteen when I’d sat down in that booth with Millie, excited about my new freedom to walk those few blocks alone. Because my mother had loved me too much to let me go. How much better I’d had it. And look what a mess my life had still become.
Grand Jury Testimony
MAX CALDWELL,
called as a witness the 6th of July and was examined and testified as follows:
EXAMINATION
BY MS. WALLACE:
Q: Mr. Caldwell, thank you for coming in to testify today.
A: You’re welcome.
Q: How did you come to be at the party at 724 First Street on July 2nd of this year?
A: My wife knows Maude from Brooklyn Country Day. Our kids go to school there.
Q: Before her death, did you know Amanda Grayson?
A: No. I’d never met her.
Q: Did you know of her?
A: No, I did not. My wife might have.
Q: Do you know Zach Grayson?
A: No. I think I might have heard of his company before. And now because of this … But not before.
Q: I’d like to show you a picture.
(Counsel approaches witness with photograph, which is marked as People’s Exhibit 5.)
Q: Is this a picture of the man you saw at the party that night?
A: Yes.
Q: Let the record reflect that People’s Exhibit 5 is a photograph of Zach Grayson. Where did you see him?
A: I saw him talking to some woman about Terry’s Bench. You know, the Tinder for married people? The woman was drunk and seriously pissed. She kept telling everybody at the party that her husband was on there.
Q: What did Mr. Grayson say to her?
A: That he had to go home to get some sleep. That he had something he had to do early in the morning. I remember because I thought it was bullshit.
Q: What do you mean?
A: The way he said it. It sounded like an excuse. I thought: That guy wants to get away from that woman. Like I said, she was pissed and drunk. Maybe he also wanted to leave the party. But it is like the only good thing that ever happens in Park Slope. I did sort of wonder if he was having an affair. Why otherwise would you leave a sex party unless it was for sex somewhere else?
Q: Did you see him actually leave?
A: He headed toward the front door.
Q: What time was that?
A: 9:35.
Q: Are you sure?
A: Yes. I checked my watch when he said he had to go to bed. I thought maybe I’d lost track of time and it was later than I thought. That’s the kind of party it is. It makes you lose track of everything.
Lizzie
JULY 7, TUESDAY
I’d just arrived back at my office when the phone rang. It was precisely 7:00 p.m., Zach’s appointed time. I looked down at my notes: “Warrant? Time line of night? Witnesses to Zach’s walk? Amanda’s friends, enemies? Flowers? Pregnant? Sex party?”
So many questions, but not all for right now. That last one, though, I had underlined. The sex party was an even worse fact than the pregnancy. Jurors would easily be able to imagine one spouse killing another after they’d agreed to something like that. Something that might seem like harmless good fun beforehand. Something that could not be undone after the fact. They might even want to punish Zach for breaking the rules of fidelity they were forced to live by. That was the way juries worked, judges sometimes, too. Because they were human beings. And human beings couldn’t help but take things personally.
“Hello?” I answered.
“You have a collect call from a New York State correctional facility—”
I hit the number 1 on my phone.
“Hi, Zach.”
“Hey, Lizzie. Thanks for taking the call.” His voice was low and a little distorted, like Sam’s when he’d been drinking.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You sound … strange.”
“I, um.” He took a breath. “Had another run-in with some bars of a cell. But I—really I’m fine. My lip is swollen. That’s what you’re hearing.”
“Jesus, Zach, again?” My stomach tightened. I really, really hated this. Thanks to Paul, everything that happened to Zach while he was stuck in Rikers now felt like my fault. “What happened this time?”
“I’d really rather not get into it,” he said. “The details don’t make it better. Trust me.”
“These assaults—should I put a call in to the warden or something? Try to get you some protection?”
“I’m pretty sure that tattling on people in Rikers is hazardous to your health. I just need out of here. Quickly.”
I regretted wasting so much time at Zach’s house. The break-in had slowed me significantly. A writ of habeas corpus had nothing to do with any fingerprints or Amanda’s old journals.
“Young & Crane has agreed to let me represent you,” I said, trying to lead with something Zach would be happy about.
“Wow. That’s great news.” Zach exhaled so hard it made a rumbling sound into the phone. “I can’t even tell you, Lizzie … Thank you.”
“We’ll eventually
need to back up and have a longer, much more detailed background discussion where you walk me through everything you can remember about that night. But first we need to focus on getting you out of Rikers. I’m drafting the habeas writ right now. We’ll get it filed first thing in the morning,” I said, signing in to my computer. I felt on more solid ground than I had in days. I’d get Zach’s situation sorted out, and then I’d sort out my own life, too. A drunk husband and some financial problems—even when they came with a side helping of secret baggage—were nothing compared to a murdered wife and a potential life sentence. “I’ll also have someone from the managing clerk’s office get down to Philadelphia to clear your outstanding warrant.”
I waited a beat, hoping that Zach would jump in with an explanation for the warrant.
“Right, the warrant,” he said finally, but he sounded more irritated than apologetic.
“You need to tell me about things like that,” I said. “I can’t represent you properly if I don’t know everything. It puts me in a really bad position.”
Zach was silent.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, I get that,” Zach said finally, his tone icy. “But then, discovering your wife’s bloody, beaten body and then getting sent to Rikers, where you are getting beaten up repeatedly yourself, can make a person loose with details.”
Fuck you, Zach, that was all I could think. I got that his situation was a nightmare, but I definitely didn’t ask for any of this.
“Hey, I’m trying to help you, remember?” I sounded even angrier than I’d intended. “Because you asked me to.”
A Good Marriage Page 12
