by Cate Holahan
“Okay, Ms. Reid.” Detective Watkins made eye contact with the local officer. He moved forward, the cuffs dangling from his palm.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney …”
EPILOGUE
THE YEAR AFTER
Mother’s Day didn’t exist inside the Rose M. Singer Center, though nearly all the women housed there had children. Some of the inmates even had their babies with them. Rosie’s had a nursery for newborns whose first screams had echoed in Rikers Island’s hospitals. Citing studies showing that infants with stronger maternal bonds developed healthier, researchers had insisted that the prison’s postpartum population be able to keep their newborns nearby. A relationship with even a violent mother, they maintained, was preferable than no exposure at all.
Jenny prayed the social scientists were right as she walked in a stiff line down the cinder-block hallway to the visitor’s area, listening to the high-pitched whine and whirling white noise that only she could hear. She hadn’t seen Ally in nearly eleven months, not since embracing her that last awkward time in the courtroom. She hadn’t wanted her daughter to accompany her to Rikers, where she’d agreed to turn herself in and begin serving the sentence set forth in her plea deal: five years for voluntary manslaughter.
Her defense hadn’t worked as well as she’d hoped. Her lawyer had argued that battered woman syndrome was responsible for Jenny drugging her husband and pushing him down the stairs. Jenny had thought it the right move, given the prosecution’s case. During the trial, the opposition had, thankfully, steered clear of any motive involving keeping Louis in the dark about her and Ben’s affair, or pinning Rachel’s murder on him—though Detective Watkins’s interrogation had revealed that the cops considered both likely reasons for Jenny’s actions.
For a sleepless month, Jenny had feared that the prosecution might admit Detective Watkins’s sworn testimony about the words of a man about to die, opening the door to charging her with Rachel’s murder. But the prosecution had ultimately decided it was too risky. Instead, they’d focused solely on the well-established abuse and the drugs in Louis’s system, arguing that Jenny’s desire to punish her husband for years of beatings had led her to plot his murder.
Her defense had somewhat conceded the point. Sure, they’d argued, Jenny had drugged her husband and pushed him off a staircase, but only after the abuse had escalated to the point where she’d had reason to believe he would kill her if she didn’t act first. Moreover, her attorney had maintained, the constant fear of physical attacks, cultivated over years, had damaged Jenny psychologically to the point where she could see no way out of Louis’s violence other than ending his life.
For a while, Jenny had thought the jury was on her side. Several of them had become misty-eyed seeing the police photographs of her injuries. But Jenny had lost her allies once the prosecution had delved into her finances. Few could understand why a woman capable of supporting herself—one that, in fact, out-earned her husband—wouldn’t have simply walked out the door with her daughter in tow.
Both Jenny and her lawyer had sensed the jury’s growing inability to comprehend her actions, to grasp how afraid she’d been of her husband taking Ally and continuing the cycle of abuse. Rather than risk a felony murder conviction, Jenny had opted to take a plea midway through the prosecution’s case: five years for voluntary manslaughter versus the fifteen-to-life she could have received for premeditated murder.
Jenny hoped some of her sentence would be shaved off for good behavior. She liked to think of herself as a model prisoner. She read books, volunteered in the hospital ward, and helped many of the new, young mothers learn techniques to parent a newborn. Some days, the latter work helped her miss her daughter less. Some days, it turned her longing for Ally into an acute pain that Jenny could only describe as a peeling of her heart’s muscle fibers from its beating core.
She definitely didn’t want Ally to see her locked up, even if it was Mother’s Day. The idea of her soft suburban daughter emptying her pockets and spreading her legs for a paddle detector was unbearable. She never wanted Ally to wait for her beneath blaring fluorescents surrounded by the smell of incarceration: body odor, backed-up sewers, and bad cafeteria food. Better, she thought, that she not see her for the duration of the sentence.
Most of the women Jenny chatted with in the cafeteria or in the library felt the same way. They’d each wait in line for hours to talk to their children on the phone, but they all begged them not to visit. Protecting their kids from the reality of prison was the last parental act available to anyone inside. They couldn’t mother here amid the stink and the sweat. Who could comfort a child during a timed good-bye hug or impart parental advice with the backdrop of bars?
But here she was with a visitor anyway. It was probably Jenny’s own mother bringing Ally to see her. She should have known better, but Jenny figured that her mother had convinced herself an in-person talk would be best for both her daughter and granddaughter. Perhaps her mom had thought Ally might actually speak to her if she saw the daily punishment Jenny endured: shuffling in lines of downtrodden women, wearing a musty-smelling, ill-fitting prison uniform with DOC stamped on the back, unable to pee without permission, confined to a bleak island where the roar of departing planes drowned out any bird’s song.
Jenny’s mother was wrong, though. Showing Ally the treatment society thought fitting for her would only further strain their relationship. It would tell Ally that she was right never to talk to Jenny again, that Jenny deserved to be punished for murdering Louis. Even though Ally had seen the evidence of her father’s violence, she still wanted to believe that the abuse had been a one-off related to Jenny’s affair. Daddy, according to Ally, had been emotionally devastated and “lost it.”
A heavyset female guard—Toni, if Jenny remembered right—stopped at the front of the slow-moving line. She shouted for the women to press themselves against the wall, wait for the door, and then “proceed in an orderly fashion.”
The door buzzed open. Toni secured it against the concrete and then positioned herself several feet in front of it. She motioned for the women to file into the painfully bright area filled with cafeteria-style tables and plastic chairs. Jenny scanned the visitors for the slight shapes of her elderly mother and daughter. Aside from an older woman with a toddler in tow and a lanky boy who might have been a teenager, Jenny didn’t see any children.
“Jenny?”
A woman sitting in the corner seemed to mouth her name. She had near-black hair, flat-ironed straight to her shoulders, and brown skin, like Jenny and the majority of the prisoners, ninety percent of whom were Black and Hispanic. She wasn’t a member of Jenny’s family and certainly not a friend. For a second, Jenny wondered whether the guards had made a mistake and brought the wrong Jennifer to the visiting room. A moment later, though, the face came back to her: Gabby Watkins, the detective who had put her inside.
Jenny hadn’t thought about her since her plea. Ensuring that Ally got settled with her parents and that her folks had all the information to enroll her in a new school had been her primary focus. Seeing the detective, however, brought back the memories of her arrest with a stinging clarity. She’d felt, that day, like Wile E. Coyote at the moment he realized there was only air beneath his running feet. She’d run off the cliff a long time ago—perhaps since forgiving Louis that first time. It was only when the officers had arrived to arrest her, though, that she’d realized she would have to fall.
“Officer Watkins?”
The woman stood and motioned to the seat across from her. Jenny started to turn away. Why should she volunteer to be interrogated again? Before she took a step, though, she saw the yellowed cinder-block wall of the visiting room, the same walls that confined all the inmates into four-hundred-foot squares. Anywhere was better than her tiny cell. At least in here she had company. And she should, she supposed, find out what Gabby wanted. If
the police had uncovered some new evidence, they might try to make her stand trial for Rachel’s murder.
Jenny settled into the offered seat. “I’m surprised to see you.”
She let the fact hang rather than connect it to any pleasantry. The detective’s presence wasn’t auspicious.
“I brought you a …”
The ring in Jenny’s ear muffled the detective’s final word. “You brought something? I’m sorry. You have to speak up. I’m nearly deaf in one ear and I have tinnitus.”
Detective Watkins brow wrinkled. She leaned over her chair arm toward the floor and grabbed a small brown paper bag, which she placed on the table. Jenny controlled her hands and her curiosity. For all she knew, it was evidence that the detective hoped she’d coat with her prints. “What is it?”
Her visitor pulled the bag toward her and removed the square contents: a bound journal with a black-and-white drawing of Virginia Woolf on the cover. Above it, in a stylized script, was a quote from the author: A self that goes on changing is a self that goes on living.
“I always liked that one.” The detective said, passing the book across the table.
Jenny eyed the woman as she accepted the gift. Did she feel guilty for putting her in here? Was she afraid that Jenny might kill herself spending Mother’s Day away from her daughter, and did she believe some life-affirming quotes might stave off any tying together of the bedsheets? Jenny flipped through the book’s pages, expecting to find a bunch of inspirational and unintentionally mocking words to live by. Instead, the pages were blessedly blank.
“I figured that you might like to write down some of what happened to you.” Detective Watkins’s closed-lipped smile made Jenny feel like there was something behind the woman’s teeth.
“Why? What do you think I’ll write?” The question shot out more barbed than Jenny had intended. She was too anxious for the detective to get to the point of her visit to make their conversation sound like anything other than automatic fire.
“I don’t know.” Gabby folded her hands atop the table. “There might be things you need to get off your chest.”
Like my affair with Ben. Fortunately for Jenny, the press had never uncovered the relationship. Jenny supposed they’d been too busy focusing on the Killer Doc, as they’d named Louis in the tabloids. The lurid story of a respected emergency room surgeon harboring murderous desires had been sufficiently newsworthy that the media hadn’t snooped around Ben and Rachel’s marriage. As far as anyone outside the East Hampton Detective Bureau was concerned, Louis had killed Rachel because of his anger over the lawsuit and its potential impact on his career.
“Um, I’m sorry, but why are you here?”
The detective’s eyes fell to her hands. Jenny was shocked to see her rubbing her knuckles as though she were the nervous one. “I need to know. I know I won’t prove it. There’s no DNA. Ben denies that you two were ever more than friends. But …”
Jenny stiffened in her chair. She knew the question Detective Watkins would ask. It was the same one all prisoners faced down daily: Did you do it?
“In my mind, I keep seeing Louis fall back at the sound of the gun and then you pushing him. I want to know what role I played in everything.” The detective shook a hand through her straightened hair. “Was Louis trying to save himself from being arrested, or was he telling the truth that day I shot at him?”
Detective Watkins looked at her, as though Jenny might be crazy enough to reveal the truth simply to give this strange woman peace of mind. Jenny stared back.
Gabby sighed. “Did you do it because you were sleeping with her husband? Did you kill Rachel?”
The sound of Rachel’s name intensified the rushing white noise in her damaged ear and the impossibly high shriek that grew louder whenever Jenny’s head hit a pillow. The sounds overwhelmed her brain, dragging it back to that night as they so often did—to when she’d run through the scrub forest to the beach, desperate to convince Rachel not to reveal the affair to Louis.
* * *
Rachel stood on the black rocks, haloed by the moonlight. Jenny removed her sneakers at the water’s edge and stepped into the fizzing remnants of a wave. Cold froth splattered her calves. She hoisted herself onto the jetty, picking her way in the near dark toward the woman ignoring her advance.
As she drew within striking distance, Rachel whirled toward her as though she’d been waiting for Jenny to come close enough to land a punch. She’d removed her beach cover-up, perhaps realizing that a fight was coming and not wanting to give Jenny any opportunity to pull her down. Tears stained Rachel’s face, made paler and prettier by the white glow overhead.
“I’m sorry,” Jenny shouted above the waves’ repetitive crash. “It was a mistake. I never meant for it to happen. Louis beats me, Rachel. I went over one day to pick up Ally after a bad fight, and Ben saw my bleeding head. He realized what was going on and comforted me. I was so relieved to have someone’s support that I acted foolishly. I’m so sorry. But it’s over and—”
“You’re pathetic, Jen!” Rachel’s volume shot above the crashing surf. “And stupid, you know that? You really think Ben just magically figured it out? I told him what was going on a year ago. It was so obvious, the way you’d walk around town like a spanked dog with your head down and your makeup slathered on, wearing big sunglasses in fucking November. I told Ben that Louis hit you. I even asked him if I should talk to you. And what do you think Ben said to do? Call the police? No. He said we should stay out of it. Stay out of it, I guess, so when the timing was right he could get you to spread your legs simply by saying that you were too pretty to be popped in the face.”
Rachel’s tirade felt like a punch to the solar plexus. Jenny recalled her first time with Ben, how he’d seemed to know that Louis had caused her head injury before she’d even tried to stutter an explanation.
Rachel laughed. “Oh, what’s wrong, Jen? You feel betrayed?”
The moonlight that had softened Rachel’s features suddenly sharpened them, casting a triangle of shadow from her nose over the left side of her face. The dark side possessed a sinister quality, as though Rachel had peeled back her pale skin to reveal a demon beneath.
Jenny pleaded with Rachel’s illuminated side. “I know you’re angry, but don’t tell Louis. Or, fine, tell him, just not tonight. You know he can be violent. I need a day to get Ally and take us someplace safe.”
Rachel scoffed. She’d been so ridiculous with her makeup and strategic outfits, Jenny thought. She hadn’t hidden anything. Rachel had known. Ben had known. Maybe everyone knew.
Jenny couldn’t let her shame distract her from her begging. “Please, Rachel,” she continued. “Hold off on telling him for twenty-four hours.”
The ocean hissed and spit at the rocks, a chorus urging Rachel to show no mercy. “You think I’ll help you? You slept with my husband! I can’t wait to tell Louis that his wife is an unfaithful whore. And if you’re worried about Ally, you should have thought about that before breaking up her best friend’s family.”
Jenny should have known her pleading would be futile. She’d slept with her supposed friend’s husband in the woman’s house. Her behavior was beyond forgiveness. Still, she couldn’t let her daughter pay for her mistakes.
She launched herself at her neighbor. As Rachel raised her arm to block her hit, Jenny changed trajectories, instinctually curling her hands around Rachel’s neck the way Louis had done hours earlier. Rachel coughed as Jenny squeezed her thumbs into the notch between Rachel’s collarbones. The sound of the air escaping Rachel’s throat only made Jenny squeeze harder.
“You can’t tell him,” Jenny screamed over the rushing waves. “You can’t!”
Her bare feet suddenly hit a silken surface. She slipped on it, falling back into the water and dragging Rachel down with her, along with what she realized had been Rachel’s kimono. Cold water enveloped her, sending a pain up her limbs. Her breath froze in her lungs.
A high-pitched sound pierced her shock.
Rachel was screaming. Her suit had snagged a rock, ripping the shoulder strap and wounding her back. Jenny stood, pressing her feet against the sandy bottom. The water, she realized, barely reached the tops of her thighs.
“You bitch,” Rachel shouted, seemingly loud enough for Louis to hear back in the house. “I hope he kills you. I hope he fucking kills you, you—”
Before she could say, Jenny grabbed Rachel’s head. She shoved it beneath the surface, watching the unspoken words bubble around her. She didn’t let go until all the bubbles vanished.
* * *
Jenny looked at her hands, at the jagged nails that hadn’t seen polish and at the lines of dirt crusted underneath them. She fought the desire to pick out the grime. She knew that her awareness of what her fingers had done to Rachel, how they’d wrapped around her neck and pressed her beneath the waves, fueled the urge.
“Did you do it?” Detective Watkins asked again.
Jenny read her lips. The whooshing in her ear was so loud, the scream so high and unending. Sometimes Jenny thought it would drive her insane.
“Why do you care so much about Rachel?” Jenny asked, surrendering to her desire to pick the dirt beneath her thumbnail. “She wasn’t the type to care about others. Do you know that she knew Louis was abusing me? For over a year, apparently. She’d talked about it with other people. But she never once asked me if I was all right. If I needed help. Sometimes, I think if I’d only had someone to snap me out of what was happening, to say to me, ‘What’s going on between you and your husband isn’t something that should be rationalized’ … I don’t know, maybe things wouldn’t have happened the way they did.”
Detective Watkins nodded with a grave look, probably the same one Jenny had displayed when she’d been waiting for her to get to the point.
“But Rachel never talked to me like that,” Jenny continued, sharing the silent justifications that helped her sleep at night. “It was always these shallow conversations. Who makes those jeans you’re wearing? Do you know any good decorators in the area? Rachel was the kind of person that would realize your husband had beat the crap out of you and ask if you were going to a charity ball on the following Thursday.”
