A Picture of Guilt

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Ryan faced the jury and smiled as if he had just revealed an important piece of information. “Now, Miss Foreman, let’s talk a little bit about the damage to the tape for a moment. The alleged RF interference?”

  I swallowed.

  “What evidence do you have that the damage on the tape is indeed radio frequency interference?”

  “I don’t—I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “Let me clarify. Have you taken the tape in for any kind of technical analysis?”

  “No, but I didn’t—”

  “So you have no independent confirmation that RF interference really is the problem on the tape.”

  “My director agreed that’s what it is. We’ve seen it before.”

  “But you didn’t seek any kind of independent corroboration.”

  “We didn’t need to. We knew what it was.”

  “Based on your experience.”

  “Yes. And that of my director.”

  “All right. Given that you knew what it was, you still never discovered where the problem originated, isn’t that correct?”

  “That’s true.”

  “But it was serious enough that you wouldn’t have been able to use this tape in the final product. If the project hadn’t been canceled.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So, on this damaged tape, you know what the problem is, yet you can’t adequately explain why it is there or where it’s coming from. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very professional, Miss Foreman.”

  “Objection!” Brashares yelled.

  “The jurors will disregard that last comment,” the judge said.

  “I apologize,” Ryan smiled, baring his teeth. “Let’s say we went back to Olive Park with a camera and tried to simulate the conditions that you found there. Would we be able to replicate the damage that we saw on your tape?”

  The man was relentless. “I don’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  I hesitated. “RF interference can come from any number of different sources. And the tape didn’t have any damage on it initially.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I screened it after we shot it, and it was fine.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Brashares stiffen, but Ryan’s smile broadened, as if he knew he’d won big. “Let’s see. The tape was fine after you screened it, but now, a year later, it shows significant damage. And you testified that it’s been stored in a locked room at your director’s studio for over a year, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.” I cringed. I knew what was coming.

  “So, you don’t know where the problem came from, and it’s been a year since you looked at it. Yet you still maintain there’s no possibility the tape has been tampered with.” He didn’t wait for my response but whipped around to face the jury. “Thank you, Miss Foreman. I have no further questions.”

  I sat on the stand for a moment, unsure who and where I was. Then I looked around the courtroom. A few faces looked back at me with sympathy, but most were curious, almost expectant, as if they were waiting for me to have a meltdown then and there. After all, I’d just been bushwhacked. Discredited. Hammered.

  My father leaped to his feet and made his way to the door. In the space he’d occupied, I caught a glimpse of a man sitting behind him. Young, dark, somewhere in his twenties, he had crisp features with high cheekbones. Curly black chest hair poked through an open-necked shirt, and one arm was draped over the back of the bench. Even through my humiliation, I registered that he was sexy in a dark, Mediterranean kind of way.

  I looked at him, hoping for a sympathetic nod or smile. He returned the look, but something on his face, a lilt of one brow perhaps, a narrowing of the other, gave me the feeling he could see through me and had decided there wasn’t much there. A twinge of uneasiness passed over me. Averting my gaze, I stepped down from the box.

  Chapter Ten

  I testified on Wednesday, and the case went to the jury on Thursday. Ryan skewered me in closing arguments, implying I was the stupidest, most naïve documentary filmmaker in the world. Why hadn’t I come forward sooner? How did I know the tape hadn’t been tampered with? Why couldn’t I adequately explain the damage on the tape? Was I that technically incompetent? Either that, he said, or something else, something more sinister, was at work.

  In either case, he declared scornfully, this was not an alibi. I might have seen Santoro at Olive Park, but what was to stop him from having traveled to Calumet Park either before or after? The tape was no more than a description of where Santoro ended up at a specific point in time. Indeed, when you added up the fingernail scrapings, the lovers’ argument, and the fact that Mary Jo’s body was found near his car, there was no way twelve intelligent jurors could possibly buy my story.

  They didn’t. On Friday they convicted Santoro.

  The phone rang all afternoon—reporters, mostly, looking for a sound bite. Something that would sum up the conflict in ten seconds. Preferably at my expense. I decided I’d be damned if I’d give them one, and after a slew of calls during which my polite refusals to comment apparently weren’t enough, I tried a new approach.

  “Ellie Foreman?” a voice asked.

  “Sí?”

  “Is this Ellie Foreman?”

  “Sí?” I stretched out the word.

  “Uh—I’m looking for the video producer, Ellie Foreman. Is she there?”

  “Meesus not home.” I slammed down the phone before a fluent stream of Spanish could come back at me.

  Small victories.

  I was watching myself on TV when David unlocked the front door. I’d had no intention of turning on the tube, but, after polishing off half a bottle of wine, something drew me to the coverage—the same thing that draws gapers to an accident, perhaps. Or possibly a latent streak of masochism.

  David took one look at me and went into the kitchen. The refrigerator door opened, a cabinet drawer closed. A minute later, he came into the family room carrying a plate of bagels, lox, cream cheese, and onions. He sat down on the couch.

  “You haven’t eaten today, have you?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  He spread some cheese on half a bagel, placed a thin slice of lox on it, and laid a strip of onion on top. The smell of the onion made my nose itch.

  “You had a rough couple of days.”

  “It’s a good life lesson. Never be a Good Samaritan.”

  He chewed slowly. “I suppose it won’t help to say you did the right thing.”

  I gazed at the bagel and shook my head.

  “What did your father say?”

  “He said Brashares didn’t do me any favors.” I reached for the bagel. “Barry agreed with my father, by the way. He was almost compassionate when he came to get Rachel.” I bit into the sandwich. “Well, as compassionate as an ex-husband can be.”

  David went into the kitchen. “What’s his take?” he called over his shoulder.

  “He says Brashares left enough holes in the case to drive a truck through.”

  “Like what?”

  “Not objecting when he should have, for one thing. Not calling any other witnesses, for another. He said Ryan ought to be thanking his lucky stars his adversary was so incompetent. In fact, he was surprised Brashares didn’t get a continuance—based on the tape and what I brought to the case. Admittedly, Barry is usually looking for a way to needle me, but he said the guy ought to be sued for malpractice.”

  David came back out with another bagel. “He would know.”

  “He also said Ryan did a masterful job. You know, limiting me to yes and no questions. Not letting me give any opinions.” I finished the bagel. “But you know what bothers me the most?”

  “What?”

  “I think he’s right.”

  David frowned.

  “I’ve been thinking about it. Brashares did his job. But there was no feeling in it. No soul. I got the sense he didn’t really care
about Santoro. Or me.”

  “Can you blame him? Think of the scumbags he represents every day. He needs professional detachment.”

  “This was beyond professional detachment. And how can you do a good job for your client if you’re not invested emotionally—at least a little bit?”

  “Not everyone has the same passion, the same commitment as you, Ellie. You see an injustice, and your heart cries out to fix it. Most people don’t bother. It’s part of what makes you special.”

  I balled up a napkin and threw it at him. “Why is it you always know just the right thing to say?”

  He tossed the napkin on the floor, moved over, and stroked the back of my neck. I settled back against the cushions, concentrating on the feel of his fingers. “That’s good,” I said thickly.

  An hour later, I felt much better.

  ***

  Before I fell asleep, I mentally played back the trial. I thought I was testifying for all the right reasons. Acting on principle. Serving justice. But now, lying in David’s arms amid pillows, sheets, and blankets, I wasn’t so sure. Was my concern the injustice that had been done—or the fact that my ego had been bruised?

  The comforting weight of David’s leg fell over mine. Maybe I should give it all up. Ratchet down a few notches. He’d never admit it, but David probably found me high maintenance. Wearying. I sometimes thought he’d be happier with a woman whose world view started and stopped with him. Someone who never questioned authority. Like the bimbo Robert Redford ended up with after he and Barbra Streisand broke up in The Way We Were.

  I threw my arm above my head. David stirred, sleepily working the palm of his hand up my thigh. A shiver skimmed my nerves. Life with him would be easy. Pleasureable. I wouldn’t have to work. I could dedicate myself to tennis. Join the garden club. And be bored—except in bed.

  Chapter Eleven

  There was a snap in the air as we came out of shul on Rosh Hashanah. My father rubbed his hands together. “I love fall days,” he said cheerfully. “They always make me think of a fresh start. A new school term, new friends, a new suit for the High Holidays.”

  Rachel smoothed the skirt of her new outfit, a simple but elegant taupe knit from Nordstrom. With her blond curls, blue eyes, and pale skin, she looked like a princess. And much too grown up.

  Dad draped an arm around David’s shoulder and headed to the car. Though David was half a foot taller than Dad, he made the movement seem natural.

  “What’s for lunch?” David asked.

  “You’ll see,” I smiled.

  I’d made most of the meal before services, though perhaps “assembled” was a better word. Blintzes, bagels, and salad. The omelets I’d make once we got home. And, of course, apples and honey. Cooking has never been one of my core strengths. Don’t get me wrong; I love to eat. Especially when someone else feeds me. But today was special.

  “Oh, boy,” Dad grinned. “We’re in for a treat. Your mother’s cooking.”

  Rachel rolled her eyes. “You must be feeling brave.”

  “Rah-chel,” Dad said, using the Hebrew pronunciation. “It’s a new year. Let’s start out treating your mother right.”

  Rachel threw me an icy look.

  I shot her the old arched-eyebrow in reply.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she skipped over to Dad. “I’ll bet we don’t go to services tomorrow.”

  “Want that extra day off of school, huh?” I cracked.

  My father glared at us. “Stop it. Both of you.”

  David cut in. “I wouldn’t mind going again.”

  The way he looked at me made me suddenly ashamed of myself. “You know something? That’s a good idea.” I turned to Rachel. “We’ll all go, okay?”

  She shrugged.

  To be perfectly honest, though, Rachel does have a point. I’m not as observant as I once was. My father says it’s because I’m the product of a mixed marriage. My mother was raised Reform, about as assimilated as you can get. Her mother used to host an open house every Christmas Eve during which she wore a tiny Christmas tree on top of her head. My father, on the other hand, grew up in Hyde Park among a tightly knit group of observant German Jews. In fact, Mother used to joke that she was about as far as he could go and still marry a Jewish girl. Still, I suspected she was grateful that my father was there to teach me who I was and where I came from.

  After services the next day, Barry took Rachel for the rest of the day. I dropped David at the airport for his flight back to Philly, took Dad home, then changed and headed to the mall. All the talk about new suits was inspiring. Once I got there, though, I lost my nerve. I usually need Susan’s approval for a major purchase. I’ve brought home too many mistakes.

  I window-shopped for a while, then wandered into a small, narrow gift shop with faux stucco on the walls. Merchandise was displayed on both sides of the aisle, and a blue-haired woman sat behind the register. She seemed to be the only employee in the store, but I was aware of one other shopper. I stopped in front of an end-aisle display of prettily packaged soaps, admiring the tiny butterflies, delicate flowers, and other designs painted on them. A sign declared that Soap Art was the latest thing. Guaranteed not to dissolve when wet. Maybe I’d get some for Rachel. A peace offering.

  I kept browsing, admiring the wrapped baskets, ceramic pillboxes, and other tsatskehs, then headed back to the soaps. The other shopper stood with her back to me, juggling two soaps in one hand. I was about to say, “Excuse me,” so I could take some, when she slipped hers into her pocket.

  I froze. After a moment she turned around—and froze, too, guilt and fear stamped on her face. I knew what I was supposed to do: demand she put the soap back, call the manager, shout for security. But I didn’t. I was paralyzed, riveted to the floor.

  We eyed each other warily, neither of us moving, until it must have dawned on her that I was either unable or unwilling to react. Then, something new edged into her eyes. Defiance, perhaps. Or triumph. She swept by me and exited the store.

  I cowered in the aisle until the adrenaline drained out of my body. I picked out three soaps, took them to the counter, and paid. As the blue-haired woman handed me my bag, I felt an overarching guilt, as if I’d been the one to shoplift. It even crossed my mind to pay for the two the other woman took.

  Instead, I left the store and trudged down the hall. I passed a colorful kiosk where a collection of nuts, sold by a woman who probably never shelled one in her life, gave off a pleasant, woodsy aroma. I moved on to the food court, bought a huge cookie with lots of chocolate chips, and wolfed it down. Heading toward the exit, I rationalized why I hadn’t intervened. Since the trial, I was finished with trying to do the right thing. I’d been hammered enough. Let someone else pick up the ethical gauntlet. I brushed cookie crumbs off my shirt.

  I hadn’t gone very far when I heard footsteps behind me.

  I stepped up my pace. So did the footsteps.

  I slowed. They did, too.

  At first I thought the shoplifter was behind me, but I couldn’t figure out why. Was she planning to thank me? Explain why she did it? She didn’t need to. I understood. I used to shoplift.

  Shoplifting involves cunning. And chutzpah. I’d had both, once upon a time. I knew the rush, the high, the shame. And knowing that, I knew there was no way she was behind me. She wasn’t ready to return the soap. Or even express remorse. She’d have to hit bottom first. I did.

  I kept walking.

  So did the person behind me.

  It was a beautiful fall day; the mall wasn’t crowded. So who was following me? The cashier from the gift shop? I didn’t steal the soaps, but I didn’t do anything to stop it. Maybe she’d noticed my tacit complicity and wanted to confront me.

  No. That was just guilt talking. I couldn’t take the moral high ground, but cowardice wasn’t illegal. Besides, what clerk would leave the store unattended? I stopped and turned around.

  Aside from a woman pushing a baby stroller, the hallway was empty.

  I made a th
ree sixty. No one. Turning back, I caught my image in a shop window. I scanned the reflection for any quick, unexpected movements. I did see a silhouette half in and half out of a doorway a few stores back. It wasn’t the blue-haired woman, and it didn’t look like the shoplifter. I waited. The figure turned away from me.

  I started forward again. Within a few yards, the footsteps were back. I tightened my hold on my purse. Last year, my wallet was ripped off at a restaurant downtown. One man jammed the revolving door as I went through, while another squeezed into the same compartment as me. As I banged on the glass, yelling for help, the nearer man grabbed my wallet out of my purse. He took off when his buddy let go of the door. I wasn’t hurt, but within an hour they’d racked up three grand on my Visa.

  I ducked into a perfume boutique.

  “Can I help you?” A saleswoman suddenly appeared at my side, suspicion flooding her face.

  “No thanks. I’m just looking.”

  She planted herself in front of me.

  I took my time inspecting a display case filled with perfume, amused at the irony of the situation. Then I exited the store, pretending I had nothing more important to do than spend the afternoon window-shopping. The clerk’s sniff followed me out.

  I passed more stores, anxious, now, to get back to the car and go home. I had just reached a bend where a walkway angles off the main corridor when a hand clapped me on the shoulder.

  Chapter Twelve

  I spun around and wrenched free. I grabbed my purse, swung it backward, and launched it at a blond head. Thanks to the bars of soap inside, it connected with a resounding thunk. My pursuer staggered into the walkway and collapsed on the floor.

  “Please. Stop. Don’t hurt me.”

  I stepped back, hugging my purse until the machine-gunning in my chest slowed down. The blond woman cringed against the wall. We were a few yards down the narrow hall that jutted off the main promenade.

  “It’s all right. I won’t hit you again,” I said.

  When she tentatively looked up, I felt a jolt of recognition. It was Rhonda Disapio, Mary Jo Bosanick’s best friend.

  “You?” I cried.