He turned her abruptly by the shoulders, so she was facing the tile again.
—I never would, you know, he said, his body shuddering as he tucked himself up against her. Hurt you . . . I . . . never could—
She leaned into him, pulled his arms around her.—I know. I do know that.
He nodded against her, gulping air.—Without you, he said.—If you weren’t here, if I didn’t have you, I wouldn’t be anyone.
He cupped her ass and pulled, fingers digging into flesh.
Easy then, to remember the ways they were together—his hands moving roughly against her burning skin. She placed her hands flat on the tile, and his teeth bit into her shoulder.
—Gentle, she said, and he obeyed, his tongue licking into the water pooled in her collarbone.
—I’m so sorry, Katie. Right now, this is us. This is the part that’s real. She nodded, turned for the last time to face him. Nick covered her breast with his mouth, and she spread her legs wide, guided him inside her. used one hand to steady herself, the other to push the back of his head into her.
From the shower to the floor in the living room to the bedroom. Almost the entire night, both of them tireless. When the sun finally started to rise, Katie held him inside her arms.
—No more apologies, she said when the sun finally slanted into the room and across the sheets. She allowed herself a small, teasing smile.
—You have the rest of your life to make it up to me.
5
The EMT has been on the witness stand for almost an hour, describing the details of the day Jerry shot Nick, confirming the chaos he and his partner walked into inside the gym. Every time Richard asks him a question, he grabs his knuckles in one hand and swivels in his chair to answer the jurors directly.
There isn’t anything remarkable about the way this man looks—slight and in his mid- to late twenties, with glasses and adolescent acne—yet his direct stare and deep, confident voice have the jurors paying close attention after all this time. Whenever he answers one of Richard’s questions in detail, he watches the jurors with a serious look until Richard asks him another one; then he swivels back slowly to face Richard, as though he’s tearing himself away from what’s really important. The jurors watch him carefully, bend their heads to scribble his words onto their pads.
“So it’s standard procedure, then, to use this cardiac monitor on unconscious clients?” Richard asks him.
The EMT grabs his knuckles, turns to the jurors. “Yes. In this particular case, however, we used the monitor solely to establish asystole, or what is commonly known as a flatline.”
“And once you established this?”
“We did not attempt to resuscitate the victim at that point.”
“You knew you couldn’t save him?”
“We knew the victim’s situation was not conducive to life.”
Richard sighs heavily, lowers his head to think. “Up until that point, had you seen the defendant?”
For the first time, the EMT doesn’t turn toward the jurors—he keeps his eyes locked on Richard, which causes a ripple of fidgeting among them. The Hispanic man in the front row frowns slightly, the two young women on either side of the elderly gentleman in the back row angle their heads to get a better look at the EMT’s face.
“Not on the scene, actually.”
“Then where?” Richard asks.
“I encountered the defendant out in the parking lot.”
“And would you describe that, please?”
“The police were having a hard time containing him, so my partner and I went over to assist.”
“And is that normal procedure? For an EMT to help restrain a suspect?”
“No, but they couldn’t get control of him.”
“Can you tell the jurors who ‘they’ are?”
The jurors don’t seem to realize, or they are just too fascinated now to care, that this back-and-forth has been rehearsed. Without the EMT’s serious face turned toward them, they strain forward, eyes moving between the two men. Their restless anticipation boils inside Katie, too—she is eager to replace pictures of Nick’s lifeless body with Jerry’s bulking rage, ready to break the stillness of death with the violence of Jerry’s impending capture.
“ ‘ They,’ ” the EMT says, and finally turns to the jurors, who crane toward him as if one, “were the police officers, about five or so, and a firefighter. I think there were two or three people from the Warwick Center trying to help as well.”
“So possibly nine people, and they still couldn’t get him into the squad car?”
The EMT stares at the jurors. “They couldn’t even get him on the ground.”
“Please describe what happened after you jumped into that mess,” Richard says wearily.
Donna doesn’t try to prolong the image of Jerry’s violent flailing, of his striking out at Veronica, who sustained a broken arm from the fall, or of the police officer who finally used his Taser to get him to the ground. While Donna thanks him for coming in today, Katie closes her eyes and flips back and forth between two images: Nick, pale, still, gone, and Jerry, face bloated with pain, his massive body convulsing on the pavement.
It surprises Katie how many people come in and out of the courtroom during Officer Marzelli’s testimony. Judge Hwang has warned the courtroom about the gruesome nature of the photos, has asked anyone unprepared to view them to leave before Richard introduces them on the overhead projector. There is a hushed nervousness in the air as Officer Marzelli confirms the EMT’s testimony, a buildup that urges people to find reasons to rise from their seats and leave, then sidle back in.
Katie keeps her eyes toward the front. She wants the jurors to know that she is unconcerned with these movements, that what is happening up on the stand is the only thing worth her attention. Your reaction is important here, Katie, Richard told her earlier. I’m counting on you. She feels strong, visible, ready for what is to come, so she is surprised at the relief she feels when, seconds after the familiar squeak and rush of air from the courtroom door, her father slides into the front row beside her. He gives her a calm smile, drapes his arm on the bench behind her. She eases back, feels her father’s fingers kneading her shoulder.
There are two TVs in the courtroom, one in the front for the spectators and lawyers, the other beside the front row near Katie, facing the jurors. Richard walks with the stack of photos to the projector.
“Officer Marzelli, can you tell us what we’re looking at here?” Richard says, and places the first photo on the projector. There are audible gasps throughout the room: Nick appears for the first time in a close-up, his face masked in blood, a small black hole between his right eye and the bridge of his nose. There are swipe marks across his lips and chin, where Daniel wiped away the blood to give him CPR.
Katie feels her father’s fingers squeezing into her neck as Officer Marzelli confirms that the photo identifies what he witnessed in the gym.
The second photo shows Nick’s face and chest, the dried, clotted blood on his neck and the thick pool of it underneath his head.
“This one shows the extremity of blood loss, there on the victim’s body and around the head.”
One by one, Officer Marzelli identifies the photos taken by the CSI investigator, and each time Katie’s stomach contracts, her heart skipping, before she flicks her eyes from Nick’s face and body to the corner of the judge’s bench.
The last photo shows Nick’s entire body, the awkward angle of his left leg from Daniel turning him over, his arms limp by his sides.
“That’s the bullet casing by his arm and the murder weapon by his left leg.”
Richard lingers over the photo for a moment, then asks Officer Marzelli to confirm the previous description of Jerry’s behavior in the parking lot.
“We very reluctantly agreed not to handcuff him inside, but as soon as we stepped out the door, it was chaos.”
“So it’s safe to say that the defendant was violent and out of control?” Richard asks.
“Yes.”
Donna objects to the term “out of control,” but Richard doesn’t miss a step; he hands her a piece of paper, has it tagged, gives it to Officer Marzelli.
“Can you read the fourth line of your arresting report, Officer?”
“ ‘Suspect was violent and out of control at the time of arrest.’ ”
“Thank you, Officer.”
Donna stands at the defense table, legal pad in her hand.
“After you brought Jerry out of the work-program building, he became violent?”
“Yes.”
“Besides flailing around because he was scared and confused—”
“Objection to the question.”
“Okay,” Donna says, “okay.” A woman in the front row holds a pad up to her. Donna scans the pad, nods, turns back to Office Marzelli with a smile.
“When you first approached Jerry, was he violent and out of control?”
“No.”
“He was actually very calm, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t even feel the need for handcuffs at that point, did you?”
“Well, we did, actually. But the director of the program pleaded with us to cuff him outside, away from the other clients.”
“And you agreed because Jerry was cooperating fully?”
“Yes.”
Officer Marzelli gives short, clipped answers, but it’s clear that Donna is gaining ground. The violent picture of Jerry is slowly being replaced with a docile, cooperative man who was only “set off ” when he saw the police cars in the parking lot—an understandable reaction, given his history.
“Why isn’t Richard objecting?” Katie whispers to her father. She shrugs away from his answering nudge to sit back.
“So up until that point out in the parking lot, he was a model suspect?”
“I suppose so.”
“Thank you, Officer Marzelli,” Donna says with a satisfied smile.
At Hemingway’s, Katie’s father hovers behind her in front of the hostess stand, his hand resting lightly on her back. She watches the hostess studying her face, pencil poised over a clipboard—the older woman clearly trying to place Katie, why she looks so familiar. She makes a decision, places her pencil carefully on the stand.
“There’s a twenty-minute wait,” she says quietly, eyeing the crowd at the door, “but I can seat you now.” She swipes up two oversize menus, nods respectfully at Katie and her father. “Right this way, please.”
A young waiter immediately steps up to their table, pours them water from a glistening metal decanter. He nods importantly at them as they order, like they are making crucial life decisions by requesting a turkey club and a cup of tomato basil soup.
“Special treatment, huh?” her father asks with a wink after the waiter walks away. He lifts his water glass.
“You’re doing a good job, Dad.”
He holds the tipped glass in front of his mouth. “With what?”
“You know, all the hugging and everything. It looks good for the jurors, like you’re here to support me.”
He puts the glass down. “I am here to support you, sweetie.”
“Just keep doing it, okay?”
“Okay, Katie.”
Their food appears minutes later. Her father digs in, happy to have something to do with his hands. “Your mother is going to let Jack out,” he says, and takes a big bite of his turkey club. “She’d kill me if she knew I was having bacon.”
“I can’t believe Richard didn’t stop her,” Katie says, pushing her cup of soup away.
“Your mother?”
She doesn’t try to hide her impatience. “Donna Treadmont, Jerry’s lawyer.”
“This guy knows what he’s doing. The Providence Journal said today that he’s building up a strong case.”
“He should have recrossed or something. Those jurors need to know what kind of person Jerry is,” Katie says.
Her father eyes his sandwich like he’s trying to memorize the contents. He looks up at Katie, his face hesitant; he puts the sandwich down, wipes his mouth with his napkin. “He’s that kind of person, too, Katie,” he says gently.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know Jerry like you do—” he begins, picking up a small piece of tomato off his plate.
“But,” Katie says, leaning forward.
Her father flicks the tomato back onto the plate, then slowly pushes the plate to the middle of the table. “But when they talked about him earlier, the way he acted, I could see him then, too.”
“You mean calm and cooperative? You think that’s who he is?”
“People aren’t just one thing, sweetie.”
“He murdered Nick!”
Heads turn toward their table. Her father looks around the restaurant, nods slowly, like someone acknowledging old friends at a class reunion. He waits for the curious strangers to return to their meals, then rests his gaze at a spot on the tablecloth.
“Whenever you brought him to the house, he was a gentleman. A good kid.”
“He isn’t a kid, Dad. He’s a man.”
Her father reaches across the table for her, but Katie pulls both hands into her lap. He picks up her soup spoon, taps the table with it.
“Remember the game we used to play on Sundays, me and Jerry?” he asks her.
They’d go almost every Sunday for dinner at her parents’ house—Nick and Katie and Jerry, and Dana and Michael, too—and soon after the meal was served, her father would eye Jerry’s heaping plate with a grave face.—You have some money on you, Jerry? Got a way to pay for that meal? And Jerry, who loved her father and all his teasing, would hide his smile behind his napkin.—Bad service, he’d say, trying to hold in the laughter.—No good. Too slow.
“Is that who you see when you look at him?” Katie asks her father now.
Her father examines the spoon. “I don’t know what to think, Katie. I’ve tried to understand, but I don’t know what happened that day.”
“He shot my husband in the face, and he took everything away from me, in a matter of seconds. He took away my life. That’s what happened.”
He looks her in the eye now, hands her the spoon; Katie takes it without thinking, like she’s accepting a present.
“Not all of it,” he says, “Right? Not every single thing?”
“Not everything, no, but—but how would you feel if the cancer came back, Dad?”
The reaction is instant, expected: fear fills his hazel eyes, makes his chin quiver. She feels the cruelty behind her words, yet she can’t help herself. “I know it’s been almost five years, Dad, but it happens.”
He draws his hand down his face with a sigh. “I would hope,” he says, “that if I lost her, I would find a way to go on. That there would be other parts of my life worth living, and that my family would help me.” He looks around the restaurant, and Katie watches as thoughts of Jerry filter away. “But we’d fight it until the last day, the last second.”
“That’s what I’m doing. I’m fighting.”
After a pause he leans toward her. “But Nick’s already gone.”
“Not yet,” she says, “not until Jerry is guilty.”
The waiter approaches the table, takes a step back when he sees Katie and her father squaring off.
“Just the check,” Katie says, turning away from her father.
6
Katie stood at the front reception desk at the Warwick Center, waiting for Veronica to get off the phone. She could probably just grab a visitor’s pass and log in to the work program herself, but Veronica was making dramatic eyes at her, which usually meant that she had some gossip or news to share. Katie wondered absently if it had anything to do with Nick’s moodiness this past week—the reason it she anything to do with Nick’s moodiness this past week—the reason she was visiting for the third day in a row.
—I understand, Mr. Lunderville, Veronica said into the phone.
—And I’m so sorry. Our cu
stodian, Billy, explained to your daughter just this morning that he was only joking about walruses living in toilets. Veronica shook her head, not unkindly.
Katie smiled, then scanned the hallway to the right, toward the administrative offices. Patricia Kuhlman’s deep voice trailed out into the hallway, so Katie wandered in the opposite direction. Down the hallway on the left—where the nurses’ station, employee kitchen, and more offices were located, including Nick’s—Katie could hear the program nurse, Dottie, laughing. Judith emerged from the kitchen and puffed her way down the hall toward Katie with a tray of boxed juices, the straws poking up.
—Hey there, she said, giving Katie a bright smile.
—Hey, Judith.
—Can’t keep away from us, huh?
—Guess not.
Katie checked the flyers on the bulletin board near the reception desk. Colorful sheets of paper announced upcoming events (a chili cook-off for the staff next week, a roster to sign up for volunteer work at the Special Olympics at URI in June), surrounded by pages of the clients’ wobbly drawings. Easter was over a month away, but every picture was bursting with red and blue and green colored Easter eggs—messy, zigzagging designs filled with stars and diamonds and patches of color that reminded Katie of her own childhood, of dyeing eggs with Dana as their mother looked on and warned them not to touch the shells before they dried. Some of the clients were like children, Katie thought: sweet and loving and innocent, and sometimes balding and middle-aged and paunchy, too, but children just the same. Katie wondered, not for the first time, what it was like to be trapped in childhood like that—if their adult bodies rebelled occasionally, if they ever recognized the incongruity of their age and the way the world treated them.
In the seven months Nick had worked as their primary speech-language pathologist, these clients, and most of the staff, had embraced Katie as one of their own. Even when she showed up unannounced for three days in a row like this, no one seemed surprised or irritated that she was back again. Instead they fussed around her and asked her questions about her projects, made her feel almost as loved, almost as necessary to their lives, as Nick. She turned and watched Veronica wagging her head over the phone.
Lies of the Heart Page 18
