At the lunch break, Dana hooks her arm through Katie’s and pulls her out of the courtroom, and Katie follows, knowing that someone else is leading Jerry away in the opposite direction, and that he is looking around the room, searching blindly for Katie. Wondering when she will finally come and tell him that everything will be okay.
Later in the day, there is a short recess after Judge Hwang excuses the forensic expert. Katie checks the clock behind the bench—4:07—amazed at Richard’s perfect timing. After the break there will be just enough time to introduce Katie and watch the footage before court adjourns for the day. Tonight, Katie thinks, the jurors will fall asleep with pictures of Jerry’s spiraling fury lodged inside their heads, pondering the implications, making subconscious decisions about a man they’ve never met.
Katie squeezes Dana’s hand, leans over to whisper in her ear. “Do you remember when you said that I always know what people will do?” Katie asks her. “If I spend time with them, how I can figure them out?”
“Yes, in the conference room that day. After Richard touched Carly.”
“Why did you say that?”
“Because it’s true. Most of the time.”
“I’ve lost it, you know.”
“What?”
“I’m watching, and I’m paying attention, but I’m getting it all wrong.”
“Good,” Dana says. “It’s a start.”
“All rise.”
Every eye on her now, sitting on the witness stand, the center of the spotlight. She’s halfway through the prayer in her head before she realizes what she’s doing—asking God to see her, to guide her through this. She folds her hands around the videotape in her lap to stop the shaking.
If she keeps her eyes on Richard, does that staring trick that makes everything around him go out of focus, the rest of the room will stay shapeless. It helps a little, and so do the sympathetic faces and smiles on the jurors’ faces after she turns to them and tells them her name.
“You are Nick Burrelli’s wife?” Richard asks her.
And just like that, the small comforts are gone—Katie stumbles, the word “are” catching her off guard. Is she still Nick’s wife? Even if he’s dead?
“Katie?” Richard asks.
“Yes, Nick was—is my husband.”
The brief glint of victory in Richard’s eyes explains the wording of the question, how he has achieved exactly what he wanted: her hesitation, an opportunity to show his concern.
“We’re sorry for your loss, Katie,” he says. “Do you need a minute?”
“No,” Katie says. “I’m okay.” She hates how theatrically brave she sounds.
“Good. Now, you and Nick were very close with the defendant, weren’t you?”
“At one time, yes.”
“ ‘ At one time,’ ” Richard muses. He walks over to the jurors, who track his progress along with Katie. “Katie, would you please tell the courtroom what you do for a living?”
“I’m a documentary filmmaker.”
“And at one point you intended to make a documentary about the defendant?”
Katie looks over at Jerry. He is gaping in her general direction as though he can sense she is in the room, facing him.
“Yes.”
“And the videotape you’re holding contains footage for that documentary?”
“Yes,” Katie says, holding it up for the jurors to see.
It takes a few minutes to cue up the video, and then there is an issue with one of the TVs. When they finally straighten it out, Katie only listens, keeping her eyes just above the top of the TV. She listens to Jerry’s laughter, to his innocent question (“We go to a movie tonight?”) and to other sounds she heard just this morning, but suddenly she can’t recall the order of the footage anymore. Is that Jerry drawing? Making his bed? Jerry stretched out on the floor watching TV, a mesmerized look on his face? And then she hears the children, the sound of baby goats bleating, and, within seconds, Jerry’s grunting cry, a struggle, and then Nick’s voice telling Jerry to calm down, he’s okay, his voice mixing with Jerry’s groaning wails and the staticky sound of arms and legs colliding. She hears the shocked intakes of breath in the courtroom, and then more indecipherable noises from the TV—legs stamping (Jerry running through Goddard Park with his kite?), a soft giggle, and then people on the video singing “Happy Birthday,” her father’s loud voice ringing above the rest. And then the table in her apartment crashing over, glass breaking.
A few minutes later, she hears Jerry out on the boat—“Kay-tee, is God come now?”—and she finally looks at the slanted picture of Jerry holding on to her, her holding him back. She sees it on the TV, filling the screen, and then inside her head, her brain automatically plugging in the missing elements. The beautiful sunset over the ocean, the approaching storm. Here, Jerry, I’m right here. She sees Patricia in her basement, too, thanking Katie for taking care of Jerry, and then she sees Nick’s face, his brooding frustration with Katie because she did not want to offer up Jerry’s pain to the world. Knowing that sharing it with strangers would be a betrayal.
Her eyes move from the TV to the jurors, and then to the ceiling. She silently asks the question that used to fill her nights before she met Nick on Patience Island—that summer long ago, when she sat on the dark beach away from the glow of the fire, believing that she was too small for God to see her. Are You there?
Katie is rising from the witness stand when Donna tells Judge Hwang that she has a few technical questions of her own about filmmaking.
Katie freezes in a half stand, waiting for Richard’s heated objection, but he simply turns a composed face to Judge Hwang and halfheartedly argues about timing and finishing for the day. Judge Hwang refuses his mild objections, and then Richard is strolling back to the prosecution table without a glance toward Katie. She sits back down.
Donna consults the legal pad in her hand, looks up. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Burrelli,” Donna says.
“Good afternoon.”
“Just a couple of questions before we leave for the day.”
Katie skips her eyes from Richard to the clock: 4:50. Only ten minutes, but enough time for her to admit it. She decides right then and there: if Donna asks why she held Jerry on the boat, Katie will be honest, she will just say it. I loved him. He was scared, and he needed me. He was like a son.
“Now, you said earlier that you’re a documentary filmmaker?” Donna says. “That’s how you earn a living?”
“Yes,” Katie says, the panic rushing up into her chest.
“Could you tell us how long you’ve worked at this profession?”
“About eight years or so.”
“And could you tell us about some of your projects?”
Richard doesn’t rise from his chair. “Objection. Relevance?”
“Goes to credibility, Your Honor.”
“Overruled.”
“Mrs. Burrelli?” Donna prompts.
“I’ve worked on several. The housing crisis in Providence, Save the Bay—”
“And how much money does a documentary filmmaker earn?”
“Objection,” Richard says much too coolly. “How does salary speak to credibility?”
Judge Hwang eyes Katie with curiosity. “I’ll allow it.”
“Thank you, Judge,” Donna says. “Mrs. Burrelli? How much has eight years of documentary filmmaking earned you? Roughly.”
“It’s very difficult to make a lot of money at first.”
“Well, how many projects have you worked on in the past eight years?”
“Five.”
“Does that include the one you’re working on now? About Holocaust survivors?”
“Yes,” Katie says, locking eyes with Patricia in the front row.
“Okay, well, of the four documentaries that you’ve already completed, how many of those will you or have you sold to earn your living?”
Katie looks at Dana, who is sitting up in the front row, tense, her hands on the banister. Her sister’s eyes fla
sh at Richard’s back as he idly jots notes.
“Let me word this another way,” Donna says, taking advantage of Katie’s silence. “Of the all the documentaries that you’ve worked on in the past eight years, not including the one you’re working on now, how many of them have you actually completed?”
Impossible to do the trick of staring now, nowhere safe to look.
“Mrs. Burrelli?”
“I haven’t.”
“Oh,” Donna says with artificial shock. “You’ve worked for eight years on five different projects, and you haven’t completed even one of them?”
“No.”
“In fact, you never even finished your degree in filmmaking, did you? You met Nicholas Burrelli the summer before your last semester and then dropped out of college halfway through the fall, didn’t you?”
“I was pregnant, I miscarried and it affected me—”
“I’m sure it was a difficult time,” Donna says, “and you certainly have the court’s sympathy. But what about afterward?”
“Afterward?”
“Mrs. Burrelli, don’t most documentary filmmakers today use computers to make their films? Don’t they normally transfer footage directly from a camera onto a computer, and use sophisticated editing and sound programs to produce the final product?”
“I suppose so.”
“But you still use storyboards, an obsolete editing machine and sound box, don’t you? Isn’t that incredibly old-fashioned and outdated?”
“That’s what I was taught—”
“Is that before or after you dropped out of college?”
Katie waits for Richard’s objection, but he only scribbles onto the pad in front of him.
“Mrs. Burrelli, you use antiquated methods to work on your unfinished documentary films because you don’t even know how to produce a film using computers and sophisticated filmmaking programs, do you?”
“No.”
“Would you tell the jurors, Mrs. Burrelli, how much time you spent at the Warwick Center when your husband was alive? When you could have been working on your documentaries, or learning new and more efficient filmmaking techniques, or possibly even finishing your degree?”
“I don’t know—”
“In fact, you spent an inordinate amount of time there, didn’t you? Sometimes three or four times a week?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“One last question, then,” Donna says. “Mrs. Burrelli, is it fair to say that you were obsessed with your husband and that it interfered with every aspect of your life? And that your judgment has been clouded concerning Jerry LaPlante because you can’t see around the extenuating circumstances involved in this case, and you need to blame someone, anyone, for your losing your husband—”
Richard rises halfway out of his chair. “Objection.”
“—when in fact your husband left you just a month before this unfortunate accident due to your fanatical behavior—”
“She’s badgering this witness, Your Honor,” comes Richard’s calm objection.
“Sustained,” Judge Hwang replies, then peers over the rim of her glasses at Richard.
They’re sprawled out on the sofa in Katie’s living room, head to toe, Jack wedged in by their knees and gnawing a massive bone Katie bought for him at Stop & Shop.
“Therapy lying down,” Dana says, “I can see the benefit.” She pokes her head up to check on Katie, who smiles weakly at her. “How’re you doing over there?”
“A little better,” Katie says. “God, I looked liked an idiot up there.”
“You were blindsided, honey.”
Katie sits up to get a better look at Dana. “But it’s all true. I am a failure. Nick saw it, Mom saw it—”
“You are not a failure.”
“Then why would Mom ask if I was going to finish the Cohens’ documentary last week? She knew. Even Nick’s mother would call, after she gave us more money for film and bulbs, and she’d ask if I had enough supplies to ‘see this one through.’ Even Candice knew, and laughed at me behind my back. Like today.”
“No one was laughing today. She bullied you up there.”
“It was Patricia. She told Donna those things about me,” she says. “That’s what they all thought of me, all those years.”
“They didn’t. They were your friends.”
Katie considers this, sees Dottie smiling at her from the stand. “He made them all look so incompetent yesterday. With my help.”
“That’s why you left?”
Katie examines her hands for a moment. “I had to. It felt like . . . like for once I was on the wrong side. And then today it was like I wasn’t on any side. You saw Richard’s reaction, Dana. He knew what Donna was planning. He knew what was going to happen today. He timed it that way, I’m sure of it. And after we adjourned, you saw him rush out before I could even ask why.”
“I know.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. I still can’t think of any logical reason.”
“Maybe Donna told him about me this weekend, and that’s why he’s been acting so differently toward me. But I don’t understand. Why would she? And why wouldn’t he warn me?”
Dana sits up now, too, crosses her legs underneath her. “She didn’t tell him about you not finishing your documentaries, Katie,” she says quietly. “Or about visiting the center so much. I don’t know if she unintentionally let something out this weekend, or if Richard overheard a piece of the defense’s strategy, but you’re right, something happened. And I think that’s why Richard changed his plan with you today. He wanted her to discredit you, to distance himself from you. But she wasn’t the one who told him those things.”
“Then who? I don’t understand any of this.”
“I told him,” Dana says softly, lowering her eyes. “Before the trial even began. When he interviewed me.”
“You? Why would you do that?”
“Katie,” she says, her eyes pleading for understanding now, “I was trying to protect you. I wanted him to understand you. What you’ve been through.”
Katie stands too fast, her head swimming. She stumbles, paces to the end of the couch, watches Dana shrink into her body.
“I was right on Sunday, wasn’t I? The movies. You told him about that, too, didn’t you? And he tripped up that day?”
“Yes. I wanted him . . . I needed for him to know you, so—”
“What else, Dana?” Katie demands. “What else?”
“Only that you loved Nick—that he was your world. I wanted him to know that you were fragile.”
“I can’t believe this, Dana. You’re my sister.”
“We wanted to protect you. Me. Mom and Dad. I told him about the documentaries and about the visits because I thought he would find a way to deal with it in court when it came up. He knew that Donna knew about it, too, because of course Patricia would have told her.”
“My own family. Jesus.”
“Please, Katie. Please,” she says, trying to hold back tears. “I thought it would help. I knew you wouldn’t tell him important things and I was afraid he’d find out too late.”
“So you told him without warning me, and you told him that I’m obsessed with watching people, right? That I’m this pathetic—”
“No, no, those are Donna’s words, not mine.”
“But you believe it.”
Dana bows her head. “Can’t you see why I wanted you to be careful with Richard? Why I was angry with him? He’s been playing you, Katie.”
“But—but we were working together.” Katie slumps down beside Dana, the fight inside her suddenly gone. “He said we were a team.”
“He wanted to keep you close, honey. He wanted your help to do his job. until it didn’t work anymore.”
Katie sinks back on the couch. “This entire time.”
They sit quietly for a long moment, Katie replaying Richard’s questions, the respectful way he treated her. How important she felt back then—how necessary. Aga
in, she thinks. Again.
Katie finally turns to her sister. “What do I do now?” she whispers. “What do I do tomorrow?”
Dana tries to take her hand, but Katie crosses her arms.
“Kate,” she says, wiping her eyes and sitting up straight. “We have to think. What could he know? What would make him turn on you like that?”
What did he know? What could possibly make Katie seem so incompetent, so unreliable, that even Richard had to distance himself so blatantly . . .
“Oh, God.” Katie buries her face in her hands. Did he know? Did Richard find out about the shoes? But how could he . . .
“What?”
“Nothing—nothing, Dana,” she says.
Dana pulls Katie’s hand into hers. Katie tries to pull away, but her sister hangs on. “Okay, so we don’t know what Richard knows, we don’t know anything. But tomorrow—we have to figure out how you’ll deal with his questions tomorrow. Because whatever made him turn on you will probably come out then.”
“But I have to stick to the script. If I stray from the back-and-forth he planned, he’ll tear me apart.”
“Katie,” Dana says sadly, “I don’t think there’s a script anymore.”
“God.” She turns to Jack, whining softly at the end of the couch.
“But it’s not too late,” Dana says.
Katie turns back, meets Dana’s appraising stare.
“What if,” Dana says, choosing her words carefully, “what if we knew? I know you’re always asking yourself why Jerry did it, but we still don’t know. Maybe Richard understands more than we do at this point, and I suppose their experts will try to explain. But what if you did? Right now?”
“Richard said the why isn’t important anymore.”
“Isn’t it? Isn’t it the one question you’ve wanted answered all along?” The answer to all of Dana’s questions is clear: If Katie knew, it might change everything tomorrow.
“I can’t go back, Dana. I can’t forgive him.”
Lies of the Heart Page 31
