“They didn’t?”
“I told you once, on the phone, but I don’t think you understood,” he says. “It was their gift to you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That is what they wanted you to have. To leave behind. The peace they found. They wanted you to see. All the interviews, the stories, they were for you.”
Ben dips his head down respectfully to give Katie a moment to herself, but the generosity of their gift only makes her feel their absence more painfully.
“And now they’re gone, Ben.”
“They are home now, with God. Some people think it was selfish, but it was the right thing to do, Katie. When my mother started to relive the rapes, we were surprised. For years she had the proof in front of her, every day, but suddenly it was too much. For my father, too.”
“Proof? Of what?”
Ben opens his arms, smiles that mischievous smile that recalls Sarah in an instant.
“You?”
“My parents wanted many children. They talked about this on your films? My father wanted them all to have my mother’s eyes, but they did tests on him in the camp. Experiments that lasted over a month. When it was over, he was sterile.”
During the last taping, when Katie had met Ben, she remembers thinking how different he was from Arthur—so tall, soft-spoken. And she remembers Sarah’s description of the new general. He was a young man. Tall and quiet . . .
“Do you mean the general—You aren’t Arthur’s real son—”
Ben meets her stunned gaze with a quiet smile: not Arthur’s biological son, this look says, and yet—still—Arthur’s son just the same.
“My father was proud of me, and he told me this every day,” Ben says. “I was real to him in every way that mattered.”
Before he leaves, he hands her an envelope. “When you are ready, dear,” Ben says.
She waits until her family is gone, until she is in bed with Jack snuggled up close. She opens the envelope, pulls out a letter. It’s only a short paragraph, filled with crowded, uneven sentences that slant across the page.
Dear Katie,
We are afraid, Sarah and I, that you will be angry with us, but we have prayed and we have our answer. It is our time to go home, and we do this willingly. The film, it is for you. We leave before it is done, but what does this word mean, “done”? It is a short time, here on this earth, yes? We finish, we complete our tasks, when it is time. My Sarah, it is her time, and so it is mine. And now, maybe it is yours? Not the same thing, but important. That is what we wanted you to know. We asked Ben to give you this letter when he thought you were ready. And so now we say this to you, our dear friend, Katie: Do not wait for this life to come to you, to see it all from behind a camera. With both hands, you must grab it.
Excuse me for this bluntness, but a man’s touch—it is not all that life will give you. Happiness is something we must first find for ourselves, yes?
This makes sense, Katie? Yes? I am not sure. But I believe that it will. Eventually.
Your friend,
Arthur Cohen
7
There are rules, too many. Katie remembers only three: no sharp objects, no gifts, no touching. That’s the most important one—no touching.
We don’t want to give them any reason to ask you to leave, Patricia said to her, so talk to him that way you do. He’ll feel that.
Okay.
Let him see how happy you are to be there.
Yes.
She’s in a small room that smells like urine and burned meat—stagnant, nursing-home air. The walls and floor are scuffed and dirty, the only furniture a long wooden table with a thin layer of grime on it and two fold-down metal chairs. A two-way mirror takes up most of the wall on her right—just like the one at the Warwick Center, where observers could watch Nick working with his clients in the adjoining room. Where Katie saw Jerry for the first time, where she filmed the interviews.
On the thin strip of wall next to the window, someone has painted over an angry, scrawled message that is still legible: EAT ME, YOU FUCKING SPIES!
The door opens, and Katie jumps to her feet. A tall guard with a shaved head and dark, bushy eyebrows that make him look angry motions for her to sit down. Katie drops back into her chair. The guard turns and pulls a shuffling Jerry into the room, another guard trailing behind them.
“Kay-tee!”
The second guard is shorter, with a kind expression on his youthful face; he nods at Katie, his hand resting lightly on Jerry’s broad back.
“Hey, Jerry,” she says.
Jerry’s face shines with excitement, despite all the chains—attached to a clamp around his neck, trailing down the middle of his orange jumper, attached to more wide clamps that circle his wrists and ankles. His left eye is swollen almost shut, the corners of his lips cracked and clotted with dried blood. The inflammation on one side of his face makes his grin crooked, painful-looking.
Smile at him. Try not to react to the way he looks.
I won’t.
“I missed you, buddy,” Katie says.
Jerry’s grin stretches, and fresh blood seeps from the corner of his lips. He tries to rush forward, and the first guard pushes him back roughly with his forearm. Jerry teeters backward, the chains clanging, and the younger guard has to use both hands to steady him.
“Hold up, pal,” the younger guard says, shooting his partner an annoyed look.
If Jerry weren’t staring at her like that, Katie would fall apart right then and there from the tenderness in this guard’s voice—Jerry has had a friend here. She thanks God for that.
“I was waiting,” Jerry says.
“I know. I’m sorry it took so long.”
His swollen, happy face says he doesn’t mind, everything is okay now that Katie is here.
Don’t stray from the questions we’ve practiced. They’ll help Jerry lead up to it naturally. They’ll see and hear everything between the two of you, so it’s vital you don’t digress, that you keep Jerry on track. Do you need to go over the questions again?
Maybe one more time.
They settle Jerry into the chair, the younger guard patting him on the chest.
“You need to stay put,” the first guard tells Jerry, pointing at him. “You understand?”
“Kay-tee, I go home now?”
He tries to raise his chained hands, and Katie automatically raises her own until she sees the first guard watching her.
“Jerry,” she says, “it’s important that you sit in the chair, okay? If you try to get up, they’ll ask me to leave.”
His swollen face goes slack. “You leave?”
The younger guard squeezes his shoulders, leans down to his ear. “Just sit in the chair and your friend can stay.” He pushes Jerry’s hands down. “Stay put. Okay, guy?”
Jerry’s eyes never leave Katie. “Okay, Mike.”
“We’ll be right outside,” the first guard says. He points at the two-way mirror. “Try to speak up.”
They’ll record the entire interview, and depending on the outcome, decide if there will be a new trial.
I know that Richard is angry about the mistrial. It was my fault—
That isn’t important now, Katie. Only Jerry.
The door closes behind the guards, and Katie smiles at Jerry. “How do you feel?” she asks. It’s a stupid question, not on Patricia’s list, but she wants to know this more than anything.
“I scared sometimes.” He leans into the table with his chest, the chains banging.
“You have to sit back, Jerry. I’m sorry. There are rules.”
His face darkens. “Lots of rules here, Kay-tee.”
“I know.”
“I drawed pictures for you,” he says. “Dey say I can give dem to you, but now dey don’t let me.”
“You’ll save them for me?”
Jerry’s face brightens. “Course, Kay-tee.”
He’s been heavily medicated since the arrest, a necessity for obvious reasons,
but it’s made him sullen. They need to see who he really is, so before you start with the questions, find a way to make them see.
How?
Have you forgotten him completely, Katie?
“Do you remember that time,” Katie begins, “that the wind blew all those leaves into the front yard?”
“We make a pile.”
“We made a huge pile,” she says.
She draws a house with her finger onto the table. The sweat on her finger mixes with the thin layer of grime on the table, but the outline is barely visible. Yet it’s enough for Jerry, who knows this picture better than anyone.
He tracks the lines with his good eye, with the crescent of his other one. She makes a box in the middle of the house.
“Do you know what this is?” she says, tapping it.
“Window?”
“Your window, Jer.”
“My room?”
“Do you remember your room? Can you see it?”
“Um—”
“Close your eyes, buddy.”
He obeys her instantly, tilts his head back. “What I see?”
“Look beside the bed. On the bookstand.”
Underneath his lids his eyes track back and forth, looking around his room. “Books. My pencils.”
“What else?”
“Milk,” he says, and opens his eyes. “Only don’t leave it dere, ’cuz it cuddles.”
“Curdles?”
A small giggle, perfect for the spectators in the other room. “Yeah,” he says, “It stink. Yuck.”
“What else is in your room?”
Eyelids closing again, then a secret smile on his face. “Oh, no! My Bugs Bunny pillow, Kay-tee! You forgot?”
“No way, I love that pillow.”
“Me, too,” Jerry says, and his smile is so sweet that she wants to gather him up, whisper her apology in his ear, beg for him to forgive her. Knowing he would, that even if he could understand how she has betrayed him, he would forgive her instantly, completely, before she could finish asking.
I have to tell him I’m sorry.
He wouldn’t understand, Katie. It would just confuse him.
I know, but—
It’s important that you stick to the questions. Let’s go over them again . . .
If the people in the adjoining room can see Jerry’s face right now—if Richard and the DA can see the dreaminess on it—it must be enough. This enormous man enraptured by the memory of his stuffed pillow. But just in case:
“Poor, poor Coyote,” Katie says sadly. “He didn’t stand a chance.”
“He all burned up!” Jerry says. “Bee-beep!”
Jerry throws his head back and laughs. His whole body shakes, the chains rattling as water pools in the corner of his mouth. A long line of saliva escapes, and his tongue snakes out to capture it back.
“I drool,” he says proudly.
“Gross.”
More giggles, his one good eye filled with happiness.
Katie scans the window quickly, imagines Patricia and Donna Treadmont nodding in approval. She takes in a deep breath.
“I have to ask you some questions, Jerry. About Nick.”
“Nick is died.”
“I know. I want to talk about the day you shot him, okay?” She uses the relaxed tone of voice she practiced with Patricia. Folds her hands on the table, leaves a small, encouraging smile on her face—just as Patricia instructed.
“Okay, Kay-tee,” he says, straightening in the chair. “I ready.”
“Do you remember the group session you had that morning?”
Jerry lowers his head, eyes scanning the table. His mouth moving.
“Jerry? Do you remember?”
“We talk. We talk about love. About being married.”
“Did you talk about anything else that morning?” she asks lightly.
Jerry stares at her. “Sex,” he whispers.
“That must have made you very upset.”
“It bad.”
“Did talking about sex make you mad, Jerry?”
Jerry looks down again, talking to himself. “No, Kay-tee. I . . . I . . . scared.”
When he tells you he was scared, wait a few seconds and make him say it again.
“You weren’t mad at Nick?”
Jerry’s lips move, practicing first. “Scared, Kay-tee.”
“Why were you scared, Jerry?”
“For Nick.”
“Why? Why were you scared for Nick?”
“He tell us,” Jerry blurts out. “In group.”
Not on the list, but she has to ask. “What did he tell you?”
“Nick tell us he not go home anymore!”
It’s like knives plunging into her body in a hundred different places. Nick told his clients that he was leaving Katie for good, before he even talked to her? How could he do that to her? But wait—only Jerry now.
“Are you okay?”
Jerry tilts his head at her, confused. “Okay?”
“Jerry,” she says quickly, remembering the correct wording again. “Why were you scared for Nick?”
He rehearses the words first, eyes on the table. “You . . . you not have a baby, Katie. Nick have sex. With someone else. He have a baby with someone else.”
She gasps, asks it before she can catch herself: “Nick said he was going to have a baby with someone else?”
“He say someday he might. At lunch he say maybe.”
It takes a few seconds for her to remember the next question.
“Jerry, can you tell me where Nick is now?”
“He gone.”
Make him answer each question. If he doesn’t answer, ask it again.
“Can you tell me where Nick is now?”
He says the words to himself first, then, “Nick in heaven now.”
“Why is he there?”
“I . . . I . . . ”
He practices the words, eyes moving back and forth, almost as if he can see them.
“I save him dere.”
“You saved Nick?”
“Before he do it.”
“Before he did what?”
“Nick go to heaven before.”
“Okay,” she says. “Before he did what?”
“What my fadder do. Make sin.”
“You thought Nick was going to make sin?”
“My dad make me, and God got mad. He send him to hell.”
When he starts talking about his father, help him. Redirect him to Nick.
“You thought Nick would go to hell?”
“Nick say someday he might meet a new lady. Not you. You his wife. He might have a baby with a new lady, and you know.”
“God would be mad?”
Jerry nods, turns his head to try to wipe his nose on his shoulder, fails.
“Jerry? Why would God be mad about that?”
She watches his eyes tracking back and forth over the table—like he knows what he’s trying to say, he can see the words right in front of him, but he can’t understand them.
Katie stares, feels a tingle of recognition—the look on his face vaguely familiar, but she can’t quite place it. And then, as she watches him struggling, she suddenly remembers: that first time he slept over, when he tried to repeat his mother’s Scripture. Or when . . . or when . . . that time in the cafeteria . . .
It finally hits Katie, slams into her chest. That exact expression on Jerry’s face, his mumbling lips.
“God punish him,” Jerry says. “I not want him—I not want him to go to hell, Kay-tee. I . . . I send him to heaven. Time to go, before. Not like my fadder. Nick go to heaven before.”
Katie turns to the two-way mirror, imagines Patricia’s satisfied smile.
You did it, she thinks, and turns back to Jerry’s hopeful look for understanding.
Patricia waits for Katie right outside the room. Next to the door of the adjoining room, Richard consults quietly with the DA and Donna Treadmont.
“You coached him,” Katie whispers fiercely to P
atricia. “You told him to say those things.”
Patricia frowns, looks at the group only a few feet away. Richard’s eyes lock with Patricia’s, and then Patricia is signaling for Katie to walk with her. They move to the end of the corridor.
“Like when we first met in the cafeteria,” Katie says, turning to her. “Word for word. You told him what to say.”
Patricia crosses her arms. “I did what I had to do. For Jerry. I wasn’t sure if seeing his mother in the courtroom would be enough.”
“For what?”
“His reaction, a mistrial. Even if it worked, I wasn’t sure what would come next. We might’ve been right back at the starting line.”
“But was any of it true? What he said in there?”
“Parts of it, I think.”
“What parts—what parts were true?”
Patricia checks on the group, lowers her voice. “You had a conversation with your sister, before Nick left. At your parents’ house. Do you remember what you said?”
“We went over there all the time. I said lots of things—”
“The one Jerry overheard? About Nick having an affair? Jerry told us about that. He could repeat that, word for word, himself.”
Sitting with Dana outside, talking about Nick. Telling her how they hadn’t had sex in two months. Sometimes I can actually see him with another woman . . . I couldn’t handle it if he decided to be with someone else, if he wanted to start a family with another woman.
“I should have talked to Jerry about that—”
“Yes, you should have. But at the time you were busy.” Her glance leaves no room for doubt: busy stalking Nick.
“So then it’s true? What he said in there?”
“You’re underestimating the complexity of this situation, of who Jerry is and what he’s been through. I don’t know if we’ll ever know the entire truth,” she says. “And I think it’s better if we leave well enough alone.”
“I can’t do that, I just can’t. I wish I could.”
Patricia scowls at her. “I don’t think you want to hear this.”
“Please,” Katie says. “I have to know.”
Patricia sighs through her nose. “Fine,” she says. “We aren’t sure of everything, how it all adds up. But do you remember telling your sister that if Nick left you to be with another woman, you’d die?”
Lies of the Heart Page 35
