Perfect Lies

by Liza Bennett

  “I don’t know,” Boardman said. “But the local papers have certainly been giving glowing reviews of his crackerjack work on this case. I‘ve heard rumors that he’s running for state senate next year. And that’s more good news for us. The judge hates politics in the courtroom.”

  “Hey, Luce,” Meg said, as the teenager turned around, stood, and impulsively enveloped Meg in a grateful hug. Meg couldn’t bear to glance over at Lark’s side of the room, though she sensed now that everyone on that side of the aisle was watching her.

  The judge, a woman in her sixties with a brisk, no-nonsense manner, took her place on the bench and, leaving Meg to sit behind Lucinda, Boardman went up to consult with her and the D.A. After a brief discussion, which involved a lot of head-shaking on Pearson’s part, the proceedings began.

  “You honor,” Pearson addressed the bench. He had a big voice for such a small man—a carrying baritone that was fulsome with self-assurance. “What we have here is a clear-cut case of homicide. The defendant was found in actual possession of the instrument that has been identified as the murder weapon. She was at the crime scene at the time of death fixed by the coroner. She was arrested in a drunken stupor. She admits that she was too ‘out of it’ to even now be able to account for herself during the time of the murder. Over the weeks I‘ve been investigating this case I‘ve learned that this deeply troubled and difficult young woman—”

  “Counselor,” the judge said, interrupting Pearson, “kindly confine your observations about the suspect’s character to facts, not speculation.”

  “Certainly,” Pearson said with a smile, nodding his head and glancing down at one of the index cards he was holding. “The suspect has been truant at the local high school for a total of ten days this past semester. She has been suspected of defacing county property and causing a public disturbance—”

  “Does she have an arrest record, counselor?”

  “Not per se, your honor—” Pearson began, but the judge cut him off.

  “I suggest we stick to the crime in question, which seems to me complicated and volatile enough. Truancy can wait for another day.”

  There was a titter across the courtroom which, more than any reprimand from the judge, seemed to upset the D.A.‘s composure. He took a moment to consult with his two assistants before concluding in a forceful and self-righteous tone, “I believe that this is an open-and-shut case of murder in the second degree. I hold that the defendant is a danger to society and to herself. I request that she be remanded without bail, pending a grand jury presentation.”

  Meg didn’t know when she’d put her hand on Lucinda’s shoulder but, as the D.A. finished his statement with a hard stare at Lucinda, she felt the teenager start to tremble. Meg leaned toward her and whispered, “It’s going to be okay. The judge doesn’t like him. Just keep it together.”

  Compared to Pearson’s polished and obviously prepared delivery, Boardman’s statement was low-key and conversational.

  “I happen to agree with the D.A.—this is an open-and-shut case of homicide. Who killed Ethan McGowan, though? In my opinion, that’s a question that remains unanswered by any of the facts we’ve managed to gather thus far. There were no eyewitnesses. The circumstantial evidence that we all know about—the murder weapon in the defendant’s hands, her proximity in time and place to the murder—can be fairly easily explained away.

  “I’m not suggesting that the county is wrong in pursuing the question of Lucinda’s presence in the studio that morning. We all have questions about it, including Lucinda, who cannot remember what happened. And why is that?”

  Boardman had been strolling back and forth in front of the bench as he spoke, glancing at Judge Marin, looking out across the courtroom of spectators, nodding at the D.A. and Lark in a gently reasoning way. Now he turned and spoke to Lucinda, “Yes, she was drunk. And she was stoned. She was a seventeen-year-old attempting to deal with the kind of emotional firestorm even the most experienced adult shouldn’t have to face. She was trying to cope with betrayal—at the very center of her life—and, yes, she was unable to. So she anesthetized herself, hoping to make herself stronger. But it didn’t work. She failed at playing an adult, of coping like an adult. And now she’s admitting to us that she can’t remember what happened that morning in the studio.

  “Let me tell you something: I don’t believe Lucinda killed her stepfather. But, even if she had—which, I repeat, I do not believe is the case—she would have done so under extreme emotional circumstances and in probable self-defense. I’m not going to go into the murder victim’s well-known reputation in the town, but—”

  “I’d take your own good advice there,” Judge Marin interjected. “I’d move your presentation along, please.”

  Boardman nodded at her. “Exactly. That’s for a later discussion. I do not wish to introduce more rumors and innuendo into a case that is already loaded with hearsay. The facts are these: There were no eyewitnesses. The evidence is purely circumstantial and can be interpreted many different ways. And Lucinda McGowan had been put through hell for long enough. She is a danger to no one, she has no arrest record. Her only crime, if it is a crime, is that she was unable to shoulder an adult’s burdens at a most unfortunate time and place.”

  Meg could feel Lucinda’s shoulders shaking. Lucinda began to cry, her head bowed.

  “Look up now, Luce,” Meg said when she saw that the judge had asked Pearson and Boardman to consult with her. “Look the judge in the eye.”

  Lucinda dabbed quickly at her face and blew her nose, but then straightened up and did as Meg instructed her. Lucinda’s cheeks were blotchy, her bangs damp and in disarray. But her look was direct and undefiant.

  The discussion was long and obviously heated, and it was clear to those who watched closely, as Meg did, that the D.A. was losing an important argument with Judge Marin—and losing it badly. His face reddened with anger, his gestures grew cockier—hands on the hips, shoulders back, foot tapping. Finally, with an irritated wave of the hand, the discussion was ended by the judge.

  “This is a court of law,” Judge Marin said slowly, looking from Lark to the D.A. and then out across the room. “It is a place where we try to arrive at the truth—and then dispense judgment. We’re conducting a preliminary hearing today. That’s all it is. And yet, it seems to me, far too many people have walked into this courtroom this afternoon with their minds made up and their judgments rendered. There are protesters outside already turning this case into a platform for other agendas. I will have no one,” and here the judge glared at Pearson, “using this terribly sad and difficult situation for his or her own purposes. My cases are tried in the court of law—never the court of public opinion.”

  The room was hushed as the judge added briskly, “I’m setting the bail at one hundred thousand dollars and I’m allowing the suspect to be released into the care of a responsible adult who resides in Manhattan. I’m granting the D.A.‘s request that the suspect undergo a Section 730 psychiatric examination—and the defense has agreed to pursue appropriate counseling for his client in the city, subject to my approval. You will all be notified of the next court date by mail.”

  They weren’t supposed to meet. Boardman had suggested that he take Lucinda with him to the back court offices while he arranged the bail by phone with a local bondsman. Meg was to find Hannah and have her pull the car up to the small personnel-only parking area behind the courthouse. Lucinda and Meg were meant to slip away quietly and without notice. But, as Meg was hurrying down the courthouse steps she ran into Lark and Francine coming down from the other door.

  “You’re actually taking her in?” Lark demanded, her voice breathy with anger.

  “Lark, listen—” Meg tried to sound reasonable, “She has no place else to go.”

  “Oh yes she does. She can go straight to hell,” Lark said.

  Francine squeezed Lark’s elbow. “Reporters are watching, Lark,” she whispered. “You don’t want to make a scene.”

  �
�Yes, I do. I have a right to start a riot as far as I’m concerned,” Lark said, brushing Francine off and turning to Meg. “I can’t believe—I just cannot believe—that you’re actually taking that little slut into your apartment. That you put up bail for her. That you are comforting her! I saw you put your arm around her—Jesus! It made me want to get sick—right there. How can you do this? You, Meg! After everything we’ve been through—a whole life together—how can you choose her, that viper, over me?”

  “It’s not a matter of choosing anyone over any—” Meg began, but Lark cut her off.

  “That’s where you’re so wrong! You can’t be wishy-washy about loyalty, Meg. There aren’t any gray areas when it comes to whose side you’re on. Not when it’s something as important as this. Not when it comes to me and the girls. If you’re not with us—then you’re against us.” Lark started back down the steps, but Meg grabbed her arm.

  “That’s not true,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, older sister,” Lark replied slowly, the venom in her tone spreading with every word, “but you are no longer in the position to tell me what the truth is. And to think I used to worship the ground you walked on.” Shaking Meg off, she continued down the steps, followed by a sad-faced Francine “How are you feeling?” Meg asked Lucinda, turning in her seat to face her. Lucinda was staring out the window at the bleak strip of KFCs and Jiffy Lubes that lined the road out of Montville on the way to the interstate.

  *

  “Well, like, tired. “ She sounded aggrieved.

  “That infection cleared up?”

  “Yeah.” The gratitude that Lucinda had shown in the courtroom earlier was gone, replaced by a moodiness that Meg couldn’t figure out. Was Lucinda intimidated by Hannah? Had the hearing taken more out of her than Meg had, at first, realized? No one spoke for the ten minutes it took to reach the state highway heading south. Lucinda lit up a cigarette.

  “Not in the car, Luce,” Meg said, turning around again. “And ask first, please.”

  “Oh, excuse me,” Lucinda replied, holding her cigarette up between middle and index fingers with elaborate artifice as she pretended to look around for an ashtray.

  “That’s all right,” Hannah said. “But open the window.”

  It was another ten minutes before anyone spoke again.

  “Have you given any thought to what you might want to do in New York?” Hannah asked. “Sleep.”

  “Luce, don’t be rude,” Meg said. “Hannah’s been incredibly generous to come all this distance to pick you up.”

  “Yeah, I know. And brave, too, with all those fucking housewives wanting to put me away.” The fear in her voice suddenly explained her belligerence.

  Meg kept her eyes on the road ahead while she said, “You heard what the judge said, they’re just trying to use this case to further their own agendas.”

  “Yeah, right, which I’m sure they’ll eventually get around to after they lynch me.

  “I think they plan to string us up together,” Meg pointed out, trying to make light of a threat she felt was all too real. She remembered the look of righteous anger in Paula Yoder’s face, the shocked outrage in Lark’s parting words.

  Lucinda drifted off to sleep twenty minutes later and slept soundly all the way back to the city. Meg, grateful for everything Hannah had done for them that afternoon, devised conversation that would please and flatter Hannah, asking questions about the gallery and Hannah’s circle of artist friends.

  They were back in the city by seven that evening—all too soon as far as Meg was concerned. She was beginning to realize how ill-equipped she was to handle what she’d suddenly taken on. Any teenager would have been a handful, but one with a troubled history and an uncertain future was beginning to feel to Meg like an impossible challenge.

  Meg invited Hannah to join them for take-out pizza, but Hannah’s horrified look almost said it all.

  “Thank you, but no. I’m sure I can find dinner plans that don’t involve eating with my fingers while crouching over a cardboard box.”

  The greasy but delicious dinner had a salubrious effect on Lucinda, however. As she polished off the last two slices of extra cheese, she said, “That’s the best pizza I’ve had in a long time.”

  “Well, don’t expect this kind of home cooking every night,” Meg said. “And speaking of expectations. I think we should set some ground rules.”

  “That’s cool,” Lucinda said, lighting up a cigarette.

  “Such as, no smoking in the apartment.”

  “Oh fuck—” Lucinda glared at her.

  “And no swearing. And no drinking. And no drugs. And remember to clean up after yourself. We’re going to get along fine.”

  “Even Lark let me smoke, for chrissakes.”

  “I didn’t see Lark on your side of the courtroom this afternoon, or footing the bill for your bail. I’m all you’ve got right now, Luce, so you better make an attempt to make nice.”

  “Yeah,” Lucinda dropped the lit cigarette into her open can of Diet Pepsi; it sizzled out. “I hear you. Don’t worry.”

  “You’ll sleep in the study. There’s a futon in there. I’ll get you some sheets.”

  “Okay,” Lucinda said, yawning. She made no move to clean up after their take-out meal, but Meg decided to let that slide. Lucinda looked exhausted and, despite what she had said about her infection clearing up, not particularly well. When Meg came back into the living room to tell her that she’d made up the bed, she saw that Lucinda had fallen asleep. She woke her gently, and led her into the study.

  “Thanks, Meg,” Lucinda murmured after she’d climbed in. Two little words. But Meg realized as she got ready for bed herself how much she had needed to hear them. It wasn’t going to be easy having Lucinda in her home, she realized that now. There had already been awkward moments—when they were waiting for the delivery and disagreed about what to watch on TV, the business about smoking. Meg resented that her privacy was being usurped by Lucinda—the teenager took up space, both physically and psychologically, that she had come to treasure. But Lucinda’s thanks—however grudging and belated—gave her a warm feeling as she climbed between the sheets. It lasted maybe a full minute, or just long enough for the phone to ring.

  It was Abe. He’d been calling almost every night from Los Angeles.

  “How did it go?” he asked. Meg had given him the date of the hearing.

  “Good and bad.” Meg hesitated. “Depends on who you are.”

  “I meant for you, of course. What happened?”

  “Boardman was able to get Lucinda out on a bail.”

  “I told you he was good. So? Where is she? I can’t imagine she’s too welcome in Red River.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought.” Meg rushed her words. “And she needed to stay with someone close to her whom the judge could deem responsible. So—”

  “Oh God, Meg—don’t tell me—she’s with you?”

  “Well… yes.”

  “She’s there now? She’s going to be living with you? For how long?”

  “I guess until the trial …” Meg hadn’t gotten much further in her thinking than feeding Lucinda and getting her into bed. Clothes, school, counseling—over how many weeks, or even months—she hadn’t begun to sort it all out.

  “And no one else could have done this thing? There is no other responsible person in Lucinda’s life besides you? I can only imagine how Lark is taking this news.”

  “Not well,” Meg conceded. “I’m just trying to do—”

  But he cut her off, his voice sounding tired and worried. “The right thing. I know, you’ve already told me. I know you well enough now to realize that I’m never going to be able to talk you out of anything. No matter how much I think it might hurt you—and others. I already warned you to be careful about picking enemies, Meg. I think you better start being even more cautious about whom you choose for friends.”

  32

  Over the next week and a half, Meg discovered that Lucinda’s moods cou
ld race and spin with bumper-car abandon—nasty and uncommunicative in the morning when Meg headed off to work, needy and confiding by the time they both arrived home in the evening. With Boardman’s help, she’d found a psychiatrist for Lucinda on the Upper East Side whom the court approved for counseling. She’d also been able to get Lucinda placed as a temporary student in a public high school not far from Meg’s apartment. But where Lucinda was tight-lipped about what went on during her therapy sessions, she was vocal in the extreme about her new educational situation.

  “I hate it there,” she declared at the end of that first week.

  “I’m sorry, I know public schools in the city can be on the tough side,” Meg sympathized. She’d tried to get her into one of the private schools in the area, but there had simply been no openings.

  “It’s not that,” Lucinda had pouted. “I’m as tough as they come.”

  “What’s the matter then?” Meg had asked. Lucinda’s bad-girl pose was Meg’s least favorite of the teenager’s ever-changing attitudes.

  “Everyone looks at me funny.”

  “What do you mean?” Meg was concerned that somehow Lucinda’s indictment had been discovered by her fellow students. She’d advised Lucinda to keep her delicate legal position to herself if she wanted to make friends and attempt a more normal existence in the city.

  “I’ve got, like, nothing to wear,” Lucinda responded sulkily. “I’m in the same ugly clothes every fucking day.”

  “Oh, for heavens’ sake, Luce, is that all?” Meg was irritated and relieved at the same time. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  She called Francine from the office the next morning, asking if the minister could possibly arrange to have some of Lucinda’s clothes and other possessions sent down from Red River.