by Leslie Lehr
Wes stood there a moment, then he went to the aquarium and tapped fish food into the tanks. When he looked back, Michelle was struggling to zip her skirt.
“Want some help?”
“No!” She didn’t want help—not from him, or Drew, or her mother. She could do this by herself if she had to. She just wished she didn’t have to. She gave up on the zipper and hooked the waistband.
Wes’s chuckle broke the quiet. “I knew it.”
She scooped her red brassiere from the floor and turned on him. “What?”
He stopped laughing. “That I could love you.”
Michelle stepped toward the tank but didn’t dare look him in the eye. She was afraid he’d be able to see right into her. Instead, she crouched down to take a better look at the sea star, at how the spindly new arms sprouted from the center. The creature undulated sideways, then wrapped its tentacles around the rock. “Does that mean that you do love me?”
“Only if you’ll let me.” He held a Hershey’s Kiss out to her right. “Last one.”
Michelle looked up, exhausted by this game. His eyes caught hers and softened, as steady as the gaze of her daughter in the photograph. He’d never felt that way before, she remembered him admitting. He’d saved her arm, risked his career to protect her, and now he was offering her his very last Kiss. He unwrapped the foil slowly, until she could smell nothing else, until her mouth filled with liquid and her tongue swam with desire. Then he popped it in his mouth.
“Bastard,” she said and stood up.
He lifted her chin and kissed her slowly, sucking on her tongue until every trace of chocolate melted away. She clung to him and kissed him back, surrendering to the blend of sweet and salty, pleasure and pain, innocence and fear.
32
The June fog burned off like wisps of steam from the pie slice of ocean visible from the courthouse. Michelle clutched the second-floor railing and rose to her toes in éléve. The ballet position allowed her to peek between the royal palms and see the pier. When Tracy, the court officer, beckoned her back inside, Michelle followed, no longer interested in the Ferris wheel. After weeks of searching for jurors who swore they’d never seen the Roadhouse video, Michelle was sick of Santa Monica.
Flashbulbs popped as she steeled herself for the daily gauntlet of reporters in the hallway. A correspondent in a suede miniskirt smiled for the KTLA camera. “The Hollywood producer accused of reckless endangerment already faces huge penalties—even the possibility of jail time. The district attorney is expected to make an announcement today about filing a criminal charge of vehicular manslaughter for the death of rock legend—wait! Here she is now! A comment, Mrs. Mason?”
Michelle focused on the speckled tile beneath her practical pumps and veered toward the drinking fountain.
Kenny’s brown loafers padded into view, followed by Greenburg’s black wing tips. Someone grabbed her left elbow and hustled her through the forest of flip-flops and sneakers. She recognized the beloved Louboutin heels she’d traded for the camera disk and looked up at Celeste. She couldn’t help but smile at the Venice Bistro bartender who claimed to be Noah’s girlfriend.
As the news stories spread over the past few months, Michelle had been deluged with interview requests. She was forbidden to respond. Who would have guessed that she would end up MOS? That was the German term for recording silent films, known in film school as mit-out sound. MOF described Michelle better: mit-out family.
A few fans in Killer Mom T-shirts called her name, then the courtroom door clanked shut behind her.
Lexi was waiting inside with a comforting hug. Michelle had never seen her out of her nurse’s uniform, but her flowered sundress had won hearts on the witness stand.
Julie was there too, apologizing for sending Michelle to New York. Michelle didn’t blame her—it was better to know. “I can be a character witness if you need another,” she said. “Married, if that helps. That’s why I’ve been out of touch. Jack and I stopped the divorce and took a second honeymoon. Come to our party next week?”
“Sure,” Michelle said. “If I’m not in jail.”
Cathy overheard and stepped to her side. “Nonsense, I already splurged on a steak to celebrate.”
She led Michelle down the aisle past a Rolling Stone reporter in a Hawaiian shirt and a preppy columnist from Variety. Michelle used to love being in Variety, but not anymore, not like this. A sketch artist made strokes with his charcoal as he stared at her little black dress. She still refused to wear beige, but she had compromised with Cathy by wearing the pale lipstick her mother left at her house.
The sketch artist nudged his neighbor, a fellow parasite with a press pass. The reporter awoke with a snort. His story had only one line left to fill: “Butler Music Scores $____ for Tragic Death of CEO’s Son.”
Michelle heard the stamp of Becca’s boots then a whisper in her ear. “I brought the check. Double or nothing. Good luck, my friend.” Becca gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze before Cathy pulled her away.
Kenny opened the low gate behind the counselor’s table. Cathy kissed him for luck and handed Michelle off like a relay baton. Kenny nodded at Greenburg and Guy Butler, resuming their positions at the plaintiff’s table before escorting Michelle to her chair.
Once the spectators settled in, the jurors were ushered back to their seats as if the curtain was about to go up. Michelle heard Drew’s whistle amid the hubbub and felt for her pearls. She’d expected a thud in her chest at the sight of him, but felt only sadness. She wore the pearls with pleasure today, not because she was sentimental that he’d given them to her, nor because she was proud to have worn them with Wes, but because they were hers and they were pretty and she liked them.
When a figure with a duffel bag squeezed past Drew to sit down, Michelle nearly looked away before recognizing her son. He must have come directly from the airport, after final exams. She hadn’t wanted Tyler to see her like this, or to relive the day he lost her. But when he looked up and caught her eye, she let go of her necklace to wave.
Kenny nudged her to turn around and clasp her hands in her lap.
The courtroom door banged open, and they both looked back. Young men the age Noah would be now slunk in wearing UCLA T-shirts. Tracy marched back with all the authority of her silver badge, then pointed to an empty row and shut the door behind them. Kenny scowled, as if he was expecting someone else. Michelle prayed it would be Nikki.
“All rise,” the bailiff said.
Judge Vaughan, a tall, middle-aged woman with yellow cuffs protruding from her crisp black robe, carried her own gavel to the gleaming bench. She explained the alleged causes of action to the jury, reminding them that attorneys representing all parties were permitted to question the witnesses. The jurors needed to pay close attention. Then she faced front and invited Greenburg to make his opening remarks.
He unveiled Noah’s picture on the easel and began slowly, his quiet intensity making up for his short stature. In this room, the only size that mattered was the space between your ears. Or in your wallet, which was clearly the case when Mr. Dillenger, representing Orrin Motors, took his place on the floor.
Good ole boy Kenny could only smile when he rose to pay respects in his wrinkled brown suit. When Michelle frowned, he gave her a capped pen and a legal pad as if she were a child who could be kept busy with doodling. If she wanted to write anything, she’d have to bite off the top with her teeth. Michelle dug Wes’s silly pen from her purse and watched the tiny USS Enterprise float down the barrel through space. She wished she were on it.
When Greenburg introduced Guy Butler, Noah’s father swaggered to the witness stand as if he’d won a game show. He paused at the easel to replace his dead son’s photograph with a band poster and a pie chart of projected earnings. Then he strutted over to sit in the spotlight. As he cocked the microphone closer to his suntanned face, his leather jacket opened enough to reveal a Roadhouse RIP T-shirt.
Greenburg smoothed the silk tie beneath his raz
or-sharp lapels until the whispers died down and the only sound in the room was the tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall above the jury box. He bowed to the judge, apologized, and sent Noah’s father back to his seat without asking any questions.
Then he called Dr. Laura Braunstein to the stand.
Noah’s gray-haired mother walked slowly to the front. Dr. Braunstein looked just as sharp as she had in her surgery scrubs, but today she was draped in the black caftan that billowed down the aisle like a tent. Greenburg helped her up to the witness stand, where she put one hand on the Bible and the other on the Star of David pendant choking her neck. Her voice shook as she took the oath, but her eyes were clear. And they never strayed toward Michelle.
Michelle wondered if Dr. Braunstein liked the photo of Noah that she’d posted on the bulletin board or if she’d noticed that the postcard in her drawer was askew. Michelle glanced back at Cathy behind them, but her accomplice looked pointedly away. No one else in the courtroom knew that Michelle had apologized. She felt like a pariah.
Greenburg confirmed that Noah’s mother was a physician who had taken a leave of absence to deal with her grief. He removed the spreadsheet from the wooden easel, then asked her to identify the photograph behind it. She confirmed that the smiling image was her son’s student UCLA ID picture. Greenburg then showed a picture of Noah dressed in a turkey costume serving cookies to sloppy children sitting at a table in an auditorium.
“Can you identify this picture?”
She laughed. “Yes, that’s Noah under all those feathers at the Thanksgiving Dinner for the Homeless a few years ago. When he turned eighteen, they asked him to work in the kitchen, but he missed giving cookies to the kids. He asked me about doing a benefit concert for the children’s shelter the year he…” She looked down, unable to finish.
Kenny called out. “Objection, Your Honor. While I grant you that Noah Butler was an upstanding citizen, the estate is not suing for America’s loss.”
“Sustained,” the judge said.
Kenny patted Michelle’s hand. Then he grabbed his handkerchief from the table to wipe his forehead.
Greenberg bowed in obedience and replaced the picture with a sentimental shot of Noah in a sports jacket, leaning down to hug his mother in front of Holy Cross Hospital. She held a sprinkle-covered cupcake with a candle.
“My birthday,” she said with a smile in her voice. “That last fall, when he wasn’t at band practice, he spent most of his nights with me in Tarzana instead of in Malibu with his dad. He was surprising me here to see the Herb Ritts photography exhibit at the Getty Center.”
Greenburg smiled. “Sounds like the perfect son.”
“Oh, no. He couldn’t get his dirty bowls in the dishwasher for the life of him.”
The audience snickered. For a moment, Michelle couldn’t remember whom she was rooting for.
“He wasn’t perfect, but he was a good boy.”
“Objection,” Kenny called.
The judge shook her head at him. “You’re going to accuse Dr. Braunstein of hearsay in her opinion of her son?”
“Bingo. Noah Butler may have been a good son, but he was not a ‘good boy.’ Not in the eyes of the law.”
“I’m listening,” the judge said.
“We all like to think the best of our children, don’t we?” Kenny turned and smiled at the jury. “And I know firsthand that Noah Butler’s heart was in the right place. He helped out with my son’s baseball team.”
Mr. Dillenger rose. “With all due respect, Your Honor, Mr. Kazan is not a witness.”
“Quite so.” She turned back to Kenny. “Is this relevant?”
“It is, Your Honor. Noah Butler couldn’t have been described as a good boy, because he was arrested for possession and sale of cocaine when he was a juvenile. His volunteer hours with the baseball league satisfied community service requirements. I know, because I signed his log.”
The jury gasped.
“Objection!” cried Mr. Greenburg. “Those records were sealed and are inadmissible.”
“You’re out of order, counselor,” the judge called. “You pull that kind of stunt again and I’ll hold you in contempt.” She waved all the lawyers to the bench. Dillenger marched up with Greenburg, but Kenny made a show of tucking in his shirt and ambling up behind them, as if confused by his mistake.
Michelle smiled, knowing that he was trying to protect her. For once, she was grateful that her ears were so sensitive. Between the titters of the gallery behind her, she could make out enough from the lawyer’s conversation to understand that as long as Noah stayed out of trouble, the record was to be destroyed after five years. Now, there was no need.
Michelle had enough experience with the music industry to guess that Noah’s dad had been the source of the cocaine. That’s what Noah’s mother had meant when she mentioned that her son got in a “little trouble.” Something flashed in Michelle’s memory as Kenny ambled back. But it wasn’t the silver foil that Nikki had passed off as a gum wrapper. It was something about Noah. Something she couldn’t quite place.
Kenny gave an aw-shucks shrug, then sat down. The other attorneys were still whispering vehemently with the judge.
“Kenny,” Michelle whispered. “Why bring that up? Wouldn’t his arrest give me more reason to want him to stay away from my daughter?”
“Only if you were aware of it. And since it’s unlikely he would have told you, how would you have known about the arrest before today?”
Michelle watched him, wondering if Cathy had told him about her visit to Holy Cross after all.
Judge Vaughan instructed the jury to disregard the last question. They looked at each other with eyebrows raised. Kenny clicked his pen and reviewed his notes.
The judge ordered the stenographer to repeat the last bit of testimony. “He was a good boy,” she read aloud.
No, Michelle thought. Her arm jerked. She cried out, wincing in pain.
Kenny put his arm around her, shielding her from the curious glances cast her way. Unbidden, he helped her remove the prim white cardigan she’d borrowed from his wife. The air conditioning chilled Michelle’s arms, making her fading scars raise and redden. He poured her a glass of water and set it down out of reach on her right. She stretched her left arm out to clasp it. Michelle felt the glare of the fluorescent lights, the attention of the audience, and did as Kenny directed.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Kazan?” the judge asked.
Kenny nodded for them to continue, so Mr. Greenburg straightened his cuffs and stood once more, looking pressed and polished as he played his part. Michelle wanted to believe this scene had been written in stone, that there was nothing she’d change, no reason for regret. Kenny saw her shiver and placed his hand on her elbow. Michelle looked at his rough skin and thick knuckles, and remembered another time when Kenny had reached out to her.
It was a rainy morning at the ball field and the game had just been called off. She could see the sopping wet boys piling into Kenny’s van with the muddy ball bags. Michelle offered to take the team banner so it wouldn’t be ruined. Kenny gave her elbow a squeeze, grateful for her good nature. He had no idea how quickly her mood would change.
The courtroom was gone now, Kenny’s hand was gone, and all she saw was that damn motorcycle dripping in her driveway.
Tyler spotted the black Harley through the splash of the windshield wipers. Michelle parked the SUV, pressed the garage door opener, then climbed out into the rain. The engine tick-tick-ticked as Michelle circled the hood. She heaved the motorcycle off its kickstand and rolled it into the garage.
“Don’t forget your bag,” she called to Tyler.
It took two hard jerks to park the Harley, then she hurried inside. A football game raged on the television, but Bella was the only one watching. Michelle unzipped her wet jacket and surveyed the empty room.
Tyler tugged on her arm. “Where’s Noah? Can he catch for me?”
“Not in this rain. Go put on dry clothes.”
“Make me a sandwich?” Tyler asked.
“Make it yourself,” she snapped, looking around for his sister. Tyler tracked mud across to the kitchen and took a bag of chicken leftovers from the fridge. Michelle felt bad; she followed him to apologize. She corralled Bella, who was pestering him for scraps. Then she heard muffled music over the thrumming rain.
Michelle’s stomach seized with every step down the hall, closer to the sound flooding from beneath Nikki’s door. She knocked, but there was no answer. She twisted the doorknob. It was locked. Michelle ran down to Tyler’s room, but the shared bathroom was locked as well. She opened Nikki’s drawer and rifled through toothbrushes and tampons. Still no change in the music, but now she recognized a Roadhouse song from the video shoot. Under a half-squeezed toothpaste tube, she found a flowered hair clip. She ran back to the hall door, bent it open, and went to work.
The lock clicked and the door swung open. Noah’s ass confronted her, his bare legs banging against Nikki’s as he fucked her on all fours. That was Michelle’s voice screaming, her baby jumping naked from the bed, her eyes bloodshot and vacant, and her hand throwing the hair clip at his head. “Get out!”
Noah pulled his jeans up, trying to focus his bloodshot eyes as he fumbled with the zipper. “Sorry.”
Sorry? She wanted to reach over and zip his balls off then yank off his shriveled penis and grind it in the kitchen disposal. She picked up his motorcycle boot and threw it at him. It slammed against the buttercup wall. Nikki shrieked. She clutched the sheet and sunk to the floor in a shivering mess.
When Noah snatched his keys from beside the CD case on the dresser, Michelle changed her mind. She couldn’t let him leave without punishment. She should tell his parents or call the police.
Beneath the bass beat, rain still clattered against the rock roof. Michelle hurried back to the kitchen. Tyler was on the couch across the room, glued to the game on TV. She grabbed the open bag of chicken. She ran back to Nikki’s room with Bella barking at her heels.
